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lazuli-bloom · 3 years

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Roses and Styx

Chapter 1 - An Inconvenient Attachment

Beetlejuice x Reader

Word Count : 5365

Sure life wasn’t always easy, it had it’s ups and downs, but you were doing alright for yourself. Mostly. However when you find a strange sight while on your lunch break one autumn afternoon, your life gets all the more unusual.

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The sun beat down on you, unobstructed by a single cloud in the vibrant blue sky. A pleasant breeze wafted by, chilling the heat of the sun’s kiss. Summer was in its death throes, but stayed determined to linger as long as possible. It gave an odd contrast to the scenery. The blazing warmth of a summer sun illuminating the turning leaves and tombstones on that early October afternoon.

You sat on a stone bench enjoying your lunch in the quiet peace of the graveyard. Most people avoided visits to the cemetery, not wanting to keep the company of the dead. You, however, frequented it. With few visitors and lovely Gothic inspired architecture, the cemetery made a relaxing place for lunch breaks. Plus, it was only a short walk from your job.

While there were benches throughout the graveyard, your favorite spot was one off in the corner and closest to the gate. That day, however, there had been a funeral held in that corner of the cemetery. So as not to impose, you picked a different bench to occupy. You tried to not let your gaze stay fixed on the graveside service, but the task proved to be easier said than done. The funeral repeatedly pulled your attention back to it by partly virtue of being an event you’ve rarely seen.

Many people, dressed in black, all focused on one grave. Most of the figures standing there were adults, but among the crowd were children clinging onto parents. The group was too far to get a proper look at any of the mourners, but there was one that stuck out. A man, slightly broad in build, wore a peculiar striped suit with wide vertical bars in black and white. You noted the clothing choice as strange, but tried not to judge. Perhaps he wasn’t able to get a solid black suit on short notice.

The strange pattern of the suit made it easy to pick him out against the other mourners. He didn’t stay still. He moved around, seeming to want to get other’s attention only to be ignored. The man’s bizarre actions, coupled with the indifference of the crowd, were major reasons you kept glancing back to the funeral.

You shake your head and check your phone, almost two o’clock. Time to head back to work. You grab your trash and get up with a stretch. With one last glance back to the funeral, you find the striped suit man looking back your way. You pay him no mind and check your phone once more before heading to leave.

To wring the most time and relaxation out of your lunch, you amble back to the hardware store. You turn to the next street where brick shops sat side by side. On the corner was a shop with a rounded, sun-faded green awning stretched over most of the front facade. Your eye glanced over the printed “Rose Creek Hardware” in yellow letters for what must have been the millionth time.

The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside. To your left an older mustached man stood behind the front counter. He wore a light blue button down under a green apron, both tight around his rounder stomach. He gave you a warm smile that you returned.

“Back from lunch already, Cass?”

“Yeah. It’s really nice out today, I can hardly believe it’s October already.”

“Hopefully, when I get the Halloween decorations up, it’ll give things a more autumn feel.”

“Can’t wait to see it, Mr. Turner! Oh, and is Sam still here? Or have they left already?”

“They’re still around. Sam was helping the new hire.”

You nod and make your way behind the counter to retrieve your apron. After you get the strings tied, you do a sweep of the store. You found Sam in the back corner pulling merchandise forward. They didn’t notice you straight away, so you softened your footsteps for your approach. You stayed at their back until they turned enough one way that you could slip around to their side and not get caught in Sam’s peripheral. Once close enough to the shelving yourself, you slap your hands down on a bare spot- “-Missed a spot!”

Sam seized up, grabbing the shelf for support. “Geez, dude! You trying to kill me?” A wide grin breaks across your face. You chuckle to yourself as Sam regained some composure. They took a breath, shot you a glare, and got back to work.

“Heard you were training the new guy.”

“Yeah, he left already.”

“What’s he like?”

“Eh. Kinda boring? White bread personified, if you ask me. Dude came in with a dress shirt and tie.”

You shrug and start helping pull forward items. While turning products to have labels front-facing you continue on with your conversation. “Sounds like all I’ll have left to talk to will be Mr. Turner.”

There was a pause in that moment, and a sting of sorrow poked at your heart. You do your best to smother the feeling and focus on your work. It’s better to cherish the moment. You force yourself to smile and keep your chat going.

“So, there was a funeral today-”

Sam groaned and rolled their eyes at you. “You went to that creepy graveyard again? How are you not haunted?”

“Hey! I told you, it’s close by and usually quiet. I enjoy taking my lunches there. Anyway, there was a funeral and one guy there was in a weird suit with black and white stripes. Kinda like the Hamburglar.”

“I swear. You’re a magnet for the weirdest shit. It’s all those shitty movies you watch that seep into your head. How the hell do you not get nightmares?”

You stay silent and look over the product in your hand as your mind wandered back to your most recent nightmare. Piercing blue dots masked in shadow, watching every move you made. You shake your head to dismiss the thought.

You huff out a small laugh. “Guess that stuff just doesn’t get to me.”

“Whatever. Just don’t let any of your weirdness rub off on my cat.”

You press your lips into a tight line and tap your finger against the pliers in hand. “You sure there isn’t anywhere else he can go?”

“Cassie, I already told you I checked.”

“I’m just worried. I don’t think this is a good idea. My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”

“It’s just for two weeks. I’ll pick him up on the sixteenth. Hell, that’s not even a full two weeks, just thirteen days. You’ll be fine.” Sam finished with their side of the aisle and took a step back. “When do you want me to drop him off?”

You breathe out through your nose and make a noise somewhere between a hum and a groan. “Seven should be alright. Donna’s always heads out to the bars on Saturdays, so it should be clear by then.”

“You need to lighten up and not worry so much. Maybe a cute roommate is exactly what you need.”

You don’t give a reply and go back to work. The two of you split off and start tackling other sections of the store. Time marched on, and all too soon, Sam’s last shift ended. Mr. Turner bid them a farewell with a handshake and handed Sam their last paycheck. You give them a small wave and focus back on your task. You knew full well you were going to see them later that night, so you didn’t see the point of having a drawn out goodbye right then.

Once Sam left, the rest of the day dragged on slower than a sloth on crutches. When there weren’t any customers needing help, you talked with Mr. Turner. It gave you something to do, sure, but time still crawled.

That day was one of the worst kinds you can have in retail. The kind that’s just slow enough you bored out of your mind, and peppered with enough customers that you couldn’t slack off and dick around on the store’s desktop. It’s like they coordinated to space themselves out to be the most annoying.

As grueling as it took to get there, five-thirty eventually rolled around. You and the boss took the last half hour to close the store. Sweep, wipe down the counters, count the till, all that good stuff. You were in the middle of dusting when Mr. Turner handed you an envelope. You thanked him and opened it to count the bills inside. Five whole Benjamins. With another thanks, you move the bills into your wallet and get back to dusting.

Once all finished, you headed out, followed by your boss. He locked the front door and walked with you around the side to the small parking lot. He hopped into his old pickup while you climbed into your little junker. The bucket of rust masquerading as a car was on its way out, but you planned on getting every mile out of it you could. Mr. Turner had driven off by the time you coaxed your car into starting. The car sputtered and hissed, but you got the clunker going.

The drive to your apartment complex was as mundane and silent as ever. Your only option for music was to sing it yourself, since the previous owner had beaten the hell out of the radio. CDs weren’t an option either as the owner before the last had stuffed the disc slot full of cookies. For what reason remained a mystery.

You drum your fingers on the steering wheel as you drove, watching familiar sites go by as you neared your apartment. Nicer well-kept buildings and streets slowly turned to the more rundown variety. The street grew more broken and in increasingly desperate need of repairs as you went.

Building after building, you passed by until finally it was time to turn off. You pull up to your complex’s parking lot, just as run down as the roads leading to it. Two buildings sat facing each other, both in contest for which one can be the most rundown. Your building nudged ahead of its twin with the recent addition of graffiti marring the exterior.

You park in your designated spot, managing to not bump up against the two cars encroaching on your space. You worm your way out without adding anymore dents to the black sedan, and head to the complex’s front door. Standing near the door with a cigarette between clawed yellowed fingers was a scrawny older woman with a perpetual sneer on her wrinkled face. Cold steel eyes narrowed at you as you dared to approach the harpy.

“Hi Donna. How are you?”

“Parker! Where’s the rest of your rent?”

You force a smile to mask the spike of irritation. This harpy is going to be the death of you. You clear your throat to help prevent your ire from bleeding out into your tone.

“Right here, Donna. I get my pay on Saturdays.”

“Not my problem. Rent is due in full on the first. Today is the third.”

“I tried paying you last Saturday, but you-”

“The first, you stupid child. Not Before. Not after.”

“Yes Donna, I know. I’m sorry, I needed to replace a flat tire an-.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. Just pay the rest of your rent and get out of my sight. You worthless leech, can’t even follow basic instructions.”

You press your lips into a tighter line to keep yourself from screaming at the horrid bat. It was best to bite your tongue and get the interaction over and done with as quick as you could. You pull out your wallet and hand over four bills. It was nice while it lasted.

Donna snatched the money from you and promptly counted it. Once satisfied, she took a long drag off her cigarette. She ordered you to leave while smoke seeped out of her mouth like a dragon.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You hurried off to your apartment, climbing the stairs to the second floor and making a beeline for your door at the end of the hall.

You shut the door, leaning against it and breathed out a deep breath. After calming yourself some, you set your keys on the counter by the door and step further into your little abode.

You make your way back to the small living room and crash on the dingy brown love-seat, tossing your phone onto the stained coffee table. You lean back and stare at the ceiling. A boring white painted over heavy popcorn texture, collecting all kinds of dust. You close your eyes and let your mind wander, wanting to squeeze some relaxation time out of the rest of the day. Too bad your phone rang.

Sam called to tell you they were on their way with the cat. You told them to be careful and not let Donna see them on the off chance that she hadn’t left for the bar yet. Sam, however, brushed aside your concerns and told you not to be so worried. You pinched the bridge of your nose and groaned at that. Sam wasn’t the one that had to deal with Donna and hopefully never will.

It wasn’t until a long while later that there was a knock at your front door. A quick check through the peephole showed you Sam was on the other side with a backpack and pet carrier. You open the door and hurry them inside. Sam stepped in, stopping in the space between the kitchen and living area, and looked over the place.

“Wow. This place is shitty.”

“Thanks, hadn’t noticed.”

Sam set the carrier down on your couch, and the cat inside growled in a low tone. Sam took off their backpack next and handed that one over to you.

“Here’s all of Rigel’s things; food, bowls, litter box, toys. I’ll be back in town to get the last of my stuff on the sixteenth, and I’ll pay you then.”

“I thought we agreed half now and half when you got back?”

“It’ll be easier to just pay you all at once.”

You drum your fingers on your thigh and let out a sigh. “Alright, fine. It will be nice to get two hundred dollars all at once.”

“See! You fuss over the smallest things.”

You change the topic by offering Sam something to drink but they declined. Sam still needed to pack up a few more boxes before the end of the night. You nod and give a small wave goodbye, only for Sam to pull you into a hug. Your muscles tense up, but you did your best to return Sam’s sudden hug.

There was a unique funk around Sam that made the hug even more challenging to bear. An overly strong lavender tried and failed to cover some mix of sweat and burnt coffee. Sam left shortly after, telling you to just call them should you need anything. You nodded and waved them off.

Once they left, you turn to Rigel stuck in his carrier. His hissing got louder the closer you got to the carrier, and was full on slashing at the front when you reached down to open it.

You recoil and let him be for the moment, choosing to set up his things in the bathroom instead. While your bathroom was on the smaller side, it seemed big enough for one cat to stay in. You pack up all the various toiletries that a bored cat might knock down and set out Rigel’s things. Litter box in the corner across from the shower stall, while his food and water were against the opposite wall between the door and the sink.

With that set up you go get the carrier. You did your best not to jostle it too much, but Rigel wasn’t pleased and let you know. He let out some of the most chilling demonic screeches as he knocked against the fabric carrier, desperate to break loose and slaughter you. You set the carrier down in the closet, closing one of the bi-fold doors so he had a dark corner to hide in. You braced yourself with a few steadying breaths before swiftly unzipping the front. Once open, you pull your hand back and leave the bathroom completely, making sure the door shut behind you.

You did your best to salvage the rest of your night, enjoying your cup of noodles while watching a movie. It was a B-Movie slasher about a supernatural being going on a killing spree in Las Vegas. And this somehow led to the being going to space in the next film. Overall, it was pretty cheesy, but got a few laughs from you.

Soon you had to wrap things up and head to bed. You sneak into the bathroom to swipe your toothbrush and clean them at the kitchen sink that night, and probably for the next two weeks. With a yawn and a stretch you change into sleepwear and crawl into your bed.

Sleep didn’t come to you easily, but it wasn’t a night full of endless tossing and turning, either. The rest you got didn’t feel like enough, as the buzzing of your alarm woke you too early for your liking.

You sat up rubbing your eyes and checked your phone for the time. The small screen on the back of the thin flip phone showed the time was seven o’ two. You heave out a sigh and pull the warm covers off.

While your body went through the motions of your morning routine, your mind wandered back to the images you saw in your dream. An island floated in the middle of a dark ocean with storm clouds rumbling high above. The cold wet sand pricked against your bare feet like needles, yet you kept on walking. You had found yourself on a rickety dock at least fifteen feet above the violent waves below. There was nothing around you, but you knew you weren’t alone. Down below, lurking beneath the water, two hungry orbs of blue glared up at you, waiting. Expecting. When you didn’t move from your perch, the beast thrashed at the pillars of the dock. You lost your footing and tumbled down to the abyss.

You shook your head, forcing your thoughts to jump back to the present. Chills ran down your spine as the nightmare crawled around in the back of your mind, clawing its way forward. You stuffed it as far back as possible and carried on with your morning.

You soon were out the door and on your way to work. You grip the toilet paper wrapped over your forearm, letting the lines of blood soak into it so it can better rest on your arm. Rigel had given you a few nasty scratches when you got him fresh water, the ungrateful bastard. At least there’s a first aid kit at work.

The bell above the door chimed as you looked at the time on your phone. The damn cat almost made you late for work. You make your way to the back room to grab your apron, only to bump into a man turning the corner. It took a second to get your bearings and notice you ran right into Mr. Turner.

“Oh shit. Sorry, sir.”

He laughed and waved you off. “Morning Cass, see you’re in a hurry.”

“Ah- no, well, kinda. I hit every red light getting here and-”

“You’re fine, don’t worry. No need to rush. Just get your apron and I’ll introduce you to the new guy.”

You nod and scurry back to grab the green apron. It hung by itself on the hooks, speckled in paint and smudges. By that point the thing was overdue to get tossed and replaced, but the same thing would end up happening to the next apron.

You throw it on and tie it behind yourself before going out to the sales floor. Mr. Turner stood next to a man younger than himself but older than you. The boss was the first to notice you and gave another wave. “There they are.”

The new guy turned and flashed you a wide smile, showing off straight white teeth in a hollow smile. Tamping down the disquiet, you force yourself to offer a smile in return. The man strode up to you and held out a hand. “Great to meet you, I’m Brandon! Mr. Turner was just telling me how great of a worker you are-” He squinted at your apron before going back to that fake smile- “Art. Interesting name.”

“Thanks,” you said, and hesitated a moment before taking his hand for a brief shake. On contact that strange buzz of discomfort shot from your palm through the rest of your arm. Once your hand was free, you fight the urge to rub off the non-existent traces of him. There wasn’t anything there, nothing real, and you knew that, but more than anything you wanted that feeling gone and the only way for it to leave was to brush it off. Why did people have to insist on handshakes, just needless physical contact with strangers? It’s stupid, and you hated it.

For the first half of your shift the boss had you go over the day-to-day tasks with Brandon. There were few customers in the store that Sunday morning, so you mostly had the guy pull forward merchandise and clean some shelves. Brandon did the tasks, but they all came with questions. Most of the questions were mundane things about the products stocked, store hours, and what times saw the most customers. The problem came when Brandon veered his questions towards you personally.

“So, is Art short for anything?”

“Artemis.”

Your answer was short and pointed. You already didn’t like that he was the type to read name tags over asking for someone’s name.

“Interesting. So you from around here?”

A shiver shot through you, and you’re quick to stop that line of questions. You ignore the question entirely, instead cutting in to tell him to finish front-facing the aisle while you go check on Mr. Turner.

The day dragged on until finally getting to your lunch break. Brandon, thankfully, caught on that you weren’t one to disclose much about yourself to a new face. However, that didn’t make the morning smooth sailing. You grab your lunch and speed off to the cemetery, eager to get a break from Brandon.

Your usual bench was free, and you took your place to enjoy lunch. Munching on your meal, you take in the sights, finding a serenity in the quiet. The sun shined brightly, causing some of the glossier headstones to reflect the rays. You hum to yourself and scan over the graveyard. To your surprise, you spotted someone in the far corner opposite you. Your brows furrowed, perplexed by the other. You watched the figure, curious of what they’re doing.

They wandered from gravestone to gravestone, kicking at the earth with hands stuffed into pockets. The build of the figure suggested a man, and one dressed in monochrome. You squint your eyes at them making sure you weren’t mistaken; but no, that was the same bizarre suit you saw a man wearing the day prior.

You keep your gaze fixed on him, wanting to figure out why he might be here a second day in a row visiting completely different graves. Did the man simply like to visit graveyards and have a limited wardrobe? If so, you didn’t want to comment on the matter out of fear of shattering the glass house.

You ate lunch with glances at the man. You wanted to piece together why he might be there. He wasn’t mourning; he moved from one grave to the next as if searching for something. The man in the weird suit went down one row of graves, heading away from you, only to hit the end and turn back for the next row.

You forced yourself to not look at him for fear of getting caught. But your curiosity burned, and you chanced a look up. He didn’t notice you, too engrossed in whatever he was doing. Embolden by that, you continue to munch away at your food and sneak glances at him. That is, until you swallowed wrong and went into a coughing fit.

You got your breathing under control a minute later and checked to see if he noticed. And oh boy, did he notice. The man was staring straight at you. It was awkward enough to get caught looking, but you noticed the man closing the gap between you two. He was still at the far end with well over two hundred feet between you, but you didn’t want to stick around and have that plummet to single digits.

Nope. You scoop up your belongings and speed-walk straight back to the store. You didn’t even chance a look behind you. Eyes forward and keep moving. You weren’t sure if he was actually still following; you didn’t hear any footsteps behind you. So that seemed like a good sign.

You blew past the door, bell violently chiming, and you made a beeline for the back. Your heart pounded against your ribs, wanting to break free and make a run for it. You take quick breaths, forcing the next to be longer than the last to get yourself to calm down. In the middle of collecting yourself, Mr. Turner walked into the back area with worry knitted on his brow.

“Cass, you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Is there a man in a striped suit in the store?”

He gave you a puzzled look, but left to do a sweep of the store. He came back half a minute later, shaking his head. “No, no one’s in the store dressed like that. What happened?”

“Nothing really. I just saw him in the cemetery and it looked like he was starting to follow me.”

He frowned. “Well, you just come to me if any creep is giving you a hard time. I’ll knock his teeth out for you.”

You manage a smile and nod. You take a few more breaths to calm down before you grab your apron. Things were going to be okay. The guy might not have even seen what store you went into. Heck, that guy probably didn’t even leave the cemetery. And even if he did, Mr. Turner was there to help you out of a tight spot. You smile a little brighter and step out onto the sales floor where you see the stripe suit guy looking at paint chips.

A strangled scream catches in your throat. You step back, dipping back into the employee’s only area of the store before he could see you. What the Hell were you going to do now? You couldn’t hide back there all day.

You push aside the fabric curtain dividing the sales floor from the back, and get a look at the man. With him much closer, you could see his green hair and the distressed look of his suit. He leaned forward, looking over the paint colors. Maybe he didn’t know you were back there. If so, you could wait in the back for a few minutes for him to just leave.

You close the curtain and slip your hands into your apron pockets. Your fingers brush over cool metal, and your thumb flicks up the slider on the side. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly better than nothing. Box cutter in hand, you look back out.

The stranger stayed put in front of the paint colors. You take a shallow breath, prepping yourself to go out. In the middle of psyching yourself up, you see Brandon wander over to the paint section. Hope bubbles up in you. The new guy can take care of him for you.

Brandon scanned over the section. He pushed down some color chips, looked over the desk before looking your way.

“Art! There you are.”

Brandon’s voice bellowed in the small store, not only earning a squeak from you but also causing the stranger to turn and look. You yank the curtain closed, hoping the man in the monochrome stripes didn’t get a good look at you.

Brandon parted the curtain a moment later and looked you over with knit brows and lips in a thin line. “Art, what are you doing back here? I don’t think it looks very professional for an employee to skulk around in the back all day.”

“The guy over at paint followed me from the cemetery.”

Brandon raised a brow at you. “There aren’t any customers in the store, and certainly not in paint, I would have seen them.” He pulled open the curtain with a flourish to reveal the man standing just on the other side. “See, no one’s there.”

Your eyes dart between the idiot holding back the curtain and the green-haired man tilting his head some with a grin plastered on his face. Thought processing came to a crawl as you tried making sense of what you were seeing. Your gaze lands on Brandon in the end.

“You don’t see anyone there?”

He rolled his eyes and looked back out to the sales floor. He then looked back at you with brows knitted further. “No, there’s no one there, Artemis. Perhaps you should stop taking your lunches in the cemetery if they’re just going to put scary thoughts in your head.”

Brandon frowned at you before stepping out onto the sales floor, going right through the man in the striped suit. He stopped to shiver, only to keep walking a second later. Once he left, your wide eyes landed on the man still standing there, still grinning and showing off sharp yellowed teeth.

“Hi there!”

Nope. Nope nope nope. You grab your box cutter and pull it out to point at the guy. And without a word you push aside the curtain more and go around the man. The man whined at your action and followed you.

“Come on babes! Don’t ignore me, I know you can see me!”

You keep walking, heading straight for Mr. Turner. He turns to you at your approach and the small smile fades from his face. “Cass? What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The gravelly laugh behind you sent shivers down your spine. You did your best to shake off the feeling and forced a smile.

“I’m not feeling too good. I was hoping I could go home early today.”

His lips sink further into a frown, but he gave you a nod. “It’s fine by me. But what about that man you were talking about that followed you from the cemetery? Are you going to be okay?”

The man behind you continued to laugh. You tighten your hands into fists, the metal of the box cutter pressing hard into the flesh of your hand.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay Mr. Turner. See you tomorrow.”

He nodded, and you handed over your apron while keeping the box cutter in hand. You offer one last quick goodbye and head out the door, the bell only chiming once. You march down the sidewalk and hear the strange man continuing to talk.

“So, babes, where are we heading?”

You pause at your car door. You take a few quick breaths and finally respond to this... person. “I’m going home. I’m obviously not feeling well and seeing things that aren’t there.”

You slip into your car and promptly lock all the doors. You heave a sigh and lean against the steering wheel as your brain sorts through all this nonsense. A groan rumbles in your throat and you lean back in your seat. In your peripheral, the man in the striped suit sat in your passenger seat sporting a sharp grin. Well shit.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice x reader #musical beetlejuice x reader #roses and styx #my writing

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fanficparker · 3 years

Text

A GAME OF DIAMONDS AND HEARTS // H.O.

>> CHAPTER FOUR

“The life that you seek you shall never find. For when the Gods made man, They kept immortality to themselves.” - The Epic of Gilgamesh

(Frenemies to Lovers! Mob AU! ) Harrison Osterfield x Fem!OC

Word count: 2.47k words

Warning: Swearing, knives, anger issues, guns, handcuffs, kidnapping (kind of?), Harrison Osterfield (Yeah, that's a legit warning)

Synopsis: After the sudden death of his uncle and the eccentric multi-millionaire mafia king Lufian Clarke, Harrison Osterfield’s almost decent life is mostly devastated especially when half of what should be rightfully his fortune is transferred to their immediate rival for reasons he doesn’t know. What’s remaining is him trying to figure out how to deal with this collaboration of two rival corporations that don’t belong together and work on the side of the woman he never knew would ever be referred to as his partner in crime while they are dragged into a mess bigger than what they were trained to handle.

<< THREE [ MASTERLIST ] FIVE >>

Sandhya parked the car at the rear side of an autobody workshop next to a white pickup truck that resembled closer to junk than any actual mode of transportation. It was past ten when she pulled there, and the three people Harrison spotted in the shop were on their way to shut it down for the night's call. He had managed to keep a careful eye at what turns she took as the roads forked or what landmarks she crossed on her way, only to achieve practically nothing. He was a stranger to this place and she being the wicked witch she was, had driven in circles so many times that he was sure, she had managed to complicate the path for him in manners that his head failed to unravel.

"We are here, homies." She announced, yawning at the last part, tapping her palm over the dashboard, tugging the keys from the ignition and then pulling the hand brakes.

Kevin groaned, shuffling in his seat, eyes half-lidded, voice groggy with sleep. The women sitting beside him plucked off her earphones, shutting her laptop. Harrison, on the other hand, chose to inspect the unfamiliar surrounding in the comfort of the car, eyes sceptical and narrowing. He ignored the thud of car doors opening and closing only to be disturbed by a sharp noise of metal keys hitting the window on the other side.

He squirmed at the unpleasant sound and turned to look at the intruder as she leaned across from him, on the opposite side of the car, the neon signboard of the car workshop flashing red light over her face. She looked like an angel from hell.

"Are you moving out? Or should I rather lock you up here?"

Harrison tamped down the urge to roll his eyes and stepped precariously out of the car, rolling up his sleeves and buttoning them near his elbows. He followed the three people as they walk down a slope that connected to an underground parking lot. There were a few cars and motorbikes parked there, most seemed to be in a dire need of repair. It took him roughly two minutes to figure out that it was no underground parking. It was a whole ass hideout disguised on the front with unused motors. They walked into a narrow alleyway, passing through several closed doors of what he assumed were rooms to a living area attached to a kitchen. It wasn't well furnished but furnished enough for a stay. Gray unpainted walls, sofas, tables and chairs, fridge, microwave, a small but flattering shelf full of wine bottles and a CCTV monitor to the top corner that covered the outside of their hideout, all the necessities one needs to survive.

"Hey, we will need your phone and your watch." The other woman he didn't know the name of yet, matched his pace, her laptop tucked below her arm, her green hair shorter than his with a cool undercut to the sides. She looked equally chill and nerdy in her baggy checked shirt, a mixture foreign to him.

He paused on his way, casting her a scathing glare, a bored look wiping over his face the next instant, "And why would I give you that?"

"Because Holly needs to encrypt them," Sandhya replied for her, standing beside the taller girl.

"So that it isn't traceable." Holly reluctantly but quickly added. She was younger than them, probably around Harry's age. Harrison could feel an undercurrent of fear floating through her voice.

"Thank you very much, but..." Harrison replied, not missing a beat, shooting a bitter smile at Sandhya before facing Holly, uttering: "No," his lips forming a proper 'o' as he took a step away only to be stopped by Sandhya's hand grabbing his wrist.

"It's not a choice, Harrison." She asserted.

An order.

Something sour lathered at the back of his tongue. A vein in his forehead twisted. Anger? Resentment? Malice? You just name it. He felt all of them at once.

He jerked away from her grip, releasing his arm. When he turned to face Sandhya again, his entire aspect had changed. His shoulders were square and broad, posture imposing, features stone, eyes icicles. They exchanged a long, threatening glare, eyes never wavering. He took a step ahead, expecting her to step back but she didn't recoil, holding her ground. She had the sort of personality you associate stereotypes with: high cheekbones, tall stature, sharp features but she somehow managed to defy most of them. Without her heels and now wearing some flat running shoes, she barely reached his chin, there was something warm about the softness of her features hidden beneath her belligerent attitude. The little baby fat her genetics had blessed over her face, provided her preys with false hopes of mercy. Betrayal at its finest.

He looked down at her and she looked up at him, their shoes bumping, faces inches apart. Realisation ticks through her mind when she looked a second deeper into his eyes.

He was, perhaps, stalling.

Her neck snapped to the monitor embedded at the top corner of the living space.

Shit.

A car had stopped outside their hideout and two armed men emerged from the car, strolling towards the basement.

She identified one of the men. His men.

"Look ou--" She tried to yell but Harrison didn't allow even an ounce of air to escape from her lungs. He'd grabbed her shoulders swiftly, taking advantage of her diverted attention, squeezing her shoulder blades and twisting her body. Her back flushed against his chest.

Both Kevin and Holly grabbed their pistols, the clicking sound of safety pins dropping echoed in the enclosed space. They pointed the weapon at Harrison but he already had a pocket knife pointed at Sandhya's throat while his other arm was pressed beneath her neck, holding her still.

"Keep your guns down or this floor would bathe in her blood." He warned, poking the tip of the knife into her skin, eyes focused on the pistols.

Kevin and Holly hesitated, their eyes flickering at Sandhya's face. Something passed between their eyes, some sort of permission and they threw their guns down, sliding them away from their reach.

"Hands above your head, quick." Harrison added, "And place them on the wall, face the other side."

Holly and Kevin obeyed without questioning, pressing their palms to the walls, while Harrison bent to pick up their pistols, shoving them at the back of his pants, holding Sandhya on a chokehold.

"I'd warned about your men's involvement in Clarke's murder," she whimpered when he placed the blade near her skin again, getting to his feet, "Yet you let them trace our location," she somehow managed to finish the sentence.

"You speak a lot for someone millimetres apart from dying."

"You won't kill me." She said, gritting her teeth.

"Yeah, but I can hurt you," he whispered near her ear, "And we both know how much I'd like that." His warm breath fanned over her cheek as he dug the pointy edge of the blade to the pulsing side of her neck, pressing not enough to cut her but enough to terrify her.

"Arsehole." She muttered, sucking in a breath.

"Tell me something new." His lips twisted into a devilish grin as he dragged her outside, her loose hair tickling under his chin, his arms clenched so tightly around her that she was sure she would still feel them tomorrow.

"I am telling you..." She tried to breathe and speak.

"Sssh..." Harrison interrupted with a shush, the vibrations moving through her flesh, echoing through her bones.

She tried to ignore the effect of his voice on her spine, suppressing the chilling sensation. "We are on the same team," she whispered softly and carefully as if trying to lull a toddler into handling back their parents' important work files.

"Oh well, then I should be the one giving orders."

They walked to the front of the basement. She could spot the shadowy outline of the two men waiting.

She started trying to resist, wiggling her body in his grip.

"Hey, Hey! Behave. This blade won't spare. Don't blame me."

"Let go, Harrison. Your life is on the edge!" She wiggled harder.

Edge.

He couldn't stop but laugh at the irony in the metaphor she chose.

They reached his men and she stilled in his grip. A white man, she identified as Tom (as Harrison had previously pointed out) and the other man she didn't identify was black and taller than all of them, both standing like soldiers in front of her.

"This is Tom. And this is Tuwaine," he introduced his men.

"This could be dangerous for both of us." She was almost pleading now, eyes pooling with tears of irritation and of failure.

"We don't want to kill her," Tom said, passing Harrison a pair of handcuffs.

And here she thought she had the lead.

"Why do y'll keep telling me that?" Harrison groaned at Tom's advice. He had repeated it over, even Sandhya has said the same thing, twice.

"Do I look like a psychotic killer on a killing frenzy?" He grabbed her wrists, fastening the cuffs behind her back, gripping her upper arm. "I know well who and whom I am supposed to hurt, how and where." He clarified, gently pushing her to sit on the back seat of the car. She obeyed this time, having no choice.

"It's not easy to trust you," Tuwaine added.

Harrison nodded, trying to look offended, "Thanks Tuwaine, I needed that," getting into the car, along with her, keeping a good distance between them. He snorted when she swirled her neck to the other side, refusing to look at him.

Tom settled himself on the driver's seat and Tuwaine sat beside him as the car drove off.

***

The giant gates of the mansion she'd only seen from far away opened like butterfly's wings, welcoming the car where she sat as a hostage.

"Aren't you delighted seeing this place?" Harrison asked in a tone that was closer to mockery than curiosity.

She still refused to look at him yet could hear the smirk in his voice.

"The place you won in the lottery? Or shall I say, cheated--"

"Fuck off." She interrupted but he went on like a guide, ignoring the cuss—

"The second luxurious property in England, just next to the Buckingham Palace."

She chose to ignore too. The main doors to the estate were wide open. Two women came rushing out when the car came to a halt. One of them opened Sandhya's door, pulling her out, holding her forearm, the other pulled a pistol and a knife from her dress.

"Release her," Harrison said nonchalantly, tossing the keys of the cuffs to the first woman. She unlocked the metal and Sandhya pulled her hands from the woman's grip, rubbing her fingers around her wrists.

She walked in, eyes in the front as Harrison and the crew accompanied her.

"Take her to the guest suite." He said and the same woman nodded.

Before she could grip Sandhya's arm, she moved it away, rushing to Harrison, grabbing his shirt collars with both her hands.

"I'd planned everything so intricately and you... You just ruined it all." She spoke with clenched teeth, eyes glistening with emotionless tears. "Do you--Don't understand the gravity of the situation? We are literally playing with fire." She exhaled forcefully.

He chortled.

Playing with fire?

He had committed various mistakes today, more mistakes than he could recount, more mistakes than he could afford. He had let his emotions get the best of him. He had not inspected Clarke's body, then went to beat Dino's men without even being careful of the various other dangers he could cross paths with, then chose to accompany Sandhya alone, got into a life-threatening car chase, had a sniper pointed to his head.

On top of that, he had also failed to consider the disastrous change the mafia world would go through upon the King's death. Damn, he had already played with fire and it was enough for him.

With Clarke's death: The mafia world has never been so free and so trapped. So vulnerable yet so lethal.

Harrison had discovered that for himself. He fucking knew the gravity of the situation! And that's why he chose to take matters into his own hands. He could trust nobody. Especially her.

"You really need to stop with your habit of holding collars." He held her hand in his, thumbs tracing circles over the back.

She continued to search his face, dark eyes filled with disbelief.

"We will work my way. And..." his face hardened at the conjunction, his thumbs stopped their ministrations as he squeezed her hands tighter. "And when I find your involvement in Clarke's murder, I would not hesitate to put a bullet through your skull."

She snorted this time, pulling her hands back.

"This is what you concluded? This? After everything?" She burst out into a peal of bitter laughter, the one that twisted Harrison's gut.

Her eyes hardened again as she jabbed a finger into his chest.

The next words came out as an unchecked storm out of her mouth, "The life you want, you will never get." Her words were merely whispers but worked their way through his gut, burning his chest, crawling through every fibre of his body and she never seemed to stop.

"You'll never be the next Clarke, you'll never even be half of him. Maybe," she hiccupped, "Maybe, he knew that and that's why he chose me, he chose me over you because he knew how incongruous you were."

She took a step forward, her chest pressing against his, standing on her toes, directly meeting his eyes and raising her voice beyond the point of normalcy, "How you were an insult to his legacy!" Pausing to exhale, she continued, her voice back to low, "It was a pity that he gave you half of his kingdom. You didn't even deserve that. You'll never be him. You are nothing like him."

Harrison bit back his tongue, his icy eyes burning from the lack of blinking. The mansion was dead silent, no one had dared to speak or react. He clenched his fists tight, feeling his nails digging into his palms.

"Take her to the room." He instructed, voice barely above a few decibels. He didn't wait for his words to turn to actions, rather he turned on his feet, striding towards his room, jaws tensed, nerves popping through his burning flesh.

His footsteps echoed behind him.

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

crayons & caresses

summary: you know it’s wrong, that pining after your student’s father is wildly inappropriate, but gosh if john deacon isn’t the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

word count: 12k+

warnings: pining to the extreme!, slight angst, discussions of parental death, health scare + medical response, alcohol, language, innuendo, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful)

a/n: mechanic/singledad!john is everything i didn’t know i needed in my life. also: WOW this took me a long ass time because i find john the hardest to write, but i love him so. much. so hopefully it’s worth the wait.

(photo: originally from @davidgayhan i think?? ugh look at him. i drool. yes i did set this during the brief short-perm-montreal moment. sue me)

september, 1981.

you love all of your students equally. each one is like a fingerprint on your heart: unique in their own way, made up of patterns and histories you will never be able to appreciate in full before they are whisked away to their next year. it is safe to say you adore the collection of twenty-four seven year olds who walk into your classroom each morning. their bright faces, some still chubby with baby fat, fill the lonely parts of your soul, and you leave your flat each morning with a sense of purpose and duty. you are their teacher, their guide through some of the most crucial parts of learning. it is an honor and a privilege to teach them—each and every one. but there is one student who sticks out among the rest.

his name is beau deacon.

beau is remarkably quiet. he’s small for his age, both in height and in weight. at times, he appears frail, what with the way he sits by himself in the corner during reading hour, flipping through a picture book with glazed over eyes, never really concentrating on what’s before him. he walks slowly during recess, preferring to stay by himself and drag a stick along the blacktop than play a game of kickball with the other boys. he whispers when he speaks and avoids meeting the eyes of those who do try and pry a few words from him.

you try to engage him—really, you do—but nothing seems to stick. not the participation reward system you build just for him, but use for the entire class. not moving his desk closer to yours. not even coercing your best friend ami to bring in her therapy dogs one afternoon early in the year. despite your best efforts, beau remains decidedly uninterested and removed.

it bothers and worries you to the point of questioning your colleague on the matter. martha is sixty, but spry as ever. she’s been your confidant this last year. you’re new to teaching, green as ever, but she has welcomed you with open arms and a plethora of advice. you feel comfortable sidling up next to her in the car-line one friday afternoon. it’s hot outside, summer not yet allowing autumn to take root, so you hold a hand over your eyes to shade yourself from the sun.

“can i ask you something?” you say, keeping your eyes trained on the children who filter out of the school and into their parent’s waiting vehicles.

“as long as it’s not about sex,” martha mutters. “haven’t had a good romp in so long i don’t even know if it still works the same way.”

you swallow a laugh as a trio of students pass you by. their mother waves over her shoulder, shouting her thanks, before shoving the children in the backseat of a tan mini-van. you watch the van pull away, another car rolling forward to take its place, before asking your question.

“beau deacon,” you start, hoping that, if you simply say his name, martha will fill in the gaps herself.

blessedly, martha twists and nods with a knowing smile. “i know that tyke well. had him last year.”

you release a huff of air in relief. “oh thank goodness. i’m almost beside myself. i don’t know what to do with him.” you frown as you attempt to speak as diplomatically about your student as possible. “he’s awful quiet. he doesn’t play with any of the children and barely looks at me when i speak to him. how’d you manage?”

to your dismay, the older woman just shrugs. “i didn’t really. his mum died all sudden like about halfway through the year, and he clammed up. no matter what i did, what tricks i tried to pull, he stayed completely unmovable.”

“oh.” your shoulders drop in defeat. “i didn’t know.” truthfully, your heart tugs for the child. to lose one’s mother at such a tender age? you can’t imagine the world of hurt he lives in. it’s no wonder he sticks to himself.

“you didn’t speak with his father?”

“no. was i have supposed to?”

“no, not necessarily. mr. deacon was helpful on a few occasions last year. we were sort of a united front, i’d say, when things were particularly bad in the beginning. perhaps give him a call. at least to let him know you’re in his corner.” she smiles and squeezes your bicep. “and you can always come to me, love. i may not have all the answers but i do have some.”

“thank you, martha. i think giving mr. deacon a call might be smart—” you turn at the tell-tale sound of feet dragging against the ground. in the few weeks since classes have started, you’ve grown to know the sound of beau deacon’s footsteps better than your own. he’s always on your mind, the sullen little boy with glasses, so it’s hard not to pounce on him with love when you turn around to see him in the school doorway. “oh! beau! we were just talking about you.”

beau stops walking, and his grip tightens on the straps of his backpack. he doesn’t look up at you, doesn’t say anything. he simply stands there, as if he’s listening but doesn’t know how to respond, so you soldier forward.

“do you have any big plans for the weekend, beau?” you ask.

he shakes his head.

“none with your father?”

another shake of the head.

“well, perhaps you’ll do something fun and you can tell us about it on monday, yeah?”

to your surprise, he nods, which is more than he does most days. you can’t help the smile that claims your lips and the way your arm waves a little too hard to his retreating form. he walks to a faded old corvette and opens the passenger door with ease. you can hear a muffled voice—his father’s no doubt—and see the man stretch his arm out to take beau’s backpack.

but then the car door is shut, and the chevy pulls out of the parking lot with too much speed to be safe when a child is in the front.

you glance at martha. she rolls her eyes and mouths men. you can’t help but agree.

a week passes before you finally find the time to phone beau’s father. you find his name—john richard deacon—and a telephone number in beau’s emergency contact form, shoved amongst a stack of other hastily filled-out parent paperwork. there’s no secondary number listed—not even a distant relative or family friend—so if the call doesn’t work, you aren’t sure what your next move will be. even so, after all the children have left and the other teachers are beginning to close their classrooms for the day, you slouch at your desk and punch the numbers into the phone. it rings three times before someone picks up.

“taylor auto-repair. this is rog.”

the voice on the other end is high and scratchy. you’re taken aback, both by the man on the phone and the blaring rock n roll music in the background. you aren’t an expert, but it sounds like zeppelin. not what you’d expected.

“hello?”

you shake yourself free of surprise, and the wheels beneath your chair scrape against the linoleum floor as you sit forward. “oh, sorry. i thought i was calling the deacon residence?”

“deacon? like john deacon?”

“yes, i’m beau’s schoolteacher. i thought—well, this was the number on the contact form.”

there’s a sigh, and the phone brushes against something rough before rog says anything more. “hold on.” when he speaks next, his voice is distant yet poorly muffled. “deaky! there’s some bird on the phone for you! what have i told ya about putting the shop’s number down instead of the house’s? fuckin’ hell, mate.”

you frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you wait for... deaky... to take the phone from his co-worker. when a new voice does appear on the line, you again find yourself surprised.

“hello? this is john deacon.” john’s voice is almost lilting, like a song. it’s soft, comforting—though how you determine this from four simple words is beyond your understanding.

“mr. deacon, hi! my name is [y/n] [y/l/n]. i’m beau’s teacher. i thought we might have an over-due chat, if you have the time?”

“oh, hello.” there’s a pause on the other end, as if he’s considering whether or not he’ll entertain your out-of-the-blue phone call. “has beau done something wrong?”

you laugh despite the worried edge to his tone. “no, absolutely not! beau is a delight. he’s practically a model student. however, i do have a few concerns... do you have a moment?”

“yes, i can have. just give me a second.” the line goes muffled again, the only sound a fading rolling stone’s song before all goes quiet. you hear a door shut and the squeak of a chair before john speaks again. “i suppose this is about beau’s shyness?”

you choose your next words carefully, uncertain if john simply cannot accept his son’s retreat into himself or if he does not see it. you’d rather not jump to conclusions and alienate him on your first phone call, but you must admit your unease at hearing the word shyness. beau is far more than shy. despite the frown puckering your brow, you hold your concerns close to your chest for the moment.

“shyness is a word one could use, yes.”

“he’s been that way since his mum died last year.”

rolling your lower lip between your teeth, you nod. “i heard. i’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

john makes a noise somewhere between a huff and a grunt and does not acknowledge your paltry offer of condolence. “if you’re calling to ask how you can fix ‘im, i don’t have any answers for you.”

“i don’t want to fix him, mr. deacon,” you say. “i simply want to help.”

“i’m sure you’ve spoken with mrs. cooper then.” he sighs, and the sound seems to rattle the receiver pressed against your ear. “look, i appreciate what you both are trying to do for beau. but he’s young, and the pain of losing his mum— i just don’t want him to rush into moving on.”

“oh, mr. deacon, that’s not my intention at all!” you wince at the high-pitch of your voice and clear your throat. good lord, this was not going as you’d planned. “i just want him to feel comfortable in the classroom, that’s all.”

“that’s kind of you, but i think it might be easier if you just let beau work it out for himself.”

you fall silent and glance down at the hem of your blouse. there’s a blue thread dangling from the article of clothing, and you pull on it, watching the thread unravel until it falls free from the shirt itself.

in all honesty, you’re puzzled by john’s hesitance to so much as entertain your concern. anyone—student, teacher, classroom parent—who comes across beau knows he’s more than shy. it’s written in his face, in the way he holds himself, in the way he shuffles aimlessly to and fro. god, he breaks your heart. you want to wrap him in a blanket and protect him from the cruel world.

but you’re not his mother. you’re merely his teacher, and you must respect john’s wishes despite how wrong you think they are. perhaps, in time, he will come around, see the need for a little concerted effort in helping beau work through his obvious grief-stricken state.

“is there anything more i can do for you, ms. [y/l/n]?”

clearing your throat again, you sit straighter in your chair and fiddle with a pen on your desk. you click the depressor up and down, up and down. “no, there’s not. i’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“you didn’t,” john says—and his voice has that indescribable soft quality you noted the moment he first spoke. “really, it does mean something to me that you even thought to call.”

“i care for my students a great deal.” you aren’t sure what brings the words to your lips, but the second they fall past your tongue, a flush crawls up the back of your neck. you’re sure you sound like a petulant child, whining at the mere inconvenience of a rejected idea.

“i can tell.” his tone is anything but salty. in fact, the truth dripping from each word leaves you decidedly flustered. you click the pen faster, your leg bouncing beneath the desk.

“yes—well—i’ll leave you to it.” though you add, “if ever there’s something i can do for beau, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“i’ll be sure to.”

after a rushed goodbye, you drop the phone to its base. the hard-plastic clatters, the coiled wire dropping in a pile on the desk. you press your fingers to your eyelids and groan. both deacon boys, it seems, have the power to infuriate and melt you at the precisely the same moment.

this, you think, does not bode well for the rest of the year.

if you’re being honest, you have to admit that you think of john deacon often as the school year falls into a comfortable rhythm. no matter how hard you try to forget the phone call, forget the way his voice lulled you into a strange sense of serenity, he’s like a specter in the back of your mind: always there and definitely uninvited.

still...

when the children work silently at their desks, you sit behind yours and struggle to keep your mind from wandering to either of the deacon boys. when you greet beau as he walks through the door each morning, you resist the urge to drop a question about his father’s well-being. when the faded red corvette pulls to the curb each afternoon, you bite your tongue and fist your hands at your sides to keep from introducing yourself properly through the open window.

it’s embarrassing, really, how much the phone call with john deacon has affected you. it’s embarrassing how... interested you are in his life. you’re a schoolgirl with a crush—a crush on a man you’ve never even seen! if you were to admit your undue fascination with the deacon household to your best friend ami she would laugh in your face and remind you how desperately you need to get out more. you keep your wonderings and your daydreams to yourself to save her the trouble of telling you what you already know.

come mid-november, when the students are well-adjusted to their daily routine and you’ve learned how to juggle so many personalities at once, you finally pause to take a breath. the breath comes at the end of a school-day. it’s drizzling outside—not raining, but not dry either. the sky is a wash of gray and a deep purple. there’s a storm coming, a bad one too from the looks of it. humming to yourself and contemplating whether or not you should stop by the grocery on your way home, you tug on your jacket and step outside the school into the chilled autumn air.

you’re about to cross the parking lot to your car when you hear a harsh sniffle come from your left. you pause, keys in hand, and twist to see a huddled form on the curb. it’s clearly a student and a young one at that. knees drawn to their chest, backpack large over their back, fingers interlaced on their knees, they are the picture of a frightened schoolchild. the hood of their blue raincoat obscures any defining features, so you hustle to their side and kneel down, but not before glancing at your watch.

nearly four. someone’s been forgotten.

“hey?” you tilt your head to try and catch a glimpse of the face beneath the shade of the jacket hood. “did mum not come through the car line?”

you barely stifle your gasp when the slick raincoat crinkles as the student turns to meet your gaze.

it’s beau deacon.

his eyes are puffy, tears still clinging to his blotchy cheeks. beneath the wide frames of his glasses, fear swims across his gaze. he draws in his lower lip and rubs his hand under his nose. his eyes flicker to the ground, his toes tilting inward.

you press a hand to his shoulder. he feels so small beneath your palm, like a fragile piece of clay, molded by tragedy and loss in such a short span of time. “where’s your father, beau?”

he shrugs. “dunno.”

“i guess he’s running late.” you look at your watch. very late. “should we give him a call?”

beau nods, and you stretch to your full height, offering your hand to help him from the curb. beau does not take it as he stands. he pushes his glasses up his nose and follows you inside the school office where he hesitates in the doorway as you borrow the receptionist’s phone to call the auto-shop.

no one answers.

lowering the phone to its base, you look over your shoulder. through the venetian blinds you can see the sky darkening as you hem-and-haw. in the distance there’s a flash of lightening, and fat raindrops dot the tan sidewalk.

you could leave beau with the receptionist. it’s not uncommon for parents to run late or completely forget about their child. normally, betty calls the child’s guardian and gives the waiting student a granola bar and coloring page or picture book to flip through as they wait for the mortified adult to speed to school. there’s nothing obligating you to stay.

just as there’s nothing obligating you to offer to drive beau home.

you look at betty and calculate the words of your offer. “would it be wrong of me to drive beau home? he lives on my way ‘s all.” boldfaced lie—at least, you think—but what betty doesn’t know can’t hurt her.

betty doesn’t stop clacking on her electronic typewriter. “i don’t think so.” she peers over her glasses at the clock hanging over the door, still typing. “i’ve got a dentist appointment in half an hour, so i don’t have time to wait around today. you’d be doing me a favor, love.”

“alright, it’s settled then.” you slip the thin strap of your purse over your shoulder and turn to beau with a toothy grin. “i’ll drive you home. maybe your father just isn’t feeling well today and overslept?”

beau frowns, and inwardly, you cringe, your smile faltering. beau’s mother died of an illness, so it likely disconcerts him to think of his father in a similar state. in a piss poor attempt at an apology, you grab a piece of chocolate from the bowl near betty’s desk and slip it in beau’s hand as you make your way to the parking lot. the faintest flicker of a grin crosses his face as he methodically unwraps the candy. you take that as a sign of forgiveness.

once beau is snug in the backseat of your station wagon, you pull into traffic with a bubble of giddiness in your stomach. what you’re doing is ridiculous. though you feel horrid beau was left behind, there’s a sick park of you that is glad for it. it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet john deacon unless fate throws you together. he did not attend back to school night, and as a single father, you doubt he has time for any of the other parent-student events on schedule for the rest of the year. in all honesty, you’re taking this opportunity to put a face to the man behind the phone call that’s plagued you with daydreams since it occurred.

if you can just see his face, just learn what he looks like, perhaps the fascination with fade. unless, of course, he turns out to be as attractive as your mind has made him out to be and then you’ll be in even hotter water than you are now.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you glance in the rearview mirror. beau has his head pressed against the foggy glass of the window, his eyes scanning back and forth as he takes in the surrounding scenery. rain droplets create dark shadows over his face, and you wonder if that’s what he feels like on the inside: foggy and rainy and shadowy. you shake the thought free; you read too many melodramatic novels.

“so, beau, what’s your address?” you ask, your tone obnoxiously chipper. he tells you, and you shrug as you tighten your grip on the steering wheel. “gotta give me more than that, hun. do you remember how to get home? do you think you could tell me?”

beau nods and scoots away from the window, leaning nearer the space between the driver and passenger seats. there a gleam in his eye. you catch sight of it as you turn right at his instruction and see him hovering near your shoulder. it seems that with each turn you make his voice inches a decibel louder until you can hear every word with a clarity previously unknown. he’s confident when he’s instructing you, when he knows what he’s supposed to do.

he’s confident when he’s helping.

you tuck the bit of knowledge away for later as you pull into the cracked driveway of a red-brick bungalow. the house is small and unadorned, the homes on opposite sides just as plain and simple. a single spruce tree, like something out of a holiday catalog, is the only foliage in the yard. gauzy curtains are drawn to block the sunlight coming through the two bay windows framing the white front door.

you turn the car off as beau slides across the bench to open the car door. grabbing your handbag, you all but tumble after him, hastening up the sidewalk.

“wait a minute! beau!” you punctuate your call with a breathy laugh and smooth the sides of your hair back as you approach the front door. the bubble of giddiness from moments before has turned to a bubble of nerves, and once again, you realize this moment is entirely ridiculous. still, you adjust your blouse and straighten the crooked edge of your collar.

beau’s left the front door open, his shoes and backpack already tossed on the living room floor. you hesitate at the threshold. you haven’t been properly invited in, but the open door might just be beau’s way of telling you it’s alright to invade his home. at least, that’s the message you decide to take.

crossing the threshold, you hold tight to the strap of your purse and glance around the cramped front living area. beau’s nowhere to be seen, and the home is silent as the grave. you bite the tip of your tongue when your gaze falls over a photograph of a woman holding a baby. it’s beau and his mother; has to be.

maybe... maybe you’ve overstepped your—

“beau, is that you?” the sound of heavy footfalls on stairs snaps your attention away from the photograph. before you can slip away and forget you ever had the silly notion of meeting your student’s father with the intent of something other than a professional hello, a man rounds the corner.

your eyebrows shoot up your forehead. it’s not the john deacon you’d imagined.

he’s shorter than you pictured, only several inches taller than yourself. his jaw is sharp, peppered with a five o’clock shadow, and a thick mustache almost covers his upper lip. a white wife-beater tucked into green trousers completes the ensemble, and his bare feet pad across the floor as he sticks his hand out in greeting.

“you must be the teacher!” he pumps your hand up and down, his grip crushing but his smile wide. his voice is friendly and welcoming, though you can’t be sure it was the voice you heard over the phone. so many days have passed since then, perhaps you just forgot, though it’s highly unlikely.

“i’ve been trying to call deaky ever since i got here, but the damn fool just won’t pick up. i don’t even know where beau’s school is so i couldn’t come and get him myself. the ship we run here isn’t very tight.” he rolls his eyes with a grin. “thanks for bringing him home, darling.”

your head swims as you struggle to keep up with the man’s fast pace. so, he isn’t john deacon? and john deacon isn’t here? you open your mouth to ask the first of several questions but he beats you to it.

“hell, you look positively confused. shut the door, won’t you? the rain’s getting in, and molly was always worried about the the hardwood. i’ll put on the kettle.”

“oh, i don’t—”

he bumps your hip toward the door. “nonsense! deaky will want to thank you for driving beau home.” he’s around the corner before you can refuse, so you shut the front door against the steady rain and slip off your shoes, leaving them beside the two pairs already against the baseboard.

you’re quick to follow him to the kitchen. the walls are a muted yellow, the countertops clear but the sink full of unwashed dishes. the refrigerator in the corner is bare save for the back to school letter you gave to each student to bring home to their parents. that—and a photograph of four men in a basement. it appears to be a homegrown band of sorts, and the man behind the drumkit is shouting at the man who looks like an overgrown string bean. you’re not sure which one is john, so you turn away, feeling rather out of place when the man at the stovetop says:

“beau’s probably in his room. he always holes himself away as soon as he gets back. doesn’t come out until supper. that’s when deaky gets home.” a pair of mugs clatter against each other as he pulls them from a cupboard. “brian says it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it once he processes molly’s death, but i’m not certain.” the man’s eyes flicker to you, and he laughs, loud and short. “oh dear, i’ve done it again! i forgot you’re not in the loop. i’m freddie,” he explains. “part-time nanny, full-time diva.”

you accept the mug of tea as freddie passes it to you, a smile lifting your tight mouth. “[y/n] [y/l/n]. so you’re beau’s... nanny?”

freddie drops to the round kitchen table shoved in the space between the kitchen counter and the wall. you follow suit and stir a drop of sugar in your tea. “you could call it that. i just watch him in the afternoons, between school and deaky getting home.” he sighs. “since molly... well, things have been hard to juggle.”

“i thought mr. deacon picked beau up from school? unless that was you in the car i saw?”

“heavens no! i don’t drive!” freddie laughs again. “that was deaky you saw. he takes his break at the garage long enough to pick beau up and bring him here. i guess he and rog were overrun today. bet beau was terrified. poor dear...”

you glance over your shoulder, down the dim hallway leading to, you assume, beau’s bedroom. there’s a half-full laundry basket deposited outside another open door, perhaps the bathroom. a few mislaid toys litter the carpet. it’s reassuring, knowing that beau has a few good men in his life, willing and ready to raise him. still, there’s a pervading sense of loneliness throughout the bungalow. you saw it in the photos on the living room wall, but it’s here too: in the dead roses, brittle to the touch, in the table vase; in the index-card note tucked on a notch in the cupboard, the feminine handwriting unreadable from your spot at the table.

freddie’s voice is somber when its breaks through the thick air. “complications of pneumonia,” he says, following your gaze to a wedding photo on the hallway wall. “it came on quick but didn’t last long, thank heaven.”

unbidden, tears prick the corners of your eyes. you’ve never felt more like an intruder—and you know why.

your crush on john deacon is misplaced. you see that now. realizing what you’ve done in coming here—twist a child’s terrified moment of abandonment for your gain—makes you sick to your stomach. what kind of person are you? assuming a recently widowed father would be at all interested in his son’s pesky teacher? the thought brings a flush to your cheeks, and you rise from the table all too fast. the mugs of tea wobble when your knee connects with the underside of the table.

freddie frowns at you. “you okay, love?”

“i—” how to explain yourself without sounding a total fool or heartless woman? “i think i’ve overstayed my welcome” is all that comes to mind, and you aren’t surprised when freddie uses his foot to push your chair back out from under the table.

“sit down. john will be home soon. let him thank you then you can go.”

from where you stand, you look to your right. the front door practically screams for you to politely decline freddie’s insistence and high-tail it to your car, to get out while you still have the chance. but he’s making it too easy to stay for what you’ve come for: a peek at the illusive john deacon. you know you should go, that you should leave well enough alone, but despite your best intentions, you find yourself sitting down again and allowing freddie to bombard you with questions about teaching life.

half an hour later, when your sides hurt from laughing while freddie regales you with the dramatic story of beau’s birth, the door to the garage opens and closes with a loud click. you twist in your seat, arm draped over the back, and bite your lip hard to keep from drawing in a sharp breath.

by god, he’s a stone-cold looker. better than you could have imagined.

john deacon stands in front of the garage door, his head of tight curls wet from the rain. he’s tall but not towering, his shoulders made broad by the leather jacket across his back. he hasn’t noticed you or freddie as he’s too preoccupied with wiping the grease on his fingers across a piece of soiled cloth. he turns, not towards you, but towards the hallway when beau tumbles out of his room with a shout of joy. beau races down the hall, his arms extended, and jumps into his father’s waiting embrace. john mumbles something in his son’s ear, ruffling his hair, before dropping him back to the ground. the sullen little boy jumps around his father’s feet, chattering in great detail about his day at school, though he forgoes mentioning his father’s absence in the car-line.

you exhale, a wash of new tears covering your eyes as you stare at beau. he can be happy. you’d thought it impossible.

you must have exhaled louder than you thought because john looks over at the sound. his brow tightens in a frown of confusion, his eyes flicking back and forth between yourself and freddie, but freddie is quick to explain. he stands from the table and takes your hand, pulling you to your feet.

“deaky, this is [y/n] [y/l/n], beau’s teacher. remember you spoke to her on the phone?”

your cheeks heat at the thought of him mentioning the phone call beyond the walls of the auto-shop. warmth spreads over your face even further when he gives you a tight-lipped smile and extends his hand. you slip your fingers over his palm, and he shakes your hand.

for a moment, your hands linger as john glances at beau, who is tucked behind his leg. he cringes, groaning. “please tell me you didn’t go out of your way to bring beau home today?”

you drop your hand from his and clasp your fingers before your waist. scrunching your nose, you tilt your head to the side. “well...”

“bloody hell,” john murmurs. he screws his eyes shut and runs a palm down his face. “i’m sorry,” he says. “you shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“it was no trouble, really. in fact, you live on my way home.” the comment isn’t a falsehood. you’d realized as beau pointed his way home that your flat lie only a minutes down the road. just as it had then, the realization sends a nervous clench to your stomach now. the thought of the deacons so close...

“you must think me a horrible father.” as he says this, john reaches around to smooth his hand across beau’s back. the gesture, done mindlessly, almost makes you laugh. how could anyone find him a horrible father?

“absolutely not, mr. deacon.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward in something close to a smile. “john, please.”

you roll your lips together and blink rapidly to keep your eyes from going wide. john. “lots of people miss the car-line. it happens more often than you think.”

“well, let me give you something for your trouble.” he slides past you, the scent of cologne and car oil in his wake. his movements are stiff, hampered by beau who insists on clinging to his father’s leg, his ankles crossed over john’s foot.

“i don’t want anything, john.” you almost trip over his name. it tastes good, strong and steady. god, you’ve got it bad. “it wasn’t a hassle.”

john ignores you as he slides open a kitchen drawer. unsatisfied with its contents, he reaches for another before meeting your eyes with a wry smile. “all we’ve got is take-out menus anyway.” he shuffles nearer, beau still heavy on his leg. “thank you, ms. [y/l/n], for bringing him home. i got sidetracked at the shop and—” he sighs. “anyway, just... thanks.”

“again, you’re welcome—and call me [y/n].”

there’s a moment where you’re simply staring at one another, the room around you lulled to a comfortable silence. john is handsome, of this there is no doubt. perhaps he’s not striking in a classical way but you’re sure someone would have killed to chisel a bust of his face during the sixteenth century. it’s regal and sure in all the right places, but soft where it counts: around the eyes. when he chuckles at something freddie says, his eyes fold around the edges, and your heart all but gives out.

“what do you say, [y/n]?”

“sorry?” hopeful no one caught you ogling, you bring your attention front and center, turning to freddie. his proposal dawns on you a second too late to be anything but obvious. “stay for dinner? no, i can’t do that.”

“why not?” freddie reaches out to pinch your forearm. “it’s our way of saying thanks, and neither of us will try to poison you with our cooking. we’ll just have brian bring something ‘round.”

you shake your head and scoot around freddie to lift the handbag hanging from a kitchen chair. “i’d like to, but i’ve stayed too long already. perhaps another time.”

prying beau from his leg, john trails behind freddie as you make your way to the front door. freddie wishes you well, reminding you to drop by any time, and john simply lifts his hand in a motionless wave. on the front stoop, hair tangled around your face by a sharp wind, you lean your torso across the threshold.

“mr. deacon—i mean, john,” you say quickly, willing your voice to sound stronger than you feel. “if you’d like, i can drive beau home in the afternoons. i live not five minutes from here, and it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

john hesitates. beau stands in the kitchen, his head poked around the corner. john looks over at his son then back at you. “that’s a kind offer, but i like coming to the school.”

your eyes flick to beau, to his round, soft face and intelligent eyes. yes, if you were his mother you’d enjoy coming to pick him up too.

with a nod, you retreat into the wind. “well, the offer still stands.”

as you slide into your car and pull out of the driveway, waving to beau who now stands in the doorway, you hope against hope that john will accept the offer one day—just so long as it means you get to see him again.

he calls during the middle of show-and-tell. you nearly forgo the call as abby sinclair insists on lifting her pet toad for all to see and you’re worried she’ll drop it, but you’re waiting for a message from the front desk—missing package again—so you pick up on the last ring.

“hello?”

“hi, ms. [y/l/n]. it’s john deacon. is this a bad time?”

“oh, mr. deacon!” you wince at the delight coloring your voice and tear your eyes away from abby, who has handed her toad off to max. “i was expecting a call from the front office.”

he snorts out a rushed laugh. “sorry to disappoint.”

you brush a lock of hair behind your ear. “no, not at all.” out of the corner of your eye you catch max squeezing abby’s toad between his palms, and you push the phone away from your ear. “oy! max, knock it off! abby, please put the toad back, dear?”

john is chuckling on the other end of the line when you return to the call. “sorry,” you say. “show-and-tell.”

“i know. beau was excited this morning.”

with a smile, you glance at the boy in question. “he did very well. everyone was impressed with what he brought.”

“brian made that for him as a birthday gift, so he can’t take any of the credit.”

“he didn’t! he explained who made the planets, but he did want to be clear about who painted the stars.” you hesitate, the sound of laughter over your shoulder reminding you not to get too entangled by the sound of john’s voice. “is there something i can do for you, mr. deacon?”

“right, yes. well, it’s a bit awkward... do you remember a few weeks ago when you drove beau home?”

you nod, the memory lifting from your heart with ease. how could you forget? you only replay the evening like a film every night before you fall asleep. “of course”

“do you remember offering to drive him home again?”

“yes.”

“i’m in a jam at the shop and can’t leave this afternoon. would you mind? taking him home, that is.”

you answer without hesitation. “i can do that. it’s not a problem.”

“you’re a life-saver. it’s just with freddie not driving... i guess what i mean to say is thanks. it helps me out a lot.”

“i’m happy to do it, john.”

“i promise i’ll make it worth your while this time. proper take-out and all.”

“you really don’t have to do that,” you say, hoping he does anyway.

“no, freddie will insist. i’ll let you get back to class for now. thanks, [y/n].”

“don’t mention it. good luck with your jam at the shop. i hope it’s cleared up soon.”

“me too. all the sooner to get back to beau—and you.”

he hangs up before you can respond, and you’re left with your jaw scraping the floor and your heart in your throat.

all the sooner to get back to you.

the words circle your head like a drug for the remainder of the day. you can barely focus as you teach, stumbling over your words and through math equations and spelling tests.

surely he didn’t mean it like that. he probably just tacked you on at the end of the sentence in his haste to get back to work. he probably wasn’t thinking when he spoke.

but, by god, you were listening.

you’ve never been so head-over-heels for a man in your life. each day when you wake up with john at the forefront of your mind, you wish for a morning where you can stay in bed and dream of him all day—his voice, his smile, his gentle way with beau. it all makes you crazy. ami calls your fascination puppy love and claims it will fade with time, but you wonder if it’s gone deeper. you’re interested in more than john deacon’s looks. you’re interested in what makes him tick and whether or not he’s in a band with the three other men who constantly appear in every conversation you share and whether or not he misses his wife and what his hair looks like when he wakes up in the morning. you what to know him and be known by him.

all the sooner to get back to you.

perhaps it’s wishful thinking—a dreamy idea on the part of a lovesick woman—but part of you wonders if he feels the same way about you.

driving beau home becomes part of an unspoken routine. after sharing dinner at the deacon household that second evening, john admits when walking you to your car how overwhelmed he can feel between his job at the auto-shop and his responsibilities with beau. with a tentative hand on his forearm, you promise you’ll help lighten the load. he thanks you by squeezing your fingers with his, and then he’s gone.

it begins by driving beau home every monday, wednesday, and friday. you enjoy your time with him. as soon as he settles in the back seat of your station wagon, he comes alive. the protective shell he wears in the classroom is replaced by the bright and earnest eyes of a seven year old boy, curious about the world and all it has to hold. he asks you questions and tells you stories, and you laugh as you watch the light dance in his eyes. he’s a sweet child, and you truly treasure the afternoons you spend with him.

one friday, you drop him off and find the cozy bungalow empty. beau has stopped retreating to his room once returning from school—at least, this is what freddie tells you—so you’re not completely surprised when beau invites you in for an afternoon snack. you are surprised by the empty house, however. freddie is nowhere to be seen and neither is john. what concerns you even further is when beau opens the refrigerator and slams it shut with a huff.

“nothin’,” he mutters, slumping to the table with a groan.

“what?”

“there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“what do you mean by that?” you cross the floor and open the fridge, hoping beau’s comment is nothing more than a hungry child displeased with the array of choice and nothing to his liking, but you find his statement to be true. the fridge is woefully stocked—naught but a half-filled carton of orange juice, three apples, and a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. you glance over your shoulder. “is it always like this?”

“no.” beau circles about on his chair. “but it’s happened a few times since dad and uncle rog got more busy at the shop.”

“well, that won’t do. grab your shoes, beau, we’re going to the market.”

once returned from your grocery run, you teach beau how to make spaghetti. he stands beside you on a stool, pushed up on his toes as he watches you prepare the boiling water and pasta. as you wait for the pasta to soften, you set about crafting a homemade pasta sauce. it’s your mother’s recipe, and it’s easy to make. easy enough that you allow beau to carefully slice the tomatoes under your supervision and dice the onions and sprinkle the spices.

the kitchen smells like your childhood: fragrant yet simple, sweet and comforting. somewhere in the waiting for the sauce to simmer, beau turns on a radio and draws you to the center of the kitchen. he holds your hand tight and kicks his feet to the music. you laugh and mirror his movements. he grabs your other hand and steps on his stool, forcing you to bend in an awkward twirl around his finger. you struggle but complete the movement, though he attaches himself to your shoulders like a barnacle. you whirl around on your socked feet in attempt to toss him off, but he holds tight, his fingernails digging into the skin of your collarbone. he squeals in your ear, a mixture of laughter and gasping breath and shrieks.

“mama, mama, stop!”

he says it without thinking, his head lolling against your shoulder as you stop short at the sound of his breathless voice. he giggles against your back then releases himself and slides to the floor. you stare at him, feel his words in the back of your throat like an uncomfortable burn, and then you hear the garage door shut.

you swallow hard and force your eyes from the yellow-and-white linoleum floor. beau hops from his stool, sauce-covered spoon in hand, and rushes to his father’s side.

“daddy, look, we made dinner! miss [y/l/n] and me!” he tugs on john’s shirtsleeve, but john’s just staring at you, his face unreadable. beau turns to one of the other three men crowding the hall behind john. “uncle roggie, taste it!” he forces the spoon in the face of a mulleted blond.

eager to break the thick tension, you motion to the spaghetti. “i—there wasn’t anyone home so...” your sentence trails off, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

so many eyes on you. you feel exposed against them all, caught in a domestic moment with a child that’s not your own in a home that’s not your own.

john looks over his shoulder, eyes flashing in anger. “fred?”

freddie winces. “about that, deak.” he rubs the back of his neck and glances at beau. “i can explain later.”

“you’d better,” john mutters.

“i should go,” you say at once, hastily grabbing your things from the table. your keys jingle in your hand with the force of your anxiety, and you stub your toe against the floor in your hurry to put your shoes back on.

john’s hand on your arm stops you. you look up, stooped as you try to slip the back of your sandal over your heel. he looks down at you, face still remarkably unreadable. “no, please stay,” he says. “you made supper.”

you shake your head and rise to your full height. “i’ve intruded enough already.”

you’re embarrassed, too. the gaggle of men heard beau’s slip up; they heard him mistake you for his mother—and certainly they saw the immediate flush of happiness rise over your cheeks at the sound.

mama. you’d always hoped, always wished, someone would call you that one day. you just didn’t think you’d hear it from a student with a deceased mother and a father you pined after first.

“[y/n], stay.” john’s voice is soft, breathy, and his eyes flit back and forth between yours with a startling amount of intensity.

how can you say no?

once the dinner has been divided, you sit beside john on the couch in the living room. the kitchen table is too small to host the gathering, so the living room was deemed appropriate just this once, to beau’s great delight. he sits on the floor at the coffee table, a tall glass of milk beside his plate of pasta, his eyes bouncing over everyone in the room with unrestrained joy.

“beau, why don’t you introduce everyone for miss [y/l/n]? she doesn’t know all your uncles.” john nods to his son in encouragement, and beau is only happy to take the job.

standing, beau crosses first to the impressively tall and curly-haired man sat beside him on the floor. “this is uncle brian. he likes space and teaches all the big kids at uni.”

he moves to freddie, who sits on a plush armchair. “this is uncle freddie, but you already know him.”

the last man leans against the foyer table, his ankles crossed and sunglasses still perched on his nose. beau pats his arm. “this is uncle roger and he works with daddy.” in a stage whisper, he adds, “he thinks he’s a lot cooler than he really is.”

roger guffaws and lightly pushes beau’s head to the side. “oy, you twerp, take that back!”

glancing about the room, you nod in greeting. “it’s nice to meet you all. i’ve heard quite a bit.”

brian smiles at you from the floor. his legs are bent awkwardly beneath the coffee table, and you’ve noticed the way he helps beau cut his side salad and keep sauce from dripping to the area rug. “all good things i hope?”

“oh yes, of course.”

“[y/n], dear, you really must tell brian what that student of yours did last week,” freddie pipes up. “it had me laughing well into the night. i’m sure some of his twenty-year olds are much the same.”

“i shouldn’t, fred.” you look at beau, who is watching you in interest.

freddie nods in understanding and tugs on his earlobe. “little ears, yes. maybe another time.” he pushes brian’s shoulder with his foot. “really is a riot of a story.”

as supper progresses, conversation twists and turns down different avenues. you explain how you came to teach in the area and find you used to work with one of brian’s newer colleagues. freddie tells the group about his recent run-in with an angry bird watcher in the park. his gestures are so grandiose he whacks roger in the chest, who has come to sit on the arm of fred’s chair. there’s more laughter than there is silence, and you settle back in the couch. at one point, john drapes his arm over the back of the couch—not around your shoulders, but close enough to send your heart into overdrive. it’s all you can focus on—the proximity of his muscular arm behind your head—as brian explains to beau the difference between the big and little dippers. even as roger describes the ramshackle band they four participate in on the weekends, you barely register the words because you swear to the high heavens you feel john’s pointer finger purposefully brush against your shoulder.

beau begins to yawn sometime near the eight o’clock hour, and you jump from the couch when you realize you’ve stayed so late.

“good lord, i’ve got to go!” you shuffle about the room, gathering your belongings, as john rises behind you. “i didn’t know it was so late!”

his hands are in his pockets, and he studies you as you put your shoes on. “got a big date tomorrow?”

you frown. “no,” you say on a laugh. “i’ve actually got breakfast with my mum.”

he looks away for a moment, but you can’t help but note the edge of a smile.

he grabs his jacket from the coat-stand when you’re ready. “i’ll walk you out.”

at the door you wave to the others. “good night, all! it was nice to meet you.”

roger tips an imaginary hat. “i’m sure we’ll meet again, [y/n], if deaky has anything to say about it.”

freddie kicks the back of roger’s leg, and the injured man doubles over in a yelp of pain. “you fucker!” freddie mutters. “you know that—”

john ushers you out the door before you can see or hear any more.

the night air is chilly, and you warm your arms around yourself. you reach for your keys in the depths of your purse and slide them into the lock on the driver’s side of your car. it’s dark out. you can barely make out john’s features beneath the light of the moon, but when he shuffles to the side, an automatic flood light turns on above the garage. you blink against the sudden light and smile, chuckling beneath your breath as your vision adjusts. you’re not eager to leave quite yet, and he doesn’t seem eager to send you away, so you both stand, looking at one another in the darkness of the drive.

“your friends are nice,” you say.

he hums in agreement. “m’yes, they are. we just started as a screw-around band a few years back, but when molly got sick...” he pauses, clasps his hand on the back of his neck, and shrugs. “they’ve been my lifeline, y’know?”

“i can’t imagine what that was like, losing her. i’m glad you had them around.” you suck in a deep breath. “about earlier... i didn’t know beau was going to say that, and i’m sorry it happened. i realize that my... involvement might appear to be me wheedling my way into your family, but that’s not it, really! i mean, i like you and beau—as friends—but i’m not trying to...” you sigh, shaking your head. “i’m sorry it happened ‘s all. i don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

before you know what’s happening, john’s reaching out to cup your cheek. his smile is soft in the glow of the moon and the floodlight, and your heart stops in your chest.

his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “i haven’t seen beau that happy in a long time. you’ve brought a lot of joy back into the house, [y/n].”

you’re sure you’re sweating despite the chill of night. you shake your head, but his hand holds fast against your face. “no,” you whisper. your voice sounds heady, even to your own ears. “beau’s just a good kid.”

“yes, and you’re a good teacher.”

is his face inching closer? you’ve suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

“a good teacher and a good person.”

if it weren’t for your firm hold on the car door handle, you think you might slip to the ground in a puddle of goo.

his lips are on yours, then, and you fall into his arms as he holds you against himself. you have dreamt of this moment far too many times to count, but you never thought it would happen. really, you thought you would finish the year without ever knowing the taste of john’s deacons lips.

but there he is, and there you are, and he tastes like the wine he drank during supper. he is more eager than you thought he would be, and soon he has your back pressed against the door of your car. you huff into his mouth and feel your eyes roll back into your head when he drags his lips across your jaw, inching closer to that spot behind your ear. your arms practically quiver around his shoulders, and you open your eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of a particularly bright star winking down at you.

he catches your lips again, and you feel hot and delicious all over.

“john,” you mumble against his mouth. “john.”

loathe as you are to stop the moment, you do, pushing his shoulders until he pulls himself away. his hand still cradles your hip, and he looks flushed in the moonlight. you’re sure you look equally as rumpled.

you grin. “well.”

he matches your smile, though it’s fleeting. “call you, yeah?”

unlocking your car door, you nod. “please do, mr. deacon.”

he shakes his head on a chuckle and shuts the door, waving gently as you pull out of the drive. when you’re several homes away, out of eyesight, you drift to the side of the road and blast the air conditioner. then you pound your fists against the steering wheel and let out a muffled squeal of delight.

he doesn’t call you.

when you sit down to think about it, it’s not that great of a surprise. you’ve been around him only a handful of times, and though you’ve both been comfortable in those moments, you don’t blame him for resisting whatever it is he feels for you. there’s beau to think about. you’re his teacher; surely there’s some line you shouldn’t be crossing? there’s molly too, and her memory and the years they spent together and the child they had together.

if anything, you figure he’s using you to test the waters of romance again. those stolen touches and deep stares and that kiss in the drive—it’s all just experimentation. the conclusion drawn from those experiments? he’s not ready.

you sigh, take another sip of wine. maybe you should stop driving beau. you like john; you like him a lot. and after that kiss, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. you thought about him before, but never this much. he threatens to consume your every waking moment, and it scares you because he’s not interested. desperately pining after a disinterested man means one thing: ruin. if you stop driving beau home, put some distance between yourself and the deacons, the puppy love and infatuation will fade over time.

it has to or you’ll go crazy.

it’s early evening, and your stomach grumbles. your flat is quiet as you putter around the kitchen in search of a suitable supper. there’s not much in the cupboards and even less in the fridge. you desperately need to go to the grocery store. take-out it is. withdrawing a handful of menus, you spread them out on the counter and flip through them mindlessly.

your thoughts are elsewhere. always on john.

you wonder what compelled him to kiss you. he’s an enigma, john deacon. you’ve seen him in moments of great levity—when he’s around beau or his friends or recounting a story from his youth. he has an infectious laugh, delightful crinkles around his eyes, and a quick wit. but he can be hard, too, like an immovable stone. he’s quick to toss a glare at anyone in his way in those moments of weakness, and his biting wit can turn sour at the drop of a hat. you chalk it up to weariness, those moments. weariness, loneliness, frustration. it doesn’t phase you, though perhaps it should.

with a groan, you drop your forehead to the cool counter and shut your eyes. the kiss lingers on your lips; it has the entire week since. you want him badly—in more ways than one.

the telephone rings, and you startle, clutching a paper menu to your chest. “fuck,” you whisper. you need to get a hobby other than daydreaming. pressing the phone to your ear, you barely get out a word of greeting before someone’s shouting at you on the other end.

“[y/n]? it’s fred! we’ve got a fuckin’ problem over here.”

you frown. “freddie? what’s going on? why are you are john’s? it’s a saturday.”

“no time for that! how fast can you get here?”

“well, i don’t know. i’ve got to—”

“beau’s sick! he’s on the bathroom floor, moaning and groaning and—shit!—[y/n], i don’t know what to do!”

“i’m sure it’s just a tummy ache, fred,” you say. “i see it all the time in my class. give him some pepto and he’ll be fighting fit in the morning.”

“no, [y/n]!” something in fred’s tone—a raw, animal fear—has you standing straight, your heart stuttering in your chest. “he said he feels like he’s gonna die just like molly did!”

“okay, okay.” you begin to move toward your bedroom, but are yanked back by the phone chord attached to the wall. you stumble backwards with a grunt. “okay, i’m coming, fred. just hold tight.”

“fucking hurry!”

you slam the phone down, rush to your bedroom to change from your nightclothes, and jump in the car without a pair of shoes. as quickly as you can you race to the deacon household. the sun dips low, casting an orange glow over the suburban streets lined with family cars. you grip the steering wheel tight, your heart thumping a prayer of protection for beau.

the driveway of the bungalow is empty, the garage door thrown open. the old convertible john toys with in the evenings is parked inside, but his everyday vehicle is gone. cutting the engine of your car, you run through the garage and into the house. fred stands in the hallway, pressed against the bathroom door. he looks ridiculous, clad in a bright yellow bathroom and bunny slippers, but he pounds his fist against the door, pleading for beau to unlock it and let him in. he turns at the sound of your bag dropping on the carpet.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes. he grabs your arm and wrenches you to his side. “beau, miss [y/l/n] is here. why do you talk with her, huh?”

before you say anything to beau, you frown at freddie. “where’s john?” your whisper sound harsh in the dim lighting of the hallway.

“at the shop. overtime. i can’t reach him.”

you jerk your head to the phone sitting on a side-table in the living room. “go try again and i’ll stick with beau here.” when he’s gone, you slide to a sitting position on the floor and press your ear to the thin wood of the door. “beau? beau, honey, it’s me.”

beau only groans in response.

“beau, can you please open the door? i want to help you. that’s it; just help.”

there’s a pause then you hear: “no. go away.”

“it’s okay if you’re embarrassed, beau. we all get sick sometimes. fred and i just want to help you feel better.”

there’s the sound of water sloshing and then a hard sniff. “i want my mommy.”

“oh, baby, i know.” you clear your throat to work past the lump rising to the surface. “come on, just let me in. i promise it’ll be okay.”

“but... what if i die like her too?”

“that’s not gonna happen, beau. i promise.” he doesn’t respond, so you plead once more. “please let me in.”

he shuffles to the door, unclicks the lock, and cracks it open. through the opening, you can see his pale face gleaming with sweat. gently, you push the door open further.

beau’s curled on the floor, his head bent toward his knees. his arms tighten around his stomach, and a spasm ripples through his body. he’s dripping with sweat, his star wars pajamas soaked through. hot air clogs the room, and you switch on the overhead fan. pressing your fingers to his forehead, you cringe and draw back. he’s burning up.

“beau, baby, what hurts?” you finger some of the sweat-matted hair away from his forehead.

“my tummy.”

“what’s your tummy feel like?”

beau shakes his head into the floor. “bad.”

“do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?”

“already did. on my floor.” he opens his eyes long enough to stare at you through thick lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t apologize about that. we’ll get it cleaned up later. i’m just gonna go get you some water, okay?”

he groans, shifting against another spasm of pain. “okay.”

stepping back into the hall, you grab freddie’s arm before he can slip into the bathroom. you tug him to the safety of the kitchen. his eyes dance between yours, expectant.

“well?”

“did you get ahold of john?”

“no, the fucker.”

“we’ll have to go pick him up then.”

fred’s brow twitches. “what? why? what’s wrong with him?”

you throw a glance down the hall when beau whines. “i think it might be his appendix. my dad’s burst last summer and he looked a lot like beau does now.”

“fuckin’ hell.” freddie runs a hand across his mouth. “just what deaky needs.”

you nod in agreement. “i know. we’ve got to take beau to a hospital, though, before it gets any worse.”

“yeah, yeah, i know. go get the car started and i’ll meet you in a minute.”

several minutes later, you’re en route to the auto-shop, freddie cradling beau in the backseat of your station wagon. the drive is tense, your bare foot hard on the gas pedal. beau wrestles and whines against freddie’s hold, continuously asking for his parents and where you’re taking him.

no one wants to say the word hospital, so his cries go unanswered.

freddie directs you to the auto-shop, his phrases terse, and you pull into the drive with a sharp squeal of tires on gravel. with the car still running, you hurry across the parking lot, loose pebbles catching on your feet. music blasts from a stereo within the garage. it’s loud and obnoxious and keeps you from locating john fast enough.

“can i help ya, miss?” a lithe man steps out of a side office, his hairline receding and face near gaunt.

“yes—i’m looking for john deacon.”

the man continuously wipes his hands on a dirty rag. none of the oil and grease on his fingers budges. “he’s down there.”

dirt and grime covers the bottoms of your feet as you race down the shop. cars of all varieties line the wall to your left, some stationary on the ground, others lifted towards the vaulted ceiling. there’s a handful of men at work, but you don’t recognize any of them as john. you’re prepared to start shouting his name when a familiar voice stops you.

“[y/n]?” it’s roger. “can’t get enough of our deaky, can you?” he’s chuckling as he steps out from behind a truck. “what are you doing here?”

“it’s beau,” you say, and his face falls.

“over here.” roger wastes no time in finding john beneath a volkswagon beetle. only john’s legs are visible, his knees bent and leather boots firm on the floor. he curses when roger hooks the toes of his shoes around a curve in the sliding plate on the floor and drags john out from under the car.

“what the fuck, rog? i—” john stills when his eyes land on you. his muscle tee is loose over his chest, and a line of grease mars his forehead. he swallows. “[y/n]... i...” he sits up. “i’ve been meaning to—”

though you’re curious about the end of his sentence, you cut him off. “beau’s sick. we’ve got to take him to hospital.”

the blood drains from john’s face in an instant. the wrench in his hand clatters to the cement ground, and he’s grabbing your elbow, pulling you toward the exit, before you can say anything more.

“crystal, i’m gone!” he shouts, practically shoving you in the direction of the car.

there’s either no reply or you don’t hear it because john shouts for freddie to move the fuck over and give him beau. you slide behind the wheel and pause, twisting to catch a look at the scene in the back.

beau looks like a newborn swaddled in his father’s arms. his face is wet with tears and sweat, and he sobs in his father’s grasp. john feels beau’s forehead and frowns, muttering an oath under his breath. then his eyes flick to yours.

“what are you waiting for? go!”

you don’t need to be told twice.

it’s another fifteen minutes before you reach the hospital. your head throbs under the stress of it all: beau’s pitiful moans for help, john urging you to go faster, freddie barking directions as he slaps the headrest behind you. before you’ve pulled to a complete stop, john is out, beau in his arms. you shoo freddie after him.

“go! i’ll park the car.”

by the time you’ve found a parking space and picked your way across the parking lot, beau’s been admitted for emergency surgery. his appendix, as you suspected. it’s a routine procedure, and he’ll be fine within the next hour. relief floods your system at the news, and you find john and freddie sitting beneath a large fish tank in the waiting room. you take the open spot beside john and cross your ankles.

“your feet are disgusting,” fred says. he points to the bottoms of your feet, dark with dust, dirt, and grime.

you shrug. “forgot shoes.”

the quiet of the waiting room is both a comfort and annoyance. a clock on the wall ticks loudly, and the fish tank bubbles at an uneven rate. every breath you take feels too loud, and the antiseptic smells cling to the inside of your nose.

still, the quiet gives you a moment of rest. you catch your breath. you let the knowledge of skilled and capable doctors working on beau ease your heart-rate. it will all be okay; he’s going to be okay.

you glance at john. his fist is pressed against his mouth, his eyes shut. his leg bounces, and you dare to reach over and lay your hand against his knee. he stills, his eyes flashing to you.

“he’s going to be okay, john.”

on the other side of john, freddie jumps to his feet. “i’m going bananas just sitting here.” he rubs the side of his head. “might burst. i’m gonna give brian a call.” he stalks away, his bunny slippers slapping against the linoleum floor.

you shake your head, biting back the urge to smile.

but then john’s fingers curl around yours, and you can’t help but give into the grin.

you look up, meet his eyes.

“i didn’t call you,” he says.

“no, you didn’t.”

he shifts in seat and looks to the floor. “you should be wearing shoes.”

at the turn of conversation, you frown then follow his gaze. “yes, i suppose.”

“take mine.” he releases your hand to bend down and undo his laces.

“no, john, don’t be silly. i’m fine.”

“please, [y/n], take the shoes.” he slides the boots toward you, and you begrudgingly slip your feet into the warmth of his shoes.

you look silly, the pair of you—your ill-fit mtv t-shirt, loose jeans, and oversized leather boots; his muscle tee with the aptly faded word muscle scrawled across the chest, his faded jeans, and socked feet. one of his toes pokes through the end of his sock, and his exposed arms look cold in the frigid air of the waiting room. you laugh.

“we look like a pair of bikers or something.”

the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “not much of a biker. that’s crystal’s territory.” he doesn’t look at you when he continues speaking. “i’m sorry i didn’t call.”

on a sigh, you drag the boots across the carpet. though it pains you to do so, you let him off the hook. “it’s not a big deal, john. it was just a kiss. no promises.”

“i know.” his head tilts to the side. “but i wanted to call you. nearly did twice, but i chickened out.” he turns, then, and meets your eye. “i like you, [y/n].”

you smile, but know it doesn’t reach your eyes. still, you reach for his hand again. “i like you too, john. i’ve enjoyed getting to know you and your family.”

he shakes his head, and when he speaks, his voice is firm. “no, i like you. that’s why i kissed you and that’s why i didn’t call. because you make me so bloody nervous.”

your shoulders drop, as does your jaw.

“ever since you dropped beau off that first time, i’ve been thinking about you and about you and him together and then he called you mum and i saw the way you acted with him and—” he pauses for a breath. “molly was different with beau. i mean, she loved him, but she was always so fragile and worried and—and that’s not the point! the point is that you make beau happy and you make me happy. and i want to be happy again.”

“john...”

his grip on your hand tightens as he leans closer. “make me happy, yeah? i’m stubborn as a mule and shy, too, but i want you—badly.”

the fire in your heart spreads at his words. it spreads throughout your body until you feel like you could burst and shine a light into even the darkest corners of the earth. a laugh bubbles forth from between your lips. you lift a hand to stifle it.

“you want to know something?” you ask.

“what?”

“i’ve been pining after you, john deacon, ever since i heard your voice over the phone. i was content to just wallow in my daydreams, but this seems better.” you lift your fingers to brush his chin. “a lot better.”

“i can’t promise i’ll make a good boyfriend. i’m pretty rusty.”

“me too. we can be rusty together.”

he grins, leans forward further, his nose brushing yours. “can’t promise there won’t be hiccups. i’ve got baggage.”

“i can carry it.”

he kisses you, his hand on the back of your head, keeping you firm against his mouth. you grin, your teeth knocking his as you laugh. his curls are soft against your fingertips, and you hold on for dear life when he chuckles into your smile.

“mr. deacon?”

john kisses you once, twice more, before pulling away to look at the doctor. “yeah?” he doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed to be caught in such a position in the middle of a hospital waiting room, but you hide your face against his neck. your cheeks hurt your smile is so wide.

“beau’s ready to see you now.”

john stands and extends at hand. “comin’, dove?”

your footfalls are hard against the ground, the boots heavy around your ankles, as you walk with him hand-in-hand to beau’s hospital room. you lean against his side, breathe the comfort of him in, and smile.

yes, this is much better than your daydreams—baggage, boots, beau, and all.

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #john deacon fic #queen #queen fic #j writes

202 notes · View notes

liibrii · 4 years

Text

Chapter 3: In the light, your name

Ojiro Aran x fem!reader

Series Masterpost || Ch. 1 || Ch. 2

wc: 4.7k

warnings: time skip spoilers, swearing, internalised guilt and shame, intrusive thoughts, self doubt, drinking.

a/n: this only took forever cause I got carried away (what a surprise). if you wanna be tagged in future chapters lemme know, and as always feedback is greatly appreciated!

A step forward, two steps back. Like a dance, just like his mother taught him, dancing and laughing back home, only this dance holds no joy, only cruel turns and twirls and your hand slipping from his as fate whisks you away.

“One Ace special coming up!“ Osamu places a plate of freshly made onigiris in front of Aran. They look amazing, as if taken directly out of one of those fancy cooking books. The practice had been especially gruelling that day and yet Aran has no appetite. All he wants is to go home and sleep. He would have, if Gao hadn't dragged him to the newly opened Tokyo branch of Onigiri Miya.

More out of politeness than really being hungry he takes a bite. It's good, much better than ones he remembers Osamu bringing to practice. “Woah, this is tasty!“

Osamu practically beams at Aran's praise. Even he has changed, notices Aran. Has he grown a little? The grey of his hair is gone, and he smiles so much more. Aran doesn't remember ever seeing him so talkative.

Has everyone changed so much while he wasn't paying attention?

While chewing he pulls phone from his bag, in some silly hope there'd be a message from you. But the screen is empty and seeing his screensaver is almost a mocking to his hopes. What else did he expect? People don't always mean what they say, but a storm doesn't mean to blow away roofs either.

Lost in his thoughts Aran barely takes notice when Gao says his goodbye and other customers slowly start leaving.

Osamu closes the shop then places two more cans of beer on the counter. Without much enthusiasm Aran opens the can and pours the fizzling liquid into a glass. Which drink was it, third? Fourth? For a moment he considers telling Osamu everything. About you, how he feels and how he screwed up. Just to get it out there. But Aran knows Osamu talks to Atsumu, and Atsumu never learned what keeping a secret means. So he blames his sour mood on practice.

Even if Aran was a good liar Osamu'd see through his little ticks. They've been the same ever since elementary school and so obvious; the nervous scratching of his nails, rubbing of his neck. Ever since he'd grown a beard he added rubbing it to the list.

“I should probably get goin',“ says Aran before downing half the glass in one long gulp.

“What's a few more minutes?“ Osamu doesn't bother pouring his beer. “I'll clean up later. Don't have any other plans anyway.“

A low chuckle leaves Aran's lips. “Life goin' that good, yeah?”

“Could say that. Could be far worse. How about ya?“

Aran massages his temples. He's getting light headed and still he takes another long sip. “Like ya said, could be far worse. Had a rough couple weeks. Women, ya know?“

Osamu hums and nods, wisely. “Women. Got dumped, did ya?“

“In a way...“

“What happened, did ya forget her birthday or somethin'?“

Aran laughs. Oh no, he knows exactly when your birthday is. “Said somethin' stupid.“

“Just somethin'? If she gets upset so fast then maybe she's trouble.“

“Wasn't like that. She trusted me and I... had a bad day and took it out on her.“

Osamu takes an onigiri Aran hasn't touched yet. “Have ya apologised?“ He asks with his mouth full. “Should start with that,“ he continues after Aran shakes his head, “treat her to dinner. I know some good restaurants if ya want. Or better, cook somethin' yerself.“ He opens the browser on his phone. “What's her favorite food?“

Aran tells him. “Whichever recipe ya find I can tell ya right now I can't cook it.“

“I found a few even Tsumu can make,“ laughs Osamu still scrolling through his phone. “What's she like? More into fancy stuff or more homey? Fried rice's easy but not very fancy, more of a safe bet. Maybe with an omelette. I can show ya how to make it to look like a panda. Success guaranteed!“

“How can omelette look like a panda? It's yellow.“

“A yellow bear then,“ Osamu shruggs before putting away his phone. “Does she like bears?“

“Does- I ain't sure...“

“Ya don't know?“

“No! Why would I? Is that what ya ask folk ya take on dates?“

“Usually I ask what they think about apple curry.“

“I don't think she likes apple curry... Or maybe she does...“ He gloomily stares at the empty glass in front of him. “Gimme one more.“

Osamu obliges and pours him one more, deciding this is the last one for him. Aran's eyes are getting glassy and he dreamily observes the white foam before downing half the glass.

“We went down to the Kamakura beach,” he says, scratching at his immaculate fingernails. “She looked s' pretty in the sunset... She likes sunsets... I think. Ain't sure 'bout anythin' these days.“

“Everyone likes sunsets,“ nods Osamu. “Never trust people who don't like seein' sunsets. I'm tellin' ya, buy her some udon. Or bring her here, I'll give ya a special discount.“

Aran bursts into laughter. “He'll know then...“ Osamu leans his head to the side, wondering what his old teammate meant by that. “She's ex of a friend.“

“Ow,“ is all Osamu says. That explains everything. You don't date a friends' ex. “Sorry. She sounds great.“

“Yeah, yeah she is... Kinda almost like a whasit's called again, kotatsu? Warm...“ He's just blabbering now, his mind a hazy labyrinth of disconnected thoughts. He misses you, he misses you so bad, and he fucked up, and he doubts cooking you a dinner would repair the damage he's done. Once it would be pretty easy to bribe you with the right snacks but you've changed. You've changed so much he still fears he doesn't know you at all. “Hey Samu? Hav' I changed?“

“Yea? I doubt the old Aran-kun wouldda come to me for advice.“

Corners of Aran's lips perk up. Why is his glass empty? “Yer a good guy ‘Samu. Can ya call me a taxi? I've got practice t'morrow.“

He has to stop visiting Onigiri Miya on the evenings Aran thinks on another morning after drinking and talking with Osamu till late night hours. The cool breeze of the early morning hours is refreshing but isn't doing anything to ease the hammering in his head. Sky without a cloud promises the day to be sunny and hot. Aran's just glad he found his sunglasses ad that the gym has air conditioning.

There's a distant ringing in his ears. Ringing that doesn't stop and causes other people on the train to send him sideway looks. It's because his phone is ringing but he's too focused on trying not to throw up to notice. He only does so once he's walking the short walk from the train station to the gym. Seeing your name over the 'missed call' almost makes him drop the phone. He calls you back, frantically tapping his fingers on his arm, hoping you'll pick up. You don't.

The sun is too bright. Pouring rain would be more appropriate to his mood. Aran's glad he can hide from the warm rays inside the gym. No matter his mood volleyball always takes his mind off things, and even now he hopes it will help him see things more clearly. The thought of you has become a wind chime, singing at every little thing that makes him think of you. Staying focused on the ball in front of him is harder than expected. But first and foremost he's a professional volleyball player with a new season just around the corner. He can't let his team, his fans down. Since your first year of high school you've been his supporter too. He can't let you down.

When his phone rings again he’s in the middle of receiving drills and this call too goes unanswered. Instead your message waits for him.

(9. 45) Aran are u free this Sunday? the shrine down the street is holding a festival. wanna come?

A wide smile spreads over his face. He's more than happy to come he writes back, his smile spreading even wider when only a few moments later you text him place and time.

“Ojiro what are you looking at?“ Gao peers over his shoulder and Aran quickly puts his phone away.

“Nothin'“

“Nothing, ey? Does the nothing have a name?“

Aran rolls his eyes and heads for the showers, ignoring the teasing laughter of his teammates. Honestly, he's too excited to see you to care.

Aran glances on his phone to check the time. Five more minutes and he'll be only ten minutes early. He kicks the small stone form the pavement onto the road. Then he straightens his shirt. Maybe this colour wasn't the right choice after all, maybe you would've liked the red one better. Once in passing Akagi said red looked good on him. He sends you a short message, letting you know he's already here.

Minutes later he catches the sight of your figure manoeuvring between visitors flocking towards the many stands. “Sorry, I got worried all the best mochi'd sell out,“ you apologise, pointing to plate full of different kinds of mochi in your hand. “Samu isn't here yet?“

“No.“ His heart clenches. He didn't even think about the possibility of you inviting anyone else. “He's probably just late,“ he quickly adds, “let me call him.“

“Always late,“ you complain, “tell him I got his mochi but if he doesn't appear soon I'll just eat them myself. Want one?“

He declines the sweet and you shrug. While he waits for Osamu to pick up he avoids looking at you. The call goes unanswered. “I'll send him a message.“

“Tell him every minute he's late is a free onigiri,“ you mumble, your mouth full of delicious mochi. “And he's paying for drinks. I saw a stand with soya smoothies up the street. And a stand with takoyaki.“

“Have ya mapped out all the food stands?“ chuckles Aran.

“Well you know Samu, food is his best motivator. You sure you don't want one?“

He gives in and takes the matcha one. He watches with a fond smile as you stuff an entire mochi in your mouth.

“What?“ you mumble when you catch him staring.

“Ya look like a hamster.“

You roll your eyes in an effort to cover the smile creeping on your face. “Very funny. How's life?“

“It's fine,“ he nods, awkwardly.

“Good.“

“Yeah.“ He rubs his chin. The beard is getting a little long. He glances over at you. He should say something. But what? “I'm really sorry about what I said,“ he finally utters. “I do care. About you.“

“We all say things we don't mean, right?“ The soft look in your eyes makes his throat tighten. He hurt you and yet here you are. Reaching out, again. “It's all water under the bridge. Besides, I really missed hanging out with you. So, where do ya wanna go?“

“Shouldn't we wait for Osamu?“

“Nah. It's his fault for being late, he'll find us. And he better buy us those smoothies. Want one more mochi? You should really try the chocolate one, it's amazing.“

Never again. Aran doesn't want to see you hurt ever again.

The festival is crowded, which is to be expected in Tokyo, and he keeps an eye out for you. The last thing he wants is to lose you somewhere in the sea of people. He stays close, quietly delighting in seeing your excitement over different attractions of the festival. A few times your hand brushes against his, sending a shiver down his spine.

Osamu never shows up, messaging about an hour later he got stuck at work, promising you both as many onigiri as you'd like the next time you come around Onigiri Miya. “A shame. I was hoping to hang out with him while he's still in Tokyo.“

“He'll have time in the future,“ says Aran, doing his best to ignore the pang of jealousy in his chest.

“Probably. But will there be fresh soya smoothie for him to treat me to?“

Aran buys you the smoothie you so crave, grinning upon seeing your excitement. You walk around the festival grounds and from time to time he steals sips of your smoothie. You pout and nag he should buy one for himself but don't stop him.

As night falls you search for a good place to watch the fireworks from. Just after they start Aran puts his hand on the small of your back to gently push you forward so you'd see better. But you don't budge and he bumps into you, his chest to your back. The sounds of festival fade, as if the crowd disappeared and all that remains is you, looking at him, fireworks reflecting in your eyes. The softness of your gaze causes his heart to do somersaults. You snicker and flick his nose.

Tease, he thinks and tickles you. He wishes he could properly put his arms around you and rest his head on your shoulder. He wishes he was here as more than just your friend. He wishes he alone would be enough of a reason for you to always have the same soft look in your eyes.

But if Kita, the perfect Kita Shinsuke, Kita who knew you better than anyone wasn't enough, how could he be?

His hand lingers on your arm for a heartbeat longer. He could try, he could always love you with all he has and hope you'd love him back, hope he could be enough. But if he failed... he'd only hurt you more, wouldn't he? And you've been hurt enough.

During lunch break his phone rings and his hearts jumps, hoping it's you. But instead Osamu's name is written over the screen. A bit disappointed Aran picks up.

“Aran-kun whatcha doin' this Saturday?“ Not even a'hello'. So many years and still so rude.

“Practice till afternoon, then watchin' a movie.“

“Amazin'! Want some company?“

A boys' night out? Why not? It would be nice to spend some time with someone who wasn't his teammate. “'Course.“

Osamu laughs. “Knew ya would. I happen to know someone interested in a blind date. I'll tell her to meet ya at the cinema.“

“What? Osamu I'm not really one for blind dates-“

“The ex of a friend. She's Kita-san' ex, isn't she?“ Aran's silence is an answer enough. “Ya asked me for advice. This is it, go out, try meetin' someone else. Whatever you want to have with her it won't end well.“

Aran knows. He knows all that. He knows you returning his feelings would be the worst case scenario. Sooner or later he'd have to tell Kita. “I know,“ he says. “I know that.“

Osamu doesn't answer immediately, waiting if Aran will add anything else. “Just go on this one date, see how it goes.“

“I'll think about it.“

He does think about it. The entire day in fact. Meeting someone new would be nice and who knows, she might be the one he's waiting for. A part of him, the guilty part that's been way too loud in the past weeks, stays firmly against the idea. Searching for the right one when you're right here. What if this blind date is just a crazy fan who somehow found her way to meeting him? And what about you, it asks? It would be cruel wouldn't it, leading you on while going on dates behind your back.

But he isn't leading you on, Aran argues with the voice inside his head, you're just a friend anyway. He cares about you yes, but only as a really good friend. Osamu is right, you should never be more than that. You're Kita's ex. And you don't date your friend's ex. So why break his heart further?

(17.48) I'll go on the date. send me time and place.

That's the thing about making plans, the moment you make them something else comes up. Just the following day his phone rings, making his heart flutter when he sees your name.

“Hey.“ Your voice alone makes him smile. “I, uhm, I have a request.“

No beating around the bush. It makes Aran wonder if you've been hanging with Osamu so much you picked up his habits. “Oh, do ya?“

“Yeah. It’s is a bit awkward... Listen, I have a very important exam next week but my roommate's gonna have her boyfriend over for the entire weekend. Let's just say earplugs aren't helping and leave it at that, yeah? So, could I maybe crash at your place till then? I just need a quiet place to study. I can sleep on the couch! Or the floor, I really don't care!“

“'Course ya can,“ says Aran without hesitation.

This is how we finds himself sitting with a bunch of your notes in his lap, you leaning on his back explaining one of the questions. There are at least 4 empty mugs on the desk of his living room. He hopes you've left some coffee for breakfast.

He's amazed by how naturally you fit into his life. Almost like the space beside his shoes in the closet was meant for yours and the jacket hanging beside his was always meant to be there. You've even found your favourite mug already. The bedroll on the floor of the living room is the only reminder you're only crashing at his place for a couple of days. If you asked he'd let you stay longer.

The next morning you wake up the same time as him, sipping your first cup of coffee for the day, half asleep and draped in the hoodie he strategically left on the counter last night. You don't even raise a brow when he takes your phone and asks you to unlock it. “I'll send ya a playlist. Just some classical music. It's good for studyin'.“

“Sure,“ you answer in a groggy voice. “Have fun bouncing the ball around,“ you wave him off when he gets ready to leave.

Your sleepy face makes him smile for the rest of the day. Practice runs longer than usual and he returns late, stepping over two stairs at the time. The lights are still on when he enters but there's no answer when he calls out. He finds you behind the desk, so absorbed in your notes you don't notice his approach. When he places his hands on your shoulders you jump and shriek. “Aran!“ You remove your headphones. “Do you want to give me a heart attack?!“ He laughs and you smack his leg before he sits on the floor beside you.

“Is the material so interestin'?“ He looks over your many notes and pushes an empty mug to the edge of the table.

“I was listening to music,“ you rub your eyes. He notices they look a bit reddish. He takes your phone and clicks the play button and music continues. It only takes him a moment to recognise the piece.

“Dmitri Shostakovich, Waltz number 2. My mom's favourite. Used to dance to it with dad every Thursday.“

“That's sweet.“

He stands up and offers you his hand. “Come, ya need a break.“

You take his hand without question, only raising your brow when he places his left hand on your back. “Ya have to put your hand on my shoulder,“ he grins to your more than apparent confusion.

“Oh, right,“ you mumble. “I can't really dance you know. Not waltz at least.“

He gently holds your right hand in his and gives you a reassuring squeeze. “Don't worry, I'll teach ya. I start with my right foot forward, ya step back with yer left, yep, just like that, then my left foot forward,“ you jump in surprise when he turns you around, “and the first turn, now yer right foot forward, then left, and turn. See, it ain't hard.“

“Easy for you to say,“ you disagree, your eyes fixed on his feet and your mind preoccupied with trying not to step on his toes.

“Just follow my lead,“ grins Aran, gently pulling you a little closer.

He counts the steps and beats in his head and step after another you relax and follow his lead. All those Thursdays when dad wasn't home and mom pulled him into taking his place are finally paying off.

“I didn't know you could dance so well.“

Aran laughs at your words and gently pushes you into a twirl under his arm. “I guess there's a lot ya don't know,“ he says when he pulls you closer again.

You follow his steps and soon begin catch on the slightest of his moves. Music changes but you don't let go so you dance on through his living room, off beat and saying quiet 'Sorry's,' every time you step on his toes. The way your brows furrow when you mess up is adorable but Aran doesn't give you the time to ponder over the mistake, pulling you into the next turn with ease and certainty of someone who has danced these steps countless times.

When the last song ends Aran leaves his hand on your back. You're so close, your hand in his. Looking and smiling at him. His eyes linger on your lips. It would take so little to close the space between you. So little that would change so much.

He pulls away.“ Do ya want tea?“

“Don't I always?“ you muse and head to put the water on, then open the cupboard but the last cups stand on the highest shelf and even on your tiptoes you can't reach them. Aran gently pushes you to the side and reaches for them. “Here.“

He pours himself a glass of water then pulls his phone out to check the time. Shit. The blind date. That's today! He glances over at you, making your tea, humming the melody of the last song you danced too. His heart drops.

What is he doing? He can't... This is getting out of control. He clenches the glass tighter. You're so close, he wouldn't even have to fully extend his arm to tap your shoulder. If, right here and now, he told you how he feels, how would you react? He lifts the glass to his lips. Probably not in the way he wants you to. A leap of faith, one that could take him anywhere. To the love of his life, he thinks watching you stir, or to the stone to shatter the friendship you both tried so hard to rebuild. A risk he doesn't have the courage to take.

The half empty glass he leaves in the sink draws your attention. You watch Aran head for the bedroom and you don't think much of it. It's his apartment, he can do what he wants. It's only when almost ten minutes pass that you decide to poke your head through the door to see what he's up to. The clothes he's wearing certainly aren't what one would wear for staying at home. “Going somewhere?“ you ask, curious as to why he's wearing a pretty alright polka dotted shirt.

“I have a date.“ He awkwardly fixes his collar. He doesn't want to meet your eyes.

There's a short silence before you answer. “A date? In this shirt?“

Your judgemental tone makes him turn. “What's wrong with this shirt?”

You scrunch up your nose. “It gives you that,“ you wiggle your fingers, “successful businessman in his forties looking for a wife vibes.“

“What's wrong with that?“

“What's wrong with-?! Aran! You're a professional athlete!“ You enter his bedroom and start looking through the closet. “Don't you get invited to fashion shows and stuff? One would expect you'd get some fashion sense purely through osmosis. Ouch!“ you yelp when he playfully smacks your shoulder. “Here, this one.“ You hand him a shirt of dark violet colour.

He takes it from your hands and inspects it. Then he hands it back. “I like this one better. And I'm runnin' late already anyway.“

You shrug and hang it back. “As you wish Mr. CEO. Wait, are you bringing your date back here?! Shit, I need to clean up my stuff.“

“Relax. I'm not bringin' anyone back. It's a blind date anyway. Ya keep studyin' alright? I'll be very disappointed if ya don't get the highest mark.“

“What do you mean a blind date? Damn, I didn't expect that from you player boy,“ you tease and it's a distraction enough for Aran to miss the forced smile.

“Osamu's idea.“

A small “Ah,“ is all you reply at first. “Get going then, being late is the worst you can be on the first date!“ You push him out of the room. “Have fun, don't say anything stupid, and don't only talk about volleyball.“

“It's not my first date y/n, gosh, stop bein' such a mom. Why are ya so excited anyway?“

“Probably too much caffeine.“

When he returns you're still up. You have two cups of tea ready before he even takes his shoes off.

“So, how was it?“ You push the cup across the table. “Come on, come on, no need to be shy,“ you grin, “tell me!“

Aran rolls his eyes at your sudden excitement. “It was nice, but nothin’ special,“ he tells you.

“Just nice?“ You tap your fingers on the table. Aran recognises the rhythm, it's one of your favourite songs. You sent it to him a few days ago. “Dating must be harder now that you're famous,“ you say, absent-mindedly. “Or is it easier?“

Before answering he takes a cracker from the bowl on the table. “Harder,“ is the answer he settles on. “Ya never know if they're attracted to ya or yer status. What about ya?“ He focuses on chewing crackers and taking small sips of tea, anything to keep from glancing at you.

“Ah you know,“ you sigh, “have enough other problems at the moment. College is messing with my head enough already. Why put another person in the mix?“ This time Aran doesn't miss how your voice trembles, and how you rub your forehead. Maybe you just have a light headache. You do look exhausted.

He changes the subject, feeling the talk of dating is quickly approaching dangerous territory. “How are ya feelin'? With studyin' and all?“

You lean on your hand. “Could be much worse. It's just a lot. Probably should have started with studying earlier.“

“But with work ya didn't even have enough time, right? Don't be too hard on yerself.“

“Actually, I quit. I thought it would help me focus on studying,“ you say upon seeing his questioning gaze.

“Ya know what will help ya study better? Some good night's sleep.“ He takes your empty cup. “I'll do the dishes, ya go ready for bed. No talkin' back,“ he points his finger to your face, “ my house, my rules. No stayin' up past midnight.“

“It's one in the morning.“

“Past time for ya to go to bed then young lady.“

After that you don't protest and before he even finishes doing the dishes you're snuggled on your bedroll and half asleep. Seeing you fills him with warmth. He could get used to this, coming home to you every night. He turns the lights off.

When he lays in his bed he wonders what's with the sinking feeling in his chest. There's anger. Why were you so excited for his date in the first place? Why did you look almost disappointed when he said it was nothing special? He hugs his pillow, thinking he'd much rather it was you in his arms. You must be soft. If only you'd be here, his nose filled with the scent of your shampoo. Teeth of shame sink in his heart. Why does he have to feel like this?

He wants you to be jealous. It's so damn childish, he knows that. It's something his teenager self felt when you hugged Kita after a game but only gave him a high five and a head pat.

How long is he going to keep lying to himself? He's in love with you. Not the you he remembers. You here and now. You sipping your fourth cup of coffee, you frantically flipping through notes wearing one of his old hoodies. That at least hasn't changed; you still steal any hoodie you can get your grabby little hands on. Not steal, he corrects himself, borrow. You borrow them. For an undetermined period of time.

He buries his face in the pillow. You're not the always cheerful manager he remembers anymore. But you are still you.

Tag list: @aonenthusiast @rosecaffelatte @kara-grayson04

#ojiro aran #ojiro aran x reader #ojiro aran imagine #ojiro aran x y/n #aran x reader #aran x y/n #aran x you #hq #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu x reader #inarizaki x reader #inarizaki x y/n #all that is gold #libri scribbles

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vitalityofficial · 4 years

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Vitality LORE ACT 1 - The Girl: Prologue

VITALITY LORE // A1 - The Girl

Summary: We are introduced to a young girl whose life is about to change forever. After suffering a devastating loss, a mysterious man will eventually come into her life and begin his dark path of vengeance. The girl is only the beginning.

Warnings: Death, Cursing, Mentions of Blood, Bullying, Depression, PTSD, Anxiety

Wordcount: 1,778

School had been out for an hour now and all her friends had gone home. Why hadn't her parents come yet? They never took this long! And why haven't they called? She took her phone out, dialing her father's number and it rang and rang before going to voicemail.

"Dad! I'm still waiting. Are you okay? I'll wait for fifteen more minutes and if you aren't here, I'll walk home! I'll take the special kimchi route, okay? I love you!"

The 'special kimchi route' is a series of alleyways littered with various family-owned shops - one of those shops owned by an older woman who had the best kimchi dishes around and one her family ate at often.

The girl frowns after the fifteen minutes are up and finally hops off the swing, grabbing her book bag and sighing. "Traffic must be bad today," she reasoned, leaving the gated school property and making the long trek home. She still found it odd that neither had contacted her, but her mother's cellphone was being repaired and her father was old and sometimes didn't pick up service well. They lived far up in the hills - the rather "poor" part of Seoul, tucked far away with the main city in the distance - and any nearby payphones were broken and left to rot.

As she walks and walks, she can't help but to hum a happy tune, feeling perky despite everything. Her birthday was in 5 days and her parents had promised to take her to Busan for a whole week! Her best friend had moved there last year and the two didn't get to keep in contact so it was the perfect way to celebrate a special day.

"You! Child!" A gruff voice spoke from a darkened corner and she yelps when a frail hand grabs her arm, spinning her around. "Grandma! You scared me!" She laughs, hugging the older unrelated woman. She was a well-known resident to all in the small neighborhood and the girl's family was very familiar with her.

“It’s so awful, child! Truly terrible!” The elderly woman murmurs, her eyes wide and pupils as big as saucers. The girl frowns and a look of concern comes over her face - word around was that Grandma was not well and often spouted eccentric things but the other residents often did their best to take care of her as there were no known relatives around. “Are you okay, Grandma? Shall I help you home? It’s getting chilly out.” The girl softly grabs her hand, guiding her in the direction of the woman's house.

“I am so sorry, my sweet girl. You are to endure so much pain and it is not fair for you were destined for so much good.” The old lady rambles as they walk but the girl brushes it off, use to it. When they reach the final hill - which happens to split off into a fork - the girls home on the right and a cliff just across the weather-beaten road and the woman’s on the left - they are overwhelmed by the flashing lights of multiple police cars and an ambulance.

“What’s going on?” The girl panics as she takes everything in, immediately dropping the old lady’s hand as she rushes towards the commotion. She had never seen so many people gathered around this area and to her horror - right in front of her house!

"Was there an accident? What happened?" She pleads with an officer, who immediately stops her from crossing the tape barrier. "It's not safe, young lady. Please stay back!" The female cop grasps the girls shoulders, pushing her back. It wasn't soon enough though as the girl peaks around her, seeing a trail of blood that went over the cliff edge - something truly abnormal and mortifying.

“That’s my home! Where's are my Mother and Father?” She was panicking now - something clearly wasn’t right. Her parents were never late picking her up from school or activities and to come home to this...mess...The girl knew now that something terrible had happened and there was no hiding it from her. “Mama? Papa?” She screams desperately, tears instantly flooding down her cheeks.

The officer gave her a solemn look before turning to her superior, the two whispering among themselves for a couple of minutes. When they returned, the woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and guided her away from the commotion, sitting on a bench with her - a bench the girl often sat on with her Father when they ate breakfast and waited for the school van to pick her up each morning.

The officer didn’t waste much time breaking the news. “My dear, I am afraid your Mom and Dad had an accident and are no longer with us in this world.” Though her voice was gentle, it was clear that breaking such awful news to a child wasn’t something she did often, or even wanted to do.

The girl sputtered, unable to form any words. She looked around for the Grandmother but the woman was nowhere in sight now. “Mama...Papa?” She cries out weakly - the thought of never seeing them or speaking to them ever again filling her with an overwhelming sense of despair, leaving her gasping for air.

Everything went black then.

7 Years Later - (2016)

“Yah! Chaewon! Are you even listening? Hey! Watch out!” A firm hand grabs the girl's arm and yanks her backward just as a delivery scooter races past, beeping madly. “Are you spacing out again? What is with you?” Areum looked at her friend worriedly, the rapper of the triangle kimbap she was holding in her opposite hand crinkling loudly.

“Huh? What did I miss?” Chaewon snaps out of her funk, a tentative smile on her face. Areum groans in response, rolling her eyes as she takes a bite of her snack. “I said,” she begins with her mouth full of food, “I was thinking of asking Kangdae out. Isn’t he handsome, yeah? He’s not like the other boys in our class.”

“He’s a bit dumb, isn’t he?” Chaewon mutters. Sure, he was cute and had muscles but he wasn’t exactly known to be bright and was at the bottom of their class in terms of grades unlike Areum, who was in the top five.

Areum groans and smacks her friend on the arm. “Don’t be so rude, Unnie! He’s not stupid, okay? He just doesn’t really like studying but he’s a good person! He wants to get into music and he’s really good at it too! You should listen to one of his tracks he’s produced!” She goes to pull out her phone, biting her lip as she scrolls through some files.

“Maybe another time, yeah?” Chaewon waves dismissively at the cellular device her friend holds out to her. “I have to get home.”

“Let me walk you!” Areum offers, linking her arm through Chaewons. She was understandably concerned about her friend - who had been experiencing sporadic blackouts for a couple months now - and wanted to make sure she got home safely. “I mean, you did just nearly get shit on by a scooter while having one of your...moments.”

Chaewon shook her head, “No! I’m fine! Plus you know how my parents are.” Areum pouts, grumbling. “They have to be the lamest parents on earth if they won’t let their daughter bring a friend home. We’ve been besties since forever and I’ve never even met them! Ugh...”

"Yeah. They’re...strict and really embarrassing, to be honest. You’re not missing out on much.” Chaewon huffs, checking her phone for the time. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” She forces a smile at her friend, pulling her school blazer around her tighter as suddenly a chilly breeze whipped through the air. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways.

As Chaewon walked, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so distant lately. Areum had been a true friend to her ever since her move to Gwangmyeong. She was the first student to welcome her. The first to defend her against the snotty students who picked on Chaewon for being sullen, quiet and “weird”. Prior to the...incident, she had no real issues with bullies and was rather well-liked by her peers. She had since become the opposite version of former herself - the girl her parents adored was gone and she had no proper concept on how to defend herself or react to the other student's harsh words and actions.

So why was she so rude at times? Why did she lie to someone she considered her best friend? Chaewon had come to the conclusion that it was a defense mechanism of sorts. The only way she could deal with everything was by lying about her life outside of school. It made it easier to pretend - the façade she had created was an escape, albeit still very bleak, much like the truth.

The sounds of the city center grew more distant as she reached the iron gates of her “home”. Her slender hand gripped the cool iron and pushed it open slowly, the squealing of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Laughter could be heard flittering from the playground behind the old stone building that housed 13 other kids just like her:

Orphans.

The Seojun house for orphans wasn’t too terrible - the food was edible on most days and the rats and roaches were few and far between as of late. The couple who ran it weren’t the kindest and had clearly become burnt out after running the institution for the past 20 years. If they hadn’t been getting a good sum of government money to run it, they most definitely would have abandoned the ominous place long ago. What made the place tolerable were some of the staff, like Mr. Kim.

“Welcome home, Miss Lee!” Mr. Kim - the designated maintenance and security man -- greets Chaewon with a cheery smile as she approached the front door. He even stops raking to open it for her, bowing and motioning with a hand for her to enter as if she were royalty.

“Ah! yes! Home sweet home! Thank you, Mr. Lee.” She manages to muster a smile, bowing as she walks through the familiar doors and sighing loudly. Her smile falters as she is out of the caretakers sight and the familiar sense of dread slowly overcomes her once again.

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fereldenturnip · 4 years

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But Don’t You Ever Let Me Go (2)

Primo Nizzuto/Majid Zamari Sugar Daddy Fic

Part 2/ ?

(Part 1)

[nsfw towards the end]

Majid spends most of his days trying his hand at an honorable job. 'Try' being the operative word. He's never had the head for dull drudge work, giving up his warehouse position in Utrecht before he ever got started. It's boring. Routine is shit-boring. He’s already burnt out on three separate jobs so far.

Currently, he’s an auto-repair mechanic trawling through motor oil and brake fluid. It’s exhausting and frustrating, sweating through his overalls and busting his fingers. He absolutely hates it when some rich-prick comes swaggering in, throwing the keys of some hot rod in his face like he’s a robot and not a person. Swallowing the all-consuming rage gets harder with each asshole.

These trust-fund babies always want the same thing, “Fix it by noon!” with not even thirty minutes to spare assessing what component they broke to make it sound like shit. Majid always manages to get the cars purring again, and he’s half-tempted to just steal one and ride off into the sunset like he used to. The dumb-struck look on Pastel Polo Shirt Paolo’s face when he returns to an empty shop is one of Majid’s fondest daydreams.

No. Instead he fixes the damn car, hands over the keys, and lets jock twits rev dust in his face.

To make matters worse, he goes home to a dank and miserable, overpriced flat above a busy deli. Unwinding is next to impossible when your floors reek of salami. At night, Majid listens to his neighbors pound away at each other. The luck of others only underscores his own nonexistent sex life. It’s been almost a year and he hasn’t gotten laid since his trysts with Tessa. Lying on his bed that doubles as a couch, Majid glares at the ceiling when the telltale thumping begins. There isn’t even a television to block out the noise or silence his depressing memories. Majid suffers the entire night, sometimes with half a stiffy that no amount of palming will relieve.

Just when Majid’s day (his week, his month, his life) spirals out of control and he wants nothing more than to throw himself into the Tiber, Primo returns to whisk him away. Cheerful and unrepentantly persistent as expected.

It's as if the older man is psychic--either that or he actually does have informants all over the city. He rolls up in a sleek Mercedes, his driver popping out to open the door obediently. From the dark interior Primo’s elegant hand uncurls, beckoning him forth. Into the lion’s den.

And every time, Majid lets himself be coddled into the back seat. If this is a dance then he’s clearly not the lead. Does he mind? Glancing back at the auto shop, he’s hard-pressed finding a reason to say no.

Majid sinks into the warm leather seats and only mildly feels self-conscious as he clashes with his luxurious surroundings. Primo never disparages his workman’s clothes or the grease in his cuticles. He passes Majid an ice-cold water from the built-in fridge, unperturbed by the possibility of soiling his fine outfit. It’s just the opposite--Primo is ecstatic to be in Majid’s company again and again.

They’re chauffeured around, chatting and laughing amiably (and wow, Majid never believed he’d laugh again, not after what he’s been through), searching for a meal befitting the hour. Fancy, decadent, expensive. Breakfast, brunch, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes a combination of several depending on Primo’s schedule. And that’s a loose term.

Of course, there are events and fundraisers, meetings and phone calls Primo must attend to. Primo also owns half of Italy. The rules he operates by are malleable to suit his whimsy and if he wants to play hookie with Majid, there’s no one around to tell him no.

No one can stop Primo, not even the devil himself. It’s unwise, every time Majid hops in Primo’s car and feels his stomach automatically growl rather than churn. Who is Majid, a deadbeat thief with anger issues, to the Don of Calabria? One wrong move, one dumb mistake, and Primo can have him sleeping in the Tiber with whomever else is lying there too.

++++

“Ach,” Primo grimaces, “The Netherlands? I could never go there. It’s too cold!” He laughs though, warm and toothy, pouring more sparkling water into their glasses. The Mercedes makes another loop around the Colosseum, the tinted windows colouring the ancient stone in shades of blue and grey. The driver is a consummate professional, the ride is smooth and untroubled. Nevertheless, Primo curls in towards Majid to keep the drinks from spilling.

“Ain’t that the truth,” Majid smiles and clinks the crystal together. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t born there.”

Primo makes a noise of interest and gestures for him to continue. It would be so easy to forget who this man really is. Primo slouches comfortably in Majid’s presence, his blazer and tie removed, collar unbuttoned to reveal skin. He’s human underneath. It relaxes Majid enough to spill details of his childhood spent in the Moroccan sun. To his credit, Primo listens attentively, chin in hand as he rests on the centre console.

Unsurprisingly, Majid’s nostalgic and full of homesickness by the time he finishes detailing his family’s migration.

“Thank you for telling me,” Primo nods his head seriously, as if Majid’s words are an important gift worth all the gravitas in the world. Stunned, Majid actually believes he’ll cherish them.

“What about you?” Quid pro quo, right? Intimacy for intimacy.

Primo tilts his head and peers coyly at him through his eyelashes, “What about me?”

Majid is curious. Living in Rome is like living in a soap opera; Majid has heard a wide gamut of rumors, from the comedic to the tragic.

Some say Primo assassinated his uncle to do it, hid in the trunk of a car under the cloak of darkness and blew the old man’s brains out. Others scoff, they’re quick to point out how his uncle was nothing more than a destitute goat farmer and what could killing him possibly achieve? No, clearly Primo kidnapped some millionaire’s kid, burnt him alive on the beach and ran away with the ransom money.

When Majid asks, which is it? Primo smiles and weaves a story about a young man whose ideas were just too big for his small town to contain. How he longed for more until finally the Italian government benevolently loaned the young entrepreneur enough money to build his empire from the ground up. It sounds realistic. It’s also just another story and Majid is no where closer to the truth than he was before.

He huffs, unsatisfied.

Sitting on Primo’s left, Majid is close enough to feel the heat rolling off him and smell his musky cologne. Primo turns suddenly and that’s when Majid realises he’s drifted too close into the other man’s orbit. He can spot gold flecks in Primo’s irises, faint laugh lines on his cheeks, and sun-induced freckles over his nose.

Majid freezes like a deer caught in a rifle’s scope. A finger grazes his knuckles and he shivers from the soft touch. Primo’s desire is spelled out loud and clear, yet he makes no move to act on his impulses.

The car rolls up to the curb outside his flat. The parking brake shifts and whatever’s going on in this moment between them dissipates. Majid darts away, totally missing the narrowed eyes and minute smirk.

Primo, courteous as usual, professes, “I enjoyed spending my afternoon with you, Majid.”

Majid’s hand clasps the door handle--passerbys must think it strange seeing such an elegant car in this seedy neighborhood. Already halfway outside, Majid isn’t thinking clearly when he replies, “Me too.” Immediately, Primo preens. He could shudder from the liquid warmth swimming in Primo’s alluring gaze.

“Just tell me one thing,” Majid says, plucking the courage to stay a minute longer. “What’s the truth?” For a moment he thinks he’s confused the older man, either that or inserted his foot into his mouth.

But Primo’s mind is sharp, always several moves ahead. He knows exactly what Majid means.

“It was all that and more.”

That’s…not an answer. It’s grandiose and enigmatic (vague and frustrating) and perfectly sums Primo up. The bastard knows this and has the audacity to grin while he shooing Majid out.

“Until next time,” Primo asserts, stroking his greying goatee. He finishes with a soft declaration, “my boy.”

++++

The long-anticipated ‘other shoe’ drops while Majid is standing alone in his barren kitchenette and wistfully wishing he’d accepted Primo’s invitation to dinner. It’s a devastating epiphany, a slip-up he catches way too late. He finally sees the intricate spider’s web the Don has woven, and Majid went and entangled himself in lines, enticed with food and stories. Primo has done a good job sinking his claws into Majid without him even questioning it.

Midnight arrives. Rest doesn’t.

Majid rolls around in his bedsheets, unable to catch a break from the set of green eyes plaguing his erratic thoughts. Sleep is just right around the corner waving at him, Majid can almost taste it. His eyelids droop and that’s exactly when the horny couple’s headboard begins it’s nightly clacking ritual. Majid screams his anguish into his pillow. Of course! He’s fate’s favourite punching bag!

As usual, his cock weakly hardens--Pavlov to the rutting behind thin walls. Pathetically, he rubs his face and sniffs. Then sniffs again, deeper this time.

Somehow, spending hours with the Don has Primo’s aromatic cologne--notes of amber, tobacco, and rum--clinging to his skin and clothes. Majid considers showering himself clean. It would be the responsible thing to do, right? His cock twitches.

Wrong.

Majid wants to be irresponsible, rash, foolhardy. Recklessness conjures up a low-lit room filled with cigar smoke. Impulsiveness takes shape in the form of Primo Nizzuto stalking him from across the room, eyes steel-grey as he looms and strokes up Majid’s arm.

“My boy,” Primo growls in a low octave that sparks a flame in Majid’s guts. Heat pools in his hips and straight away he’s tugging his aching erection out of his briefs. His white cotton t-shirt gets rucked up and over his nose so Majid can inhale lungfuls of that intoxicating scent. The neighbors’ mediocre fucking gives way to Primo rasping in his ear--my boy, my boy--sultry as smoke curling around his head. Majid moans, touching himself with both hands, one twisting his throbbing wet head and the other cupping his balls. He frantically strips his length, feet planted wide and flat so he can hump into his fists. My boy...

When he comes, Majid nearly chokes on the shirt wadded in his mouth. His orgasm rips through him like a runaway train flying off the tracks. Globs of sticky come coat his hands, his abs, his shaking thighs. Everything’s a soaking mess. Shirt digging into his armpits and underwear around his ankles, Majid really ought to clean up. Unfortunately, his exhausted, empty body is too busy floating high from the rush of endorphins.

It’s so damn easy to slip into sleep after that.

#my fic #trust fx #wolf 2013 #Trust the Wolf #primo x majid #primo nizzuto #majid zamari #But don't you ever let me go

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laptopexperts · 4 months

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#Phone Repairs Stones Corner #Best Phone Repairs in Stones Corner #Phone Repairs shop in Stones Corner

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frostmarris · 4 years

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notes: hope you enjoy! this ended up being almost twice as long as the first chapter lol but i finally got to the scene thats been in my mind for over a year

Chapter Two

If Deidara was upset when he saw her without the gloves the next morning, he didn't let it show on his face.

Sakura steps out to find him etching shapes into the snow with the toe of his boot, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket and his breath visible in the chill of the winter morning. He looks back as he hears her shut her door, glances to her hands, and turns around to face her with a grin that never falters. She's relieved that he doesn't comment on his gift (or lack thereof) but inwardly feels guilty as she knows he's probably disappointed. But she doesn't want to ruin the gloves by wearing them before they're ready, so she'll take his silent disappointment just for this morning and make sure he sees her wearing them tomorrow.

She has the weekend off, which means today is the perfect opportunity to get the gloves taken care of and run some errands. Of course, she doesn't mention to Deidara that she's not headed to work this morning, wary that he might ask to tag along.

Not that she wouldn't mind him accompanying her for a grocery trip. It's just that her first stop is somewhere… special.

Deidara walks her to the bus stop just like always, subtly hinting for her to drop some sort of baked good off at his place sometime - "Sucks that the apples don't grow in the winter. There aren't a lot of good pie fruits in season this time of year, yeah?" - and she makes a mental note to see what she can find at the farmers market. If she has no luck there, she can always go for canned cherries or just cave and make cookies again.

Sakura waves goodbye as the bus pulls in to the stop and she ends up in a seat on the other side, her window facing the street and not letting her see when Deidara’s smile turns a little sad as he heads home.

She idly checks her emails on her phone as the bus drives its route, getting off at the third stop rather than the fifth. It's a short walk down the downtown avenue, the shops and restaurants not as busy yet as they will be later in the day, until she reaches a small antique store nestled between a smoothie shop and a dog groomer. It's only just opened and Sakura heads in, waving in greeting to the old man behind the counter next to the door.

He looks up from the watch he's tinkering with, easily recognizing Sakura and waving her off.

"Ah, the pink one again," He grumbles, that ever-present grouchy look settled on his face. "Go on, go on. Head on in - and mind the lamp! Some little shit nearly knocked it over last week."

"Yes, sir, of course!" Sakura calls with a small smile as she heads to the back of the shop. "Have a good morning, Mr. Masumi."

He answers with a dismissive, "Bah!" and she carefully makes her way through the crowded, winding path of the antique shop until she reaches a door at the back left corner. Heeding the shop owner's warning, she edges past the lamp settled on the edge of an old dresser as delicately as she can, being sure not to bump the stained glass lampshade with her elbow. Once through the door, Sakura passes a second one on her right marked 'Cleaning Supplies' and walks down the short hallway to the doorway at the end.

This one says 'Employees Only' but she pushes it open anyways, revealing a small, empty room barely bigger than a closet. Sakura steps inside and shuts the door, not removing her gloved hand from the doorknob as she silently counts to 25 in her head.

Once she hits the last number, she turns the knob, pulls it open, and steps out into a park.

The trick had taken some getting used to, as she didn't have any real magic herself besides her accursed touch and her ability to see the dead. So, she'd had many failed attempts of counting too quickly or too slowly before she finally got the hang of it. Now she was able to come and go with ease, well-practiced after a couple years.

Sakura pulls the door closed behind her and, though she can't see it through the swirling mist contained in the space of the stone archway, she can hear it click shut. She quickly steps forward and out of the way in case there are any other arrivals, looking out over the snow-covered park fondly.

Behind her is the collection of four stacked-stone arches, each facing one of the cardinal directions and connected by short stone walls, making a perfect square. The Landing, as it's called, sits in the direct center of the small, secret park, each arch standing tall and strong and older than Sakura knows. Though the tops of the arches and the corner walls are covered with snow, she can still easily see the sigil carved into the front of each keystone, placed there by whoever had crafted the gateways.

The park, formally named Bowerfield after the flowering vines that climb a majority of the trees and those waist-height stone walls (but never the arches themselves, as they're meticulously kept away from the gates so as not to damage them or meddle with the enchantment), was a lucky find on Sakura's part.

She'd been living in the city for a few months and had no idea how to find its secret magical community - or if it even had one - until she'd happened upon a friendly soul (quite literally) who'd told her about Bowerfield. He'd been a witch while living and could tell there was something supernatural about Sakura and, after a seemingly one-sided chat in the city's library, he'd directed her to the antique shop.

And now Sakura can enter the park freely and visit the… special shops situated around the outside.

The buildings formed another perfect square, encasing the park and closing it off to the rest of the city. The few alleys between some of the buildings all ended with brick walls and the shimmering field stretched overhead kept it hidden from outside eyes. It was a more useful feature in recent years due to things like drones, but had been put in place around the same time as the Landing, from what Sakura had heard.

Bowerfield itself was located somewhere in the southern half of the city, but she wasn't quite sure where. And she wasn't about to try to figure it out. So long as she had access to the secret park, she didn't care where it was hidden.

Sakura follows one of the pebble-covered dirt paths out from the Landing and through the trees to get to one of the walls of shops, double-checking the time on her phone to make sure she wasn't too early. Several of the businesses are still closed and there are few people out and about, but she can see the lights of the storefronts and the twinkling Christmas decorations through the last section of trees, welcoming and warm.

There are a variety of shops surrounding the park. Some are specialty stores - a couple witch shops, magical tool repairs, boutiques for less-standardly shaped beings, etc. - that are able to sell their goods and conduct their services openly without the need to hide, like some places outside Bowerfield. The rest are relatively normal businesses - such as restaurants, a laundromat, the salon, a clinic, and a supermarket - but provide a safe space for people who can't easily disguise their more obviously magical features.

It was the perfect place for someone with, say, an extra set of limbs or wings to go shopping for clothes and grab lunch, all without worrying about normal humans spotting them.

Sakura's destination is a small shop on the northeast corner, strings of red and white lights decorating the face of the building and a small flock of black birds perched wherever they could. A couple of the birds - ravens, judging by the size of them - let out harsh calls as she approaches and Sakura sends the familiar birds a quick smile and a wave before she heads inside.

The ring from the bell over the door is accompanied by another bird's caw, this time from a crow that flies overhead inside the shop. It heads to the back to land on the wooden counter, hopping closer to the dark-haired woman currently securing a paper-wrapped package with sturdy string. Another raven stands just next to her, perched on one of the prongs of a driftwood branch attached to the countertop.

The woman glances up and smiles brightly as she spots Sakura, raising her hand in greeting.

"Ah, Miss Sakura! What brings you in so early?" A magpie flies down from the railing of the loft on the second floor of the shop to land on her raised hand, earning itself an amused huff from the shopkeep.

"Good morning, Mrs. Uchiha," Sakura greets, heading for the back of the store and chuckling when a blue jay drifts down from the second level and lands on her shoulder, playing with her pink hair.

The woman sighs but smiles at her, shooing both new birds away.

"I keep telling you to call me Mikoto, dear," She chastises gently, running her fingers down the crow's back. "You've been coming here long enough."

At Sakura's chuckle and nod, Mikoto's smile returns and she finishes tying off the package before securing a leather strap around it. Holding her wrist out to the perched raven, it steps over onto her arm and is then transferred to the package, its talons curling around the handle attached to the strap and soon taking to the air. Carrying the package, the raven circles the empty air of the upper level before flying out an open window high on the front of the shop, disappearing with a short call.

"Now," Mikoto says, turning to fully face Sakura. "What can I help you with?"

"Just the usual," She replies as she digs through her bag to pull out a fresh box of latex gloves and Deidara’s gift. Mikoto eyes the black gloves curiously and carefully takes them as Sakura hands everything over, a red bubble of magic appearing around the items and floating above her open hand.

"Only the normal enchantment, dear?" The witch asks, writing Sakura's name on the outside of the bubble with a finger. "I can add an anti-snagging spell to the black ones to protect the embroidery!"

Sakura smiles and nods, reaching out to let the crow curiously nip at her fingers. "That'd be nice, actually. They're a gift from a friend."

She waves off Mikoto's sly smile and rocks back on her heels as the woman laughs and heads through a door behind her. When she returns, the red bubble is gone and a second crow is perched on her shoulder, eyeing Sakura curiously.

"They'll be ready in a few hours," She transfers the crow to the driftwood perch and starts to ring her up, shooing curious beaks away from the register. "I can have Itachi deliver them if you won't be in the park around then."

"Itachi…" Sakura mutters questioningly to herself, inspecting the little stand of luck charms on the counter before she glances up at Mikoto in confirmation. "That's your eldest, right?"

The witch nods, smiling happily.

"Yes! He's visiting for a few days, so I tricked him into working." Mikoto winks before gesturing over her shoulder. "He's probably back in the aviary finding a spot to hide away in and nap. I swear, that boy's become such a night owl!"

Sakura chuckles, vaguely able to put a face to the name, before perking up and sending her an apologetic look.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. I need a rack of phials or something similar - they work really well for propagating plant cuttings." She smiles sheepishly, hoping the witch wasn't too far in the checkout process to add anything else to her bill. "Is it too late to grab it?"

"Of course not!" Mikoto answers, laughing and waving her off. "I should have something like that up with the potion making tools in the loft, left side. Go ahead and take a look, Sakura dear."

She nods in thanks and heads for the set of stairs against the right wall of the building, quickly climbing up to the second floor. The loft itself only covered about half of the space available on the upper level, most of it reaching out from the back to stand over the check-out and a few shelves below. To the left, an arm of the loft stretches out to the front of the store, connected to the opposite wall of the stairs and just wide enough for a few displays. The main section of the loft only had a few shelves and stands, however, as most of it was clear space to give the birds access to the aviary. Against the back is a single door and several, large, open window-slots, with a few perches jutting out from the wall.

There are a couple other corvids sitting on the perches and watching Sakura as she comes up the stairs, calling in greeting and ruffling their dark feathers. She smiles and quickly steps aside as she hears a caw from behind her, letting a magpie glide past as it flies from one of the three large windows at the front of the shop right through a slot and into the aviary.

Hurrying past in case there are any other arrivals or departures, she moves towards the arm of the loft to find those phials. Typically, only Mikoto or one of her employees were allowed up onto the second level, but Sakura had been visiting for long enough that she'd become fairly good at dodging birds. She usually only visited to get her gloves, both latex and the white cotton ones she used daily, fixed up with an enchantment that protected them from her touch, but it was fun to occasionally browse the shop.

Sakura searches the shelves of bottles and tools used for standard potion making before she finds a metal rack with five glass phials, smiling in approval. As she turns to head back towards the stairs, the door to the aviary opens and a young, dark-haired man steps out. She gets a brief glance into the aviary itself, more corvids flying around the large, dome-roofed room from nest boxes to perches to feeders, but quickly refocuses on the man.

His black hair is pulled back in a low ponytail with bangs framing his face and his eyes, just as dark as his hair, look tired - especially with the dark circles. He's pale, but he doesn't have much skin showing for Sakura to be able to tell if it's just his face's complexion or not, and taller than her by at least a full head. The long sleeves of his black shirt likely keep his arms protected from talons and the collar rises halfway up his neck, neat and trim and only a few stray feathers clinging to the fabric.

He blinks at her before nodding his head in greeting, a crow following him out of the aviary before he can close the entrance. It lands on his shoulder and he reaches up to rub the base of its beak, turning to pull the door shut.

"You must be Itachi," Sakura says, holding the rack of phials carefully so that it doesn't slip against the fabric of her gloves. "It's nice to me-"

"Itachi?!" Comes Mikoto's voice from below, her sudden call making a few of the birds squawk and caw. "Finally out of the back, you lazybones?!"

Itachi sighs and moves his hand to have the crow step off onto his fingers, eyeing Sakura before heading towards the stairs with her.

"Yes, mother," He calls back, just loud enough for her to hear. "I'm here."

"About time!" Mikoto plants her fists on her hips as they come into view, regarding her son with a fond yet motherly-disapproving look. "We've been open for nearly an hour."

He simply bows his head in apology and moves to the counter to collect the other pair of crows, one on each hand and the third perched on his forearm.

Mikoto sighs but shrugs, gesturing to Sakura, who sets the rack on the counter and digs her wallet out of her bag.

"This is Miss Sakura," The witch introduces, disappointed when Itachi only nods again. "She's a long-time customer of ours."

Itachi turns to regard her again, clicking his tongue softly when two of the crows start to squabble.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Sakura," He says politely, finishing her sentiment from earlier. "Can I help you find anything?"

Sakura offers a small smile in return and shakes her head, patting the glass phials gently. "No, I'm all set. Thank you though, Itachi."

He nods again and, transferring the third crow to join the pair on his other arm, heads through the door into the backroom. Mikoto sighs once more when he's gone and sends Sakura an apologetic look.

"He's always been such a quiet boy." She shrugs and turns to grab a pen from a cup next to the register, pushing it and a sticky note pad towards her. "Before I forget, go ahead and give me your address, dear. I left my book at home, apparently. I'll pass it on to Itachi and he'll send a crow from his flock to deliver your gloves when they're ready."

Sakura nods and quickly scribbles down her address, soon helping Mikoto wrap up the glass phials once everything's paid for and tucking the package into her bag.

"Take care now, Sakura dear! It's going to snow again tonight, so watch for ice tomorrow."

She smiles and waves before heading for the front door, knowing the witch's forecast was always more accurate than the weather channel's. More black birds (and the occasional blue jay) caw and take flight as she exits the shop, but she pays them little mind and heads back towards the center of the park. Bowerfield is getting busier now that the day is fully underway and, with no other errands to run in the secret park, she's ready to head back out into the city, take a short walk over to the farmers market, grab some groceries, and head home.

Going back through one of the Landing's portals is a little tricky, but Sakura’s much more confident than she was a year ago. She simply reaches a hand into the wall of swirling mist, feels around until she finds a doorknob, thinks of the antique shop, and opens the door. The familiar muffled creak lets her know she's on track and she steps through the mist, entering the small Employees Only room at the back of the shop.

With the door pushed shut once more, she waits 25 seconds exactly and pulls it open, smiling as she finds the short hallway in front of her once again.

There's a few people idly browsing the shop when she leaves the backroom behind and a couple near the display of porcelain dolls send her odd looks when they see her step out, but Sakura simply heads to the front, offers Mr. Masumi a wave in farewell (to which he replies with a short grunt but a wave in reply as well), and steps out onto the street. The air feels different outside of Bowerfield, but Sakura's sure it has to do with the thrum of magic that fills the park, making everything feel duller by comparison for the first half hour or so that she’s back in the normal city.

She walks back the way she’d come but turns when she reaches the corner of the block, heading into the more shopping-focused area of the city's downtown. It takes her about ten minutes to reach the covered pavilion next to an old brewery, already full of the stands and stalls of the farmers market and bustling with early-morning shoppers.

As she's only only here for a few specific things, Sakura tries to stay focused and not get distracted by the different goods, heading right for a particular product stand that she usually gets veggies from. She pulls a mesh shopping tote out of her shoulder bag and leaves the stand some minutes later with carrots, squash, and potatoes, starting her search for reasonable pie-fruit.

"So, what, I just fuckin' chomp the straw and eat it whole?"

Sakura pauses as she passes by a honey stand, glancing over curiously to see a very exasperated beekeeper and a silver-haired man who seemed to be about five seconds away from taking a literal bite from a honey stick.

"No, sir," The beekeeper says tiredly, obviously trying to resist the urge to run his hands down his face. "You just bite the end to pop it open and then suck out the honey. Please don't eat the tube."

She doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but the conversation did remind her that she was low on honey at home. Might as well grab a jar.

Sakura eyes the man as she steps to the other side of the stall, inspecting a stack of wildflower honey jars but unable to stop from listening in again as he rears back slightly and curls his upper lip.

"Do I look like a hummingbird or some shit?"

She barely suppresses her snicker and the stand owner quickly turns his attention to her, relieved to have someone else to assist. The beekeeper ignores the silver-haired man's indignant huff and stops in front of Sakura, putting on a smile as he greets her.

"Can I help you find anything, Miss? Would you like a free sample?" He gestures to the stacks of jars and bottles, pretending not to hear the other man complain that he hadn't been offered any free damn samples. "The bees we keep produce really great honey - the orange blossom is my favorite."

Sakura chuckles and picks up one of the wildflower jars, passing it over as she retrieves her wallet.

"Just this one, please."

"Excellent choice!" The beekeeper quickly starts to ring her up and the man, who still hasn't left, gives an overly-dramatic sigh.

"Fine, keep your damn sticks. Just tell me where I can find a stand that sells rocks and shit."

The owner groans tiredly but Sakura steps in, fairly familiar with the market.

"There should be one on the other side of the pavilion," She offers, finally taking a good look at the man as he turns to her. His silver hair is slicked back and shiny, just long enough to reach the bottoms of his ears, and his eyes are an odd magenta color, scrutinizing Sakura curiously.

He looks rather out of place with his studded leather jacket and ripped jeans - especially considering how cold it is today - and she's fairly confident that he's never been to the farmer's market.

The man nods and rubs his chin, his jaw sharp and strong, as she continues, gesturing towards the north part of the market.

"They're usually near the people that sell all the house plants and succulents. So look for a lot of green and you should find it."

He looks her over one last time before grinning and raising his hand in thanks as he turns to head the way she’d directed.

"Thanks, lady." The man says, rolling his shoulders to adjust his jacket. "At least someone up here is fuckin' helpful."

Sakura sends his back a curious look as he walks away, but shrugs it off and passes cash over to the relieved beekeeper. With the jar of honey slipped into her tote, she heads off to find her fruit, trying her best to not get distracted again. She keeps an eye out for that odd man but soon gets distracted by another produce stand, grinning at the sight of fresh pomegranates.

Vaguely remembering a recipe in one of her books for a pomegranate pie, she hurries over and starts to pick some out as she tries to recall how many she'd need.

If Deidara wants a pie, he's gonna get a pie.

: :

Sakura's just in the middle of peeling potatoes when something starts tapping at her kitchen window. She glances up, stood at the sink, to see a crow on the windowsill and softly pecking the glass with its beak. It gives a muffled caw and flaps its wings when it sees her looking back at it before hopping down to her small bistro table in the backyard, a wrapped package sitting next to it.

She smiles and slips her rubber gloves off to reveal cotton ones before hurrying to the back door and out into her yard, careful to be quiet so that Deidara doesn't happen to hear her and look outside. Even carrier pigeons aren't exactly a common sight among humans nowadays, so she isn't sure how she'd explain the crow and its delivery.

Closing the door as gently as she can, Sakura steps out onto the snow-covered yard and approaches the table, smiling in greeting at the bird and reaching out to give it a soft pat before she reaches for the package. Unclasping the leather carrying strap, she unwraps the paper partially to make sure it's her gloves before nodding to the crow, humming gently. She gives it a quick scratch under its chin before starting to step away, tucking her package under her arm.

"Wait just a moment, please," Sakura says softly, the crow tilting its head to watch her curiously. "I'll grab you a treat before you head back home."

It gives an enthusiastic caw and she chuckles, hoping her neighbors hadn't heard as she quickly returns to her kitchen. She sets her wrapped gloves on the table before retrieving a shallow bowl to fill with some lukewarm water, grabbing a handful of blueberries, and heading back out. Pleased to see the crow waiting patiently on the bistro table, Sakura moves to clear some snow off before setting the water and fruit down, smiling when it hops closer and eagerly accepts the treats.

"I thought birds are supposed to fly south for the winter, yeah?"

She fully jumps in surprise, startled by the sudden sound of Deidara's voice. Looking up, she sees him leaning out of a window on his second floor and lets out a huff as his grin grows wider.

"Sorry, Sakura," He says, stifling a laugh and crossing his arms as he rests them on the windowsill. "Did I scare you, hm?"

"You just surprised me," She looks back down to the crow, picking up one of the blueberries and offering it to the bird as she ignores Deidara’s chuckle. Relieved that she'd taken the package inside already, Sakura pets its feathers and glances up again when he continues.

"Make a friend? I heard it squawking and couldn't help taking a peek, yeah." He scrutinizes the crow with a curious frown, snorting when it gives a harsh caw and flaps its wings in his direction.

Sakura calms it with another blueberry and steps back when the bird takes off, finished with its delivery and snack. Shrugging, she picks up the bowl and dumps the water out, making a mental note that she really should put a bird feeder or a birdbath out here for future deliveries from Mikoto.

"It was probably just passing through," She answers finally, crossing her arms and leaning against the table as she looks up at Deidara. "I saw it through my kitchen window and wanted to see if it'd take any treats. Maybe I can make friends with a flock of ravens like those stories on the internet."

She deliberately misidentifies the crow but he seems eager to change the subject, propping a first under his chin.

"You got home early, hm. Short work day today?"

Sakura looks away and brushes a bit of snow off her sleeve, barely feeling the chill through her gloves. "I was just out running errands."

"Awww," Comes Deidara's voice, a slight whine to his tone. "I would have come with you if I'd known!"

She doesn't bother to hide her smirk but quickly crosses her arms again when a breeze passes through the yard, trying to suppress a shiver.

"How do you feel about pomegranates?" Sakura asks, changing the subject herself. She plans on making that pie tomorrow, but it'd probably be best to make sure he actually likes the fruit. When she looks up at Deidara, his expression looks rather conflicted and he sends her a slightly disappointed smile.

"Good shit, yeah. But it's cold out; you should head back inside, Sakura," He sighs, obviously wanting to continue the conversation but very aware of how another breeze makes her shiver. "I don't want ya getting sick just 'cause I'm a big chatterbox."

Her smile turns fond and she pushes off from the edge of the bistro table, brushing any lingering snow off of her house robe before raising a hand in farewell.

"See you later, Deidara. Stay warm."

He returns the sentiment, not budging from his spot until she's back inside, and she misses how he looks in the direction the crow had flown. Deidara frowns to himself before finally pulling back and closing his window, locking it with a soft click.

: :

Monday morning, Sakura heads out dressed in her usual white button-up, silk scarf, and long skirt combo. But, this time, she's sure to tug the black, embroidered gloves onto her hands, smiling as Mikoto's enchantment holds and they don't turn to gold. House keys in hand, she steps out to see a fresh layer of snow on the ground and Deidara shoveling his stoop clean.

He looks up to greet her but, at the sight of her hands, he cuts himself off and the brightest grin she's ever seen from him bursts onto his face. Dropping the shovel, he practically vaults over the hedge separating them and stops just short of taking one of her hands in his own, still beaming but looking a little more sheepish as he steps back.

"You're wearing the gloves!" Deidara says, foregoing greeting her as he's obviously too excited. "How do they fit, yeah? Not too tight?"

Sakura smiles gently and he backtracks as she steps down and moves for the street, slipping her keys into the bag on her shoulder.

"Morning, Deidara." They immediately fall into their morning routine as she heads for the bus stop, his smile never leaving his face. "They fit just right. Thank you again."

His grin widens and he rubs the back of his head, avoiding a pile of snow that was most likely hiding a trash can.

"Great! Awesome, yeah!" He nearly slips on a patch of ice in his excitement and Sakura quickly reaches out to catch his arm, chuckling under her breath when his face turns a little pink.

"I-I'm glad!" Deidara says, trying to brush the moment off and recover. "They look good on you."

"You've got good tastes," Sakura replies, holding a hand up to appreciate the embroidery. "The stitching is excellent."

He's got an admirable pep to his step and, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, Deidara tilts his head slightly as he looks at her, his blue eyes sparkling.

"I can give you a referral if you wanna update your collection. Or get some of the older ones embroidered, hm."

Sakura hums thoughtfully, taking a sip from her thermos. "I might take you up on that, actually. The all-white look is a little plain…"

Deidara’s smile grows all the wider and he's quick to pull his phone out, typing silently for a few moments before he sends her a text with all the information. Sakura feels her phone buzz in her bag but decides to check the address later, instead turning her focus to discussing the benefits of touchscreen-compatible gloves versus the ruined aesthetics of the pad on the fingertips. They chat amicably as they walk, careful of ice and snow on the ground before, eventually, they're at the bus stop.

Sakura inconspicuously brings up pomegranates again while she waits for her ride, planning on bringing the finished pie by his place after she gets off work. She'd overestimated just how many she'd need for the recipe and had ended up with enough seeds for a second pie but, by the time the bus pulled up, she was confident that she'd only be eating one by herself.

Deidara wishes her a good day as she boards and Sakura waves at him through the window once she's seated, pulling out her cellphone. As the bus pulls away from the curb, she checks his text and looks up the shop, saving the location for future reference. Maybe she would get some of her plain gloves touched up with some nice embroidery or something.

The bus ride passes uneventfully and, by the time she arrives at the coroner’s office and gets her assignments for the day, she's pretty sure her shift will pass uneventfully.

That is, until her assistant unzips the black body bag and Sakura finds a vaguely familiar face on her examination table.

Her hands, holding the clipboard and pen, low slightly as she frowns in confusion, trying to recall why this corpse seems so familiar. Jun sends her a curious look and she shrugs it off, beginning her external examination as she pushes her confusion to the back of her mind. She writes down a few notes as she speaks aloud, her Dictophone sitting nearby on one of the counters against the wall and recording her verbal report.

"Identity: Unknown. The victim appears to have suffered a gunshot wound to the forehead," She says, circling the table while her assistant drags the rolling tray of tools closer, waiting for her to give him the go-ahead to start removing the clothes. "Judging by the powder tattooing and seared skin around the entry wound, but the lack of a muzzle imprint, the shot was likely taken at close range, but not in contact with the victim's head."

She moves her head around for a better angle at the hole in the man's forehead, but doesn't reach out to move his hair away from the wound yet. The hole is circular and about half an inch wide, the edges of the skin blackened and burned with a wide zone of powder soot around the entry point. The reddish-brown stippling on the skin (pinpoint abrasions from unburnt powder grains leaving the gun) indicates that the man had been alive when he was shot.

"Complexion: pale. Hair: short and silver. Eyes…" Sakura reaches out and carefully lifts one of the corpse's partially-open eyelids with a gloved finger and pauses at the sight of magenta irises around the dilated pupils. She blinks, lips parted, and suddenly realizes why the man seems so familiar.

"Dr. Haruno..?"

Sakura glances up as Jun calls to her and straightens, clearing her thoughts.

"I'm alright - let's continue."

She takes a much better look at the corpse's face and inwardly confirms that this is definitely the man she'd bumped into at the farmers market two days ago. Vaguely recalling that the report had stated the body had been found outside the hospital this morning, she makes a mental note to read it more thoroughly after the examination.

Sakura always suspected that, one day, she'd end up performing an autopsy on the body of someone she kinda-sorta knew, but this is the first time that's happened. Rather unprepared, she's feeling a little… off her game. But also more intrigued than usual.

She can't help but wonder about the motive, about what had led to the silver-haired man being shot nearly point-blank. The body was in the very early stages of rigor mortis, which meant he hadn't been killed very long ago - most likely just before he'd been deposited on the hospital street. He was dressed in different clothes than she remembered, so he had at least made it home that evening.

"The victim is familiar to me," She says aloud for the recording, ignoring Jun's sudden, shocked expression. "A report will be made to the case investigator after the autopsy is completed."

Her assistant looks like he wants to say something but glances to the Dictophone, so Sakura steps over, pauses the recording, and turns to him.

"You have something to say, Jun?"

"Excuse me, Dr. Haruno," He answers, looking a little embarrassed at having stopped the examination. "Do you… know this man?"

He asks the question cautiously, unsure if she had some sort of emotional attachment to the victim and if he should go get Dr. Sato. But Sakura waves off his question and readies to start the audio recording again.

"I saw him in passing when I was grocery shopping the other day," She answers, shaking her head slightly when Jun relaxes. "I just recognized his face."

The external examination continues and Sakura keeps an eye out for any lingering shapes in the corners of the room. But she finds none, even after the initial review is completed, Jun finishes undressing and bagging the clothes, and they bring the body back from radiology and pin the X-rays up.

Sakura turns the lifeless head to take a second look at the exit wound, having already reported that there don't appear to be any other signs of injury on the man's body. She continues to speak aloud as she measures the larger hole at the back of his head, Jun pulling an empty cart closer as she begins to remove broken, misplaced skull fragments and tries to clear the wound as much as she can. She takes pictures both before and after and then has her assistant clean the wound while she grabs a few more photos of the body, providing evidence that there likely hadn't been a struggle.

Once the exit wound is clean, Sakura moves to take another picture, but pauses as she notices something at the nape of his neck. She rolls the body onto its side and angles the overhead light before grabbing a rectangular magnifying glass off the cart of tools.

"Did you find something, Dr. Haruno?"

She feels carefully at a spot at the back of his neck, just below his hairline and to the left of his spine, with her fingers, frowning as the round, red spot on his skin seems to belong to something hard puncturing his flesh. She glances to the X-rays but doesn't notice anything out of the ordinary.

"The victim appears to have something embedded in the back of his neck," She says aloud, detailing its location before grabbing one of the rulers on the rolling tray. With Jun holding the ruler in place just next to the red spot, Sakura takes a couple pictures and verbally logs the size.

"The foreign object measures a quarter-inch in diameter, is a perfect circle, though slightly jagged around the edges, and is red in color." She exchanges the ruler for tweezers and has her assistant hold the magnifying glass as she attempts to spread the skin around the spot with her fingers, giving her better access to get the tweezers around it. It takes a bit of finessing, but she soon gets a grip on the object and carefully pulls it out.

It's only about an inch and a half long, with one end (the outer end) flat and the other sharp and pointed. Sakura holds it up to the light and notes that the red color is due to the blood coating it and, after placing it in a shallow tray on the cart, moves back to the man's neck. With a little searching she finds a second spot on the opposite side of his spine, perfectly mirroring the location of the first. She repeats the process of describing the foreign object, measuring, and taking photographic evidence, before removing a nearly identical shard.

With both items placed in the tray and the ruler held next to them for reference, she takes another few photos before sending Jun to clean them.

"Is it glass, doctor?" He asks as he takes the tray. To which Sakura answers with a curious, "I don’t think so."

While he cleans off the shards, she examines the wounds left behind, takes another photo, then rolls the body onto its back once more.

Once everything is clean and Sakura can better identify the foreign objects, she realizes they're small crystals of some sort. The edges aren't perfectly smooth like quartz - instead, they jagged and ridged, but run evenly down the length of the crystals, as if someone had taken hundreds of incredibly thin sticks and fused them together. They are white but not completely opaque, allowing the blood to reflect through and make the flat ends look red from the outside.

She recalls how he'd been looking for a 'stand that sells rocks and shit' and can't help but wonder if it was connected.

Sakura takes several pictures from different angles before bagging the shards for evidence and making a note to try to identify them later when she was on her computer. Returning to the autopsy, she takes tissue samples for histology and blood for toxicology and typing before turning the examination inward.

The organs are measured and weighed, checked over for any abnormalities, and returned to the body. With no evidence of soft tissue trauma or even a single broken bone -

(It's rather odd, she can't find any signs of old injuries, not even scars from childhood. For such a rough-looking guy like she remembered, it was strange that he seemed to have not retained evidence of a single even mildly serious injury in his life.)

- anywhere besides the hole in his skull and the bullet path through his (otherwise normal) brain, the case is shaping up to be a fairly standard gunshot-wound-to-the-head homicide.

Besides the odd crystals she'd found stabbed into the nape of his neck, of course.

Sakura stitches the body back up, returns it to its bag with help from Jun, then approves it to be taken down to the morgue while she compiles her findings. All the while, she searches out of the corner of her eye for a lingering spirit, disappointed when she finds none.

It wasn't uncommon. Sometimes souls passed on by themselves without her aide or simply wandered off elsewhere. But, she can't help admitting that she is curious about this case and wishes she could speak one last time with the silver-haired man and find out what might have happened.

For now, however, she has other cases to attend to.

: :

It takes some searching, but Sakura eventually identifies the crystals as selenite.

She lingers on a web page describing its 'abilities' in aiding in sleep and deep peace for a moment before closing the tab and adding her find to the report. She'd already called the investigator in charge of the case to set up a time to talk about how she'd seen the man before and was now mostly through with her reports for her other cases and recordings for the day. He still hadn't been identified and no one had come forward with a missing person's report, but he'd technically only been dead for about twelve hours, so it might be a while before someone realizes he's missing.

It was hours later now, already past the end of her day, and Sakura debates opening back up that tab she'd just closed, wondering if the crystals were toxic. But, she's tired and it's been a long shift, so she'll save that idea for tomorrow and finish downloading her audio file and photos for the silver-haired man's case before locking up and heading home.

She leans back in her chair and balances a pencil on her upper lip as the files upload, alone in her office as Sato had already left for the evening. Her gaze crawls over to the corner of the room every so often, still hoping his spirit would appear, but she truly is completely alone. When her computer alerts her that the transfer is complete, she takes a moment to scroll through the photos and pauses as she realizes she'd missed something.

Though she had pictures of the silver-haired man with the trail of blood running down his face and his hair in a disarray, she'd apparently neglected to take a photo of him all cleaned up and his features much more identifiable.

Sakura curses under her breath, drops her pencil in a mug of pens, and slips the memory card back into her camera. Quickly emailing the audio recording to the transcriptionist, she closes down her computer, grabs jer coat and bag, and decides to get a picture before she goes home. Leaving her office, she heads down to the changing room next to the lab but forgoes changing into her scrubs. Instead, she simply swaps Deidara’s gloves for a latex pair, tucking the former in her skirt's pocket, and steps into a pair of sterile booties to cover her shoes.

She keeps her coat folded over her arm and her camera in hand as she heads to the pair of swinging doors that lead down to the mortuary. Once through the entrance, she follows the sloped incline path on her right down to the sub-level. It turns once, doubling back in the direction she'd come but still in a descent, and the stone walls, painted white, are far enough apart for her not to feel claustrophobic. There's enough grip on the shoe coverings for her to not slip on the linoleum and she passes a janitor swabbing down the flooring, raising a hand in greeting.

It's always quiet in the Northwest building, as the doctor offices and patient rooms are in the East wing, but it's late enough in the day that most employees have already gone home. Sakura isn't too bothered, as she's used to staying late, and she enters the morgue fairly quickly after swiping her ID card when she reaches the locked pair of doors at the end of the sloped hall, heading for the wall of steel fridges. There's only the single entrance into the chilly room, with the ramped corridor leading upstairs rather than an elevator to better transport bodies up to and down from the pathology department, and it's completely empty - besides whatever's in the coolers.

There's a tall rolling table near the entrance, the metal top covered by a long sterile sheet that someone had left out. The edges of the fabric reach down to the floor on three sides and Sakura clicks her tongue at the sight, wondering who'd neglected to put it up, but deposits her coat on top of the table anyways. She searches the wall of body drawers for the right label and eventually opens one of the doors, pulling the sturdy metal tray holding her mystery man out of the just-under 40 degrees Fahrenheit cooler. Making sure her latex gloves are secure, she pulls the sterile sheet covering the silver-haired corpse down to mid-chest and looks over his admittedly handsome face one last time before brushing his hair away from the hole in his forehead and raising her camera.

Sakura takes a couple photos before reaching out to lift an eyelid, needing to get a shot of his eyes.

She jerks back with a startled gasp, however, bumping the tray with her leg, as she finds those magenta irises surrounding constricted pupils.

Hand on her chest and her eyes wide, she stares at the body for a long moment, wondering if she'd just imagined that. Pupils are supposed to be dilated after death until rigor mortis makes the body's muscles begin to tighten once more. And the frigid temperature of the drawers was supposed to postpone those effects; he shouldn't have entered that stage yet.

Sakura keeps staring for a moment, noting that she'd disturbed his arm when she bumped the tray and it was now hanging limply over the edge. Taking a breath and inwardly telling herself that she'd been mistaken, she steps forward and moves to lift his arm back up onto the metal top, but pauses as she notices something on his palm. Holding his wrist, her eyebrows furrow in confusion as she inspects the odd symbol drawn on the palm of his hand, absolutely certain that it hadn't been there before.

She traces a gloved finger over the curves of the line but freezes when the dark brown mark begins to turn red. When it starts to glow, Sakura quickly shoves his arm back under the sheet, covers his face again, and moves to push the tray back into the fridge. Something was going on and she wanted no part in it.

She stops mid-push, however, at the sound of a loud thud out in the hallway and glances over her shoulder. It must just be the janitor but Sakura steps away from the corpse anyways, leaving the tray pulled completely out, and approaches the double doors of the morgue.

The two doors, sturdy and coated in a sheet of sterile metal, have twin windows at the top third and she curiously peeks out into the hallway, her eyes going wide as she sees the janitor collapsed on the ground. The upper half of his body is just within view and the rest is out of sight around the corner of the turn in the hall and Sakura hurriedly moves to grab her ID card. She pauses as she pulls away from the door as her eye catches movement and she watches as the janitor's body is dragged out of sight, leaving a trail of blood on the linoleum.

Slapping a hand over her mouth as she gasps, Sakura quickly pulls away from the door and presses up against next to it, no longer within sight through the window. She takes a breath and just barely peeks over the edge, her stomach dropping as she spots two figures dressed in black rounding the corner.

Heart pounding, she ducks down, backs away, and searches for another exit, though she knows there aren't any.

But the soft groan from behind her makes her freeze and, reluctantly, Sakura slowly turns around.

The body of the silver-haired man is sitting upright on his tray, a perfect 90 degree angle and the sheet still covering his head. As his hand raises to slowly pull the cloth down, the symbol on his palm glowing bright red and an unwounded forehead coming into view, Sakura can hear the beep of the scanner outside the mortuary as an ID badge is swiped. She shoots a quick glance over her shoulder, filled with panic, and grabs her coat before diving under the tall table nearby.

She takes just a moment to right the edges of the sheet laid out over the table, the uncovered fourth side luckily being the one that's pressed against the wall, and lays as still and as quietly as she can.

Listening to the sound of the doors opening, she can hear a quiet conversation abruptly stop as the intruders undoubtedly notice the moving - living? Reanimated? - corpse. All is quiet for a moment and Sakura is able to peek out from under the sterile curtain hiding her just enough to see shoes near the doors.

She can't stop how she jumps when there's a sudden gunshot but does manage to hold back her startled shout.

Ears ringing and the floor cold under her, pink eyebrows furrow at the indignant, "What the fuck," that comes from the direction of the silver-haired man.

"You fucking shot me, asshole!" Comes his familiar voice again and she watches one pair of boots rush towards him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Growls a new voice, followed by a grunt.

"Same question to you, jackass!" Another grunt and Sakura can hear bare feet hit the ground and the sound of two bodies struggling to grapple each other before another gunshot. This time it's muffled and, from her left, she can see knees hit the ground hard and a puddle of blood quickly drip onto the floor.

"Quit it!" His voice again, but he sounds more annoyed than a man who'd just been shot - again - should be.

(Well, maybe the annoyance was justified. But there wasn't any panic or fear in his tone.)

"That fucking hurts, you shit-for-brains! And not even the good kind!"

"Shut your damn mouth before I blow your brains out." The second man's hiss is furious and he obviously doesn't appreciate when the silver-haired should-be corpse laughs.

"Too late!"

"What's he doing here, Sakon?" Comes a new voice, Sakura's head turning to look in the direction of the third man. "Why's he- Is he naked?"

The conversation and scuffle abruptly ends as they all, Sakura included, hear the sound of someone running down the incline hall above. They're headed down for the mortuary and a low, quick whistle from 'Sakon' has the other man moving away from the open door to crouch down next to the table she's hiding under.

She freezes and muffles her breathing in the fabric of her coat, glancing from the shadow to her left to what she can see of the exit just a few feet away from her. The footsteps slow as the new arrival approaches the doors and she can hear the click of a gun being readied next to her.

"Hidan?" Comes a cautious voice, and Sakura's heart nearly drops at the familiarity of it. "What the fuck did you d‐"

"DUCK!"

The shout was preceded by a grunt and a yelp and then immediately followed by the newcomer dropping to the ground and the sound of a gun being fired just seconds later. There's a chorus of curses, grunts, and shouts and the sound of fists hitting flesh until everything falls quiet again.

"Alright," Says intruder #2, panting and still standing just next to Sakura's hiding spot. She can see another pair of boots just in front of his own and guesses that he'd grappled the newcomer into a hold and was likely threatening him with his gun.

"Let my brother g-" He cuts himself off and Sakura looks out to her left, bare feet planted behind another pair of boots and facing the men next to her. "Wait, you don't even have a weapon!"

She moves her gaze to the unblocked, still open door, trying to determine how long it would take for her to scramble out from under the table and run for the exit. As silently as she can, she removes the plastic coverings over her shoes.

"I don't fuckin' need one when I've got this!" Silver-haired man says, probably showing off… something that warranted a growl from the intruder and his apparent brother.

"What the hell are you snakes even doing here, hm?" Comes that painfully familiar voice. Sakura bites her lip and stays silent, waiting for some sort of opening as she moves her knees under herself.

"None of your business. Now shut up before I put a bullet in your chest. I know you won't heal like loudmouth over there."

She hates that she can't see much of anything, just the white fabric walls around her, but listens intently to every sound and movement. It's all she's got to give her some idea of what's going on above her, trying to figure out where all of the men stood based on what she can see of their shoes and her knowledge of the mortuary's layout.

There's another grunt and the sound of a gun muzzle being jammed harder against a body before she sees newcomer's boots slowly turn and plant more firmly on the ground.

Though Sakura isn't able to see the silent conversation that passes between two of the men's gazes, she's acutely aware of the low humming that suddenly starts to build near the wall of fridges.

"What the fuck is that noise-?!" 'Sakon's' question is abruptly cut off by a sudden crack and boom and Sakura glances over just as a body hits the ground and the slack face of man she doesn't recognize comes just barely into view. She sees pale blue - nearly grey - hair and green-painted lips and hears a furious shout from above her, followed by a gunshot and a second body collapsing next to the first. There's the sound of grunts and muffled punches and the splatter of blood and Sakura knows this is her chance, while everyone is either distracted or incapacitated.

As the newcomer drops down and rolls to avoid a shot from the remaining brother, she tears her latex glove off with her teeth and reaches one hand out to touch the boots still stood next to her hiding spot.

They instantly turn to solid gold and, as he takes a step to go after the man with the horribly familiar voice, the new heavy weight of his shoes takes him by surprise and he falls forward. Sakura scrambles out from under the table, clutching her coat and camera, and races out of the room, just barely catching a glimpse of a blond-haired man's back as he crouches down behind a counter across the morgue.

Her gaze meets a shocked black eye and a face identical to the one she'd seen just moments earlier but she's already out the door and around the corner before she can really think on it. Nearly tripping on the janitor's body as she races up the hallway, Sakura stuffs her camera in her bag, still on her shoulder and crossed over her body, and curls her ungloved hand into a fist. She keeps it held close to her chest but doesn't let it touch her clothing and, once she's shoving through the swinging doors and back on the upper floor, she runs for exit to the loading bay near the storage room.

The heavy doors are propped open, a disturbing sight, but she races through them anyways and enters the delivery dock just as she hears distant gunshots from behind her.

It's only once she's a full two blocks away that she stops running, panting heavily as she leans against a brick wall and tries to catch her breath. She hadn't been followed, fortunately, and she debates calling the police, groaning as she slides down to collapse on the concrete.

She knows she should but she can't bring herself to do it, recalling that voice she knows so well and that familiar blond hair.

What was Deidara doing there? He'd called the other man, the silver-haired corpse, 'Hidan', which meant he knew him. It couldn't have been a coincidence that he'd just randomly showed up either. Something was going on and Sakura neither knew nor wanted to find out.

She shivers as a cold breeze passes through the street, bringing a fresh snowfall with it, and takes a deep breath to calm herself down. Her coat is still folded over her arm, but she needs to get her ungloved hand covered before she can even attempt to put it on, not wanting to ruin it and have to lug it back to her home.

A few snowflakes drift down and land on her curled fist and she curses under her breath as they turn to gold before they can even begin to melt against her skin. The light from the street lamps catch on the golden snowflakes as she shakes them off her hand and she digs around in the pocket of her skirt for Deidara’s gloves, glancing down the dark street.

Sakura's stomach sinks when she only finds one of the black gloves.

She hesitates, digging around in her pocket again and then searching through her bag just in case, before finally standing. Luckily, the remaining glove is just the one she needs and she worriedly tugs it on, one hand covered with black and the other with latex. A look back the way she'd come confirms that she hadn't dropped it just now and she pales slightly, realizing it likely fell out of her pocket when she had left her hiding spot in the mortuary.

Running a hand nervously through her hair, she stands there on the street for a long, long moment, staring back in the direction of the hospital, before finally turning around. She pulls on her coat and crouches down to collect the golden snowflakes, her expression grim, until she's satisfied that she's found them all.

Straightening up, she sends one last glance over her shoulder before hurrying down the street to find a bus stop. She needs to get home.

#akasaku #multisaku #deisaku #sakura haruno #sakura fic #thirrinwrites #thirrinfic #midas touch #honestly its too late at night to be posting an update but i couldnt help it

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dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

Text

Bluegrass-Chapter 24

Much love to @Statell for making my stories flow.

Previous chapter on AO3

Chapter Twenty-Four

The shop owner bent over his worktable and pried the stones out of the gold setting. The ring was fourteen karat gold and would fetch a nice price. When the bell above the door tinkled, he looked up at a lady coming to the counter. She tossed a large ring on the counter.

“Sell or pawn?”

“Sell.”

He looked at her and reached for his loop. She looked like a street person so how did she come by this, he wondered. To his amazement the diamonds were real, and the gold tested to eighteen karat. His heart was ramming.

“Who’d you steal this from lady?”

“It’s mine, you ignorant asshole.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you. Try down the street.”

She grabbed the ring and looked at the man with her one good eye. “Fuck you.”

He watched her carry her bulk toward the door and waved his hand in the air to chase away her body odor.

The woman tried two more pawn shops and the third was owned by someone with fewer scruples. He bought the ring for one thousand dollars plus a gun. It was a lady Smith and Wesson five-shooter. She grabbed a box of shells on her way out, looking at the man defiantly. He ran to lock his door and start making calls. This ring would sell quickly for ten thousand. If it wasn’t hot, he could ask fifty thousand easily. He flipped open his phone book and started dialing.

The sweaty woman stumbled into Walmart and felt the cool air inside provide a little more energy for the last item she needed. Twenty minutes later she held her new phone to her ear and ordered a taxi to take her to the Motel 6. She paid the driver without a tip and heaved herself out of the car. There were working girls and ugly people all around the place. She would fit right in.

Walking up to the desk, she pulled her shirt down over the roll of fat that bulged from her tight waistband. The clothes she was arrested in were now three sizes too small. Prison food is created to keep hundreds of people full for a few hours. Not much thought went into the caloric intake or a balanced meal. Carbohydrates and fat were the main ingredients of her diet for eleven months and she tipped the scale at two-hundred and fifty pounds. The clothes she wore were donated by the prison and they were cutting her in half.

Pulling her coach wallet out of her bag she pulled her license and scooted it toward the clerk. Ten minutes later she was locking her door and scowling at the traffic noise right outside her window. It would have to do.

She was exhausted. It took all night to get processed out of jail and then shown the door to freedom at five o’clock in the morning. She would sleep a bit and then call her father. He will want her to come home because there was nothing for her in Kentucky. He would put her mother on the phone who would beg and cry for her daughter to come back to Scotland. That could wait as well, she decided.

For eleven months she has thought of little else then Jamie Fraser, the man who stole millions of dollars from her by denying her any rights to the business or his new horse. Word went around the prison that Midnight Runner won the Triple Crown and that meant an extraordinary life was now his to live while she was shipped back to Scotland like yesterday’s trash. God she hated him.

Isobel laid down on the bed but thinking about Jamie got her so riled up she couldn’t sleep. Maybe a hot shower would help. The rundown hotel had a small mirror in the bathroom, the first clear mirror in eleven months. She looked at her face and tears rolled down her fat cheeks. One of her eyelids opened only a slit after she was punched in the forehead during a prison fight. The nerve damage was permanent. She looked at her hair cut almost to her scalp. A going-away present from the bitches who hated her and kept her in solitary much of the time. She recalled being held on the ground while the meanest of them cut off her hair. It stuck out in all directions and she tried to smooth it down with water, but nothing helped. She was raging inside at what he did to her. This was all his fault.

Isobel’s father kept money on her books, the maximum allowable at the insistence of her mother. Isobel had nothing but disdain for other women making it quite impossible to make friends who could help her. She bargained her commissary for favors and finally found someone with a relative who would look up Chad’s whereabouts. He was in the Kentucky State Penitentiary in Eddyville and she wrote to him every day and couldn’t wait to hear back. Months went by with no word and she became hurt, and then mad. She sent another letter and on the outside of the envelope in small letters, she wrote “you little puke of a man why won’t you answer me?” She didn’t expect a response and when one came it was short and to the point.

‘Enduring your disgusting presence and vomit worthy sex was a means to an end. You self-absorbed cow. You never figured out I was gay because you were busy looking at yourself, with or without a mirror. It made it easy to manipulate you. Happy now?’

That was Jamie’s fault as well, she stormed in her head. He deserves to be skinned alive and forced to watch. She wouldn’t risk him getting the upper hand, so she had to settle for a bullet in his head.

She picked up her purse and left. There was a liquor store on the corner and she needed whisky, and a lot of it.

Claire woke up in an empty bed and noticed a note on her side table. She smiled as she read it.

“It is a perfect day to sit on the sundeck and read. There is nothin you need to do today, and I won’t be long with Michael.”

They had purchased a new double-wide ergonomic chase and had not tried it out yet. Maybe they could read the book together. While she waited for Jamie, she chose pages throughout the book to read and was very impressed with Michael’s writing. The theme running throughout the book was about kindness to the horse through various means, particularly the whip. He advocated the elimination of pain as a motivator. It would change horse racing completely because the competitors would be running because they wanted to win. The horse had to love running and it could be done, according to Michael, but training and reward had to change.

Claire wondered how this book would differ from Nosh’s. He was coming to Kentucky the following week and would spend the day with them. She was excited to fulfill her promise to finish her story, whether he believed her or not.

Jamie dropped Michael at his hotel just after noon. He would be joining them for dinner tonight and would UBER back around seven o’clock. Jamie looked forward to an afternoon lounging with his best girl.

For the rest of the day, Jamie and Claire took turns reading the book and powered through half of it before cuddling on the chase to nap a bit.

“Sassenach.” Jamie ran his hand down her arm until she opened her eyes. “Will ye come with me to bring the horses in?”

She smiled up at him and nodded yes before pulling her jeans and boots on. They walked to the barn and discussed the book, both commenting on how much they had forgotten about those crazy days. They brought fifteen horses in, two at a time, then went to bring in the mares and babies. Claire laughed at the antics of the foals, running ahead and then freezing with fear when they couldn’t see their mothers. When all were put away for the night, they made one more trip for Runner and Porcelain. When Jamie watched them running to the gate, he looked at Claire with a big smile.

“I’d like to bring Porcelain into season early and breed her in February.”

“To him?”

It was settled. Porcelain would be Runner’s first cover and Claire was thrilled. A touch of romance in an otherwise clinical setting of the breeding room. They would be each other’s first.

As they walked home, Jamie threw up his arms and announced he had finished the repairs on Runner’s stall, and they could move them back to their larger accommodations. Claire held his hand and told him tomorrow would be soon enough. She had a shower and cooking to do.

It was a delightful time to sit with their old friend, spoil him with steak, roasted vegetables, and copious amounts of whisky. Claire considered inviting others to dinner but decided she didn’t want to share Michael’s time. They ate at the table outside and simply moved to more comfortable seats to continue the discussion.

Jamie answered the doorbell and spoke to a neighbor before announcing he would be back in ten minutes. The neighbor needed a jump. Michael offered to come and help but Jamie told him to relax, he had this.

Michael had Claire in giggle overload reminding her of times they were on the road. Claire got up to grab the coffee pot and stopped in her tracks.

“Michael, do you smell something burning.”

He stood up and said he smelled it too. When Claire opened the front door, she screamed for Michael. It was definitely a fire and somewhere close. They started running and a quarter-mile never seemed so far. The closer they got; they were more convinced it was the barn on fire. Claire punched numbers into the keypad, and Michael opened the roll away doors as smoke poured out.

“Chase them all out, Michael!”

Claire ran down the aisle pulling stall doors open until she got to Runner and Porcelain and they were not moving. None of the horses were running outside. She slapped Porcelain hard on the rump knowing Runner would follow. The mare whinnied loudly and took off for the big doors.

Claire looked at the smoke filling the barn and coughed into her shirt. She saw horses running by but could not see Michael. She continued to work her way down the aisle smacking horses so they would run to safety. She looked up and saw babies running alongside their mothers and knew Michael had gone to the dams’ wing to set them free.

Jamie waved to the neighbor as he drove down their shared road. He caught the scent of burning wood and jumped into the bed of his truck to look for smoke. Finally, he saw the embers rising into the air on his own property! With a hammering heart, he drove through the gate and saw horses scattered all over. He knew someone was at the barn and drove as fast as possible, ever watchful for a horse running across the road.

Jamie ran to the barn. His heart rate was in the stroke zone and he started coughing the second he was inside. He called for Claire as he ran down the aisle looking for any stuck horses. The dams’ wing was empty, where the hell was Claire and Michael? Or whoever let the horses out. He turned the turbines on that pulled air from the interior. They were all over the roof so he ran as fast as he could flipping them on high.

He called the fire department as he ran for Runner’s wing. The door was open and something inside him told him to proceed with caution. He could hear Claire and Michael coughing. Why were they in there? When he heard Isobel’s voice his blood turned to ice. He forced himself not to cough and give away his presence. He searched frantically for a way to get the drop on her. He had to do something before Claire and Michael died from asphyxiation.

He ran to the back of the barn where the smoke was too thick to see. He ran his hand along the wall until he felt the switches for the turbines. Filling his lungs with air he ran into the equipment room and pulled out a ten-foot length of steel pipe, very relieved it wasn’t burning hot and ran back.

Claire wasn’t coughing any more and Jamie knew she passed out with death coming for her. Without another second to think he rammed the door open and kept running as Isobel’s startled face came into view. She raised the gun just as he rammed the pipe into her stomach, impaling her on the back wall. He threw Claire over his shoulder and helped Michael to his feet pulling them outside to safety.

The fire engines were coming in slowly with no siren because Jamie explained there were horses scattered all over the property. Michael was bent over coughing and Claire was silent, unconscious. Jamie lowered her to the ground feeling more terrified than he had been in his life.

“Claire! Claire!”

The EMT’s pulled him away to render lifesaving aid to his wife, his soulmate, his whole world. Fire hydrants were installed on the land according to zoning rules and the men soon had two flows of water directed at the fire. Jamie heard more sirens coming only to go silent as they negotiated the gate and keypad.

The ambulance EMT’s were given instructions to open the gate and wait for it to close to make sure no horses escaped. The driver knew there were critical injuries and it took all his training and willpower not to barrel ahead to the injured. Jamie was covered with soot and sweat as he gripped his wife’s hand.

“Please Claire, ye must fight yer way back to me or I will surely die with ye.”

He was pulled away as they wheeled the gurney into the ambulance, Michael was loaded into a second vehicle. Jamie sank to his knees as a great crash came from the barn and a plume of embers rose into the night sky. Jamie didn’t flinch. He couldn’t move as he was locked into his pleading prayers to God.

A great fireball exploded into the dark sky and men were yelling about a secondary fire. Jamie heard none of it and continued to pray.

The captain pulled Jamie up and brought him under the light spreading out a schematic of the barn interior.

“Is there anyone else in the building?”

Jamie pointed to Runner’s wing. The fire captain pulled him to the large engine and told him to sit down. The huge fire engines took up all the space available in front of the barn and police cruisers were lined up behind them. Officers were standing by a short distance away and the captain went to speak with them.

Jamie felt the tears fall off his face, he knew his business was in ruins, his prize horse chased into the darkness, but none of that mattered as much as Claire’s pale, soot-stained face. He looked up at the commanding voice above him and stared at the officer with blank eyes.

“You identified an area where someone was left inside. I am sorry to inform you that the roof caved in above that wing about five minutes ago. Did anyone go back inside to pull the person out?”

“No. I impaled her against the wall with a ten-foot length of steel pipe.”

Jamie stood up and walked toward his vehicle but never made it. It took five officers to hold him back and he was finally cuffed and dropped into a cruiser. He had no comprehension of what was happening, and he fought against the restraints until he felt a blinding pain as his wrist separated. He slumped forward choking through this added suffering.

“Mister Fraser! Stop struggling I have news of your wife. She is in intensive care, so is the other man, but they are expected to pull through. They are gonna be fine. You have confessed to a capital crime. You belong to the Lexington police force now so you might as well cooperate and sit still. You’re a big man and tasers hurt, so walk when you’re told, sit where you’re told and answer our questions. It’s the best advice I can give you.”

Jamie did as told and explained who Isobel was, how she tried to kill his horses before. He did not know she was released on parole. She had set fire to the barn and held Claire and Michael at gunpoint as they slowly choked to death in front of her. She wore an elaborate gas mask and just stood by as they struggled to breathe. She had raised her gun to Jamie’s head as he rammed the pipe into her stomach. He did not bother to go back in to save her because he was too busy with his wife and friend.

“I didn’t know if she was alive or dead. I didn’t care.”

Jamie was a pillar of the community and the officers made quick work of releasing him with the warning to not leave the state. There was an officer waiting to take him to the hospital. Jamie sat in the back seat holding his throbbing wrist. The officer decided to break the rules for the poor man and turned on his siren as he raced to the hospital.

Jamie piled out of the car and ran into the emergency department. He approached Claire slowly with tears streaking through the grime on his face. He was so overcome at the sight of her his whole body started to shake.

The nurse taking her blood pressure almost fainted at the sight of Jamie but recovered quickly as his face softened looking at his wife.

“She has been asking for you if your name is Jamie that is.” She had a warm smile and a concerned face.

“It is… my name is Jamie.”

The nurse ran for the chair that was shared among the visitors because it looked like he would fall any minute. She pushed Jamie into it and asked if he was alright.

“As soon as this lass opens her eyes, I will be fine.”

“She is doing really well physically. Her doctor may keep her tonight, not sure yet.”

Jamie looked down at Claire’s open eyes, looking at him. She seemed to look at everything she could see and then he watched her dissolve in tears. She was fighting to stop crying but she just couldn’t. She tried to speak to him, but no sound came out.

“Her voice will come back. Two or three days.”

Claire was asleep again and Jamie felt lost suddenly. She just closed her eyes to the pain that was making her cry, leaving Jamie alone. He picked up the phone and called Jason, then Angus. He knew he had to leave her and get back to what was left of their barn. He kissed her face and walked toward the entrance, there lingering at the doorway was the officer who drove him to the hospital.

“Mister Fraser, I waited to take you home, sir.”

Jamie looked battle-scarred and fatigued at the moment, so they headed for his home without further comment. The fire was out, and firemen continued to crawl through the haylofts and roof structure looking for live embers. They had done an excellent job limiting the damage. The fire marshal approached Jaime and shook his hand. His voice was commanding yet tempered with understanding that Jamie appreciated.

“Mister Fraser, it’s a tragedy to be sure, but we minimized the damage and found all the clues, I think. The fire was set on the north-facing side, right here.” He pointed to Runner’s wing on the barn schematic. Gasoline was used as an accelerant that was provided by your fuel tower. The perpetrator used your five-gallon buckets that were stacked at the hose in back, filled them with your fuel, and left the nozzle open to drain the fuel into the ground. When embers landed there it all went up in a fireball. You will have an ugly reminder for a while I’m afraid. It’s safe to bring the horses in except for this area. The roof caved in and it’s burned badly. It is where we found the body of a woman, but I hear you have given a statement to the police already and believe her to be responsible. The coroner has removed the body. I will be in touch as the investigation progresses. He walked toward his vehicle throwing his clipboard on the seat before getting in.

Jamie looked around feeling lost until he saw Rupert and Angus walk out of the barn with two leads each and lariats attached to their belt loops. They looked at Jamie’s haunted eyes and simply nodded as they made their way to the pastures. The horses were tied to a fence once caught so they could be identified and counted. Jason and Lulu pulled up looking shell shocked. Lulu was crying and asking about Claire. Jason ran to the barn for halters and leads and handed a lead to Lulu as they left to search for more horses.

Molly and her fiancé were next, followed by two of the vets that Claire had befriended. They would check the horses that were brought in and treat any issues. As word spread, neighbors and owners came in to join the search and by afternoon, all but two horses had been rounded up. The missing horses, Porcelain and Runner.

The horses were split up into groups and led to graze in the multiple pastures. They would stay outside for the day and let the barn air out. Jamie continued to call Claire, to say I love you and give progress reports. Jamie’s voice cracked when he said they had not found Runner or Porcelain and Claire sobbed for the lost horses but mostly for Jamie. Michael had fared better and was released to rest in his hotel room. Jamie wandered through the pastures calling for Runner until dark.

Jamie stayed with Claire overnight. She was moved out of critical care and there was a fat Lazyboy right next to the bed. He had full trust in his crew, so he stayed until she was released the next day. She mostly cried when she was awake, and Jamie couldn’t wait until he could hold her and give her comfort.

Driving into the compound was very hard on Claire as visions of Isobel taunting her, saying she would shoot Jamie in front of her and then let them die, came back to haunt her. Jamie explained that he had killed Isobel, but Claire expected her to jump out from every corner.

Claire couldn’t yell for Runner, but she insisted on walking the far pastures to help look for him. To no avail, the two of them were gone. Jamie held Claire through the night, waking up every few hours because she was crying and shaking. He eased her back to sleep much quicker than he was able to follow her. By the next day, he had deep circles under his eyes as he drove the property in search of his horses.

The other horses were returned to the barn, back in their original stalls because there was very little damage to anything but Runner’s wing. Jamie shivered to think he wanted to go back to the barn and move Runner and Porcelain back to their original stalls. He closed the wing off with plans to rebuild once the insurance was settled. Not one of the owners moved their horse to another barn. They knew Jamie was honest and ethical. This was not his fault and he had taken care of the problem.

Jamie sat down hard on his office chair in the early evening. The silence was such a relief after playing hero for the past two days. He wasn’t a hero. He was terrified about what could have happened and what will happen next. Could his business recover, could Claire feel safe again, could they find a new normal without Runner? Picking up his ringing phone he heard the deep voice of Dunsany, and he lost it.

“Jamie, it's going to be alright. You aren’t hurt, you will repair the damage and go on. Now listen to me son, get it out, and then get back to work. That’s a good lad, I’m here for ye, depend on that.”

Dunsany waited, speaking quietly to encourage Jamie, trying to infuse him with the will to start over. They talked for almost an hour and Dunsany told him arrangements had been made to bring Isobel’s body back to Scotland. She could never threaten them again. The older man worried deeply about Jamie pulling out of this nightmare and his anger at Isobel kept him secluded from his family for several days. It wasn’t right for a father to hate his own daughter and he would keep that to himself.

Jamie walked the pastures as the sun was coming up. He had a distinctive whistle that all the horses were used to. It always brought them in, no matter how far they had roamed. He heard a whinny and turned his head, heart beating like thunder in his chest he watched the pasture turning in all directions and finally saw her. Porcelain ran toward him crying out her fear in loud whinnies. She came to him and snorted while he slipped the halter on her and snapped a lead. He started walking back expecting Runner to run up on them any second. When he closed the door to Porcelain’s stall, he dropped his head in defeat.

“Where have ye gone laddie?”

Jason, Lulu, Rupert and Angus put the barn back together, ordered supplies, rented stalls, answered calls from worried owners, and assisted whoever and whatever was needed in the moment. Their fearless leader searched for Runner day and night and Claire was not often seen. She looked shattered and they didn’t know how to approach her, so they didn’t.

Michael came on the fourth day and took Claire to drive the property boundaries. Claire searched the pastures through field glasses as they continued to drive for two hours. He was just gone. He jumped a fence and just kept running she assumed. There were thousands of acres of forest that bordered their land and he was lost in that forest somewhere, starving to death. Claire’s sobbing broke Michael’s heart. He stopped the car and pulled her out to hold her to him. He promised her they would find him.

“We need to walk the land, Claire. He’s scared and hiding somewhere in the trees. Let him see us walking.” He pushed a lead in her hand, and they ducked between the white slats of the fence to walk the endless acres of Bluegrass.

Runner watched them from behind the trees. He watched her mostly and wanted to go to her. He could hear in her yell, something foreboding and fearful. If she would just get on his back, he could ride her to safety. He tried a couple of times to break out of the tree line, only to retreat in fear. They were getting closer to him. He was about to turn toward the forest and run but he saw images in his mind of Claire hugging him. It made him so happy. She was telling him she needed a hug. In the next second, he bolted toward the fence boundary and jumped it with ease running toward her, happier than he had ever been.

“Stop Claire. Turn around.”

Claire turned to see Runner galloping toward them. She started to giggle and then she held her arms out like she always did, for him to run into. He stopped ten feet from her and showed her images of being hugged. She kept her arms out and walked to him until she could wrap them around his neck. She put her hands on his cheeks and Michael could swear they were having a conversation as Runner would nicker at times and drop his head on her shoulder.

Are you hurt?

I do not hurt.

Where you afraid?

I was afraid.

She kissed his face a dozen times and asked him to walk back to the barn, assuring him the smoke was gone and he would be safe. She dug a handful of sugar cubes out of her pocket and he feasted on them.

Very hungry.

Let’s go home.

Michael called Jamie to tell him they were walking back, with Runner, and he started running to meet them. Runner nickered and lifted his head when he saw Jamie running toward them. Claire unsnapped the lead and Runner took off stopping right in front of Jamie’s beaming smile. They were still hugging when Claire and Michael caught up to them.

Porcelain whinnied loudly in the air and stomped all over her stall. Rupert looked at her and wondered what got into the lass when he saw the movement in his peripheral vision. He was almost in tears when he saw the three of them with a giant black horse behind them. Runner went to Porcelain for a make-out session and Claire could see images of Rupert pouring grain into his feeder. She laughed quietly to herself.

“Cheeky bastard.”

They said goodbye to Michael at the airport and made him promise to visit soon. Claire hugged him and cried while Michael complained she would surely melt with any more tears. Once on the road home, Claire leaned against Jamie and wrapped her arm around his middle. They had not made love since the fire and the feel of him was suddenly intoxicating. She kissed his neck until she was breathless and when she pulled his belt away and grabbed his zipper Jamie pulled onto a logging road into the forest where he pulled her to him and kissed her deeply.

They were frantic to join their hungry bodies after a long hiatus from passion. Jamie pulled her shirt over her head and reached around to unclasp her bra setting her breasts free to bounce with their efforts. When she finally pulled him into her body, they both moaned loudly before the rhythm of arousal took them to a new plane of existence.

Officer Josh Baker was heading back to the station while he daydreamed in heavy traffic. When he saw Jamie’s pickup truck veer off the road, he shook his head and blinked several times. It couldn’t be, he told himself. What are the odds of finding them in the same predicament as before? Some people never learn he thought. He pulled off onto the logging road to wait.

Traffic along the four lanes where Jamie took the detour slowed way down due to the cruiser parked along the side of the road, presumably for radar speed checking. The officer pointed his radar gun out the window and waited. When he heard Jamie’s engine start he pulled into traffic, and they were none the wiser about his protection.

Slowly, life at Highland Brothers returned to normal and Jason, the new custodian of Claire's truck, would pick her up for a day of medical treatments and do his best to remember any of the details when she asked him. On long rides she would describe the lab assays they would run to get him used to the terminology and procedure. From February to June, she would reduce her hours away to ten hours per week so she could take care of the breeding operation. She was anxious to be working with Jamie again.

Claire sat across from Nosh at the kitchen table and looked at the sheets of pictures. There had to be at least five-hundred pictures of her and runner. She answered Nosh’s questions thoughtfully and held nothing back. Nosh recovered quickly from the declaration that she can talk to animals. He always knew there was a major component of the story missing.

“I have wondered how an untrained jockey could ride that horse through all those races.”

“It was my yoga training. My balance was very good and if you hadn’t noticed, I didn’t move at all, once the race started, I just hung on to is mane for dear life. He told me what to do, when to do it, and I felt safe after a while.”

“How could he hear you during the race, there’s too much noise?”

“Are you saying you believe me?”

“You are an educated woman Claire, a veterinarian, and you won the Triple Crown as a novice jockey. I’ve been on the track all my adult life, so I knew there was a secret to your success. What I wouldn’t give for photo evidence of you racing him on foot.”

“Oh! I have photo evidence. Jamie took loads of pictures from the equipment barn where he hid for the first month. They are amateur at best, but I will be happy to show you..”

Nosh was on his feet in seconds, “please, yes I would love to see them.”

Claire settled Nosh in a chair close to the computer monitor and brought up the pictures. There was a perfect sequence of them at the starting line, Claire running full speed around the track, and Runner staying on the rail to pass her. Claire bent over panting and Runner circling her with his head and tail in the air. In the last picture, Claire is scowling at the horse with her hands in the air.

Nosh laughed so hard and sputtered “pure gold!” when he could catch a breath. “Good God, I haven’t laughed like that since I was a kid. Name your price, I’m sure the magazine will pay it.”

“Certainly not! You can have them with my thanks.”

This was the icing on the cake to Nosh. The book he had dreamed of for the last year would be better than he could have imagined.

Claire told Nosh everything from cutting Runner out of his dam to winning the Triple Crown and all the baiting and psychological tricks she used to keep him wanting to win. The story was told, and she sat back and took a deep breath.

“How would you like to spend some time with Runner?”

They walked out to the pasture and the two horses made a bee-line for them. Claire stood in front of Nosh and opened her arms for two frothy-mouthed horses to assault her with smells and snorts. She stepped aside pulling her phone out of her pocket and launching the camera app. Nosh seemed frozen as he watched Runner come toward him. Claire moved farther away and started snapping pictures. Nosh, nose to nose with Runner, the colt draping his head over Nosh’s shoulder from behind, stroking his neck, laughing at the assault on his pockets looking for treats. Claire kept snapping until she had sixty-five pictures of Nosh and Runner. She would transfer all the pictures of Runner including these to a thumb drive and send it to Nosh. It made her happy inside to give something back.

Claire walked the reporter out to his rental car and hugged him, thanking him for everything. Nosh saw no reason they might meet again so he made his words count.

“You feel like the daughter I never had. I am so proud of what you’ve done. If your actions with Runner are any indication of motherhood, I hope to live long enough to see your kids cure cancer and win the Nobel prize. Goodbye Claire, and thank you for the interview.”

Motherhood? What an odd thing to say, she decided and waved goodbye.

Claire walked back into the house feeling her mood turn dark when she looked at the ugly furniture she and Jamie had failed to replace. She wished for a happy feeling when she opened the door to their home and hated this furniture even more after the fire. A call to the Salvation Army to pick up a high-end living room set pushed her to the front of the line. They would pick it up this afternoon. When the living room was empty, she called Jamie and asked if he could finish early because there wasn’t a chair or couch to sit on anymore. They needed to visit the furniture stores in town.

Claire got dressed up with straight hair and makeup because it felt like a special trip, something to be remembered. They would finally take ownership of their space and rid the memory of the most heinous woman on earth. With only one week until Christmas, she was excited.

Jamie watched a beautiful, confident woman walk toward him when he came home. He looked at her long pretty hair, short dress, and high heels, feeling his stomach do flips.

“Yer beautiful Sassenach, and our living room is empty sure enough.”

“You have ten minutes James Fraser.”

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sentient-stove · 4 years

Text

The Mishaps of Ladybug and Kuro Neko- Chapter 3

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug, Sanders Sides

Relationships: Patton & Roman, Roman & Virgil, Roman/Virgil (way down the line), Remus & Roman, Logan & Virgil, Janus & Marinette Dupain-Cheng (More later)

Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Virgil Ito, Logan Ito, Patton Hart, Janus Dupain-Cheng, Roman Prince, Remus Prince, Tikki, other kwami

Summary: It’s been almost fifty years since Marinette’s used a miraculous. And unfortunately, someone’s stolen the butterfly and the peacock.So when the missing miraculous turn up in the US, she’s forced to hand out a new team of heroes, finally hanging up the mantle of ladybug forever.

Virgil did not sign up for a kwami(?) that’s obsessed with cheese curds.

Roman is ecstatic that he has the ladybug miraculous, after all, superheroes are cool!

Logan wants to live his life and avoid racial slurs, too bad the annoying ass heroes keep destroying his fucking bedroom.

Patton spends his time hero chasing, maybe he’ll get a super power one day too!

Janus is done™

Chapter Summary: First akuma! Oh my....

Notes: hey, im back lmao.

AO3 | Previous | Next

Logan was halfway out the door the next morning when the walls of the small apartment caved in.

Well, it was more of a smashed in actually and he was flung back into the apartment among the debris, head smacking against concrete and instantly dying upon impact.

And thus went Logan’s first experience with an akuma. Unfortunately for him, it would not be the last time that he’d be killed by one.

…

Virgil was halfway to school when his phone buzzed with the only person that he actively followed on Twitter, some boy at his school who was obsessed with the old superheroes from years ago.

He pulled out his phone and looked at it, brain not comprehending for a moment.

Oh.

Virgil looked up at the sky and sighed. “Fuck.”

He looked around at the empty street and sighed, opening his slightly damp bag and looking down at the kwami inside.

“Hey, so um, claws out?”

Plagg looked up at him. “No.”

“What?” Virgil ducked into the side alley and slid to a sitting position on the dirty ground. “I have to go do hero shit or something before Ladybug kills himself.”

Plagg sighed and flew out to point a tiny paw at him. “You didn’t give me cheese.”

“I gave you some Ritz crackers! You know that I’m lactose intolerant!”

“I want cheese curds.”

“I’d have to go to the fucking Wharf to get those! They don’t make them here in California, that’s a Wisconsin thing!”

Plagg blew a raspberry at him and Virgil sighed.

“Fine, but I’m booking it to the Wharf and the second you have your damn cheese curds, I will transform.”

“Sounds good.”

Virgil stood, snatched the kwami out of thin air and stuffed him into his bag, shutting the flaps and booking it in the direction of Fisherman’s Wharf. There were probably closer places selling the cheese, but Virgil really only could remember the one gourmet cheese shop that had opened two years ago there.

Not to mention, cheese curds were disgusting. They just tasted like plastic to him. Virgil skidded around a corner and almost ran into a businessman who was talking to someone on a phone. The man yelled an insult that Virgil ignored as he crossed the street, almost getting KO’d by a car.

Yeah, he didn’t really have a sense of self preservation. He made it to the Wharf in about fifteen minutes- would have been sooner if he had been at home, but alas, and when he entered the cheese shop, a cheery bell rang, alerting whoever owned the place that they had a customer at eight thirty am.

He didn’t exactly know where to look, but in the back of the place, they had four different flavors of cheese curds. Virgil sighed at the prices- this kwami was more expensive to feed than the plethora of stray cats that wandered the city.

He grabbed one bag of each flavor and went to the register, placing them on the counter.

“Can I get this?”

“Sure hon.” The woman smiled and rang them up, he brow furrowing. “That’ll be twenty seven dollars and fifty four cents.”

Virgil pulled some rumbled bills out and set them down before meticulously counting out the rest of the change in the nickels that lived in his pockets.

“Do you want a bag for that?”

“Uh, no thank you. And I don’t need the receipt, thanks.” Virgil grabbed the cheese and rushed out, heading away from the tourists and towards where he could hide.

He turned down an alley and knelt, tearing a hole in his jeans as he opened his bag again and offered some cheese curds to the kwami.

“Thank you.”

“Fuck you, you little chaos demon.” Virgil bit out as Plagg ate the cheese slowly, seeming to enjoy the squeaking sound that it gave with each chew. When the kwami finally swallowed, Virgil stood.

“Plagg, claws out, or I--”

Green light enveloped him in a yelp.

…

Roman hit the akuma with his yo-yo fruitlessly as the monster roared at him and swung. He only managed to jump out of the way before it’s giant fist crushed through the roof of the building he’d been standing on.

“Come on Kuro, where are you?” He muttered as he rolled to the right, a massive foot coming down right next to him.

“HEY!” a voice shouted. Kuro Neko.

Roman sighed in relief as his partner yelled something intelligible at the akuma, getting a stoney fist thrown his way. The black clad figure leapt gracefully over it and used his staff to jab it in the eye, which only enraged it further as he landed next to Roman.

“Sorry LB, I was in a different part of the city.” Kuro looked up and then tackled them to the side as the akuma roared. They rolled for a few feet before stopping and Roman quickly got up.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah. Do you know where the akuma is?”

“It’s right in front of us.” Roman said blankly. “Oh, wait, you meant the object!”

Kuro rolled his eyes and then launched himself up to dodge a stone hand as Roman threw the yo-yo around one of the arms and used that as a swing. They landed on a roof next to each other and Kuro’s face fell.

“It’s going to keep destroying if we can’t figure it out.”

Roman nodded. “I know. I think the akumatized object is in his foot though.”

Kuro Neko tilted his head in confusion and Roman bit back a comment about cats before pointing.

“That foot’s a different color than the rest of the stone.”

“Okay, what do you want me to do?”

Roman blinked. “Well, can you go around front and distract the akuma while I call the lucky charm and figure a plan real fast? Try to keep it stationary.”

Kuro Neko nodded and jumped off the roof, going into a quick freefall before pulling out his staff and using it to safely land. He ran between the akuma’s feet and to the front.

Roman bit his lip and pulled his yo-yo off his belt. “Lucky Charm!”

A red and black spotted bicycle pump came flying down and he caught it, frantically looking around as he tried to figure out a plan.

Nothing, nothing, there! Roman nodded and jumped off the roof, landing on a balcony that hadn’t been destroyed yet.

“Kuro Neko!”

“What Ladybug?!”

“When I say go, use your cataclysm on the underside of it’s foot!”

Kuro made brief eye contact with him, before resigning himself to the fact and nodding.

Roman took the bike pump and a flowerpot from the balcony before jumping off that and landing on the street to steal an umbrella from the food cart that had somehow not been crushed by the fighting.

He combined the items into a weird spinning thing.

“Now Kuro!”

Kuro didn’t respond to him, but Roman heard a faint “Cataclysm!” and a roar as the akuma turned to attack the spinning umbrella.

It’s foot was right above him when Kuro Neko came out of nowhere, holding up the hand that had the Cataclysm activated. The foot came down as Kuro used his free arm to pull Roman to him so they were hip to hip. Roman dimly noted that his partner’s eyes were closed tight and the second the Cataclysm came in contact with the foot, black spread in veins from the spot. The stone crumbled away and fell to dust around them, a purple glowing butterfly flapping out of the dust.

Roman threw his yo-yo forward. “No more evil doing for you.”

The akuma was trapped in the yo-yo and when it got it back, he opened it, watching the white butterfly flap out. “Bye bye butterfly.”

Kuro’s arm left from where it was wrapped around him and the black cat hero sighed. “Oh my god, I’m going to have nightmares.’

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Roman freed the bicycle pump from the contraption and smiled at Kuro Neko.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Ladybugs burst from the Lucky Charm, repairing the damage around them as the pair watched in awe.

Roman turned to Kuro. “Thank you.”

Kuro Neko might have smiled, but Roman didn’t know, after all, his partner’s mask covered the bottom half of his face, leaving his green and blue eyes uncovered.

“Yeah, you too Ladybug.” Kuro Neko held up a fist. “Pound it?”

“Pound it.” Roman grinned then paused as his earrings beeped and Kuro’s ring flashed.

“Well, until next time?” Roman asked casually.

Kuro turned away and then paused. “Ladybug, we need to eventually figure out who has the butterfly miraculous.”

“Of course, but we don’t know anything right now. We’ll figure it out.”

Kuro nodded, then extended his staff, using it to launch away, leaving a starstruck Ladybug to watch him disappear before turning himself and yo-yoing away.

…

Logan opened his eyes. He was standing in the doorway of his apartment and he thought that he could vaguely feel like something was off….

Huh. He’d remember eventually. He shut the door and locked it before heading down the stairs to go to class.

The back of his head did have a dull ache though.

#ladybug and kuro neko #roman sanders #sanders sides #miraculous ladybug #virgil sanders #akuma #plagg #miraculous fanfic #sanders sides fanfic #minor character death brought back #logan sanders

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mikaa-mina · 4 years

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At Garden’s Edge- Chapter 5: In which bad days are had, assumptions are made, and sweets always taste better with good company

This is a very sweet and silly chapter, and also my longest chapter for this fic yet clocking in at just over 5k!

A small content warning, there are some descriptions of depression/feeling down and apathetic in this chapter. They are primarily right at the beginning and I promise there's a bunch of silly fun in this chapter and it ends on a happy note. (No seriously, these characters can be so silly sometimes!)

Nevertheless! Even though there is nothing heavy in this chapter, if you for any reason feel uncomfortable reading a chapter (any chapter in this fic) please don't hesitate to reach out to me. I will try to summarize the chapter without going into whatever the subject is that is an issue. <3

As always, this was beta'd by the lovely lovely Tarek_giverofcookies who has helped me multiple times when I was banging my head against writer's block.

At Garden’s Edge

Chapter 5- In which bad days are had, assumptions are made, and sweets always taste better with good company.

It had been a bad day. In fact, there had been rather more than seven of them so far. He hadn’t opened the shop in three of them and couldn’t honestly recall the last time he’d stepped out of the building at all. Living above the shop, or rather more in the antique armchair in the back room of the shop, tended to have it’s own perks and disadvantages. The perks being that he didn’t really have to leave home to work, was constantly surrounded by books, and he never had to leave the building unless he was out acquiring new books. Unfortunately, these same perks were also the disadvantages.

It made the days when the fog grew thick and oppressive that much more harder. It was difficult to convince oneself to leave the building when instead he could just stay in working on commissions. And what if he missed a customer while out and about?

When his head felt full of cotton, and fatigue lingered in all his limbs, the quiet thoughts would slip inside. What harm would it really do to close the shop early? For the day? Why move from this armchair at all, he deserved a day off. He’s in the middle of a chapter and it’s raining out, no sensible fool would bring an old antique book to be authenticated or repaired in the pouring rain.

Three days into this he realized he couldn’t recall what the last book he just finished reading had even been about at all. It was as if he was eating food and yet tasting none of it. Stale and unappealing. The horror that books had become that for him.

It was temporary, he knew. He had figured out with help how to help manage this, but knowing how to do so didn’t make the actual doing of it any easier. It took another day of bargaining with himself before he managed to call up a friend. Unfortunately she was out of town, but talking to her still helped. She stayed on the phone as long as she could and before ending the call she gently suggested taking a walk through town, just to be around other people without having to talk to anyone if he wasn’t up to that just yet.

“Or maybe dearie, you should go see that florist friend of yours,” Madame Tracey suggested with what was surely a twinkle in her eye.

Aziraphale himself didn’t really feel one way or the other about it, instead of insisting Crowley was just his florist and not his friend he just hummed non-noncommittally. (Who would want to be friends with a stuffy boring older man like him? He knew what he was like and was content with it but others hardly liked it.)

Failing to get the reaction she was hoping for made her stress again him getting out. Maybe visit that bakery he liked so much.

Instead he found himself wandering the city, and not too unsurprisingly, wandering into the flower shop and plant nursery, Garden’s Edge.

There was some sort of bee-bop playing in the shop, quietly at first and then increasing in volume as he wandered towards the back.

And then he heard it. Someone… singing. Not particularly badly but not especially well either. Though that may have been helped by the fact that the song they were singing to seemed to be more of a spoken song than the newer bee-bop Aziraphale’d heard in the shops downtown.

It got louder as he followed it all the way to the very back of the shop. When he reached the check out counter he could see the door to the back propped open as someone sang about… French novels and the absurd?

Aziraphale glanced around, but no one else was in the shop, so slowly he edged around the corner of the door to peek into the back room because surely the only person it could be was Crowley. As far as he was aware, Crowley was the only person who worked here. So it had to be him. But singing?

A quick glance in and all he saw was a flash of black and red. A pity he didn’t carry any mirrors on his person any more.

Steadying his breathing again he looked around the corner again through the door way. He had meant it to be a quick glance again but he found himself stopping at the sight he had caught. It was indeed Crowley. Crowley in his black leather jacket and absurd snake skin boots, eyes closed as he sang into the end of the broom in his hand. His hips were… doing something? Moving in some way, perhaps this was a new fangled form of dancing, and his arms were gesturing grandly as he sang and moved about the room.

“-And some kinds of love The possibilities are endless And for me to miss one Would seem to be groundle-EH?! Ah-AZIRAPHALE?!?”

Aziraphale startled, nearly fell from his precariously balanced position, but Crowley was worse, his eyes having opened as he turned about the back room mid spin, he faltered, eyes landing on Aziraphale and broom flinging from his hand. It crashed into a large iron shelving unit that rattled dangerously and sent Crowley lunging in that direction to catch some of the pots that had rattled right off the edge.

“Oh dear,” he rushed forward to give Crowley a hand, “terribly sorry to frighten you. What can I do to help?”

“Wah-gah- huh??”

Aziraphale bit back a smile, he was rather adorable when flustered. His face was turning red, his eyebrows high on his face in confusion and disbelief, his arms fluttering around in nervousness and nearly dropping the pots he had managed to catch.

“Here,” he dipped down and picked up some of the pots scattered on the ground. Thankfully most of the ones that fell seemed to be the cheaper plastic ones. Temporary pots for young plants or plastic pots made to look like stone.

Straightening back up, arms full of (thankfully clean) pots (just think of what would have happened to his coat) he smiled at Crowley. It was a bit more customer service polite smile than the genuine one he’d felt earlier as the fog settled back in, but he didn’t want Crowley to feel as if it was his fault. “Where shall I put them?”

After a string of unintelligible sounds, Crowley gestured towards a table slightly helplessly. He croaked out a thanks, plopped his own load down and stared at the table for a moment.

Just as Aziraphale was starting to sink back into that state where he felt rather detached from everything Crowley’s head snapped towards his.

“Uh… how.. how much of that did you hear?”

“I couldn’t really make it out until I got to the back somewhere around something to do with filthy french novels and the absurd?”

Crowley’s blush renewed itself, darkening in color and then spreading down his chest and up to his ears. It was adorable.

“Y-you can’t tell anyone!”

Aziraphale cocked a brow, slightly amused but mostly confused. Perhaps that was the fog again- maybe it had obscured something that would make this make sense.

“About what dear? You singing?”

“No! I mean yes, that too, but no the-uh...” Crowley gestured in an extremely un-illuminating way.

“...I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

The strange half starts to words and sentences falling apart in Crowley’s throat sounded off again before he finally settled from his wild gesticulating to stare rather firmly at something on the other side of the room from him. “Can’t tell anyone I like that kind of stuff.”

Aziraphale was hopelessly lost. “...Singing?”

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “No-yes, well, I don’t care so much about that. It’s the...”

“...the?”

“thesingingaboutlovegunk.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“…. it’s the, whole, uh...” every word seemed to take effort, though for what reason Aziaphale had no idea, “it’s the love thing, okay?! I just- it doesn’t fit my image and people don’t need to know that I- that- people don’t need to know that!”

Oh.

A smile twitched at the edges of his lips again, not enough to force the smile through the fog, but enough to make him feel a bit warmer. He took in Crowley’s defensive posture, the hot blush upon his face and chest, his burning ears, and the steadfast way he wouldn’t look at Aziraphale.

A bit softer and sweeter than Aziraphale had originally pegged him as.

He turned the smile begging at his lips from something too soft and fond into something more benignly friendly. “Of course.”

A beat of silence and then Crowley finally turned his head back towards Aziraphale’s, shoulders hunched up by his red ears. “Yeah?”

“Of course.”

There was a beat of silence before Aziraphale found his mouth speaking quite without his permission. “So. A secret romantic then?”

Crowley just groaned in dismay.

“Did you come here just to mock me?”

The smile slid off his face. He’d meant to reply with something funny, or a bit teasing, but now that he was reminded of the real reason he’d stumbled across this scene, things didn’t seem as funny as they were a moment ago. Still, he knew wallowing in it wouldn’t help matters, so he tried to marshal himself back up to that trusty customer service smile and said, “oh, I was just out.”

He didn’t even realize he was avoiding eye contact with Crowley until the man side stepped back into his vision, leaning down a bit to try and catch his eyes.

Crowley hummed, rocked back on his heels, bit his lip, seemed to cast around for some words and finally offered up a, “wanna talk about it or not talk about it?”

Aziraphale’s eyes rose to meet his. He hesitated.

Crowley gave him a wry sort of smile, dusted his hands on his jeans, then clapped them together to make a loud sound that startled Aziraphale. “Right! Let’s go then.”

Aziraphale blinked, watching Crowley sway right out the door and into the main shop. Following him a bit bewilderingly he echoed, “go?”

“Yup. Going!”

Crowley stopped by the front door, pulled Aziraphale’s still wet umbrella out of the stand, handed it to him, then fished out another umbrella from the stand for himself. It was still raining outside.

Crowley opened the door with a flourish, keys jangling from his pinky finger as he popped open the umbrella with his free hand and gestured to outside. “Out.”

Well. Alight then. ‘Out’ it was.

Aziraphale slid open his umbrella, stepped out, and watched in a sort of detached curiosity as Crowley flipped the sign to closed and locked up the shop. Then he turned with a grin and said, “not too far.”

Well. That explained one thing and nothing else. Still. Aziraphale followed him, noting distractedly that Crowley’s umbrella seemed to have ducks faintly patterned on it. The slick shine of rain highlighting the faded ink as the textures ran different than the rest of the unmarked umbrella.

A few blocks, some turns down some alleys, and they arrived at the shop front of a lovely little cafe bakery. Aziraphale stared at it before Crowley marched right up, ducks swimming in the rain above his head, and opened the door. He made a dramatic sweeping ‘after you’ gesture and Aziraphale was surprised by his own quiet snort of laughter.

Walking in, the air hit warm and dry against his face, and the light was brighter than outside’s overcast weather, but dimmer than some of the more mainstream restaurants liked to have. He shook off his umbrella and left it in the umbrella stand by the door and took his first good look around the place.

The best way to describe it was that it was charming.

It had the standard bakery wide windows in the front of the establishment but instead of just slatted blinds, there were also soft gauzy curtains pulled to the sides and secured with a soft tasseled rope. Aziraphale’s eyes gravitated to the back corner of the cafe where there were two bookcases set against each other creating a corner, filled with mismatched books, and sat in front of it was a squishy looking couch, armchair set, and low coffee table.

The shop had a few other tables set with soft seating of the like, while the rest scattered about the shop were the more standard fair cafe chairs and tables. There was music playing quietly in the background, the colors of the cafe were soft and easy on his eyes, and there was the biggest set of two bakery display cases he’d ever seen in a shop so small. He could hear Crowley’s quiet chuckle as he gravitated towards the counter.

How he’d missed this place he’d never know. (Spoiler: it’s because he never leaves his shop unless it’s to go to Crowley’s shop or to go buy new books)

He was looking down at the most scrumptious looking assortment of pastries when a young woman popped up from behind a strange chrome contraption that Aziraphale could only assume was used to make fancy coffees.

“Oh! Hi, welcome to Knead to Know, how can I- Oh AJ!”

Her eyes flickered between the two of them before a smile began to spread across her face wide enough to cause some alarm to Aziraphale. She propped an elbow up on the counter, set her chin in her hand, and grinned properly at Crowley. She had pink bangs.

“I assume you’re not here for your usual? Or are you and you just brought him with you today?”

Crowley, completely oblivious it seemed to the teasing just shook his head and said, “Nah, I’ll come tomorrow for the usual. Today’s different.”

“I’ll say,” she agreed, raised her eyebrows and flicked her eyes towards Aziraphale who was finally starting to feel a bit of nervousness or embarrassment filter through the fog. It was hard to tell which was which.

“Yup,” Completely Clueless said, “so I just want my usual drink but get whatever he wants.” He gestured to Aziraphale with a tilt of his head before turning to look at him proper. “From what I’ve heard, the Brittney things are good and anything chocolate’s pretty popular.”

Behind Crowley’s head the young cashier rolled her eyes dramatically, mouthed ‘totally clueless’, winked at Aziraphale and then said, “chocolate’s only the most popular because of who you bring them to.” She faced Aziraphale again, smiled, and said “The Cheese Brittney is good, and our baker has recently got on a kick of sponge cakes so personally I’d recommend the Tres Leche Cake.”

She pointed to each in turn. Both looked scrumptious but which would taste better right now? The moistness of the Tres Leche might be what he needed to chase his dry and crumbly feelings away but at the same time a Cheese Brittney with it’s flakey and crunchy pillow might be just the soft landing place he needs.

As he debated internally, he tried to shove away any distressing thoughts of if it would be as bland as his books have been, while Crowley chatted with the barista.

“Find anything your heart settled on? Or your taste-buds?”

At the barista’s question Aziraphale startled, he’d lost track of time while dawdling and had probably spent far too long trying to decide. “Oh! I, well, you see they both seem so scrumptious that it’s just so difficult to choose.”

Crowley hummed for a second then tipped his head to the side and asked, “why don’t you just get them both then?”

“Oh, oh wouldn’t that be too much?” Too greedy, too gluttonous, too excessive. How often had he been taught that pleasure had to be earned? What had he done to earn either of them, let alone two pastries? He’s only been stuck in his head, shop not even open, for days and-

Crowley shrugged, completely unbothered, and said “eh, one of life’s pleasures, issn’t?”

Aziraphale stared at him, derailed from his negative self-talk suddenly and jarred by it.

Crowley must have mistook it as an objection to what he had said because then he defended it with a “Wut? Don’t give me that look. Life’s about living for the good stuff, yeah? So get ‘em both. Enjoy them.”

A moment to process that and then Aziraphale gave a quiet acquiesce, “alright.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale mustered a small smile in return for Crowley’s crooked grin, “yes.” Turning to the barista, who suspiciously looked like she was trying to smother a too wide grin, he said “I’ll take them both, please.”

She let the grin out in full force, “yes sir, right away sir!”

“Ah... thank you. Er, how much will they be?”

“Oh, AJ already covered it,” she winked at him but he was too busy turning to Crowley and protesting to see it.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and gave a sort of shrug with his shoulders, “eh, we’re friends, ‘s what friends do.”

There was a growing warmness in Aziraphale’s chest heating up, something fond and soft, starting to glow like a lighthouse in the sea fog. Friends. “Oh.”

Crowley flashed a small smile, a smile unlike the flashy smirks and cocky grins, before turning away towards the back of the shop. “C’mon, I know that book nook’s practically singing your name you big ol’ bookie.” And then he sauntered off, ears a bit pink at the vulnerability maybe, and Aziraphale was left, for just a moment, alone with that warm feeling. At being announced a friend where anyone could hear. Proudly, unashamed.

The warm feeling tentatively spread.

“I’ll bring y’all’s food and drinks in moment, go ahead and sit down.”

He startled a little, glanced at the barista to find her smiling and said, “thank you dear girl.”

She grinned a little then teased, “go on, he’s an impatient man if I’ve ever seen one though he doesn’t seem to mind waiting on you.”

Not quite sure what to make of that he made his way over to the table where Crowley seemed to have made lounging an art form. He was spilled all over the arm chair head turned to frown at the books on the shelves to his left.

Normally Aziraphale would be all over those books. Carefully going through the titles, trying to see what the people here liked. You could tell a lot about a person from the books they chose to keep. Though the rules tended to vary when it came to shops, you weren’t catering to just one person’s taste after all, but many. But even then, he found it an enjoyable little game to see if there were any hidden gems in restaurants like this. Sometimes places you didn’t expect to, would have a valuable or rare book without even realizing it. Even rarer still, they might have a book Aziraphale wanted to get his hands on.

But his stomach rolled a little when he glanced at the books, remembering the morning and his apathy for reading. He did not want to try again so soon. He didn’t want to pick up a book, expecting to enjoy it, or even hoping to enjoy it, and find it as bland and unenjoyable as before. No, it was simply best to wait. He didn’t want to be turned off of books for any longer than he probably already was going to be.

So he sat in the surprisingly comfy armchair, looked up at Crowley, and realized he had no idea what to say.

Thankfully, Crowley seemed quite reluctant to let an uncomfortable silence descend and instead jerked his head towards the bookcase and said, “would’ve thought you’d be all over these.”

Well. Not the conversation he wanted but, beggars and all that.

“Ah, perhaps later.” A thought hit him, “do you have a favorite?” even if he couldn’t get enjoyment from reading right now, perhaps he could still get some enjoyment from talking book tastes and just getting to learn more about Crowley. Crowley who abruptly closed up shop without warning in the middle of the work day and brought him here.

“Oh dear, was it really alright to close up shop? I hadn’t realized earlier...”

“Yeah. ‘S fine. Wanted to take you here.”

“But...”

“Eh, it’s raining. Had only one customer all day, so who cares if I take a long lunch break? Hell I could probably take the rest of the day off what with the downpour scheduled for all day. Was only cleaning when you came by.”

The warm feeling spread a bit. Heated up a bit more.

“Ah, I don’t think that’s quite true, dear.”

“What? No, you saw-”

A small smile bloomed on his lips, “I saw you dancing and-”

“Nrk- nuh, yuh- you said you wouldn’t!-”

Aziraphale chuckled lightly, feeling a bit lighter, a bit less bogged down, “and I shan’t. Alright, tell me about what you like to read.”

The barista came by, delivering a tall drink to Crowley, the pastries and a plastic cup of water to Aziraphale. She bid them a good meal and left, turning to reveal a pony tail that ended with pink tips to match her bangs.

Crowley took a long sip of his drink, leaned back, and announced, “don’t read.”

Aziraphale, about to take a bite of the Tres Leche Cake paused, fork hovering mid-air, and stared horrified at Crowley.

“Pardon, can you repeat that?”

“I don’t read.”

“Wh-How- How can you not read? No, that’s not true- I’ve seen you read the labels of the plants and soil bags!”

Crowley’s head tipped back with a loud guffaw.

“Crowley! Don’t laugh at me, you were the one trying to pass off that you’re illiterate.”

A grin spread like wildfire across Crowley’s face as he tilted it back towards Aziraphale. He shifted in the chair, flinging one leg over the arm of it in a truly improper way, and dangling the other off the side. Honestly it was like the man couldn’t sit proper in any chair. “Saying I don’t read doesn’t mean I’m illiterate Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, you sure took great pleasure in making me jump to that conclusion.”

“Naaah, honestly didn’t think you’d jump there. Just wanted to see what you’d do when I said I don’t read. And I don’t. Read, that is. I listen to audiobooks though.”

“Audiobooks?”

“Yeah. Letters can’t jump in front of each other in audiobooks.”

Ah. “Well, that’s still reading.”

“Is it? Could never tell. Everyone’s got a different answer.”

“Well, I consider it still reading. What’s your favorite book?”

Without hesitation, “the James Bond series.”

Aziraphale blinked, then a soft chuckle bloomed. “Yes, I can see that. Rather does fit you, doesn’t it? Flash, action packed, crafty, and full of gadgets.”

Crowley flashed him a grin, “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Oh, not at all.”

“Alright. Your turn. What’s your favorite book?”

“Oh... Well... Hm...”

A few moments of thinking apparently gave Crowley his answer.

“Too many to choose from?”

“Rather. It’s like trying to pick a favorite food.” Aziraphale left enough time for Crowley to interrupt before saying, “I admit, I was expecting you to jump right in and announce your favorite food just to contradict me.”

A hand wave and a sip of his drink, “ehh, not so much a food person, me.”

“No?”

“Nah. Do you have a favorite?”

“Oh dear, well, if we’re talking desserts then it’s... hm, well, no, if we’re talking pastries then it’s- but wait, no... drat. Is it still considered a favorite if you have five favorites?”

Crowley chuckled. “Same problem as with your books.”

Aziraphale hummed an agreement, finally biting into his nearly forgotten Tres Leche Cake. The cake was as moist as he had hoped, melting almost against his tongue, softly sweet.

He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until Crowley inquired about how it was.

“It’s good. Very good.”

And Crowley had smiled at that.

They talked quietly for a while after that. About light things, small things, interests and hobbies. Aziraphale found that Crowley liked to play online games with a friend called Anathema, that he enjoyed star gazing late at night (“gotta be out of the city though- too much light pollution here.”), and that as fond as he was of cats, that he was allergic to them.

“Been thinkin’ about getting a snake though.” He’d added as if that wasn’t one of the most unusual pet choices Aziraphale had ever heard of.

“A snake?”

“Yeah. They’re great animals really. Strong, elegant, some of them have the most brilliant color patterns too. I dunno, there’s just something about them that I really like.”

And after some thought on it, Aziraphale had smiled. “I think I might be able to see that. Perhaps if you do get one, you can introduce me.”

Crowley blinked at him, surprised as if he wasn’t expecting that and as if, maybe, he was a bit flattered and flustered by it. “Uh- okay.”

They talked about Aziraphale’s favorite plays, how he collects the playbills from them as his own sort of scrapbooking (“When I go back later and look at them, I can recall the play better, remember how it made me feel, reminisce... I’m sorry, that must sound terribly boring.” “No, not at all.”), and how he’s been searching to find another hobby to enjoy other than reading.

“Not that I’ll give it up at all! It’s just, I’d like another enjoyable activity to participate in, I think.”

“Makes sense to me. I’ve got plants and star gazing and video games.”

“It’s just, I haven’t been able to find one. I’ve tried pottery, which was far more messy than I anticipated, cooking, knitting, and bowling.”

“Bowling, really?”

At Crowley’s surprise he admitted, “a friend talked me into it. I wasn’t bad at it, it just wasn’t as... enjoyable as I had hoped. I’d have rather sat at home reading than gone bowling.”

“How long did you do it for?”

It was strange in a way, having someone be as curious about him and his hobbies as Crowley was. It was strange having what seemed to be a genuine friend. One who cared and was interested in him, one that had silly conversations over plays and quiet conversations in the back of a cafe over everything and anything.

“A season. She’d signed me up for the team and neglected to tell me until the first match. I didn’t want to leave them a person short so I finished the season with them while making sure they knew to find a replacement for the following season.”

Crowley tilted his head back with a thoughtful hum, the man was reclined the wrong way across the armchair. Head falling off of one arm, both his legs thrown over the other, cup held at a precarious angle.

“Maybe you could teach me some tricks for it.”

“For bowling?”

“Yeah.” Crowley scowled up at the ceiling, “don’t tell anyone but just about every damn time I go I land on my arse at least once.”

And now Aziraphale couldn’t help but picture it. And he was probably picturing it perfectly. Crowley was so tall and gangly and he didn’t seem to know how to use his hips or legs like everyone else so he could only see him going up to the line, trying to throw the ball while sweeping one leg behind the other like you always see the professionals or people in films do. And sweet Crowley with his swaying hips and long limbs, would probably overshoot and go sliding.

Aziraphale rose a hand to cover his grin. Yes, he could see how he’d go down.

“Oi. I can hear that.”

“Hear what dear boy? I haven’t said a word.”

“I can hear you grinning. Stoppit.”

Aziraphale nearly laughed. “You’re staring at the ceiling, and how would you ‘hear’ a grin anyhow?”

Crowley turned his head towards Aziraphale’s and brandished a bright grin. “Y’learn.”

The barista chose that moment to return with a refill for Aziraphale’s water and to ask if they needed anything else. After they declined she turned to go before stopping and turning back to Crowley.

“Are you still coming to pick up your order tomorrow?”

“It’s the 3rd Monday, ain’t it?”

“Just checking.”

Crowley pursed his lips, suspicious but unsure of why, “sure.”

After she had bounced off Aziraphale turned back to him and, because he was ever so lovely when flustered, teased “coming back tomorrow without me?”

Crowley blinked at him before spluttering, incoherent for a few moments before Aziraphale gave a small chuckle. “Relax, I’m just teasing.”

“Nuh-no, it’s- uh, guh...” He raked a hand through his hair, which was apparently a bad idea because he got it stuck in a knot halfway through and he started quietly cursing while trying to free his hand. Hand free and cheeks pink he crossed his arms with a huff and, not looking at Aziraphale, asked, “you doing anything tomorrow?”

Probably not. The fog was receding but he wasn’t sure he was up to customers just yet. “No, I don’t think so, why?”

“Uh, it’s, hm, easier to show you? Would you meet me here at 11 tomorrow?”

“Sure, but are we eating here for lunch or-”

“No. I mean, not that I’d say no to having lunch with you- just that- that’s not the purpose. Of tomorrow I mean. I- I get an order from here and take it to somewhere else.”

“Alright. And this somewhere else is...?”

Crowley had his head hanging off one arm of the chair and both legs slung over the other but just for this he twisted himself up, bracing his weight on one forearm planted in the seat to look straight at Aziraphale from behind those dark shades. And then he exaggerated the most dramatic wink Aziraphale had ever seen so that it was obvious even behind those dark sunglasses that he was winking. “It’s a secret.”

Aziraphale chuckled, “you wily thing. Alright, have it your way. We’ll meet here tomorrow at 11.”

Crowley smiled back. “Great.”

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insfiringyou · 5 years

Text

A change of plans (Suga x Jeong-sun)

Contains: Fluff. Angst. Sexual tension.

This is set post-military, a few days after Suga and Jeong-sun’s phone conversation in 2 Years Later: Part 2 where they arrange to meet for a coffee shop date. Jeong-sun is forced to cancel as she experiences an unexpected boiler leak in her apartment. Yoongi insists on helping and finds himself back in her apartment for the first time in three years. Mentioned in this fic is the marriage of another member to his headcanon girlfriend.

This is part of our headcanon universe (find out more about the ongoing plot and original characters etc. here) and is set three months after Yoongi finishes his military enlistment.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM / Jin / Suga / J-Hope / Jimin / V / Jungkook & Our full masterlist can be found here

Content below cut

With a sideways glance at her bedside clock, she knew she simply couldn’ t wait any longer to call it off. The empty bucket under her boiler she had just swapped out was filling up with water quickly. One-handed, she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled up his number on her phone with a knot curling in her stomach. He answered on the third ring and Jeong-sun began to speak immediately, hurriedly, as though hoping this would lessen the guilt and disappointment that she felt.

“Yoongi, I’m sorry. I can’t make it.”

The panic in her voice made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. “Are you okay?”

“ There’s a leak…there’s water everywhere.” She said, quickly. “I’m running out of buckets. My landlord was supposed to come but he’s not shown up. ” She sounded out of breath, frantic as she dashed between her bedroom and the bathroom sink, tipping litres of water into the drain before rushing back to the spraying pipe with an empty container. There was an angry hiss in the background amidst the interference and her short breathing, making him frown.

“ Where’s the leak?” Yoongi said, his voice coming steadily through the receiver. He clutched his phone to his ear, pausing in the doorway of the coffee shop as he tried to hear her over the background noise. Too agitated to be at home, he had left his apartment early and had spent the last three-quarters of an hour smoking one cigarette slowly after the other. This did nothing to settle his nerves. He stubbed out the lit end against the mortar and brick edifice.

“ My boiler…it’s pissing water everywhere.” The tone of her voice was almost comical, but Yoongi did not laugh. Instead, he responded with a slightly flat inflexion that still managed to sound soft and soothing. “ Can you turn off the water supply?” “ How do I do that?” Came her voice at once. “There’s a handle inside the unit,” he explained. “…You have to turn it clockwise.”

There was quiet on the other end as Jeong-sun tried to locate the part that Yoongi had described. He waited patiently as the sound of her breathing disappeared and he realised she must have put her phone down to remove the metal panel that covered the cavity. He turned his head away from the speaker and coughed once, his chest feeling tight, but less so than it had been the past week. The medicine Jeong-sun had suggested had greatly improved the quality of his sleep in the last few nights, his only main complaint being the consistent burning sensation in his throat.

Her voice returned, a little more calmly. “Okay… I think I’ve got it. But it’s still leaking…” “There’s only so much water that can drain…you need to relieve the pressure valve too.” She didn’t question how he knew so much about this sort of thing, instead trying hard to listen to his instruction. Uncertainly, she continued. “There’s a red lever next to it.”

“Flip it up.”

“Alright….It’s slowing down a bit.” She sighed heavily. “Do you smell any gas?” Yoongi asked. “Should I?” The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “No.” “Good.” Her relief was obvious. “I should have called you sooner.”

The words made his chest flutter pleasantly, inexplicably. Always independent and strong-minded, he knew Jeong-sun was perfectly capable of handling her own affairs and an expert in many things he was not. Yet he had the distinct impression that, despite their years apart, the fact remained that she was simply clueless when it came to the peculiarities of her run-down, old apartment. Though he would never mention it, he had spent countless evenings during his service trying to heat the dorm room with the help of an engineering major named Minhyuk. The boiler there had been equally old and battered, its loud clanks and bangs a regular and discordant sound in the dead silence of 3am. For reasons he’d never really explored, it had become a strange source of comfort in his otherwise bland and personality-free surroundings.

“Do you want me to come round?” Yoongi asked.

Jeong sun hesitated. The thought of him in her apartment seemed like a big step from the neutrality of a coffee shop. And, had she been honest, would have preferred it under different circumstances; not one where her flat looked like a scene from a low-rent Titanic. “What about the coffee?”

Yoongi paused too, catching the reserve in her voice and thought he could understand. However, he knew he could be of some help, and the thought of her without heat in the midst of winter weighed on his mind. “It can wait…your apartment will get freezing this time of year.”

She knew he was right. Her landlord, with more properties than he could handle, was not likely to be in a rush to repair the damage. And, given her heavily depleted paycheck, had already ruled out another emergency call out. “Do you mind?” She asked tentatively, realising she needed his help. “No. I’ll be there soon.”

Thanking him, she hung up and got from her knees and collected a stack of fluffy towels from the bathroom. On the other end of the line Yoongi exhaled, not sure how to feel as he slipped his phone into his back pocket. He felt sorry for her troubles, but there was an odd sense of relief too as his heart thumped steadily in his chest. In the back of his mind he couldn’t help but think that, were she had refused his help and suggested they rearranged for another day, the pressure to meet again would have been uncomfortable. With another small cough, he turned to the street signs around him and followed them dutifully into West Eunpyeon-gu.

* “Has it stopped?” Jeong-sun appeared from behind the door, clutching a large knitted cardigan around herself. He thought that she must have just put this on. His eyes lingered a fraction on the visible dark patches on the neckline of her blue shirt and the damp ends of her hair which had started to frizz. “ It’s still dripping. There’s a huge wet patch on the carpet.” She said, holding up a sodden towel. “I was trying to soak it with this. But I might not get my deposit back.”

He closed the door gently behind himself. He was surprised by how familiar it still seemed; from the pile of clothing on the threadbare sofa to the odd assortment of coloured mugs on her kitchen counter. She had evidently tried to update the decor by adding a feature wall and a few extra cushions that only seemed to add to the overall impression of chaos. Jeong-sun folded her arms, clutching herself tightly as she took him in properly. The way he looked made her ache. Unlike herself, he was beautifully put together in a thick woollen sweater and stone-washed denim jeans that hugged his thighs.

“How’s your patient?” He asked, trying to ease the thick air between them.

“Well , her arm is still broken. And she’s complaining that the cast is itchy.” She sighed. “I’ve given her a barbeque skewer. ” There was a lingering pause as they began to move automatically towards her bedroom, but neither broke it as she followed a few paces behind and hesitated in the doorway. There were more towels laid across the cream carpet, a variety of different buckets, jugs and saucepans scattered across the length of the room. Yoongi stepped carefully to the exposed boiler unit, moving a metal dish that had once been part of a rice-cooker to his right, and sank to his knees.

“I’m sorry about this…” Jeong-sun said after a few moments of silence, her voice small as he artfully rolled his long sleeves to his elbows.

Yoongi thought she sounded sad as she said this, her tone heavy with apology. “Don’t worry about it.” He reassured, his voice coming out deep, if a little hoarse. She returned his tentative smile, noticing the way his eyes flickered quickly away from her own.

“I’ll make some coffee.”

Grateful for something to do, she placed a cap of fresh grounds into the paper filter and flicked the switch. The machine hummed loudly as hot black liquid began to trickle into the glass jar, the steam fogging her thick-rimmed glasses. She wiped the lenses on her sleeve and balanced the frames back on her nose with a glance back to the bedroom door. Only the foot of her bed and the yellow glow of the lamp were visible, the rest bathed in shadow. The darkness shifted slightly as Yoongi brought his clenched fist to his lips and coughed. Carefully she poured the coffee into two mugs, adding two sugars and a little milk to her own. He looked up as she approached, settling the cup next to him on the carpet. He thanked her quietly but did not touch it, focused instead on the maze of plumbing in front of him.

Jeong-sun hovered, clutching her own mug with both hands. It felt gratifyingly warm between her numb fingers.“How are the others?”

“They’re not all out yet.” Yoongi replied, relieved that he didn’t need to explain further. “Jungkook’s working on a solo album and Jin’s married now.” “ Min-Seo?” She asked, eyebrows slightly raised. “Before he enlisted.” He confirmed. Now she thought about it, she began to recall the articles regarding the member, Yoongi’s elder by a few months, prior to the announcement of his military service. Vaguely she had known, yet instinctively she had shyed away from details, and so the news was both surprising and pleasant to hear.

“Are they happy?” Yoongi nodded, his tongue sliding absent-mindedly over the cracked skin of his bottom lip, not meeting her eyes. “They seem it.”

“That’s good. I always liked her.” She remembered Min-Seo well. Petite, dark haired and good-natured, the now married woman had always been gracious and sweet to her. Idly she wondered whether Min-Seo had ever mentioned her to her husband, having met her on several occasions, all of which had involved Yoongi in some way or another. Jeong-sun couldn’t help but recall that she had been one of the few people who had truly seen them as a couple. Trying not to think about the details, she was glad when he pressed on.

“And what about you?” He asked, seeming to know her train of thought on her furrowed brow. “I don’t get out much.” She confessed. “But Yu-Jin’s thinking of moving back to Seoul.” Yoongi cocked his head.“ Does she not like Beijing?” “ I think she just misses home.”

“I see.” He said, softly, and she knew that Yoongi would understand the feeling better than anyone. She took a large gulp from her mug, the bitter taste of the burnt grounds momentary as the sugar dissipated on her palate. Quietly she watched him work, and though she could not see his face, she could tell that he was frowning by the way his long fingers hesitated over the new, shiny copper pipe.

“Did someone try to repair it?” “ The boiler?” Yoongi grunted in reply. “This fitting is really loose…I don’t think it’s the right size.” “I called an emergency plumber a few days ago from the phone book…” She admitted with a frustrated, inwards groan. The repairman had been overly-quick to assure her that the problem was fixed before departing with the better part of her bank account. Now, she felt a little foolish. “That’s 300,00 won down the drain.” “I’ll sort it.” He said, simply, getting up from his knees as he held the small hollow piece in his palm. “I’ll need to get some new parts though. Is there a hardware store near here?”

Jeong-sun blinked, trying hard to remember the name of the worn-down storefront without success. “I think there’s one round the corner.” “Alright. I won’t be long.” He stood, collecting the thick jacket he had spread across the edge of her bed and shrugging it on.

She side-stepped a little to let him pass, unsure how to vocalise her gratitude. Softly, she said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked.” He nodded in response, his lips not quite turned up in a smile but nevertheless reassuring. Jeong-sun hadn’t realised how tense she had been until he was on the other side of the door, the sound of his footsteps ebbing away. The weight lifted almost immediately from her shoulders, her breathing much easier in his absence.

Somewhere in the last few years her heartache had dulled, but the fact that she cared deeply for him had never seemed to leave her. Their phone call earlier that week had brought back several memories, and her heart had thumped madly as she recalled the intensity with which she had fallen for him. She no longer remembered the plot of the play they had once seen; she only knew how giddy she had felt as their lips crashed together against a pillar in the theatre, and afterwards how sad she had been to be pulled away from him without a proper goodbye. It had surprisingly hurt, after so long, to remember why she had felt his proposal a few months after that accidental meeting had felt so wrong.

Eventually, Jeong-sun had come to realise that it wasn’t possible for them to be friends after all they had been through. They had been lovers from the very beginning. The coffee shop, she thought, was another chance. A fresh start. Were things not to work out, she would at least know, and be able to carry on without wondering what might have been. But for now, she didn’t know quite what she wanted.

Her gaze rested momentarily on the navy blue garment folded on the arm of the sofa before turning her attention to the chaos that was her apartment. She drained her coffee mug and rinsed it under the freezing cold tap. The soles of her polka-dot socks were soaking as she trod back and forth from the boiler to the sink, stacking the pots and pans haphazardly. With a little sigh, she reached for the hairdryer on her nightstand and slowly but methodically began to dry the waterlogged carpet, moving his still full cup a little to the side.

“I thought you’d made off with my….thingamajig.” Jeong-sun remarked, over an hour later, as she opened the door to let him in. Yoongi had knocked softly and waited patiently for her answer.

“I wouldn’t get much for it on the black market.” He replied, setting down a heavy plastic carrier bag on the floor next to the boiler with a distinct metallic clatter.

She thought he sounded a little raspy having come in from the cold, his pale cheeks reddened by the cool winter air. “I’m sure you could drive a hard bargain.” He smiled briefly and began to unpack the contents of the bag, extricating a little white box and fiddling for a moment with the casing. She watched him, her eyes lingering on his long fingers as he delicately inserted four triple-A’s into the back slot. “Did you get lost?”

“The hardware shop wasn’t well stocked. ” Yoongi said, in way of explanation, setting the blinking object down next to him.“But I managed to find everything in the end.”

Not knowing what else to say, a long silence proceeded as he quietly began to work. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but Jeong-sun couldn’t help but feel a little spare as she hovered behind him. It wasn’t an easy fix for sure. “I’m sorry.” She said, helplessly. “I’m not much use here.”

From the corner of his eye he saw her body shift, and he turned a little to see her sink back slowly against her headboard with a thick paper-back in one hand. She hugged herself, drawing the over-large cardigan closer to her. Yoongi couldn’t see her expression well in the glare of her spectacles which caught the warm glow of the lamp.

“What are you reading?” He asked, curious. He squinted, having left his own glasses on his desk and could vaguely make out a blurred figure from the black and white cover. “Atonement. It’s about a little girl who tells a lie and destroys her sister’s life.” He vaguely knew the title, suspecting like most of her books that it had been one that had been translated from English into Korean. “Are you enjoying it?” “I preferred the film.” “I haven’t seen it.” Yoongi replied honestly, and they naturally grew quiet once more with only the sound of the pages turning and a few intermittent clinks and clangs. Every so often she would look up over the pages of her book as he groaned and muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his short hair for a moment before continuing with a fresh sense of determination. Jeong-sun couldn’t help but feel warm, and oddly tingly at the sight. Her most recent ex hadn’t many talents outside of his job, and she found herself strangely compelled by Min Yoongi’s cool expertise. Soon she rolled onto her side, lost herself in the chapter, and left him to work.

“I think I’ve done it.” He said finally, glancing at his Rolex. It’d taken the better part two hours, and the carbon monoxide alarm he had placed next to the unit had not made a single protest in that time. The boiler rattled into life as though it were an old man struggling to catch his breath, the loud wheezing of the copper piping filling the room. “It’s not a long term fix but it should work for now.”

Yoongi got up from his knees a little stiffly to reach for the outer casing before putting it gently back into place. His fingers left black smudges on the white aluminium, and he wiped them roughly on his jeans before picking up a cloth to clean up the surface.

“I think you missed your calling in life.” Jeong-sun said, impressed, turning the book face down on her duvet as she admired his handiwork. “Atleast I’ve always got something to fall back on.” A small, slightly embarrassed smile tugged his lips, making her heart stutter unexpectedly.

“Is the café still open?” She asked quickly, the hopeful tone of her question obvious. Yoongi shook his head regretfully. “It closed 30 minutes ago. I’m sorry it took so long.”

There was an awkward sort of pause, both unsure what the next step was. With a small oh, she pressed on. She looked a little guiltily at the black grease marks on his thighs. “We’re not really dressed for it anyway. I hope your jeans weren’t expensive.” “They were on sale…” He said easily. It was probably true, Jeong-sun thought.

Realising that their time together was drawing to a close, she shifted uncomfortably as he began to collect together the contents of the plastic bag on the floor. The sense of panic that overtook her was unexpected, and she felt the words tumble out of her mouth before she had time to think about what she was going to say.

“I was going to get changed before we went out….” Jeong-sun rambled, not knowing why she was telling him this. Yoongi paused, listening patiently, his expression unreadable as he watched her speak. His gaze made her suddenly nervous. “I bought a new dress.”

She cringed slightly at the admission, and at the pause which followed. A small frown crossed Yoongi’s brow at the change in her voice, his tongue sliding habitually over his chapped lips before he spoke. “Can I see?”

For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse as she met his eyes with ones that were wide and bright. His stomach lurched unpleasantly as he wondered whether he had overstepped a line. He was relieved however, when she nodded with a tiny, half-smile and left the room.

The dress had been an afterthought, a spontaneous purchase the day following their phone conversation. On her way home from work, her hands laden with shopping bags full of her weekly groceries, she had detoured into a little boutique just off the high street. The sales assistant had asked her if she was looking for anything in particular, and Jeong-sun had shook her head truthfully as she searched through the racks. That afternoon at the pharmacy had been painfully slow, leaving her with too much time to think. Whilst re-ordering the children’s medicine that she had dropped two days before, her mind had began to wander so much that she hadn’t realised she had ordered 2000 cases of the stuff. A very confused salesperson from the supplier chain had called to confirm the order, to which Jeong-sun had been mortified to admit had been a mistake.

She found the dress where she had left it on the arm of the sofa, immaculately ironed, and carefully removed the sales tags. Knowing that Yoongi wouldn’t interrupt her, she began to undress down to her simple black bra and underwear and stepped into the material, sliding it over her wide hips. She spent a long time adjusting the straps of bra underneath the shoulders, teasing the knots at the ends of her hair and sweeping it into a loose bun at the back of her head.

When she peered around the doorway, she found him deftly positioning the monoxide alarm just below the unit, a cloth in his hands as he attempted to remove the limescale on the pipework beneath. He didn’t look up, and she stepped a little further into the room by the edge of her bed, her heart racing a little at the chilly breeze on her bare legs.

“Yoongi..” “Mmm?” He turned his head the delicate, appealing sound of his name, his chest contracting tightly as he admired her with parted lips. The navy blue tea-dress would have been modest on a slimmer figure, but Jeong-sun’s curves filled the garment beautifully. Her waist was perhaps a little thicker than it once had been, and her thighs were fleshier too, exaggerating her already hourglass figure. The V-neck drew particular attention to the space between her breasts, a few freckles dotted in the crevice of her cleavage. The shape of her was incredibly attractive, womanly, and Yoongi couldn’t help but think that he had never seen her look more beautiful. Heart thumping madly, he struggled to find the right words, feeling extremely tongue-tied. Jeong-sun felt a hot blush colour her face too as she met the unmistakable look in his dark eyes. She had seen it there many times before and the familiarity of it brought a strong throbbing pulse between her thighs. It was desire, and every inch of her body burned as he looked at her hungrily.

Yoongi shifted from his knees to stand shakily, but a soft tinkle of ceramic tore their eyes away from each other. The ice-cold, black liquid was spreading over the cream carpet, and they both stared a little perplexed until they realised that it had been the coffee that Jeong-sun had prepared several hours before. Yoongi had forgotten all about it.

“Do you know how long it took me to dry that?” She groaned, exasperatedly gesturing to her ruined carpet. She laughed despite this, her chest aching with the effort it took to bring her giggles under control. Yoongi smiled nervously, his own blush still colouring his pale cheeks as he sank back to his knees and upturned the mug, though the damage had already been done. “That would explain the hairdryer.”

The sound of her laughter warmed him, and she hiccupped once as she tried to bring it under control. She leaned over to the wash basket by the bathroom and extricated a damp towel. Yoongi couldn’t help but notice the visible band of her bra between her cleavage as she got to her knees to soak the coffee from her already done-for carpet, looking away quickly.

“Careful.” He warned, moving the hem of her dress delicately away from the patch of coffee.

“Thank you.” Jeong-sun breathed, tucking the fabric between her thighs as she pressed the towel repeatedly to the floor. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Did you want another?” She gestured to the untouched coffee mug, her cheeks glowing warmly as she met his eyes. The thought was undeniably tempting. Desperately he wanted to stay, yet he was far too aware that doing so would be a mistake. Their exchange had been dangerously close to escalating already, and he was, in reflection, glad that the tension had been diffused. This time he wanted it to be different. He wanted to get to know her, to fall for her all over again. Whether she wanted the same, he wasn’t sure, and did not ask.

“I’d better not.” He replied, voice slow and steady. Jeong-sun got to her feet, a little deflated by his answer. She knew it was probably best. When she continued, she sounded a lot more like her usual self as she reached for the copy of Atonement laying spread-eagled on her bed.

“Yeah. I’d like to finish this chapter anyway. I’ll pay you… for the parts.”

It took Yoongi a fraction to understand what she had meant.

“It’s okay.” He said, after a moment, his chest fluttering slightly as she removed her glasses and rubbed the indent they had left on the bridge of her nose. “But the coffee is on you next time.”

Jeong-sun’s lips turned up in a sweet, but challenging sort of smile. “….Deal.” He collected his jacket, feeling so elated that he had to turn slightly away as he fastened the collar to disguise a shy, gummy grin. Warmer than he had ever felt in his life, coat or no coat, he walked slowly to the door with her footsteps clearly audible behind him. She hesitated, as though wanting to say something, and he tried hard not to dissuade her. However, she seemed to have lost the thought as he saw it growing smaller in her eyes. She had put the cardigan back on; evidently, the dress had been out of season when she had purchased it.

“You look really nice.” He purred, as an afterthought, the sound of it resonating in Jeong-sun’s ears and making her skin prickle pleasantly. “I’ll save it for another time. Goodnight Yoongi.”

“Goodnight.”

She closed the door gently behind him, sinking back against the door with her head between her hands. Her face felt incredibly hot, and she realised, wet, as a tear slipped down her cheek.

Yoongi, the only man she had truly loved, was really back.

***

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