#I was clinging to the top bar with my fingertips and this poor woman

[curiosity-killed]

Absolutely fascinating behavior by the public tonight

[cagestark]

Permission Chapter 4

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

This is for thatmarvelstan who had a rough day. Feel better <3

This will now be FIVE chapters long. 

Read here on AO3

-

How do they go on?

That’s a question for yesterday, always for yesterday. Because today, they go on like this: by not talking about it. Tony isn’t sure if Peter even remembers the things he said during his drunken adventures. But Tony remembers, and he thinks to himself that there’s no way that he can see the kid and not see him, not hear him, the way he begged to cum, the way he whimpered Tony’s moniker. Thinking that this will finally force his hand, he orders in for dinner, sets up candles in the penthouse and plans to make an Official Move. Nothing else will do—he’s not ever going to let Peter slip through his fingers, not again.

But when the kid arrives at the Tower, he’s acting like nothing happened. He thanks Tony for picking him up from the bar in Brooklyn and then asks if maybe they could work on the suit for a while. It’s polite, informal but not at all romantic, and Tony can’t help it. He doubts. Maybe this isn’t something that Peter wants, not during the light of day. Maybe this lust is just something he feels at night under the covers in his bed. Why the fuck would Peter want a relationship with Tony? Except for Tony’s money, he doesn’t have much else going for him.

So they work on the suit. Dozens of floors away, a meal goes cold, a champagne grows flat, and by the time Tony arrives back up in the penthouse, the candles have burned themselves out. He cleans up, alone.

He goes on.

-

The next three times Peter messages him asking to cum, Tony gives back a simple, “Yes, you can cum.” It’s all that needs said. Anything else and he’s at risk of deluding himself.

-

He’s willing to take what he can get from Peter. The kid is more than capable of providing stimulating conversation, he’s fun to be around. That’s more than can be said for half the population. Maybe Peter isn’t interested in him romantically, but they can still be—Tony gags—friends. He tries to invite Peter over to do friendly things, things he might do with any of the Avengers. That’s how they end up in the penthouse on a Friday night, drinking beer (seltzer for Tony) and eating pizza (with all the toppings except for anchovies).

They talk shop, and classes, and friends. Peter tells him about Ned and MJ and what they’re each doing, and Tony listens, eager for every drop of this kid and his life. Tony wants to know it all, wants to savor it all, because he knows how easily it could disappear.

The movie that’s as background noise becomes inadvertently sexy, and even though they haven’t been paying any more than a quarter of their attention to it while they talk, when the sex scene arrives, the conversation dulls until they are both watching, sipping their drinks in silence save for the noises coming from the screen: pants and wet, sucking kisses, and heavy breaths.

“Look at that guy’s abs,” Tony mutters. “Come on. That’s a criminal offense.”

Peter snorts softly. “That’s one crime I would gladly be the victim of.”

“You and me, both, kid.”

It’s suggested that the woman on screen begins to give the man head, and Tony gets lost in the little things about it: the way the actor’s head falls back, how the lamp from beside the bed casts shadows in his collarbones, the furrow in the man’s brow even as one hand is offscreen and tangled in blond curls. There are noises, for Christ’s sake. Fuck, he misses that for himself.

“FRIDAY,” Tony asks. “Is this pornography? Did you slip the wool over my aging eyes and turn me to the X-Rated channels?”

“This is rated R, boss, which according to the Motion Picture Association of America means that—”

“Okay babe, thanks,” Tony says. He takes another sip from his drink to wet his mouth. He’s hyperaware of Peter next to him, just a couch cushion away watching this with him. The kid is sitting completely still, and Tony can’t tell the expression on his face out of the corner of his eye, so he turns to look and—

Oh. Peter is flushed, mouth just a little parted. His eyes are glossy and glued to the screen, and (when Tony’s gaze naturally falls) he is hard. Completely hard. Unmistakably hard. Tony’s brain does a 404 ERROR. Page Not Found. Then Peter shoves his plate onto his lap (not that the tent in his pants allows for much more than him to hold it awkwardly above his erection).

“Sorry,” Peter mutters.

“Yikes—don’t be. Don’t be! That’s—natural. I’m sorry.” Tony looks back to the screen. Fuck. Now he’s even more aware of Peter, of how the kid can no longer sit still. His breaths are just barely audible, and even though Tony’s head is turned towards the television, he doesn’t see what’s on screen. Every one of his senses is attuned to the younger man next to him.

Peter sits his plate aside. “I’ve got—uh—bathroom.”

Tony feels there’s fire just underneath his skin. He waves a hand, not daring to look. “You don’t have to go.”

“Trust me, I really do—”

“Yeah, I can see that. I just meant that—never mind.” Tony bites his tongue. What is he fucking thinking, almost asking Peter to stay? To jerk off beside him? Maybe the kid is just going in there to calm down, splash some water on his goddamn face. Maybe if Tony wasn’t so hopelessly infatuated and lustful, his mind wouldn’t jump to such dirty conclusions.

“What is it?” Peter asks. He sits back down, gingerly.

Tony still can’t look. “It was a stupid idea, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m worried! I mean—I don’t think you’ve ever had a stupid idea, Mr. Stark.”

“That’s a gross miscalculation, Pete, trust me.”

“I’ve got good judgement,” Peter says. “Tell me and let me decide.”

“I was just going to say—if you were going to go take care of that the old-fashioned way, you could just stay. I mean, you’ll be asking me for permission, anyway, won’t you?”

“You—want to watch me jerk off?” Peter’s voice goes high and squeaky. Dogs all over the New York area hear it, and it makes Tony wince. God, the kid is fucking blunt. But that’s a good thing; at least Tony can trust him to call him out on his bullshit.

“See? Poor, very poor idea—”

“You want to watch me?”

Tony’s mouth opens. He closes it. There’s something about the kid’s tone of voice, something that itches at the back of Tony’s brain though he can’t get a finger on it. Against his better judgement, he risks a glance, and he finds that Peter has turned completely towards him until his back rests against the arm rest at his end of the couch, one leg pulled up onto the cushions. He’s still hard. But it’s his expression: eyes lidded, cheeks still flushed (with embarrassment? arousal?). It wipes Tony’s brain clean like an eraser on a chalkboard.

“I—” Tony begins. “Do you—want me to want to watch you?”

“Do you want me to want you to want to watch me? I mean, you had a point. I’d just be texting you in a minute anyway—not that—not that I just last a minute! I mean—fuck.”

Tony can’t help but laugh. Peter scrubs his palms over his eyes, but he’s smiling. It takes some of the tension out of things, and Tony feels himself slipping out of his own skin and into the roll of Playboy. It’s what the world expects of him, and it’s useful here, it’s easy. Standing, Tony crosses to the armchair where he sits, reclining, holding his glass in his hand. He’s a little hard himself, though Peter can’t probably tell that thanks to positioning and the dark pants. He lifts a leg to rest his ankle on his knee.

“Go on, then,” Tony says. His voice comes out low and dark without asking him for his input, but it’s fine. It makes Peter gulp, throat bobbing as he shifts to take up the entire couch. Laying down the way he is, his erection is even more obvious, downright obscene. This is a picture Tony never thought he would see, one that he never wants to forget.

Peter reaches down and gingerly unbuttons his pants, sliding the zipper down over the bump of his full cock. His eyes slip closed until Tony snaps his fingers, the sound like a firecracker in the quiet room. Peter’s eyes widen when he realizes that Tony wants him to maintain eye contact. He whines, tucking his chin to his chest like he can hide from the older man’s bald gaze.

“You can stop,” Tony says. “Any time you want. No hard feelings.”

Taking a deep breath, Peter shucks his pants and underwear down past the curve of his ass, halfway down his thighs. Both hands link fingers, resting on his stomach which is heaving for breath. Tony takes his time examining every inch of Peter: he is average at best, cut, with a flushed cock that curves straight towards his flat belly. He is completely hairless—a personal preference, or another habit leftover from his time with Quentin Beck?

A noise slips from Peter’s throat, luring Tony’s eyes back to his own. The kid’s face looks tortured, eyes fluttering, mouth red and open. His knuckles are white from how he’s clasping his hands together—and oh. He’s waiting for Tony to tell him he can.

Tony nods. Peter’s eyes shut in brief relief, only to open a moment later. One hand drifts down but hesitates. “Pretend I’m not even here,” Tony advises.

Peter says something under his breath—and fuck stupid normal human hearing, because Tony can’t make out what it is. Then Peter reaches out with one thin finger, brushing the pad of his fingertip over the head of his own cock where precum beads. Tony can see from his seat the way the wetness slicks Peter’s finger. When he pulls it away, a line of sticky cum clings like a web between cock and finger, and then the boy brings it to his mouth to lick it off. Tony’s cock jumps, no avoiding the truth that he is hard himself right now. Peter can’t tell from his vantage point, not with the way Tony has his ankle perched up on his knee, but how Tony plans to avoid him noticing afterwards, he has no idea.

Peter returns his hand to brush his lax fingers over his cock, trailing them up one side and down the other. He’s a tease—to Tony, but mostly to himself. It’s clear from the way his cock jumps and spits precum that the kid is painfully turned on, but still he doesn’t take himself in hand. Bypassing his cock, he takes his hairless balls into his palm and rolls them, rubbing a thumb against them tenderly. Then he tightens his grip, tighter, until Tony is wincing in sympathy across the room, until the kid whimpers, gritting his teeth. From the way his cock leaks, it’s a good pain. Jesus, the kid is kinky.

Both hands disappear up Peter’s graphic tee, and it’s clear from the way he arches his back that’s he’s playing with his nipples. Are they the same color as his cock? Tony has to know, so he snaps his fingers again until the kid is watching, ears perked like a dog waiting for directions. After motioning with a finger, the kid gets the idea. He tucks the shirt up under his chin, and fuck is he built. Abs—a literal six pack, better than the one on television. Besides a smattering of hair leading down towards his erection, the kid is hairless even on his chest. Normally, Tony prefers hair, the masculinity of it, but there is no need for reminding. Peter is both masculine and feminine, a soft, hard balance.

His nipples are flat, just a shade lighter than his cock. The younger man teases himself here, too, dragging his fingers back and forth, narrowly avoiding where his nipples have tightened into desperate buds. When he finally drags a gentle thumb over one, he shivers, hips jerking upwards even as a soft little sound escapes his mouth. Tony’s own mouth waters. He clenches his jaw, swallowing it down.

He starts a rhythm of pinching and then soothing the ache with gentle fingers. A litany of noises escapes him, whimpers, whines. The head of his cock goes shiny with precum, and Tony’s own aches between his legs, trapped awkwardly in his pants. He doesn’t touch it—he pays it no mind. Peter’s heels dig into the couch cushion, socked toes curling. His eyes are squeezed shut, but Tony has mercy on him for now. It gives him a chance to not have to worry about schooling his hungry facial expressions. There’s never been a more tempting sight than Peter on this couch, hips twitching with aborted thrusts against nothing but air.

“Could you cum like this?” Tony asks. His voice is rough from arousal, though he hopes it will come off as from disuse.

Peter’s eyes open, glassy and dazed. “No sir,” he says, tongue thick, words slurred like he’s drunk though he’s barely finished a single beer. He looks like he hardly knows what he’s saying, like it’s coming out of his mouth unbidden. “Not unless you told me I could.”

Tony inhales, slow, lets it out slower.

When Peter finally grows desperate enough, he leaves one hand to pluck at his tender nipples and the other smooths down his abs towards his cock. It’s just a little more than a handful, and the noise that is torn from Peter’s throat at the first touch has Tony’s eyes slipping shut. He clenches his fingers, around the glass in his hand and where they are curled into a fist on the armrest. He will not touch himself—this is just, just two friends, just Peter finding relief and Tony (fuck, what the fuck is Tony doing, what are either of them doing?) supervising.

Peter begins a steady rhythm. Sometimes he leaves his fist steady and then jerks his hips up, fucking into his hand. It looks like torture, like the most difficult way to get off, which is probably why a kinky little shit like Peter enjoys it so much. There’s no need to spit in his palm, not when his cock is constantly leaking, lubricating the way. Sometimes, Peter stops altogether and just uses the pad of his middle finger to rub at his frenulum. His cries are nearly constant, coming with every breath he takes. He’s the most beautiful thing Tony’s ever seen.

And there is no way they can just be friends. Not when Tony feels like this. It will kill him, he thinks. And he’ll have to let it, rather than hurt this kid. But those are thoughts he packs up and puts away, because Peter is back to fisting his cock, quicker now, working his hand and his hips.

“Mr. Stark—” Peter cries out, voice tortured. “Can I cum? Please?”

And Tony says:

“No.”

 -

@flowersandteeth @starkeroverload @prettyboy-parker @metametalina @st-arker @darkobsidianquill @typing123 @ironspiidey @i-don’t-know-what-this-is @thefaultinourstarker @livingbutnotalivex3 @starkerparadise @anyabxrns @fedupdadtm @alanaaw88 @idntwantausername @softstarkerstuff @kiaorastarker @thirsty-for-starker @thotticusmaxximus @sadbumblingmess @kawaiioverofanimu @katzenbaby1 @css1992 @99stark @spn-samifer @gimme-the-filthy-hcs @inmyfeelxngs @bros-before-ghosts @wandering-night19 @twixen93 @yeahishipthatsowhat @lonleystarker @nanibanani10 @deliciousflapbanditfarm @another-starker-hoe @von—gelmini @babyboy-peterparker @petertonytomrobert @goodtimesstarker @bshamm @nemeiel @audreyintheuniverse @silkystark @iamastarkerfan @plsstopgivingpetertrauma

[yoongi-sugaglider]

Daegu Quarantine

Jungkook x reader

Gang/ zombie apocalypse au

Warnings:

Gore, violence, zombies, mention of drugs and drug dealing, weapons discharge in self defense, main character death, zombies, course language, zombies, drinking, did I mention zombies?

Summary:

They were the top of their game, known throughout the city as the smartest and most dangerous crew to ever hit the Daegu streets. But what’s going to happen when this group of young men encounter something right out of a horror film?

Word count:2278

Part 8===Part 9===Part 10

Chapter 9

The house was quiet. Far too quiet.

We’d made it back home without much incident, besides a few more bodies to feed the carrion birds.

Jeanette was roomed up with me and Jungkook had taken to rooming with Jimin to give Yoongi time to grieve and honestly the female presence was a balm on the ache in my soul.

I’d seen two men I was incredibly close to lose their lives to the same infection that had taken Yoongi’s first love and as I sat at the edge of my bed in the darkness of the night I realized that there had been nothing I could do to change any of it.

Deciding I’d had enough of the silence of my bedroom, only occasionally interrupted by Jeanette’s snores, I made my way down to the kitchen. Padding along the still halls I wrapped my terrycloth bathrobe around me, huddling against the chill of night as I sought out something warm to soothe me.

To my surprise though I wasn’t the only one seeking out the safety of the kitchen. Yoongi sat at the wide marble island, face lit by the glow of his cell phone screen as he nursed a glass of what I could only guess was his favorite liquor.

“Yoongi?” I whispered, knowing better than to sneak up on the professional killer in the dark.

He gave barely a grunt in acknowledgement, nodding to the bar stool beside him as he slid over a second ice filled glass.

“How did you…”

“Heard the sighing from all the way down the hall, figured you were still awake.”

I smiled at him, though he wasn’t looking at me to see and sat down beside him. Cupping the glass with my hands I sighed subconsciously as my gaze drew to the shadowed poison sweating in the glass before me. 

“Go figure, I was looking for something warm and ended up with an ice cold chill heading down my throat.”

Yoongi chuckled, “Somebody out there’s got one hell of a sick sense of humor huh?”

I glanced up to him, tilting my head to the side in confusion as I struggled to make sense of what he’d just said.

He placed his phone gently on the counter top, dark gaze now searching blindly for my face in the dark.

“Here we are living at the end of the world, clinging desperately to any and everyone we ever loved and I have to come across the one woman I didn’t want to see, only to reconcile with her and then have her die in my arms.” His laugh came out more like a harsh bark this time, as if he were trying to hold back a sob.

I looked down to see a picture of Daphne staring back at me. She seemed to be standing with Yoongi in the multicolored haze of a night club. Both were grinning at the camera and while she held up what looked to be a glass of orange juice Yoongi held up a tumbler filled to the brim with some nameless dark liquor.

“Those of us that shine the brightest are usually the first to fall.” I whispered, tearing my gaze from the phone to throw back the liquor in my glass. I listened to the ice smack together as I slammed the glass on the counter, glaring at the clear cubes as if they could answer for the universe’s crimes.

Yoongi huffed in acknowledgement of my statement, fingertips drumming out a rhythm on the marble. We sat in silence for a while, both lost to our own demons. Eventually the phone screen dimmed, plunging us into the seclusion of darkness only interrupted by the refilling of one glass or another.

I began to feel a buzzing in my veins, not in the least unpleasant but entirely welcome as the haze of fuck it all spread over my mind. Slouching into my chair I laid my cheek against the cool island table top. Tucking my hands into the relative warmth of my bathrobe I sighed, closing my eyes and tuning my hearing in to the sounds echoing in the spacious kitchen around me. The humming of the refrigerator as the compressor kicked in, the subtle inhale of Yoongi as oxygen filled his lungs.

Honestly it wasn’t uncomfortable,the silence between us. We didn’t speak much on a day to day basis, more in tuned to respecting each others roles than trying to butt heads over seniority. Yoongi seemed content enough to let Jungkook lead, preferring the safety of his room to the hustle and bustle of the rest of those that came and went from our home. But when it came to crunch time we’d all learned very quickly that Yoongi was nothing if not loyal and fully and insanely deadly when it came to getting his missions done.

I didn’t notice though, lost in my thoughts as I was, that Yoongi had stiffened in his chair beside me. Body on high alert and ears tuned in to the various noises of the house he slowly swiveled in his seat, eyes now intensely piercing the darkness of the doorway that lead to the rest of the house.

In an instant he was on his feet, pistol drawn from god only knows where and a hand gripping me so quickly and shoving me protectively behind him that I could have sworn I got whiplash to add to the other aches and pains that my body was trying to recover from.

“Show yourself. Stop sneaking the fuck around or I swear I’m putting a bullet right between your eyes.”

A squeak of fear echoed down the hall, the voice one I’d become pretty familiar with in the hours since we’d gotten back.

“Christ Yoongi. It’s just Jeanette.” I pulled his arm down, shooting him a glare which he returned with the proper amount of shame as he flipped the safety back on.

Walking around him I pulled the poor scared woman from the shadows, murmuring whispered words of calm to her as I led her over to the stool I’d been occupying.

“I… I woke up from a nightmare and I was alone...so I thought I’d come down here to make some hot cocoa.” She hugged her torso, body shivering in the cold of the kitchen.

Yoongi moved quickly, tugging his overly large sweater off and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders.

“No, Yoongi it’s okay.” She tried to push it back into his hands, moving as if to get up. “If I’m interrupting something I can just...go back to …”

“Hush now, we were just keeping each other company. I think we could all use a nice hot drink huh?” I glanced over at him, nodding to the stove.

He understood quickly, turning the dim light of the stove on so as to not have to wake the whole house. He went to work, pulling a large sauce pan from the cabinet and setting it on the burner before moving to the fridge and pulling out one of the last gallons of unfrozen milk.

“I’ll let Jin know to grab one from the freezers in the morning.” I told him as I moved to sit beside Jeanette.

He shot me a nod of thanks and went back to work so I turned my attention back to Jeanette.

“You said you were having nightmares? Wanna talk about it?”

Jeanette nodded, hands folded in her lap as she allowed her long, curly brown hair to fall across her eyes. “It...was about my husband. Well...him and some of my exes. My dreams are...well more memory than actual dreams. I’ve had them most of my life so I’m pretty used to them. But having to watch Dean die… it sucks yeah, him being the father of my baby and all. But honestly? There was a sick part of me that was relieved.”

She glanced up at me, eyes haunted with dark memories of a past she seemed eager to put behind her. “Is it wrong? To feel that way?”

I shook my head, pulling her close to rub some warmth into her chilled skin. “If he was as bad as you’re hinting at then no. I don’t think that relief is misplaced.”

Yoongi hummed from the stove as he stirred the cocoa into the milk. “Sometimes life just works that way. Forces us to go through the bad in order to prepare us for the worst. We learn from our mistakes and grow stronger that way. It’s just human nature.”

“Yoongi’s right. And besides. If it weren’t for him you wouldn’t have that miracle of life growing inside you right now.” I smiled down at her, hoping against hope that my own pain didn’t show through.

“Is it really alright though? To bring a life into this world? With everything going on around us, I’m only going to end up being a liability to you all.”

“Hey now.” Yoongi walked over, three mugs gripped in one hand and a can of whipped cream pointed at Jeanette in the other. “You are not now nor will you ever be a liability to us.”

“Trust in Yoongi. He’s right. The eight of us were built for fighting.” Jungkook’s voice startled Jeanette though Yoongi and I barely flinched.

“Hi baby.” I smiled, pulling away from Jeanette to cuddle into Jungkook’s warm chest as he came to stand behind me.

“Had the thought of you being a liability crossed my mind even once I’d have never let you in. Let alone allowed you to stay with us with the intent of protecting you.”

I hummed, accepting the mug of hot chocolate and the can of whipped cream from Yoongi. “We’ve trusted Jungkook to lead us for a very long time.” I paused reaching up to shoot a stream of cream into Jungkook’s mouth before passing the can over to Jeanette. “You’re safe with us Jeanette, I promise.”

“I…” she stared down into her mug, watching as the whipped cream slowly melted in the steaming beverage.

“Hey, come with me. I think I know what’s bothering you.” I stood from my chair, placing the mug on the countertop and offering the anxious woman my hand.

“Wait...you sure?” Jungkook knew me well, sensing almost instantly where my mind was leading us.

“It’s been 4 years Kookie. I’ll be fine. And besides. At least now we have some proper use for it huh?”

I turned to him, smiling past the tension in my chest and patting him on his. “Let’s go Jeanette, I’ve got something to show you. I think it might just put your mind at ease some.”

***

The boys followed us down into the basement, the both of them tense and ready for me to change my mind at any moment. But it just felt right.

I paused in front of the lone door. One I passed so often and yet rarely went inside because of how heavy it made my heart. I could hear Yoongi whispering to Jeanette as Jungkook came up beside me, an arm wrapping around me and pulling me in close as I tried to gather my wits.

“You’re really sure about this baby girl?” Jungkook whispered, thumb rubbing circles into the base of my spine as I willed the trembling in my hands to stop.

“If it’ll help her feel a bit more comfortable then yeah. Four years is too long to let grief control me.” I sighed, staring down at my hand on the doorknob before pulling myself together and opening the door.

A quick flip of the light switch revealed the room I’d been avoiding for far too long.

A bassinet sat in the corner, white lace trimmed edges swaying in the breeze of four bodies entering the room. Beside it stood a large crib, dark oak shining brightly as I walked over to trail a light touch over it’s unused surface.

I turned to Jeanette, arms sweeping out to encompass the changing table, rocking chair, and piles of boxes that I knew held diapers and clothes enough to take care of an army of babies.

“This is all yours now. So don’t worry anymore about your place in the world huh?”

Her eyes were wide and almost sparkling as she stared around at the nursery. Her lips seemed to whisper coos of adoration as her fingers danced over stuffed animals and blankets hand knit and laying in piles all along the way until she reached the crib.

“All of this…” She paused, eyes seeking out my own as if she wasn’t sure it was even real.

“Yeah...it was mine. The boys had this set up for me sort of...I guess as a shrine? But really just as a place for me to grieve when I needed to. But like I told Jungkook. Four years is long enough to grieve. You deserve to live comfortably. And so does your baby.”

She sniffed, eyes glistening with unshed tears. The next thing I knew her arms were wrapped around me and I was face first buried in the depths of her hair.

“I’m so sorry y/n.”

I shook my head, patting her back and swaying slightly as we shared a quiet moment in my grief.

I knew it would raise questions among the boys. That old wounds would be reopened and that the blame game would once again start between Taehyung and Jimin. But this ... standing in the silence of this room with Jeanette in my arms and a final sense of peace drifting over us felt right

It’s better this way...

[secondreckoning]

Chapters: 4/7 Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari/Angela "Mercy" Ziegler Characters: Fareeha "Pharah" Amari, Angela "Mercy" Ziegler Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Sex, Blood and Injury Summary: In a world where people share dreams with their soul-mates, Angela, a weary trauma surgeon, walks her dreams alone. Nearing forty, she believes she’s simply not one meant for a soul-mate until vivid visions of Egypt begin to brighten her nights.

Angela works.

(Seventy-two hours on. Case after case. Patient after patient. Trauma after trauma.)

Angela knits.

(A scarf. Three dishcloths. Another scarf. Come winter, her friends will be warm.)

Angela journals.

(Occasionally. In bullet points. What is there to say?)

Angela joins Emily and Lena for drinks.

(And knits.)

Emily lifts a shot glass in the air, held daintily between her thumb and middle finger. “To one last work shift before vacation!”

“To unfettered access to my girlfriend!” Lena chimes in.

Both turn expectant faces to Angela. Breathing out in a sigh, Angela lowers her needles to the table and reaches for her coffee mug. What’s worth toasting to? “To Ridgerock.”

To third-wheeling on a lovers vacation.

To two weeks of much too much free time.

And to fourteen days of a lonely hotel room and a town full of women for one-night stands.

Glasses clink. Both Emily and Lena whoop and holler before tipping their drinks back. Angela says nothing and pours black coffee down her throat. She sets the mug down, empty, and picks up her needles again.

Emily stands and gathers empty shot glasses. “Hey, Dr. Eeyore, M.D., you want something more potent this time?” She nods at the mug.

“Like an espresso shot?”

“Like whiskey.”

Her grip tightens on the needles. “Another black coffee is fine.”

Emily hooks a free finger through the mug’s handle. “And another coffee for the teetotaller it is,” she murmurs, and heads to the bar.

Angela finishes one row of stitches and begins the next. She focuses on her hands, on the slender instruments and the soft yarn. Not on the incessant rhythm Lena’s tapping out on the table. “What?” she says finally.

“Nothin’!” Lena raises her fingers in a show of innocence. “It’s just—” She pauses.

Angela shoots a certain look at her. She intends to level her gaze into the mildest of glares, but somewhere between her shadowed eyes and pale skin, it’s potency multiples tenfold.

Lena cringes visibly. “Just—I’m not sure another cup of coffee’s the best idea, yeah?” She nods at Angela’s hands. “Scarf’s lookin’ awfully holey.”

“Excuse you,” Angela sniffs. “It’s an avant-garde pattern.”

Lena frowns down at her work. “You sure you don’t want to give those hands a break? Have a glass of... warm milk?” she suggests. “Have literally anything if it gets that wool off your shoulders and rests your poor hands. They’re so—” She lifts her own hands and gives a palsied demonstration.

“For the record, this is Portuguese knitting,” Angela nods at the length of yarn pinned to her right shoulder, then the left. “My hands do not need a break. This method utilizes smaller movements and therefore puts less strain on my hands.” She adjusts the tension in her lines and knits a single, pointed stitch. “Moreover, designated drivers receive free refills of their choice of beverage. My coffee saves lives and money.”

Emily chooses this moment to return. She clanks Angela’s cup of coffee in front of her. In the cup, it sloshes dangerously from side to side.“And what the hell do you need to save money for?” She takes her seat. “Your yarn can’t make THAT much of a dent in your paycheck.”

Angela presses her lips together, but says nothing. Emily lifts her own glass to her mouth and sips before she continues.

“And I know Angela Ziegler, a renowned prodigy, literal child genius, received seven hundred different grants to help cover her schooling costs—whether she needed them or not.”

“I didn’t ask for that attention.” Her grips her needles, hard, and pain throbs in her knuckles. “I only wanted...”

She only wanted to keep her head down and work harder. Save more car crash victims. More civilians.

She did not ask for the label of Angela Ziegler, Precocious Little Orphan Girl, courtesy of a couple stupid papers on nanotech and biotics. Stupid, ambitious papers from a stupid, ambitious girl.

She shakes the thoughts away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Angela sips her coffee and bends over her knitwork. When she looks up again, Emily and Lena are pulling out of what Angela suspects is a meaningful look. The expression on Emily’s face softens.

“Everything okay, Ange?” she asks. “Do you need, uh, a hug? Do you want to head home soon? It’s getting late.”

It’s not getting late, not really. But it’s either nice of Emily to offer or it’s self-serving attempt to rid the night of cranky, awful Angela, and her brain’s too wrung out on work and caffeine and pain to figure out the difference.

“I’m fine,” Angela insists. “I’m fine. My yarn’s all the hug I need.” She gives the pin over her right shoulder a pat.

Another glance exchanged between the two. Angela does her best to knit and ignore them.

“The thing is...” Emily trails off.

“Hm?”

Emily stirs her drink, sips, and stirs again. She glances away from Angela’s eyes. “The thing is you’ve been all over the board lately,” she admits. “For the past few days you’ve been dead on your feet at work, then before that you were bouncing around asking all sorts of questions about soul-mates, and—”

“I do not have a soul-mate.” Angela slams her needles onto the table. Damn it all. Her stomach’s bottoming out, and she’s aware—painfully aware—of how she fights her fatigued hands with every stitch. “And I will never have a soul-mate,” Angela’s voice comes out steel-edged. “And it’s really—it’s really for the best.” She swallows down the rising lump. “Thank you very much.”

Emily sips her drink and refuses to look her in the eye.

What is it about this soul-mate situation they refuse to understand?

It’s for the best, it really is. There is a reason people like her don't have soul-mates. Dreams go both ways, and all Angela can offer is blood and pain.

***

At home, Angela walks right into her living room, all grey shadows layered on grey shadows without light, and abandons her scarf on the table.

The night at the bar clings to her skin. All her sniped words and her own cloud of misery coat her skin, and there is no washing it off. In her bedroom, as she strips down to her shirt, she hesitates as her hands cross over her body, fingertips bent in the urge to scratch the night off her skin.

Her body’s a mess. hell, the whole of her is a mess. Electric jitters pulse in her muscles

and her hands will not stop shaking

and every line in her body aches from forcing it to stand over operating tables and work through surgery after surgery

and she’s tired. Good God, is Angela tired. It’s a small, stupid thing to complain about. Oh, you’re tired? People are dying Angela. But the tired is deep in her bones, and press its thumbs into her eyes and short-circuiting her mind as she runs through improved versions of tonight, better scenarios where she says the right things, even if she never finds the right things to say.

She drops herself onto her bed and lies on top of the covers. They’re right. It’s a ringing slap to the face. About all of it, but mostly, about her scarf.

Angela’s gone and ruined her scarf and for what? To keep her hands busy? Was it worth a ruined scarf and sore, aching hands?

Angela lifts one hand, and massages her thumb against a sore spot on the other. What’s the point? She lets her hands drop to her sides. Massaging one worsens the pain in the other. Angela rolls over and gathers her pillow beneath her head. A good, hot soak never hurt. Or, likely more helpful a cold compress.

But what’s she supposed to apply? Her fridge and freezer sit near empty. Her last attempt to cook something beyond a basic meal ended up an overzealous Food Network-inspired mess of conflicting spices and ingredients.

And she doesn’t own any frozen peas.

Angela's throat tightens at the thought. Who doesn’t own frozen vegetables? Whose life is so divorced from her own home she doesn’t own frozen fucking peas?

Happy people own frozen peas. Happy people cook for their family and friends. Angela is without a family. Her closest friend is a pity friendship out of mutual attraction to women with a resident some ten years or so younger than her.

Okay, Angela tells herself firmly. You’re going to a stupid place. Don’t go to the stupid place.

She rolls over, every inch of her body gritty and unreal and wrung-out, and lays there, waiting for whatever comes next.

***

Emily and Lena are forgiving when Angela calls them back in the morning, full of apologies. Her soul-mate problems are her own, not something to inflict on her friends through her own brokenness.

Pacing the stretch of floor from outside her bedroom, through to the living room and kitchen, Angela cradles her phone to her ear. “I feel much better this morning—”

“Now that you’ve slept?” Emily chimes in. She’s taken the phone for herself. “Please say you’ve slept.”

“Some.” Less sleep, less time for dreams. Less opportunity to hurt her... dream friend. Whatever they are to each other.

“Some?”

“Some.”

“I hate to bring it up again, Ange,” Emily’s voice drops, “but you’ve looked rough lately. You were like a whole ass new woman for a hot minute there. Bright and shiny. I’d even go so far as to call you bubbly.”

She pauses: it’s an opening, an opportunity for Angela to fill the space with whatever she pleases. Her foolish hopes and sunshine-filled dreams, the nights spent hand-in-hand with someone—well, someone special.

Angela says nothing.

Emily continues. “And again, now this: dragging yourself around the hospital, barely scraping together a bedside manner for your patients—no, that creepy smile you scrounge up does not count—snapping at your friends when they offer to help,” she says. “Not to mention consuming black coffee and energy shots like they're your lifeblood.

“But black coffee is my lifeblood.”

There’s a groan on the other line. “Come on, Angela,” Emily pleads. “What’s going on? Did something happen? Did something bring up some of those shitty dreams again?”

“No. Well—” Angela cuts herself off. She’s on the cusp of truth, and oh, how easy to cross that line. It’s eleven in the morning and her aching tiredness skews everything toward unreal: the sun comes in too bright without curtains in her kitchen and a deep-seated throb started pounding away at the base of her skull the second her alarm yanked her out of sleep. How easy, to share all these hurts with Emily, to dig back and back and back until she arrives at the core of it all.

But also: how easy it is not to share.

“Well?”

Angela turns and traces her steps back along her little route, feet pointed to her bedroom. “Well...” she begins, and suddenly, stupidly, she misses the old, corded phones. Something about lying is easier when she’s got a cord to wrap a finger around. “I know you’re all tired of hearing about it, but the soul-mate situation bothers me more than usual lately. I suppose.”

“Yeah?”

“I suppose.”

“You know, Ange,” Emily says, “it’s not something to feel shame for. Or anything. You know?”

“I know.”

Emily speaks slowly, “Okay. You say you know. But do you know it? As in: do you know it know it?”

“Intellectual understanding and emotional connection to the idea are different things,” Angela replies. Some of last night’s snappishness winds its way in. “I know one and I am trying to know the other.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Emily says. “But you haven’t explained your newfound need for ‘feine.”

“Oh. Well, it’s stupid.”

“C’mon, Ange. Share the stupid.”

“Well, it’s...” Angela stops in her bedroom and squeezes her eyes shut. “As I said, it’s stupid. It’s...” She braces herself, and the words come out in something of a rush. “The thing is, the less I sleep, the less opportunity there is for a soul-mate dream. And the less opportunity there is for a soul-mate dream, the less opportunity for a soul-mate dream to to... bother me.”

On the other end of the line, Emily falls silent.

“Emily?”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, that is stupid, Angela.”

 ***

Lying to Emily is a mistake.

Angela steps into the hospital cafeteria, lunch clutched to her chest. Courtesy of her own pantry, not selected from a line-up of other drooping salads and uninspired sandwiches cut and stacked in triangles for visual appeal.

Cafeteria food is a universal disappointment: rarely is there a way to mass-prepare food for both cost and taste. But somewhere along the line, an architect or wealthy benefactor or some other person of note involved in the planning phase, realized that the room itself need not bring down spirits as well: full length windows line one length of the cafeteria, blinds pulled high and sun spilling in. Mild chatter fills the room. Doctors and nurses eat with other doctors and nurses, patients and visitors eat with their families. Emily sits in view, her table set where the line of windows end, just out of the sunlight. She catches Angela’s eye and nods.

“Don’t make me confiscate your thermos today, Dr. Ziegler,” her self-appointed Coffee Cop announces as Angela’s lunch hits the table.

Angela slides down into a chair. “It’s orange juice.”

Emily grabs it anyway. She unscrews the lid, rolls her wrist as if breathing a glass of wine and bends her head over it to sniff. And sniff. “Looks clean.”

“Of course it’s clean,” she says. “Now give it back.”

“Is that all you’re having? Orange juice and a yogurt?” The rest of her lunch cannot escape Emily’s appraising eyes. “Please tell me it’s not coffee-flavoured.”

Angela inhales a long-suffering breath. “It’s not. It’s vanilla.” She turns the label out. “I’d like a moment to clarify: coffee flavour does not necessitate caffeine content. And vice versa.”

“Good.”

“And for lunch, I also have a peanut butter sandwich on sprouted whole grain bread and hard-boiled eggs with a side hot sauce,” she lines up each item for Emily’s consideration. “Do they meet your standards, Mother?”

Emily squints at the sandwich. “It’s a little primary school, but yes, I suppose it does,” she says. “After lunch, barring any particular emergency, I want you to try and get some sleep.”

“Again?” Angela protests. She pries the lid off the Pyrex container holding the egg. “I doubt I’ll sleep.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. But you’re going to try.”

In Emily’s books, try means forfeiting her phone and pager to lay on her side and stare at the wall, her arm bent under her head in an uncomfortable angle. Hunting down her most stressing thoughts and setting them on repeat, her chest clutching with each rendition. Counting down the minutes until she finds enough passes for her to wiggle out and deliver unto Emily the devastating news: Angela is awake, and not sleeping anytime soon.

And, if possible, she would like to return to her job now, thank you very much.

Angela breaks the egg in half with her fork. “I cannot wait until tomorrow,” she dips it in the accompanying hot sauce, “when you’ll spend all your time naked with Lena, or staring at stupid art, and you’ll have no time to play Nap Nanny.” She pops the egg in her mouth and promptly gags.

Heat lighting up her face, Angela cracks the foil seal on her yogurt and shovels in one spoonful and then another, until the burn down her throat subsides. Mostly.

In her chair, Emily leans back, and with narrowed eyes, watches Angela gag, recover and dip the second half of the egg in hot sauce, only to lift her fork up hesitantly. Emily slides her phone from her pocket and alternates her critical gaze between her screen and Angela’s face.

The tang of the hot sauce reaches Angela’s nose, promising another dose of heat, and her stomach squeezes in an unpleasant fashion.

“Stop.” Emily’s phone hits the table. “Doctor Ziegler, I demand you set your fork down right now. You sneaky, conniving—"

In the moment, Angela is not capable of a quick enough thought or reaction, and her stomach’s roiling at the prospect of another dose of hot sauce. So instead of smugly shoving it in her mouth and repeating her gag-and-yogurt-recovery act, she sits, dumbfounded, as Emily reaches across the table and lifts the utensil from her fingers.

“Hey,” Angela bleats a mild protest.

Emily’s sorting through her lunch now, confiscating every item but Angela’s half-eaten yogurt. “Caffeinated hot sauce! Caffeinated hot sauce! Caffeinated peanut butter!” she’s crowing, gathering parts of Angela’s lunch into a haphazard pile before her. “What’s wrong with you, Angela? What’s wrong with you?” A nearby family stares. “I bet you snuck an energy shot into your juice as well.” She snatches up the thermos. “What’s wrong with you?”

There really is only orange juice in the orange juice, but Angela’s beyond redemption now. “Perky Jerky no longer has caffeine in it,” she offers, and heaps in a mouthful of yogurt.

Emily shoves her cafeteria wrap across the table and slumps back in her chair: it’s a whole wheat tortilla rolled around “grilled” chicken bits and limp lettuce. “Eat that instead,” she offers. “I’ll grab something else on the way out.”

“I’m fine, Em.” Angela possesses enough dignity to drop her voice into an appropriately chastised tone. “I can’t take your lunch.”

“Eat it,” Emily commands. “Now. And you’re napping after. No bailing out after half an hour. I’m taking your pager and your phone and you’re going to lie there until the tired part of head triumphs over the stupid part.”

Angela accepts the wrap, pulling it closer, and offers a weak smile, ���Is there a point? There’s only six hours left in our shift. I can nap on vacation, after all.”

“Nope.” Emily takes a sip from the thermos. “You’ll sleep now, before someone trips over those bags under your eyes.”

***

Angela’s mind cringes away from the idea of sleep. She’s so close to the proverbial finish line now, so close to the end of her final shift before vacation. Between the drop in stressors from her work and the wealth of relaxation ahead of her, she figures a time may come, soon, when it is safe for her to sleep again.

Emily intends for her to sleep now, divesting Angela of her pager and phone, walking her to the on-call room and warning her to think happy thoughts: all but tucking her into sleep and kissing her forehead, something Angela remarks.

Angela, of course, intends to lay awake and stare at the wall and think the worst thoughts possible: to use the force of her will for all intents and purposes, to defy both Emily and sleep.

But her achy, gritty eyes drift shut and her mind—the filthy traitor, never on her side—recalls the body in its possession has fallen asleep much, much worse places than a dark, quiet, climate-controlled hospital room, and so Angela falls asleep hard and fast and unexpected.

 ***

Angela’s dreaming.

Not of her mother and father, their bodies car-mangled and ruined or of the endless crash of the accident resonating in her soul or of her soul-mate bloody and rent down the middle, but of a hazy sunset and a gleaming tower of a building.

And of her soul-mate, of course. Whole, unbloodied, waiting. She sits on a short slope of steps leading up to the building’s entrance.

Angela has shied away from her soul-mate before, and a dulled instinct beats inside of her like a second heart, warning to do so now. Warning Angela to

run

run

run

before she hurts again.

If she found herself in any other place in the dream, she might give the instinct it’s head, as one does a horse, and let it carry her far, far away, where Angela was merely a fool in a foreign dream-city, and not a cursed soul-mate.

But Angela is some ten, fifteen feet from her soul-mate, and staring her in the face.

Angela stands, rooted to the pavement.

And her soul-mate sits, flight jacket hooked on her thumb and slung over her shoulder.

In the sky above, the sun droops, fat and lazy, sliding further and further down the horizon. It’s not the pinky-purple-golds Angela sees over her parking lot view, but orange, brilliant orange, and its light is everywhere, filling up every space and surface: across the skies, painting the sidewalks and glinting off the towering building behind her soul-mate.

Her soul-mate, who’s shirt is so plainly and boldly blue, as if the blue itself is a statement, a counterpoint to the setting sun.

She tilts her chin up at Angela, and the corner of her mouth crooks up into a smile, as if to say something, possibly How about that? or So you’re back, huh?

Angela’s throat tightens, and she crosses her arms over herself.

On her free hand, her soul-mate’s fingers twitch—in memory of how Angela’s miserable mind maimed her, tore her open?—and the hand comes up, palm open and out to Angela and it’s an—

—invitation—

—reassurance—

—appeal—

—to her.

For her.

Angela steps across the sidewalk, gilt in dying sun, and closes the distance between them. She tightens her arms over herself, gripping her own elbows and stares down: down at her soul-mates knee, down at her ever-open hands.

How many nights did she spend holding that very hand?

How many nights connected, intertwined, guided by that that warm palm?

Tonight, Angela keeps her hands to herself. She is unworthy of this palm, of this warmth of this soul-mate before her, when her own useless, trembling hands fail so often, offer so little. Something builds in her chest and in her throat. She presses her crossed arms into her ribcage, girding herself. Protecting her wonderfulkindwarmgoodperfect soul-mate.

In her vision, her soul-mate’s hand lifts

up

slow

steady

toward Angela.

Angela shuts her eyes before the moment of contact, drenches her world in darkness, and then there it is—soft fingers resting just above her elbow. One touch, one brush of fingers, and is if she were a puppet and someone took a blade to all her taught strings, the lines of tension

drop

out of Angela. All the fences she’s spent the past weeks building and crossing over with bright strips of caution tape—fragile broke danger do not touch—are crumbling

crumbling

crumbling

gone

and she collapses onto her soul-mate.

Strong arms gather her in close and Angela finds her face buried in her soul-mate’s neck, her hands clenching fistfuls of fabric as if it’s enough to haul her soul-mate out of the dreamscape and into the waking world. A hard sob bursts in her throat. Steady hands cross over her back. Angela’s crying now, and she’s not crying in a soft, delicate way, but with a sort of shaking, internal violence. Sobs swell in her throat and wrack the length of her body and pound in her head as she empties her sorrows into her soul-mate's arms.

It subsides, eventually, as all storms do. Angela’s sitting with her forehead resting against her soul-mates collarbone, one of the woman’s sure and steady hands between Angela’s shoulder blades and the other stroking the back of her neck.

With a final sniffle, she eases back and meets her soul-mate’s eyes: they’re swollen, and her brows knit together. Angela gives her a watery smile. A warm breeze caresses them and for a split second, Angela feels like she’ll blow away: the weight on her chest is gone now and she’s light as a sunbeam, light as air itself. She leans her forehead against her soul-mate's cheek and laughs—it’s so easy now, so natural—before unclenching her fists and finding her soul-mate's eyes with a much more steady gaze. They have business to attend to, after all. If her soul-mate has conjured this dream-place for them, then Angela’s hunch says there’s something here her soul-mate longs to share.

Beneath it all she thinks, I am utterly damned.

I want this.

Her soul-mate lifts an arm off Angela’s back and gestures behind her, to the building. Angela nods, and they get to the business of untangling themselves and standing.

It’s night now, the sun’s ubiquitous glow replaced by a darkening sky. In the blue haze of encroaching shadows, the building behind her soul-mate is a beacon of light—and the opposite of every place Angela’s visited to date. If the other places shared with Angela were historic places without price, dedicated to the very life they’ve lived, then this building is the opposite. It’s a monument—almost literally—to shiny newness, to indulgence and pampering, and in the waking world, Angela assumes, to significant price tags.

Behind her soul-mate, the building begins as a squat, square building, glass-fronted to showcase the golden interior. A massive, round tower grows out of it, lined at regular intervals with windows and balconies: some dark squares, some winking with light. Above them, the building’s name is writ in softly glowing letters, their forms smeared meaningless in the dreamscape. Planters of palmy plants—Angela is a surgeon, not a botanist—lounge on either side of the stairs. Spotlights sit at the base of the tower, angled up, painting the building in pink-hued light. More squat buildings sprawl out around them.

In her career, Angela has stayed at a good number of fancy-schmancy hotels for conferences, and a niggling suspicion tells her she’s gaping at one now.

Her soul-mate brushes the back of her against Angela’s. Golden beads catch the light of the glow waiting for them behind the glass. Angela smiles and hooks her arm through her soul-mate’s.

Inside is as glorious as the facade promised. A cavernous lobby awaits them, high and wide and reminding Angela of concert halls. The walls are light earthy red, warm and golden from the light of the chandelier hanging above. The massive chandelier. Angela stares up, mouth hanging open. It’s an upturned umbrella of light, bigger than her bed. Bigger than her room. She gawps up at it the entire way in passing. Furniture of dark wood and creamy seats fill the space, and her soul-mate gentle guides her around a looming corner with intentions for Angela’s knee. She leads Angela around obstacles, past a grand, curling staircase of more dark wood, through a doorway and to an elevator. She presses a button.

Definitely a hotel, and together they’re headed up. Angela runs her teeth over her bottom lip and casts a sideways glance at her soul-mate as they pass polished doors. Inside, as they step back and wait out the ride, Angela leans into her soul-mate, and an arm encircles her shoulders.

Angela sucks in a breath.

She wants—very badly—to squeal.

Coming to a smooth end, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Beyond them is a hall, and beyond the short journey down the hall is a hotel room.

The suite within is more of the same elegance: handsome dark wood, polished and gleaming, cream upholstery and linens. Sconces set in the walls glow a muted gold and soft hazy shadows lay across the floor. They pass through a sitting room and into a bedroom, complete with a king-sized bed and complimented by a balcony opened to the night air, a gauzy curtain billowing on a gentle breeze.

In Angela’s opinion, this is perhaps a bit forward—is what they’re about to do on this bed the final destination?—but Angela figures she’s proven herself confused and reluctant in the face of anything kind and good. Her soul-mate’s shown her patience and encouragement, and checked for Angela’s consent on every dream walk. So, why not?

Angela slips her hand free and sits on the end of the bed. She gives a bounce and glances up at her soul-mate—

—who’s walking past her, heading for the balcony. She stops on the threshold, lifts an eyebrow at Angela—who’s patting the bedspread beside her now— and nods in the direction of the open night, one hand up and beckoning.

Frowning, Angela rises, and ducks past the curtain onto the balcony.

Warm night air tickles her face and tousles her soul-mate's hair. Sprawled below them is the city, stretching on and on and on until it disappears into the twilight haze. This view is notably less historic: a river bends far to their left and urban structures fill the night. Somewhere on the horizon, on an uncertain boundary, the city stops and the desert begins.

Angela plants a hand on the railing and leans forward, inhaling the view. She’s smiling, and she does not know when she started.

Her soul-mate stands at her left side. Angela entwines their arm and finds her soul-mate's hand again. She tips her head against her shoulder, warm and solid and alive beneath her cheek, and lifts her free hand to point out a building she finds particularly eye-catching.

Smiling her wonderful smile, her soul-mate tips her head down to rest on Angela’s—Angela’s heart skips a beat here, her cheeks arm at the touch—and lifts her free hand to point, guiding Angela’s gaze out to something far in the distance.

Angela leans in a fraction and squints at one of the most telltale shapes in history.

She’s staring at the fucking pyramids.

The pyramids!

Pyramids!

The Great ones? Of Giza?

(Was that river off to their left the Nile? )

Angela’s smile breaks unto a laugh. She grips her soul-mate tighter and points at the pyramids.

(The Pyramids!)

(The fucking pyramids!)

(In Egypt!)

Ever place her soul-mate shared was important, but this one is specific—so, so specific—and here is Angela’s wonderful soul-mate and there is one of the most iconic things in the world, and she’s sharing it with Angela.

Angela laughs again. Pyramids! The pyramids! She’s in Egypt! No—they’re in Egypt Angela bounces up on tiptoes and throws her arms around her soul-mates neck. She’s laughing—pyramids!—and kissing her soul-mate’s cheek and—

***

Angela wakes up.

A voice is speaking to her. A woman’s voice. A woman’s voice Angela commonly finds telling her what to do. It’s calling her name, saying other things. Angela grunts as the words arrange themselves into coherence in her brain.

Angela, it’s time to wake up.

Hey, Angie, c 'mon.

Angela, shift’s over, you can sleep at home.

Angela grunts again and cracks an eye open. The room is dark and Emily’s eyebrows are in view. Angela curses them.

“I was sleeping,” she accuses in a clumsy voice.

Emily dips out of view. “Really?” she says. “Congratulations.” She sounds like she means it.

Groaning all the way, Angela shakes off her sheets and eases her body away from its happy little cocoon of warmth. “Emily,” she says, “I’m going to kill you.”

Emily mock-gasps. “Doctor Ziegler, that violates your Hippocratic oath!” She continues, “And for what? Making you sleep in the first place? Angela, I believe you’re looking for Thank you.”

Angela grumbles in response and fumbles her way done. Emily holds out the confiscated phone and pager as Angela fixes her ponytail. Angela snatches them back and stuffs them in her pockets.

Emily leads the way into the hall. “Question,” she begins, “Will you be joining Lena and I for celebratory, pre-vacation drinks tonight or are you retiring to your sterile cave to hibernate?”

Angela offers another grunt. Egypt and the solid warmth of her soul-mate’s body and and her foggy brain and the recurring thought of interrupted sleep cycle run through her mind. By the time she got home and fell back asleep—

“No point in trying to go back to sleep now,” she all but sighs the words. “I’ll clean up, grab my knitting and meet you kids at...?”

Emily beams. “Your favourite,” she says, “That Irish place.”

***

Angela sits with one leg bent up, updating the colour of her toes. Her fingers sport colour, too. One of the benefits of vacation—she’s officially on vacation now, cue the confetti—no need to maintain pristine, colour-free nails. No need to remove any nail polish the night before work. She’s humming a song she heard on the radio coming home or maybe multiple songs: she keeps beginning one song and finding herself in another come the end.

It does not matter.

What matters most to Angela is the blue she paints on her nails. Egyptian blue, specifically calcium copper silicate, or the closest the drugstore she stopped at offered in Essie’s Mezmerised. She hit Wikipedia for a rundown on Egypt as she loitered in front of her changing room locker, and there it was: calcium copper silicate. The same blue draped on her soul-mate.

At home she expanded her search: buildings. Places she’s seen in person—in a way. Places her soul-mate’s definitely visited.

***

Angela’s brain is a little woozy from the combination of interrupted and lack of sleep, and the cover band in the corner is a touch loud for her sensitive eardrums at the moment, but does not mind they’ve returned to the Actually Decent Irish bar which reminds Angela of her Not Decent At All Irish ex-girlfriend.

It’s also the home of tall, boozy bullfrogs, and Angela sips hers from the comfortable corner Emily and Lena chose. Her first—and last—drink of the evening.

“This is a much improved version of Angela.” Emily outlines a sloppy circle midair in Angela’s direction, leaving no doubt as of who she’s speaking. “But the yarn! The yarn, Ange! Dontcha wanna get up and dance? Have some fun?”

Emily’s on her third bullfrog.

Angela smiles and lifts her work. “I am having fun,” she says. “I’m experimenting with a hat.” A lumpy, amateur hat, but a hat. A hat of the softest yarn in the store. Canada is much, much colder than Egypt. And Angela wants to keep her soul-mate warm.

Because Angela has a soul-mate.

Who is in Egypt.

And who is Angela’s soul-mate.

(Soul-mate!)

Angela’s reliving the sensation of her soul-mate’s arms encircling her as Emily squints between the knitting and Angela’s face. Angela meets Emily’s eyes as she leans forward and sips from her bullfrog straw.

“Oh, my god, Lena,” Emily grips her girlfriend’s shoulder. “She means it. She fucking means it.”

Lena pats her hand. “I can see that, love.”

“She’s not shaking or putting on that unsettling smile or anything,” Emily continues, staring at Angela. “Angela. I cannot believe you’re not fucking lying. Holy fuck. I need to pee.”

She plants both hands on the table and leverages herself to her feet. Lena glances up, but Emily shakes her head. “I’m fine. Fine. Toilet’s right over there.” She points, surprisingly, in the correct direction. “Maybe I’ll find a portal back to reality,” she murmurs as she saunters off.

Angela looks to Lena, who shakes her head. “Nah, she’s fine,” she confirms. “Puttin’ on a bit of show ‘cause she’s in a good mood.” She pauses, “Speaking of...”

“What’s wrong?”

Lena nods at her. “You,” she says. “Or rather what’s not wrong. Em’s right, there’s a bit of whiplash with you, bouncing from a bit sad to a bit cheery, and then onto right miserable. And now you’re all smiles again. Somethin’s up.”

Angela’s needles click in her hands. “It’s--” she hesitates, then ducks her gaze and says, “I think something good’s happened to me. Maybe. If I can prevent myself from ruining it.”

Lena leans in, eyebrows up in conspiration. “Not to name names, but: a soul-mate thing?”

Angela presses her lips together, hard, to hold in a smile struggling to bloom.

“How about I make you a deal: secret for a secret, yeah?” Lena drops her voice. “I’ll even go first.”

Angela releases her smile. “Okay,” she says. “Go.”

Lena looks as though she maybe didn’t expect an agreement. She casts a glance back in the direction of the washrooms, and says, rapid fire, in a single breath, “I maybe have a second soul-mate I’ve only seen her twice I’ve never done approached her please don’t tell Em.”

“What?” The needles still in her hands.

“I’ll tell her eventually!” Lena protests. “I just don’t know what it means.”

Angela stares at her, then clears her throat and says, “It... doesn’t mean anything. It just means there’s the potential for a strong connection there.” She leans in for a long drink as Lena watches her, googly eyed. “A soul-mate doesn’t necessarily equate romance. You’re not cheating on Emily. I mean, there is an element of choice involved. You made a choice with Emily, right? You were attracted to her, you pursued that connection, you decided to leave England, right?”

“Right.”

Angela starts a new row of stitches. “There you have it.” Soul-mate wisdom from a soul-mate newbie. Look at Angela go. “It means you have a strong enough connection to share dreams with. It’s not fate. If you don’t pursue it, whatever connects you might even fade. You might be a second soul-mate to her, as well.”

“Well, thanks, Ange,” Lena rubs a bashful hand on the back of her neck. “And, er, you?” “I...” Angela stares down at her blue fingernails, at the soft blue yarn of the scarf, as if it might talk for her. “I’m... I think I have one. A soul-mate.” There! Her face burns. “She’s... really wonderful.” She’s perfect. “She lives in Egypt. You know. With the pyramids.”

“Is that why you’ve been so down?” Lena prods. “The Egypt thing?”

Angela’s forehead creases. “No?” she says. “Why would it? Egypt’s a beautiful country.”

I saw the pyramids.

Lena shrugs and raises her own glass. “Er, just figured that’s what’s had you so down,” she says. “Realizing she was on the other side of the world and all.”

“Oh,” Angela says, because oh. Her mind races across land and sea. Thousands upon thousands of kilometres lie between her and the woman who held her.

Angela leans in, pushes the straw to one side and downs the rest of her drink as her heart deflates in her chest.