#NTTF theories
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its me again hi @inthedayswhenlandswerefew
so i was thinking about my mental suspect list (as one does) dale, brad, trent, âŠdadtini and while so far I was trying to avoid really entertaining the idea of dadtini being the real culprit... lets be honest, out of all the names dadtini WOULD BE the most devastating, ...so knowing you its probably gonna be him lmao đđđ€§
(cant get the repeated use of âhe likes to stay busyâ out of my head and the murders started up around the time he retired and appletini took over the clinic like⊠+ all the other stuff thats been mentioned befoređ)
so anyway as i was contemplating all this i just had a realization: IF dadtini really killed jesse for all the shit he had been putting momtini throuhg back then⊠THEN WHAT IF now hes gonna kill aegon too for all the shit that hes been putting appletini through⊠thus coming full circle on all those aegon - jesse parallelsđđđđđđđ€§đ€§đ€§
#and now ive made myself sadđđ€§#no cos the aegon-jesse parellels are god tier#yk in an absolutely devastating way#but also theres so many parelles now and who knows when/where they will end#and when aegon said hopefully hell get a happier ending than romeođđ€§#MY POOR BOY IS IN THE WRONG STORY IF HE WANTS A HAPPY ENDING#lmao can you tell im mentally preparing for the worstđđ€§âđ»#NTTF#nttf theories#*parallels#lol i really cant spell parallel huhđđ
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North To The Future [Chapter 5: Sabotage]
The year is 1999. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your lifeâŠbut can you help it? Oh, and thereâs a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.
A/N: With the completion of Chapter 5, we are officially 1/3 of the way done with this fic series! In my opinion, things start to get really interesting in Chapter 6 so I am sooooo excited to have reached this little milestone. Thank you so so so much for reading and for your enthusiasm, questions, rants, analyses, theories, memes, and general emotional investment in NTTF. I go back to re-read your comments/tags ALL the time and they help keep me motivated to get new chapters out asap. đ„°đ
Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, veterinary medicine, discussions of sex, questionable decisions, Kimmie-related chaos, Trent flexing his athletic skills.
Word count:Â 5.6k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
Taglist: @elsolarioâ @meadowofsinfulthoughtsâ @ladylannisterxoâ @doingfondueâ @tcleganeâ @quartzs-postsâ @liathelionessâ @aemcndtargaryenâ @thelittleswanao3â @burningcoffeetimetravelâ @b1gb3anzâ @hinata7346â @poohxloveâ @borikenloveâ @myspotofcrazinessâ @travelingmypassionâ @graykageyamaâ @skythighsâ @lauraneedstochillâ @darlingimafangirlâ @charenlieâ @thewewâ @eddies-bat-tattoosâ @minttea07âââ
Please let me know if youâd like to be added to the taglist! đ
Itâs November 29th, the Monday after Thanksgiving. Itâs also your lunch hour.
You yank open the glass front door of Caribou Crossings, the souvenir shop where Heather works. Itâs mostly abandoned now that tourist season has ended, and the unloved relics stare at you with cold, oddly sentient eyes: the owls carved out of cedar wood, bears carved out of jade, Russian dolls, miniature totem poles, plushie salmons. You climb over the counter and sit on the floor behind the cash register, your back pressed to the wall and your arms linked around your knees. Heather is breaking open rolls of coins to restock the register, probably unnecessarily; you are the only two people in the store.
She asks, wrestling to get quarters out of a particularly stubborn wrapper: âHowâs it going?â
âNot great.â
âHave you fucked British Kurt Cobain yet?â
âWeâre not speaking.â
She puts down the roll of quarters and looks at you. âWhat happened?â
You shrug, trying to act casual, trying to not let your voice crack. You donât think thereâs any threat of tears; youâve cried so much in the past four days that you seem to be out of them. Your eyes are perpetually pinkish, puffy, exhausted. Despite your herculean efforts to remain hydrated, you have a constant low-grade tension headache that throbs like a bruise, misery trapped beneath the skin like blue-violet blood. âItâs a long story. He came over for Thanksgiving dinner.â
âOkay.â Heather is perplexed. âAnd then he, what, drunkenly dropped the turkey on the floor? Tried to hook up with your mom? Offered to show you his collection of murder supplies?â
You smile wearily. âNo. I told him that he had to get sober. And he freaked out, he was yelling, he was saying I donât have any right to try to control him because heâs not mine and never will be. He said I was trying to use him to bail myself out of my spineless, unfulfilling life.â
She scoffs. âWell thatâs not true.â Then she observes your face. âIs itâŠ?â
You shrug again, feeling like youâre back in high school, petulant and powerless. âThere are a lot of things I want to experience, a lot of places I want to go. But I havenât done anything yet. Because I canât tell my parents that I donât want to stay in Juneau forever and run the vet clinic.â
This must shock Heather, but she doesnât show it. âI canât imagine that they would want you to stay if it made you unhappy.â
âNo, they wouldnât try to stop me. But it would break their hearts.â
There is a long, uneasy silence. At last, Heather says: âI think you should come to Ursa Minor tonight.â
âI donât want to see Aegon.â
âI mean, Dale would probably kick him out if we asked.â
âNo!â you shout, too quickly. If he doesnât have his preferred place to drink his demons away, he might leave Juneau long before the six month deadline.
Heather raises an eyebrow. âDo you want to see him or do you not want to see him?â
You glower at the wall strewn with large, framed photographs of the Northern Lights. âI want him to apologize.â
âI have many talents, but I canât make that happen for you,â she says. âLook, is it possible that Aegon will be at Ursa Minor? Yeah, totally. But other people are going to be there too. Me, and Joyce, and Kimmie, and Trent and all his dimwitted muscley friendsâŠthere are going to be people who care about you. There are going to be people who can help you through this. We can comfort you. We can distract you. We can curb stomp that Greek boy in the parking lot if he doesnât behave himself. There are a lot of options.â
Lyrics from The Distance, unexpected and unwelcome, spin around in your mind like a vinyl record: Sheâs hoping in time that her memories will fade. âIâll think about it.â
âCan I interest you in a complementary Juneau-themed trinket? Glacial mud mask? Moose nuggets? Birch syrup? A slightly sinister-looking stuffed salmon?â
âNo. Iâm good.â
Heather asks with a straight face: âDo you want me to kill him?â
You laugh, your first real laugh since Thanksgiving. âNo, thank you very much, but no.â
âSeriously. I could make it look like the Ice Fisher did it. No one would ever know.â
You gaze up at her from where you sit on the floor. âI love you.â
âI know, bitch.â Heather grins. âWear something slutty this time.â
~~~~~~~~~~
Youâve spent a lot of time in your bedroom since Thanksgiving; you donât want your parents to see you upset. They know something, of course, but they donât interrogate you. They donât intrude. They probably assume that youâve broken up with Aegonânot that we were ever dating to begin with, you think sullenlyâand, furthermore, that this is a painful yet indisputably wise course of action. It is a productive sort of pain, a necessary pain; it is like the deep maroon ache of a healing bone. It hurts less now than it would if you had stayed with him, married him, had children with him, attempted to build a life with him like a sandcastle razed again and again at high tide. It hurts less than if you had let yourself fall in love with him.
Oh, but didnât I?
Alaska was purchased from Russia in 1867, just two years after the American Civil War ended, and was soon widely regarded by the still-recovering nation as a hopelessly remote and burdensome error. This impression was reversed only by the discovery of gold and the subsequent mass migration of miners to the territory beginning in the 1890s. After the booming gold industry came fishing and logging and oil and military bases, but gold was Alaskaâs first saving grace. This is what you are thinking as you pencil on your black eyeliner, dust your eyelids with sheer gold glitter, paint your lips a vivid, glossy crimson. You stare at your reflection in the bedroom mirror, surrounded by photographs of your family and your friends, high school and college and vet school. Thereâs one image that doesnât quite belong. Itâs a cutout from one of those infinite travel magazines, a Ford Mustang convertible soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California. The man behind the wheelâtan, beaming, carefreeâis wearing sunglasses and a neon green tank top. The convertible is bright red; it is nearly the same shade as your lips.
You slip into a dress you havenât worn in years: black, short, off-the-shoulder sleeves. Ever-practical, you opt for black boots instead of heels. When you arrive at Ursa Minor, Heather is wearing a sequined hot pink tube top and white leather pants. Joyce is wearingâto Heatherâs abject horrorâoveralls, a rainbow striped T-shirt, and a massive mustard yellow scarf that nearly swallows her into oblivion. By a pure and unfortunate coincidence, you and Aegon match. He is sitting at the bar in all black: black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, black combat boots, black sleepless shadows under both of his eyes, a black mood that sweats out of his pores like a fever. Randomly, you remember the gold chain necklace he was wearing on Thanksgiving. It didnât look fake, and it didnât look cheap. To your knowledge, it is the only thing of significant value that he owns. It is a peculiar luxury for him to possess.
So what? Maybe he stole it. Maybe he traded drugs for it. Maybe he got it off a corpse that he strangled and then sank into cold, silent darkness beneath an ice-covered lake.
But no, you donât believe that. You never did, and you still donât.
Heather slurps down her Sex On The Beach. âIs this your revenge dress? Are you invoking the spirit of Princess Diana in this fine establishment tonight?â
You gaze miserably at Aegon. He is peering down into the caramel-colored bubbles of his rum and Coke. The stereo is playing Shania Twainâs Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under? âHe told me heâs an awful person. Thatâs the worst part. Like he told me over and over again exactly what to expect and I didnât believe him, because I was justâŠjustâŠI donât know.â Infatuated. In love. Blind. NaĂŻve. Hopeful. âStupid, I guess.â
âI hate men.â Heather glances to the bar. âExcept Dale, heâs okay.â
âThe fictional ones arenât all bad,â Joyce says, flipping a page in her newest fantasy novel. This one has a pirate on the front, his billowing white shirt mostly unbuttoned and his long hair flowing in the wind like a heroâs cape.
âIâve had a horrendous fucking day,â you moan. âThereâs the Aegon thing, thereâs the Iâm never going to get out of Alaska thing, thereâs the Iâm going to die alone thing, and then on top of all that, I had to euthanize Ms. Rulandâs cat right before we closed.â
âSylvester Stallone?!â Heather cries. âSylvester died? That black and white homicidal little maniac? With the super long whiskers? Jesus, thatâs tragic. Iâm sorry.â
âIn all fairness, he was like a gazillion years old. He probably remembered when dinosaurs roamed America. But it was still awful. Ms. Ruland was a mess. I felt totally unprepared, totally useless. Iâd practiced in vet school, of course, but Iâd never euthanized an animal I knew before. It was horrible trying to comfort Ms. Ruland. It was horrible seeing someone walk into the clinic with someone they loved and then walk out alone.â
Heather and Joyce nod with sad, sympathetic eyes, wanting to help but not knowing what else to say. You gulp down your pineapple-flavored Bacardi Breezer. Aegon must have complained about the Shania Twain music; Dale switches out the CD and the opening notes of Sabotage by the Beastie Boys rockets out of the stereo.
Kimmie throws open the front door and blusters into Ursa Minor, shaking the snowflakes out of her hair and wearing a sleek, skin-tight, metallic silver dress and matching platform heels. She looks like a disco ball; she looks like a mirror. She canters to the bar like a racehorse and orders herself a Miller Lite. She says something to Aegon. He mumbles back, still peering into his rum and Coke. She tries again. He shrugs and downs the rest of his drink. He glances at youâalmost glaring, almost sadâand then orders another rum and Coke.
âOh no,â Heather mutters. âOh no, oh no, Kimmie, no.â
The front door opens again, and Trent and his friends spill inside in a loud, riotous swarm. They order beers at the barâTrent fist-bumping Aegon, several of the other guys descending upon Kimmie to make bungling attempts at seductionâand then they migrate over to the pool table like a honking, brainless flock of geese. Trent breaks off to make a pit stop at your booth.
âHi,â he says, smiling as he sips his Heineken.
âHi,â you reply. Heather and Joyceâs eyes dart between you and Trent.
He points to the spot beside you, which is presently vacant. âDo you mind if I hang out for a while?â
âI think youâll regret it. I am currently extremely depressed and boring.â
To your surprise, Trent doesnât act like a dumbass. His voice goes gentle. His face collapses into soft, attentive pity. âWhatâs there to be depressed about?â
Well, you see, I accidentally fell in love with your maybe-murderer alcoholic homeless friend and in a completely unforeseeable turn of events he ruined my life. âI had to euthanize a cat today.â
âOh, that sucks,â Trent says. âIâm sorry.â
âItâs my job. I should get over it.â
âNo, seriously, Iâm sorry.â Trent tosses his hair off his forehead in his patented horse-like maneuver, and then his gaze comes back to you. âYour job is to help animals, so I get that not being able to fix one would be really tough. But I know youâre still great at your job. I know you did everything you could.â
You stare up at Trent. Heather stares up at Trent. Joyce, having completely forgotten about her fantasy novel (a rare occurrence), stares up at Trent. Trent swallows a mouthful of Heineken; stray beads of it drip down his full lips and stubbled chin.
I couldnât fix the cat. I couldnât fix Aegon. I canât fix myself.
âYou can hang out if you want to,â you tell Trent, scooting over to give him space. He grins and slides into the booth, tall and broad-shouldered and tossing his hair around again, looking like goddamn Seabiscuit. You steal a glimpse of the bar. Aegonâs jaw has fallen open; heâs gaping at you with scandalized disbelief, with something like horror. You move a little closer to Trent. And Aegon, at last, turns his attention to the dramatic, irritating, captivating Kimberly Barbieri.
âSo, Trent,â Heather begins slowly, apprehensively, then picks up steam. Beside her, Joyce picks up her book. âHow is the salmon genocide business going?â
As you half-listen to Trent talk about fishing, which somehowâas all topics seem to do with himâleads back to football and his high school glory days, you drink your Bacardi Breezer and watch Aegon with sharp, narrowed eyes. He has relocated to the barstool next to Kimmie. He appears to be asking her questionsâtentative, stilted questionsâand she replies with animated laughter and calculated little touches: her fingertips grazing his wrist, her palm briefly pressed to his shoulder. You hate the way Aegon talks with his hands, those gestures which had been becoming so familiar to you. They put an ache in your chest like a nest of barbed wire.
âBro!â one of Trentâs friends is calling from the pool table. Others are waving encouragingly. âBro, come play! Come play! Broooooo!â
âLooks like youâre being summoned,â Heather says.
âOh, wow, I guess so.â Trent turns to you, nervous. âDo youâŠuhâŠwould youâŠmaybeâŠlike to join me?â
âWhat, playing pool?â
âYeah.â
You try to consider this in earnest; your mind is so tangled up in Kimmie and Aegon and everything thatâs transpired over the past week that the words barely sound like English. Playing. Pool. With Trent. âI donât think I know how.â
âIâll teach you,â he offers, quite willingly.
âOkay, maybe. Give me a few minutes, I need another drink first.â
âWant me to grab a Bacardi Breezer for you?â
âThanks, but Iâll do it. I havenât decided which flavor I want next yet.â
âCool,â Trent says. He slips out of the booth and gives you one final, mock-stern, smiling warning. âRemember, Iâm going to teach you how to play. Meet me at the pool table. Donât forget. Donât disappear.â
âIâll be there,â you promise. He departs. You say to Heather: âI probably wonât be there.â
âWhy not?â Heather asks. âYouâre hot. Youâll be even hotter when youâre bent over a pool table lining up your shots. The Greek boy is already sad, but I want to see him devastated.â
âI donât think I have that power.â
Heather smirks and wiggles her slender eyebrows. âI disagree.â
Across Ursa Minor, Kimmie leaps off her barstool and leaves Aegon to guzzle his rum and Coke in peace. She approaches your booth sheepishly, like a dog that knows heâs chewed a considerable hole in his ownerâs favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. âSo,â Kimmie says to you, nervously kneading her glass bottle of Miller Lite. Sheâs so fucking cool, you think mournfully. Cool girls drink beer, cool girls are lighthearted and fun, cool girls donât take guys too seriously, cool girls never ask about the future. âYou and Aegon.â
You drink the last of your Bacardi Breezer moodily. âWhat about us?â
âYou arenâtâŠlikeâŠtogether, are you?â
âNo. No way. Iâd rather date O.J. Simpson.â
âWellâŠâ Heather begins, and you kick her under the table. Bitch! she mouths, rubbing her shin.
âOkay,â Kimmie sighs in relief, a smile breaking across her face. The Christmas lights reflect off her silver dress; she glows, she radiates. âGood. I was hoping he wasnât off-limits, but I wanted to check with you first. You know, in accordance with Girl Code.â
âHow courteous,â you note.
Kimmie marvels dreamily: âHe looked so freaking good strumming that guitar.â
âUm, KimmieâŠâ Heather begins again. You glare at her ferociously. Heather pivots. âHeâs probably the Ice Fisher, so you should keep your distance.â
Kimmie laughs. âAegon? The Ice Fisher?! I donât think so. You have to be sober to meticulously kidnap and murder people. Besides, from what Iâve heard heâs slept his way through like half the souvenir shop cashiers, and none of them ended up dead.â
You stare down at the table despondently. Heather, floundering, puts her fist through the figurative In Case Of Emergency Break Glass box. âHe has syphilis.â
Kimmie gasps. âReally?!â
Heather deflates. âNo. Well, actually, I donât know. Maybe. Itâs certainly possible. We should assume the worst.â
Kimmie, for once fully in on the joke, winks. âIâll let you know once Iâve investigated.â She strolls back to the bar in her short mirrorball dress, shimmering and lithe like a snakeâs skin.
âTo be clear,â Heather tells you. âI was not in the half of the souvenir shop cashiers that Aegon boned.â
âGreat. Thanks.â
âWhy didnât you say anything?! Why didnât you tell her thatâŠthatâŠ?!â
âThat what?â you snap. âShe asked if weâre together. Weâre not. We never were. He made that crystal clear. And if heâs not going to get sober, Iâm not going to get involved with someone like that.â Someone like Jesse. Someone like the man my mom still carries scars and bruises from, not in the flesh but in the soul.
âButâŠbutâŠâ Heather frowns at you with pained, condoling eyes. âYouâŠyou love him. Donât you? You look like you love him. You lookâŠand I mean this in the most compassionate way possibleâŠyou look fucking terrible. You look like someone died, and Iâm not talking about Sylvester Stallone the geriatric cat. Joyce?â
Joyce gives you an evaluative glance. âYeah, you look terrible.â
At the bar, Kimmie is leaning all over Aegon and giggling about a story heâs telling. His hands move in dramatic, expressive gestures. He is, for the first time tonight, smiling. Thereâs a jolt like knuckles jabbed beneath your ribs. Thereâs a profound, inky despair. Kimmie grabs Aegonâs handâhe has callouses on his fingertips, you think randomlyâand leads him over to the pool table. As soon as they have vacated the area, Heather drags you to the bar.
âDale?â she says. âMy good bitch needs a Bacardi Breezer. Maybe two Bacardi Breezers. Maybe three. I think Iâll be driving her home tonight.â She turns to you. âWhat flavors do you want?â
âApple,â you reply morosely.
âOkay, one apple, what about the rest?â
âAll apple.â
âGoddamn, you really are fucked up about this. Dale, three apple Bacardi Breezers, please.â
He lines them up on the counter. Heather sits with you as you drink them one after the other, gradually feeling warm again, feeling a little lighter. When you peek back at the booth, Rob has appeared there and is discussingâpolitely this timeâthe plot of Joyceâs fantasy novel with her. She looks almost vaguely interested in his existence.
âHey Dale,â Heather prompts. âWhatâs the secret to everlasting love?â
Dale chuckles huskily and runs a hand over his thick, wiry beard. âYouâre asking the wrong person. My wife ran off with a cruise ship singer, remember?â
âOh yeah,â Heather says apologetically. That was around six months ago, at the start of tourist season; the guy was an Elvis impersonator. âMy bad.â
âDonât worry about it. Iâm better off, I think. Now I donât have to pretend to like her soap operas anymore. Or her tuna casserole.â He guffaws and ambles away to serve a pair of middle-aged locals seated at the other end of the bar.
When youâve finished your last Bacardi Breezer, Heather slaps your shoulder encouragingly. âAlright, you ready?â
âYup,â you say, swaying a little as you hop off the barstool. You stumble and bump into Heather, laughing. She steadies you with a massive grin. Sheâs delighted; sheâs relieved.
âGood. Now get your ass over to the pool table and do your best impression of Demi Moore in Striptease.â
You have no intention of doing that. But you doâwith Heatherâs stabilizing grip on your waistâmake your way to the pool table. There is a crowd pulsing around it: Trent, Trentâs assorted jock friends, Aegon, Kimmie. Aegon is standing in the background and nursing hisâfourth? fifth? tenth?ârum and Coke. His face is vague and his eyes groggy. Still, he is beautiful. Heâs so beautiful you almost blurt it out before stopping yourself. Kimmie is lining up a shot to break the balls out of their triangular configuration. Her silver hoop earrings glint under the Christmas lights. She is covered in male gazes like the sheen of ice on a lake. The white cue ball collides with the pyramid-shaped conglomeration; the balls go flying in every direction. The solid green ballânumber 6âdisappears into a pocket.
âBooyah!â Kimmie cheers. There are claps and whistles. Aegon just stares blankly, gnawing on his lower lip, that chronically disobedient lock of hair resting on his cheek.
âYouâre majorly talented,â Trentâs friend Gary swoons. Kimmie bats her eyelashes at him and then checks to see if Aegon noticed. He didnât. Kimmie, flustered but trying to hide it, takes another turn but doesnât manage to sink a single ball.
âHey!â Trent welcomes you warmly. He slings an arm across your shoulders, which ordinarily you would shy away from. Now, you lean into him, your body melding with his, your muscles loose and sinuous. Aegon does notice this. His eyes are a dark, dangerous blue: riptides, maelstroms, trenches miles deep. Good, you think. Maybe I can get him jealous enough to reconsider. Maybe I can make him want to change. âWant to shoot for me? Iâll show you how.â
You smile up at Trent. âYeah. Letâs do it.â
He passes you a cue stick with large, rugged hands. âSo youâll need one of theseâŠand then you have to chalk itâŠâ He presses a tiny blue cube into your palm. You rub chalk onto the tip of the cue stick, feeling ridiculous.
âAnd whatâs the purpose of this part? Superstition? To give me false confidence?â
Trent chuckles. âTo help the stick get better contact with the cue ball.â
âSo youâre an expert, huh?â
âI am athletically gifted.â
âDoes pool count as a sport? Iâm skeptical.â
âPay attention,â he teases, flipping his hair out of his face. Seabiscuit strikes again. âNow Kimmie sunk a solid ball, so the solids are all hers. Ours are the striped ones. If we can sink all the striped ones before Kimmie sinks all the solid ones, we win. And you donât want to sink the black 8 ball until all our balls are already gone. Thatâs the very last step.â
âSink striped balls. Donât sink solid balls or the 8 ball. Okay. Got it.â You take aim, your sights set on the striped blue ball, number 10. This is somewhat difficult; thanks to your plentiful Bacardi Breezers, the pool table feels like itâs listing like a ship. The tapered shaft of the stick is balanced awkwardly on the back of your hand. âAm I doing this rightâŠ?â
âHere,â Trent says, and then he gets to work repositioning you. He touches you without asking, which you donât object to under the circumstances; Aegonâs face is flushing a gory, wrathful red. Trent spreads your fingers farther apart, adjusts the angle of your elbow, pushes you between the shoulder blades to lean a bit lower over the pool table. The hem of your black dress creeps up your bare thighs, fluttering like a whisper. Aegon aggressively chugs the rest of his rum and Coke, the ice cubes clanging in the glass.
You take your shot, and the white cue ball whizzes across the pool table. It ploughs into the number 10 ball and sends it down into the abyss-like pocket closest to where Aegon stands.
âYes!â Trent roars. He swoops in, picks you up with startling ease, whirls you around once before setting your unsteady feet back down on the floor and accepting thunderous back-slapping from his hoard of friends.
âWow,â Heather murmurs, mostly to herself.
âUgh, you whore!â Kimmie jeers, but sheâs clapping and giggling too. Sheâs still the main character tonight, and she always will be, and she knows this like she knows the lines in her own palms. Sheâs just that kind of girl.
âAnother round, another round!â Trentâs friends are chanting, and then they stampede together off to the bar to procure more beer. Kimmie, tottering in her silvery platform heels, moves to join them.
Abruptly, Aegon catches Kimmieâs forearm and pulls her to him. He whispers in her ear; her eyes go wide, her breath hitches, her glossy lips split into an exhilarated smile. And then they dash out of Ursa Minor together, stopping just long enough to grab their parkas off the coatrack by the door. Theyâre gone. Theyâre both gone.
You sputter to Heather: âWhatâŠ? HowâŠ? No, they canât! They canâtâ!â
âWhat do you want me to do?!â she hisses back. âTackle them before they can make it off the premises? Tie Kimmie to a chair? Force her to take a vow of celibacy? You didnât tell her that he was off-limits when you had the chance. This is the consequence that we all have to live with.â
âOh my god.â The room is spiraling around you. You feel nauseous; you feel ice cold. He wasnât supposed to leave with her. He wasnât supposed toâŠ
âUh, are you okay?â Heather asks.
âNo,â you choke out. Aegon and Kimmie! Aegon and Kimmie!!! âI have to get out of here.â
âWell you canât drive home like thisââ
âI know. Iâll be back.â You push by her, snatch your parka off the coatrack, dive out into the starless, frigid night.
Thereâs no one in the parking lot, no one on the street. You make a hard left and walk with no particular plan down towards the harbor, your shaking hands jammed into your parka pockets, tears streaming down your face. The wind whips at you, howling and old, older than the creaking wooden planks of the dock beneath your boots, older than all of humanity. You pass bobbing sailboats and fishing vessels until you come to the end of the pier, sit there cross-legged and sobbing, gaze out through blurred vision over the Gastineau Channel. It separates mainland Juneau from Douglas Island, which beganâlike so much of Alaska didâas a gold mining settlement. You remember the sparkling gold eyeshadow that you applied in your bedroom just a few hours ago. You donât feel very valuable at the moment. You feel unworthy. You feel alone.
It is silent except for the waves and the wind. It is very dark; the sky is clouded, and the illuminations of Ursa Minor and the streetlights are faraway. When you hear the footsteps behind you on the pier, your stomach drops; theyâre too heavy to be Heatherâs or Joyceâs. But when you twist around, it is Trent that you see in the dim, shadowy light.
âHi,â he says, raising a hand. âHeather told me that you ran away.â
âHi. I guess I did.â
He hesitates, flips his hair, drops down beside you at the edge of the pier. âYou okay?â
You sigh heavily and swipe the tears from your cheeks. âYeah. Iâm just having a really bad day.â Like an absurdly, phenomenally, exponentially bad day.
âI know what thatâs like.â
I doubt it, Trent. I really do.
You sit there together in the quiet, watching the sparce light flick off the crests of waves, staring at the bright dots of houses and shops across the channel on Douglas Island. Trent puts his arm around you. You let him, andâpartially for the warmth, partially for the healing sensation of being desired, being cared forâlean your head against his chest.
After a very long time, you ask dully: âWhat do you like about working on a salmon boat?â Itâs almost enough to make you wince. Itâs the kind of pedestrian, unimaginative question that Aegon would make fun of. But Trent seems to consider it carefully.
âI like being outside,â he says. âI like the fresh air, I like the scenery. And I like how working with my hands helps me get all my frustrations out. Iâm a better person when I stay busy. Commercial fishing can be intense sometimes, donât get me wrong, thatâs why Iâm trying to get into the Forest Service. But I like it enough.â
âWhat do you like about me?â
You can hear the awe in his voice. âYouâre the smartest person Iâve ever met. There was a time when I didnât care so much about things like that. But now that Iâm older and Iâve started to think about settling downâŠI feel like youâre the right kind of girl to do that with.â
You look up at him. He beams down at you like a full moon. And then he kisses you. Heâs warm and strong and handsome in that obvious sort of way, but heâs something else, too: a little forceful, a little rough. Rough isnât always a bad thing. But itâs like you can glimpse the silhouette of someone else beneath the surface, stars veiled by clouds, the shadows of fish under ice. He doesnât feel anything like Aegon. He doesnât patch the wound that Aegon left in you at all.
I wonder where Aegon is right now. I wonder what heâs doing to Kimmie.
When Trent breaks the kiss, you tell him that you have to go. He walks you back to Ursa Minor, his mighty palm on the small of your back.
~~~~~~~~~~
Heather drives you home, shellshocked. She asks, in reference to your confession about the kiss on the pier: âSoâŠuhâŠdo you want to talk about it, orâŠ?â
âNo. Definitely not.â
âAre you and TrentâŠlikeâŠa thingâŠ?!â
âI donât know. He seems to think we are.â
âOh god, oh god, oh my god.â She rubs her forehead with one hand, her astonished eyes on the indigo-black horizon.
When you get home, your dad is already asleep. Your mom is straightening up the kitchen, wiping off countertops and scrubbing dishes in the bubble-filled sink. When you ask if she needs any help, she bursts out laughing.
âYouâre the one who looks like she needs help,â she says. âWhat happened at the bar?â
You grimace down at the floor. âA lot of things. A lot of things.â
âNothing you feel the desire to share?â
âNo. Not quite yet. Can you drive me back to pick up my Jeep tomorrow?â
âSure. Why donât you take a nice bubble bath and then go to bed?â she suggests. âYouâll feel better in the morning. Do you need a snack? I could make pancakes. Or a grilled cheese.â
âThatâs really kind of you, but no thanks, Mom.â Iâve completely lost my appetite.
You sulk in a bubble bath for a while, drag yourself out, brush your teeth and hair, try to rub the night off every part of you like smoothing rough edges off a gemstone. When you wander out into the hallway, your eyes catch on the door to the attic, a rectangular outline in the white ceiling. You are mostly sober by now, and yet still the idea that strikes you seems ludicrous at first. Itâs a muddled, disjointed thought. It might be a dangerous one.
If I can learn more about Jesse, maybe I can understand Aegon too.
The box of journals is up there, you know, dusty and untouched and waiting. The rope hangs invitingly. You pull the door open and unfold the ladder. You climb up into the attic, turn on the single naked lightbulb, and push aside bins of holiday decorations and family heirlooms until you find a small, unlabeled cardboard box thatâs sealed shut with duct table. You peel back the tape and peek inside the flaps. The box is filled with thin leather journals in a variety of colors: olive green, navy blue, rust red, earthen brown. You gather the cardboard box into your arms and carry it down to your bedroom, slipping it discretely beneath your bed to live beside childhood stuffed animals and mounds of old yearbooks. You close up the attic and then venture downstairs to get yourself some water to stave off a blossoming hangover.
Your mom is at the kitchen sink, washing a plate with a green Scotch-Brite sponge. âDid I hear you up in the attic, ladybug? Do you need help finding something?â
âNo, I got it.â
âOkay.â But she studies you, puzzled. Sheâs going to worry unless you explain.
âI donât want to make you talk about it,â you say. âAnd I donât want to upset you. Iâll never mention it again. But just so you know, I want to read the journals. For my own reasons. Thatâs why I was up in the attic. I was bringing the box down to my bedroom.â
âOh.â She freezes, stares out the window over the sink, goes vacant. âThat makes sense. Thatâs fine.â
âMom, are you alright?â
âOf course, ladybug.â There is nothing outside but night. You can see her reflection in the glass like a mirror. Long, slow seconds tick by. âIt seemed like he was getting better,â your mom says, her voice faint and weightless, an untethered balloon, a feather on waves. âThatâs the strange part. At the very end, it seemed like he was getting better.â
Then she lets the plate sink beneath the pearlescent bubbles, wipes her hands dry on a dishtowel, and goes to bed without another word.
#aegon ii targaryen#aegon targaryen#aegon ii#aegon x you#aegon targaryen x reader#aegon targaryen x you#aegon targaryen ii#hotd fanfic#aegon x y/n#aegon x reader#aegon targaryen ii x reader#aegon targaryen ii x you
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@inthedayswhenlandswerefew Maggiiiiie listen, i know you can't answer, but I was just doing some rereading and realized
I was waxing poetic about how dadtini was ready to gut trent here, but he wouldn't hurt Jesse cos it would hurt momtini and appletini
all the while conveniently looking past the line that says he sounds exactly like when he was talking about jesseđđđ
you know I think Dale is dirty, and well, as much as I don't wanna believe it, dadtini could very well be as well..
so there's no way Dale is innocent, but dadtini is also sus... SO WHAT IF IT'S BOTH OF THEM?! đđđ
maybe dadtini killed Jesse and Dale saw that and now he's killing people in a similar fashion, orrr they teamed up and there's not one, but TWO Ice Fishersđ
#or something along those lines#I just get the feeling we might find out who the ice fisher is#but then get bamboozled by the fact that there's another or that a certain death was in fact a murder but not by the same guy#I'm preparing myself for every doomsday scenario imaginableâđ»#NTTF#NTTF theories
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Another amazing chapter, I was... red to the face at the final scene between Aegon and Io, so so awkward but so hot. I really wasn't expecting that.
I really don't anything about that period of the Stats but it's "fun" to look up the events that you mention in the story and what actually happened. I don't believe it's going to end well for anyone but at least you give us dope music rec along the ride. Whether it's in 1968 or Napoleonville or NTTF, you always give good music to listing to. I had never listened to Phil Ochs but I'm now a big fan. And just like him, I appreciate the way sings to protest, to make statements and how it compares to Aemond. I love Aemond but damn he makes it hard to here. At least his drive and conviction are there but at some point, what's the price to pay ? Should the goal always justify the means ? I'm not sure.
On another note, I saw people speculating about a Titanic story, with Aegon as Jake. How much more must I suffer at your hands ? I don't know, but if this story ever happened, I will eat it up.
Have an amazing day and rest of the week !
"I don't believe it's going to end well for anyone" đ
I'm delighted that you're enjoying my retro song recs!! Each fic definitely has its own soundtrack in my mind. Here's To The State Of Mississippi was the first song I discovered by Phil Ochs and when I stumbled upon it I was like "what the heck??? this is a BOP" đ His discography is brilliant and still very relevant. He has quite the tragic personal story, sadly. He deserved better.
Me every time someone mentions the Titanic AU conspiracy theory:
Thank you for reading 1968, and I hope you enjoy Chapter 6 this Sunday! đ„°
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Maggie hiiiii
I saw you say there's still one big clue out there that we haven't found yet, and I took that personally, so I decided to join the troops in rereading (I'm 4 chapters in as of rn, but I think i found something đ)
sooo I don't know Dale's usual closing time & I'm not sure how long it'd take to find a victim, but in ch3 Dale was in a hurry to close up shop by 10pm and go home AND at the end of the chapter they find the next victim... coincidence? đđđ
... so I googled quickly and it takes like 2-4 days for a body to float up (if the FBI comes for me it's on youđ) so there goes my theory of him rushing to get to his murder appointment, BUT it's still sus! maybe he's already preparing the next vic, or he wanted to get home to see the late night news & check if they found his last vicđ€·đ»ââïž
anyway my suspicion of Dale just went UP even moređđđ
(also you know I already loved NTTF, but this reread felt like falling in love all over againđ„°đ)
xoxo aemcndtargaryen
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new nttf reader here! can i just say i love your writing? it's so fresh and original and good!! with chapter 9, i'm leaning into the theory that dale is the ice fisher. he was a park ranger, so he's fit and knows the area. his wife left him 6 months ago, which was when the killings started. he's around vince and debbie's age, meaning he probably knew jesse, who might have been his first ever victim. debbie did note that he was getting better before suddenly dying đ€
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I just got reading all of the chapters to your Aegon fic in one sitting and OMG. Itâs amazing. Not just the story (thatâs obviously great) but also the way you write it!
Also, I donât usually read fics and leave with different types of theories but I did while reading yours lol. I know all the signs are pointing to Trent but also⊠Iâm side eyeing the hell out of the dad. Jesse dying in a similar way, her father still being angry about it and the fact that heâs also restless. Idk Iâm just sayin I think the dad is hella sus.
Awwwwww, thank you so much!!!! đ„°đ„° I'm thrilled that you've enjoyed NTTF so far! And in ONE sitting?? That's a lot of emotions to process at once. đ I can't wait to show you where the series is going...I was SOOO worried that the ending would be too obvious but I'm delighted that there are so many different theories out there. I think I still have a few surprises in store for y'all. đ
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