#I fall off my bike? So what! She’s broken her toe ANd her elbow! I can suck it up

[still-sleep-deprived-scissors]

my mom said she might put me in therapy /derogatory

[unholyhelbig]

We Sold Our Souls | Chloe

Read Beca's Chapter Here | Read on AO3 here

Summer 1985

The Diner on 10th and Jefferson was not an inhabitable establishment. The floor was once a glimmering white that had faded to a musty brown. You could see where the tables had been situated because underneath was still the original color- not the dingy, ketchup-stained mess. A window unit sputtered as it pulled in hot air and the sound of sheets of meat sizzled and popped on day-old grease.

There was flypaper tacked to the ceiling and they spun as the warm air shifted it. It wasn’t brown, not like the floor, it was black with squirming legs and tired wings. Chloe watched, sweat dripping from her nose, as one particularly large one tested his luck and failed.

The boombox in the corner crackled and competed with the sound of two number sevens being placed on the counter. The antenna was stretching to the sky and they only got a slight signal for KWBT, the best Rock music in the county.

Chloe perked up, her spine straightening as Brock Argent’s rumbling voice filled the small area behind the counter. She ignored the way the cook stared at her, sweat beading against his greasy forehead, as she shushed him and turned the dial. She knew what he was going to say, and he didn’t push any more than he already had.

She hadn’t stopped talking about ‘The Ramones’ New Album. It was advertised with neon yellow and orange posters all around town. No one could tell if it was from the record label or some die-hard fans that had too much time on their hands. Either way, everyone knew about it, and that everyone included Brock Argent and the KWBT team. They had made a big deal about getting their hands on a copy.

“Alright you crazy people, I know we’ve been teasing this one for a long while, but we’ve got a good one for you today!” Brock’s tone was so deep that it shook the upturned milk glasses on the counter.  “Here’s Pet Cemetery by the Ramones. Some seriously creepy stuff!”

Chloe felt the greasy diner and the sharp scent of fry oil leave her all at once. The second the first guitar chord struck the airwaves she had fallen so contently into the melody. Joey Ramone’s deep growl hissed and churned and made her stomach feel like soup. Johnny pressed down hard on the guitar strings and Tommy backed him up with a solid beat on the drum kit.

She ignored the way the cook eyed her cautiously as the steaming food on the counter attracted one of the flies that the paper hadn’t attracted. He was growing impatient as the lead belted out words about pets with their ribs crushed and their hearts gnawed pulling from the dirt. It mirrored that horrible book by Stephen King, the one that the schools banned, and the PTA moms fussed about until their veins splattered.

Finally, the song faded out and Chloe gave a grateful smile to the man in front of her before palming the cold plates and taking them to the couple that sat in the back booth. The woman slathered her pile of fries with a generous helping of ketchup and the man seemed to hate the idea of eating altogether.

Chloe didn’t’ notice when the cook turned down the radio for the rest of her shift. She was sore from mopping and wiping down all of the tables that were still sticky despite how much elbow she put into it. He watched her mount her bike and flick on the light that dawned its front despite the sun not fully being down, before he backed out of the parking lot himself and left their second lives behind, at least for a few hours.

She was mostly tipped change today and it rattled in the pockets of her apron as she took the side streets back to their run-down home. It had been nice once- at least that’s what the pictures tacked to the stained green refrigerator portrayed.

She shoved cake into her face with her vibrant mother holding her close. They all looked so clean despite the mess of pastry. There was light in their eyes and sugar in their systems and the old polaroid was a constant reminder to Chloe of the way things had been. The way she wishes they were.

The thought pulled at the back of her throat as she slowed her bike when the front tire met the Mitchell’s driveway. It gave her just enough speed to get over the dip on her own and pull the old blue contraption next to the garage. She could sandwich it between the trashcan and the side of the house. No one would take it, not in their small, rundown town. She flicked off the front light, reveling in the darkness for a few moments.

It was never silent, not here, not this close to the front door where the screen kept the lightning bugs out but no sound in. Her three younger brothers were blasting the television, all of them with their noses pressed to the static screen as MacGyver got himself out of whatever situation he was thrown into.

But over that, she heard her parents.

Her mother and her stepfather screamed loud enough for the whole block to hear them. It made Chloe’s jaw ache- how much they hated each other. They lived together out of spite, and because the boys needed a good role model.

But Rick, Rick hated Chloe just as much as he hated her mother. She wasn’t his and that had ebbed some deep resentment in him that she didn’t understand, nor did she care to. Not as she snuck in through the front door and trudged to her room. She was careful to toe her shoes off by the door, despite the pungent smell the house admitted.

It was considered rude to track mud, though no one had vacuumed in months at this point. No one had changed the lights or addressed the water stains that browned the ceiling above them. There was food on the table, most of the time, and hot water in the lead pipes. So Rick was doing his job and from the sound of the screaming match, Lauren was not.

Chloe tuned it all out.

She focused on the rifts she had heard this afternoon at the diner, and the satisfaction she got when she pulled the jar from the back of her closet, behind her 45’s and an old rolled poster of the Bay City Rollers that she had scored at an old thrift store and hung because the colors were vibrant.

As soon as Chloe could, as soon as she blew out the candle on her cupcake for her 18th birthday in front of that stupid polaroid and that puke green appliance, she would leave this tiny town. She would leave her brothers, and the dirty carpet, and stupid Rick, and even Lauren.

She would meet Joey Ramone, they would get married and she would never have to hear muffled screams and broken glass again- not unless it was at a concert that she was playing.

There was a glass of water on the table in front of Chloe Beale, but she hadn’t reached for it. There was some sinister part of her that considered it a test; there wasn’t a pitcher to refill it or anything else on the stark white surface. Just one singular cup that was free of any blemishes and water pushed to the near brim.

She was on a sofa that matched the rest of the room, stark and unfeeling. There wasn’t personality here; other than her and that stupid taunting glass, there was nothing. It could have been the waiting area in a place that detailed cars, but it wasn’t. She didn’t’ know what it was and she didn’t’ know if the water was a test- so she left it.

Her boots were the blackest thing, sharp like the night, against the white carpet. She got the sinking feeling that she should have taken them off by the door, though the secretary that lead her in here hadn’t told her to do so. Chloe wasn’t a child, not anymore, and Chloe could make her own choices. Like taking a gulp of water to quench the dry heat in her throat or taking her shoes off.

Rick would have made her take her shoes off.

Rick had killed her mother when she was at a concert in Orlando. She had saved up to get the tickets and she had had a fun, normal, road trip with the girls. They ate terribly and broke down in Georgia where they baked in the heat and splurged on ice cream cones that turned into a soupy mess in a matter of seconds. Chloe was happy then, and she had the polaroid tacked up on the corner of her apartment.

Thought the lights had been shut off a few times, and she and Beca had to eat all the ice cream and leftover pizza, and milk each time they did fade away, she kept it there. Her stomach would ache and her brow would sweat but they would fall asleep on the floor and the picture of her last happy moment would gape down at her- not mocking, but reminding.

They saw the yellow tape when Beca pulled the Monza to the edge of her driveway. Chloe let the rubber tire hit the corner of the driveway first, just like she used to do with her second-hand bike. Beca protested as she pushed the door open and flung herself towards her own home. A cop that shadowed his eyes with a large cap grabbed her by the middle and stopped her.

“That’s my house!” She had shouted, letting herself be lowered to the wet grass. “What happened? That’s my house! That’s my house!”

It had stopped being her house a long time ago when her father died of cancer and her mother met Rick, the anesthesiologist with the calm temper and the two boys from a previous marriage, and the one son that they shared together.

Chloe had spent most of her free time in Beca’s room now, staring up at the posters that weren’t of the Bay City Rollers on the ceiling. They both laid close to one another and she had memorized the features of Metallica and Stix and Beca’s breathing patterns, and the way the Charvel rested in the corner, with its off-white color.

Beca’s mother always had dinner on the table and always had enough for all three of them. Beca’s mom was interesting and kind. She was still alive when the summer of 88’ came to an end. She hadn’t heard the gunshots but she had smelt the blood- she said she was a nurse and she knew the scent of decay anywhere.

Rick shot Chloe’s mom in the head while her back was to him, and Chloe had always said he was a coward. He killed the boys too, straight shots with a gun Lauren had purchased him for Christmas because his new hobby would be hunting. As far as Chloe knew, the only shots he fired were that day, and the last when he ever did tore up his throat and painted the wall behind him.

She should take her shoes off and drink some water while she waits and wishes for wine. The secretary told her that he was running late and that she was welcomed to anything. But she didn’t’ feel welcome to the water, and really, she should have taken her shoes off, because the carpet was pristine, and the bottom of her boots were anything but.

Winter 1994

Snow fell in thick, wet drops against the pavement. It had barely started but picked up by the time Chloe ascended the stairs of the venue and tracked down Beca. The girl looked ragged, worn down, and thick with sorrow. She was moving her tongue against the edge of a cigar she had sliced with the pocket knife clipped to her jeans.

The sickly-sweet scent of weed followed the sparking of a lighter and the cold breeze that edged the nearly empty street. She leaned against the side of the van, next to a sizeable dent that had been there when they purchased it. When we’re famous she had said this won’t matter and we’ll be able to afford a van that isn’t half-totaled.

Beca pulled in a hot breath of marijuana, the tip burning hot and fast. She pushed the smoke through her those and passed it to Chloe who took it wordlessly and revealed in the sour film that coated her tongue and her teeth and her throat. A few more of those and she would be able to forget the disaster of tonight.

“Maybe I should have gone into accounting,” Beca said.

“You hate math.”

“That wasn’t my point,”

“I know. I just think that If you want to go back in time and choose MIT over your garage in the winter you should pick something you like. Not math. You’re not even good at math.”

Beca frowned and snatched the joint back. She wedged it between her teeth and gave Chloe the finger, the tattoos against her knuckles catching the red glowing light of the sign that hung above them. It buzzed like the flies Chloe had always hated- for some reason, more than spiders and moths, but she couldn’t’ recall now.

“Aubrey would have had a million things decided by now, you know? I don’t’ even need to prompt the woman before she brings up Julliard. Next thing; she’s going to be bitching about her back hurting from carrying the band.”

Chloe laughed sadly at that because she knew it was something Aubrey would say with that docile fire in her eyes. But through all of this, Aubrey was the best bass player that she had ever met and Beca had the right voice for them- but none of them ever said it. None of them ever dared that she would be better suited to part her ax down and grip the microphone instead.

“Are you?”

“What?”

She hadn’t noticed Beca was staring at her expectantly. Not only holding out the blunt, which she took and sandwiched between her lips, but with a question. Beca’s stare was dark, shaded in crimson, and glazed over because something was hitting; be the alcohol that she had consumed during the show or the slow crossfade that was humming happily through her now.

“Are you ready to give up?”

“Beca, this is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She swallowed hard and tried to dull the pain of the flames at her throat. Red and hot and a lot like the stories plastered on the news not too long ago. Her stomach felt fuzzy and her brain did too and she suddenly felt like following Beca out here was a bad idea. A terrible idea, really.

Chloe let the end of the roll hit the ground. There was no need to stomp it out. The color faded away in the puddle of dingy water that had collected as they talked. She didn’t’ mind the cool embrace of the large drops that felt more like snow and stung like an insect bite. It kept her steady and grounded.

“I heard what you asked, and I told you this is all I’ve ever wanted.” Chloe sniffed, “I don’t’ care how long it takes to get there. It’s me and you, kid.”

Beca’s clouded stare softened, and she laughed loudly because at this point- standing in the rain, the two of them, she didn’t’ know if they had much longer at all. Not as a band, not as friends, not as that odd drunken mess they escalated to when they weren’t.

The scent of weed mixed with the wet odor of Portland and beer. Chloe curled her fingers around Beca’s, both cold and clammy, and the gesture hurt. It stung the bandages wrapped around Beca’s fingers and hummed at the pain in the back of Chloe’s head, where she figured a scar would be one day.

[queenk00k]

but what if we were pure gold all along? jj maybank (chapter 3)

Summary: After the assumed death of their best friend, the Pogues are falling apart at the seams. With Pope and Kiara getting closer and JJ left with nowhere to go, he finds himself left to his own devices. Feeling lost and rejected, his luck seems to turn when he meets Scarlett - a Kook who doesn’t treat him like shit and has an affinity for partying. JJ gets sucked into her world as she promises to help him forget.

How much longer can he keep running from his demons? And what happens when he starts sharing a bed with one?

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence, child abuse, angst, sexual content, drug use, underage drinking.

Author’s note: Hi all, this is my multi-chapter fic I’ve been working on. My oneshots & Rafe series have taken off so I thought it was time to share this one too. Let me know what you think!

Word count: 2K

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

the one where JJ throws caution to the wind (but when was he ever cautious anyway?)

JJ has woken up in pretty strange locations before. The porch steps of the Chateau, the hull of the HMS Pogue, the Boneyard. Nothing was stranger than waking up on a couch in a Kook’s bedroom, who he’d really only spoken to twice. The couch was surprisingly soft, and JJ finds that he actually had one of the best sleeps he’s had in, well, he can’t quite remember how long.

That doesn’t erase how completely fucking weird it is that he not only went home with a Kook but spent the whole night there.

JJ sits up and is quietly thankful Scarlett appears to have been awake for a while; she’s dressed and perched on the end of her bed in a similar position to the night before. She’s also biting her fingernails, chipping away the black nail polish with her teeth. This brings JJ some comfort – she’s clearly feeling as unsettled as he is.

He clears his throat and Scarlett turns to look at him, smiling cautiously. “Hey,” she says. “You feeling okay?”

JJ nods and stands up. “Yeah, yeah I’m good thanks.”

“Sleep alright?”

“Mmmhmm.”

An awkward pause.

“Listen,” JJ says as he moves towards the door. “I really appreciate what you did for me and all but I gotta go. Honestly, I don’t understand why you let me stay on your couch-”

Scarlett scoffs. “You really think that low of me? You crashed your motorbike in the middle of the night and looked another blow from death. What was I going to do? Leave you on the side of the road?”

JJ is taken aback; he didn’t expect her to answer like that.

“You’re a Kook, I’m a Pogue…you know how it is.” JJ shrugs.

Scarlett rolls her deep brown eyes. “That shit is so stupid. We’re not all that bad.”

JJ opens his mouth to reply something along the lines of “well, in all of my experiences-” but the sound of tires screeching on gravel outside diverts his attention.

Scarlett’s eyes widen and she grabs JJ’s arm tightly. He clenches his jaw and forces himself not to wince; she grabbed one of his darker bruises. He gently removes his arm from her grip and Scarlett looks at him apologetically.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just my parents are home. You gotta go, now! Go out the window, quick quick,” Scarlett says as she frantically ushers JJ to the window. JJ’s startled by the sudden change in pace but honestly, he’s pretty thankful for an excuse to get out of there. He’s never felt comfortable around Kooks.

You can hardly blame him.

Scarlett helps JJ push the window up far enough for him to climb through (his arm is feeling pretty busted from the events of the previous night) and he doesn’t hesitate in sticking a leg through to climb out onto the roof.

“Wait, wait,” Scarlett says. “Is that it? You’re just gonna leave?”

JJ looks at her quizzically. “I mean, yeah. What were you hoping for? A goodbye kiss?” He taunts.

Scarlett makes a face at him. JJ can’t tell if it’s disgust or disappointment.

“No. Can I at least give you this?” She reaches into her bedside drawer and pulls out a wad of cash; JJ estimates it to be at least $200.

“And why would you give me that?”

“You seem like you need it,” Scarlett replies, shrugging.

Wrong thing to say.

JJ narrows his eyes and replies, “I’m not your charity case.”

Without giving Scarlett a chance to reply (JJ has an old habit of needing the last word), he scoots out of the window and down the gabled roof of her stupid fucking mansion.

He thinks he’d be content with never seeing her again.

JJ eventually manages to drag himself to his bike and take off towards the Chateau slowly, his bones aching (but not before kicking down the realtor’s sign – if the Camerons have more to worry about then he figured they won’t care if Rose’s frozen smile was kicked in). He’s being more careful on the ride over this time, not willing to repeat the spill from the night before. JJ is lost deep in thought on the way back to the Chateau and before he knows it, he’s riding up the driveway, the bike’s tires kicking up dirt as he skids to a stop.

JJ hates that for a second, he expects John B to emerge on the patio, smiling and holding out a Coors Light, like he’d done so many other times before.

JJ clears his throat and shakes his head, willing the thought of his friend to dissipate. He steps off his bike, wincing, and makes his way up to the house. JJ has every intention of making it all the way inside, but he stops at the steps, lump forming in his throat, and sits down.

Eyes brimming with tears that are close to spilling over, JJ sighs and puts his head in his hands, taking off his cap and throwing it into the dirt.

Where the hell are Pope and Kiara? JJ thinks. It’s been well over a day and a half since he stormed out of the Heyward backyard and gee, fuck him for assuming his friends might come looking for him or something drastic like that.

JJ pulls his outdated iPhone 6 (a hand-me-down from Kiara when hers got updated – pity it didn’t come with her unlimited data plan) with its smashed screen and broken home button.

No texts, no missed calls.

JJ presses the lock-button, so he doesn’t have to look at the Pogues’ smiling faces in his wallpaper, and tries to reason with himself.

Pope told you he was going to be busy with his interview, you shouldn’t be mad at him. That’s fair enough, he warned you.

Nah dude fuck that, he lied to you! He was sneaking off and banging Kiara.

Speaking of Kie, why doesn’t she want to see me? I thought better of her, I thought we were supposed to be best friends.

Her parents have her on lockdown-

When has that stopped her before?

JJ grunts in frustration and picks his hat back up off the ground, jamming it onto his head over his sweaty blonde hair. He clearly wasn’t going to solve anything sitting here.

--

JJ’s new habit seems to be wandering around the island like a lost boy, as he finds himself walking along the beach, kicking up sand with the toes of his work boots.

He’s not sure what his plan is – maybe he’ll run into Kie or Pope or fuck, literally anyone he knows. What JJ does know is that there’s no chance he’ll run into any Kooks on this side of the island, so at least he won’t have to deal with their pompous asses.

Or so he thinks.

JJ makes it halfway down the stretch of beach before he suddenly hears a sweet, but hoarse voice behind him.

“And here I was thinking I’d never see you again.”

JJ whips his head around and fails to suppress his groan at seeing Scarlett in front of him, dressed this time in a red crop-top and cut-off denim shorts. He resists the urge to run his eyes over her – he’s only human after all, and a teenage boy at that.

“Are you stalking me now?” He asks bitterly but makes no attempt to walk away from her.

Scarlett crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes. “You wish, Maybank.”

“What are you doing here then?”

Scarlett sighs and sits down on a sand dune, motioning JJ to sit down next to her. He briefly considers telling her she’s dreaming but hey, once again she’s giving him attention and being nice and honestly that’s all he needs right now. Some company that’s not going to make him feel shittier about his life. So, he relents and sits down beside her in the warm sand.

Scarlett leans back on one elbow and moves her sunglasses to the top of her head as she replies, “less chance of running into Kooks here.”

“But they’re your-

“-my people?” Scarlett scoffs. “Hardly. Only thing I have in common with them is our family money, everything else is completely at odds.”

JJ smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It feels nice.

“I’ve heard this story before,” he says. “I’m not much of a reader but “rich girl who’s actually bad ass” sounds pretty familiar.”

Scarlett waves her hand. “Yeah yeah, it’s all true! I even have a dark back story – I’d make a great main character.”

“Let me guess, you’re adopted, and your real family was murdered by some unknown killer.”

“My younger sister died in a car accident, and I was never the favourite child. My parents shipped me off to boarding school, so they didn’t have to deal with me,” Scarlett replies, looking directly at JJ.

It seems an inappropriate time for him to be distracted by how beautiful Scarlett’s dark brown eyes look in the sun.

And yet.

JJ’s eyes widen. “Wait, you’re serious? Fuuuuck, I am so sorry…I had no idea,” he says, grimacing. He’s annoyed at himself – he was just trying to banter, but it’s all fun and games until someone drops a bomb like that.

Scarlett smiles and touches his arm delicately. JJ first notices how cool her hand is, despite the humid day, and then notices she has a fresh coat of dark red polish on her nails.

He tenses, not used to someone being so blatantly touchy like this, least of all a Kook. Scarlett notices and moves her hand back onto the sand, looking at him like she’s about to ask him what the problem is but clearly decides against it.

“It’s fine, honestly. Happened a long time ago and they leave me to my own devices a lot, which makes it easier to do whatever I want.”

JJ nods in understanding. “I get that.”

There’s a comfortable pause before Scarlett abruptly stands up, dusting the sand off her denim shorts. JJ looks at her questioningly but stands up too.

“Enough of this emotional shit,” Scarlett says. “I wanted to talk to you to a) apologise for my behaviour this morning-”

“-it’s fine-”

“-and b) invite you out tonight.”

“Out?” JJ asks.

Scarlett nods. “I think we’re both in need of some fun and some company. Why don’t you come to mine tonight? My parents are out again, and they’ve got a pretty sweet liquor cabinet.”

JJ can’t believe he’s saying this, but he says, “I’ll think about it.”

Scarlett shrugs. “Close enough. See you tonight, or not,” she says and blows him a kiss before turning and walking away down the beach.

JJ stands there stunned for a moment (definitely because of the sheer absurdity of the situation and not because he checked out her ass as she walked away) and thinks over his options.

He’s not sure he wants to willingly wander back into Kook territory for the second night in a row, never mind go into one of their houses.

Although, he thinks to himself. Where’s the harm in spending time with Scarlett for the time being until Pope and Kie come around? Because they will, right?

Besides, Scarlett’s pretty nice, pretty hot and she’s willing to hang out with him and give him free booze. What could go wrong?

JJ’s made up his mind and, perhaps against his better judgement (which was truly shaky to begin with), he finds himself on the roof of Scarlett’s mansion again that night, tapping on her bedroom window.

He starts to worry he got the wrong room or, even worse, the wrong house, when she doesn’t answer straight away but all of a sudden the curtains are pulled back and Scarlett’s excited face appears on the other side of the glass.

She yanks open the window rather haphazardly (JJ suspects she’s gotten into her parents’ grog early), the cool glow of the moonlight making her teeth an iridescent white as she grins widely up at JJ.

“So glad you could make it, Maybank. Let’s get this party started.”

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[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (1/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

-----

Rating: Teen, but with eventually kissing and magic-type magic Word Count: 9.3K this chapter.  AN: Approximately two years ago, seriously, I got a message asking if I would ever be interested in writing a Pushing Daises AU. I was! So I wrote a little blurb and some more very nice people were like this is good, you should write more. I did. And then did...nothing with it. Until now. I’ve been hoarding this for long enough and I’m actually pretty proud of it and it’s got a whole bunch of some of my favorite things. There will be a lot of banter and more kissing than you probably expect if you’ve seen the show, and a lot of magic and magical explanations. If I have any talent writing banter it comes directly from watching Pushing Daisies, so hopefully I’ve done them well here. Also shoutout to @distant-rose​ for the Fathership.

Updates every Wednesday going forward, and if you’d like to be tagged let me know: @shireness-says​ @optomisticgirl​ @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488​, @greymeetsblue​, @jennjenn615​, @heavenlyjoycastle​, @klynn-stormz​, @superchocovian​, @onepunintendid​, @jonesfandomfanatic​, @lfh1226-linda​

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

-----

Emma Swan is nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old when she realizes she is hopelessly, painfully, deliriously in love. 

It’s not a particularly pleasant feeling. 

Mostly because it happens suddenly, without much prompting and the object of her affection is currently spraying her in the face with the hose in his front yard. 

She yelps, water catching on her eyelashes and strands of her hair, but he just grins at her, taking a step forward to make sure her clothes are drenched through. Ingrid is going to kill both of them. Emma can almost hear Liam laughing somewhere. 

This, of course, is why she’s so frustrated by her sudden realization. 

Emma has been standing on the Jones’ front lawn for as long as she can remember – directly opposite of her own front lawn and close enough that Ingrid can still yell for her to come home when dinner is ready. Or when there’s pie. There’s almost always pie. 

Emma’s friendship with Killian Jones is not much more than happenstance and convenience. He lives across the street, with his brother in a great, big house with stained glass windows that paint the inside of the living room different colors when the sun sets. They met by mistake, Emma drawing with chalk at the end of the driveway and he was watering the lawn and dared to disturb her masterpiece. 

She threw chalk at him. 

It went from there. They talked and yelled and Emma may have stomped her foot more than once regarding the destroyed drawings, but Killian picks up the broken pieces of chalk and offers her one and they come up with a rather stunning visual of a futuristic outer space world with some kind of monorail system. The engineering is very impressive. 

And they don’t ever really stop. They dart back and forth across the street for years, afternoons spent constructing spaceships out of cardboard boxes Liam brought home from work and evenings in the kitchen with Ingrid while she lets them test a new flavor of pie she’s experimenting with. They watch movies and celebrate birthdays and there’s a secret handshake because of course there’s a secret handshake, and Emma tells Killian she sometimes wonders what happened to her real parents and Killian tells Emma he’s scared Liam is going to disappear like his dad did. 

She shouldn’t love him. 

And yet, at nine years, six months, twelve days and, approximately, fifteen hours old, Killian Jones is quite possibly the most important person in Emma’s life. 

Except Ingrid. Because she makes all that pie. 

Killian is quiet – at least at first, soft-spoken words, but with a certainty that rings of clarity and confidence and it hadn’t taken long for him to grow a little bolder with Emma around. He laughs easier as the years go on, smile wide and, usually, only for her. His hair is almost always too long, dark strands that drift dangerously close to his eyebrows and a gaze that Emma also seems to covet. 

She doesn’t realize that yet, because she’s nine and she doesn’t know what covet means, but, eventually, it will all make sense. 

And eventually, she will regret not telling Killian Jones that he’s her best friend and she’s absolutely, positively in love with him. 

But Emma is nine and she believes she’s got the rest of her life and the rest of Killian’s life and she hasn’t allowed a little thing like death to even begin to enter the back corners of her mind. 

That will change soon. 

“Killian Jones, I am going to murder you,” she shouts, lunging forward. He laughs even louder when her feet skid on the slick grass, a flash of blue eyes and that smile that, even then, Emma considers hers and hers alone. 

“That’s not very nice, Swan. You’re the one who got in the way of all my work.” “Your work?” He nods seriously, as if he’s not directing the hose directly at her feet now and she’s going to have to throw these jeans away. They’ll never dry. “Did you not see that list of chores Liam left? Making sure the lawn wasn’t dry was one of them.” “It’s a lawn, how dry can it be?” “I didn’t ask.” “Didn’t you want to know?”

“Maybe,” Killian admits, flicking his wrist up to move the water so it hits Emma’s stomach and she gasps when some of the air gets knocked out of her. “But you came over here.” “And?” “And what? You’re here aren’t you?”

It’s impossible for Emma to realize what exactly that question means in the moment, but she’s also just realized she’s in love with Killian, so her heart does a fairly good job of attempting to beat its way out of her chest. 

He drops the hose. 

“You could have told me you had stuff to do.”

“But you were here,” he says again, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. It kind of is. She can’t remember a single time he told her to leave. 

Even when she was the new kid in school –  after she and Ingrid first moved to Storybrooke and Emma heard the whispers because she didn’t have real parents and no mom to make her lunch, but Killian just bumped his shoulder against hers and flashed her half a smile. He held her hand when they walked into school. 

Killian never cared about cooties. 

Or anything except Emma. 

“Yeah,” Emma mumbles. She digs her toes into the mud under her, the soft squelch of it almost matching up with the erratic rhythm of her pulse. “Well…”

He practically beams. 

And Emma isn’t sure what’s going to happen next because she’s never encountered a moment quite like this, but she can hear Liam’s footsteps and grumblings about the state of the lawn and— “Killian, if you’re just going to stand around all day...” he starts, but his eyes dart towards Emma as soon as she moves her foot again and the look on his face is unreadable. Particularly to a nine-year-old coming to terms with the idea of first love. ��Oh,” Liam says. “Hey, Emma, I didn’t know you were here.” She shrugs. “I was going to ride my bike, but then Killian thought he was funny.” Liam’s expression changes again, more emotions Emma is not nearly old enough to understand or deal with, but it will, eventually, be that kind of day. At the moment, however, it’s sunny and there are a few clouds in the sky. The perfect day to race down the hill on the other side of town.

“How many times in a row have you beat Killian?” Liam asks knowingly, and Emma laughs before she can continue to consider whatever he’s doing with his face. 

“Forty seven.” “Oh, that’s not true, at all,” Killian shouts, ducking down to grab the hose again. Liam’s quicker than him, though grabbing him around the waist and pinning him against his chest. “God, Liam, let go of me!”

“Nah, little brother—” “—Younger brother!” “Semantics.” “Stop trying to show off!”

Emma is still laughing, her sides feeling as if they’ll split from the force of it. Killian scowls at her when she doesn’t come to his immediate aid, but her eyes dart back towards Liam. He nods. And it only takes a few moments for Killian to realize what’s going to happen, more flailing limbs and shouted protests. 

“Swan, Swan, Swan,” he chants, a nickname that isn’t really a nickname, but might be his in the way the smile is hers and Emma shakes her head when she grabs the water hose. “Don’t do that, that’s not even fair!” “I know it’s not,” she says. “But you were being a great, big giant jerk before and Ingrid’s going to be mad my jeans are all muddy.” “You should have dodged better then!” “Ah, c’mon now, little brother,” Liam chastises, still holding him around the waist and he’s probably bruised from Killian’s elbows. “That’s not hospitable at all. Emma’s a guest in our front lawn and you went and ruined her whole outfit.” Killian groans, but the sound turns into a yelp as soon as the water hits his feet and he realizes how cold it is. Emma widens her eyes. “Swan is not a guest,” he argues. 

Emma briefly wonders if her eyes can actually fall out of her face. It feels as if they’re about to, that particular proclamation ricocheting around her brain and her subconscious until she’s certain it’s the only words she’ll ever hear again. 

Killian blinks when Emma doesn’t say anything – or move the hose away from his feet. “You haven’t beaten me down the hill forty-seven times,” he mutters. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. 

And sprays him directly in the chest. 

There’s no way to really avoid Liam in this, but he doesn’t seem to mind, more laughter and tangled limbs, Killian’s hair sticking to his forehead and the shell of his left ear when Emma moves the water again. And for a few seconds Emma thinks she’s winning whatever unspoken battle they’ve staged here, but Killian’s always been a little shifty and and he turns quickly enough that he’s able to sneak out of Liam’s grasp. 

He moves towards her quicker than she’s ready for, tugging the hose out of her hands with an almost triumphant noise. 

“You’ve got to be faster than that, Swan,” Killian grins, waving the hose through the air until it feels as if Emma’s standing in a rainstorm. 

“You are the worst!” “Tell the truth about the hill!” “I am,” Emma yells, sniffling when the water threatens to find its way up her nose. “Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!” Killian shakes his head, dodging what Emma thought was a particularly well-placed kick at his ankles. “No, you’re not. You like me way too much to kill me.” “That’s not true.” The words feel heavy on her tongue, despite the laughter still clinging to Killian’s voice and Liam’s rather pitiful attempts to get back on his feet after falling in the mud. Emma swallows, desperate to understand what is happening in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t look away from her. 

He keeps staring and the water keeps running, slowing slightly because they’re probably emptying the Storybrooke reservoir at this point. 

“I don’t know about that, Swan,” Killian says, leaning towards her. Emma gets the distinct impression he doesn’t mean to do that. 

“Liar, liar.” “I’m not the one lying. Forty seven? That’s impossible.” “If you think you’re winning, you should have been keeping better track.”

That catches him by surprise, a quick bark of laughter and water splashing on Emma’s shin when he jerks his hand to the side. “Sorry, sorry,” Killian mumbles when he notices the look on her face. “That one really wasn’t on purpose.” “Yuh huh.” “Swan.” Emma rolls her eyes, the sarcasm obvious in his voice and the half a smile on his face. Liam has finally stood up. “How many times do you think we’ve raced down the hill?” she presses, moving forward to push her finger into his water-soaked shirt. 

That gets him to blink. 

She takes that as another victory. 

“Way more than forty seven,” Killian answers. “And I win most of the time.” Emma stamps her foot – which gives Killian just enough time to wrap his own fingers around her wrist, pulling her hand away from him and pinning it against her side and the water is absolutely getting colder when he holds the hose directly above her head. 

“Say it’s not forty seven,” he laughs. Emma shakes her head, pressing her lips together tightly as if she’s refusing to give federal testimony. 

Liam appears to have given up on even trying to salvage the situation. 

“It’s not forty seven, Swan,” Killian continues. “I’ll give you...maybe thirty two, tops.” “Nope.” “Thirty five?” “I have beaten you down that hill forty seven times Killian Jones and that’s only in the last year since I started keeping track.” “You’ve only been keeping track for the last year?” “You never kept track to begin with!” “She’s got a point, little brother,” Liam muses. He’s sitting on the far side of the lawn now, doing something that may actually be pulling weeds and no one could have taken better care of that house than Liam did. 

“Oh, shut up,” Killian grumbles. He snaps his head back towards Emma, mouth twisted and eyes slightly narrowed. “Alright, so you started counting this year. I’ll give you that you’ve won most of the races, but I demand a recount for the rest of the summer.” Emma scoffs. “No way. You’re only mad because you didn’t know you were losing and—” “—And you were playing a game I didn’t know we were playing, Swan. So, either you agree to the terms or we keep up this...whatever we’re doing.” “You being a jerk,” she mumbles, and that time her kick lands on his ankle. Killian lets out a gasp of pain, expression shifting slightly and they’re both drenched, water falling from their clothes and their hair and everything feels slightly heavier than it had a few moments before.

It’s not a feeling that belongs in summer vacation. 

Killian hums, the tips of his ears going red and Emma learned that particular tell when she was seven and he tried to tell Liam he hadn’t gotten in trouble for fighting with that kid on the playground. The kid on the playground had been making fun of Emma’s distinct lack of parents. 

“Forty seven though?” he asks. “Really?” “Really, really,” Emma promises. “But I’m...we could start a new count. If you want.”

“Yeah?” “We’ve got all summer, right?” “And forever,” Killian says with a shrug, another string of words that seems to take up residence in every corner of Emma’s brain and she feels her lips part slightly. It’s her body’s natural reaction to try and keep breathing. 

She’s stopped breathing at some point. 

And someone else is calling her name. 

“Emma Swan,” Ingrid yells, leaning out the front door of the house across the street and the smell of lemon meringue is already obvious. “If you are done destroying all your clothes, then I think it’s time for you to come back over here and eat some lunch!”

Emma’s shoulders sag with the weight of her disappointment – an overreaction in the moment, but eventually it will seem like the most reasonable thing she’s ever done. “Do I have to?” “In twenty-four seconds or less.” “Fine,” Emma sighs. She glances back at Killian before she turns towards home, the smile still on his face and a piece of hair seemingly stuck to his forehead. He waves a dismissive hand through the air at the interruption, as if they do have all the time in the world. 

“I’ve got to help Liam anyway. But, uh...after? We could…” “There’s pie,” Emma finishes sharply. “I mean...it smells like pie? You could come over and then we could go.” “Ok.”

Liam makes a ridiculous noise a few feet away – disbelieving and adult and Emma ignores it because she’s nine and cutting into her twenty-four seconds of travel time across the street. “Emma,” Ingrid calls again. “Now!”

“Right, right, right, I’m coming. But…” She glances at Killian and she’s not sure why she feels like she has to make sure, but it feels important and—

“I’ll see you later, Swan,” he says. “I’m sorry about your jeans.”

“That’s ok.” Ingrid is shaking the screen door now. “Emma!”

“Ok, ok! I’ll see you later.”

Ingrid takes one look at the state of her as soon as she gets across the street, lets out a knowing laugh and mumbles something that sounds a lot like we should just buy new clothes every week under her breath. “Go upstairs and try and get some of the mud out of your toes before you drag it across the entire house, ok?” Emma nods, a blur of water-logged fabric and muddy footprints. She’s in the bathroom when she hears it, only a few moments later and nothing has really changed, but it suddenly feels as if everything has been flipped upside down, and Emma cannot possibly be expected to keep up with all of these emotions. Or sounds. 

It’s a crash — loud and jarring and then absolute, overwhelming silence. 

She freezes, heart sputtering in her chest and it’s impossible to know how she knows, but Emma knows and something is wrong. 

She hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about her jeans, sprinting back down the stairs and skidding into the kitchen and Ingrid is lying on the tiled ground, the pie splayed out around her when she dropped it. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, knowing it’s pointless. She doesn’t know how she knows that either, but that appears to be the theme of the day and the step she takes forward is alarmingly shaky. “Ingrid,” she repeats. “Are you…”

She can’t bring herself to finish that sentence. 

It’s obvious anyway. 

Ingrid is dead. 

Emma exhales, tears in her eyes and disbelief churning in the pit of her stomach where, just a few moments ago, there were butterflies and the certainty that everything was going to be alright forever and ever. 

She tilts her head, as if that will change the scene in front of her and the combined scent of lemon and drying mud is particularly disgusting. 

“Ingrid?” Emma repeats, moving towards her as if there are magnets and supernatural forces involved. There are. It’ll just take a moment for her to realize that. 

Dropping to her knees, she ignores the pain that shoots up both her legs when she lands on the floor and Emma doesn’t ever actually cry. The tears are there, but they don’t spill over onto her cheeks. They stay in her eyes and, possibly, her soul and eventually that will feel like a very large sign. 

With neon lights and sound effects. 

In the moment though, it’s just another thing in an increasingly thing-filled situation and part of her wants to call for Killian. Most of her wants to call for Killian. 

But Emma’s mouth doesn’t appear to be working anymore, breathing a very particular challenge and Ingrid isn’t her mom. Ingrid isn’t even her officially adopted mom yet, that’s a work in progress and Emma’s fairly certain Liam did something that may help and there were suits involved and Killian stayed at their house that day while Ingrid baked something. 

Emma inhales sharply through her nose, Ingrid’s eyes already a little glazed over and staring at absolutely nothing and, if asked, she would have no idea why she does what she does next. Reaching out a finger, she pokes Ingrid in the shoulder, fingertip just barely skimming her skin.

Ingrid blinks, exactly, three times and sits up as normal as ever. 

She’s very clearly breathing. 

Emma might not be. And she’s worried about the state of her eyes again. 

“Did you get mud in here?” Ingrid asks, like that’s an entirely reasonable question and Emma is still frozen. Her mind can’t keep up with the moment or the feelings coursing through her veins, a mix of terror and surprise and happiness, plus whatever she may still be feeling for Killian and she still wishes Killian were in the kitchen with her. “Must have slipped,” Ingrid continues. She shakes her head, clearly unaware of what just happened and Emma is still doing her best to keep breathing. The pain in her side makes it clear it’s not working very well. 

“Emma,” Ingrid says lightly, leaning close enough that Emma jerks away out of instinct. That will eventually prove important. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “Nothing,” Emma mumbles. The word comes out far too quickly though, less a word than just a jumble of syllables and—”I just...heard you fall.” “Because of the mud. Did you not even change your clothes yet?” Emma shakes her head. Her throat feels far too small and far too big, all at the same time. “No, I…” “Well, go back upstairs and make sure you wash behind your ears and—” Ingrid glances around, grabbing a handful of plastic bags and pushing them into Emma’s chest. Her fingers never touch Emma. “Just throw them in here. I think we’ve moved past salvageable on that front. I swear, the messes you and that Jones boy get into should be documented for—”

It annoys Emma that no one will finish their sentences. 

But the timer on the oven dings, wholly unnecessary given the pie that’s still on the kitchen floor and Emma’s annoyance ebbs as soon as she hears the first shout. That’s not the right word. It’s less of a shout and more like absolute and complete anguish. 

Her head snaps towards the open window, the same one that looks directly onto the Jones’ front lawn and she can barely make out the top of Killian’s hair. He’s kneeling on the ground, clearly not worried about the state of his jeans or the mud that’s likely working its way into the fibers, gripping something. 

It takes Emma exactly two seconds, one gasp and three blinks to realize what he’s holding — Liam, dead. 

The tears that land on her cheek feel like brands, hot and emotional and she’s moving before she realizes, dashing around Ingrid and across the street. A car honks at her when she runs in front of it, but Emma doesn’t slow down and Killian’s still yelling and Liam is very obviously dead.

He looks just like Ingrid. 

Or just like Ingrid did before Emma touched her. 

Because Emma touched Ingrid back to life. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Killian stammers, eyes already rimmed red and the shake in his voice seems to rattle down Emma’s spine. “He was there and it was fine and then I...he wasn’t and he just...he fell over and it was…”

He lets out another choked sob, falling towards Emma’s shoulders like those pesky magnets are involved again and the only thought in her head is to hold onto him, like she’s trying to keep him there. Permanently. 

She’s got no idea how long they stay there, and it’s impossible to tell Killian’s tears from the rest of the water in Emma’s shirt. She can hear Ingrid on the phone, quiet and slightly frantic and the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later. 

There’s no explanation. 

It makes no sense. Because Liam Jones was young and healthy and fully capable of keeping his brother pinned to his side so Emma could point the hose directly at his feet. A dead Liam Jones makes no sense.

And Emma doesn’t say much for the rest of the day, just keeps staring ahead and trying to breath, her fingers laced with Killian’s for however many hours it takes for his uncles to show up.

“Killian,” a man yells. He jogs up the front steps of the porch, an oversized coat hanging off his shoulders and something that may be several earrings glittering under the street lights. 

Emma dimly remembers Ingrid tearing through Liam’s paperwork that afternoon, trying to find someone to come watch Killian — and the result is two uncles, one named Nemo and the other Shakespeare, who’d spent most of their lives as part of a traveling acting troupe. They’re eccentric in a way that's fascinating at any time, let alone one that includes a dead Liam Jones, but Killian rushes towards the man who called his name. 

His whole body shakes with the force of his tears. 

And, for the first time since she moved to Storybrooke, Emma feels out of place sitting on that side of the street, not sure she understands the weight of wrong that seems intent on dragging her into the Earth. 

“It’s alright, my boy, it’s alright,” the man continues. He barely pays any attention to Emma when she moves, but the other one, wearing his own ridiculous coat that looks like it came directly from the Navy, casts her a speculative glance. 

She tries to smile. 

She does. But it’s been a seemingly endless day and they never rode their bikes down the hill. 

Emma can’t believe she’s worried about riding her bike down the hill. 

“I think it’s about time you got some rest, huh?” Ingrid asks. She’s standing in the doorframe, apron still tied around her waist from that afternoon, but it doesn’t smell like pie in the house. 

It smells like mud and ending and Emma is tired. That must be it. 

She nods, and for a few minutes it’s normal and almost good and the lingering taste of toothpaste in her mouth as she climbs into bed is almost comforting. But then it’s Ingrid stepping into her room and tugging the blankets up under her chin and the kiss she places on Emma’s forehead will linger for years. 

It’s the last thing she ever does.

Ingrid kisses Emma and her whole body goes taut, eyes getting that same glazed look as she falls directly onto her back. 

Emma doesn’t gasp. 

She blinks, opening her mouth and leaning over the side of the bed like this is one, long practical joke. Ingrid doesn’t move. And Emma has had enough experience with dead bodies in the last twelve hours to realize she’s facing her third. 

Or, well, second. Technically. 

“Ingrid,” Emma whispers, not expecting an answer, but frustrated all the same. She reaches her hand out, pushing and prodding and touching and none of it works. She uses two fingers and three, tries punching Ingrid’s shoulder, but nothing happens. 

Ingrid is dead. 

And Emma runs – directly across the street. 

The Navy man opens the door, a little starling with dark eyes and shaved head, but Emma can feel the tears on her cheeks again, shoulders shaking with the effort of running and figuring out what’s going on and he doesn’t object when she falls towards him. He wraps his arms around her middle and lets her cry. 

The rest is a whirlwind of phone calls and suitcases and arrangements that Emma is not capable of making. The state, however, is more than happy to do just that – a car set to pick her up after the funeral that will bring her to a group home in a different state and promises that everything will be fine, but Emma doesn’t trust much of anything anymore, particularly after Ingrid was alive. Again. 

And then dead. Again. 

None of it makes sense. 

But that’s for a different moment and a different day to understand and in this moment Emma can’t help but keep glancing across the cemetery towards Killian, fidgeting in a suit with splotchy cheeks and shoes she knows don’t fit. 

He nods towards the patch of grass in between the two services, hand stuffed in his pocket. His tie is slightly off center. 

The state had to buy Emma a black dress. 

“You’re leaving,” Killian whispers, not a question, but a statement of fact and Emma’s neck aches when she nods in response. 

“I’ll be back.” “I don’t want you to leave.” “I don’t want to either. I’m...I’m sorry.” Killian tilts his head, confusion settling into the space between his eyebrows. “Why?”

Emma doesn’t have an answer to that. She has suspicions. And she’ll figure them out later, but right then, nine years, six months, fifteen days and, approximately, ten hours old, Emma Swan only has the certainty that she loves Killian Jones more than anything in the world and she doesn’t want to walk away from him. 

So she takes a step forward. 

As first kisses go, it’s probably not the greatest. There are two funerals happening and those suspicions lingering in the back of Emma’s mind make the air around her feel heavy, but she’s only a little certain she won’t ever be back and the rest of the reasons don’t matter. 

She tilts her head up, a quick brush of her lips over Killian’s. He doesn’t pull back, but it’s nothing more than that, until his thumb brushes over the curve of Emma’s cheek, catching a tear on the pad and the smile he gives her when she pulls back echoes in her memories for the next twenty years. 

“Ms. Swan,” a state official says brusquely and it must be time. 

She nods another, still shaky and uncomfortable, but that may just be the state of her lungs and the ability of either one of her legs to hold up her weight. Killian hasn’t moved his thumb. He doesn’t appear to want to. 

“I’m going to see you again,” he says, a promise Emma tries desperately to believe. It doesn’t work, the guilt and the weight in the very center of her is too big and too much and nothing has made sense, so it only makes sense that she doesn’t respond. 

She will, eventually, regret that. 

Because Emma Swan doesn’t ever see Killian Jones again. 

At least not while they’re both alive. 

Emma wakes with a start, glancing around her room like she’ll see several different ghosts spying on her. It feels that way, has for the last three days when she first started having these dreams and really the whole thing can fuck right off. 

It hasn’t happened in years – nightmares about that day and that night and how cold Ingrid looked when the EMTs carried her out of the house, the same ones who’d showed up for Liam. 

The irony of that was not lost on a grown-up Emma. 

Because a grown-up Emma was also a vaguely jaded Emma and she stopped having nightmares about Killian Jones and death years ago. 

Her subconscious does not seem to care. 

Her subconscious seems intent on driving her insane. 

Emma never went back to Storybrooke. She left with that state worker, lips still tingling from a first kiss that in retrospect would have been adorable if there wasn’t so much goddamn death involved, but Emma barely had time to linger on that thought before she was shipped to the first of nearly a dozen group homes and foster homes and less-than-pleasant foster families. 

It went on that way for years nothing permanent and everything disappointing and Emma has kept a fairly wide berth between herself and lingering human contact. Because, well, here’s the thing; Emma Swan is not exactly normal. 

In that she’s decidedly unnormal. 

As unnormal as it is possible to be. 

Because Emma Swan can wake the dead. 

And kill them again. 

It takes Emma three houses and one birthday without anyone acknowledging it is her birthday to grow disillusioned enough that it somehow makes sense to start conducting a few macabre science experiments. She’d always had her suspicions after that night and things that timed up too well to be coincidence and Emma starts with a dead bird she finds on the side of the road. 

It’s gross. 

The whole thing is gross, but she can’t shake this feeling that something is wrong with her, some fundamental issue that makes her unlovable and unfixable and she’s got to do something or she’s positive she’s going to shake herself out of her own skin. 

So she starts with the bird and it flies away and something else falls out of a tree and it might be a raccoon, but Emma’s never seen a raccoon. So, she doesn’t spend too long thinking about it before she runs away. 

And the houses keep coming and the experiments keep being...gross and Emma realizes, when she’s twelve years, ten months, sixteen days and nine hours old, that there are some rules to all of this. 

They’re relatively simple, but they’re unbreakable. 

Touch a dead thing once, it comes back to life. Touch it again, dead, forever. Keep a dead thing alive for more than one minute and something else has to die in its place. 

It’s then that twelve-year-old Emma realizes magic never comes for free. There’s always some kind of price. And she never looks for Killian Jones. 

She never goes back home. 

She moves – house to house and family to family, in name at least, until she ages out of the system and scrapes together enough money waitressing to pay the rent on the shoebox of an apartment she can live in. She moves out of that apartment eventually too. 

The concept of roots kind of freaks Emma out. 

Everything kind of freaks Emma out. 

She assumes it’s because she’s wrong. 

At, like, the most basic level. 

She does a good job of hiding it. Most of the time. She’s grown up and the years have passed, as the years have a tendency to do, and she’d saved up enough from those first few waitressing jobs that it only makes sense to open up her own restaurant and Emma may hate roots, but she’s still kind of a sentimental loser and her restaurant is on the other side of the county from Storybrooke and only serves pie. 

Damn good pie, but only pie. 

It’s kitschy. It kind of balances out all the death in her life. 

Emma shakes her head, still sitting upright in bed and she’d left the TV in the corner of the room the night before. The news is on now, some perfectly coiffed broadcaster talking about a murder victim and reward for any information and Emma mutters a curse under her breath because she knows it’s only a matter of time until—

Her ringtone is loud enough that she’s momentarily concerned about the effect it will have on her wallpaper. 

Ruby is already talking by the time Emma swipes her thumb over the phone screen. 

“Em, Em, Em, Em, where are you? Are you home? Are you at work? Are you on your way to your very short commute from your home to your work?” “Are you breathing?” “No, this is more important than breathing.”

Emma slumps into the small mound of pillows behind her. There is only one thing Ruby would consider more important than breathing – money. 

The story of how Emma Swan meets Ruby Lucas is fraught with miscues and miscreants, but the important thing is that a perp Ruby was chasing over the goddamn top of buildings missed a step and suddenly fell directly into the alley behind Emma’s restaurant. 

Where she was taking the garbage out. 

He died rather instantly. And then...was less dead once he slammed his hand on Emma’s forearm. All of which Ruby saw. 

Emma managed to swat at his head before he took off back down the block, but the damage was done as they say. Not Ruby. Obviously. She claims it was fate and meant to be and, well, it’s much easier for a private investigator to figure out who killed murder victims when she’s got a partner who can wake them up and ask them. 

“What’s the gig?” Emma asks, mostly because sometimes she likes to use the wrong lingo on purpose if only to get Ruby to make that put-upon sigh. It works. 

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” “Listen, Rubes, I’ve got, just like, a ton of mail order...orders waiting for me, so if this is going to take several thousand years then…” “Did you just call them mail order orders?” “That makes sense.” “Ehhhhh.” “Give me a break, I literally woke up five minutes before you called.” Ruby doesn’t sigh at that. She doesn’t say anything. That’s more concerning. “You just woke up?” she asks, a note of concern in her voice that probably shouldn’t feel as if it affects several of Emma’s internal organs. “Was...more weird dreams?” Emma makes a noncommittal noise – mostly to save face and partly because she’s been incredibly vague with Ruby about the dreams, only mentioning them when her partner pointed out how dead tired she looked during a trip to the morgue earlier this week. Ruby thought she was far funnier than she was. 

“Emma,” Ruby chides, drawing out her name until it feels like a reprimand and punishment. “C’mon, seriously. What are you even dreaming about?” “Nothing.” “Is your eye twitching?” “Excuse me?” “Your eye twitches when you lie,” Ruby says. “Like every single time. It may be your most giving tell, honestly.” “How many tells do you think I have?” “I know you have, at least, five. The eye twitch is the most obvious, but sometimes you play with your hair and you scrunch your nose. Plus that foot bobbing thing and, uh...that’s four, right?” Emma makes another noise, eyes flitting back towards the TV and she can’t shake the feeling she should know something about whatever the story is. “Damn,” Ruby huffs. “I can’t think of the last one. You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’re trying to distract me and it’s not working.” “Did it not?” Emma laughs. 

“No. Kind of. But no. Listen to me, do you want to get paid or not?” “I thought we already talked about all the mail order orders I have. There are just...a questionable number of rotten strawberries in my walk-in.” “It’s weird that you use rotten fruit.” Emma shrugs. And tugs her hair over her shoulder. “Cheaper that way,” she explains, not for the first time. “Plus, it’s not like I’m eating my own pie.” “Can’t have your pie and eat it too?”

“I don’t think that’s the colloquialism you were looking for. And you’re still getting sidetracked. Does this have something to do with the body they’re talking about on the news?”

“If the body on the news is offering a five-figure reward for any information regarding his untimely demise.” Emma doesn’t usually react to Ruby’s blunt viewpoint of the world and its numerous dead bodies, but she can’t suppress the shiver that moves her body when she hears his and something is wrong. 

“His? And did you say five figures?”

Ruby hums, sounding as if she’s already decided what to do with her share. “His. I promise that is the least interesting part. The interesting part is that he was found out by the old quarry on the other side of the county, you know right near the bottom of the—”

“Hill,” Emma finishes. “The bottom of the hill. That’s…” Her vision swims, memories and moments attacking from every angle until she has to glance at her arms to make sure she’s not sporting inexplicable bruises from the past. She’s not. 

Magic only goes so far, it seems. 

“Yeah,” Ruby says, confusion obvious in all four letters. “That’s exactly right. They say it looked pretty bad. Some kind of something gone wrong, but the town isn’t happy about it and they don’t like the limelight and the allusions that they’re a hotbed for murder so I guess the mayor’s offered up a bunch of money and—” “—What was the guy’s name?” “What?” “The guy,” Emma repeats, and her voice scratches on the words. “You said it was a guy right? At the bottom of the hill? In Storybrooke?” Silence. 

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. 

And Emma’s head snaps back towards the TV when they finish their report because services for the deceased are being held tomorrow and— “His name’s, well, it was, I guess, his name was Killian Jones,” Ruby says, and Emma doesn’t really hear the rest of it. 

She barely realizes she’s agreed to any of this until the local news ends, switches over to even crappier daytime programming and Emma has no idea how she gets through the day. She bakes. That’s kind of her thing. 

She bakes and comes up with ridiculous recipes and flavor combinations and the customers are happy and Ruby announces I’ll see you tomorrow when she slams the door closed behind her nearly ten hours after it feels as if the world has ended. 

Killian Jones is dead. 

And Emma can’t seem to catch her breath. 

Ruby’s standing outside her car the next morning, two cups of coffee in her hand and an expectant smile on her face. “Your eye is twitching,” she says conversationally, handing Emma what better be a latte. It’s not. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Sure I don’t. I’m just paid to observe and critique—” “—No one is paying you to critique.” “Whatever,” Ruby shrugs, swinging open the passenger side door of Emma’s car. “Why the face about this place?” “I will tell you it’s less threatening when you rhyme.” Ruby scowls. “That was not intentional and mostly the fault of the limits of the English language. You lived there at one point, didn’t you?”

“Were you looking me up last night?” Emma balks, and her hand is shaking so hard it’s difficult to move the gear shift. 

“Please, don’t insult me like that. I looked you up as soon as I met you.” Emma jerks her head around, only to find Ruby grinning at her like several metaphorical cats. “Then why the third degree?” “There are no degrees here. There’s friendly curiosity, particularly when it comes to the state of your body and your ability to do what we’re going here to do.” “I’m fine.” The lie is honestly almost offensive. Emma made sixteen pies the day before. One had five different kinds of berries in it. She tested a new crust recipe she’s been thinking about for years. 

Literally. Years. 

She’s so stressed out she’s not sure she even shut her eyes the night before. 

And that’s not the right word at all. 

She’s goodman terrified. 

She can’t believe Killian is dead. 

Ruby throws her whole head back when she laughs, the sound filling the entire car and lingering on air molecules. “God, that was horrible,” she mutters. “Ok, let’s try it again. You know this guy?” “Small town.” “Not an answer.” “I knew him.” “In a personal sense?”

“Oh my God, Ruby,” Emma groans, and she can’t slump down in the seat while she’s driving. It’s definitely the most unfortunate thing that’s happened to her all day. She can’t imagine that will stay the same going forward. “I left Storybrooke when I was nine!”

“Yuh huh, yuh huh, yuh huh. Ok. So...what is it, childhood sweetheart?” “You know me better than that.” “I thought I did until I saw the explosion in your kitchen yesterday and now I’m starting to think you and our body were a little—” “—Can we not call him a body,” Emma snaps, knuckles going white when she grips the steering wheel too tight. 

Ruby blinks. “Still sweet on him?”

“I was nine.” “That’s not an answer.” “No,” Emma says, and she doesn’t expect that to hurt nearly as much as it does. That’s insane. This whole thing is insane. She wrote down conversational ideas for her sixty seconds with Killian somewhere around four in the morning. 

Every one was worse than the last. 

“No?” Ruby echoes. “You should tell that to your right arm.” Emma groans, not taking her eyes off the road because she can feel her arm shaking against her side. Her elbow keeps digging into her rib. “This is going to be fine,” Emma mumbles. Ruby does not look convinced. 

That’s probably for the best since Emma can’t control her limbs – or her mind. 

And she might not be nine years old anymore, but she’s fairly certain part of her never really stopped loving Killian Jones and the rest of her never forgot Killian Jones and they don’t hit any traffic on their way to Storybrooke. 

She figures that’s some kind of sign. 

They come up with some excuse for the funeral director – a portly man Emma doesn’t recognize who doesn’t recognize Emma because she hasn’t been in Storybrooke in nearly twenty years – and he directs them towards the viewing parlor. 

The whole thing is sterile and unfeeling and Emma keeps exhaling dramatically. 

“They think he was into some shady stuff you know,” the man says, voice dropping low like he’s sharing secrets with them. Ruby arches an eyebrow. 

“That so?” “Oh yeah, yeah, very messy crime scene. Guess he came out on the short end.” Emma's stomach turns, mouth dropping open. “And no one else was found there? Just Kill—Mr. Jones? He was the only victim?” “You think the police are hiding more dead bodies?” “That’s not what I said.” “What she means,” Ruby says, stepping in between the two of them before Emma can throw the first punch, “is that it seems strange that there would be a sign of struggle and nothing else. No other evidence of other people around?” The funeral director does not look impressed. “That’s not my area,” he shrugs. “All I know is there’s a reward and the mayor’s going crazy trying to keep the cameras out of here and the kid’s uncles are besides themselves.” Emma has to count to ten in her head to make sure her exhale doesn’t fly out of her. Ruby’s gaze flashes her direction. “Right,” she says. “Well, if you don’t mind…”

There are a few more words exchanged – and possibly a few well-placed bills, but Emma ignores all of that, taking in the scene and there’s an actual sign at the far end of the room. 

In Loving Memory of Killian Jones. 

Emma drags her hand over her face, blinking back whatever has suddenly appeared in her eyes and she resolutely refuses to believe they’re tears. 

She can’t believe he’s dead. 

“Em,” Ruby calls. “We’re uh...we’ve only got a couple minutes here.”

Emma nods brusquely, avoiding the slightly accusatory stare of the funeral director and—”What if I did this on my own?” 

“What?” “My own. Just...there’s, you know, years and a familiarity there and he’s...well, it may be weird to wake him up and stun him like that.” Ruby’s eyebrows set several different records for height and movement. “You think we’re going to stun him? And did you say wake him up? He’s not asleep, Em.” “I know, I know, but...just...I think this is for the best.” “Yuh huh.” “You keep saying that.” “That’s because I can’t figure out another string of words to use in this situation. You know you can’t stay in there long.” “I know.” “You’ve got sixty seconds to figure out who killed this guy.”

Emma shivers. And Ruby notices. Always. Perpetually. Infuriatingly. “I know,” Emma says again. “Trust me, it’s...I’ll be in and out and we’ll be collecting money in no time.” “Announce that a little louder.” Emma sighs, Ruby staring at her like she’s taking stock or emotional inventory. It seems to last forever and Emma does her best to keep her breathing even when Ruby leans around her to open the viewing room door. 

“Sixty seconds,” she repeats. “That’s it.” “Aye aye.”

The door sounds impossibly loud when it closes behind Emma, another sound that makes her jump and sigh and she’s an absolute disaster. Or at least she thought she was until she turned and saw the coffin and then it feels a little like melting and a bit like freezing and it’s a strange combination, particularly when she’s also fairly certain her lungs have disappeared entirely. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, desperate for some trace of confidence or courage. It’s disappointing when she can’t find any. 

“C’mon, Swan,” she mumbles, half to herself and half to the person on the other side of the room because that’s exactly what the person on the other side of the room would say to her.

Emma takes a step forward, wobbly at best and petrified at worst, lifting the coffin lid, and her lungs reappear in a miracle of modern science as soon as her eyes land on him. 

“Oh,” Emma breathes, and that’s about all there is to it. 

He’s wearing a suit, hair even longer than it was when he was ten years old. It curls slightly, just behind his ears, and there’s a dusting of scruff on his face. His hand is folded over his chest, only one hand, making his jacket twist slightly and Emma feels as if her throat is closing. 

He’s got an earring in one ear. 

It makes her laugh. 

“Oh my God,” Emma mumbles. “You look like a pirate.”

She closes her eyes again when he doesn’t answer – she refuses to acknowledge why he doesn’t answer, but she’s got a job and justice needs to be served or something. Ruby probably has several dozen new pairs of shoes she’s already preordered. 

Bobbing on her feet as soon as she’s within arms-length of the coffin, Emma shimmies her shoulders, like that will help shake free the nerves clinging to the base of her spine. Her lips feel far too dry, breathing far too erratic, but she’s on limited time and she’s got to touch him. 

She’s got no idea where to touch him. 

She scans his face, trying to find a spot that isn’t too forward or too weird and her eyes land on the scar on his cheek – a souvenir of a race down the hill and faulty brakes and Liam had been white as a sheet when they came home with Emma’s blood-stained sweatshirt pressed against Killian’s cheek. 

“Ok,” she nods, and talking to herself is definitely a sign of impending insanity, but she kind of hopes she’s already gone insane and—

He moves far quicker than she expected. 

Emma’s no more than brushed her fingertips over the curve of his cheek than he’s throwing his arm out in the minimal space between them, his wrist colliding painfully with her stomach. She stumbles backwards, barely keeping her balance and mumbling a string of curses under her breath and when she looks up he’s brandishing a chair at her. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Killian shouts, and Emma does her best to quiet him without taking a rogue chair to the side of her legs. 

“Listen, listen, listen. Do you remember when you were a kid there was a girl who lived across the street from you?” He doesn’t immediately put the chair down. He licks his lips instead. And the tips of his ears go red. “Swan?”

Emma nods, ignoring the lump of everything in the back of her throat at her sound of her own name. “Hi.” “Hi? Did you just say hi? What are you doing here?” “I’m uh...how much do you remember of, like, the last seventy-two hours?” Killian makes a face, an expression that does something particular to Emma’s heart and soul and whatever, tilting his head and his eyes widen when he notices the coffin he just leapt out of. “Oh, shit. Is that…” “Yeah,” Emma says. “So, uh. I don’t have a lot of time here.” “How much time is not a lot of time? God, are you some kind of angel? Is that what’s happening? Because if that’s what’s happening, then that’s a really twisted trick to show me you when I’m dead and—” “—No, no, I’m really here.” She ignores most of that sentence too. She’ll have the rest of her life to linger on what those words, maybe, mean. “But, um, we’re wasting time.” “To?” “Have you tell me who killed you.” Killian blinks – far too quickly to be anything except entirely distracting, and Emma wishes he wouldn’t because she’d really like to see his eyes and she’s almost pleased to realize her memories of his eyes have remained perfect for the last two decades. “Are you a cop?” 

“No, but, Killian, you’re really cutting into your time here. It’s like...twenty seconds now.” “What?” “Killian!” His answering smile is blinding. That’s the only word Emma can come up with. It makes her breath catch and her shoulders sag, as if all the worries and fears and anxieties of the world have disappeared. At least for a moment. 

“It’s really good to see you, Swan,” he says, taking a step towards her and Emma backs up on instinct. That gives him, visible, pause. “I don’t know who killed me.” “What?” “I have no idea who killed me. It was an arrangement and—that’s not important, but I don’t know how it happened. I think I had a dream about some kind of blade but—” He cuts himself off when he twists the wrong way, gritting his teeth when his gaze falls on the blunt end of his left arm. “Holy shit,” Killian mumbles. “That’s...shit did I bleed out somewhere?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admits. “That’s why I’m here.” “To find out why I died?” She nods. “And you’re not an angel?” She shakes her head. “Huh, well I’m sorry to disappoint, Swan, but I’ve got no idea. Does that send me directly to hell or something?” “I’m really not an angel.” Killian hums, rocking towards her and ignoring whatever Emma’s eyes do at that. “So, uh...what happens now? I was dead, wasn’t I?” “Yeah. Um...well, I have to touch you and you’ll be dead again.” “You have to touch me?” “Them’s the rules.” He chuckles, the smile on his face her smile and Emma’s a greedy jerk. She wrings her hands together. That’s probably the fifth tell. “You know,” she mutters. “When I was a kid...I was...you were my first kiss.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “You were my first kiss too,” Killian says. “And you’ve got to touch me so I die again?” “Please don’t say it like that.” There’s more laughter and they’re definitely in the final seconds and Emma tilts her head up as soon as Killian’s incredibly shiny dress shoes threaten to brush against her flats. “No better way to go out then to go out kissing, huh?” “Oh my God.” “Admit it, Swan, that was funny.” “It was not.” “You’re arguing with a dead man.” She rolls her eyes, but her stomach doesn’t get the memo about jokes and humor and Killian mumbles hey under his breath. “Missed the mark, didn’t I? You don’t…” His ears are still tinged red, a hand reaching behind his back to tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s not a requirement, Swan. The kissing, I mean. Just felt...symmetrical.” “You were always way better at math than me.” Killian grins. “So?”

And for half a breath, Emma is going to do it. She’s going to kiss him and it’ll be something, in some kind of way that may result in a complete and total mental breakdown, because Killian’s already leaning towards her and she really can’t cope with the cut of that suit, but that seems a little morbid too and Emma pulls her lips back behind her teeth. 

“Ah,” Killian says, a note of disappointment in his voice that does not make sense for a man who’s standing a few feet away from his own coffin. “That’s fine, Swan.”

He’s called her Swan more in the last forty-five seconds than he did in the last forty-five days they saw each other. 

Emma’s not totally convinced he isn’t doing it on purpose. 

“What if...you didn’t have to be dead?” Killian scoffs. “That’d be ideal, honestly. Is that an option?”

The objection sits heavy on Emma’s tongue, the certainty that the rules are the rules and there’s no way to break them, but he’s standing there and smiling at her and she takes a step back before she can consider anything except how much she wants Killian Jones to be alive. 

With her. 

Emma hears the timer on her phone go off. Her sixty seconds are up. And Killian Jones is still alive, smiling at her.

[logicalbookthief]

will you take this babe to be your only

"It’s all yours, Eds," he says, batting his eyes at Eddie’s glare. "On one condition."

He drops to his knee, just like they do in the movies. His lips make a wet, smacking sound as he kisses the back of Eddie’s hand, grin unrepentant.

"Make me the happiest man in the seventh grade?"

OR: Five times Richie proposed to Eddie as a joke and the one time he was serious. Based on THIS amazing, adorable reddie art by @faiyx. Title from “Let’s Get Married” by Bleachers.

Link to ao3

Richie saunters over to friends – specifically over to Eddie, who’s giving Stan and Bill a wide berth as they fiddle with Bill’s bike. But Eddie catches the glint of his ringpop in the sun and crowds him instantly.

"Hey! Where’s mine?"

"Sorry, Eds. Only one left." He is sorry for that; Richie meant to buy one for Eddie, too. He is decidedly less sorry for the reaction he knows his counter-offer will induce. "Tell you what, I’ll share."

"Gross!" Eddie reddens with his signature disgust. "I don’t want your spit. Who knows what germs you’re carrying! Flu, strep, halitosis–"

"You can’t spread halitosis," Stan interrupts. Eddie shoots him a look that is both confused and scathing.

It’s kind of cute, actually. The furrowed brow, the tightening around his lips. Everything Eddie does is at least kind of cute. Even when he’s trying to connive Richie out of his candy.

"C’mon, Rich. Red’s my favorite flavor."

"Red isn’t a flavor."

"You know what I mean, dipshit."

"Eds, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Richie tuts. "Or does she save all the lip-action for me?"

"Shut up! You’re so fucking gross.” Eddie scowls, making a lunge for Richie’s arm. He’s got a couple inches on Eddie, and it’s way too easy to hold the ring out of reach, so Eddie has to jump for it.

Richie could tease Eddie like this all day, but an idea strikes, and oh, he can’t resist.

"Okay, you’ve convinced me. It’s all yours, Eds," he says, batting his eyes at Eddie’s glare. "On one condition."

He drops to his knee, just liken they do in the movies. His lips make a wet, smacking sound as he kisses the back of Eddie’s hand, grin unrepentant.

"Make me the happiest man in seventh grade?"

Eddie sputters, his cheeks a hot, fluorescent pink. Too deer-in-the-headlights to even freak over the germs from Richie’s saliva.

"Our Eddie could do better," Stan shouts. Richie yelps in offense.

"Take that back, Stanflakes!"

While he’s distracted, Eddie swipes the ringpop and sticks it in mouth. All smug, completely unrepentant. Richie would be annoyed, if his stomach wasn’t twisted in  fluttery knots all of a sudden.

Weird. Maybe he should lay off the candy, after all.

*

*

*

*

"Expert quarry-diver, Richard Tozier, will now attempt his triple back-splash bellyflop." Richie clears his throat of the British voice, the tips of his toes dangling over the edge of the cliff. He bends to a diving pose, sticking his butt towards his audience.

"Would you be careful?" Eddie nags. "Do you know the statistics of water-related injury among kids our age?"

"Do you know the statistics of virgins who quote statistics all the time?" Richie mimics Eddie’s high-pitched tone, chuckling at how huffy he gets. "Lighten up, Eds."

Mike peers over his shoulder. "It is a pretty big fall."

Richie snorts. "Not as big as my–"

His foot slips, careening back into nothing. The last thing he sees before he plummets is Eddie, seized by terror.

As far as last sights go, it isn’t so bad.

He slams against the water, hard. The impact punches the air out of his lungs. He sinks for a bit, dazed by pain, until the tightness in his chest becomes almost unbearable.

Disoriented, Richie flails his arms, aiming for the surface but going nowhere. His lungs have started to ache with urgency when he’s grabbed under the arms. They breach the surface, gulping in a glorious burst of oxygen, and finally, he’s set on land. He gasps, water sluicing past his lips, tasting all the nasty shit Eddie claims is in there.

Eddie.

"Eddie," he croaks, his vision blurry. He must’ve lost his glasses.

"You idiot," Eddie screeches. Wetness clings to his lashes. Richie suspects it isn’t from the quarry yet doesn’t dare voice this aloud. “I told you, I told you to be careful, and what did you do!? You could’ve broken your neck!"

"Or my huge dick,” Richie coughs, as his glasses are shoved back onto his face. He looks up to see Stan rolling his eyes.

"Besides his brain, is anything broken?”

"Dr. K doesn’t think so," says Ben, smiling in relief. "He jumped in after you, then Bill and I, and we swam you to shore."

"My hero," Richie sing-songs. He grins at his savior. "Marry me, Eds?"

"Pull that shit again and I'll let you drown," Eddie promises, though it's sort of undermined by how he's still hovering over Richie. Clingy Eddie is a worried Eddie, and selfishly, Richie likes it.

"You’ll have a helluva bruise," Bev remarks, poking at his skin.

"I’ve only seen people fall that way in cartoons," Mike exclaims.

Stan guffaws. "You dropped like Wile E. Coyote."

"Idiot," Eddie repeats. He hasn’t let go of Richie’s wrist, the point of contact burning so hot it may as well be imprinted on his skin. “Next time, you better listen to me.”

Richie beams. "Of course. What would I do without you, Eds?"

"Die, apparently," says Bill, and Richie laughs so hard water spurts out of his nose.

*

*

*

*

It’s the dead of night when Richie climbs through Eddie’s window, but the motions are so familiar, he could probably do it blind. He’s walked the distance from his house to the Kaspbrak’s so many times he could tell you the exact amount of steps it takes from his room to Eddie’s front door.

The excursions used to be a necessity, considering how frequently his mom would keep him home from school, and how she refused to let any of them visit Eddie when they brought his homework. Ever since Eddie put his foot down over the gazebos, he hadn’t missed nearly as much, until about a week ago.

A few days of absence is tolerable, though by no means enjoyable for Richie. A week is his absolute limit.

He slides the window open and slips inside. The room’s empty, except for a nest of blankets on the bed. Richie frowns, scanning for signs of life. Then the nest shifts, and he hears a sniffle.

"Rich?" Eddie pokes his head out of the cocoon. "What’re you doing here?"

Maybe it’s that he figured this was a case of Mrs. K’s smothering, but he isn’t prepared for the sight of Eddie: cheeks flushed, hair rumpled, his voice a sore-sounding whisper. "You really are sick, huh," says Richie, dumbly.

Eddie scoffs, a cough wracking his whole body. "No, I quarantined myself for fun! I love the smell of stale air and Vicks vapor rub."

"Geez, if you’re gonna be a dick, I’ll take my care-package and go," Richie turns on his heel, as if to leave.

Fingers curl around his arm, stronger than he expected. Richie cuts to Eddie’s eyes, wide and vulnerable. "Please don’t go."

"Eds, hey," Richie says gently. He cards his fingers through his sweaty hair, feeling like an ass. "I was kidding."

Shakily, Eddie nods. "No, it’s okay... I forgot how it was, you know? Being hold up in my room, all by myself, because I’m sick." He swallows, drawing out a wince. "It’s..."

Lonely. Eddie doesn’t have to say it for Richie to read him loud and clear. And who wouldn’t be, trapped in a dark house with only Mrs. K and her soaps for company?

If he wasn’t just some punk teen with two bucks to his name, he’d take Eddie away from this – this prison of a room, with his mom as warden; this shithole town, with all its shake and secrets – in a heartbeat.

"Marry me," he blurts. Eddie blinks at him.

So you’ll never be alone, is what he means. What he says is, "That way if you die, I’ll get your comics."

"Fuck you," Eddie rasps. It sounds more like fug you. Richie snickers.

"You’re cute when you’re congested. I can’t take anything you say seriously."

"Why don’t you put your mouth to good use for once," Eddie grumbles, and slaps a comic into Richie’s palm. "My eyes are too watery to read."

Richie grins and does as he’s told. Probably the only instance Eddie doesn’t complain about his voices are when he reads aloud; even when they were little kids, Eddie would sit entranced, saying he was the best storyteller.. He attempts to keep the volume low, even though there’s a 90% percent chance Mrs. Kaspbrak is already passed out with a bottle of Chardonnay.

After a while, Eddie starts to doze against his shoulder, and even Richie can’t hold his eyes open much longer. He may as well spend the night; as long as he skedaddles before breakfast, Mrs. K will be none-the-wiser.

"Move over," Richie orders, slipping under the covers. They’re all elbows and knees, yet still skinny enough to fit together in the bed. It’s narrow, though. The fit is tight. His heart’s fluttering so loudly he hopes Eddie’s ears are congested, too.

"I’ll get you sick," Eddie frets. A tidal wave of affection rushes over Richie, because the concern is I’m infectious stay away, not ew, get away from me, you fag.

He dreads the day they’ll be too old, or it’ll be too gay, for Richie to sneak into his room and share his bed. So he savors it while he has it, this closeness. Shuffles their positions until his chin is tucked over Eddie’s shoulder, his chest pressed against Richie’s front.

"There," he says, grateful they’re no longer facing each other, so Eddie can’t see the flush on his cheeks. "Now you can’t breathe on me."

Eddie shivers against the cool gust of air over his neck, or maybe he’s feverish, curling back against Richie in search of warmth. Emboldened, Richie throws an arm over his middle, slotting them together. For Richie, it’s like a piece of himself falling into place.

Tomorrow he’ll complain about Eddie’s hideous morning breath and be kicked for his trouble. Tonight he drifts off to the hiss of Eddie’s breaths and is thankful for every wheeze.

*

*

*

*

"Jesus, Rich. Those things will rot your lungs before you’re forty."

Eddie grunts when he spies Richie, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. The glow is unmistakable in the low-lighting of Derry’s school halls.

Richie takes a long, exaggerated drag. "Yeah, yeah, so you’ve told me. A gazillion times."

"You survived an evil sewer clown just to kill yourself with cigarettes?" Eddie makes his bitchiest face.

"When you put it that way," Richie mutters, stubbing it out. Doesn’t want to give Eddie a reason to leave, anyway.

He slinks over to Richie, nose wrinkling at the smell. "Why aren’t you with Becky?"

"Who?"

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Your date, dumbass."

Of course Richie remembers. Becky “B-Cup” Wilkins. She sits by him in physics, where they copy each other’s work (usually with mutually devastating results). This was the first year of high school she had her braces off, and with the metal gone, she was keen to practice her kissing. Richie was more than happy to oblige.

He was a little floored when she asked him to the dance, though. Him and the Losers generally had a pact to go together, but that may have more to do with the lack of invitations from anyone else. They all encouraged Richie to accept the invite “before she realizes what she’s getting into,” as Stan so eloquently put it.

Becky was pretty, overbite or no, and she ran with a crowd of girls that were way out of his league. She had a mean streak to her, too, and apparently he liked that in a girl.

(And apparently in boys, too.)

Her friends were nice to him the whole night, even laughed at his jokes. Whether they thought he was charming in an off-beat kind of way, or simply being considerate of Becky, he wasn’t sure, nor did he particularly care.

Until he returned from the punch bowl to the girls in a cluster, giggling.

"Come on, if you had to pick a loser, who’d it be?" asks Liz Maloney.

"The short one, I guess," another girl answers. Curious, Richie follows her gaze, heart sinking at the sight of Eddie, standing off to the side with Ben and Stan, while Bev and Bill dance. His hair’s combed for once, shiny with gel, and the sweater that looks soft to the touch. Not as soft as his skin, yet it isn’t a fair comparison, since Richie’s imagined touching that for far longer.

"God, Kris, you know he’s gay, right?" Liz jeers. His stomach lurches at the disdain in her voice. "He’s never so much as looked at a girl."

"So what, he’s gay and can’t be cute?" Kris puts a hand on her hip. "Better gay than fat."

"At least Hanscom isn’t allergic to pussy."

They crack up at that, and in the mix, he hears Becky’s little snigger, the one he found so charming. Not anymore.

"You know who I’d pick?" Richie bursts in obnoxiously, startling Kris so bad she yelps. "All of them, over you."

Becky shot him a look as he left, like he was the weirdo upset over nothing, and Richie decided he was a better off a loser.

"Oh! Her." He snaps his fingers. "Yeah, we weren’t compatible, you could say. Turns out, her B-Cup was mostly tissue."

"She dumped you," Eddie surmises.

"Yeah," says Richie, because it’s easier than the truth.

His expression dims, sympathy bleeding from every pore. Eddie bumps his shoulder. "I’m sorry, dude."

Richie shrugs. "Bev is saving me a dance as we speak. I’m sure she’s got one saved for you, too."

"No thanks, I’m good." Eddie shudders. "All the sweat, the touching, the–"

"–the bacteria?" Richie finishes knowingly. "Fuck. Can’t you let loose for one night, Eds?"

"Don’t call me that," he snaps. "And what’re you doing?"

"Crossing it off your bucket list," Richie says cheerily, yanking Eddie to his feet. "C’mon, man. What if you wake up with a staff infection tomorrow? Do you wanna die without dancing at your senior homecoming?"

"Shit for brains, that isn’t how staff infect–" At his unfaltering grin, Eddie relents. "You know what, fine! Whatever it takes to shut you up."

"That’s the spirit!"

It’s obvious Eddie doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. Richie knows exactly where he wants to put his, yet he’s too much of a coward.

"You can barely hear the music," Eddie complains. "We look like idiots."

"Nobody’s watching," Richie presses, holding Eddie a bit tighter, the fear he’ll pull away worse than the fear they’ll be caught. "I could hum, if you prefer."

Eddie snorts, ducking his head, chin brushing Richie’s chest. "I don’t really know what I’m doing," he admits, self-consciously.

"Relax, you’re fine." Richie twists him into an awkward twirl, then does the same to himself, cackling at Eddie’s reluctant smile. "I’ll show you some moves when we go camping at Mike’s next weekend."

Immediately, the smile disappears. "My mom won’t let me."

"Eds,"  Richie groans. "You’re killing me."

"I tried!" Eddie cries miserably. "I tried to ask if I could visit my aunt in Chamberlain, and sneak out with you guys instead, even though it was a long-shot. But she wouldn’t go for that, either!"

"Well, there is no way you’re missing Ben’s triple-layer s’mores or your dancing lessons. Let’s brainstorm." Richie spends a second wracking his brain. "Option one, we fake your death."

"Be serious, Rich."

"Okay, okay. Option two." He makes the mistake of looking at Eddie, the words briefly catching in his throat. "We get married, run away together. As your husband, I’d totally overrule your mom."

"Where’s my ring?" Eddie asks, smirking.

Richie surprises him with a dip, just to hear his squawk. "You got to admit, Eddie Tozier has quite the ring to it," he jokes, his mouth so close to Eddie’s he feels light-headed.

"Sounds like a bad cologne brand." Eddie stares up at him, dark eyes imploring. Like he truly believes in Richie, trusts him to fix anything. "What’s option number three?"

"I stop living in sin and make it official with your mom," Richie blurts, wriggling his eyebrows. "As your stepdad, I could persuade Sonia to let our darling boy have fun with his friends."

He should’ve predicted the smack, but it jolts him enough that he drops Eddie on his ass, collapsing into a fit of giggles next to him on the floor.

"You’re sick," Eddie hisses, with no real bite. "No wonder your date left you."

Richie yanks him into a noogie. "Good thing I’ll always have you, Eddie Spaghetti."

*

*

*

*

He has Eddie, wholly, unconditionally. Until he doesn’t.

Until the memories fade, day by day, month by month, and he forgets every lingering touch, every averted glance, every painstaking swipe of his father’s pocketknife as he carved their initials into the kissing bridge. He loses Eddie, only to find him twenty-seven years later, and then only to lose him again.

Almost. Richie sighs, savoring the steady beep of the monitor beside him. He almost loses Eddie.

They narrowly escaped being crushed to death under the Neibolt, mostly because Richie, in his desperate certainty that Eddie was alive, refused to leave him behind. How could he leave him to die in that cold, dark chasm – Eddie would’ve hated it, he was afraid of the dark, kept a night-light well into his teens, and Richie couldn’t tell the others, not only ‘cause he was sobbing too harsh to make any sense, but ‘cause he promised Eds he’d never tell a soul – when he could barely pry himself from Eddie at the hospital, while the doctors insisted they take him into surgery, now.

So Richie waits, his hands quaking at the memory of Eddie’s skin, gone cold with shock. He waits, helpless, while the doctors try to shove Eddie’s innards back in and stitch up the hole in his chest.

By some miracle, they manage to do it with, and with him only flatlining once, the nurse informs him proudly. Like Richie should be ecstatic that Eddie had to be physically resuscitated, even after they brought him to safety, after killing that fucking clown.

"I’m sorry. Until he’s moved to a room, only family are allowed in the ICU," she explains to the six losers standing vigil. Richie is more than a bit bewildered when she motions him forward regardless. "Sir, you can come with me."

Still a little dazed, he follows without question, lest this privilege be revoked.

"Your husband is heavily sedated, so if he wakes he’ll likely be disoriented. I’ll be good to have a familiar face." She nods to the chair at Eddie’s bedside. "Make sure to keep him calm and comfortable."

With a final, warm smile, she leaves them alone. Richie staggers into the seat, fumbling for Eddie’s hand, where it lies limp against the starch white sheets. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the fat drops of tears are sliding down the bridge of his nose and into the bed. His chest swells, full of all the regrets he’s carried, all the shame he’s hidden. All the love that’s interwoven into the two.

And Eddie has no idea.

No idea that Richie would fight a million fucking clowns if doing so would keep Eddie safe, let him smile, bright and buoyant, like he had at Richie when he thought he’d killed It for real.

Hell, the nurse from middle-of-fucking-nowhere Derry could tell he was head-over-heels in love, yet he couldn’t find the balls to confess to the one guy in the world who deserved to know.

Richie isn’t sure how long he’s slumped over, their fingers intertwined, before Eddie stirs.

"You’re okay, Eds. It’s Richie, I’m here," he says softly, clutching his hand tighter. "Not leaving you, buddy. Not ever again."

His brow pinches, bewildered. "When did you...?"

"Never mind," snorts Richie. His smile hardly wavers, and it’s hopelessly adoring. Eddie has that effect on him, it seems. "Just running my mouth."

"Per usual," Eddie huffs, weakly. "Did we... It, did we...?"

The monitor speeds up, signaling his distress. Richie acts on instinct, standing up, using his body to shield him from the room, the world. It’s only them, just Richie with his palm over Eddie’s cheek, thumb caressing his scar, his dimples.

"It’s dead," he assures. "Everyone made it out, we’re safe. You’re safe now."

Eddie turns into the touch, nose brushing against his fingertips. Richie sucks in a breath, his heart a jackhammer in his throat. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone like he wants to kiss Eddie right now.

Talking. Talking will distract him from that dangerous line of thought. "We carried you out. You’re in the hospital, attached to no less than a thousand wires, that I'm afraid to poke in case you explode."

A groggy smile tugs at the corners of Eddie's mouth.

"Oh, and the staff thinks I’m your incredibly devoted husband," Richie adds wryly. "What do ya say, Eds? Don’t want to get accused of hospital fraud."

Eddie hums dreamily. "I have to divorce my wife first."

Richie nearly swallows his tongue.

He could blame it on the drugs. Hell, it's probably a joke. Like his half-hearted attempt to startle a laugh out of Richie, his chin smeared with blood, the "I fucked your mom" comment followed by a streak of red.

Except it isn't a joke. This is something else entirely.

"Wha– What are you saying?"

His eyes open to slits, glaring at Richie through his lashes. "I’m trying to be brave."

Richie chokes out a laugh. "Eds, you’re braver than anybody I’ve ever met."

"Hmm." Eddie exhales, eyes slipping closed. Richie stifles the pinprick of panic begging for Eddie to keep your eyes open, stay awake, please, look at me. "Brave. Not happy."

And if that doesn’t fucking break his heart.

"We can fix that," Richie whispers, the words unbidden but earnest. He talks a lot of shit, but this, this is as vulnerable as he's ever allowed himself to be. "You and me, Eds. I want–I want you to be happy."

Happy with me.

There’s no answer. Snores drift from Eddie’s slackened lips. Richie laughs, wobbly and tear-laced, as he nuzzles his hair.

"You rest, Eddie Spaghetti. I’ll be here when you wake up." He strokes his knuckles over his forehead, and then kisses him there, just below his hairline. Fuck it, he’s tired of fearing the worst, hiding the truth.

If Eddie wasn’t afraid, neither was Richie.

*

*

*

*

"Did I ever tell you guys I proposed to my boyfriend when we were twelve-years-old? With a ringpop?"

He garners a couple of hollers and a few scattered ’awws’.

"Let me finish!" Richie shushes. "I proposed to Eddie when we were kids, and, while our friend Stan was dunking on me, he stole the ring off my hand and stuck it in his mouth. He was all: haha, got ya bitch! The lil’ shit."

The crowd titters. Besotted, Richie lays a hand over his heart and sighs.

"Proposed with a ringpop. That is the height of romance – but only if you’re a twelve-year-old. If I pulled that stunt a a grown man, you wouldn’t be waking up to a Buzzfeed article titled: 42-year-old Comedian Ties Knot with Childhood Sweetheart. You’d be reading a news report claiming: 42-year-old Comedian Justifiably Murdered By His Boyfriend."

Cheers ring out, despite him yelling, "Don't cheer for my death!"

"You know what’s really pathetic? Besides the fact my romance game peaked before puberty." He pauses, allowing the chuckles to peter out before he continues, "The worst part is, it was a joke . Yup. I didn’t know I was gay, let alone in love with my best friend! I did it solely to get a rise out of him, and boy, did he get cute when he was mad."

In a thoughtful tone, Richie reflects, "In retrospect, the gay thing should’ve been clear sooner."

At the crowd's glee, a grin splits his cheeks.

"Speaking of my gay awakening, he’s in the audience tonight." He locks eyes with Eddie in the front row, sandwiched between Ben and Mike. "Eddie, my love. Light of my life. Fire in my loins. Won’t you join me on stage, so the adoring fans can get a look at you?"

The crowd claps in thunderous agreement. Eddie shakes his head, vehemently at first, losing gusto as the Losers gently (forcibly) encourage him toward the stage. He flashes a quick, uncomfortable grin at the audience before leaning into Richie, whispering "The hell are you doing, asshole?" which, for all his tact, the mic catches anyway.

Richie tucks a now blushing Eddie against his side, showing off his gorgeous boyfriend. "Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?" he shouts to raucous wolf-whistles. "Okay, that was maybe too enthusiastic. He's spoken for!"

He runs his palm over Eddie's shoulder, soothing the discomfort centered in the tendons of his neck. Once he relaxes, Richie trails it down his arm, skirting across his lower back. "I know you all paid good money – frankly too much money – to hear me joke on this stage tonight. But if you don’t mind, I am going to be serious for a minute."

Performative groans echo here and there, but for the most part, everyone's listening attentively.

"Twelve-year-old me was too afraid to be serious about things. The gay thing, the in love with my best friend thing. God, a lot of things." He turns to Eddie, his throat bobbing with nerves. "I’m not afraid anymore."

He’s thirty years older, his joints a lot creakier, but it’s the simplest thing in the world to drop to his knee and reach for the tiny velvet box in his pocket.

"Sorry it isn’t red-flavored," he says dryly, unclasping it to reveal the gold band inside. "Or edible."

In addition to the spotlights, there’s a dozen camera flashes going off. None of it matters, his sole focus on Eddie's deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"Rich," Eddie wheezes. It isn't an asthma attack, though it sounds like one. "What are you doing?"

"About to be shitting my pants on stage." Eddie snorts out a laugh, an effortless reminder of how in love with him Richie is. "But you make me brave."

The creases of his mouth loosen, his eyes wet around the edges. After a year, Eddie still tends to get that look – that look of utter awe. Less now than before, yet it seems that no matter how much or how often he's told, Eddie is awed by being so loved. Luckily, Richie never tires of telling him.

"Eds, I love you more than anything on earth. Will you marry me?"

He barely asks the question before Eddie hauls him to his feet, down into a kiss so hot his glasses fog up.

The audience erupts into deafening applause. Richie doesn't need to hear anything besides the frantic "yes, yes, yes, I love you, you idiot" Eddie’s pressing against his lips. Parting with a firm, wet smack of lips, Richie pulls away before he jumps him there on stage.

"You’ve been a lovely audience, folks!" he exclaims into the mic. "But if you'll excuse us, I've got a proposal to consummate. "

With a wink, Richie bustles Eddie off-stage. They make it past the curtain before he’s got Eddie hiked up against the wall.

Eddie paws at his shirt, while Richie’s slide towards the swell of his ass. "Can’t wait to get you out of these clothes, God, Eds," he moans reverently, raking his eyes over his fiancé – hang on. "Is that my shirt?"

"Is that my ring?" Eddie fires back. He’s smirking, though, and oh, without a shadow of a doubt, he was getting laid after the show, proposal or no.

"All yours, baby." Richie takes the hint nonetheless, slipping the ring on Eddie’s finger, where it belongs. He can’t resist another kiss, this one longer, sweeter.

"I was always yours," Eddie murmurs once they’ve parted, cheeks pleasantly flushed. "All you had to do was ask."

And it’s shit like that, confessions of love spoken so plainly, without the conflict that’s ruled most of their lives, that reminds Richie how lucky they are to have each other.

They are also a huge pain in each other’s ass, so, "Does that mean I should return the ring?"

"Fuck no," Eddie scoffs. "I’m wearing it forever. And tonight, for sure."

"It’ll be the only thing I wear tonight," he adds, a sultry whisper against in Richie’s ear.

He really is the luckiest man, ever.

[aconitemare]

[jaydick] Before That, And Colder

Chapter Three

Previous Chapter

AO3

A large mirror — a looking glass — or so it seemed to me — now stood where it had not been before. As I walked toward it in terror I saw my own form, all spotted with blood, its face white, advancing to meet me with a weak and uncertain step. 

  Four knocks sound at the door, quick and heavy, impatient: Suzie Su. Jason glances up from his book, a collection of Poe’s works mailed to him from Wayne Enterprises, Office of Bruce Wayne, C.E.O. It’s no library book — an expensive collectible, probably, judging by the silver-edged pages, embossed cover, and massive size. Jason is more tolerable of this gift, however, compared to the first edition volumes of Great Expectations sitting in a box in his bedroom closet. Sometimes he has the urge to bring them outside, douse them in kerosene, and roast marshmallows over them. He once got as far as unearthing the box and running his hand gently over the topmost volume, registering its rough texture beneath his weathered palm, before he lost his momentum and tucked the box away again. 

“What is it?” he calls out. The doorknob jiggles. “It’s locked,” he drawls, tipping his chair back a little with his toes. Upside down, he looks out the wall-to-wall windows behind him. The final dredges of sunlight bruise the Atlantic Ocean purple. 

Suzie Su kicks the door futilely. “No kidding,” she gripes. 

Jason sits back upright. He shifts the paperweight off his open book, moves to close it, and is promptly reminded of the photos spread across the desk. They’re why he had begun reading. He had grabbed a book off his shelf and slammed it down, burying the bodies. Now, dead boys stare up at him, their dark hair rusted with blood and their hollow bones crunched. They look like crows, like a murder, infused with tragedy and beating broken wings. 

“What do you want?” he asks roughly, eyes transfixed but mouth still — as always, he knows — moving ahead of him. He needs to get these out of his sight or he’ll lose his mind. 

“Well, it’s not a social call,” replies Suzie Su. 

“Be right there,” promises Jason. He shoves the photos into the book, crushing his doppelgangers between the final pages of William Wilson. Then he bats the book away, towards the corner of his desk for later.

Jason unlocks and opens the door to reveal Suzie Su in a plain, button-down shirt damp with sweat. It pools beneath her pits like dolphin fins halfway down her sides. He raises an eyebrow. “What, no little black dress?”

 “You don’t pay me to be beautiful, ass,” says Suzie Su, brushing past Jason into his office. 

“Shit, am I supposed to be paying you?” he jokes, watching her over his shoulder. He’s about to follow when James darkens his doorway next. James is less sweaty but sporting a badly busted lip. Of course, the interesting part is the man he’s got wrapped in his arms with a potato sack over his head. 

Jason spreads his palms in delight. “Oh, good, you’ve found someone for the internship,” he says with cheer. He cocks his head to check around James’ hulking form. “Any other incapacitated applicants? No?” He sighs and shakes his head remorsefully. “Low turnout.”

James just stares at him, unamused. Probably sour over the punch Potato Sack got in. “Let me in, please,” he says. Jason courteously steps aside, closing the door behind him. James immediately releases Potato Sack, who sags to his knees and leans against James’ leg for half a second before regaining his balance. He’s more conscious than Jason would have thought for a bound and gagged kidnap victim. 

Jason points at him. “Who’s the fool? He just come from the county fair’s three-legged race?” he inquires. Potato Sack is dressed nicely; his outfit is a tad disheveled, but there’s no blood or sweat on him, at least not from the neck down. His peachy pocket square is halfway out his paisley blazer. The cuffs are folded to his elbows, exposing muscular, nicely tanned forearms. 

Suzie Su flops into one of Jason’s chairs, the white leather one with too much cushion. “The sack came straight out of Big Guy’s car. I don’t even know,” she remarks. She sounds tired despite being uninjured, like she might’ve chased Potato Sack all the way here. 

Jason contemplates making a Karate Kid reference, something about chasing chickens, when James chimes in. “We can’t have suspicious figures knowing where your office is,” he justifies. “Especially right now with the — photographs,” he finishes, visibly uncomfortable.

Jason shrugs and shakes his head in amused mystification. “A suspicious figure?” he repeats, making a “so what?” gesture with his hand. “Is that all he is?”

James grimaces. “Not all. He’s weirdly… agile. Freakishly quick.”

Suzie Su laughs, a husky and wheezing sound in her current state. “Agile is right. He pirouetted James right in the face.” Pirouette, Jason thinks. The word spins into his mind, a flurry of movement, and then neatly halts on a striking thought. Jason turns his attention to the well-dressed man on his knees. 

Meanwhile, James is sending Suzie Su a glare across the room. “It was a roundhouse kick,” he corrects as if the name affords him more dignity. “Just a really spinny one. I don’t think he was actually even on the ground — ”

Impatient, Jason rips the sack off the man’s head. His jaw clenches so tightly he’s aware of the ache. Dick is noticeably unharmed, except for perhaps a small patch of dirt accentuating his sharp right cheekbone. His hair is in disarray, silky strands breaking from what once must have been perfectly molded curls to fall smoothly into his alert blue eyes. He looks more like a pampered socialite returning from a joyride with the windows down than a hostage. Dick blows a rich black lock of hair out of his eyes and gives a toothy grin that positively dazzles. “Hiya, Hood. Fancy seeing you here,” he greets and, for added impertinence, he even winks at Jason.

Claustrophobia looms over Jason’s back like an invisible but palpable enemy, breathing down his neck, crowding him against Dick and Bruce and Tim. He never should have contacted Tim, this was the respect they showed, the audacity. He has a flash of himself yanking Dick up by the throat and dangling him out a window, letting him drop to the icy ocean. Then he sees Dick’s golden face turn cold, eyes white and face pale, and the horrifying vision is gone just as fast. 

“Everybody out,” Jason orders. He feels stiff, his spine stiff, his voice stiff. He’s still staring at Dick, the smiling piece of work. Suzie Su stands up and lumbers towards the door, but James lingers. 

“Is he one of your, you know,” James starts out. He brings his fingers to his head and Jason knows he’s about to form little bat ears, but fortunately, James drops his hands to his side instead. James swallows dryly. “I’ll be outside.”

“Yeah, way outside,” Jason agrees sharply. “Outside the casino, if you can.”

Dick watches the two of them with glass-blown eyes. He smiles cheekily at James and says, “Maybe you can keep an eye on the parking lot, make sure no one touches Hood’s bike.”

James narrows his eyes at Dick but says nothing more. He turns around and stalks out the door, trailing after Suzie Su. “The door, ” Jason adds, mildly amused when James grabs the doorknob and slams the door shut. “Touchy,” Jason tuts. 

Dick springs to his feet and begins undoing the knot around his wrists. Jason just barely resists shoving him back to the floor. “What the hell, Dick!” he shouts. “What happened to the fucking parking lot!” he demands, waving his arms. 

Dick’s wrists come free, the rope falling to his feet in one final and fluid motion. “I got lost,” Dick says. He smoothes out his shirt, which draws Jason’s eyes properly to how the pink highlights the rosy warmth of his skin tone. He looks good.  

“Oh, my god,” Jason mutters, turning away from Dick and pinching the bridge of his nose. There’s tension building there, a volcanic tension Jason is always pushing down, keeping dormant. Stupid, stupid, letting the Bat in. He can only blame himself because if he blames Dick he’s going to go on a rampage, and anyway, holding the bats accountable has never worked for him before. 

“You know what,” he says after a moment wherein Dick wisely stays silent, “it’s my fault,” he informs, holding his palms up in surrender. “I, despite many opportunities to learn from my mistakes, entrusted your hegemonistic troupe with private information and somehow expected you to respect my rules.” Jason holds a hand over his heart and leans forward in apology, causing Dick to have to tilt his chin slightly upward. Jason stares intently at him, going for venomous sincerity as he says, “This is on me for thinking what I said matters to any of you psychos.”

Jason watches Dick blink owlishly at him. He’s still in Dick’s space, waiting for a response, when finally Dick smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “Woo!” he says, wiping his forehead, “Glad we got that over with! Very mature of you, Hood,” he chirps, stepping around Jason. Jason imagines grabbing him by the neck and holding him in place, pinning him still like one might do to a butterfly that lingers too long for safety. Jason does not do that.

Dick begins rooting through his desk, wiggling drawers to find they’re locked and checking beneath his Poe book like he’s in a clue game. Jason can’t help but release a weary sigh. Jason begins, “Would rather you just let me die, if we’re being hon — ”

“By the way, what you say does matter,” Dick abruptly interjects, looking up from another locked drawer to stare Jason down. Dick’s hair has fallen into his eyes again, providing a thin buffer between their gazes. Jason awkwardly shifts his weight and suspects, with some bitterness, that the terms of the mission have just switched hands. Then Dick is pushing his bangs out of his face and wrestling his curls out of their mold. “It’s just that your life matters more,” he explains, and the whole line is just so nonchalantly sentimental, so easily spoken, that Jason wants to throw them both out a window. At least Dick has stopped staring at him, and he looks like slightly less of a prick now that his hair is closer to its naturally relaxed wave. 

“The curls make you look gay,” Jason informs, trying not to pout like he’s sixteen again and Nightwing is refusing to partner up with him on a case. 

Dick smirks. “Those who live in glass casinos, Jay,” he retorts. “Feel like unlocking any of these for me?” he asks.

Jason crosses his arms. “Not particularly, no,” he replies, shaking his head. 

Dick twists his lips in irritation before, apparently, moving on, expression blasé. “That’s fine,” he dismisses. “What’s not fine is that security of yours,” he adds, unimpressed, as he scoops the Poe collection into his hands. Jason’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Hey!” he protests, marching towards Dick and reaching for the book. Dick’s shoulder cuts between them, blocking Jason off. 

“Your bruisers couldn’t land a real hit on me — and they just take me to you without, apparently, informing you ahead of time?” Dick criticizes. He’s sifting through the silvery pages now, fanning them with his thumb. “What if I had been your stalker? What then? They deliver me unto you where I’m free to shoot you point-blank?”

Stalker, Jason thinks, is a tad dramatic. “What, they didn’t pat you down?” he asks, already knowing they did. James is too paranoid not to and Suzie Su knows who lines her pockets. 

Dick purses his lips unhappily. The overall effect is charming against Jason’s will; it’s a beautiful mouth, full and fair, and easily admired when idle. But then his lips are framing around words, as they frequently are, and Jason has to focus. “Well, technically, yes, they checked me for weapons,” Dick admits. He holds a finger up and points at Jason’s chest. “But there are other ways of killing you.”

Jason pats his chest and then holds out his arms like wings. “And yet I am not dead. Security seems just fine to me.”

Dick’s expression sobers. Jason can barely keep up with Dick’s emotive face, the ups and downs of his duel humor and sincerity. “You’re not dead because there’s been no attempt. You’re the endgame and these boys are just,” language fails Dick here. 

“Pit stops?” Jason offers, raising both his eyebrows. Dick clearly doesn’t appreciate his word choice, because his brows knit and he turns his fine cheek further away from Jason. He wants to keep pushing, though, so he says, “How about appetizers?”

Dick has reached the end of the book, but before Jason can feel relief, he starts fanning the pages again. “Sure,” Dick concedes, albeit moodily. 

Jason leans against his deck and watches Dick flip through. He considers ripping the book out of his hands, but he doesn’t know if it’s worth the trouble, so he holds back and drums his fingers against the edge of the table, letting his anxiety bleed out through his tips. 

“Appetizer makes sense,” Jason proposes. “Sociopath like him, he likes to whet his hunger when he can, but he’ll never be full,” he explains, almost absently, his mind drifting away from the office and towards the ocean facing him, and across that ocean, too, all the way to his return to Gotham. He remembers his own hunger. 

He hears Dick slap a page down. Jason doesn’t bother looking; he knows Dick found the photographs. A tiny sigh escapes from Dick beside him. Jason glances at him from the corner of his eye, sees Dick tapping his fingers against a face, communing with some boy’s preserved pain. Jason looks away.

“Except he’s not ‘whetting’ anything,” Dick says. “These kids aren’t for his benefit. They’re for yours.” 

“None of these kids died,” offers Jason, partly as an agreement with Dick’s point, partly just to remind himself. They’re all alive. They’re breathing. They didn’t lose everything. 

Dick hikes himself up on the desk and sets the book down in his lap, legs pretzeled. The white slacks curve keenly around his thighs. “Makes sense for a reenactment, which the assailant’s going for. You didn’t die, after all.”

Jason’s jaw flexes. “I did.”

Dick does not respond, which Jason is grateful for. Having the photos open, their bodies inspected while he stands off to the side, is such a keen breach of privacy. He feels it like a direct violation, yet he knows better than to snatch the evidence from Dick’s hands. Dick always comes bounding back after a rebuttal, Exhibit A: this whole thing. The only way Dick would be gentler is if he needed to be, and Jason refuses to give him a reason. 

After a minute, Dick breaches the silence. “Full discretion?” he says. 

Jason hangs his head and braces himself. He’s never noticed before, but there are tiny fishes painted onto the ceiling. “Yeah?” he asks, figuring Dick is seeking permission, or whatever. 

“I watched the tapes.”

That gets Jason’s attention. He faces Dick whose fingers rest on the open pages, whose brow is furrowed in what must be guilt or nervousness. Jason opens his mouth, closes it, and then shakes his head. “What tapes, Dick?”

Dick taps his index finger on the first kid: Terry Weind. The name he learned from a news report the same day his picture was stuck to his bike. No pictures were released to the public, but Vale spared few details in her verbal description. Jason didn’t have to do much digging for the boy’s identity. He had shown up at the hospital with flowers, telling Terry’s mother that he was just a concerned citizen. He also told her that Gotham’s heart went out to her son, that there was a community right outside that hospital room, even if it felt the only souls around were her and her son’s. He hopes she believes it better than he does. 

“B has had Park Row Memorial recorded around the clock for years. He has — every one of the attacks on camera. We watched them while he was prepping me for this case.” Dick says this like it’s a confession and Jason has the power to pardon him. 

Jason nearly scoffs. “Yeah, well, it’s your job,” he says instead. If he was stronger, Jason would hold this breach of privacy against him. He would take advantage of the one aspect in all of this that Dick appears penitent for. He should be sorry. Dick got to watch not just three kids brutally beaten, exploited helplessly, he got to watch Jason. Jason had to experience his death completely alone and now he had to experience it again on a stage. Neither Bruce nor Dick were there for him as partners, but they are here as an audience. Jason’s grave has been violated by more than just a hooded figure in an alleyway, but Jason does not have the energy to be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have the energy to give Dick what he wants.  

“So, what’s the plan?” asks Jason, propping his elbows on the desk. Dick doesn’t answer, so Jason says, “You must have one since you went to all the trouble of getting James to deliver you personally to my office like a sack of potatoes.”

“Who keeps a potato sack on them, by the way?” Dick asks. Jason shrugs. “That’s just weird,” Dick comments. 

“Yeah, he’s kind of weird,” Jason agrees. “But so is everyone in your corner. Those who live in glass batcaves should not throw batarangs?” he asks, irony lacing his words.

“Wingdings, actually,” Dick corrects, which reminds Jason of the Microsoft font and he wonders if Dick’s stupidity is contagious. He’d hate to start calling his guns ‘bat-barrels’ or ‘Times New Hoodlum.’ “Also, the plan might just take place in the aforementioned glass house,” Dick adds. 

Jason shakes his head. “You’ve lost me.”

Dick sighs, the perfect picture of put-upon. Jason knows where this is headed: he’s the unreasonable one here, somehow, despite arriving by car like a normal person instead of on a suspicious person list. “Your hired muscle isn’t the best,” Dick begins with an insult, so Jason knows it’s going downhill from here. “Bunker’s observational skills are decent, but not up to par. Your ‘James’ is sloppy. And the, uh,” Dick licks his lips here, “ lady — insulted you about five times between the budget interrogation and the bumpy ride to your office. Wherever her loyalties lie, they’re not with you.”

Jason groans dramatically and pushes off his desk. He reclaims his book from Dick’s lap, closing it shut and walking towards the whale-shaped bookshelf mounted on a non-windowed wall. “Su’s loyalties lie with her money, and her money lies with me,” Jason refutes. He gently slides the book between a copy of The Orphan Master’s Son and Hamlet. “You tell me where a man gets his corn-pone, and I’ll tell you what his opinions are. Mark Twain,” Jason cites.

Dick watches him from his seat on the desk. His lips are pressed in wry amusement, although the amusement may be wishful thinking on Jason’s part. He’d like to say he put something on Dick’s lips, and humor is good enough. “Yes,” says Dick flatly, “that sounds familiar, thank you. But money only goes so far when another pocket reaches farther. Me, telling you she’s bad news,” he cites himself. 

“Alright, fine,” Jason says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. He moves them so his jacket fans out in a textile shrug. “Tell me then — Suzie Su the figure you caught on tape? I assume it’s only a figure and not a clear profile since you’re sitting on my desk like it’s your college dorm bed and not out there apprehending my so-called stalker.”

“So-called because they are stalking you, Jason,” Dick says gravely. 

“Thanks for the clarity, dickhead, the situation could’ve been really lost on me. Almost forgot I’m the Case of the Month.”

“Sorry,” says Dick, wincing. 

“Ugh,” Jason says, hanging his head back with the burden of Dick’s personality. The confession-booth sincerity might be ingratiating if Dick wasn’t as oppressively righteous as an Elf on the Shelf. 

“And no,” Dick resumes, “the figure is definitely not Suzie Su. Average height, it looks like, although he’s — bent, most of the time, so it’s guesswork. His frame is neither slim nor broad.”

Jason laughs. “Really? That’s the best you got? Not tall, not short, not big, not small?”

“Well, he’s wearing a hoodie, which obscures a lot of their physique,” explains Dick. He raises his eyebrows then, a questioning movement, and glances out the windows. The room has crisped to an orange color without Jason noticing. In a few minutes, the sunlight will be directly in Dick’s eyes, and then shortly afterward night will fall. “Specifically, he was wearing loose-fitting denim jeans, black combat boots, and a red pull-over with the hood up,” Dick describes. 

The last revelation pulls a clownish ribbon of laughter from Jason. It’s a nervous one, which must be obvious to Dick, but he can’t help it. The laugh bubbles in his chest, acidic, and pops on his tongue with acerbic heat. “I bet,” is all he says. 

Dick musters a half-smile and says, “Points for theme?”

Jason snorts. “Yeah, sure, he can get all the points for theme. But why?” he asks. “What the hell is this theme? He’s dressed himself like me to kill me. Am I killing myself? Is that the idea? Is he saying it was all my fault, that I got myself killed?” 

Jason envisions himself as he is now, face veiled in red, bring metal down on Robin. The warehouse builds itself around the nightmare, boxes stacking atop boxes, men milling about indifferently, and then running out. Except that it’s not the warehouse, it’s Crime Alley, and the walls collapse revealing narrow city streets. The Joker falls away and Batman stands in his place. Jason looks down, expecting a bloody crowbar, but he holds in his grip a simple, slightly rusted tire iron. Both are red though, in the end, aren’t they?

Jason flexes his empty fingers. The floor beneath him is plush, white carpet that’s been bleached more times than he can count. “Why Park Row?” he asks.

Dick’s voice is muted, almost hesitant, actually, or perhaps just attempting to hush and soothe. “It could be coincidence. Park Row is conveniently vacant, especially at night, and he wouldn’t know there were cameras watching,” Dick speculates. He approaches the next possibility more tentatively. “Or he might know what Park Row means to you, to Robin. He could even be showing off how much he knows.”

Jason blanches. “He knows a fucking lot then.”

Dick does inventory: “If Park Row is coincidental, he wouldn’t necessarily know you as Jason Todd. He would just know that the Red Hood was Robin and that the Joker killed — ”

Jason cuts him off. “With a crowbar, he got it to the exact weapon .”

The weapon troubles Dick as well, Jason can track the rumination on his face. The crowbar is specific, purposeful, and not common knowledge. The details of Jason Todd’s untimely death were not released to the public — and as far as his other identity went, Robins may change but they don’t die. “Bruce has a theory about that,” Dick shares. 

“Oh, yeah?” Jason asks. He can’t keep the sarcasm from entering his voice. Rationally, he knows Bruce can help him and that’s why he’s willing to work with him. But also, what aspect of Jason’s life hasn’t Bruce analyzed through a microscope, poured into a beaker to see if it would blow up, and uploaded for his future reference? What aspect of any of their lives has Bruce not thought through for them?

“Joker, or someone who worked with him that day,” Dick supplies. “They would know about the crowbar, and if it’s the Joker, he makes almost everything Batman does his business, he might even know about the cameras. He could be taunting B by making him watch.” 

What a theory it is, too. Jason starts laughing until Dick trails off and asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jason says, holding up his hands in mock apology. He pretends to wipe away a tear. “That is just some crazy narcissistic bullshit. I’m getting the photos of these mutilated kids and he’s the reason why?”

Dick must know Jason has a point because he flounders briefly before restarting. “Maybe not the reason, but logically Batman is connected. I know it doesn’t feel, I don’t know, satisfying, but it’s the only plausible theory so far. The Joker’s games almost always lead back to him. He used you to get at Batman, it’s at least worth considering how Bruce might factor into — ” 

Jason holds up a hand to shut Dick up before he loses his patience. “So, none of this is about me?”

Dick’s expression turns confused. “That’s not what I’m saying. I know this is about you.”

“But my death wasn’t,” Jason practically spits. He shrugs, tries to play this casually, but he wants to upend the desk Dick is still sitting on. He’s overcome with the suspicion that everything in this room is a prop to Dick, a piece to a gameboard he’s playing with Bruce alone. The both of them are entitled to waltz in with some half-baked disguise, lounge on his furniture, look through his books, watch his death over and over again. Jason himself is just another clue.

“You can say it,” Jason encourages, “I died for Bruce. It was never about me, it was always his war and I,” Jason pauses for the right words and when they arrive, the anger building up in him blows away. “I was just a good soldier.” 

Dick’s eyes don’t sharpen with recognition; they cloud over with it. Jason repeats the plaque’s inscription in the Batcave: A good soldier. It shines, encased in gold, commemorating Jason’s death while in defiance of his life. Here, in this conversation, it is soaked in venom. Jason doesn’t mean it as an attack; nonetheless, Dick shifts physically away as if to hide the bite mark. 

Jason takes a fortifying breath. This isn’t where the conversation is going, he vows. “This isn’t the Joker and this isn’t Batman’s case,” he says steadily enough. Dick has slid from the desk and finally stands, his gaze level with Jason’s. Jason gestures broadly, indicating everything around them that Jason has built for himself the past few years. “ This isn’t Bruce’s life and I’m not about to give him mine again.”

Jason thinks he’s made his point. He just wishes Dick didn’t look like he had slapped him. “No one expects that,” he assures before amending with a tiny frown, “I don’t expect that. I won’t speak for Bruce.”

“That’ll be a first,” Jason replies wryly. 

Dick actually laughs, kind of, more of a huff but it’s not without humor. “That’s fair, I suppose. I know everyone thinks I’m his champion, but I try to support everyone in our bat-themed infantry. Family, or so I like to call it. I defend you, too, Jay. I hope you know that. I guess he just seems to need me in his corner the most. Or maybe his corner is where I’m used to being, I don’t know, either way — it was just his theory and I thought it was worth sticking to the wall.”

Jason’s impulse is to criticize half of what Dick just said, but he leaves it be. Dick may be here for Bruce, but more importantly, they’re both here for the case. “I get it. But it’s a theory for Batman, not for Red Hood. I know Bruce is already halfway to commandeering the case and you’re here as a favor to him because we infamously don’t get along, but if you’re going to work with me, you gotta respect what I’ve got going on. Because whoever this person is, they’re not going to all this effort over the Joker or Batman. I’m not a soldier caught in their crossfire this time around. They know me as Robin and as Red Hood. This is very, very personal.”

Dick’s eyes drift to Jason’s bookshelf. He’s thinking of the pictures and how these kids were hurt because of Jason. Jason is, too. Dick folds himself across his chest and nods. “You’re right, you’re right. This is your case.” When Dick looks back at him, his face is intense. “I am here for you, not him. Well, I’d like to think we’re all in this together and so in a way I’m here for both of you, but. I don’t see this as a favor to him. Just so we’re clear.”

Jason breaks their gaze before he can accidentally believe him. When Jason became Robin, Dick avoided him because he was upset with Bruce. When Jason became Red Hood, Dick chased after him because he wanted to help Bruce. And when Dick faked his own death and told Jason nothing, it was because of Bruce. Why Dick wants to expand their relationship now is beyond him, but he’ll take help where he can get it. 

Besides, he does like the idea of Dick leaving Bruce’s corner for his. If Jason plays his cards right, Bruce’s plan for a middleman could backfire with Dick not apprising him of every time Jason’s nose twitches. Even Dick can’t resist a mission in Gotham without the Bat breathing down his neck. 

“Good,” Jason finally says after moments of Dick patiently awaiting the reception of his little olive branch. “Well, if it’s not a favor to him, then you won’t care that one of my caveats is keeping B on a strict need-to-know basis.”

Dick furrows his brow. “Define ‘need-to-know.’”

“Uhh, unless I say, ‘hey, Bruce needs to know this,’ he doesn’t need to know this.”

“Bruce is a good resource, Jay,” Dick insists. “You’re important to him, believe it or not, he’ll want to know everything is developing safely and efficiently.”

Jason cocks his head left and right like an unbalanced scale. “Yeah, well, I don’t want what he wants and it’s my case.”

Dick purses his lips thoughtfully. His forehead relaxes as does so, and it occurs to Jason that Dick is actually quite expressive. He can see the reluctance fall off his face, track the movement of thoughts across his gray-blue eyes. It’s strange to think that this man with all these open emotions and mercurial playfulness was raised by Bruce and his shadows. “Okay,” Dick eventually says, somewhat pensively, “what do you want?”

It’s an honest question, not rhetorical in the slightest, and that catches Jason off guard. He isn’t equipped to answer it. Jason knows what he doesn’t want, but that’s easier. He’s learned not to want things. He remembers wanting immensely in the life before this one. Jason is more careful now. If he was reckless, he would say he wants Dick here. He likes that Dick has all but literally chased him down to give him that help. He might want Dick to keep chasing him. He wants to be found, to be saved. But Jason knows from experience that those wishes don’t come true. 

“I want you to leave the Bat out of it,” Jason reiterates. He says it because it’s easier, and on the outside wanting an absence is like wanting nothing at all. But it is a want secretly, a real one, because he wants to know if Dick is chasing him like he suspects, or if he’s holding a scalpel behind his back, ready to scrape off a sample of Jason and deliver it to Bruce. 

Dick doesn’t roll his eyes or argue. In fact, he doesn’t react to the sarcasm Jason had safely wrapped his answer in at all. Instead, he breathes in through his nose, inhaling the terms and conditions, and then breathes them out through his mouth, fully processed. “Within reason,” he acquiesces. It’s not enough and Jason is about to say so when Dick holds up a hand. “I will not contact him without telling you first. And if he sends me anything about the case, I’ll forward the information right away,” he modifies.

That’s another fear to pile onto Jason’s plate. Dick doesn’t even plan on Bruce being forthcoming about whatever he might find on Jason’s rogue. “Yeah, Dick, details are kind of life-or-death here!” he exclaims, utterly bewildered. “I would freaking hope you don’t let Bruce hijack my case.”

Dick has the social graces to look contrite, although Jason knows he’s no different from any of the bats when it comes to secrets. They’re all hard-pressed to feel real guilt over things as petty to them as privacy. Boundaries, like all obstacles, are easily circumvented with a just cause and some zipline. 

Once Dick’s done pretending he’s sorry with his face, he sticks out a hand. “Our case,” he offers.

Jason laughs quietly. “Nah, but sure,” he agrees, shaking Dick’s hand. Then he leans back and crosses his arm, shifting his weight to one leg. “I guess the only thing left to sort out is for you to meet the in-laws.”

Dick tilts his head. “In-laws?” he repeats curiously.

“The Outlaws,” Jason specifies as Dick nods and makes an “ah” sound. “Or what’s left of them at least,” he says. 

Dick finds his way back to Jason’s desk and hikes himself up. He begins swinging his legs like a child. “I think I already did meet them. What did you call them? Sweaty Su and Fat Lip?”

Jason doesn’t think he’s heard Dick roast nearly enough people to be satisfied. “Yeah,” he says, grinning despite himself. He really should defend them, they’re all he’s got at the moment, but also they suck. “You should call them that to their faces, they’ll love it.”

Dick points at him and winks like the two of them are onto something. And maybe they are. 

[theghostofabird]

Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude

BY ROSS GAY

Friends, will you bear with me today, for I have awakened from a dream in which a robin made with its shabby wings a kind of veil behind which it shimmied and stomped something from the south of Spain, its breast aflare, looking me dead in the eye from the branch that grew into my window, coochie-cooing my chin, the bird shuffling its little talons left, then right, while the leaves bristled against the plaster wall, two of them drifting onto my blanket while the bird opened and closed its wings like a matador giving up on murder, jutting its beak, turning a circle, and flashing, again, the ruddy bombast of its breast by which I knew upon waking it was telling me in no uncertain terms to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones, the whole rusty brass band of gratitude not quite dormant in my belly— it said so in a human voice, “Bellow forth”— and who among us could ignore such odd and precise counsel? Hear ye! hear ye! I am here to holler that I have hauled tons—by which I don’t mean lots, I mean tons — of cowshit and stood ankle deep in swales of maggots swirling the spent beer grains the brewery man was good enough to dump off holding his nose, for they smell very bad, but make the compost writhe giddy and lick its lips, twirling dung with my pitchfork again and again with hundreds and hundreds of other people, we dreamt an orchard this way, furrowing our brows, and hauling our wheelbarrows, and sweating through our shirts, and two years later there was a party at which trees were sunk into the well-fed earth, one of which, a liberty apple, after being watered in was tamped by a baby barefoot with a bow hanging in her hair biting her lip in her joyous work and friends this is the realest place I know, it makes me squirm like a worm I am so grateful, you could ride your bike there or roller skate or catch the bus there is a fence and a gate twisted by hand, there is a fig tree taller than you in Indiana, it will make you gasp. It might make you want to stay alive even, thank you; and thank you for not taking my pal when the engine of his mind dragged him to swig fistfuls of Xanax and a bottle or two of booze, and thank you for taking my father a few years after his own father went down thank you mercy, mercy, thank you for not smoking meth with your mother oh thank you thank you for leaving and for coming back, and thank you for what inside my friends’ love bursts like a throng of roadside goldenrod gleaming into the world, likely hauling a shovel with her like one named Aralee ought, with hands big as a horse’s, and who, like one named Aralee ought, will laugh time to time til the juice runs from her nose; oh thank you for the way a small thing’s wail makes the milk or what once was milk in us gather into horses huckle-buckling across a field; and thank you, friends, when last spring the hyacinth bells rang and the crocuses flaunted their upturned skirts, and a quiet roved the beehive which when I entered were snugged two or three dead fist-sized clutches of bees between the frames, almost clinging to one another, this one’s tiny head pushed into another’s tiny wing, one’s forelegs resting on another’s face, the translucent paper of their wings fluttering beneath my breath and when a few dropped to the frames beneath: honey; and after falling down to cry, everything’s glacial shine. And thank you, too. And thanks for the corduroy couch I have put you on. Put your feet up. Here’s a light blanket, a pillow, dear one, for I can feel this is going to be long. I can’t stop my gratitude, which includes, dear reader, you, for staying here with me, for moving your lips just so as I speak. Here is a cup of tea. I have spooned honey into it. And thank you the tiny bee’s shadow perusing these words as I write them. And the way my love talks quietly when in the hive, so quietly, in fact, you cannot hear her but only notice barely her lips moving in conversation. Thank you what does not scare her in me, but makes her reach my way. Thank you the love she is which hurts sometimes. And the time she misremembered elephants in one of my poems which, oh, here they come, garlanded with morning glory and wisteria blooms, trombones all the way down to the river. Thank you the quiet in which the river bends around the elephant’s solemn trunk, polishing stones, floating on its gentle back the flock of geese flying overhead. And to the quick and gentle flocking of men to the old lady falling down on the corner of Fairmount and 18th, holding patiently with the softest parts of their hands her cane and purple hat, gathering for her the contents of her purse and touching her shoulder and elbow; thank you the cockeyed court on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads made of some runny-nosed kids a shambles, and the 61-year-old after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut from my no-look pass to seal the game ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar grinning across his chest; thank you the glad accordion’s wheeze in the chest; thank you the bagpipes. Thank you to the woman barefoot in a gaudy dress for stopping her car in the middle of the road and the tractor trailer behind her, and the van behind it, whisking a turtle off the road. Thank you god of gaudy. Thank you paisley panties. Thank you the organ up my dress. Thank you the sheer dress you wore kneeling in my dream at the creek’s edge and the light swimming through it. The koi kissing halos into the glassy air. The room in my mind with the blinds drawn where we nearly injure each other crawling into the shawl of the other’s body. Thank you for saying it plain: fuck each other dumb. And you, again, you, for the true kindness it has been for you to remain awake with me like this, nodding time to time and making that noise which I take to mean yes, or, I understand, or, please go on but not too long, or, why are you spitting so much, or, easy Tiger hands to yourself. I am excitable. I am sorry. I am grateful. I just want us to be friends now, forever. Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden. The sun has made them warm. I picked them just for you. I promise I will try to stay on my side of the couch. And thank you the baggie of dreadlocks I found in a drawer while washing and folding the clothes of our murdered friend; the photo in which his arm slung around the sign to “the trail of silences”; thank you the way before he died he held his hands open to us; for coming back in a waft of incense or in the shape of a boy in another city looking from between his mother’s legs, or disappearing into the stacks after brushing by; for moseying back in dreams where, seeing us lost and scared he put his hand on our shoulders and pointed us to the temple across town; and thank you to the man all night long hosing a mist on his early-bloomed peach tree so that the hard frost not waste the crop, the ice in his beard and the ghosts lifting from him when the warming sun told him sleep now; thank you the ancestor who loved you before she knew you by smuggling seeds into her braid for the long journey, who loved you before he knew you by putting a walnut tree in the ground, who loved you before she knew you by not slaughtering the land; thank you who did not bulldoze the ancient grove of dates and olives, who sailed his keys into the ocean and walked softly home; who did not fire, who did not plunge the head into the toilet, who said stop, don’t do that; who lifted some broken someone up; who volunteered the way a plant birthed of the reseeding plant is called a volunteer, like the plum tree that marched beside the raised bed in my garden, like the arugula that marched itself between the blueberries, nary a bayonet, nary an army, nary a nation, which usage of the word volunteer familiar to gardeners the wide world made my pal shout “Oh!” and dance and plunge his knuckles into the lush soil before gobbling two strawberries and digging a song from his guitar made of wood from a tree someone planted, thank you; thank you zinnia, and gooseberry, rudbeckia and pawpaw, Ashmead’s kernel, cockscomb and scarlet runner, feverfew and lemonbalm; thank you knitbone and sweetgrass and sunchoke and false indigo whose petals stammered apart by bumblebees good lord please give me a minute... and moonglow and catkin and crookneck and painted tongue and seedpod and johnny jump-up; thank you what in us rackets glad what gladrackets us; and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart, this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked, oh giddy, oh dumbstruck, oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting its head at me from my peach tree’s highest branch, balanced impossibly gobbling the last fruit, its tongue working like an engine, a lone sweet drop tumbling by some miracle into my mouth like the smell of someone I’ve loved; heart like an elephant screaming at the bones of its dead; heart like the lady on the bus dressed head to toe in gold, the sun shivering her shiny boots, singing Erykah Badu to herself leaning her head against the window; and thank you the way my father one time came back in a dream by plucking the two cables beneath my chin like a bass fiddle’s strings and played me until I woke singing, no kidding, singing, smiling, thank you, thank you, stumbling into the garden where the Juneberry’s flowers had burst open like the bells of French horns, the lily my mother and I planted oozed into the air, the bazillion ants labored in their earthen workshops below, the collard greens waved in the wind like the sails of ships, and the wasps swam in the mint bloom’s viscous swill; and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend. I know I can be long-winded sometimes. I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward, the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over, which is precisely what the child in my dream said, holding my hand, pointing at the roiling sea and the sky hurtling our way like so many buffalo, who said it’s much worse than we think, and sooner; to whom I said no duh child in my dreams, what do you think this singing and shuddering is, what this screaming and reaching and dancing and crying is, other than loving what every second goes away? Goodbye, I mean to say. And thank you. Every day.

---Ross Gay, "Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude" from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. Copyright © 2015 by Ross Gay.  Reprinted by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.

[utterlyhopeful-fics]

Prospect

Request from Anon:  Nestor doesn’t know you’re part of the mc he feels betrayed that you didn’t tell him, “I trusted you y/n, I don’t just let people in” (you used to be best friends with Em n the Reyes brother, you took with ez side over em) and you see her in public one day and you have you’re kutte on and she calls you over to chat and you say to her “this isn’t the life you wanted em” (first part to request cause it’s so long)

Nestor Oceteva x Reader 

Warnings: language, angst

Word Count: 2.3k 

Summary: Emily and Y/N were once best friends. Y/N was in love with Nestor. Y/N supported Ezekiel after Emily’s abortion and disappeared from her current life close to the cartel to now be the first female prospect for the Mayans MC. 

-There is a part two request that I am finishing up and will post early this week! This story was legit one of my favorites to write, thanks anon! 

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

Stillness encumbered her fragile bones, her heart throbbed to a chaotic march forcingly reminding her mind of the goodness of the man now standing in her path of beautiful obliteration. Nestor stared blankly into her icy blue eyes; just like a vicious predator hunting his unfortunate prey. Her chin quivered slightly as Y/N bite her bottom lip restraining herself, any attempt at maintaining a shard of control still placed within her reach.

Tilting his head to the left, a questioning glare reflected off his features before he dared to interrupt the impending muteness trapping the young couple.  

“I trusted you Y/N. I don’t--I don’t just let people in.”

“Ness let me explain, please.

He sighed loudly unable to further detach the emotions he allowed to overwhelm his senses again, especially when it all came down to the girl before him. He adored his nickname when it fell off her lips, and only hers.

“Explain what? That you conveniently forgot to mention you just so happen to hang out with the fucking Mayans? I haven’t seen you in years, and then this Mayans shitstorm bounces the cartel’s way, but by accident we meet on opposing sides? Worst of all, you eagerly manipulated me into giving us another lousy chance, but I don’t fucking know this girl.”

“I think you’re getting confused. We agreed on fuck buddies, with your rules might I add. I am sorry that you persuaded yourself that things would be just like old times. Don’t get it twisted Ness. We aren’t dumb kids anymore.”

His eyes scanned her from head to toe trying to memorize every inch she willingly showed him. It was at that exact moment that Nestor realized he was fighting for the old Y/N and not the bold woman in front of him. Unexpectedly, Y/N shoved him with all her brute strength as she reveled in his minor fall.

“Woah, wait. Fucking rewind -- I don’t just hang out with them you dick, I AM one of them, well a prospect currently.”

Flabbergasted, Nestor was left speechless as he wordlessly watched her lips open and close, but he heard nothing other than a piercing ring reverberating through his ear canals.

“You’re one of them…?”

She could only nod in agreement.

“So, when did they start letting bitches in the boardroom?”

Y/N’s chest suddenly weighed down upon her with heavy force. She knew she had to come clean. Better late than never, right? But, in her defense, they had agreed to keep their lives completely separate, careful to never intermix this time around.

“I’d watch my tone if I were you, Nestor.  I was the first female member to prospect, brought to the table, and voted. Fair and square. Don’t you dare demean me and my choices. It certainly wasn’t easy to prove my power, but I fucking did. What the hell have you done, take orders like the lap dog Miguel groomed you to be?”  

Her murderous smirk shone brightly upon her lips, a dark chuckle slipping through the cracks before returning her attention back to the belittling asshole she mistakenly loved..loves. This was supposed to be their second shot at happiness, but as always, it ended in calamitous flames dooming them to disastrous heartache. The usual tale of ill-fated star-crossed lovers.

“Does Em know about this?”

“You know I haven’t spoken with Emily since her and Ez’s fight behind bars. She only knows what you tell her, Nestor. Playing the fool doesn’t suit you.”

This caught him off guard causing goosebumps to prickle every surface of his skin. This wasn’t the guarded serene girl he had met so long ago but replaced with a resiliently fierce woman. Nestor wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was enthralled with Y/N, in awe of her ability to adapt to any curveball thrown her direction.

“You should call her. She misses you, believe it or not.”

The conversation strayed towards a lighter note as the room began to clear away any remaining ammunition between the conflicted lovers, both waving their white flags of peace; if only for an instance.

“I can’t, things aren’t not that simple nowadays… She asked me to choose and I did. It just wasn’t the answer she prepared herself for. And for that, I am truly apologetic, but I refuse to turn my back on the boy I’ve known since 3rd grade. It is what it is; an ended friendship.”

Some relationships mimicked broken glass, its unending fragileness, but at times it was better to leave them in shattered pieces than try and hurt yourself putting them back together again. Sadly, the risk isn’t worthy of its cause.

“I’ll pass along the kind words. Now enlighten me, did you ever seriously love me or was it all part of your warped game?”

Y/N’s checks blushed royally, anger taking hold of her persistent consciousness.

“Which time are you referring to? When we were 20 or now?” Only spiteful thoughts flooded her mind proving to be easier than sheer honesty. She thrived off knowing she could still upset Nestor down to his spiny core.

If she had done anything right in this complicated mess of a life, it was loving Nestor Oceteva, but all good things must come to an end, right?

“Well, there’s your answer. Your doubt is enough to prove just how much you didn’t trust me, and you’ve had these reservations for some time. I can only imagine how easy it was for you to paint me as the bad guy these last few years. Its your turn to be honest. Does it unnerve you to look at the man reflected back at you every day? Because if we’re sticking to being truthful, I admit I did see the advantage of seducing you, but I chose to let you in. Well, the first time around. And that obviously ended swimmingly.”

Stepping dangerously close to Y/N, their breaths intently intermingling; “You’re not the only person in a position of authority, Y/N. Miguel Galindo, our dear Emily’s husband wouldn’t even blink if you were to disappear. I’m very good at my job.”

Y/N refused to show fear especially to a man she fell for so purely, but that wasn’t her current reality, and he made sure of that.

“I loved you and I lost you. Cold case closed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Hasta luego, viejo amigo.”

*10 days later*

Emily heard the deafening noise of several motorcycle engines rapidly approaching before she braved a glance over her shoulder. She had just finished at the grocery store, marking one trivial chore off her never-ending to-do list all while trying to figure out how to work Cristobal’s newly installed car seat.

Fucking Mayans, it had to be.

She didn’t have time for this shit, not with the looming tension suffocating her husband. Besides, she left the Reyes brothers a long time ago, and didn’t want to risk a chance encounter even if they did live in the same godforsaken town. Ezekiel Reyes was her first love, but Miguel was a man of continuous passion.

Occasionally, she would find herself pondering what would have happened if she had kept the baby or chose the man she promised to love, but life had a different idea for the both of them.

The usual crew pulled their bikes into the adjacent parking lot heading towards the clothing factory. Gilly, Coco, Angel, and Ez came into view as they distractedly chatted, patiently awaiting as the last bike strolled closer.

Emily didn’t need the stranger to turn around before knowing exactly who was underneath that particular helmet on this particularly humid day.

Her laugh instantly gave her away, a laugh she hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. Y/N, someone she considered a sister before she enthusiastically leapt to the metaphorical dark side. Y/N made her decision; to betray Nestor and abandon Emily. She was fortunate Miguel was there to pick up the damaged edges’ Y/N left in her destruction.

After the longest pause in recent history, Emily decided against her better judgement to brave a simple hello to an old friend… acquaintance?

She yelled loud; “Y/N, HI., waving her hand discreetly wondering how the next few moments would transpire. Her nerves slowly trickled into her belly as her chest spasmed disobediently.

Y/N’s elbow was perched atop Ezekiel’s shoulder as he sat on the cool leather seat of his latest ride, her ears perking in response to the shrill noise coming from across the street. She squinted, the sun blockading her vision temporarily before meeting Emily Galindo’s incessant stare.

She locked eyes with Ez giving her the nod of approval before gracefully smiling back, squeezing his shoulder and taking the few steps away from her friends. As both females approached the other, neither were certain who would speak up first.

Y/N popped the bubble of surrounding awkwardness; “Emily, long time no see, stranger.”

Emily hated nicety but went with the flow keeping her existing irritation at bay.

“Y/N, I didn’t realize non-members could wear their boyfriend’s kutte?”

There was certainly a distinct, underlying competition to their complex friendship, and Emily was the kind of fighter that went straight for the jugular vein when her defense mechanism reacted.

Quietly chuckling; “Nope, but you’re allowed to wear it when you’re the newest prospect. Well, of course alongside Ezekiel. You remember him, hmm?”

“How could I forget. I was pregnant with his child at one point.”

“Look, drop the petty act and just tell me why you called me over here?”

Emily was silently stunned, unsure of what drew her to reach out, but she couldn’t let Y/N know that.

“I heard you caught up with Nestor or should I say broke up with him...again.”

“Not all of us can be the murderous power couple you and Miguel seem to be. I know how you get when faced with a rivalry.”

“You knew a façade, a previous version of me. You haven’t had the pleasure of seeing Emily Galindo at work, but you will, soon.”

Y/N gaze met the cold gray concrete they were both standing on, shaking her head; “This isn’t the life you wanted, Em, yet here we are.”

For a brief pause in time, Emily’s eyes teared up before wishing her tears away. This wasn’t the time or place to show weakness especially to the enemy.

“I wished for an exhilarating and purposeful life. I just happened to get a lot more than I bargained for. You don’t know Miguel like I do so don’t you fucking judge him.”

“Easy Emily. You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I could care less now.”

“For the record Em, I never wanted to pick sides. Sometimes I can’t even close my eyes without seeing the hurt expressions etched onto your face from that fateful night…and how heartbroken Nestor was. But you gave me an unimaginable ultimatum and I tried my damnedest to figure out the right path.”

“I know that now. I don’t know what it is about you that brings out the bitch in me today.”

“You’ve got that whole mama bear protective look now. It’s refreshing.”

“You should really think about calling Nestor. He isn’t doing too hot at the moment.”

“Part of me wants to but now I have the MC to take care of as well. I love him, I do. I just don’t think its our time right now.”

“At this rate, will it ever be yall’s time? I mean the boy has been drooling over you since you basically met, and you run away at the sign of anything remotely serious with him. Why?”

“He makes me feel too vulnerable. Conveniently, Nestor is also in love with a girl who no longer resides in this body or mind.”

“Just like he isn’t the same man you left standing there on the balcony all those years ago. It’s a double-edged sword, Y/N. You need to reconnect, get on the same page, and see if this is actually endgame worthy. Because if you ask me, I always knew he was going to be your person, even when you kept adamantly denying it.”

Distantly, Y/N heard Angel yelling for her signaling to hurry the hell up. She smirked back choosing to further test his lack of patience.

“Same things never change though. That’s my que, it was good to actually talk Em.”

“Agreed. Maybe next time we don’t wait so long, huh?”

“I’ll see you when I see you Emily Galindo.”

“Goodbye old friend.”

Emily turned to double check Cristobal’s seatbelt before opening the driver’s side of her car and launching herself onto its expensive leather. Briskly, the engine started, and she merely drove off. Y/N was left standing alone in a parking spot debating if the conversation that just occurred had been an uncontrollable dream she created out of thin air.

Y/N glanced at her watch questioning how she had let 15 minutes slip by before she heard the familiar voice of man clearing his throat. Someone new stood in front of her, his infamous braids in tow and tinted sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“So, I see you finally caught up with Em. Good for you.”

“Have you been hiding nearby this entire time or did you discover psychic abilities to eavesdrop while I was away?”

Y/N hand hugged her hip bone as she swayed her weight between her two feet, unable to stand still any longer.

“So, I guess we have some talking of our own to do. Whaddya say?”

 -----

Hasta luego, viejo amigo: Goodbye old friend 

[introverted-and-unhinged]

Mutual Pt. 2 - Sweet Pea x Reader

Part 1

Word Count: 2,775

Sweet Pea looked down at the ground with his hands in his pockets. He kicked some of the loose gravel in the parking lot as he shrugged. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I want this so bad, y/n,” he said as he looked up at you. He took a step toward you, reaching out for your hand. “I don’t really know how to do the whole relationship thing, y/n,” he said, taking your hand in his.

“Well, can you?” you asked, “Do I mean anything to you?”

“I- I don’t know if I can. I just know I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to have to leave, Sweets-” you said, looking back toward the Wyrm, toward Stella.

“At least that’s mutual,” he said.

“But half of you isn’t enough for me, Sweets,” you said, letting go of his hand.

***

Sweet Pea’s POV

“Dude, this is agonizing,” Sweet Pea said, running his hands through his hair and sliding his elbows across the table until his chin was resting on its surface. “I’m dying over here.”

Fangs looked over at where you were sitting with Toni and Cheryl. You were wearing a tight, black backless dress than clung mid-thigh with black knee-high boots. Your delicate curls brushed against your bare shoulders as you tossed your head back laughing. It had been two months since you had called it off with Sweet Pea, since he had been unable to commit to a full-fledged relationship with you despite telling you that he wanted one more than anything. It took about three days for his fling with Stella to fizzle out, and he had never quite figured out how to approach you about making up afterward. That, and he wasn’t exactly sure that you wanted to make up with him. Afterall, you’d only known each other for about six months before everything went to shit, so it’s not like you had a sturdy friendship to fall back on.

“Stop dwelling,” Fangs said, pulling Sweet Pea back from his thoughts. “You have two choices here: get over it or do something about it.”

“But I don’t want to do either of those things.”

“Okay, I get why you don’t want to get over it, but why don’t you want to do something about it?”

Sweet Pea looked over at y/n again. This time, she leaned on the table as she looked over at some of the guys playing pool while sipping on her drink. A young-looking blonde, probably a new initiate, gave her a nod before making his shot, and she gave him a small wave and a smile, making Sweet Pea’s stomach turn.

“I’ve already fucked things up,” Sweet Pea said. “She’s over there flirting with that blonde guy.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean you don’t have a chance,” Fangs replied.

Sweet Pea sat and stared at his drink as he turned the glass with his fingertips. His friend made a good point, but in the two months since y/n had asked him what he wanted from her, it had seemed like she’d gotten over him, like she’d decided what he’d wanted on her own. By the time Sweet Pea looked back up, the blonde Serpent was next to y/n making her throw her head back with laughter like Toni and Cheryl had been only moments before. He decided it was best to let her be happy. He still wasn’t sure that he could pull off the whole boyfriend thing anyway.

Y/n’s POV

You looked over at Sweet Pea as you talked to Ryan, one of the new initiates, who had come over because he was intrigued by the situation of you, Toni, and Cheryl all sitting together.

“These two are obviously dating,” he said pointing at Toni and Cheryl, “but I can’t quite figure out what role you play here.”

“I’m just the third wheel,” you sighed, shooting Toni and Cheryl a ‘you can go now’ glance.

“That’s only because we’re both bad at sharing,” Toni added with a wink as she put her arm around Cheryl.

Ryan chuckled, tensing his shoulders. You could tell he wasn’t quite sure if what Toni said was a joke or not, and you were fine with that.

“Okay,” Ryan said drawing out the vowel sounds, “and how does this serpent asshole at the corner table whose been eyeing you all night play into all this?”

At the mention of Sweet Pea, you sat up a little straighter and turned your shoulders away from him and Fangs, hoping that neither of them could catch your eye dart momentarily over to where they were sitting.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied.

“You’re blushing.”

“Why do you want to know anyway? If you came over here to find out if I was single, all you had to do was ask.”

It was Ryan’s turn to blush. He briefly hung his head, playing with the rings on his fingers before returning his gaze to your rosy cheeks.

“Well, are you single?”

“Yes,” you replied with a small smile, leaning toward him, “yes, I am s-”

“But she just had a really nasty break up and isn’t looking to date right now,” Toni interjected, getting up out of her seat and placing her hand on Ryan’s shoulder.

The boy looked from you to Toni and back in confusion as Toni nudged him out of his seat and back toward the pool tables. You reached out to try and grab the leather of Ryan’s jacket and pull him back, but Toni slid between you and held your arms to your sides. She glared at you as you watched him walk away over her shoulder. He didn’t even bother to look back.

Sweet Pea’s POV

Across the bar, Fangs and Sweet Pea exchanged confused glances. When they looked back at Toni and y/n, it was clear to see that a fight was quickly brewing between the two girls. Y/n had gotten up out of her seat and was making full use of the three or four inches of height she had on Toni.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Topaz?” y/n shouted.

“I think I’m your best friend, y/n!” she shouted back.

“Oh, yeah? What kind of best friend butts into a conversation that’s none of her business with blatant lies?”

“It wasn’t really a lie, y/n. You did kind of just have a really nasty break up with Sweet Pea,” she said through gritted teeth.

At the mention of his name, Sweet Pea stood up from his seat and started making his way toward the screaming girls. He figured now was as good of a time as any to lay everything out on the table. Emotions were already running high. What more did he have to lose?

“You can’t break up with someone you were never in a real relationship with, Toni!”

Sweet Pea stopped dead in his tracks. She had a point. They were never officially in a relationship. She didn’t owe him anything, not a moment to explain, and especially not a second chance.

“You can still get your heart broken if you’re not official,” Toni shot back.

Sweet Pea felt his chest tighten. He’d never even thought of that. Had he been leading y/n on the whole time without actively realizing it? He thought he had no idea how to be in a relationship, how to act like a boyfriend when he’d been doing it the whole time. How could he have been such an idiot? How could he not see that rides to and from school, movie nights, and all the nights they’d spent together--even if they’d often been in secret--were all things you did with someone when you were in a relationship?

“I didn’t get my heart broken, Toni. I’m not some fragile little thing. Jesus christ! Why can’t you just stay out of my business?” Y/n said, her voice cracking as if she were about to cry.

At this point, Sweet Pea decided it was best just to turn around and wait it out some more. Clearly this fight was between y/n and Toni. He slowly started to back up, hoping that the girls had been so caught up with each other they hadn’t noticed him approaching.

“I would stay out of it if you weren’t off hooking up with a new guy every night, y/n! That’s not healthy. You need a break.”

A new guy every night? Sweet Pea thought. That wasn’t like y/n at all. He hated to admit it, but that sounded more like something he would do. Now that he was thinking about it, he was pretty sure the last person he had hooked up with was Stella. He’d been so hung up on y/n since then that he hadn’t even thought about anyone else. In his distraction, Sweet Pea tripped over a bar stool and sent one of the tables tumbling over, glass bottles scattering and shattering everywhere. He stilled and shut his eyes, hoping that by the grace of God no one had noticed. No such luck. The whole bar fell silent, and when he opened his eyes, everyone was looking at him, everyone except Fangs who hid his shaking head in his hands, trying to stifle his laughter. Sweet Pea shot him a glare before he turned toward Toni and Y/n, his face bright red and shrugged.

“Oops,” was all he could think to say.

Y/n clenched her fists at her side. It was hard to tell if she was still fuming from her argument with Toni or if this was a newly-fueled fire from Sweet Pea’s intrusion, but either way, she looked ready to kill. She yanked her jacket on and stormed out of the bar, slamming the door behind her. Toni and Sweet Pea stared at one another for a moment before Cheryl snapped her fingers in both of their faces.

“One of you needs to go after her,” she said.

“Go, Sweet Pea,” Toni said as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Me?” he asked.

“Yes, you,” she replied, “Now!”

Sweet Pea came running out of the Wyrm at full force only to be surprised by the fact that y/n was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his bike. His heart started racing in his chest as he took in y/n’s body language. She had relaxed significantly; her arms now hung at her sides, her shoulders down away from her ears and her palms loose against her thighs. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, and she was tapping the toes of her right foot against the dirt. Quickly, Sweet Pea looked over his bike to make sure she hadn’t slashed the tires or keyed it.

“Relax,” y/n said, catching his eyes scanning the bike, “I didn’t hurt her. I value my life too much for that.”

“Why are you still here?”

“I don’t really know,” she said, “I was going to leave, and then I just didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Sweet Pea said, situating himself next to y/n against his bike.

“Why are you apologizing to me when I’m the one who just made a big scene in there?”

“Because I was, probably still am, a complete ass.”

“Seems fair.”

“I told you I didn’t know how to do the whole relationship thing.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I was already doing it. Wasn’t I?”

Y/n pushed herself off the bike and took a couple steps forward, thrusting her hands in her jacket pockets. She turned to face Sweet Pea, nodding.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“God, I’m an idiot,” he replied, running his fingers through his hair.

“I know,” y/n said with a smile.

“So why did you like me?”

“Shut up,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.”

“I’ll keep saying it.”

“Why? Do you want another chance?” y/n asked, kicking loose gravel toward the Wyrm.

Sweet Pea swiftly pushed himself up off his bike and closed the distance between himself and y/n placing his hands on her hips. He looked down at her. He’d forgotten just how much he towered over her, just how small and fragile she seemed in his grasp. Her smirk slowly faded as she looked up at him, locking eyes with him in the dimly lit parking lot.

“If I ever thought you would give it to me,” he said.

“Would it be different?”

“I can assure you that this time everything would be 100% mutual.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Sweet Pea let out a sigh, “I really thought I was gonna have to beg.”

Y/n reached up to put a hand on his cheek, brushing it softly. She pressed her lips to his.

“Get on your knees, tough guy. You haven’t completely won me over yet.”

Y/n’s POV

When Toni, Fangs, and Cheryl came out of the Wyrm 30 minutes later to start their search to find you and Sweets, they were more than a little surprised to find you leaned up against Sweets’ bike with him on his knees before you and his hands clasped together, literally begging you to give him another chance.

“Y/n, I promise to treat you like a literal queen. You won’t have to lift a finger. I will take care of anything and everything. I’ll carry your books, walk you to class, drive you to school or to Pop’s. Hell, I’ll even hand deliver Pop’s to you whenever you want it. You need someone’s ass kicked? I got that. You need your nails done? Shit, I’ll learn how to do that. Back Rubs? You got it. Foot rubs? Done! I wanna be with you so bad I’ll even be nice to Mantle if I have to.”

“Whoa, be nice to Mantle? Really?” Fangs cut in as the three of your friends approached.

Sweet Pea’s head turned around so fast you were worried he might’ve given himself whiplash. Even in the dull light of the parking lot, you could see the blush creeping up his neck to his ears and cheeks. You kicked your foot out to nudge him, signaling to him that he could get up. As he did, he brushed the dust of his black jeans and rubbed the back of his neck. You couldn’t help but let out a giggle as he refused to look his friends in the eyes.

“I never thought I’d see the day a girl broke Sweet Pea,” Toni said. “Nicely done, y/n.”

“We still have shit to talk about, Topaz,” you said, “but thanks.”

“So was he successful?” Cheryl asked. “Are you satisfied with his groveling? Does he get another chance?”

The four of them looked at you expectantly. Sweet Pea appeared to be visibly holding his breath awaiting your response.

“Yes,” you said, hearing Sweets sigh, “I’ve had my fun. He gets another chance.”

Sweet Pea smiled down at you, his eyes briefly cutting to the side to look at your friends who were all staring at you expectantly. Catching on, you looked over at them too. Sweets bit his lip, contemplating whether or not he cared that they were making no efforts to hide the fact that they were staring at the two of you just waiting for you to kiss. You looked up at him, noticing that this was, quite possibly, the first time you’d ever seen him shy or flustered in any way. It was actually kind of cute. You pulled him closer to you by tugging at the leather of his Serpent jacket; the cool metal of the zipper felt jagged against your fingers. His eyes snapped away from your friends and locked with yours before he glanced down at your lips. You noticed his breath catch in his throat. You slid your hand into his jacket pocket, bringing your lips as close to his as you possibly could without them actually touching, and tugged out his keys, jingling them in front of his face. You nodded toward his bike.

Sweets gave you a devilish smirk before grabbing them out of your hand, swinging his leg over the bike, and settling into the seat. He handed you the spare helmet as you did the same, and you both looked over at your friends, whose mouths were all hanging open in shock. For good measure, Sweets twisted around, giving you a peck on the cheek as he started his bike and drove off.

[dolanmedown]

Just A Sign (G.D.)

Author’s Note: had to post a sad one for my baby Gray!! oh yeah also thIS IS VERY SAD just a heads up lol enjoy!! 

                                          REQUEST! (LIMITED)

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Sadness, slight cursing

Prompt: You were married to the love of your life for only 36 hours. Weeks pass and you just want a sign that he’s watching over you. 

“Just Married!” Read the shattered windshield.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. It shouldn’t have ended. But it did.

Faint sirens could be heard, becoming louder and louder with each second that passed. Cars stopped, people got out, covering their mouth. Perhaps they knew of the people in the car, or perhaps not. But everyone had the same look in their face; the one where tears rushed to your eyes and dared to pour over while you couldn’t get a word out because you’re in complete shock. They all felt the same way, their heart felt heavy and had a heartbeat that was out of their chest. They felt heartbroken, and they didn’t even know them.

They could see a car, one that was flipped completely over, windshield shattered with smoke rushing from the exhaust as the other car faced the right way, but a huge dent in the front. The hood was off the car and so was the front right tire.

The smoke started to cloud up the air, the smell of gasoline present. The weather seemed completely inaccurate to portray what was happening. The sky was a bright blue, not a cloud in sight. The temperature was warm, with a nice breeze to cool you down. A perfect day. Almost perfect at least.

It was so cold. So so cold, despite the sun beaming against the ground. You could hear things. Your eyes were glued shut. Your body hurt so much but you couldn’t move it at all. Your lack of vision made your hearing stronger, so you based your surroundings on that.

The only thing you could hear were people screaming in the back, men directing people where to go as others came over to the scene. You heard people being told to move back as footsteps were louder and approaching. You felt a liquid surrounding you and you assumed it was water as you were practically breathing it in. The winds kicked in and your body was barely able to let out a shiver.

You heard things becoming unlatched and snapping until your body was picked up.

“There’s blood all over her,” a voice said as it carried you onto a stretcher. That liquid was blood, not water.

You felt yourself being rushed into an ambulance where 3 people worked on you at once, contact sound in the background.

“Honey, I need you to give me a sign that you can move. Move your fingers or your toes, anything,” a lady said, and despite her voice being soft she said it in a firm way.

You still couldn’t open your eyes. Your body couldn’t seem to move, but your fingers move an inch to crawl over to hers as you grabbed it tightly.

“Grayson,” you managed to croak out, and that was all that could come out before all the sound went out.

You woke up in a hospital bed. Sound came back to you again, and all you heard were beeps that were tracking your heart rate.

Slowly your eyes began to peel open. It shut suddenly due to the excessive light, and took a few more seconds for it to get used to the light. Your eyes scanned your surroundings. You were in a hospital bed, balloons and flowers surrounding you. People had been bringing in so many of them the hospital had to cut them off.

The pain that you felt now was much smaller than the pain you felt earlier, although you were still hurting. You  entire body hurt, but small spurts of pain were more focused near your back and wrists. You still had no idea what had happened.

You looked to the side and saw your mother, sleeping on the couch that was next to your bed.

“Mom.” She didn’t wake up.

“Mom.” You said again louder. In a frenzy her head whipped up and she seemed startled as she looked at you like you had 4 eyes.

“Oh my god! You’re awake! Oh my god!”she exclaimed. Her loudness attracted 2 nurses to rush in, in the same frenzy that your mom woke up in. They looked particularly shocked to see you awake, just laying in your hospital. Both rushed over to check on you as your mom observed.

You couldn’t tell what exactly they were doing. They looked at the computer screen, to you, back to the computer screen and so on and so forth. But the last thing that was on your mind was what they were doing. You wanted to know where he was.

“Where’s Grayson?”

The two nurses seemed confused and cocked their head to the side as your mother looked down. Despite their actions, no one answered.

“Where is Grayson?”you asked once again, this time with more force and demand. You hardly ever talked like that, but this was a different occasion.

“He’s in the ICU sweetie. He’s-He’s not doing that well,” your mother finally answered.

“I want to see him.” You weren’t taking anything from anyone. You were seeing your husband. You didn’t care. You were seeing him.

“Oh I don’t think that’s the best-”one of the nurses started but you quickly cut her off.

“I don’t care. I am seeing Grayson. That’s it,” you said, rather forcibly.

The nurses looked nervous as if they didn’t know what to do, but your mom stepped in.

“It’s fine. Let her see him,” your mom assured. They nodded and helped you to your feet, getting the hospital gown situated on you as it was discombobulated. You shook your head to your mom and she grabbed the clothes she had next to her. She knew her daughter too well.

You went into your bathroom to change slowly, pain still present in your back and wrist. But not nearly as bad as before. You exited the bathroom and were using your mom as a guide to walk as you both followed the nurses.

She led you down the hallway and then to the elevator where you descended to the 2nd floor. You continued to slowly walk to Grayson’s room but couldn’t help notice people outside the other hotel rooms. Many of them were sobbing and it made your stomach turn as you felt sick.

When the nurse finally stopped at the door you were hesitant and your mom took the opportunity to open the door. You followed her in and your eyes scanned the room. They didn’t allow any gifts in the ICU so his looked more empty than yours. He was surrounded by different doctors and nurses and they fell quiet upon you, which made you lightheaded.

You saw a mirror and went over to look at your reflection. You had multiple cuts all over your face, and stitches on your forehead.

Your eyes found Grayson as he lay in the bed motionless and lifeless. He had tubes and wires coming out of what seemed like every part of his body and the sight was enough to make you shudder.

“I would start to say goodbye.” A doctor recommended. You looked at him with your big puppy eyes and he shook his head because he couldn’t bare with the pain he would see you have to go through. He left the room, followed by everyone but your mother. You nodded, letting her know you wanted to be alone and she placed her hand on yours before exiting.

Staring at Grayson, you took in his features. His radiant skin seemed quite dull as it was covered in cuts and bruises. You watched his chest slowly rise and then go back down to his breathing patterns. This was the love of your life you were looking at.

You didn’t know what to say. What were you supposed to say? You bent down next to him, your elbows resting on his bed.

“I uh. I don’t even know what to say or where to start.” You sat there for a moment before talking again.

“I guess I’ll start off by saying thank you. Thank you for showing me there’s more to the world than I thought. Thank you for showing me how to love like no other. Thank you for showing me the world in only 7 years. Thank you. And thank you for everything. For all the memories we had, the laughs we shared. Thank you.” You stopped to recollect yourself, sniffling in your sobs as you continued. You reached out to grab his hand one last time. You felt your heart slowly shattering.

“And most importantly, thank you for loving me. For loving me the way no one else ever could. Thank you for letting me be your wife. Even if it was only for 36 hours, I wouldn’t want anyone else for me. I love you so much.

I don’t know what I could do without you.” But unfortunately, you would soon learn.

That was all you could make out before the long beep rang. Doctors came rushing in and it was your turn to be one of the sobbing people. Your mom held you in her arms as you sobbed uncontrollably. You felt your heart break. Grayson’s family, Ethan, they were all there. They all felt the pain. But no one felt the loss more than you did. And everyone could agree to that.

So you cried, and cried. You couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that the love of your life just died. And you thought life had just begun.

People ask you when you fall off a bike if your ok. They ask how bad it hurt when you got stung by a bee. They ask how bad it burns when you have strep throat. But how do you describe a broken heart?

Your heart broke the second those beeps came out. The second you were priced away from Grayson. You felt your heart stop for a moment. Everything seemed to move too fast that it was slow. Your heart felt like something was ripping each tendon away piece by piece.

Out of all the things you’ve ever been through in your life, this had to hurt the most. By far.

Dark. You had seen nothing but darkness for the past 3 weeks. Your room had been the only place you stayed in, with an occasional visit to the bathroom or kitchen. Nowhere further. The long, purple drapes you had covering the windows were completely shut, not letting in an inch of sunlight. You had made no attempt at anything whatsoever. You didn’t think of eating, showering or all the other daily parts of your routine. All you thought about was him.  

Your appearance showed your lack of living. Your eyes sunk into your skin and your jawbones were most certainly prominent. The once radiant glowing skin you had was dull and desperate for water. But you neglected your body. You didn’t care.

Your parents helped you, mostly your mother though. She came everyday after work to find you asleep. She got out of work at 5pm.

It seemed that when it was time to go to bed, your mind had other plans. It made you scream, cry, kick. It made you look over to your left, where a body should be, and see nothing. It made you roll over, and instead of bumping into Grayson, who would take you into his arms and kiss your head even while he was in the middle of his sleep, you would just go right to the other side.

You missed the warmth of his body. You missed the snores that would escape his mouth, booming around the house if he was sick. You missed the little things, like when you put your cold feet on him to get a reaction, and laughed while he squirmed. You missed him dramatically falling on top of you when he was tired, pretending to fall asleep while practically crushing you.

Except now you felt the whole world pounding down and crushing you piece by piece.

You missed him trying to be sneaky and push you closer against him when he was in the mood.

“Oh my god, when are you not horny?” you laughed, feeling the not-so-discrete message Grayson was pressing against your butt.

“I’ve only been like this around you.”

To make up for the loss of warmth, you grabbed Grayson’s favorite blanket ever. It was a pink fur one that had the warmest inside alignment ever. He would always grab it to cuddle with you, and you’d always grab it to cover him when he fell asleep on the couch from exhaustion.

You pressed that up against you when you felt you couldn’t catch your breath. When the hot tears poured from your eyes as you coughed and choked while sobbing. When you felt the pain of a thousand widows, even though you were just one. You reached for the blanket and just held it in your arms. Your tears would eventually stop and you’d regain your normal breathing pattern as you clutched it in your hands. And every single night, you would whisper it goodnight and kiss it as if it were Grayson.

So you’d typically fall asleep around the time the sun was just starting to show up. While the sky painted pretty colors of pink and orange, you were in your first dream.

All you wanted to do was sleep too. It let you escape from your reality. You woke up to the smell of pancakes, specifically the ones Grayson would make and call his ‘masterpiece recipe.’ You went into the kitchen to find Grayson shirtless with a stack of his banana pancakes ready for you. You jumped on his and attacked him with kisses. Then you woke up. It was a dream.

You’d usually be awoken by your mother, whose heart was breaking for you. Seeing her little girl, the girl whose heart she created for 9 months and watched her grow to be this inspirational woman suddenly fall apart, her heart ached.

She’d wake you up and you’d protest wanting to go back to sleep.

“Honey you have so get up sometime,” she gently cooed. But you weren’t having it.

“I just want to sleep. I hate waking up. It brings all the pain back.”

Then you slowly started to get back at things. You’d begin to shower without your mom nudging you to. Granted you took almost 2 hours in the shower getting lost with your thoughts, it was an improvement.

Then you started to cook again. You’d always loved to cook, especially around Grayson. You’d have completions as to who cooked the best meal, and have Ethan rate it. Of course he chose you, but Grayson always said it was a biased opinion because it was his brother. He never wanted to admit that you were just simply better, but it made you laugh.

You went downstairs to your kitchen for the first time in weeks and saw multiple gifts and food all over your kitchen and living room. People sent their condolences with all sorts of gifts, food arrangements and cards. You found it to be close to comforting. Not that much, but it was still something.

A week later you were doing better than you would’ve ever thought. You just finished up your shower and decided to cook a meal for you and your mother. You felt bad you were putting her through all of this. Your mother couldn’t care less, she just cared about you getting better. You had just lost your husband, she didn’t care if it took all the time in the world. But there was that selfishness you had in you.

So when your mom opened the door to your house one day at 5pm to find you with a towel on your head drying your hair in the twist, stirring food around on the stove and softly humming to the music, she clutched her chest and closed her eyes, smiling satisfied. She was so happy you were getting better.

Things had started to progress each and every day. You had been starting to communicate with people outside again. Your neighbors were so happy to see you, and it made you feel better.

Pictures got out from paparazzi of you just taking a simple trip to the food store to get food that you could start cooking. When the picture surfaced people flooded the comment sections on your Twitter, instagram, you name it. They all expressed how happy they were that you were back and hoped you were doing well.

So in general, you were getting better. It took months to get to those little baby steps, but you were taking bigger steps now.

However, you had your days where you fell backwards. Those days were the worst. The day before you thought all was well, and then it all crashed.

You didn’t know what triggered it. Something must have caused it, but you didn’t know what it was.

All you remember was becoming hysterical as loud sobs filled the house and you were gasping for air. You cried. And cried. And cried.

Perhaps it was a good thing. Surely didn’t feel good, but everyone as some point as the days where they aren’t the best, and need some kind of reminder. But you missed Grayson so much. You just wanted him to hold you in his huge arms and say everything was going to be just fine.

You just wanted a sign. A sign that he was here, watching over you.

Your mind went to all the memories you had with when he tried to cheer you up.

You remember one time being super stressed out. You had 3 big exams coming up that counted for a majority of your grade. Not to mention they were all in the same day. And better yet, the day before you had just lost your grandmother. You were in a terrible place and just wanted to cry the whole day, but you knew you had to take these exams. To say you were stressed was an understatement.

But Grayson, being the caring and observant person he was, knew there was just something he had to do. He forced you to take a “quick run into Walmart to see if there was any ideas you could get for your paper from there,” but that wasn’t the case. You didn’t realize until you were 25 minutes into the car ride that the nearest Walmart was a 7 minute drive.

You insisted Grayson brought you back home so you could study but he just nodded and put the music up, not listening to a word you were saying. He was listening however, but was not going to turn around.

He pulled up to this spot that you had to walk up a cliff and around a few branches to get to.

“This is ridiculous. Here I am getting scratched by branches when I could be doing something, you know, useful,” you huffed as a branch sliced across your skin for the 4th time. Grayson just shook his head.

“We’re almost there babe.” And he was right. You had to admit that the view was beautiful. And it completely faded away all your thoughts about your tests.

So you just spent the next few hours until sunset observing how the pretty sky colors faded into the water. You were able to see a faint rainbow appear after a sun shower had just happened.

“When I’m gone, think of me as a rainbow.” Grayson said. You looked over at him, his eyes wide and bright with fascination.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because that’s the sign I’m going to give to you. To let you know that I’m there with you. And that I love you.”

And you needed that sign so bad right now. But you couldn’t have it. All you could have was the darkness of the night and the heaviness of your eyes weighing you down. You grabbed the familiar blanket and as soon as you hit the pillow you were out like a light.

You woke up to your alarm going off. You groaned at the familiar beeping that filled your room. You had set an alarm clock every morning at 9am to make sure you got up and did something. That was your promise to get better. But you sure did feel like crap.

Looking around you remembered the events that occurred last night. You slowly sat up in your bed and turned to face your pillow. There were still wet spots from where your eyes rested.

You rubbed your eyes and picked the built up crust out of the inner corners as you lay back in bed, your head hitting the pillows with a thud. Couldn’t you just stay in bed all day?

No. You got up and went to the bathroom, making sure to pee before looking in the mirror. Although there was nothing on your face, you still wiped your face as if there were tears. Your eyes were slightly puffy and you had dry lips. Your hair was all over the place and you tried to push it out of your face before it flipped right back down. You were a mess.

Deciding to take a shower to fix your appearance, you made sure to make it no more than 30 minutes so you didn’t get lost in your thoughts.

After getting out you put on a bra and tank top along with sweatpants and socks. You fixed the necklace Grayson had given you on your 5th date so the clasp was in the back and twiddled your wedding ring around your ring finger. Sighing, you knew what you had to do.

Since Grayson had proposed to you you two had all sorts of ideas. One of them was to remake one of the rooms you had into a memory of your wedding day. It was so you would never forget the day of your wedding, and anytime you two would fight you would have to go in there so it would remind you of the wonderful relationship you two had.

So you made your way down the hallway you hadn’t been near in almost 4 weeks. You pushed the door open slowly and took baby steps in. You were shocked at how pretty it had actually looked. It was beautiful.

There were pictures of your wedding displayed all around the room with lights that connected them. A chandelier fell from the ceiling, which was the one you both wanted from the first day you saw it. A radio played the song you danced to at your wedding softly in the background on repeat. You could never get tired of hearing it.

Your wedding dress was still on the mannequin in your room. It was placed near the window and faced the open world. The drapes that were once closed for over 3 weeks were finally wide open. The sun made it glisten and shine in all the right places. The up-close detailing was one you made sure to pay extra attention to. This dress had to be your perfect dress, afterall it was your wedding. You had taken over 9 months to find it, but once you tried it on you immediately fell in love with it. It had lace trimming around the sleeves, neck area and down until it feathered out into one long lace veil that went feet beyond your dress. It was simply gorgeous.

You couldn’t help the tears that formed in your eyes. Faint colors were starting to show on the dress. First red, then orange and yellow, then green and blue and lastly purple. The colors of the rainbow came together in one strip and formed a line over the dress, that still shone in the sunlight.

A cool tear escaped your eye, trailing down your cheek. You sucked in a shaking breath and then smiled, tears starting to stream.

You asked for a sign, and had finally gotten one.

“Hi Grayson.”

[itskateak]

Oceans and Stars - Chapter 2

Story Summary: A story of how Bucky Barnes falls in love with oceans, stars, and the woman who gave him the reasons to.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Velika Dante King (Fem!OC)

Chapter Summary: After a year of being with the team, Velika has really solidified her place. She and Bucky are sent on a mission to the Caribbean as recon for an abandoned Hydra base.

Words: 1.9K

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of sexism

A/N: It's just cute. That's what I'm hoping. Not beta read. We die like men. 

Masterlist

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𝓡𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓪𝓭𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓮𝓮𝓴?

Bucky chopped through the dense, tropical brush with a large machete, sweat dripping down his temple. The Caribbean climate was warm in a cling-to-your-skin-like-a-wet-towel way. The humidity was almost suffocating as he cut a path. It had been an hour since they had to divert from the main trail and he had been cutting through plants the whole time. It made him miss the Siberian tundra. 

He could handle cold. The serum made him produce body heat like he was some kind of human space heater and all his gear was designed to insulate for the frozen climates. The heat was another animal to deal with. He couldn't exactly just remove all his gear in the middle of the jungle. Regardless, his teammate didn't seem to be bothered by the temperature at all.

Velika was a few feet behind him, watching their GPS to make sure they were on the correct route. Well, at least heading in the right direction. The helicarrier couldn't take them any closer than a mile off-shore, and their bikes could only take them so far into the jungle. The rest of the journey had to be on foot. Which meant a day's worth of hiking through the Caribbean jungle.

"Adjust to the right four degrees." She called over the sounds of birds chirping.

"Can't we just keep going this direction and adjust later?" Bucky responded, hacking at a particularly stubborn bush. He stopped, panting. The physical exertion in the heat was starting to get to him, but it didn't help that his bag was heavy. "I need a minute to catch my breath."

"I can hear a river about forty feet ahead of us. We can rest there." Velika appeared at his side. She didn't look the least bit disheveled or even sweaty. She even looked like she was in her element. Velika held her hand out to him. "Bucky, give me the machete."

"I'm fine. Just give me a second," He waved her off, taking deep breaths through his nose. It felt like someone had laid a hot rag over his face in a sauna and expected him to run a mile at a dead sprint. In other words, he was choking on his breath.

"Give me the machete," Velika demanded with a look on her face similar to one a mother would give her child when they were misbehaving. She pushed her hand closer to him. "I can handle forty feet of underbrush. I won't break."

"Fine." He grumbled, handing over the sword. She passed him the GPS and pushed in front of him. She stretched her neck out and rolled her shoulders back. The underbrush was no match for her as she started to swing at it, easily cutting a path for them. "You're gonna regret that in the morning."

"You already regret it, you dork," Velika said through gritted teeth. A small tree was giving her issues and after a few rough hacks, she cut through it with a short grunt of effort. Bucky had been faster than her, but she was at least efficient so they moved at a steady pace.

"I'm not massaging you when you wake up stiff." He teased. A light breeze blew through the underbrush, helping ease some of the extreme heat he was feeling. At least the trees were sheltering him from strong rays of the sun. That was a small blessing of being in a tropical forest.

"I won't return the favor." Velika laughed breathlessly, her shoulders already beginning to ache from the new movements. It was working a different muscle group than she usually used daily. "How far?"

"Uh, twenty-five feet." Bucky wiped the sweat from around his mouth, rubbing it off on his thigh. Tony needed to make this up to him. He knew how much Bucky hated extreme heat and yet he sent him on the recon mission anyway. 

"Great." She muttered, continuing to hack at the flora. She hadn't broken a sweat even after half an hour of chopping. Step by step, swing by swing, she cleared a path down to the river. 

The river bubbled through the jungle, bouncing over rocks and chasing some unseen path around the bend. The water was clear in places it moved slow but bubbled into white froth where it collided with stones and fallen trees. A pair of birds took off as they stepped onto the shoreline.

"Your highness." Velika bowed exaggeratedly, her platinum blonde hair shining in the sunlight that filtered through. She straightened up with a smile.

"I'll throw you into this river," Bucky threatened, dropping his bag on the ground. He kneeled by the river's edge, the cool breeze blowing through drying some of the sweat on his forehead. "Do you have a spare hair tie?"

"Yeah, here." Velika pulled a black band from around her wrist and passed it to him. He nodded in thanks and pulled his hair into a low bun. "Are you okay?"

"I spent seventy years being in cryo intermittently. Heat is not my friend. How are you not overheating?" He asked, dipping his right hand into the cold water and resting it on the back of his neck. He was so sweaty and it was disgusting.

"I did a survival tour during basic training in the jungles of South America. Then I did one in the Sahara Desert with a sergeant of the warriors. Hot temperatures don't bother me anymore after that." Velika shrugged, crouching down next to him.

"Damn." Bucky shook his head. "The sun's going to set soon. We should find a place to make camp." 

"I think this river might flow out to the ocean. The aerial shots I saw in briefing had a river and this is the only one we've seen since we got here." Velika leaned forward to look down the bend of the river, watching where it disappeared.

"Sounds good to me."

"Best get moving when you're ready." Velika stood, spinning the machete around in her fingers. 

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Velika took the lead as they followed the river, her footing sure on the rocky shoreline. She glanced up at the sky occasionally, taking in the setting sun's light. It was significantly cooler by the water, the breeze drifting across the surface and swirling around them.

Just as she'd thought, the river spilled out into a shaded cove and tumbled into the ocean. On their side of the river, boulders and stones broke the waves. The opposite side was a wide-open sandy beach. 

"Wow." Velika breathed, eyes wide. She smiled slowly and took in the scenery. "Think we found our campsite?"

"Yeah. Looks great." Bucky grinned, taking the machete from her hand and sheathing it on his back. "How're we gonna get across this?"

Velika toed her shoes off with her socks and rolled her pant legs up. "Easy. Just wade through it." She scooped up her shoes and started through the bubbling creek carefully, making sure not to slip on any stones. 

"Or I could just jump it." Bucky backed up and got a running start.

Velika watched him, shaking her head in amusement. He landed solidly on the other side. "My legs are shorter than yours, Buck. I wouldn't have made it without falling on my ass."

Bucky laughed and offered her his hand, pulling her into the soft sand. "I would've caught you. Don't worry." 

"Oh, sure. Like you caught me in training last week?" Velika wiggled her toes into the soft sand. It stuck to her skin, but she didn't mind. She didn't have to put her socks and boots back on until the morning.

"Your hands were sweaty and my hand is metal!" Bucky said, tugging her forward. During a free-running lesson, Bucky had tried to help her climb a wall. When she'd grabbed his hand to haul her over, she slipped from his grip and fell onto the safety mat below. "Come on, Veli. Let's make camp."

Velika dropped her shoes into the sand, quickly followed by her bag. She sighed and stretched her back out, raising her arms above her head. "You're on tent duty this time."

Bucky groaned but dropped his heavier bag onto the ground and started to dig through it. He found the compact tent that Stark had packed and tossed it down the beach to a wider space. 

"I'll get a fire going."

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"There's no way. You're lying!" Bucky shouted, shoving Velika's shoulder as she laughed. The fire crackled in front of them, providing light in the twilight of the Caribbean. "You're so lying!"

"Nope! You can ask my brother and he'll tell you the same thing!" Velika fell onto her back, cackling loudly and freely.

"I refuse to believe it. You took on an Archangel and won?" Bucky stared at her in bewilderment, eyes wide.  "No, you didn't do that. Nope."

Velika continued to laugh until tears streamed down her face. Her arms wrapped around her waist and she rolled onto her side to look at him. She stifled her chuckling by biting her lip, but amusement was still lighting up her eyes. 

"You're pullin’ my leg. This has to be a joke." Bucky shook his head, eyes shining in the firelight. It cast shadows over the fine lines of his face, making everything appear sharper.

"Okay, maybe it's a small joke. It was a rigged match." Velika admitted through giggles. "Just to prove to everyone that I was strong enough to be a lieutenant to the Archangel."

"I knew it!" Bucky started to laugh, falling back into the sand with her. "Did they actually contest that you were worthy enough?"

"Some of the men were not exactly...fond of a woman beating them out. So, my commander staged a fight and let me win. He admitted later that it wasn't hard to let me win. Just a misplaced foot and it gave me the opening." She explained, propping her head up with her elbow. She smiled softly, eyes flickering over his form.

"I knew you were full of it." He turned his head to look at her, grinning slyly. His hair fell across the sand, fluffy now that it was sweat-free. The roots were still greasy, but she was certain her hair was a disaster as well.

"You totally believed me for a minute," Velika said. "Don't tell Steve, though. He still completely believes I bested my ex-commander fairly. Sam, too."

"Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me." Bucky winked and looked back up to the sky.

The night sky was clear of clouds and light pollution, which allowed the full beauty of the twinkling stars to shine bright over the sheltered cove. The moon was a mere sliver, allowing the smaller lights to have their moment. The waves washing against the shore filled the comfortable silence between them, accompanied by the crackling fire and the chirping of nocturnal bugs. 

"Tell me about another constellation," Bucky whispered, meeting her gaze again. She held it for a moment, smiling gently.

Velika rolled onto her back and looked over the map of the sky. She was familiar with the Northern Hemisphere constellations off the top of her head, but the Southern Hemisphere constellations were something she needed to see first. She gained her bearings, identifying which ones were visible.

"There's three that I know well. They're there, there and over there." 

"How about that one?" 

"Scorpius, or the Scorpion, was the enemy of the hunter Orion..." Velika began. Her eyes shone like the stars and her voice washed calmly over him like the ocean.

𝓞𝓷 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓼𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓽 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓼 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓬𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓮𝓮𝓹?

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Taglist- Still open! Drop into my inbox :)

[vvienersoldier]

Prototype

A/N: “Present” is before Civil War, after Age of Ultron. During some scenes, I went a little off-script, just to keep things moving along.

Pairing: Tony Stark x reader (eventually)

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of injuries, lil angsty

Word Count: 1,594

Prototype, pt. 1

Summary: Being the older twin, (Y/N) Rogers always has to go first to make sure it’s safe for Stevie. When the pair meet Dr. Abraham Erskine, that doesn’t change, especially when he informs them of his plans for Steve.  Being the prototype isn’t always what it’s cut out to be though, which she learns when she falls into the wrong hands.

New York CIty, 1943

Standing in the middle of the World Exposition with your slim arm linked through Steve’s own scrawny one, you couldn’t help but feel immensely overwhelmed by all the sights. You’d only agreed to this for Steve, who’d only agreed, in turn, for his best pal, Bucky, who was conveniently absent, probably off somewhere with his girl of the day. You didn’t hate Bucky, but you felt protective of Steve, especially when Bucky set Steve up on blind double dates that always led to disaster. You’d never tell Steve, but you felt like Bucky dragged his self-esteem down, especially since he’d just informed Steve that he was leaving for Europe, and had practically guilted the both of you into coming along with him to the World Expo.

You knew Bucky meant well, but you could see from that far away look in your brother’s eyes that he was going to be brooding for the next few days, locking himself away in his room with only his own self-depreciating thoughts and art supplies to keep him company. 

You both nearly jumped out of your skin as Bucky made an appearance with his and Steve’s dates on his arms, beckoning you both to watch Howard Stark’s presentation with him. Arriving a little late to the scene, you and Steve had to weave through the crowds until you got to the front where you could both see. Crying out in amazement as the car’s tires left the ground, after a short introduction from Stark, you reached for Steve, only to find your arm flailing through open air. 

Taking a sharp breath, you whirled around, spotting your twin’s small, trench coated figure slinking towards Uncle Sam’s accusing glare. You were about to tell Bucky where you were going, before deciding to just go on your own. Grumbling under your breath, you shoved through the crowd in an entirely unladylike fashion, earning curses, before racing to the recruitment tent. You stormed in, giving the front desk attendant a glare as he asked you if you were lost, to which you replied an emphatic no, followed by a demand for your brother’s whereabouts. You knew Steve would be mortified by your behavior, but he was the nice twin. You were the twin who stepped on toes, not caring about keeping up a submissive, soft facade, at least not where your brother was concerned. 

“Ah, miss (Y/N),” you heard a calm German accent call out, “your brother said to expect you to be here demanding for him.” He chuckled, before waving you to come with him, probably to wherever Steve was. 

“I am Dr. Abraham Erskine, and your brother has agreed to be a part of an experiment to help us with the war.” He informed you as you entered the curtained of area where Steve was waiting. 

“Steven Gr-” you started, only to be cut off by Steve.

“(Y/N), please, this is my chance to be something. You don’t even know what his offer is,” he pleaded, the stubborn set to his jaw telling you he wasn’t going to give in this time.

Blowing out a puff of air, you wiped a hand over your face, staring up at him stonily, a silent promise of a talk later, before turning to look up at the doctor. 

“Whatever he’s doing, I’m doing first,” you stated firmly, your tone leaving no room for objections, “I’m healthier than him. If he’s going to do something stupid, I’m going first to make sure it won’t kill him.” You finished, planting your hands on your hips. Sure, you weren’t much stronger than him physically, but you didn’t get sick nearly as much, and you were the older twin. It was up to you to go first, to make sure Steve wasn’t going to get hurt. That’s how it always had been, for as long as you could both remember.

 Steve wanted to climb the tallest tree in the corner lot to see the Brooklyn bridge, you’d gone up first to test the branches.

 Steve wanted to try out the bike him and Buck had found in the alleyway, you sat perched on the handlebars to make sure he wouldn’t get hurt if he squeezed the front brake handle instead of the back brake (which he did, causing you to both topple over the front wheel, knocking out your wiggly front tooth).

 Steve wanted to try the rope swing overhanging the river by your house when you were both seven, you went first to make sure the rope wouldn’t break. Sure, you’d scraped your leg and gotten a nasty scar from the deal, but if it was Stevie who’d gotten hurt, the poor kid would’ve probably broken his leg clean off. 

Bucky had always been there, of course, yelling at the both of you to say out of trouble. You being you, you’d told him not to boss you around, but back then, you’d only given him lip because you’d had a crush on him; Steve was just too stubborn, even as a child, to not do the stupid things he’d already set his mind on. 

After you had both been examined by nurses, you’d both been approved for enlistment, making you wonder what the man had in mind for the two of you. You looked over at Steve, with his folder clutched so tight that it was turning his knuckles white, like he was expecting someone to snatch the file from him. 

Walking out of the tent side by side, you could tell Steve was practically vibrating with excitement, and you knew he was doing all that he could to keep himself from scampering off in search of Bucky to share the news. 

The rest of that night, the two of you couldn’t help but come up with fantastical speculations over what would be done to you, with the theories becoming so ridiculous that you’d both barely noticed Bucky’s presence with the girls, causing Steve to exclaim the good news to him, whilst you bristled, your good mood cut in half as you saw Steve’s ‘date’ with a thinly veiled sneer on her smudged lips. 

“Hey, Don, your lipstick is smudged,” you pointed out, slipping into an innocent act, pretending you were too obtuse to figure out why it was smudged, “did’ya wipe it on accident when you were all getting milkshakes?”

You grunted softly as you felt Steve sharp elbow jab into your side, but you didn’t drop your guileless expression. 

“It’s Dot, (Y/N). Don’t be jealous just because I was kissing James and you weren’t,” the taller girl sniped, before realizing her slip and turning an unflattering shade of red.

“Oh, no, no, I’m not jealous. I thought your date for the night was Stevie, though?” You frowned, arching a brow up at her. Before you could turn the girl even darker red, Bucky stepped in, explaining that he needed to see you and Steve home, before wishing the two crestfallen girls a good night. 

“You’re an ass, Jame Barnes.” You hissed once the three of you were out of earshot. “Do you only think of yourself? Do you not realize that setting Steve up with one of your devotees was a dumb idea?” You seethed, stopping and whirling to glare daggers up at him, causing him to take a step back.

“(Y/N), you can’t protect Steve from life, you know that, right? He’s got to be his own person, just Steve Rogers, not (Y/N)’s twin brother Steve Rogers. Let the guy experience life, it’s not going to hurt him!” He exclaimed, giving you an equally deadly glare.

“Are you two both forgetting that I have an opinion of my own?” Steve queried, giving them both his signature look of disappointment. “I can choose who I want to be, that’s why I took up Erskine’s deal.” He stated bluntly, looking down to you with a stern face. “I know you want to protect me, but we aren’t always going to be by each other, so I’m going to have to start doing things on my own, even if you can’t try them first to be safe,” he explained, wrapping his skinny arm around your shoulder. “We’ll always be twins, even if we aren’t attached at the hip.” He soothed, seeing your eyes start to fill with tears.

Before he finished his spiel, he turned to Bucky. “And I know you want me to have more friends, pal, but we both know I’m not a looker, and I’m okay with waiting for the right girl to come along. But she won’t be one of your girls, they love you too much.”

At his words, you felt a small pang in your chest, and absentmindedly reached up to rub over your heart. You didn’t really know what that feeling meant, but you most  definitely did not have feelings for James Buchanan Barnes. Your childhood days were over, he didn’t tugs on girls’ ponytails to tell them he liked them, he just showed them how much he liked them. A small wave of envy went through you, and you shoved it down quick. You didn’t need a fella to show you how much he loved you, you had Steve, and he had you and Buck, and you were both happy with that, even if you weren’t always thrilled with Bucky being in the situation. 

You three were your own little crooked family, and you all knew that even your dislike for Bucky’s lady habits couldn’t pull the three of you apart.

Part 2

Masterlist

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