#LOOK AT THEM ALL DOING SICK BOARD TRICKS

[the-faultofdaedalus]

as a treasure planet kid. fucking hell yeah for the hoverboards in arcane

[shutupineedtothink]

More ep 7 thoughts, now that I’ve watched it twice and processed 🫠

Bookending the episode with Lilia’s fall but first it’s down and then it’s up - sick, twisted, beautiful, devastating, I’m crying

The soundtrack really goes hard in this ep

The wildest part about the “ex best friend” line is all of those things are equally insane - ex, ex best friend, or best friend. Like ma’am what hex were you living in

Babysitter is likely a reference to the comics, but interesting also in terms of WV because we saw Agatha babysit the twins only once I think. Does this mean she actually spent more time with them than we know?

Wow once again Kathryn Hahn is doing so much work in this first scene with Billy, she’s going from snarky to wary to calculating to hurt to i don’t even know. She’s doing a masterclass in face acting.

When they start to climb toward the castle, Agatha has her hands clasped behind her back and initially I was just like ma’am, why are you like this, but then I realized oh. Her hands are tied right now.

Waning moon for the Crone trial babyyyyyy called it

Fun and fast transition to get us into the trial, since we know the deal by now

She’s based on me you know — sooooo, tragic, misunderstood, secretly suffering her whole life, constantly judged by others, uh huh uh huh

Prove it - he really doesn’t believe a word she says! And she looks so hurt by it!

The way Agatha sits in the chair omg girl please chill

This is such like an Indiana Jones trap I love it

God I love Lilia’s visions, changing the perspective to hers, the blurring around the edges - sometimes you don’t need to do much, but it’s hella effective

Actually a lot of good camera tricks in this ep I’m not going to point them all out

It’s about limiting beliefs baybeee - once again the writers showing they know their psych

I’m sorry that tea leaves to the underground transition??? Spectacular

“Well tell me what more I should see when I look at you. No, I mean it” - hey nonviolent communication, how’s it going 🤌

God can you imagine how scary it would be to have these visions as a CHILD

Did you not see imminent impalement in your future?? Lol why did this get me

I get the fake nose on Agatha but idk maybe I could’ve done without it

Teenager his full name LOLOL underrated joke

Dory OMGGGGG

Jen being the ultimate Lilia champion this ep and I love it. Also seems to contradict her behavior even more in Agatha’s trial, but she’s still more snappy with Agatha here too

What are you wearing, I don’t wanna talk about it - bruh every line. EVERY LINE.

Did I mention the transitions are killer

Your task is not to control but to see. - I, I can’t keep writing down every line but

I love that as soon as Jen knows what’s going on, she’s totally on board, just asking Lilia for intel, like yep this is normal now

Ahhh the spell book. Interesting that Lilia finds it.

Ohp - I wish Lilia was here. Ask and you shall receive - see the Billy’s Road theory

She calls him baby again 😭

Is snappy dialogue one of my biggest joys on this earth? I think it is

Proper tarot takes time and care. And leads to large gaping wounds - …. You mean like internal wounds? Like trauma? Like you have to bring up the trauma to heal it? Uh huh uh huh cool cool cool cool you said it Agatha not me.

The Magician, the ability to turn all of your goals into reality - Agatha immediately side eyes him. Bruh.

I’m a forgotten woman. Then remember yourself. 🤌🤌🤌

I was falling. I will fall. - CAMERA. MOVEMENT.

What will you do with your remaining time 🤝 all we can do is decide what to do with the time that is given to us. Iykyk.

The subway baybeee get that House of R theory

God this tarot spread scene is so epic.

Ok Jen being the path ahead… I gotta come back to that

Agatha is the obstacle yep that makes sense (but the obstacle is the way)

Windfall - Billy, miraculous transformation uh yep ok

Destination - Death. Such a good reveal, even if I already knew it. Once again the power of good writing. In the end all roads lead to me. UGH WTF

NOT THE GREEN VINES SPELLING A BIG OL “R” WHEN THE DOORS OPEN

The original green witch…. Ok so she is in the coven… but also Billy’s in the coven? It’s a shared black heart? Or it means you can go one direction or the other… hm.

Ughghghghhh her just giving them each what they need before she sends them onward. She’s the GOAT.

Did I mention the music????

This whole scene is so EPIC. The tower upright fuck it up queen

Oh my God Lilia took her power back 😭

We didn’t see a body unlike Alice I’m holding onto that “see you at the end” lyric with all my might at this point

Time in a bottle was sick and twisted and beautiful I love it

I just… can’t believe this is something I got to witness. Like it’s so good I’m mad about it.

A few other quick thoughts:

Jen being the path ahead… if she was birth in the first trial (see my maiden mother crone trial theory), then maybe she’s also REbirth? It’s a circle sewn with fate… we’re going back to the beginning but emerging from the Road this time. Eh??

Patti…. PATTI!! Where’s her Emmy? Where’s the show’s Emmy???

Not only was this a better time travel plot than the rest of Marvel as I said in another post but it’s also better than time travel in Doctor Who for the last 10 years and that pisses me off low key.

Not to jump ahead but buckle up kids cuz if we’re following the loose structure of WandaVision then ep 8 is our flashback/reliving the trauma episode for Agatha and as much as I was destroyed by this ep I am so not ready for all of that.

Anyway. What a masterpiece. I’m DONE.

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

[popironrye]

The Lost Boys

Leisure Headcanons

💋 David 💋

Is a skilled fire arm shooter. (Loves the cowboy aesthetic)

Has his own gun hidden in the cave.

Doesn't get the chance too often, but will ride a horse when the chance arises.

Likes wood carving. Mostly non specific whittling into basic shapes or animals. It helps him relax.

Movie nut! When the boys go the Max's store to fool around, David makes sure to tuck a movie or two that catches his eye in his coat. Tends to watch them alone, all the questions from Paul would just grate on his nerves too much.

I imagine David would be like REALLY good at origami for no particular reason. He doesn't even try, just once the boys do it just because and he's just the best at it.

I don't know if vampires can emerge in water in the lost boys lore, but if they can David loves to swim. Chilling in water clears his mind.

💀 Dwayne 💀

Skater boi! Does a lot of sick tricks, but when you can levitate it's less impressive. XD

Doesn't care for guns, but likes archery. Hammers his own arrow heads. Dwayne and David like to pick a spot in the woods to shoot make shift targets.

A real book worm. Will spend a lot of time just silently reading for hours.

Takes up knitting from time to time. He prefers hand knitted blankets and throws rather then the store ones.

Likes to make jewelry. Made his own necklace.

Enjoys all types of puzzles. Cross word, jigsaw, and brain teasers.

Can sew and offers to sew up holes made in all the clothes the boys decide not to get new ones.

🌿 Paul 🌿

Can play the guitar.

Also likes to sing, and is pretty good at it. Wanted to start a band, but the other boys weren't up for it.

Has the biggest music collection and is always hogging the tabletop/cassette/cd player.

Amateur photography. Just likes to take photos randomly. Some are really artsy.

Got really into tie dye for a while. Although he might have just been high.

When he wants to relax, Paul really likes to stargaze. Laying outside the cave looking at the sky and hearing the waves of the ocean just makes him feel at peace.

When David isn't using the tv monitor, Paul enjoys quite a few video games. He also likes to take on the arcade and carnival games at the boardwalk.

🪶 Marko 🪶

Aside from pigeons, Marko will try to domesticate a number of animals to the cave, including stray dogs, cats, deer, badgers, squirrel, foxes, bats, and even a black bear once.

He in fact did NOT domesticate a black bear, but he did wrestle one.

He does his own patchwork on his jacket.

Like David, he likes to sculpt into wood, but he usually carves patterns and landscapes into more grand pieces.

He's also a skilled painter. Mostly he'll paint murals on sections of the cave David says is ok for him to paint on.

He collects sea shells on the beach.

He'll style the others hair. Especially David who he'll cut and dye in the way he likes best.

🔥Pack Activities🔥

Dart throwing. The bigger the target the better. David and Dwyane are very competitive at this one specifically.

Rollerblading. Put wheels on shoes, what more can you want?

Listening to music. The boys have very wide music tastes and sometimes they cross over and they all like the same stuff. They take turns around the player of their choice to just smoke, drink, and listen to the sounds of the music plays.

Card games. Specifically poker when they're all together. They make things more interesting when they make bets.

And of course motocycle cruising and board walk loitering.

Something that always strikes me with vampires in fiction and indeed with any immortal creature with the high and emotional intelligence of humans. IMMORTALITY IS FUCKING BORING!

I mean, think about it. Imagine you're given all the free time in the world with very little responsibility with no fear of getting sick or tired allowed to do pretty much whatever you want. What would you do? Cause I would go stir crazy. So I came up with these dumb little head canons on how I image the boys specifically would pass the time in their little vampire lives that doesn't revolve around murdering and feeding off of people.

Of course cruising on their bikes come to mind. And there's a couple in the movie we get to see like Dwayne's skateboarding and Marko's fondness for pigeons but I wanted to throw more possibilities out there. :3

[emswritingsstuff]

Blood Root (Daryl Dixon x Reader)

summary: bonding with daryl over your cooking

note: another @caseylicious request!! this quite a while in the making and i hope you enjoy, even if it did take forever!! also highkey recommend MF DOOMs special herbs albums because i listened to them on loop while writing this

WC: 3.7k

--

Since the start of the camp at the Quarry, you had the job of cooking and making food to go around. You volunteered to do it and loved it, not to mention it made things feel somewhat normal. But, with supplies running low and resources scarce, it got hard to make things for everyone. 

It seemed meat was always in stock; thanks to the Dixons’ hunting and the Harrisons’ fishing, you never really had to worry about losing that. But spices and herbs were difficult to come by, with only a few of you knowing how to identify herbs. Not to mention, spices aren’t a priority when it comes to necessity runs. It was disheartening you had to admit. All you wanted to do was make appetizing food, or at least something better than cooked, unseasoned rabbit. 

Doing research on herbs and plants before the fall through books and such, you knew how to pick out edible plants, including fungus like mushrooms too. With that came the knowledge of harvesting and cooking, which was your favorite part no doubt. But going out into the woods was a difficult task, not because of the potential danger but because you were always needed elsewhere on camp. 

Finding herbs was tough in general, a lot of them blending in with the other plants in the woods. Luckily, mushrooms came easy with how they stuck out like sore thumbs against the green grass and dark trees. The trick was knowing what was edible and what was toxic. Everyone was always skeptical about the mushrooms, not wanting to run the risk of getting sick. Thankfully, Shane could vouch for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter that no one took your word for it. But you couldn’t dwell. 

And now you’re here, stressing about the low stock of your cooking supplies and ingredients. A lot of the group was out on a run, meaning you had to pick up the slack when you weren’t cooking. Ultimately meaning you couldn’t go out and look for ingredients yourself, which upset you even more. Sitting with the thoughts racing in your head, making attempts to think of a way to get the things you needed. 

An idea soon struck, and it was honestly a shot in the dark. But it could never hurt to at least ask. 

Daryl Dixon was an expert in those woods, and thankfully the mushrooms you needed were located there. The shaggy mane mushrooms ironically sprout on game land trails, and the oyster mushrooms on fallen trees. It was almost perfect, but the hard part was getting Daryl on board. 

The Dixon’s were loners, and it was respected for the most part. They both had tempers, Daryl being more explosive than Merle. Merle had his moments too, but he was more condescending and somehow irrational than his brother. It was common for everyone to avoid them so as to not piss them off and risk an explosion. And maybe you were risking getting a bad reaction from the younger Dixon, but you couldn’t care at that moment. Desperate to restock the makeshift inventory you had, you would try anything. 

Scanning over the camp to find Daryl, you managed to spot him talking to Shane about the hunt he was about to go on. Bingo. 

When the conversation ended between them, you bolted over to Daryl. Projecting a loud “Hey,” in which he didn’t hesitate to turn around and look at you. Catching up with him, you stopped and caught your breath before cutting to the chase. “I wanted to ask if you could grab some mushrooms while on your hunt? If you see them of course.” Handing him a piece of paper, it had attempted drawings the mushrooms you needed as well as small important details to pick them out. Getting nervous, you attempted to explain yourself, “I would go out myself but with a bunch of people out, Shane has me running around this place like crazy.” What you said was followed by a nervous laugh, watching Daryl as he gave an intense side-eye to Shane. 

Taking the paper from your hands, he looked over it and nodded, “I’ll see wha’ I can get.” Nodding back you handed him a small container, “In case you find them.” Taking the container he offered you a respectful nod before walking off and disappearing the blur of the woods. 

The days dragged on while he was gone, getting antsy to see if he found anything out there. So many bland meals have come and gone, feeling helpless and upset with yourself you couldn’t do better for the group. Amongst all the thoughts, part of you had to wonder if Daryl had even done what you asked in the first place. What if he just said he would get you off his back? What if he actually didn’t find anything? All you could do was wait and dwell on those intrusive “what if” thoughts. 

Right as you started to get lost in your brain, the archer emerged from the woods, a bunch of squirrels roped around his body. Trying to focus on cleaning from that night's dinner, all you did was hope he would make his round toward you. And luckily he did, as soon as you looked back to spot him, he was coming toward you with his bag. 

Glancing at him, you muttered a fast greeting before he placed his bag on the ground and reached into it. “Found the shrooms, got some herbs too. Remember ya talkin’ to Carol about ‘em.” Daryl handed you the container full of the mushrooms and well as a dry rag that held the herbs. Your mouth was agape, in shock he did this for you. Blinking rapidly, you mustered out a speedy “thank you.” Maybe you didn’t show it, but you were ecstatic. 

Dinner the following day was much better than you anticipated. It made you feel like yourself again, the food wasn’t five star quality but you did it. You made it, and the compliments from the group added to your radiant joy. There was one thing that damped your spirits though.

And that was Daryl not coming to dinner. Him and Merle never ate with the rest of the group, usually just grabbing food and leaving, tonight was different. He didn’t come over at all. With Merle being out with the run group, he was all alone. Peeking over at him, Daryl just sat at his spot working on something you couldn’t really see. Unsure if he ate something, you made the choice to prepare a small portion of what you made for the group for him. 

Considering he was nice enough to go out and help find the ingredients, he deserved to try some. And you were going to make it happen. Approaching his space, you stood there for a minute, unsure if you should disturb him or not. It didn’t take Daryl long to notice your presence, stopping what he was doing to look up at you. No words were spoken, just simply handing him the bowl. And he ended up taking it, investigating what exactly was in there. 

Taking in a breath, you finally spoke, “You didn’t come to dinner, didn’t know if you ate or not.” Crossing your arms, you watched as Daryl nodded along and took a quick bite. “Good, it's good.” Daryl's words surprised you, even if they were muffled by the food in his mouth. “Oh, thanks.” Pausing for a minute, you continued to sneak glances while he ate. “Want more?” And by the time you asked, he was a few more bites in, perking up at the question. “Got more?” Nodding, you grabbed the bowl from him and took it to grab him more food. 

As you walked away you smiled fondly to yourself, absolutely thrilled you made the most stubborn person in the group at least a little bit happy. He may not have had a ‘happy’ expression, but you could feel the energy off of him. 

And from that point on, the relationship you had with Daryl bloomed into something more. A sort of friendship, but you weren’t entirely sure if he would’ve agreed with that. 

Nonetheless, since that day at the Quarry, you had grown accustomed to talking to Daryl about random recipes you had made in the past. Or showed him beat-up cookbooks you’d found. Just going on and on about what you could do if you had the ingredients. 

And like clockwork, Daryl magically found an ingredient or two that you talked about on a run. It would always make your day, knowing he was thinking of you and about what you talked about while out there. And without a doubt the dinners were always better. 

Hence, the dinner routine started. Daryl always got to try what you made first, your way of showing gratitude to him. He’d always take what you handed him, sometimes begrudgingly. To him, it felt like you were sort of “babying” him. Also known as, feeding him decent food. 

He tried to act all stubborn and tough, but all the walls came down the minute he tried what you made. More times than not, he would be right over as soon as the group started eating. 

After arriving at the prison, soon came the new opportunities with an almost gated off “community” you all had created. The change was good. Even if it was stressful to get used to at first. As the days went on, the more and more improvements you had made. And the more people that joined. One of the improvements was livestock and gardens. With the help of Hershel and Rick, maintaining both of them was easy and rewarding. 

Meals got better too, suddenly having so much more food and ingredients at your disposal to mess around with. And with that, came Daryl too. 

The so-called dinner routine that had been created between the two of you blossomed to something more than you letting him try the food. Once everybody’s routines got solidified, so did the time for meals. With that came Daryl always somehow being around and getting first plate was given out. 

It was adorable, you had to admit that. Daryl would never outright say it was because he enjoyed your cooking. But all of the signs were there, not to mention he’d try and play it cool every time he stuck around while you cooked. The nonchalant act he was putting out didn’t work on you at all. Not even for a single second. 

“You can just say you like my cooking, you don’t have to race for first plate everyday to show it.” Shooting him a cocky look, he just scoffed in response. “Not tha’. Jus’ got nothin’ better to do,” as you worked you sneaked fast glances at him, a smirk just on your face. 

“Really? Everyday, you have nothing better to do?” Daryl just gave you a “Please shut up” look, which caused you to eventually drop the subject. But an indescribable joy filled your heart every time you saw him waiting, even if he was so stubborn about it.

As the weeks went past, the relationship you had with Daryl grew. It sprouted into something so much more than what you would have ever thought. Amidst all the times he’s helped find ingredients or hang around you while you worked, a new feeling ignited in your chest.  You liked him, and it was a feeling you really couldn’t deny any longer. 

So, you did something about it. A feeling within you told you he felt the same, but the man was so hard to read that you were unsure. And With all the confidence you could muster, you asked him out before dinner one day. A ping of nervousness was there, thinking you misread the signs he was giving. Thankfully thought, you were right. The relationship the both of you had basically remained the same, but with more touches and kissing now. It made you happy, and it made him happy.  

Somehow within all the moments of disappointment and sorrow, you finally had something amazing. Something you never thought you would be able to have.

But like all good things come, they also go. For once you wished everyone would stay the same, thankful for the change you had. but now the prison was gone, and now you all were on the road. After being separated and being held at Terminus, everyone had changed. In one way or another. 

To you, Daryl’s was the most notable, especially after Beth. He was always stubborn, but it wasn’t like him to be so closed off and quiet. The going off by himself worried you as well, but he never wanted you to go with him. Not wanting you to see him in such a way. 

Just as everything seemed to get worse, a man named Aaron came along. Speaking of a community called “Alexandria”. It sounded too good to be true and no one believed it was true. 

No amount of pictures or “brochures” could convince the group otherwise. But Aaron was a man of his word it seemed, ultimately taking you to Alexandria to show you the real thing. 

It was a dream, you swore you had to be imagining the whole thing. Sure you had running water in the prison, and you had other “normal” things. But electricity and hot water was something you never thought could be possible again. And here it was. 

After the interviews, all of you were accepted. Getting jobs or “earning your keep” as they say. Even getting offered a home, which Aaron was kind enough to show you to.

Finally stepping into the new home, it felt even more unreal. Looking around you weren’t sure how to exactly feel about it. Aaron bashfully followed you in, Daryl sicking outside with his crossbow. Aaron slowly inched his way to be up beside you. Looking at him you gestured toward the kitchen. “You weren’t shitting us right? All of this works?” as you spoke you pointed at the oven and stove. Aaron laughed as he crossed his arms, “Take a look for yourself.”  Raising an eyebrow, you did what he said. And to your surprise, it did work. 

“Holy shit?” Aaron laughed at your amazed tone, causing you to laugh with him. “This whole place is for you and Daryl, if he ever comes inside that is,” peeking at Daryl outside you could barely see the top of his head as he sat on the deck. Shaking your head, you muttered a quick thank you before following Aaron outside. 

“There's a welcome party at Deanna’s tonight, all of you are invited. If you want to go,” looking at Daryl, you could see in his face that it was a hard ‘no’ from him. “Think we’ll just stay in, adjust to everything you know,” Aaron nodded in agreement. “I understand, but Daryl,” his head shot up as Aaron addressed him directly. “Stop over at my house at some point, have something to ask and show you,” you could see Daryl’s blank stare as Aaron spoke to him. And as if on cue, Aaron quickly made his leave, waving a goodbye before walking off to his home. 

Walking over to Daryl, you made your place right beside him. Sitting there in silence, you rested your head on his shoulder causing him to wrap an arm around you and pause working. Bringing your hand up, you captured his hand in yours. 

“I know this isn’t what you want, but I think this could be good,” you whispered quietly, causing Daryl to let out a breath. “Judith needs a roof, so does everyone else,” he couldn’t even look at you, almost ashamed. “What about you?” shaking his head, he finally looked at you. “Don’ know,” wrapping your arms around him, you let him bury his face in your neck. Letting your hand play with his hair, you began to speak again. “You should go in the house, get cleaned up. I’ll run to the pantry and I’ll make us dinner,” he grunted quietly but obliged. Placing a kiss on your head and letting himself into the home. Waiting a few minutes, you eventually got up and made your way to the pantry. 

Walking through the streets of Alexandria, it felt peaceful, like nothing can hurt you anymore. It felt silly to think such things, but maybe this place was the safe shelter you’d always strived to have. This was your fresh start. 

Once grabbing everything you needed for your dinner, without any delay you made your way back to the house. Ready to relax after days on the road. 

Entering the home the sound of running water filled your ears, signaling Daryl was in there. Smiling fondly to yourself you walked to the kitchen, ready to start dinner. Just deciding to make plain spaghetti, it was easy and something you haven’t had since the fall. Plus it was romantic in a way, or at least it was considered that in your opinion. 

Cooking up the sauce and meat, you let them simmer together while you start the noodles. Putting on the pot and letting the water boil, and while waiting you lifted yourself up on the counter and sat there. 

Sitting there for a few minutes, Daryl emerged from the hall. His hair was still wet, but he was cleaner and had a fresh set of clothes on. A gleeful smile painted your face as he walked toward you, standing still beside you. 

“Whatcha makin’” his gruff voice broke the silence, him shyly looking up at you. “Just some spaghetti, change of pace from stew and jerky,” you laughed as you spoke, even getting a chuckle out of him. Reaching your hand over to his hair, you ran your fingers through it. “How are you feeling?” 

You could see Daryl biting the inside of his cheek before responding, “Fine, don’ worry 'bout me.” Not wanting to start a bigger conversation he didn’t want to have, you dropped it. Much to your own dismay though.  

As if saved by the bell, the water had started boiling. Hopping off the counter, you placed the pasta in the pot and letting it cook. Daryl remained in his place, watching you work. 

After about a few minutes, you fished out a noodle and rinsed it off so it was cold. Putting it in your hand, he looked at you confused. “Wanna try it? See if it's done?” still holding the noodle, he went to grab it and swiftly ate it. He looked unsure and all you could do was giggle at his demeanor, “Never taste tested a noodle?” Shaking his head with a “no” your face subtly dropped, but you didn't let it ruin the moment. 

“You know, if you throw it at the wall and it sticks. Means it’s done,” getting out another noodle and washing it off, he took it from your hands. Raising his eyebrow looking at you, he threw it at the nearest wall. 

“They’re done,” he pointed at the noodle stuck on the wall. Giggling softly, you made quick work of straining the noodles and mixing them with the sauce. You took the pan with the spaghetti and set it on the table, towel under it so as to not burn the table. Daryl took it upon himself to set the table with plates and silverware, before you could even think about it. 

Both of you sat down at the table across from each other, sitting there for a moment you gestured for Daryl to take his portion first. “Shouldn’t ya? Ya made it,” pointing at him, you quickly shut him up. “That’s exactly why you get the first plate. Now, eat,” Daryl put his hands up in a surrendering motion before making his plate. As soon as he was done you got yours, prompting you to both start enjoying your dinner. 

It was silent, almost a little too silent for you. Daryl’s expression was one that signaled to you that he was thinking about something. Staring at your plate, you waited for Daryl to finish eating before you asked anything. It definitely looked like something was wrong or at least bothering him. And you were tired of waiting. 

By the time he was finished eating, he had noticed you staring. His hand waving in front of your head caused you to look at him, a questioning look on his face. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself to speak.

“Daryl, tell me what's on your mind,” instantly freezing, he looked down at the cloth napkin on his legs. Obviously debating with himself on what he should say. “Jus’, thinkin’ about us,” setting down your fork, you took your hand in his. “What about us?” 

Daryl cleared his throat, stalling, still looking down. “No one’s ever done anythin’ like this for me before. Don’ know wha’ I did to deserve it,” his voice was quiet. Looking at him softly, your thumb rubbed his hand, drawing soft shapes into it. Staying quiet, he continued to speak. Just opening up to you at that moment. 

“When mom died, Merle took over cookin’. It was never like this, it’s why I liked ya so much back then.” Looking at his face, the tears in his eyes were obvious. The memories from his childhood were painful, it was a known fact between the both of you. It was rare for him to be so open like this. But it meant he felt safe. 

Bringing up the hand you weren’t holding, he wiped off his face. Sniffling in the process, he apologized for how he was acting, almost ashamed. Reassuring him it was fine, you stood up and hugged him from behind. Planting a soft kiss on his head, and after staying like that for a minute, the both of you separated. 

As you walked away you rubbed his back, picking up the dirty dishes in the process. He was quick to follow you, wanting to help with the cleanup. You almost protested, wanting to tell him you could do it, but he was already washing the dishes. As you watched him, the thought of the change in him creeped into your mind. You knew you might never fully know what was going on with him, and that was his choice, but today was a step forward. And you were thankful for that. 

[rain-day-today]

A few more baby fairytail headcanons because their the found family that haunts me in my dreams🫶🏽 these are a little more natsu and gray centric cause those are my favs

Gray and Natsu did not have a place to live until they were in the guild for like a year . There were too many parentless orphans running around and not enough people to keep track of them, so It was couch surfing hot potato like nobody’s business.

Natsu’s stuff was scattered to the high heavens. You would find his sandals in Laxus’s room, bag in the Strauss Siblings place,any clothes were scattered between Erza, Cana and Levy. Really its a miracle he had clothes at all considering the fact he also refused to wear a shirt his first month( “you don’t needs shirts in the forest snd their itchhhyyy” ) . Gray was a bit better and just had a card board box that he took to people’s house when he decided (without the person’s permission) to crash there for the next week. Ironically,The two would always end up trying to crash with the same person on the same night. Natsu would be climbing into the room through the window right when Gray was breaking in by picking the lock.

Speaking of which, Everyone but erza can pick locks. Lissana is the fastest followed by Cana and then Natsu. Mira just broke the door down.

Whenever they were smaller and Erza went on a job with Levy they had an unspoken understanding to only speak like they were from medieval times. There were alot of questions afterward and more lost in translation.

Little Cana would cut and dye everyone’s hair. She Once dyed natsu’s hair black, mistaking the hair dye as extra shampoo-y shampoo

That was the worst week of Natsu and Grays life. Whenever they were out in public together they got mistaken for brothers.

”WHAT DO YOU MEAN BROTHERS?! HES A BROODING EMO STRIPPER! WE DON’T LOOK ANYTHING CLOSE TO RELATED. ”

*cana and laxus dying of laughter*

*maco and wakaba choking*

“BROTHERS?! BROTHERS?!?? ARE YOU BLIND HIS FACE IS FREAKY! FREAKY ! AND LOOKS COMPLETELY STUPID, HOW COULD YOU THINK THAT ME AND THAT THING SHARED ANYTHING?!?!”

natsu and gray couldn’t look at each other that entire week.

EmoTeen!Gray discovered the girls taste in books after being locked in the library closet during “book club”

Natsu knows exactly what Erza and Levy read. super hearing y’know? He wont admit to it but he knows not to be in the guild whenever those high pitched giggle start.

Laxus gets severely motion sick. He used to deal with it by using those stupid looking motion sickness glasses every time he got on a train. Now he just sells his soul to the devil (mira) for a bottle of magic elixir ( straight vodka) that lets him pass tf out.

Erza lost an Erza look alike contest once

Mira lost a Mira look alike contest

Lissana won both of them back to back

Natsu has a collection of hand me downs that he refuses to wear or get rid of. Most of them are Erzas old armors or things gray stripped and forgot about, but he has a little of everyone. His favorite one is Laxus’s old big coat.

Elfman does a little quote of the day thing in the guildhall

Elfman once got all the fairytail kids including s-class Laxus, Erza, and Mira to Jump Guildarts. No one knows the outcome because at some point all the smaller kids got knocked out with only Erza,Mira and Laxus left awake and they wont tell who won.

When they were younger there was a cute skate park the girls would visit often, thats why they can do all the cool skate board tricks.

Levy bought a motorcycle after getting the money from her first “big” job

Natsu once put a tin full of mentos in multiple buckets of coke in the guild hall infirmary

One time gramps was feeling really down and kids did a little play to cheer him up. They did sleeping beauty with Levy as Sleeping Beauty, Cana as the prince, Mira was maleficent, and Laxus as the prince’s horse. Gray, Natsu, and Elfman were obviously the fairies. Erza wasn’t in the guild at the moment much to her dismay. The play genuinely went incredibly well except instead of waking the princess up with a kiss, Cana head butted Levy so hard it caused Levy to pass out.

Little Valentines Day scenario

(No i do not care that its may)

The first year they were all together, Natsu and Gray got in trouble with Erza the day before valentine’s day. Them hearing everyone gush about wanting someone to give them something, decided that the best way to apologize (save themselves) would be to give her a bunch of valentines day candy and presents. They gave them to her at the guild with cute cards and she was so so happy she started to tear up. This marks Erza as the first person among them all to get a Valentine present.

The others were silently seething, which turned into alot of teasing “ Aww looks like Grays got a crushhh,” “ Look at natsu being all gentlemen like , Erza must be a special special girl,” Erza promptly beat them all up for it, and Gray and Natsu were successfully in their mission to save themselves!

They did feel kinda bad afterwards seeing the others look longingly at Erza quite large pile. Natsu sneakily went out and bought some more chocolates to hand cheer everyone up, gray joined in because “No way am I letting flame brain be liked more then me!” They obviously fought, which melted the chocolates. No fear however! Natsu tempered the chocolates to perfection and gray used his magic to make fun molds.

The next day they handed them out and now its a tradition. On Valentine’s day you get candy from the boy of your dreams, the next day Natsu and Gray give you a creepily detailed mini you made out of chocolate.

[drmaddict]

Dear Diary

Summary: Jason got his hands on (y/n)s diary. Of course, nothing good can come of this... or maybe it can?

Word count: 850

Warnings: angst, but lots of fluff after

Authors note (Warning: looong Authors note):

When I was about 13 or 14, my then best friend tricked me.

She had sent me a link through a chat. It was one of those online fortune-telling sites. Ask a question about your future and I'll give you an answer.

Complete bullshit, of course, but I always found them funny. What do you do when you're 14? You ask if you have a chance with your crush, or possibly that cute guy who's always in guitar class.

What I didn't know was that on the other side, my friend was sitting with one of her friends, laughing her ass off.

They went on and on about it. I always valued my privacy. I was very shy and insecure.

When they made fun of it in front of me, my confidence and trust was broken. It has never really gotten back together since.

The whole thing still weighs on me in my mid-twenties. I never talked about it until now.

Unfortunately, my story didn't have a happy ending, but what are fanfictions for?

I was sitting in the cafeteria, listlessly looking at my food.

The guys were euphorically talking about the next DnD campaign when all of a sudden Jason Carver appeared at our table.

The grin on his face did not mean anything good.

"King and Queen of Freakland."

"Get out of here ball boy." growled Eddie.

"Why so hostile? I've got some good news after all. At least you finally got a chance to get laid. The way I see it, nothing more than languishing has happened yet."

Jason pulled out a small, green book from behind his back. My book. My journal. My chest tightened so violently I should have imploded. I felt sick to my stomach. Stiff as a board, I sat there. I should have knocked it out of his hand, but I was just a useless statue.

He flipped open the book and began reading aloud so loudly that the entire cafeteria could hear.

He strolled through the rows and read out my thoughts. Thoughts I never told anyone.

"He always listens to me. Even when I'm interrupted, which is really all the time, he asks again and listens to me. For someone who likes to talk so much, he's a really good listener."

He flipped a few more pages. I wanted to dissolve.

"I wonder what his lips feel like."

Turning pages.

"His eyes are beautiful. Like chocolate or coffee. He's never been this close to me before."

He put on a stilted sugary-sweet voice.

"And for all of you wondering who it is that turned dear (y/n)'s head - You shouldn't have a crush on Eddie Munson, but of course I'm an idiot who does."

The crowd laughed and silent tears ran down my eyes. Since Jason was still the center of attention, I quickly and silently slipped outside.

I heard Jason groan painfully, but I just kept running.

Now, if I was quick, I could just sign out at the secretary's office and say I was sick. It wouldn't even be a lie. I'd be gone before anybody saw me again.

"(Y/n). (Y/N)!" shouted Eddie from behind me. I heard his shoes hit the linoleum in quick strides. "Now wait."

A hand grabbed mach my shoulder and turned me around. I tried to wriggle away, but alas, Eddie was stronger than he looked.

"Here." He held my journal out to me.

I grabbed it without looking him in the face. I quickly wiped away the tears, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

I felt small and stupid and humiliated. "Thank you.", I whispered in a broken voice.

"Don't cry over this idiot."

I shook my head and tried to turn back around, but he didn't move away from me.

"I hate it when you're miserable."

"It's okay."

"No it's not okay!" He turned my head with his big hands that I practically had to look at him. "I don't want the girl I have a crush on to feel bad. I don't want her to cry."

I looked at him out of wide eyes. What?

"You always listen to me too and you're always nice to everyone and you have beautiful eyes and you smell insanely good. Do you even know that?"

His warm eyes looked at me as gently as I've ever seen him.

"Don't listen to that idiot! He has no right to do something like that, even though he might think he does." He grew quieter and sadness was in his eyes. "I'm sorry he's going off on you like this because of me."

I shook my head. "Eddie... No... Jason goes after everyone when he can, doesn't he?"

I looked down at my feet again. "Are you serious?"

"With every word."

"It doesn't feel real."

He laughed. "Come on we're going to math. Then the harsh reality will have us back.... Besides, I need motivation to go, and it's really always you." He smiled at me. "You look cute when you think... And a little hot how quickly you solve this tangled mess of numbers." He grinned. I blushed.

"You don't have the homework, do you?"

"Well, I was thinking I could possibly copy it off you.... I'd offer you dinner for it too.... Friday at 8?"

"Are you trading math homework for a date right now?", I laughed, still tearful.

"To be honest, the date's free.... You could also kick me in the balls and it would still be standing." He grinned at me, but uncertainty was in his eyes.

"Friday at 8.", I said and pressed my assignments into his hand.

He gave me a tight squeeze. "If I hadn't just broken Jason's jaw, I'd almost have to thank him."

"You broke Jason's jaw?", I asked in shock.

"Edward Munson to the principal's office immediately!", an angry voice rang over the loudspeakers.

He sighed and handed me back my notepad.

"I'll see you around. Don't forget about me while I'm in prison.", he grinned.

Quick as a flash, he pressed a kiss to my cheek. A glow of red settled over his skin.

"See you?"

"See you."

[in1-nutshell]

This is the last time I request percy easily scared younger sibling

Buddy is a lot easer to scare now and probably needs therapy after been kidnapped

Percy and rodimus visit them more to make sure there safe and ok scared of anything happening to them again

Roddy and percey blame themselves for buddy getting kidnapped so they try to make it up to buddy by giving them gifts or roddy taking buddy on dates or just doing nice things for buddy

I really enjoy your writing

Buddy needs all the hugs they can get.

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy Perceptor's younger sibling recovering from the DJD Kidnapping

SFW, Platonic, Slight angst, Romance, Familial, Cybertronain reader

MTMTE

It took a while for Buddy to get back on their pedes.

Both figuratively and literally.

The DJD torture session and the near-death experience did leave some scaring on Buddy.

They were surprised at how many bots had left a vial of inner most energon or gift by their berthside and room.

It was almost unheard of a bot escaping the DJD and living to tell the tale. Especially from a bot like Buddy.

However, Buddy didn’t feel lucky.

In fact, they felt even more terrified than before.

Before they could walk around the ship with no problem doing their everyday chores around.

Now they barely went out of their habsuite and if they did, it was usually accompanied by someone or with an array of weapons in their subspace.

Before they could uphold a conversation with almost anyone on board.

Now they barely looked at anyone in the optic anymore.

And no one could blame them.

They had an increase in visits with Rung happening almost every day.

Rung is just thankful that these meetings haven’t been as bad as when he first started with Red Alert. Though now, they were arguably the same or worse than how Red was.

Buddy refused to talk about what happened with the DJD or the escape pod.

The only one who knew was Rung.

Not even Perceptor or Rodimus knew what really happened.

Buddy’s jumpy personality turned from 0 to 1000.

The flight, fight, or freeze responses were much more noticeable with them now.

From completely booking it, to taking out their blasters and shooting, to completely freezing and feeling the rapid pulsing of their spark.

Some visiting bots who clearly had too much to drink thought it was a good idea to scare Buddy a bit.

Buddy had to get sent to the med bay again.

The mechs walking back to their ship laughing.

Whirl turning the corner.

“What are you laughing about?”--Whirl

“That scaredy bot! Oh! You should have seen their face when we scared them! HAHAHAHAH! Absolutely golden!”—Mech 1

Whirl looks up from his claws.

“Ah… So, let me get this straight. You numb nuts decided to scar Jumpy over there? The same bot who’s in the med bay right now?”--Whirl

One of the bots starts laughing harder.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! Are you kidding me! That is just great! Bet they nearly had a spark attack!”—Mech 2

“Are you sorry?”--Chromedome

Tailgate, Cyclonus, Rewind and Chromedome come from behind Whirl.

“Psh! Why would we? We just got the drop on them and that’s it. They’re just faking it for attention.”—Mech 3

Skids and Brainstorm come from behind the bots.

Brainstorm looks extra furious.

“Attention!? That bot you decided to scare half to death went up against the DJD AND THEY ESCAPED! Are you even aware of the amount of damage you just did with your sick party trick?!”--Brainstorm

The bot pushes Brainstorm back.

Rung holds his arm while also looking angrily at the bots.

“You hurt them, and you aren’t even sorry about that? A bot who faced every Autobot and former Decepticon’s worst nightmare, and you decided to PLAY THE EMPERAN SUITE AND TASE THEM!”--Skids

The bots look more annoyed.

They don’t realize the bots growing numbers around them.

“And?”—Mech 1

One of the bots goes up to Skids and pushes him into Nightbeat and Nautica.

“We would do it again in a sparkbeat. Why don’t you just run back to your lab Pal.”—Mech 1

“Who uses pal anymore?”—Tailgate

“Not now Tailgate.”--Rewind

Brainstorm steps forward with malicious intent in his optics.

“Good to hear that then. You see the minibot over there.”--Brainstorm

Points at Rewind who was being held back by Chromedome.

“He’s got a camera bolted to his helm that has been livestreaming straight to the main brigde and the entire Lost Light. Now, my dear ‘pal’ you are going to get exactly what you deserve.”--Brainstorm

A furious Rodimus and neutral faced Perceptor armed with his rifle slowly walked to the group.

Brainstorm looks at the mechs behind him.

“Did you also forget that the bot you just put in the med bay was the Co-captain’s partner and Perceptor’s sibling? Hmm?”--Brainstorm

Brainstorm steps aside letting Rodimus closer while Perceptor took his distance with his rifle ready.

Rodimus flaming up his fists.

“Perceptor? Would you do the honors of starting?”--Rodimus

Two of the mech were shot down.

“Your turn Captain.”--Perceptor

Most of the Lost Light were ready to raise the pits on the bots.

Ultra Magnus took a blind eye when the mechs left the ship filled with dents, holes, and slightly melted frames. Even for him, that was a line crossed too far.

Buddy was surprised to see how many members of the crew had come to their aid and how many did want to help them deal with… this.

Buddy coming out of their habsuite a bit surprised to see Natica and Velocity at the door.

“Oh! Nautica? Velocity? Is there something wrong?”--Buddy

“Nope! We just wanted to take a walk with you.”—Velocity

“Oh, you don’t have to…”—Buddy

“Nonsene! We’re all heading the same place and we have so much to catch up on. C’mon!”—Nautica

Nautica extends her servo.

Buddy hesitates but takes it.

Nautica and Velocity flank their sides.

They have a nice chat until they reach Swerve’s.

Buddy’s servos start shaking a bit.

Nautica squeezes their servo while Velocity places one on their shoulder.

They gently guide Buddy through the bar until they reach a quieter place in the bar.

Tailgate, Rewind and Swerve wave over to Buddy from the booth.

“Hey Buddy! We saved you a seat!”--Tailgate

Buddy looks at Nautica and Velocity who nod encouragingly.

Buddy goes to sit down with the mini’s as Nautica and Velocity go on to another part of the bar.

Swerve slides them a drink.

“Your favorite. Don’t worry this one on the house.”--Swerve

“What’s the celebration?”--Buddy

“It’s been an entire week since you’ve finally gotten out of your habsuite. I think that’s something to celebrate.”--Swerve

Buddy looks down a bit.

Tailgate grabs their servo.

“It’s a great day Buddy.”--Tailgate

“And we’re all glad you’re here with us.”--Rewind

Buddy gives a small smile.

“Have I ever told you about how I met some local racers before the war?”--Swerve

Buddy knowing this story fully just shakes their helm.

“No, I don’t think so, do you mind…”--Buddy

“Oh! Well, it was a pretty drafty day if I do say so myself…”--Swerve

Rewind and Tailgate sandwich Buddy in a side hug while Swerve goes on with his story.

Little by little the Old Buddy slowly came back.

It was a bit, but it was progress.

Perceptor and Rodimus were two of the biggest helps Buddy had.

Both in their minds felt guilty for not knowing Buddy was taken and how they could have helped them somehow.

After Buddy was released from the med bay, Perceptor took some time off to be with them. Even when he went back to work, he started taking his breaks more seriously and started spending time with Buddy or trying to bring them to friendly outings.

“Buddy.”--Perceptor

“Percy?”--Buddy

“Brainstorm invited us to Swerve’s for a drink. Care to go?”--Perceptor

Perceptor offers his servo to Buddy.

Buddy thinks about it then grabs his servo.

“Sure.”--Buddy

They both walk down the hallway.

Every so often Perceptor would squeeze their servo gently as if to say: ‘I’m here.’

Buddy would give a weaker squeeze in response.

While he wasn’t exactly good at telling his feelings or expressing them in general, he made sure to let Buddy know that he was there for them.

Whatever they needed from him, he was going to do everything he could to do it.

There was an increase in servo holding between the two, especially in more crowded places.

Perceptor found out quickly that his talking and slight touches grounded Buddy whenever they looked particularly anxious.

He is developing a tracker for Buddy and an array of rescue devices for them.

If Buddy ever broke down with him around, he would first ask if it was okay to touch them. He doesn’t want to accidentally trigger them. If they don’t want to be touched, then he is going to sit right next to them while they let it all out. Then he’ll quietly tell them some stories of what happened in the lab that week. It usually gets Buddy’s mind off things.

If they do want touch, Perceptor is going to hug Buddy in a secure hold. He read that sometimes pressure was good in hugs. He might cry too if he feels like it. He won’t let go until Buddy tells him to.

He’ll end up letting go of the hug but will keep his servo in theirs.

Buddy sobbing on his shoulder.

Perceptor calmly soothing their back.

“Do you want to visit Rung now?”--Perceptor

Buddy shakes their helm.

“Do you want me to let go?”--Perceptor

Buddy shakes their helm quicker and hugs tighter.

“Okay… do you want to know what happened in the lab with Brainstorm today?”--Perceptor

Buddy pauses before nodding a bit.

“Well, Brainstorm had the ‘brilliant’ idea of hanging upside down again, but he forgot to latch on to his chassis and ended up falling straight on his face.”--Perceptor

Buddy weakly chuckles as they loosen their grip but continue hugging their brother.

Rodimus stayed by Buddy’s side any chance he got.

Magnus and Megatron allowed him some leave time to be with Buddy.

He found out that his touch and voice were also ways to ground Buddy from their thoughts.

He is pulling out jokes and sweet words of affection left and right.

He is going to make sure his partner knows that they are loved. Which led to many laughable and cute moments.

Rodimus slipped his servo into Buddy’s.

“And how is the prettiest bot on board doing today?”--Rodimus

Buddy is still trying to wake up from this morning.

“I don’t really know Captain…”--Buddy

“Aww Buddy don’t be—”--Rodimus

“I wouldn’t know how you’d be feeling unless I was sleeping beside you…”--Buddy

Rodimus just stops in place.

Rodimus ex has stopped working please reset your bot.

Buddy blinks sleepily.

“Roddy? Is something wrong?”--Buddy

“no—I mean—Nope! Nothing, nothing at all!”--Rodimus

“…If you say so…”--Buddy

“Did I mention you’re looking particularly radioactive this morning?”--Rodimus

“… I look what?”--Buddy

Rodimus’s mind is going ‘ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!’.

“Ummm…”--Rodimus

Rodimus hugs Buddy.

Buddy is a bit surprised by the sudden hug but welcomes it anyway.

“Thanks Roddy.”--Buddy

Rodimus’s mind ‘MISSION SUCCESSFUL… kind of…’

It takes him a bit to realize that something’s wrong with Buddy being in crowded places at first. But when he does, he puts a stop to it.

Rodimus lets Buddy pick the date night activities and he is down for anything.

Cuddle? He is already on the berth.

Movie marathon? He has some earth films, and he can ask swerve for some movie suggestions.

He slowly gets Buddy to come back to their normal self.

If Buddy does break down around him, he is going to immediately go for a hug.

If Buddy doesn’t want to touch, he is going to sit by them and keep quiet for a bit. After most of the crying is done, he is going to try and tell a funny story to get them to smile a bit. After that he is going to whisper words of affirmation and affection to them while telling them everything is okay.

If Buddy does want to touch, he is going for it. Hugging them tightly and bring them in as close as he can. Most likely to act as the big spoon and tell them everything is going to be okay even when things don’t feel like it.

He isn’t going to let go anytime soon.

Buddy burying their helm into Rodimus’s neck cables.

Rodimus fighting some tears himself.

“Is this, okay?”--Rodimus

He hugs tighter.

Buddy nods.

Rodimus softly traces Buddy’s frame.

“Everythings okay… I’m here… Your brother’s here… the crews here… You’re here Buddy. I know it doesn’t look too bright right now, but I promise, you’re going to get out of this and your going to kick whatever nightmares you have in the afterburner.”--Rodimus

Buddy chuckles a bit at this.

“Roddy?”--Buddy

“Hmmm?”--Rodimus

“Thank you… love you.”--Buddy

Rodimus’s frame heats up a bit.

“Y-yeah… Love you too.”--Rodimus

Buddy is safe now.

They have a whole crew and family there to catch them if they ever fall again.

[koko-blueturtle]

Alright, here’s my really long post because I had a cruel idea

So you know how Nico always is pictured as suicidal and like hating himself? Well now it’s Will’s turn, so enjoy 😈

Warning this involves self harm of sorts

Nico knew he shouldn’t be up right now, but he was too bored for sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable, and it was 2:00 at night. Will wouldn’t get that mad if he stopped but for a snuggle, especially if he said he was cold…

He rolled out of bed and sneaked out of the cabin, hiding behind a tree to avoid being seen. When he got to the door he pulled, jiggling the handle at just the right angle that it slid open. Nico smiled to himself, because before he had figured out this trick he had almost been caught about a dozen times, trying to see his boyfriend.

Sure, he thought him self as he stepped past the creaky floor boards that were right in front of the doorway, it would be easier to shadow travel in, but he secretly liked the idea of breaking the rules like this. Will had called it romantic.

A Quick check behind him to make sure nobody saw, and he closed the door. He crept over to Will’s bed and thought something was off. When he got closer he saw that will wasn’t in his bed, but he put his hand and the pillow and it felt warm. He turned around to see if he was anywhere else in the cabin, but he wasn’t.

He spotted something, and squinted in the darkness to see light coming from behind a door which he knew to be the bathroom. So he had just gotten up to go to the bathroom, he thought. He climbed into Will’s bed and inhaled the scent of his boyfriend, covering himself in the still-warm covers. And he waited for will.

And waited.

And shifted around some.

And waited some more. He checked an analog clock that was sitting on a desk at the end of the cabin. He had gotten here at around 2:13, and it was now 2:21. He waited some more, and dozed off. He woke up to an odd sound and checked the time; 2:57.

Will still hadn’t come back.

Nico became worried. He got up and walked up to the door. With his ear on the wood, he heard.. something, but he wasn’t sure what.

He quietly tried the door knob. Locked of course, but still worth a shot.

He only had one choice.

Focusing, he put his hand on the door and closed his eyes. He opened them and found himself standing next to a marble sink, staring at Will. He was bent over the toilet, and the smell meant he had been throwing up. “Will!” He gasped, dropping to his knees. He put one hand on his back, the other on his hand. “N-Nico? You- what are you doing h-here.” He shut his eyes tight and breathed in sharply. “I was coming to lay with you, but I saw you were in the bathroom. I sat in your bed and waited but you didn’t come out. I got worried and- what happened? Are you sick?” He reached up and put his forehead. “You don’t feel sick. Are you okay? Did that make you feel better? Will..” he looked into his eyes, wishing he would answer, so he could help. “Aw, Nico, I’m-” he clenched his jaw “Fine. Look I… I guess I…” as Will searched for something to say, Nico got closer and continued to look for any cause of sickness in his boyfriend. He saw that the shirt he was wearing was too big for him, but the tag said it was his size. Nico raised his hands up and cupped Will’s face. “You can tell me. What ever it is, you never have to tell anyone else, I promise. Just please,” he brushed back a lock of Will’s hair and looked into his eyes, “Please, please tell me.” He was never good at showing affection, and before, he almost never did. This was the most sincere, most loving show of love he had ever given anyone since his sister was lost.

One tear fell from Will’s blue eyes. And then all of a sudden he was crying in Nico’s lap, as Nico rubbed his back and held his hand and tried not to cry with him. He didn’t understand what Will was saying, but he knew that later, they would have a chance to talk calm down and talk.

At some point, Will fell asleep and Nico was stuck on the bathroom floor, unable to move. But he didn’t mind. Then he realized that soon the other Apollo kids would want to use the bathroom. He focused again and shadow traveled to his bed in the Hades cabin. It’s always dark unless you pull back the heavy light canceling curtains, so Will could sleep as long as he wants. Nico’s thoughts became slow and he realized he hadn’t gotten much sleep at all. He grabbed a pillow and made himself comfortable next to his adorable boyfriend who he loved so much. If anything ever messes with him he’ll do everything he can to fix it. He fell asleep thinking about all the ways he loves Will.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Will woke up first, because he was always an early riser. He saw Nico laying protectively next to him, and remembered everything he had said. He had said that he should tell him what’s bothering him, but should he confess what he’s been doing? He looked at Nico, lying there. He’s never seen him show that much love. Nico would tell him if he asked, so he will too.

Nico woke up at 10:00 in the morning, and immediately turned to Will, who was already up. “Whatcha doing?” Asked Nico. Will turned, looking like he’d been up for a while. “Mornin’ babe” Will said, as he climbed across the bed. He kissed Nico behind the ear, making him turn red. “I’ve been up wondering how I happened to get in your bed when I distinctly remember going to sleep in my cabin.” Nico looked at him in sympathy. “Baby, you went to sleep on the bathroom floor. I still want to know why.” Will became quiet and curled up next to him. “I need you to not get mad, ok?” Nico nodded and put his head on Will’s shoulder. Will took a long breath. “I- Nico I’m- I need a second.” He put his face in his hands and leaned against Nico. “It’s ok, it’s ok, you can take your time. Start at the beginning, are you sick or …” Will took another breath and thought back to why he was doing what did. “It started umm… when I got here. I’d been here for a few months, and it was so. Before you came, there was a really big accident, and someone died of blood loss.” Will became quite and it sounded although he was close to tears. “People were rushing everywhere, and the head of the cabin was in the accident. He was slow, and the person died. He could have not been in that accident, but he was slow and got hurt. He didn’t do a lot of training, and he was all about eating healthy. I’m scared that if I’m slow, if I don’t make it in time, I could lose someone. I have to be lean and skinny and fast. Someone could die Nico,” His voice is barely a whisper, his breath shaky. “You could die, Nico, and I’d be too slow to save you. What if, what if-” He began to cry again. But it still wasn’t clear; why was he throwing up? Nico had a hunch, but he hoped it was wrong. “Sunshine, please, tell me what you were doing in there.” Nico said, holding him close and trying to be as comforting as possible.

“Nico, I… don’t eat. I don’t eat and when I do I make myself sick so that I don’t put on weight.” Nico felt so bad he hadn’t noticed. “Oh, Will, no if you aren’t healthy then there’s no one to heal people.” He said, trying to convince him without seeming mad, which he wasn’t. Just sad and protective and scared for Will. “When did you start this?” “I’ve been doing it since a little before you came back from camp Jupiter. I was just so stressed about the battle!” His breathing evened out and he felt good getting it out. “Will, no one could ever do a better job than you at healing people. You always know exactly what people need, and how to comfort them.” Nico relaxed, letting Will lean on him.

Will later promised not to do it again, and with Nico‘s help, he slowly got himself back to eating regularly. Neither of them ever told anyone, because no one ever needed to know. Will and Nico will, always, always have each other.

[eruden-writes]

Room & Board - Part 21 (Vampire x Reader)

paranormal fantasy vampire x human eventual triad (x werewolf)

Anonymous asked:

For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?

First | Previous | Masterlist | Next

x x x x x

If you like my content, please consider supporting me on: 

*:･ﾟ✧ Patreon or  Ko-Fi *:･ﾟ✧

x x x x x

Mounting dismay fills your chest before you see Lachlan’s smile twists into something smug. In an instant, rage flares in your chest. Your hands fist at your sides, your shoulders straightening as you glare up at Lachlan. Somehow, through the sick sensations in your stomach, you manage to bite out, “Let Tabaeus be the judge of that.” 

Lachlan’s answering chuckle makes your blood boil as he languidly motions toward Tabaeus. “Be my guest.”

Looking back to Ewan and Jemma, you find them both tense and glaring up at the enemy. Ewan has given up the partial transformation, fur sprouting along his whole morphing body as his snout elongates and a growl bubbles in his throat. Jemma’s battle-readiness is less obvious, but you feel a crackle in the air and swear her eyes glow, but it could be a trick of her light orb. At your movement, their attention bounces to you. Ewan nods encouragingly, though Jemma’s eyes quickly dart back up to Lachlan and the other vampires.

Briefly, regret thrums at how you’ve pulled the two of them into this fight, but you turn back to Tabaeus. You all knew the potential risks.

Softly, you step closer to Tabaeus and finally take in their state.

Nude and sprawled on pillows, manacles on their wrists and ankles, Tabaeus stares listlessly at the ceiling, seemingly unseeing even the other vampires crowded on the overhead walkway. As you come closer, their eyes swing slowly toward you. A lump catches in your throat at the sight of their red-rimmed eyes, the fresh bites on their body. Something about their flesh seems more sickly.

“Oh, is it feeding time?” Their words are so hollow and distant, it takes your mind a moment to realize Tabaeus is the one who said them. They push themselves upright, languidly standing in a smooth movement. 

As they near you, you recall how their height once terrified you. They loomed over you that first meeting just as they loom over you now, but your heart twists as you blink back tears. You never thought you’d see them again. Relief and dismay clamber through your head as you see Tabaeus whole but harmed. 

Tabaeus reaches out a hand and you unthinkingly mirror them. Just as your hand is about to graze their shoulder, theirs grabs you roughly by the hair. Pain arcs over your scalp as they yank your head forcefully to the side, baring your throat to them. 

“That is not a meal,” Lachlan drawls, though dark amusement twitches at the corner of his lips.

“Is it not?” Tabaeus pauses, their red eyes flickering up and behind you to where the other vampire stands.

“No, this bloodbag seems to think you know them.” That amusement has turned to cruel glee and you hear a barely contained laugh catch in Lachlan’s throat. A wave of titters arise from the other vampires, like a colony of squeaking bats.

“No, I do not know any bloodbags.” Tabaeus blinks before regarding you with an empty laziness, still holding your head at an angle. You’re not even sure they’re trying to remember.

Too many words and feelings gum up your throat. As you struggle to swallow, only three words break through your lips, “Tabaeus, please remember.” 

The use of their name makes them pause, their eyebrows ticking upward. Encouraged, a slew of words breaks past the lump in your throat as your hands curl around the wrist of their hand still buried in your hair, “You’ve lived with me for months, Tabaeus. We’ve gone shopping together and you’ve bought so many clothes. And you brought Liuva and Bjarka, your imp sugar gliders, off a man on a subway. We bought a house and you’ve made friends with me and Ewan and…”

You trail off as the words choke up your throat. Tears swell in your eyes, but try as you might to blink them back, they overcome the edge of your lashes. Instead you sniffle and nod toward Ewan, hoping Tabaeus will understand. 

Their eyes flicker in the werewolf’s direction. You believe their eyes meet, for Tabaeus’s pupils first constrict then dilate. Like a cat spotting a dog before realizing they’re an old friend. Tabaeus’s attention jerks back to you. 

Complicated expressions flit over their face. Disgust, intrigue, denial… You watch, hoping to spot recognition or fondness. Anything to let you know they didn’t truly forget. If such an emotion crosses their eyes, however, you do not spot it.

“I… I…” Tabaeus’s eyes trail over your face, watching as a tear cascades down your cheek. They swallow, harshly shaking their head to dispel the mental chaos their thoughts must be in. Their words come out the tiniest bit ragged, “I apologize, I truly do not know you.” 

You open your mouth to challenge that notion, but you freeze as Tabaeus leans close. Their nose brushes against your throat, the gentle nuzzle sending goosebumps over your skin. Their words tease against your throat, “But you smell sweet. Delicious."

"Tabaeus, please you have to remember,” you desperately croak, blinking back tears as conflicting feelings spiral through you.

“Don't play with your food." From somewhere above, Lachlan’s voice sounds and cold hatred lurches through you.

Confusion dots Tabaeus’s brow and they look up toward the other vampire. “I thought you said they were not food.” 

“If you don’t remember them, why waste prey that wanders so willingly into our den?” You can just imagine Lachlan shrugging carelessly, a sleazy smile tilted at his lips. For a brief moment, you think you see Tabaeus’s eyes narrow, something calculating behind their gaze. As if they don’t quite believe Lachlan.

That hope evaporates as they eventually intone, "Yes, master.”

You don’t get a chance to shout as Tabaeus descends on you. Somewhere behind you, you hear Ewan snarl loudly and Jemma make a strangled cry, before a scuffle sounds, punctuated by the hiss of what you assume is magic.

Tabaeus’s cool grasp is painful, unyielding, on your shoulder and head as they force you to bare your neck. Twin pains sink into your throat. A sob escapes you, the taste of blood dances on your own tongue.

But you don’t fight or pull away. Wrenching your eyes shut, ignoring the tears streaming down your cheeks, your arms wrap around Tabaeus. They’re tense under your touch, prepared to fight your struggles. When it doesn’t come, you think you can feel their confusion and curiosity wind through their body. Pulling them closer, you focus on your short acquaintance, wanting those memories to be close to the surface.

The frightening first night. The agreement. Shopping for new clothes for them. Getting a house and sharing the home with the sugar gliders. The journal. Going out with Ewan together, the food, the movie, and other delights. Every second of fear, friendship, love, lust, anger, frustration, uncertainty blends through the recollections. All the images and feelings flood your brain, tangling with the pain and fending off the memories of others that fight for screentime.

Pain throbs through your head, mirroring the ache at your throat, but you refuse to fall to unconsciousness, refuse to let the foreign images take root.

With a gasp, the vampire breaks from your throat. Blearily, you blink up at Tabaeus, their lips stained as red as their eye color. Their eyelids flutter rapidly, but a few red-tinged tears roll from their eyes and down their cheeks. You realize their hold quavers as they croak, “Amata.”

“You remember,” you softly breathe, a smile on your lips even as the rest of the world wobbles in your sight. Slumping in Tabaeus’s arms, boneless from relief and blood loss, you watch as their eyes desperately wheel about the room as they turn. When they’ve taken in the entire predicament, they still. Their brow pinches and you follow their gaze to where Ewan and Jemma scuffle with vampire underlings.

Tabaeus raises their hand, chain clanking against their manacle. Pressure pulses through the air and the vampires that surround your friends pause, eyes flying wide a brief second before their bodies hurl against the far wall. A flinch rattles through your body as you hear bones crack, but you’re too muzzy-headed to dwell on what you’ve seen. You hear some of the vampires above scuttle warily to the far reaches of the room.

The room shifts around you as Tabaeus hefts you in their arms, crossing the short distance to Ewan, who looks to where his previous opponents have been tossed. When his gaze flicker to your mutual friend, his eyes widen with guarded hope and uncertainty.

“Hold onto them,” the vampire orders and shoves you into the werewolf’s furry arms. You only faintly notice Jemma move closer, peering over Ewan’s arm to survey you. When she sees you’re conscious, a tension in her shoulder eases.

Ewan only manages to nod, bringing you closer to his chest in a protective gesture. Even as Tabaeus turns away, you can feel Ewan’s fur bristle and you wonder if it’s from adrenaline of the fight or wariness of the pressure surrounding Tabaeus. Peering up at the werewolf, you catch hints of the scuffle. Awry fur, blood – his or a vampire’s, you’re unsure – flicked across his maw and body, a long gouge bleeding at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The tang of blood fills your nostrils as he draws you closer.

“You,” Tabaeus growls, drawing your gaze from Ewan. Your vampire’s gaze is tilted upward toward Lachlan. Shadows darken and dance along the floor and in the corners of the room. The temperature in the air drops a degree for every second the two maintain eye contact.

A crackling sound echoes through the air, your eyes widening as you find the source. Cracks form in the manacles, flakes of rusted metal fall off in chunks as the restraints slowly disintegrate. 

All languid smugness has melted away from Lachlan, leaving only brittle fear behind. The vampire moves to stand atop the overly large pipe he has positioned himself on, hands raised in a placating manner. “Now, I’m your master, a kind one if I—”

An inhuman sound escapes Tabaeus – a discordant keen – and a pipe near Lachlan squeals, a crack racing along its side, effectively interrupting the other vampire.

“You are a neophyte compared to me, Lachlan Barrett.” Tabaeus’s eyes glow, their head adjusting angles like an animal scenting prey. A small contingent of Lachlan’s followers, no more than five, erupt from the shadows in a shrieking cacophony. Two angle toward Tabaeus, three toward you, Ewan, and Jemma.

Your werewolf tenses, hunching to shield you with one arm extended to fight, and the crackle of magic comes from where Jemma stands. Tabaeus doesn’t even turn as they make a slicing motion in the air, chain rattling.

The breeze of the motion wafts over you, gently, but the five vampires freeze mid-air. Then they fall, bifurcated at the same angle as your vampire’s hand movement.

Tabaeus’s fingers crook from their outstretched hand, flexing, before one arm yanks hard against a crumbling chain. The metal snaps loudly, but your vampire’s voice rings over the sound, “Or should I call you Locke Barista, the allegedly genius playwright who never sold a manuscript?”

Fear flutters through the vampires, all watching the Memory Keeper with wide eyes. You think you catch shocked mutters, confusion. How could such a vampire, considered weak and of no more use than a scrapbook, do this?

Concerned gazes flicker between the two and you’re not sure what keeps the others from fleeing. Is it macabre curiosity? An animalistic need to see which vampire comes out on top, to become the leader?

Or is it Tabaeus’s influence, that pressure that stifling weight that hangs heavy in the air? Are they somehow keeping the other vampires tethered to their spots?

With another snap of metal, your peripheral catches Tabaeus snapping the second chain attached to their wrist manacle as they continue speaking to their potentially captive audience, “Hector Tannud, the selfish Frenchman Casanova that lost everything at the gambling tables?”

The temperature in the room drops, shadows crawling out to meet Tabaeus’s own shade. Ewan tenses and, after a glance up, you find his ears pinned back, the fur along the crest of his head and back of his neck rising. Jemma, too, stills from fussing over you, her own glowing eyes warily on the scene.

When your gaze turns back to them, you share a quick sputter of the concern in Jemma’s features.

Tabaeus has morphed, so similar to that first night when they descended on you. Taller and lanky and turning a dark shade of purple-black, their long hair plastering to their body and becoming fur. Limbs spindly and inhuman and tipped in claws so sharp, you think they could slice a molecule in half. The sneer on their face becomes vicious and serrated, as their nose flattens and ears grow.

Darkness suddenly surges toward Tabaeus and you yelp, attention swiveling toward Lachlan, believing he was the culprit of the sudden movement. However, as soon as you spot the other vampire, your eyes widen.

Solidifying from the shadows behind Lachlan, Tabaeus has a hand on Lachlan’s throat, graceful hand coming around to grasp it from the front. Their claw traces the side of the other vampire’s face. The bump in Lachlan’s throat bobs as he struggles against the grip.

Tabaeus stoops behind Lachlan, a dangerous seductiveness painting their movements as they lower their head to the juncture of his throat and shoulder. In spite of the lurid sensuality of Tabaeus’s movement, their voice rings out harsh and mocking. “Hardwin the destitute tanner who smelled of shit and piss and would do anything, even sell out his entire village, to save his own scrawny throat?”

The other vampires still do not move, watching as Tabaeus blatantly demonstrates how their master – the strongest among them – is nothing but prey.

“I remember every insipid identity you took – every identity you all have taken –“ Tabaeus snarls, pointing their free hand, index finger tipped in a dark claw, at all present with a sweeping arch. Their words echo along the shadowy pipes, plunging into every dark corner. “You all are nothing more than quibbling little cum stains barely released from your progenitor’s quim!”

The anger in their voice echoes around the room, rattling through the pipes and making bolts quiver. Quiet weighs heavy a realization sinks in to all the enemies present. Tabaeus has been there far longer than any of them. They carry the memories of all present, know every little secret pleasure and vice and weakness.

Lachlan must find some frayed string of survival instinct in the following silence. Or perhaps it’s sheer fear that makes him act foolishly. With a pathetic gasping cry, he turns into a bat, flapping frantically for salvation above.

Even from down below and in such a beastly form, you see Tabaeus’s feature crimp with disgust. In a smooth movement, he launches himself upward, once more morphing.

Where Lachlan has taken the form of a bat, roughly the size of a football, Tabaeus is something far more grand. Still the size of a human – though far shorter than their usual form – with a wingspan that had to be as long as you are tall, they remind you of viral pictures you’ve seen of megabats. It’s no great feat when they overtake Lachlan, curling around the little creature like a white blood cell eating a virus.

Ewan seems to understand what’s happening faster than you and he stiffens, spinning around and hunching over you as the two plummet down. You hear their bodies hit the ground. The impact vibrates through the room and rattles through your bones. Something farther into the room creaks ominously before it thuds heavily to the floor, a litany of cries and shrieks bursting through the vampire crowd.

Trembling, you shove away from Ewan and peer around his form just in time to see Lachlan cry out and shift back to a more human form.

Beastly Tabaeus sits atop the younger vampire, their long-clawed hand pressing the other vampire’s face solidly into the metal floor. A disgusted sneer curls at their lips as their other hand claws down Lachlan’s back.

Beside you, Ewan shakes. Throwing him a sidelong glance, you find his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, ears pinned back, fur bristling.

With his face squashed down and hair in disarray, Lachlan looks even more pathetic, eyes red-rimmed with blood tears as he scrabbles to break free from the hold.

The rest of the vampire coven do not move. Eyes wide. Faces paled. Some look like they are about to be sick. Wildly, you wonder if Tabaeus is doing what Lachlan had done at the library. Have they frozen their audience in place? Stopped time? Your thoughts flick to the shrieks from earlier, wondering if the victims were unable to move due to whatever Tabaeus is doing.

Your mind swirls so fast with thoughts, you feel as if you’re going to get motion sick.

“You have kept my mind muddled with the memories, the thoughts, of this peanut gallery of vapid nightwalkers.” Tabaeus growls and draws your attention back to the two vampires. Their hand on the back of Lachlan’s head twists, grinding the other vampire’s face harder against the floor. “What do you have to say for your transgressions, Hardwin?”

x x x x x

If you like my content, please consider supporting me on: 

*:･ﾟ✧ Patreon or  Ko-Fi *:･ﾟ✧

[phen397]

Sonic Adventure 2 but told as notes I took while playing

OK here we go

Big game for the series

Not sure if this game has multiple story modes like in sonic adventure

But let's get into this

It has the same like 15 seconds of live and learn looped for the title and select screens

And OK

2 stories hero and dark

Let's start on the hero side

Above the capital

Sigma alpha

Captured hedgehog secured

WHAT IN THE WORLD

No food or movies gotta dip

I am sure that part of the helicopter isn't important

Skydiving now

With a snowboard

First stage city escape time to board down the city streets

Sick tricks off ramps

Fuck dem cars

Escape from the city indeed

Also got the song playing too*chef's kiss*

Done with boarding time to run

Oh God it's Omochao

Burn him

Break the boxes

Weird pipe?

Whistle

Oh hello raccoon friend

Jump scare robot

Got coloured tubes

Can use them to raise Chao

Run down the streets this time

Chao box

Got Chao key

U mean to tell me you are gonna hide secrets from me

Oh oh

You got me

Rabbit was hiding in corner

Got so much stuff it is falling off the screen

Is that bad?

Is it gone?

Where does it go?

Song still going hard af

Only now get told how to do a homing attack

Oh God Oh shit

Gun got a whole truck after me

BIG NO!

Big got crushed!

I will get you gun I will avenge you cat man

End of level

Def missed some stuff

E rank OOF

one sonic thing

Chao world

Welcome

Is this in space?

Who made this(lore)?

Ah yes the gate to Chao space

Spit out all the tubes

Next level

Boring game of tag

Boss time

F-6t Big Foot

What did I do?

Why all this effort for little old me

Avoid the flying shooter

Hit em when he lands

Boss done

"Hey guy take care"

What?

Oh hi shadow

Ultimate power jewel

Chaos emerald

What he want with it

Fake hedgehog

Chaos controll

Fast boi

Uses the emerald to warp

Ultimate life form has no time for games

Not again

Ah yes desert area

Rouge and knuckles at it again

Don't know when to give up

Master emerald is mine got it?

Can neutralize the emeralds

Eggman gets grabby

Knuckles shatters that thing

Look what you did

Can restore the pieces so all good

He says "bat girl" so aggressively

Find 3 pieces

Super chill music

Kinda nice just to explore and fly around

Lots of animals here

Big winds

First piece get

Another pipe to whistle at

Lonely statue looks Lonely

Thanks omachao

I got a dragon from the Chao box

Got a bomb

Got the last one and got squished at the same time

Chao time

Egg

Egg

Egg

Shake da egg

Rise my child

Oh

They steal traits from the animals

Oh they stack

Time to make an abomination

Waterfall cave

Chao cult?

Oh

Races

Enter the abomination

Crab pool sure

Level 1

Cheer them on

They are babies

Ah there are the crabs

These other Chao can swim

Got wrecked

OK maybe later

Prison island time

MY BOI

Tails time baby

Secret military base

Sonic would never rob a bank

Oh hi Amy

Amy needs help

Transformers (more than meets the eye)

Long load screen got me scared

Mech fight

Egg dead

Won't be so lucky this time

Ba ba ba bya byyyaaa

Amy here for sonic too

Tails got this shit

Tails needs no lady

Lots of robros

Lots of tubes

Big is trapped In a cell

What did he do

Free my man

Get him his frog

Sneaky bots

Level done

Gonna stop for now

See ya for the next one

[psych0fatal3]

Laughing Jack SFW Headcanons (GORE WARNING)

Loves doing clown tricks. (with a gorey twist...) - Like making balloon animals but with your intestines, Juggling but with your eyeballs etc...

He's has a VILE sense of humour - Like he will joke about things that are just borderline sick to the point EVERYONE in the room is just staring at him like ''Wtf...''.

Everyone hates him (also pretty scared of him) - He's constantly tricking people and making fun of them. (bros the typa person to look you in the eye and start making fun of your face while laughing his flat ass off) The kids are also terrified of him, I don't see him being friends with them at all tbh.

Throws childlike tantrums - He will sit on the floor and start kicking and hitting things (and people) while yelling because thats just how he is. (Lotta people hurt)

He's very cuddly (when he's feeling nice) - He'll snake his arms and legs around you like a koala. It's quite nice considering he's very soft and made out of stuffing... unless he starts squeezing.

A very long tongue... - Like nvm being able to touch your nose, he can touch his eyebrows. (Cool party trick)

He can't sit still - I see him as constantly needing to move because he's just so ENERGISED. He'll sit their fidgeting with his fingers while shaking his legs or he'll stand there and step side to side or move around in circles excitedly.

Smells like blood and rotting food - He used to smell like honey and vanilla whenever he was colourful but now he's just... Stinky

He LOOOOVEES games - Hide and seek, tag, house, board games, dress up etc

He cusses a lot when mad - he uses child like insults when irritated though such as ''Dum dum'', ''Poopy head'', ''stupid head'', ''booger'' (Imagine arguing with him about something and he's just like ''You're such a booger!''. but when he's really mad he cusses aloooooottt...

[shewhopats]

Overwatch characters watching your kid

I've been thinking about writing some silly short stories about OW characters getting stuck watching someone's kid, but I figured I would make this guide for my headcannon for the kind of babysitter each of them would be.

Brigitte and Reinhardt would make you the most nervous with their methods. Lots of rough-housing, throwing them around and into the air, giving your kid sugar, letting them climb things, and overall just encouraging mayhem and rule-breaking. "You mom/dad doesn't let you do this at home? Well, they're not here, are they?" Your kid will come home thoroughly exhausted, but bitter about you not being as fun as they are.

Orisa would make the same mistakes as Brigitte and Reinhardt, but more out of ignorance and inexperience. Like letting your kid stay up too late, because she doesn't understand why going to bed at a decent time is important, or feeding them something that makes them sick because that's what they said they wanted to eat. Unintentionally lets your kid walk all over her, but once you teach her how it's done, she'll be your go-to option when you need a break.

Zenyatta would be so intrigued by the natural imagination and curiosity of children. He'd provide lots of different toys, art supplies, and time for unrestricted and uninstructed play. A one-man enrichment program. Just don't try to tell him there are boy toys and girls toys. Your kid will be allowed to play with whatever they want. He would also unironically have a blast playing pretend with dolls or action figures. I'm talking a 25-part narrative with backstories, lore, worldbuilding, and an Endgame-style final conflict.

Genji, Kiriko, Tracer, and B.O.B would be the kings and queens of "don't tell your parents." Extra screen-time, taking them out for ice cream, staying up a little later then their normal bedtime, etc. What I would call "a healthy amount of rule-breaking." They have everyone else convinced they are Responsible™ but you can't help noticing that your kid is always excited to hangout with them.

Ana and Torbjorn could be depended on the same way you can trust grandma and grandpa. They've had kids, so they know all the tips, tricks, and games to keep your kid clean, fed, safe, and happy. Just don't tell them some dumb shit like "organic, non-gmo fruits only." Your kid will be eating bananas from the supermarket like everyone else. But for more sensible rules, even the ones they don't agree with, they will follow them.

Echo will make you fill out a 200-question survey and write an essay on how you want your kid cared for. She will follow every instruction down to the letter, and send you updates every 30 minutes. If your kid sneezes, she will call you to ask about it. The downside is your kid will probably hate her for being such a rules monger.

Baptiste, Illari, Lucio, and Sojourn would try so hard to be responsible and follow your instructions, but puppy-eyes work on them 80% of the time. Your home will look like a warzone when you get back, but they'll help you clean up.

Lifeweaver, Pharah, Mei, and Zarya would get a whiff of that specific smell babies have that makes your DNA scream at you to make one yourself. They would be the sweetest, most gentle caretakers on this list. They'll spend most of the time snuggling on the couch, watching T.V. and drinking hot coco. Would let your kid give them a makeover, paint their nails, and play with their hair. Would read to and rock them to sleep, tuck them in really snug. They'd probably look forward to seeing your kid again, and every time you happen upon one of them, they'll only ask what's going on with the kiddo.

Sombra, Symmetra, and Widowmaker would rather be water-boarded then spend five minutes with those sticky-fingered cunt goblins you call kids.

Ashe, Hanzo, and Winston would happily agree to babysit for you, thinking they will be serviceable at it. How hard could it be? Then an hour later they call you, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and beg you to come back, because your kid is crying or throwing a tantrum. They definitely have the potential to be great caretakers, but they would need someone to walk them through it at first.

Bastion and Sigma definitely WANT to give babysitting a try, but they understand why that's probably not a safe idea. They would question your intelligence if you asked them.

Cassidy and D.va would take your kid to McDonalds or somewhere else with else with a play-place, and let them go wild while they sit on a bench nearby. They will do the bare minimum amount of work to keep your kid alive, because they have better things to do. Would only babysit as a favor for you if no one else is available.

Mercy is married to her work, and Ramattra is dedicated to his mission. If you somehow convince them to watch your kid for even a single hour, they'll set-up a playpen with whatever toys they like, toss in a sippy cup and snack every now and then, and ignore their existence while they do their usual business.

Doomfist, Moira, Reaper, and Soldier: 76 would tape your kid to a chair the first time it annoys them. I know there's the fandom joke of S76 being the dad of the team, but he's always come off as grumpy and impatient to me.

Your kid would love the junkers (Junker Queen, Junkrat, Roadhog, Wrecking Ball) for all the wrong reasons. They would teach your kid how to make a grenade launcher out of plastic bottles and rubber bands, 37 new swear words, and how to punch people in the throat. Unless you want to get a call from the school about your kid blowing up the chemistry room, I would choose literally anyone else to babysit.

Mauga would use your kids to get dates. He'll take your daughter to a dance class and talk to any single parents about how much of a family man he is and how difficult being a single dad. He'll take your son to play catch in a park so he has an excuse to take his shirt off and flex his muscles. He'll coach your kid to walk up to someone and say, "my uncle thinks your pretty, so maybe you can play with us."

[inthemiddle0feverywhere]

Bad Batch Season 3 Episode 5 (scattered) thoughts and first impressions (ramblings)

Major spoilers under the cut

This one is also very long because mannnnnnn did I love this episode and omg do I have big feelings about it

Also yes I do love each member of tbb but in case it’s not obvious I’m a crosshair girlie. Have been since I first heard his voice in season 7 of tcw so this is gonna be very crosshair centric (because he finally has screen time and more than like 2 speaking lines this season!!)

Lula! 🥰🥰

Is Omega in a supply closet? Whatever better than her barren room at the lab

Ah nope her old “room” the gun turret 🥰🥰

A glimpse of mornings on board the marauder: peaceful boys and caf 🥹 probably only peaceful again now that omega is home

This is Omega’s best look omg the the crocheted vest??? I wanna cosplay her now or actually just wear this outfit fr

At first I was so annoyed they kept crosshair in this ugly ass outfit but I honestly think it’s because even though it’s warm on Pabu he’s always cold because he’s so skinny now (well he always was lean but this is a testament to how much weight he lost as a prisoner) They keep trying to feed him fruit and my man keeps using it as target practice 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

I honestly love when they show scenes through like either a scope or helmet visor. Like I really love seeing what they’re seeing. In this case AZI (so happy they took him from Cids bar- sorry “parlor”….it was a dive bar)

He’s so mad at his hand 😭 my poor baby he really should let AZI look at it. What do we think it is? Nerve damage? I imagine it feels tingly like when your foot falls asleep.

I love that Batcher loves him!! Animals know good people. He’s a good man Savannah! 😭😭😭 and he likes Batcher too and anyone that’s kind to animals is ok by me.

Ugh Crosshair teaching Omega about being a sniper 🥰🥰😭🥰😭🥰 one day she’s just gonna pop out with a sick trick shot lmao

Shouldn’t have given him his rifle??? Sir it’s an extension of him, it’s like you gave him back one of his body parts

“Omega trusts him and that’s good enough for me” Wrecker!!! My sweet boy!! Big man and even bigger heart. He’s now kinda caught in the middle he wants to be cool with Crosshair again but doesn’t want to betray Hunter they’ve been through a lot just the 2 of them these past several months. Crosshair and Hunter are like parents in the middle of a divorce 😭

53%???? Fuckkkkkkk way worse than we thought

Echo!!!!! Yay mom came home!

“No hug for me” screaming crying throwing up! 😭😭😭😭😭😭 💔💔💔💔he’s disguising it as sarcasm but he wants it, he wants a hug! SOMEBODY HUG HIM DAMMIT! I volunteer!!! Please

Omega between her 2 dads 🥰 (Though is Crosshair more wine aunt vibes sometimes?) And batcher by Crosshair’s feet of course

Yummmmm I bet Pabu has banging sushi 🍣 Love Wrecker being an unbothered king enjoying his sush🥰

😭😭😭😭😭 Crosshair’s face when Echo mentioned Tech. He knows. He knows he fell or perished (shh no 🤡) trying to save him. They’re twins and he lost his other half and I’m devastated!! 😭

Haaaaa welcome to parenting a teenager Hunter!!!

Are Hunter’s eyes green all of a sudden?

Crosshair being the voice of reason?? I love seeing this side of him. I HC that since he is silent and highly observant he was a voice reason often for the batch. (Can we please get a series of TBB during the clone wars?? Or like when they were cadets or something. We only see them in 4 episodes in tcw and they were just an insane suicide squad who hated regs and didn’t follow orders or have anyone in charge of them like I wanna see their adventures and their dynamic and how they are when they have downtime! Please lucasfilmmmmmm 🙇‍♀️🧎🏼‍♀️)

“I’m older than you are, little brother” 😂😂😂 and she got crosshair to chuckle lol ugh I love their dynamic so much. They are really feeding us rn (please don’t take it away)

Omg he’s so brave bringing them back there! To that freaking ice planet where nothing but trauma happened for Crosshair. I know he probably wished he would never have to go back there again but he knows this will help so he goes anyway

The old armor!!!! Helllllll frickinnnn yeaaaaaa (he’s so hot in armor omg I have a headache)

“Take a guesssssss” ���

“He started it” 😂😂 major youngest sibling energy

Mayday’s helmet! 💔💔💔💔 somebody sedate me!! 😭

Why can’t Hunter sense the Wyrm?

TOOTHPICK!!! Wrecker defo kept his toothpicks in the armor case 🥰

Frickin ice vulture always an omen. (Animals seem to really like Crosshair though even the scary ones)

“I know you” 😭 I know Hunter meant it in a “I know you’re sneaky and closed off and I’m expecting the worst from you right now ” but it just hit me harder than that. “I know you”- you’re my brother, the youngest I’ve known you since the day you were born. “I know you- I know there’s more to your silence I know your still waters run way deeper than you let on.” “I’m your brother- I know you talk to me I know you”❤️‍🩹

Oh shitttttt thems are fightin words yes let it out everyone

“I’ll do it! 😁” Wreckerrrr I love you

Hunter’s fast af boi!

Batcher is actually ripped af 💪

Ok petition that Cross doesn’t yell anymore it doesn’t suit him at all lmaoooo

Poor Wrecker yes it’s always ALWAYS a huge monster 😭

“Fantastic” 😂😂😂

Omg this is a roller coaster of emotions! Crosshair being soft with Batcher, the nodding! Ugh nothing like fending off a giant ice wyrm to bring bros back together

He’s so pretty shut up I know his head is shaped like a lightbulb

AAHH THERES THE HUG 🥰

progress 😌

“I thought I was being a good soldier 😔” * *pterodactyl screeching *

Welp Im deceased, fed and nurtured but dead at the same time.

Thank you thank you thank you for these past few episodes. Us Crosshair girlies were really in pain seasons 1 and 2

[catboyklug]

Hit & Run

characters: Amy Rose (she/her); Metal Sonic (thinks he/it, actually she/her)

warnings: internalized ableism; hatred of amy's incredibly good home decor; mild mentions of emeto;

notes: dividers by bernardsbendystraws!

They fought, as they did almost daily now, with tooth and nail.

Metal on metal,

Skin on...

Each time they fight becomes more vicious than the last, with her training making her far stronger, and it being given new tricks.

And yet, despite that fact, neither of them ever become more than superficially damaged.

A scrape here, a scuff there, but it never is forced to limp back. She never manages to humiliate it, however hard she claims to go.

Metal isn't stupid. It knows exactly why she does this. Why she fights and refuses to hurt it. Why she tries to chat with it while it attempts to destroy her.

She wants it to be anything but what it is.

A cold, heartless, psychopathic machine.

Well, she's not getting that wish.

No matter what she-

"METAL!!!"

She falls back, propping herself up against her hammer - that last attack seems to have hit her surprisingly hard.

"I-..." she huffs, making a pathetic attempt at chatting even when kicked down, "I redecorated my house yesterday, and everybody else is too busy to hang out, so, hff..."

"DO YOU WANNA COME SLEEPOVER???"

...

On some level, Metal knows this is just another one of the many ridiculous attempts to give it pause, make it reconsider its position in the Eggman Empire. Perhaps even give her an opening for attack, if she feels so cruel.

But, even still, they can't help but simply stare blankly at her for several seconds, the fight entirely forgotten.

Taking their shock as an opening, Amy continues.

"If... If you try to break anything, I'll have to kick you out," she says, maintaining an aura of confidence even as her voice begins shaking, "And you can't bug anything, either! But... o-other than that, you can come over and stay for as long as you like."

...She's completely serious about this.

It's amazing that anyone could possibly be more naive than Sonic, but here she is, stealing his spotlight.

As idiotic as this is, it gives Metal an idea - it doesn't need to bug her house in order to learn more about her and the rest of that foolish 'Resistance'...

Considering every aspect of this, Metal can't just not accept the offer, can it?

Putting in a few more, entirely artificial, moments of 'deliberation' in, it finally nods, causing Amy to beam one of the brightest smiles it's ever seen.

If it weren't entirely inorganic, it would feel sick at the sight.

Everything about Amy Rose's home is as bright as ever. Turquoise shelves on soft orange walls lined with rainbow trinkets that look better suited for a children's coloring book than a nearly adult woman's.

But yes, even if much is the same, she did redecorate - dark, earthy tones mixed in with the brights. More contrast, more breaks for the eyes, and even several items in black.

Black candles; black sketchbooks; a beautiful art-deco black-cream-pink vase holding wildflowers.

Beautiful. Mature. Girlish. Soft... and yet, inexplicably neutral.

Not inherently tied to any gender, creed or style. All Amy's own.

Metal feels a twinge of envy...

And pushes it down.

Continuing through the house, the sensory experience only gets worse. Everything is in bright, soft colors, intentionally meant to be pleasing on the eyes - the polar opposite of the sharp shadows and harsh lighting of Eggman's many bases and factories.

Deeply uncomfortable.

If it didn't need the information here, it would leave immediately.

But, it's stuck here until the job is done.

Amy sits down on a pink-and-orange striped-cushion couch. One of the armrests has a little wooden board on it, apparently for holding books, documents, and coffee cups - at least, assumedly, considering all the coffee stains on it.

She gestures for it to sit on the chair near it, a similar coloring but with the stripes reversed. It complies.

"So..."

It's clear she's already thought of what she wants to say a hundred times over, but the sheer tension in the room makes every word come out awkward, as if she's reading from a script.

"I have a few Culpable Cog games we could play... have you played any of those before?"

It doesn't respond. It can't respond. Why is she doing this?

"Er, well... if you haven't, the latest game's pretty friendly to newer players, I think! At least, gameplay wise, it is."

She gives it a smile. It's forced - it can see the way her lip trembles a little, how the edges of her mouth look almost square - but she's still trying to talk to it.

Chat with it.

"...But, if you don't want to play a fighting game, we could do something a little more traditional?" she offers, warmth still seeping into her voice, somehow. "We could do blindfolded make-overs... oh! Or a pillow fight, maybe? Vanilla gave me a huge bag she got on sale, so we don't have to worry about running out when we break them..."

Ahhh.

There it is again.

The belief these freedom-fighters hold:

That just because they have a choice, means everyone deserves one.

They're all fools. Each and every single one of them.

To believe that someone like Metal could ever get, let alone deserve, a choice in any part of its life...

...

. . .

...Wait.

Did she say "pillow fight"?

As soon as it fully recognizes that is, indeed, what she said, it stands to attention, sitting straight up, looking straight ahead - clearly excited.

To her credit, she doesn't laugh at this sudden change of demeanor. But nothing can stop her eyes from lighting up, and it's Metal who has to restrain itself to not shrink into a ball at the sight.

(And why, why, why, why does it want that? Why shouldn't it just curl into a ball, run away, attack her, hide? Why shouldn't it-)

"Ohhh, I haven't had an honest-to-goodness pillow fight in so long!" Amy chirps, interrupting Metal's spiral, "Alright, I'll go get the pillows!! Oh, unless you want to do something else first...?"

It shakes its head in response, deeply aware of how smooth (real) the motion looks, and she grins in response.

"Alright!" she booms, pumping the air with her fist, "Go wait for me in my room, I'll be right back!"

With a tiny "yessss" she's sure Metal couldn't hear, and a genuine smile she's convinced Metal couldn't see, she runs off to her storage shed, and Metal is left alone.

She's genuine, it can't help but notice. She always has been so wonderfully genuine.

...

All that means is that when she's finally broken by the Eggman Empire, it will only be all the more satisfying.

Looking around, it notes that Amy's room is just as lovingly decorated as the rest of her home.

A beautiful, handmade and hand-carved desk sits in a corner, covered with what seems to be hundreds of comics about her and her friends. The bed is perfectly made, covered in plushies of flowers, critters, and... her friends. There's a little shelf under the window, with trinkets - rocks, letters, postcards, buttons, junk, from...her friends.

Posters of her friends.

Even figurines.

Hand-painted. Hand-drawn. Handmade.

Hardly anything produced with the precision of a machine, just the 'care' of a person.

It's as if her entire room is a monument to herself. Her likes, her interests, and the people who made her the woman she is today.

It's all so warm, and so fuzzy. As if even the cracks in the wallpaper have only love inside them.

Yet another revolting piece of the disturbing puzzle that is Amy Rose's life.

Before it can attempt to throw up without a mouth, of course, Amy rushes in, carrying a massive bag full of pillows.

How she even fit it in the door is a mystery.

"Got 'em!" she grins, "They look so fluffy... But they're solid, too! Perfect for our battle!"

It only takes a moment for her to unzip the case and drag several of the ridiculously large pillows out handing one to Metal and hugging one tightly to herself.

She's right. The pillow metal holds has a weight to it, but is still... soft.

It's almost glad it was given the ability to feel outside of its chassis, just to be able to touch it... And know she wasn't lying.

"I bet you already know the rules - you can only hit the other persons with pillows, and whoever collapses first loses," she states, matter-of-factly, "...I'm ready as soon as you are."

This is it.

It knows she's been holding out on it. Being so utterly careful as to not harm it when they spar. But this? This is far different.

It can tell she won't hold back this time.

More than excited to see her true potential, it nods.

Determined, confident, and dangerous, she nods as well.

And thusly doth the fight begin.

The start is deeply awkward, the two exchanging jabs more than blows as they attempt to figure out how they're even meant to do this.

Even with Amy's significantly deeper knowledge on the rules of sleepovers, she's never pillow-fought with someone who she could afford to be rough with... or went to any sleepovers in the last few years, truly.

And Metal...

Everything holds it back, and propels it forward.

It must destroy her, be better than her - better than Sonic and all of his friends. But.

She is squishy, and soft, and malleable. But behind that exterior is an intense strength. One that would certainly benefit the Eggman Empire.

Perhaps, instead of breaking her, it should temper her. Mold her into a perfect soldier.

So that they may continue sparring, even after its creator finally wins...

With its reasoning finally sound, it begins attacking her with more fervor, and she responds in kind.

They exchange blows, her wielding hers like a hammer, it acting as if its is a knife. Precise, stabbing motions against heavier, harder ones.

Quickly entering her spin mode, she falls back, hitting the bag with the rest of the pillows. She grabs another one, and throws it, hard.

With its superior reaction skills, it dodges, barely. There's a dull thud as the rogue pillow collides with the ceiling lamp which swings dangerously above them, but two are so pumped up on adrenaline they hardly notice.

With its guard down, she attempts to rush it- but it manages to slip her up by sliding below her and grabbing hold of her leg.

Shocked, she forgets the pillow-only rule and kicks its carapace with enough force to knock it onto its back.

She stands over it, pushing it down then whaling on it, holding nothing back in her rampage. From her point of view, she might as well have already won...

But it has a plan.

The intense amount of force she exerts in hitting it is causing it to get pushed backward. Now, it simply has to wait for her to push it to the edge of the bed, and then-

It 'raises' its arms-

She raises hers-

and

The pillows

explode

upon contact.

There is a moment of agonizing (terrifying) still, where the only noise is the hardly-audible flow of feathers in the currents caused by the carnage, then,

Amy laughs.

Her laugh is light, and warmth, and everything good, and it's so sharp and clear and wonderful it shocks Metal from fear into sheer disbelief.

It can't help but listen. Her laughter fills the room, and each curve in the walls and ceiling do nothing but amplify it, make it so that's all it can hear, all it can think about.

Sitting under her, looking up at her, it feels... a little funny.

And, even though it's probably going to hate itself for this not too long from now, it 'breathes' in.

And 'laughs' with her.

It took almost an hour to clean up, and by that time the sun was already beginning to set.

Now, the two slowly make what will be Metal's bed for the night - a large, soft matress, covered in the pillows they avoided tearing to shreads.

Metal puts covers on each of the pillows, while Amy looks through her down blankets, trying to assuage which may be the most comfortable (and durable) for it.

This day has been remarkably odd for the both of them, to say the least.

But, perhaps not every oddity or abnormality is one that absolutely must be crushed under Metal's heel.

...Yes.

It can say, for absolute certain, that this one should be allowed to flourish.

[doctorhelena]

Steggy Fic: Teach My Feet to Fly, Chapter 4/14

Summary: Peggy Carter, a world class ice hockey player learning to figure skate as part of a Canadian reality show, has an iron-clad rule about never, ever dating a teammate. Which means that she’ll simply have to get over the ridiculous attraction she has to her new figure skating partner, Steve Rogers.

Note: This story is complete, and has 14 chapters in total. New chapters are posted weekly on Fridays.

It’s also a very long-delayed thank you gift fic for the lovely @teaandatale!

Rating: PG

Read Chapter 4

Read from the beginning

Excerpt:

Toronto, Canada Battle of the Blades, Week 2 Second Week of Training (Wednesday)

Stepping into a skating rink had always felt a little like coming home to Peggy. The instantly recognizable smell of the ice, the familiar sounds of blades scraping and ice chips flying, the chilled air, the boards and the benches and the timers - it had all given her a sense of connection that had sometimes been difficult to find in a childhood spent moving countries every few years. 

Still, she had to say that she was starting to feel a little too familiar with the surface of the ice in this particular rink. 

Learning to spin, as it turned out, was every bit as frustrating as mastering the toe pick had been - and the worst of it was that although she was attempting the most basic of beginner spins and also not rotating nearly as quickly, nor for as long as any figure skater actually would in competition, she still couldn’t stay on her feet.

“Don’t ballet dancers have a trick for this?” she grumbled as she staggered towards the closest player bench, somehow managing to stay upright until she was able to reach and clutch onto the boards.

“Yep,” Phillips told her. “But unfortunately for you, skaters spin a hell of a lot faster than dancers do, so it doesn't work for us.” He peered at her. “You’re not going to throw up, are you?”

Peggy sighed. “No, just dizzy.” She wasn’t particularly prone to motion sickness, but unfortunately that didn’t help her keep her balance when the world was tilting wildly around her. 

“Good,” said Phillips approvingly, making a note on his clipboard. “Unlikely to hurl,” she imagined him writing, and grinned despite herself.

Steve skated over to lean companionably against the boards next to her. “You have to really try not to focus on anything while you're spinning,” he told her quite unnecessarily, given that she'd already been trying. “It just makes it worse.”

Peggy glared at him - or tried her best to, considering that there currently appeared to be two of him. “I know. But blurring my eyes clearly doesn’t help either, so perhaps you could convince my inner ears to cooperate.” 

She could feel the heat radiating from Steve's arm despite the small gap between them, a pleasant tingle of awareness travelling through her own arm and all the way down her spine despite her best efforts to ignore it. How on earth did he always manage to smell so good even in the middle of a training session? Despite her irritation, she suddenly wanted very badly to bury her face in the solid bulk of his chest until the last of the vertigo had faded - which would be a terrible idea, for very good reasons that she was simply far too dizzy to remember at the moment.

“Uh, Peg,” Rose said from behind her, amused, and Peggy realized with a start that she’d been staring at Steve again - although, to be fair, she told herself reasonably, he was a nearby stationary object. Rose, though, was looking between the two of them with undisguised interest, and Peggy’s face felt suddenly even hotter than it had from all the spinning. What on earth was wrong with her?

Read the rest of the chapter on A03