#Thad: -surprise! being serious about his answer-

[dementedspeedster]

be honest... why am i so sexy and cool

Accepting || send me "be honest..." with a question your muse has been dying to ask mine and they'll answer truthfully. @supermantm

Thad lets out a surprised laugh as he crosses his arms over his chest. Well, goddamn. Kon had him there, and honestly? It was amusing just this once.

Just this once.

"Alright, fiiine, you've got me. This is just my opinion. Don't go taking it out of proportion or anything. But I guess, starting with the easy question, you're cool because you don't seem to give as much as a damn. I'm not saying you don't care about things, but you take things that I couldn't in better stride. You're affable and personable and I personally find those traits, well, cool."

Thad tilts his head to the side as his eyes, "As for the whole sexy thing...Well, there's your appearance for one. You're tall, built, and dark hair is a plus for me personally. Also the confidence is sexy. Annoying as hell when we talk, Kon." Thad punctuates in a tone that makes his frustration with the other clone loud and clear. "But in general as a personality trait? Attractive too unfortunately."

Quickly enough he waves his hand back and forth as if he were trying to erase this conversation from existence, "But like I said. Don't go taking it out of proportion or any meaning out of this. I still think you're the biggest annoyance I've ever met."

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 45)

“Sooo Hal, what exactly do I do here?” N asked nervously, twiddling his thumbs as they walked through the halls.

“I’ll be giving you a shortrange frequency that you’ll monitor, our office takes reports from concerned citizens, and Khan, Dale and I take the ones most suited for our respective teams.”

“Crime here is usually pretty tame, petty theft, b and e’s, vandalism. Occasionally we’ll get more serious calls, domestic violence, occasional homicide, though that’s gotten rare thankfully, or an odd “crime of passion”. Hal continued, N listening intently, he understood most of that, but “crime of passion” seemed to escape him.

“Crime of passion?”

“Couples getting too frisky and damaging one or both of them. Usually young ones who dunno what their doing. Most of the time they just dunno how to disconnect and panic, not too big a deal.”

Except N was still lost, he knew what all those words meant separately, but together they made little sense in his processors. He blinked. He wanted to ask what he meant by “disconnect” but at the same time it felt like a private question, not one he should be asking to his boss on his first day of work. Maybe he’d ask Uzi, or Thad, whichever was less embarrassing.

“How’s your daughter doing by the way? Khan mentioned she was having mobility problems when she was first transferred.” Hal asked turning yet another corner to go down yet another hallway, it always surprised him how large the bunker actually was, even if over half the rooms seemed to be empty. A pang of guilt entered his core, how many of these empty rooms were his fault? Or V’s?

“She’s fine now, she was just a little stiff, now she’s clinging to Uzi like a little monkey.” N gave a soft laugh thinking about his family at home, he always missed the both of them even if he wasn’t gone for very long, he supposed that just came with having a job though.

“Ah, yeah, sometimes that happens… when my son was printed into his toddler body we had to take him to the medical wing and they had to do surgery on his neck for him to start moving.”

“I didn’t know you had a son, I’m sorry, I’m sure that scared you both.”

Hal seemed to slow down for a moment, like he just caught himself doing something he shouldn’t before sighing.

“I did have a son. He’s… agh, nevermind that, we’re here.”

He banged his fist on the steel door, sending the grating noise through the hall, they waited for a few moments, only for nothing to reply back.

“She probably has her damn hearing aid turned off again.” Hal grumbled, before knocking as hard as he could, enough to send a vibration through the floor that N could feel through his feet.

“I heard you the first time! Go away!” A croaky, static filled voice called back, sounding irate and just a little bit scared. Hal rolled his eyes.

“It’s Hal, Mrs. Hopkins, you called us in to check out a break in.” Hal put on a very practiced customer service smile, N felt a minuscule shiver go up his spine, being reminded slightly of J, before it dissipated, here, it actually made sense for someone to have that kind of forced smile, and it wasn’t being used exclusively to make him uncomfortable.

The door opened quickly, the drone responsible being so old her casing had started to yellow, her eyelights were white, behind a thick pair of glasses. And she leaned on a cane, she shook with just the effort it took to stand and she adjusted her glasses as she looked at them.

“Good morning Mrs. Hopkins, what seems to be the problem today?” The way Hal asked the question alluded to his multitude of visits, she didn’t immediately answer, instead looking up at N squinting.

“You’re a tall one. Are you new?” She asked, prodding him in the stomach with her cane, he grunted, still trying to keep his polite smile even as he glanced over at Hal for assistance.

“She can’t see very well” He whispered up into N’s audio receptors, covering his mouth with his hand. “Probably a good thing, don’t give yourself away.”

N nodded and smiled again, extending his hand to shake the old woman’s hand, having to crouch down slightly to do so as she was hunched over her cane. She took it, her casing was freezing and felt like sandpaper, N made a internal note to not live this long.

“Hello Mrs. Hopkins, I’m N, it’s nice to meet you ma’am.” He said, and the ancient drone looked at him again, before her face grew into a kindly smile.

“How polite! And such a handsome young man. I hope Hal here doesn’t ruin you.”

The man in question’s eye twitched, before the moment was gone and he cleared his throat, clearly wanting to be done with this as soon as possible.

“You called us in for a break in?”

“Hmm? Oh yes! I was woken up last night by some footsteps. Above me! Someone was clearly trying to steal my fortune!”

N looked around her apartment, the couch was antique, plush and covered in so many blankets and throw pillows that it was hard to see the color of the actual seating underneath, the coffee table was decorated with a lattice of lace, making using it as an actual coffee table near impossible. The same could be said for most the the apartment, nothing here screamed “valuable”.

“Right, okay.” Hal replied, tense but still playing nice, N decided to help him out, he may have been tired of dealing with this lady, but N wanted to make a good impression, to both his superior and this lady.

“Where did you hear the footsteps Mrs. Hopkins? I could go and check for any signs of forced entry.”

“In my bedroom of course, how else would I hear it?” She answered, and N nodded, turning to Hal who seemed to be asking what he was doing, N gave him a smile before leaning over to whisper at him.

“Even if nothing happened, she believes something did, let me just check out her bedroom and the vents, then we can tell her that nothing was there.”

Hal nodded, seemingly agreeing with this plan, he sighed, before adjusting his posture.

“Well we take every report seriously, may we investigate?”

“Be my guest, and if you find the little hoodlum, tell them to get lost!”

Both officers made their way to the bedroom, which at first glance, had nothing amiss. Aside from the abundance of rather creepy porcelain dolls, all staring at them from various angles, N felt unease, and also the need to voice it.

“Whyyyyyy….” He whispered under his breath, just loud enough for Hal to hear it and he snorted in response, giving him an amused smile.

“I’d be paranoid too with all these eyes on me while I slept.” Hal whispered back, sighing and scanning the room, running his hand over one of the only clear spaces on the large wardrobe that held the vast majority of the dolls.

“Seems clear to me, any difference on your end son?”

N scanned the room in both infrared and thermal, but neither showed anything out of the ordinary, but even still his eyes locked to large vent in the corner of the ceiling, he didn’t know why something felt off with it, but it was giving him some weird vibes.

“Lemme check the ventilation, she did say she heard it above her.”

Hal nodded, looked into the doorway to ensure Mrs. Hopkins hadn’t entered the room and have a thumbs up to N, who let loose his wings and zipped up the shaft after carefully removing the grate in his way.

He had always hated climbing through the vents, not only was it dusty and he’d have to spend an hour cleaning out his olfactory and audio receptors later, but it was a tight squeeze, even without his wings, his shoulders scraped the sides of the ventilation shaft uncomfortably.

It was almost impossible for a normal drone to get up in here unless they had a ladder or also had the ability to fly, so he doubted he’d find anything accept a colony of robo-roaches.

When he got further in however, that feeling of unease watched over him again, like something or someone was aware of his presence and he was disturbing them, but rationality still won out, the chances of somebody being in these vents were astronomically low.

Then, the vent opened up a little, allowing him to crouch instead of crawl, to his left was a slowly rotating fan, his front the vents continued forward, but to his right, there was indeed something out of the ordinary. Caught on one of the seams of the welded metal was a ripped piece of red cloth, stained with multiple layers of oil, the freshest layer though, smelled of iron, and seemed to create a glaze of crimson on top of the multiple layers of dried oil. Blood.

He plucked it from its resting place, dread mixing in with confusion, the oil made some sense, maybe whoever had been here had been injured and using this scrap as a bandage, but the blood made less sense. The only time he’d seen blood recently was when that weird fleshy thing under Doll’s bed bled when he poked it, well, and Uzi’s… head… injury.

He looked back down at the red strip, before he remembered what Doll usually wore, that red cheerleading outfit.

His dread grew, becoming a cold weight around his core, Doll was here? In the bunker? Sneaking around the vents doing who knows what and clearly some type of organic based on this blood. What did he do? V was here, she wouldn’t be expecting Doll if she just dropped down from the ceiling one night and tried to off her. And what about Uzi? She was home alone most of the day, taking care of Tera. Oh Robo-God, Tera, she’d be completely defenseless if the Russian decided to come after her as well.

You must go home, your family is in danger!

He wanted to, his worry sinking it's claws deep into him, but he couldn't just leave, Hal was still waiting for him, and he was on the job.

Who cares? Their safety is more important!

The voice was loud and demanding, far more then it had ever been before, it caused ringing in his ears, but still he had to control himself.

Then he got an idea.

He simply called his girlfriend, he was a phone. And even though his hands were shaking and the urge to go home was strong, the voice ceased, seemingly content with his choice.

“N? Why are you calling me through my system? Are you okay?” At the sound of her voice his worry lessened and his core soared, she was okay, Doll hadn't already come for them.

“I-I found a scrap of cloth in the vents. It's Doll's. S-she's somewhere in the vents, please warn V.”

There was silence on the other end, enough of it that he could hear his daughters light giggling through the other side.

“I fucking hate it here!”

Next ->

[quillomens]

Fic: The Cottage, the Godson

Slightly bittersweet fluff from my sinfully fluffy Cottage series that gets scribbled in notebooks when I have four free minutes or in ten minute bursts between commission chapters.  Read it here on Ao3

Harriet Downing stood outside the tiny bookshop in Alfistron Village with an air of uncertainty. The windows were filled with books, mostly lovingly used paperbacks, and beautiful potted plants were arranged artfully outside the door.  The only thing that made it stand out among the shops of the picturesque square was the carefully handwritten sign in the window that read “Large Snake in Residence.” Which was…a bit ominous.

“You’re sure this is it?” she asked, turning to look fondly at her son.  Warlock had shot up recently, and he seemed to be made of an unnecessary number of elbows and knees, but the sight of him made her heart ache in a gentle echo of the first time she’d ever seen him, thirteen years and a few precious months before.  

Warlock looked up. “Yeah.  They said it’d be the one with the snake and the wings.”  He pointed up at the wooden sign.  The shop didn’t appear to have a name, just as it somehow hadn’t been listed on the village website.  He grinned, a flash of boyish joy that was far too rare these days. “This is the place!”   He rushed forward with unaccustomed enthusiasm and all but kicked open the door, calling out as he did the names of two people he loved as a bell jangled merrily over his head.

It hurt, though it shouldn’t.  More people to love Warlock was good, she was blessed their old gardener and nanny had kept in touch after their retirement.  But, oh, where were the rolling eyes and the hunched shoulders and suspicious looks he turned on her all day?

Harriet sighed and straightened up.  Warlock was a teenager going through a difficult time, and she was the primary caregiver (and therefore primary target) in his life.  He’d work through it!

She hoped.

She stepped into the little shop just in time to see Warlock throw his arms around the chest of a tall, thin redhead who could only be Nanny Ashtoreth – if Nanny had been more given to tailored slacks and expensive looking silk blouses rather than tailored suits.  And most unfamiliar – Harriet had often chattered with Ashtoreth, but she’d never seen the wide, bright, smile that lit up the sharp features, disarmingly charming. She looked so much more happy than the Ashtoreth Harriet knew.

But the sunglasses were there, and the red hair curled into the familiar 1940s design.  

“Much too tall,” she was saying to Warlock in her careful burr.  “You’ve nearly caught up to Francis.”

“Is he here?” Warlock asked eagerly.  “I knew you two had run away together  Nobody would listen!  Said Francis was out of your league!”

Harriet hid a laugh behind her hand.  She could still remember his serious face two years earlier, his claim that the homely gardener and the fierce nanny were “really in love no matter what Nanny says” and had run off to elope.  No one had taken him seriously until the letters started coming.  He didn’t share them with anyone, save the first few with Harriet so she wouldn’t worry (he could be a sweet boy), but it had been clear from the beginning that, though writing separately, each wrote so freely of the other that they must be close.

Ashtoreth looked almost – was that – shy?!  Harriet had never imagined such a thing!  She’d expected a sharp quip about just how far out of her league Francis was.  Instead she looked like, were she any other woman, she would have been blushing.  “He went to get some things for tea, my dear. He’ll be back in a moment.”  She lifted her head then and her smile turned polite instead of startling as she said, “Good afternoon, Ms. Dowling.  Did your trip go well?”

“Yes, no problems.” Harriet smiled back.  They’d gotten on well enough, during Ashtoreth’s years working for the Dowlings.  She came across as severe, but she had always been scrupulously fair (if rather odd) in her treatment of Warlock, and there had been a few times when Harriet had seen under the serious exterior to a sharp and witty sense of humor underneath.  “It’s…it’s terribly kind of you to invite us.”  

That was an understatement, all things considered.  They had agreed, at Warlock���s urging, to let him stay with them in their cottage near the ocean for a full week while Harriet dealt with paperwork and lawyers and her own aching heart.  

Ashtoreth looked a bit uncomfortable at that, and she opened and closed her mouth as if not knowing quite what to say, but the jingle of the bell saved her from answering.  A man with familiar white-blond hair came bustling through the door with a basket in his hands.  “Oh dear,” he said in an odd voice before it fell into the more familiar broad accent, “I did hope I’d beat you back.”

Harriet blinked. She rubbed an eye.  She looked again.  

“Brother Francis?” she asked, confused, even as Warlock said, “You weren’t kidding he looks different!” to Ashtoreth.  

Francis smiled at her beatifically.  Gone were the yellowed teeth and the fluffy sideburns and the strange smock.  Instead he wore a comfortable cabled jumper in pale blue and tailored trousers.  Only the scuffed shoes and mess of short curls were the same.  

“Of course, dear,” Ashtoreth said blithely.  “If we were to be seen in public together, there had to be certain improvements.”  

Francis shot her a mildly reproachful look but she just smiled that sharp smile at him as he set his basket on the table in the open room.  “Good afternoon, Ms. Dowling!  And our young lad!”

Warlock walked forward, hand out for a polite shake, only to squawk as the plump man pulled him into a hug that looked like a solid 15 on a 1-10 hug scale.  Harriet didn’t remember him being particularly physically affectionate.  “Aye, it’s good to see you, young Warlock!  You’ve been rememberin’ all I taught ya?”

“Most of it,” Warlock said, and Harriet didn’t miss the way he briefly went still, just as he did in her arms, before pulling away to maintain appearances.  “And Nanny too.”  

“Give me two shakes of a lamb’s tail to unpack,” Francis said cheerfully, “and we’ll have a lovely tea. Do you have any luggage?”

Warlock rebooted for a moment before squawking and rushing outside to get the bags he’d left on the cobblestones out front.  Francis chuckled and moved – somehow still bustling – through a door and into a small kitchenette.  The shop didn’t seem large enough for a kitchenette from the outside, but she was no architect.  

It felt so warm here.  So cozy.

Loved, she thought, and felt tears press at her eyes. She wanted a home that felt this way. She’d never had it.  And here Ashtoreth and Francis had managed it in their little bookshop.  Their home must be downright perfect.

She met Ashtoreth’s glasses and said, softly, “Thank you,” while Warlock couldn’t hear.  “It’s been so difficult-”

“Life often is,” Ashtoreth said sharply.  The door jangled but seemed to be stuck – Harriet could hear Warlock cursing on the other side.  “But you will work through it and rise above.”  She said the words as if they were fact, written somewhere in gold letters on marble. In that moment Harriet, who had been prey to tears and uncertainty for so long over her decision to break her son’s family in half, believed her.  She wiped a tear away with half a smile.  

Ashtoreth crossed to the door but paused with her hand on the shaking handle.  “You’re very brave,” she said, and something soft crossed her face. “It’s difficult to leave the past behind and start over.”  

She opened the door and let Warlock in, easily taking the smaller of his bags and explaining how they’d get it down the lane to their cottage.  Francis set the table with a beautiful antique china set and tea from a large, piping hot thermos.  There were cookies and little sandwiches and some cakes, all clearly bought nearby.  

Harriet sipped her tea and nibbled cucumber sandwiches as she watched her beautiful boy chattering and laughing with his nanny and gardener.  He talked about school and his friends and his games – the last of which Ashtoreth knew a surprising amount about.  He never once mentioned home, and neither did Harriet.  

It was Francis who kept Harriet neatly in the conversation, asking about her work and the trip over with her and Warlock.  Her son had even laughed when she told the story of the debacle at airport security, when she’d finally discovered she somehow had a dime in her bra. He’d acted horrified at the time, as if she’d meant to embarrass him on purpose, but now he laughed along with the others, dark eyes alight.

Oh, she’d missed this boy.  When had she seen him last?  It had to be months.  And it was all because of her, being selfish, wanting something better.  Maybe she should have waited until he was eighteen? Maintained his stability?  But what if Thad raised a hand to Warlock one day, as he had to her?  What if-

Soft fingers squeezed hers.  She startled and looked at Francis, who winked at her almost roguishly.  “I never know what she’s going on about with these games of hers,” he said, lifting his hand away.  “I know they like to get you to spend money on buying pretend money. She’s especially proud of that.”

“Proud?”

“Ah-oh, nothing, nothing.” He waved a hand.  Harriet was reminded of a number of odd non sequiturs she’d heard from him over the years.  “Does Warlock need watching on that count?”

“No, but only because we’ve cut off access,” Harriet admitted., but she hasted to add:  “He’s really a good boy, Brother Francis, it’s just been-it’s been hard for him.  He’s angry and scared.”  

Francis hummed quiet agreement.  “And you?” he asked kindly.  He’d always been so kind, almost unnaturally so, in the same way Ashtoreth was always almost comically severe.  

She opened her mouth to say she was fine, just fine, that’s what everyone wanted to hear when they asked how you were, after all.  Nobody wanted a woman to fall apart, to talk about her husband’s affairs or his absences or the time he nearly hit her because he was so tense about his job. No one wanted to see a woman cry while she admitted she’d failed as a wife and she was struggling as a mother and everything, everything felt too hard right now.  

But somehow, instead, she said, lower lip trembling, “Much the same.”

Francis nodded seriously. He glanced across the table at Ashtoreth who was, with unfamiliar animation, arguing the finer points of Minecraft fan-made content with Warlock, and his smile was so soft that it ached under Harriet’s ribs.  “We recently left behind everything,” he said quietly, voice pitched for her ears only. “Not just our jobs, though we knew Cr-Ashtoreth wouldn’t be needed much longer; you’d kept her on longer than we thought you would.  But our . . . families.  We had to, to move on.  To have this. Something better.”  He looked into Harriet’s eyes, and something unfamiliar warmed her from within.  “I won’t betray the confidences of Warlock’s letters, but he does understand why you’ve made this choice.  And though he can’t say it . . .” they both looked across at the boy, who glanced back at them questioningly, “he believes you and he will find a better life.  And so do I.”

The tears came. She tried to hide them, because this wasn’t the time or place, but they fell of their own accord, warm and wet down her cheeks.  She grabbed one of the soft napkins to hide behind, successfully stifling any sound. She had made the decision for both of them, because she loved Warlock and didn’t love Thaddeus.  She hadn’t, not for a very long time.  Maybe not since she found herself, all alone, in a hospital in Tadfield.  

“Mum?”   He sounded like a little boy.

Harriet rubbed hard at her face and lowered the napkin, wobbly smile in place.  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to get upset.” She stood up.  “Thank you so much for the tea, but I must be going.  I’m sure it’s just lack of sleep.  I’ll be right as rain after a night in the hotel.”

Ashtoreth’s soft voice held something like a hiss, and Harriet barely heard it.  “Be honesssst.”

Warlock bit his lip, looked away, squirmed in his chair, and then jerked to his feet.  He shuffled three steps before crossing the last bit of distance at a run and wrapping his arms around his mother’s waist.

Harriet almost hesitated before wrapping her own arms around him and pressing her eyes against his soft hair.  “Warlock?” she asked shakily.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said.  “I’ll be okay here.  You won’t have to worry about me.  And I’ll-” he stopped, cleared his throat.  “I’ll miss you.”

Harriet smiled and gave him a final squeeze as he pulled away.  “I’ll miss you too,” she said, and the tears were there but hidden away behind something that could be like peace.  She looked across at the two odd people who had agreed to help them when her own parents berated her for divorcing and wouldn’t take them in. They stood together, arms around each other’s waists, not-quite-watching and instead smiling at each other in a way that felt like a couple who had been married for sixty years and still found comfort in the other’s eyes.

She could have a chance at that.  She could start over, and try again, no matter what her parents had to say about it.  

 “Now be good,” she said, and Warlock sighed and rolled his eyes and acted terribly insulted, and Francis laughed and Ashtoreth led her out the door and made sure she had transportation to where she needed to be, and Warlock squeezed her hand one more time as she left with a tin of cookies and a book to read on the road and a sincere, “You should stay a couple of days as well, when you get back” that she was going to seriously consider.

There was laughter as the door closed behind her and she heard Warlock say, “So how far are you guys from the beach?”

Harriet stopped and took a deep breath.  

She could do this. She wasn’t alone.  

She smiled to herself.

God did sometimes send the unlikeliest of angels, when you needed them most.

[createuntiltheendoftime]

Love is Found in Violence, and Humanity is Found in Inhuman Acts

    this is my secret santa for @silverswordthekilljoy

I'm sorry it took so long, I spent my whole day writing it cause i finished it then reread it and hated it so i rewrote it. I hope you like it!

“There is no way in fuck I am letting you leave the Zones!” Jet snapped.

    Party stared hard at him. “Why the hell not! What if there are other ‘Joys? We could build an army, free the City, like we’ve always wanted.”

    “Or you could find nothing.” Jet half-turned away. “An’ starve to death. Or die of radiation sickness.” 

    “C’mon. You and I both know very well that I’m gonna die of radiation anyway. Do you really think that BL/I was just happy with California and Nevada? That they wouldn’t control the entire world if they could? If you believe that, you are lying to yourself.”

    “Don’ tell me what’s truth, Party.” Jet snarls. “Don’ tell me what you think is real, because you grew up in the city! You’ve got no idea what it was like being alone out here! I know what BL/I wants to do. I saw it first hand!”

    The door to the Diner opens, and Kobra and Ghoul walk in, laughing at some joke one was telling. Both their smiles fade as they see Jet and Party in the middle of an argument. “What’s up?” Ghoul asked cautiously.

    “Nothin’, Party jus’ wants to run a suicide mission.”

    “It’s not! It’s a chance to end this.”

    “You asked him?” Ghoul looked surprised, and a little hurt.

    “You knew about this?” Jet rubs his face. “I’m goin’ to bed, and we’ll talk about this in the mornin’.” Jet turns and stalks down the hall.

    “What was that about?” Kobra looked at Party suspiciously.

    “We intercepted a transmission from outside the Zones.” Ghoul says.

    “We do have intel that BL/I is tryin’ to take a seventh Zone.” Kobra glanced sideways at Ghoul.

    “Not like that. Like Killjoys. Plus the expansion won’ happen for another six years at the very least. Ghoulie and I wanna check it out.”

    “As in, go outside the Zones? Hell no! There’s a reason the expansion’s goin’ to take years, it’s because a prospective Zone Seven’s completely unlivable.”

    “But there are people out there.” Ghoul protested.

    “I am not letting you two idiots die. The rest of the Zones will never know what happened to the two Crash Queens from Zone Six. An’ what if you go out there, an’ you die, an’ leave me an’ Jet alone. You wanna do that shit?”

    “Kobra—”

    “No. Come back to me when you don’ wanna be a dumbass.” Kobra turned and followed Jet’s steps down the hall.

    “Godammit!” Party yelled, and stomped out the door, into the desert.

    Ghoul sat alone in the Diner for a while, staring out a window, before deciding to follow Party. The back of his throat itched, and he suppressed a light cough, climbing up to the roof, where Party and him liked to hang out. “Hey Party.”

    “Hi.”

    “Are we still going?”

    “‘Course.”

    “When?”

    Party sat up, that stupid light in his eye, and looked out at the desert horizon. “We go now. Mom an’ Dad’ll never know what hit ‘em.”

    “Wait, you’re serious?” Ghoul grinned.

    “Yeah, dead serious. Pack your shit. We’re goin’.”

    Ghoul started down the ladder, Party following after him. “What about Kobra and Jet?”

    “We’ll be gone before they think we’re ghosted.” Party smiled, and the pair headed down to the ground.

* * * *

    The Trans-Am started up a lot quieter than Party had thought, still blaringly loud in the desert night, but Kobra and Jet didn’t come running out, so he figured they were good. They climbed into the car, turned the radio up, and headed out.

    Ghoul glanced out the window before looking back at Party. “We so did not think this through. No gas, no food. This is gonna go Costa Rica.”

    “Calm thy tits. We got some extra Power Pup, full tanka gas is gonna give us 200ish miles. When the pup runs out, we’ll eat lizards, and there are so many gas stations in the Zones, they gotta be outta the Zones too. We’ll be fine.”

    After an hour and a half, Party slowed.

    Ghoul put a hand on his ray gun. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s the edge of Zone Six.”

“Let’s go then.”

Party sped up again, and the edge of Zone Six flashed by. Ghoul coughed again, cursing himself for sounding so weak in between sucking breaths. Party glanced at him sideways, then glanced back at the road. “You okay? You don’t sound so good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? We could go back.”

“No.”

Another hour and a half later, the radio starts to die. The music fades out, crackling and messy. “Party…” Ghoul says nervously. “There’s nothing around. No gas stations, no body bags. There ain’t shit.”

“Do a transmission.”

Ghoul nodded and pulled out his long range radio. “Name’s Fun Ghoul. ‘M with Party Poison, and if you believe in freedom, we’re lookin’ for you. If you’re BL/I, get off my goddamn frequency.”

He says this multiple times, over multiple frequencies, and by the last one, it’s lost it’s magic. Well, Ghoul’s voice was not lost on Party. That would be impossible. But the message was less dramatic the eighth time around. Party looked over worriedly as Ghoul started coughing again.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fuckin’ fine, leave me alone.”

Party reached over a hand and felt Ghoul’s face. “You’ve got a fever, dumbass. Drink some water or I’m turning around.”

Ghoul grabbed Party’s wrist and threw it back in his lap. “I said I’m fine goddammit, shut up about it.”

“Drink the fuckin’ water.” Party grabbed the bottle and threw it at him.

“Party. We can’t turn around.”

“No, we can’t, so drink.”

“No, I mean check your rearview mirror.”

Party glanced in the mirror, and slammed his foot on the gas, causing the RPM needle to go up alarmingly. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” Party’s cussing caused Ghoul to grab his gun and stare at Party, currently scrambling for the reverse. “Fuck it! Get down, Ghoul!” He threw the car into drive and stepped hard on the pedal.

Thunder rolled as the engine grew so loud it sounded like it was going to explode, blasts flung through the open windows, and a low hum started to pierce his ears, then all of a sudden, the car slowed and stopped. “No! Fuckin’ shit!” Ghoul yelled.

“Be ready to put up a fight!” Party snapped.

“It’s an EMP. Our guns won’t work.”

“Theirs won’t work either,” Party growled, pulled a switchblade from his pocket.

Ghoul tensed as Dracs approached the car. “Fuck, this’s gonna hurt.”

In the split-second hesitation before the pair jumped out and rose hell, the doors opened, and the Dracs drug them out. Lightning flashed, illuminating Ghoul’s face, and sending flashing shadows across the Dracs’ faces, and fear shivered down Party’s spine

Ghoul sucked in a breath to start yelling, but he hit the ground with another coughing fit, and Party punched the Drac, trying to get away. “Get off me you fucking pig!” Party hissed.

Ghoul snapped his head back into the Drac’s face, looking smug for a moment before getting a faceful of raygun, the Drac slamming his raygun into Ghoul’s nose.

Party cringed at Ghoul’s yell, and the blood pouring out of his nose, the Dracs letting him go unsupported as he kneeled on the ground. 

A black haired SCARECROW stepped out from wherever they were hiding, a smug smirk on his face that Party longed to punch. “What are you two little Zone Rats doing out here?”

Party rolled his eyes, partly stalling because he couldn’t remember the Crows name. Flare? Fire? Something along those lines. He knew it started with an F at the very least.

“C’mon Flare.” Ghoul said. “Haven’ you had enough of stalking me? You know I’m no’ indo you thad way.” His grin and slightly muted broken-nose voice made Party’s heart flutter.

The resounding thud dropped his stomach, and Ghoul was on the ground, breathing hard. Flare kicked him in the side, and then again in the face. But Ghoul tried to stand, making it to his knees before swaying harder to stay upright. He got to his feet, then Flare kicked at his knee, sending him back to square one with a pained yell.

Party wrestled with his Drac for a second before snarling, “you don’t touch him.”

That was a mistake. Ghoul shook his head, and Flare smirked, “is that so?” He grabbed a handful of Ghoul’s hair and lifted his chin. The blood down his face and throat almost hid the bruise blooming over his cheekbone.

Ghoul grinned up at Flare and spat at him. Flare seethed, and twisted his hand, causing Ghoul to cry out. Party slammed his head into the face behind him, using Ghoul’s distraction to get the upper hand and knock one out. The next one came at him, and he grabbed its head, bringing it down to meet his knee. He turned to Flare, still holding Ghoul hostage, holding the knife close to his throat. His voice was steady, but his hand shook.

Flare laughed, “you don’t even trust yourself.”

Party smiled, a sweet, innocent smile. “It’s not me I need to trust.” He opened his hand, and the knife fell straight into Ghoul’s grip, who shoved it into Flare’s chest. Flare stumbled back, and fell off the knife, literally kicking Ghoul away. Ghoul hit the ground hard, the knife skittering across the rocks, and Party grabbed it, standing to face the Dracs.

Lighting and thunder accompanied his attempt at escape, and Party made short work of them; their guns were completely useless, so they didn’t actually have a weapon. Briefly, Party wondered why they didn’t carry knives, but then Ghoul groaned, and Party dropped down next to him. “Are you okay? You’re not lookin’ so hot.”

“I’m fine, ya bastard.” Ghoul snapped. “Where the hell is Flare?”

“He’s gone.”

“As in…?”

“Disappeared.”

“Thank fuck.”

Party pulled off his bandanna and held it to Ghoul’s face, and Ghoul put his hand over Party’s, taking the bandanna. There’s a huge flash, and everything goes white.

* * * *

    Party cracked his eyes open. The same desert light filtered through his eyelids, and stung as he got his eyes all the way open. “Ghoul?” No answer. Maybe he was still unconscious. Something knocked them out and—There’s no Ghoul. There’s no Trans-Am, and there’s no Drcas. “Where the hell am I?” There’s nobody around, but it looked like he was laying on some kinda road, an old dirt road, but the dirt looked freshly turned, like it was still being used. So Party stood, and he started walking.

    The air slammed out of Ghoul’s lungs and he gasped, the ground warm against his back. For a second, he just laid there, trying to get air into his lungs. After a moment, he rolled onto his hands and knees, trying to make it to his feet. “Party?” He yelled. Nothing. There’s no sign of him, or the fight they were just in. Party’s bandanna is still in his hand, so it wasn’t a dream. “Party!” Still no answer. A tiny-looking town is on the horizon, and it’s all Ghoul could do to stumble into it, and the moment he did, he stared.

The streets were dirt, and every building was wood, the sidewalk cracked and broken from various things. The women were dressed in dresses, like, actual ankle length dresses, and the men were dressed in pants and vests. Ghoul looked down at his own green vest. At least he was sort of in the right clothes. There were carriages along the street, horses tied up to various posts. Horses. Real live horses. Ghoul’s jaw dropped. “Phoenix Witch!” He walked up to one slowly. Party had told him about horses. He only had vague memories from before the Helium Wars, the four-legged animals in fields, with swishy tails. Party knew from what they had told him in Battery City.

Someone crashed into him and he turned, ready for a fight. The kid jerked back, his hands curled into fists.

“The hell’d you do that for?” Ghoul snapped.

“Who messed up your face?” The kid looked as ready to fight as Ghoul felt.

“None ya business.”

“Well ya crashed into me.” The kid leaned back on his heels and regarded Ghoul cooly.

“The hell are you on! You crashed into me ya fuckin china doll!”

“What does that even mean?” The kid looked at him like he was nuts.

Ghoul rolled his eyes. “If you really wanna know, it was a dude named Flare.”

“Messed up name.”

“Messed up dude.”

“C’mon. You look like you need some help.” Ghoul followed the random kid, and while he was aware that following the random kid was never a good idea, and never turned out well, he still needed answers as to where he was. “Wha’s your name? I’m Liam.”

“Ghoul.”

“What kinda names do your people have?”

“Okay, first of all, Flare is not ‘my people’. And we choose them. Well, Flare didn’t. But I did. And so did Party.” Ghoul followed him, all the way to a two story wooden building, titled “Home for Young Boys.” A newspaper vendor sat just outside, and Ghoul caught a glimpse of the date.

June 8th, 1899.

Ghoul’s mind raced. That’s impossible. But it made sense. Actual, standing buildings, weird clothes, weird slang, horses. He had time travelled.

“Who’s that?” Liam yanked him out of his thoughts, and forced him to keep going.

“My friend. He disappeared.”

“Outta thin air? That ain’t possible.”

“No, we came here, and he disappeared.”

“Fuck.” Ghoul looked at him in surprise. He didn’t seem like the type to cuss like Ghoul would. “Normally I wouldn’t say that, but ‘round here we’ve been havin’ some problems.”

“What kinda problems?” Ghoul asked.

“The kid-stealin’ kind.” Liam opened the door to the boys home and motioned him inside. “Six kids’ve been taken in the last two weeks. Looks like this Party is the seventh.”

“He wouldn’t let that happen.”

“C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“No, you don't get it.” Ghoul grabbed Liam’s shoulder. “Party’s the best Killjoy we got. He’s gotten his way out of plenty of claps before, and I guarantee they’re a lot worse than whatever plastic flower’s out here.”

“You talk so strangely.”

* * * *

    When Party finally made it to a town, it was dark, and the lights of the town are gas lights in the windows.

    There’s a scream, and Party’s fight or flight went directly into overdrive, and as normal, skidded violently past flight and into fight mode. He raced down the alley, where a kid his age, dirtied up and angry, fought hard against the guy who was grabbing him.

    “Hey! Let him alone!” Party yelled. He ran towards the kid, before someone else caught his arms, and held him back. The guy who was going after the first kid punched Party, and he gasped, feeling the blood trickle into his mouth. “What gave you the right to hurt a kid like that?” Party snarled.

    “What gave you the right to interfere in my business?” The guy hit him in the stomach and slowly Party sunk to the ground. He coughed weakly, and thought about Ghoul and his coughing fits, and his fever.

    “Ghoul…” Please be alright.

    The guy punched him in the face and his head snapped back. Slowly, the lights faded, and the world turned black.

    When Party came to, he was in a room with seven other kids, all dirty, all around Party’s age. “Hey. Um… Where are we?”

    “Dunno.” Someone responded.

    Another person pressed close to him and whispered, “thanks for trying to help.”

    “I wasn’t gonna stand by and let him take you.” Party muttered.

    “Who—Who’s Ghoul?”

    Party turned bright red, he could feel it. “Ghoul—Ghoul came with me here. I think. I don’t know where he is.”

    “Who is he? To you?”

    “I don’t—”

    The door opened, and someone dumped a plate of food on the ground. All seven kids scrambled for it, racing to see who got to it first. Party leaned back against the wall.

    The kid Party tried to help came back, with a scrap of bread. “You didn’t go for anything.” He observed.

    “There isn’t enough, and I’m not gonna take from kids who need it.” Especially since he had a lot of experience in starving from the Zones. “Besides, I’m used to it.”

    “Nobody should have to say they’re used to starving.” The kid tore the bread apart and handed one half to Party.

    Party paused, before taking it. “My situation is different.”

    “So what are you gonna do?”

    “I need to get out of here.”

* * * *

    “The police have been searching everywhere for these guys, but I think I know where they are.”

    Ghoul, Liam, and two other boys sat in a circle in a room full of bunks. They had explained to him what they were, and the whole boys home thing. They were newsboys, sold papers on the street, and most were orphans, so they lived in the boys home. Liam said they could get you anywhere and anything.

    “Where?”

    “There’s an old ghost town not far from here. I think that's where they are. It’s not even four hours ride.”

    “Ride?”

    “A horse?”

    “Oh.” Ghoul didn’t know how to ride a horse. “When do we leave?”

    “Now, I guess. We’ll have to borrow some horses, but we’re ready. Do you have a gun? Or a knife?”

    “Yeah. Although what good it will do.” Ghoul pulled out his raygun, checked the battery, and sniffed happily. “Yeah. It’ll work.”

    “What is that.”

    “It’s my gun.” Ghoul, very clearly, wasn’t gonna say anything more about it.

   

    Fifteen minutes later, Ghoul, Liam, and the two others, Gavin and Jeramiah, who insisted we call him Jem, had four horses, each on borrowed, except for Gavin’s who saved up an entire years wages to get a horse. He said he wanted to be a cowboy. Ghoul waited until everyone was already on their horse before trying to get up, hoping that he would be able to figure out how to do it. Finally he got up into the saddle—and almost fell off the other side. “Fuck! Fuck!” Liam laughed as Ghoul forced himself back up. Ghoul huffed, and they set off. Ghoul was super wobbly, almost falling off several times.

    “When we start trotting, we’re gonna have a problem, I think.” Jem says with a smile.

    “What the fuck is trotting?” Ghoul asked.

    Simultaneously, Jem, Gavin and Liam, started at a faster, bouncier pace. His horse started following them, and panicked, Ghoul grabbed the piece of leather sticking out of the saddle, Liam called it the saddle horn.

    All three started laughing, and Ghoul glared at all of them. “You know what you guys, shut up.”

    “Okay, we’ll lope then.” They started going even faster, but this time it was smoother, but Ghoul still felt himself sliding out of the saddle.

    “Heels down, pockets touching the saddle!” Liam yelled.

    “What does that even mean!?” Ghoul yelled back, right before he hit the ground. “Motherfucking shit!” Ghoul gasped.

    The three circled back around, Jem grabbing the reins and handing them to Ghoul as he stood back up. “That's gonna hurt tomorrow, Ghoulie!”

    “Don’t call me that!” Ghoul snapped. Only Party called him that. He hauled himself back into the saddle, and they all continued on, this time Ghoul stayed in the saddle.

* * * *

    Party stood as footsteps came to the door, and he darted behind the door. The second he opened it, Party slammed it forward, and heard a thunk as it hit his head. He threw the door open and kicked the guy in the balls, then punching him in the face. The kids cheered, and Party turned. “Shhh. You guys gotta be quiet or they’re gonna hear us. Any of you have somethin’ sharp?”

    None of them nod, so Party leads them out, slowly, and quietly. The first room he came to, a desk stood, and he searched every drawer, eventually finding a letter opener. “This’ll work.”

    “Listen, I’m going to take it one hallway at a time. I’m gonna go first, and I’ll clear it out. Then you guys will come with me.”

    There was no one in the building. Party saw his switchblade on a table and grabbed it, tossing the letter opener to the kid he had helped, who was the second oldest, as far as he could tell. “This your audition?”

    “What?”

    “Is it your first fight?”

    He nodded.

    “You’re gonna do fine. Move before you think you need to, okay?”

    “Is this your first fight?”

    “Not even close.”

    The group made it out unharmed, but that was when everything changed. There were two men guarding the door, and Party managed a strangled “stay there!” while he took them down, a lot bloodier than he’d like. “Don’t look.” Party muttered as he led the group into the desert town’s air. They looked a lot dirtier in the bright sun.

    “Get down!” Someone yelled, and Party automatically hit the ground, pulling down the other kids with him. There was a hail of gunfire, and pounding hooves. “Party?”

    “Gavin! Get to Strings and get us a sheriff! Go! Run!”

    “Ghoul?” Party yelled. More bullets hit the wood above him. “Guys, you have to listen to me. Do not stand up. Otherwise, you will die. I’m serious.”

    Some of the kids looked scared out of their minds. Party was okay with that. He grabbed the gun dropped by the guards outside the door just as one of the kids stood up, looking about ready to take off and run. A half-second later, he was writhing on the ground. Blood bloomed on his dirty shirt, and he screams as Party pulled him to safety.

    “Ghoul, we got injured!” Party yelled. “Alright kid.” He said softly, pulling off another of his bandannas. “You’re gonna be okay, but this is gonna hurt a lot,” the poor kid whimpers, and as Party pressed down on his wound, and he screamed louder than Party had ever heard someone scream. “You’re gonna be okay, kid, I swear. Ghoulie an’ I, we ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you. I swear to Destroya.”

    “Party!” Ghoul screamed, sounding terrified.

    “Listen, listen, press down here. Don’ let go for the goddamn world.” The boy nods, and Party snuck around the side of the box, to see Ghoul, a knife at his throat, gun across the street.

    “Drop the gun!” The guy with the knife yelled.

    “Don’ move, Ghoul!” Party yelled. He aimed carefully, and with a bang, the guy fell behind Ghoul. Party started to run to meet him in the street, but something stopped him. Something being a loud crack, and a scream. It felt like he had been punched in the gut, but there was no one around him.

   

    Ghoul watched Party get shot, watched the yellow Keep Smiling on his shirt turn to red. “No!” Ghoul sprinted over to him, catching him as he began to fall. “Party, Party, please don’t do this.” Party was completely oblivious.

    “Ghoul… tell Kobra I’m sorry.”

    “No! No, you’ll tell him yourself, you stubborn bastard.” Ghoul tried not to think about how eerily similar Party’s blood was to his hair. 

    “At least I get to die here with you.” Party looked up at him with glassy eyes.

    “You’re not gonna die. I swear to the Phoenix Witch.”

    “Ghoulie… Ghoulie, are you crying? Didn’t know you cared so much.” It was true, Ghoul’s tears carved tracks in the dirt on his face, and the two were blissfully unaware of the firefight going on above them.

    The police had come.

    “Party you fuckin’ idiot.” Ghoul sniffed. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

    “I know, Ghoul. I have too.” Party whispered. His voice wavered, and he fell heavier into Ghoul’s arms.

    “No. No, please don't.” Ghoul leaned down and kissed Party, and Party kissed him back albeit weakly. Ghoul pulled away and wiped Party’s blood away. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here.” Ghoul pulled him closer, and Party’s eyes slid glassily to meet Ghoul’s.

    “Don’t… leave.”

    “I won’t. I’m staying right here.” Party’s head drops, and his eyes stare past Ghoul, somewhere far away. Ghoul buried his head in Party’s shoulder, before resting him on the ground and grabbing his gun. Ghoul stood up, glaring at the guys who had shot Party. He got a few effective shots off before he felt a hard hit, then again. He looked down, and his chest was colored red. “Fuck.” He fell next to Party, the lights already fading. “It’s alright. I’m here.” He took Party’s hand, and the world disappeared.

* * * *

    Ghoul woke up on the floor.

    The world was bathed in a dark red, and everything was fuzzy. There was a creaking, like a rusty wheel turning, and a figure came into view. They were covered head to toe in feathers, and hovered a few inches above the ground. The creaking was the squeaky wheel of a cart she was pushing, filled with masks. Killjoy masks.

    “I know who you are.”

    Ghoul’s voice echoed in the silence.

    “Do you now?”

    Her voice didn’t echo.

    “Yeah. I do. The Phoenix Witch. You’re her.” Ghoul looked up at her mask. “Why are you here?”

    “Because it’s not your time. You still have work to do where you’re from.”

    “What do you mean? How are you here? What’s gonna happen to those kids?”

    “Killjoys didn’t create me. But you believe in me. That gives me power. And I can be with you. I am with all of you, always. Even in a different time. A different dimension. As for the kids, that’s the past. It’s not about what will. It’s about what has.”

    “What happened?”

    “The boy who got shot didn’t survive. The rest went back to their old lives.”

    “Why us?”

    “Because you’re the hope for the future.”

* * * *

    Party woke up to Ghoul’s breathing. They were surrounded by dead Dracs, and Ghoul’s bloody nose was still bleeding. Everything that had happened in the last two days, had disappeared. Party pulled up his shirt. There was a scar where he remembered being shot. He remembered Ghoul’s kiss, and remembered how much it hurt to die. “Ghoul?” His voice cracked.

   Ghoul woke with a start, almost immediately breaking into a coughing fit, sucking in breath after breath. He stared at Party for a moment, disbelief in his eyes. Then he hugged him hard, and kissed him harder.

    “Ghoul, what happened?”

    “You were shot. You—You died. Right there in front of me.” Ghoul paused. “Party, I met the Witch. The Phoenix Witch.”

    “What did she say?”

    “They made it. The boys made it. Except…”

    “The kid who got shot.”

    “Yeah. Party, I’m so sorry.”

    Party didn’t look at him for a long while. Then, “we have to get back. Can you walk?”

    Ghoul tried to stand, then shook his head. “Not without you.”

    “Alright. Come on.” Engines sound, and Party groaned. “Please not more Dracs.” Instead, it was two motorcycles, and as they got closer, Party realized it was Kobra and Jet. “‘Joys. It’s Kobra and Jet.”

    “I’m half broken, not fuckin’ blind.”

    “What the hell are you doing?” Kobra shouted, jumping off his skidding bike in true Motorbaby fashion.

    Ghoul let go and leaned on the Trans-Am, and Party pulled Kobra in for a hug, not looking like he was letting go any time soon. Kobra pulled away, stared at his brother for a moment, before punching him. Hard.

    “I deserved that.”

    “Yeah. Ya did. You disappear in the middle of the fuckin’ night, you get yourselves in a clap, you’ve both got the shit kicked outta you, and you expect me not to be mad!”

    Now Jet breaks in. “You dragged Ghoul into this, and now he can’t even stand straight.”

    “Jet, you have no idea. He didn’t even drag me into this. I aske—”

    “Ghoul, it’s fine. You guys are right. I never shoulda even considered leaving the Zones. It’s my fault. All of it.”

    Ghoul knew he was talking about the kid. “No. It wasn’t.”

    “Forget it.” Jet snapped.

    “We’re going home.” Kobra said. “And staying there.”

[ninety6tears]

king-of-exchanges letter

Wooo kingofexchanges is happening again! 

I’m a big fan of SK but only somewhere in the middle of my consumption/obsession; with King being heavy on self-referencing and crossover-friendly treatments, I’d be happy for you to mix and match any of my requests, as long as you can see from my goodreads page that I’ve read the relevant stuff.

Basic preferences: I read everything from G-rated to explicit PWP. I love pastiche for lit fandoms but something that feels more off the beaten path of the original style can also be fun.

I love: Angst, pining, subtle UST, first times, or established relationships with some level of conflict to be resolved. Intense friendship stories. Protectiveness in close relationships as well as in those that wouldn’t obviously appear to be protective at first. A character or characters experiencing a type of attraction that isn’t the status quo for them. Relationships that had a falling-out and neither of them ever really got over it. Characterization that focuses on the nature & nurture of who people have grown to be and the unique ways they take care of or need other characters. Insecurity/hangups over worthiness. AUs of all varieties.

I can handle: underage, dubcon, noncon, torture and incest. Character death. Love triangles. Infidelity.

Do Not Want: Fix-its without sacrifice/troubles. Soulbonding/magical soulmate tropes. Disputes centered around marriage as a show of commitment ("If you were really serious you'd have proposed by now rather than just wanting to live together" and all that). A/B/O, mpreg, or any body fluid kinks. More than a mention of Alzheimer’s/dementia.

Christine ‘83 (FIC):

Arnie/Dennis

Arnie/Christine/Dennis

---NOTE - The movie is more fresh in my mind for prompting purposes but I have read the book, so feel free to run with this request for either version. I do like the dark humor Carpenter brings to adolescence without mocking the angst of being a teenager, not that King isn’t morbidly funny in his own right.

We get very little of them together before Arnie starts to go all possessed but we can tell their friendship has lasted a lot of changes over the years. That hospital visit over the holiday (which I remember was more bittersweet, less tense in the book?) feels like the last time Arnie remembered that he's supposed to be a big part of Dennis’ life. But even before all that, there’s a nice dynamic where Dennis is protective of Arnie and really thinks highly of him (and huh, maybe sees something in his looks other people don’t) when it’s not socially advantageous for him to retain that loyalty, and I’d like to get more of that. Maybe they’ve fooled around once or twice? Maybe Arnie was the one who got weird about it, afraid of the eventual rejection, or they’re both just too repressed? I like the triangle with Leigh too, if you wanted to get into the confused jealousy/conduit attraction thing, just nothing that completely dismisses any meaning of her relationship with Dennis if it’s referenced at all.

If Dennis was the one Christine got dangerously jealous of (either because something happens between them or she just knows) how would that go down differently? Or what if the car decides she wants to be shared by them, and maybe likes to watch them do things to each other (take that however you want it to mean) and either their closeness makes the two of them eventually snap out of it, or they all just become a weird evil threesome? I'm also into the idea of some other fantasy/sci-fi AU in which Christine is something or someone else entirely but is still threatening in some paranormal/inhuman way.

Crossover Tags (FIC):

Peter McVries & Ray Garraty & The Stand

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty & The Stand

---I’m interested in how these two would fit into a story with such an elemental moral war. Both are reckless but McVries more prone to hopelessness and nihilism; would he be tempted to join Flagg without outside influence? Would he just kind of wander around with no sense of purpose until Ray found him? It could also turn the existential misery of The Long Walk on its head, with them losing their families and possibly realizing too late the preciousness of life that way. You don’t have to get into much philosophy or plot either; I’m kind of into the everyday pain-in-the-ass minutiae of the post-apocalypse and people finding ways to laugh about their circumstances and reach for each other in their grief. Feel free to write it as full-on crossover with some of the canon Stand characters appearing.

Larry Underwood & Richie Tozier

---If you have some other idea of where to put these two together, go for it, but I had this idea of Richie hosting an occasional interview special for up-and-coming musicians and Larry being invited on when the single’s just out and being so nervous to meet this famous personality, and maybe they get drunk or high together before or after the interview (bonus points if Larry can hardly get in an answer cause Richie gives him the giggles). They’re kinda both assholes so they get along? They’re both assholes so they kinda hate each other? I didn’t nominate it as a shippy treatment but if you’re really sad I didn’t, hey, stuff happens when people party.

The Dark Half (FIC):

Alan Pangborn/Thad Beaumont

Alan Pangborn/Elizabeth Beaumont/Thad Beaumont

George Stark/Alan Pangborn

---I thought the surprising friendship and trust that takes hold between Thad and the officer who initially believes him to be a cold killer was one of the better aspects of this novel, and the way that connection is so soon polluted by Stark's insurmountable connection to a part of Thad’s psyche is chilling and more than a little sad. I would love to get a shippy treatment of their immediate companionship and/or the inevitable disturbance of it. If you wanted to make it a poly thing with Elizabeth, with all three of them not really pausing in the midst of all these maddening things happening to question opening their marriage to someone they find comforting, I would be interested in how that might underscore the events.

And when it comes to George/Alan...yeah, I want darkfic, potentially outlining Stark’s role in putting Alan off Thad in a more sinister way, whether it’s poisoning the well of Alan’s (sublimated? not yet acted on?) desire and affection for Thad by being sleazily flirtatious in pointing it out, or going to a darker noncon place with all the mingled disgust and misplaced attraction that might provoke. (In the context of this prompt, I’m not super into the gross-out factor of Stark being at the stage where his skin is falling off, but if you can’t somehow set it at an earlier stage it would be better to just not mention it.)

Also, I realize Alan has a family, but you can deal with that however you want; his wife can just not exist for the purposes of the story, but even infidelity wouldn’t put me off if you’re taking the character that far out of a healthy mindset.

The Long Walk (FIC):

Peter McVries/Ray Garraty

---Since we’re never in Pete’s head, it would be great to get anything detailing how his initial distance from Ray quickly erodes into the protectiveness he obviously can’t help over him, if there’s a spark of empathy there even before the first time Ray saves him, or what he’s really thinking or trying to say at some of his more cynical and cryptic moments. I wonder what it was that Parker said to him to imply he thought he and Ray were “queer for each other” and how this apparently was covered without McVries feeling the need to deny it?

If you wanted to write them both somehow surviving, I would love to see how their relationship remains in the aftermath; maybe they don’t exactly end up together because they associate each other with this traumatizing thing, and they have an essential but troubled friendship because of it (and maybe they end up fucking a couple times but don’t really talk about it).

In the realm of more absolute alternate universes...a bigoted boarding school atmosphere, an aggressive correctional camp, anything where a compulsive make-out might happen in the bunks or the showers and then be stiffly denied later on sounds like a backdrop I’d love for these boys if you want to do something bleak-but-not-as-mortally-bleak.

I prefer to think of McVries as having complicated depression that doesn’t just stem from girlfriend problems; I’d prefer you mention the incident with Priscilla as little as possible, but any focus on Pete’s scar is totally fine.

The Stand (ART):

Larry Underwood/Lucy Swann

Lucy Swann/Larry Underwood/Nadine Cross/Randall Flagg

Nadine Cross

---My attempts to prompt for art for these tags may be unhelpful but I’m really into Nadine’s scary paranormal bond with Flagg, the imagery of her hair and Flagg’s tainted handsomeness and everything haunted about her and her life, and how the love triangle with her and Larry and Lucy is really a quadrangle of temptations and baggage beyond the usual moral pressure of romantic entanglements. They’re all figuratively in bed together whether they like it or not, but I could see that presented more literally in art. I also would like anything associated with the individual permutations (Larry/Nadine, Larry/Lucy, Larry/Nadine/Randall?). Desperate/melancholy embraces, or moments of almost touching. That ghost leering over Nadine’s shoulder in her moments of getting too close to tenderness.

[dust2dust34]

Pieces of Always: June 2036 (FICoN ‘verse)

Life continues after Forever is Composed of Nows.

by @so-caffeinated (and @dust2dust34)

Summary: Will and Amelia run into each other a year after the gala.

An ongoing non-linear collection of family moments for the Queens. (You do not need to have read FiCoN to enjoy this, but it will spoil the end. Please see the first installment for additional author notes. Thank you @jsevick and @alizziebyanyothername for the amazing beta!)

A/N: Please see the first chapter for an important Author’s Note, as well as under the cut for an additional one.

A/N: The effervescent @so-caffeinated is fully in the driver’s seat and she’s kicking all the ass, so please go send her your love!

Excerpt:

Everything stops.

Or, at least, it does for them.

She can’t even breathe when his lips part in surprise, and his eyes go pained and soft as he drinks in the sight of her. It feels like a caress, like his gaze physically slips across her skin, and she shivers at the phantom sensation tracing across her face, her neck, her body. She feels it head to toe in a painfully intimate way, in spite of the fact that it’s her face his eyes mostly linger on.

Not once does he look to her companions. Not once do his eyes dart to his sister. It’s just her. It’s just them. It always is when they’re in a room together. Time and distance and life can’t change that, apparently. There’s something terrifying in recognizing that, but it’s also so very addictive and she craves this connection in a way that defies reason.

The smile that pulls at his lips is subtle enough, gentle enough that it would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But she is. She can’t take her eyes off of it.

“Hi,” he mouths at her.

“Hi,” she mouths back.

(read on AO3)

June 2036 - Home Away From Home

Amelia’s missed Starling City, but the two things she’s missed most about it are right in front of her.

“Look at you, all put together and shit!” Celeste declares. Amelia barely has time to smile before the blonde is hugging her tightly. “I couldn't even find matching socks this morning.”

“Who says her socks match?” Maggie questions with a quirk of her eyebrow, taking Celeste’s place to embrace Amelia. “I’ve missed you,” she declares brightly.

“Me too,” Amelia replies, grinning widely as she steps back and takes in the sight of her friends. “It’s been way, way too long.”

In truth, they’ve seen each other every few months, but it feels like an eternity, anyhow. Business brings her to Starling now and then, but their visits rarely linger. Both of the girls had made the trip to Central City when Amelia first moved there, in theory to help her get settled into the large flat she and Thad had settled on. In actuality, it had amounted to little more than Celeste unashamedly enjoying the view as Thad carried in furniture while Maggie nitpicked the arrangement. It had been blatantly obvious that all of her ‘I think that needs to go a little to the left, Thad’ comments had been entirely designed to make him continue with the heavy lifting and all the bending over. Good sport that he is, Thad had just smiled and shook his head as he took directions.

But that was last August and in spite of the occasional coffee or rushed lunch-meet-up, Amelia has missed her girls pretty badly. Her job is great and everything is fine with Thad, but there’s no substitute for her girlfriends and FaceTime just doesn’t cut it long term.

“Come on,” Maggie tells her. “We’ve got a table over near the patio. Celeste called ahead.”

“They don’t take reservations, though,” Amelia points out as she follows the girls across their favorite brunch spot, weaving through a maze of tables toward the patio.

“They do when you’re sleeping with the host,” Maggie confides quietly.

“You are?” Amelia asks in surprise. “What happened? I thought you and Jeremy were pretty serious.”

“Not me,” Maggie scoffs, tilting her head toward Celeste, who smiles and wiggles her fingers in greeting. Amelia turns to look back toward the host, who she hadn’t even noticed, before giving Celeste a thumbs up of approval. This is an opinion that’s only furthered when they get to their table and find a pitcher of mimosas and a bowl of fruit already waiting.

“So… someone’s smitten,” she notes as she takes a seat and raises an eyebrow toward Celeste.

“He’s sweet,” she acknowledges, unfolding her napkin and draping it across her lap. “But I think he likes me more because he knows I’m leaving town at the end of summer.”

“You’re leaving?” Amelia asks, freezing and looking at her friends as they trade glances.

“She was going to wait until you were at least two mimosas in before bringing this up,” Maggie informs her.

“Well, get pouring then,” Amelia instructs, gesturing toward the pitcher in front of Maggie. “Where are you going?”

“I took a job teaching English in Shanghai for a year,” Celeste says, popping a strawberry in her mouth.

“In China? Do you even speak Mandarin or Cantonese?” Amelia blinks at her.

“Nope,” Celeste says with a shrug. “Don’t need to. It’s an immersion program.”

“Celeste…” Amelia ventures warily, trading a knowing glance with Maggie. “Honey, you hate kids.”

“I’m teaching adults,” Celeste replies.

“You don’t really like them in big doses either,” Amelia deadpans.

Maggie snorts and nods. “Believe me, you are not the first person to point this out to her.”

“It’s just for a year,” Celeste points out. “I can make a bit of cash and explore the world a little while I’m at it. I can put up with having students for a year.”

“I thought you were going to be a dental hygienist?”

“Right, but then I remembered people cry at the dentist and I don’t like crying people,” Celeste says, as if this is plainly obvious when you think about it. And, honestly, knowing Celeste it kind of is, but Amelia remains stuck on the idea that her friend is moving to China for a year. Like Starling City wasn’t far enough already.

The waiter stops by, takes their orders, and it gives Amelia a moment to keep working through her thoughts. She’d been planning on being good, had been going to stick to an egg white omelet, some dry toast and a bit of fruit, but Maggie’s thrown her off kilter so she says ‘fuck it’ and orders the eggs benedict instead.

“It’s fine, Amelia,” Celeste points out. “Just means I’ll be more tired when we FaceTime because of the time difference. And… maybe you can come visit me? I can take you on a tour of the sights, absorb a bit more of the world than the inside of your office…”

“Yeah,” Amelia laughs. “I’m gonna take a few weeks off of work to cross the world for fun.”

“It’s called a vacation, Amelia,” Maggie points out. “I highly recommend them on occasion. Jer and I are talking about going in the spring. His mom’s parents still live there and he wants to introduce me.”

Truth be told, Amelia’s a bit surprised to hear Maggie planning things that far out with her boyfriend. Yes, they’ve been together a while now and yes, they’re fairly serious, but Maggie’s never been the ‘plan ahead’ type. Not really. She’s not as spontaneous as Celeste by any means, but Amelia’s never known her to think that long term with a guy before.

“You and Thad could join us,” Maggie adds.

“Can you see that?” Amelia asks with a laugh, soaking in the ridiculousness of that idea. She can picture it perfectly. “We’d be completely lost. I’d be calling my office every five minutes and he’ll be in session by then anyhow.”

“For my money, you both need to learn how to relax,” Celeste notes, sipping her drink. “Thad’s great, but you both work too much. You’ve gotta live too, babe.”

Amelia just sighs in reply because as much as she adores Celeste, they could not be two more opposite people if they tried. Her friend balances her, gives her a much needed fresh perspective at times, but she can’t always relate to her perspective. Her job is her life. And she loves making an impact. That’s all she’s ever wanted.

Or, at least, it’s all she’s ever admitted to herself she’s wanted.

“Well, hello,” Celeste says, leaning back in her chair and looking somewhere past Amelia’s shoulder. “Been awhile since I’ve seen him. How is it that he’s even more attractive, now? That’s just unfair.”

“He’s always been hot,” Maggie adds. “And a flirt. Why am I not surprised to see him at brunch with a girl?”

Amelia turns to follow their gaze and her heart promptly lodges itself in her throat because there - three tables over on the patio - is Will Queen looking as attractive as she’s ever seen him. He’s pulling out a chair for a brunette and a strange mix of irrational jealousy and attraction sweeps through Amelia at the sight. Lord, but he’s wearing the hell out of those jeans. That’s just unfair. But, then the girl that Will’s with brushes her hair behind her ear and it pulls Amelia’s attention to the other woman, leaving her blinking in surprise.

“That’s one of his sisters. Jules,” she tells Maggie and Celeste absently. Her gaze slips back to Will. Watching him is like a guilty pleasure, like picking eggs benedict when she should be having an egg white omelette. But she’s so weak when it comes to him. She always has been. She hasn’t seen him in a solid year at this point, but looking at him now, it feels like no time has passed at all, like she’s right back on that dance floor in his arms.

It’s such a dangerous thought. He has a way of challenging all her plans, all her assumptions about life, without even trying. Hell, he hasn’t even noticed her yet and already she can’t think straight.

Somewhere in the background of her mind, it registers that Maggie’s talking.

“Huh?” she asks, looking back at her friends who are both staring at her curiously with raised eyebrows.

“I asked if you knew his sister,” Maggie clarifies, wry bemusement lacing her words. “But I think I have more questions now.”

“I don’t know her. Her, uh… her picture was on Moira’s desk. And all of the family’s pictures were in plenty of news clippings,” Amelia answers, nervously licking her lips before reaching for her drink, half for fortification and half to keep herself from saying more.

Wow had that been true, though. She’d somehow avoided compiling press clippings at the start of her internship - that job had already been assigned - but the very next day after she’d reluctantly turned Will down the first time he’d asked her out, Moira had requested an analysis of recent media coverage on her family. Amelia’s a bright girl and it hadn’t taken more than a few minutes to figure out why she was given this assignment. An up-close view of his revolving-door love life via the paparazzi had made Moira’s point more clearly than she could have had she spoken it.

And yet… and yet she can’t help but think there’s something more than the press has ever seen living in the space between them. In the many shots she’s seen of him walking hand-in-hand with a girl or kissing her or with his arm wrapped around her waist, she’s never once seen him looking at any of them the way he looks at her.

And that means something. She knows it does.

She can’t help looking back in his direction, craving a glimpse of that look, of the delicious intensity that fills the air between them and feels like it sinks right into her skin, pulling at the core of her being. No sooner do her eyes find him again then he looks up and catches sight of her.

Everything stops.

Or, at least, it does for them.

She can’t even breathe when his lips part in surprise, and his eyes go pained and soft as he drinks in the sight of her. It feels like a caress, like his gaze physically slips across her skin, and she shivers at the phantom sensation tracing across her face, her neck, her body. She feels it head to toe in a painfully intimate way, in spite of the fact that it’s her face his eyes mostly linger on.

Not once does he look to her companions. Not once do his eyes dart to his sister. It’s just her. It’s just them. It always is when they’re in a room together. Time and distance and life can’t change that, apparently. There’s something terrifying in recognizing that, but it’s also so very addictive and she craves this connection in a way that defies reason.

The smile that pulls at his lips is subtle enough, gentle enough that it would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But she is. She can’t take her eyes off of it.

“Hi,” he mouths at her.

“Hi,” she mouths back.

It all hangs in the air, whispers of words unspoken filling the space between them. There’s so very much they’ve left unsaid. It feels appropriate that this greeting, too, is no more than a mimicry of words.

“So... you know him, though,” Maggie declares loudly, snapping the thread of tension and pulling Amelia’s gaze back to her friends.

“I… sort of,” Amelia admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’s complicated.”

“Only because you made it complicated,” Celeste sighs, taking a bite of her food.

Damn… when had their meals gotten here? Amelia blinks and looks down at her place setting to find a still-warm plate of eggs benedict.

“You want to tell me how that was ever going to be uncomplicated?” Amelia dares her friend, taking a forkful of roasted potatoes.

“Oh! Happily,” Celeste says, placing her forearms on the tablecloth and leaning in Amelia’s direction. “When he asked you out the first time, you could have said yes. There. Uncomplicated.”

“What the hell did I miss?” Maggie asks, leaning back in her chair. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Because you were part of her excuse,” Celeste informs her, gesturing expansively with her fork. “He kissed you like back in the Mesozoic era, so clearly it broke girl code for her to go out with him a few millennia later.”

Maggie’s astonishment makes it flatly clear how ridiculous she thinks this is. “Are you completely nuts?”

“No,” Amelia protests petulantly, cutting her food a little too aggressively with the side of her fork.

“Sorry. I misspoke. That wasn’t meant to be a question,” Maggie elaborates. “What I meant is - you’re crazy. And I have no desire to be your excuse, my love. So, date him or don’t, but don’t make me your reason.”

“I’m with Thad now,” Amelia points out. “I have been for more than two years. We live together.”

“You weren’t then,” Celeste reminds her. “And, Thad’s a good guy, but…”

“But what?” Amelia challenges.

“Honey, we just want what’s best for you. You know that,” Celeste cautions, trading silent looks with Maggie, who huffs in clear frustration. “But you don’t look at Thad like that,” Celeste elaborates. “Don’t you want that? Don’t you want someone who sweeps you off your feet and just makes you feel?”

Amelia swallows hard, her eyes darting back to the other table. Will’s sister is talking to him. He’s listening - she’s pretty sure of that - but he’s still watching her. And so, for that matter, is Jules. Will’s face is all longing and appreciation. Jules’ is a far cry from that. And Amelia finds herself looking back to her own companions with reddened cheeks.

“No,” she says. “No, I don’t. What I want is something that makes sense. I want… I want a life with purpose and a partner that fits. I don’t want to be so wrapped up in someone that who I am doesn’t work without them. I don’t want to lose myself in someone and feel like who am I has been cleaved in two when they're gone.”

When she thinks about it later - or, more accurately, tries not to think about - she’ll realize precisely how much she’s given away in this moment.

“But… what if they don't leave?” Celeste points out. Her voice is hesitant, like she’s treading very carefully. Her heart’s in the right place and Amelia can respect that, but it doesn’t make this conversation any easier.

“Someone always leaves,” she replies bluntly. “Breakup or death, everything ends eventually.”

“Sweetie…” Celeste says gently, putting a hand over hers. “You aren’t your mom.”

“You’re right,” Amelia agrees. “And, as much as I love her, I never want to be.”

The light had gone out of her mom’s eyes the instant her dad died. And it’s never come back. She walks around like half a person, like someone forever lost. All her plans and dreams died with her husband and, as beautiful as Amelia remembers her parents being together, as sappy and wholly in love as they always seemed, she can’t imagine it was worth it. Not now. Not when it seems like part of her mom died along with her dad.

And yet…

And yet she remembers with perfect clarity her parents dancing barefoot in the kitchen while her mom hummed a song she’d been working on. She remembers being six years old and watching from the doorway, completely unnoticed. She remembers thinking that’s what love looked like, the way they were so absorbed in each other that the world around them didn’t matter anymore.

Because they had each other.

In spite of herself, she still thinks it might be the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. But, she’s not sure she’s strong enough to have something like that and then lose it. Watching her mother struggle with her dad’s death has been bad enough. Experiencing that firsthand is too terrifying a thing to contemplate.

“If you asked her… I’m pretty sure she’d still say it was all worth it,” Celeste points out. Maggie is being conspicuously silent and Amelia can’t help but wonder why. It’s a rarity for her, to be sure.

But she has Celeste to defend herself against already and she isn’t about to invite Maggie’s opinion at the moment.

“Well, maybe my mom’s just stronger than I am,” Amelia suggests. “She survived four miscarriages, her husband’s sudden death, her father going missing in action when she was just a kid, her mother’s alzheimer's…” She stops, shakes her head. “I can’t imagine surviving half of that. And I don’t want to have to.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Amelia,” Celeste ventures hesitantly. “But just surviving life because I’m afraid of living it wouldn’t be enough for me.”

“That’s not-” Amelia starts. Every inch of her wants to deny those words, in spite of the fact that they also ring with a kind of truth. But she’s interrupted by a soft baritone voice that glides down her spine like the tip of a feather.

“Hey.”

Will stands less than two feet away from her, hands in his pockets and an uncertain look on his face. Is he nervous? Just the idea of that sends a thrill through her. For all her insistence to the contrary, for all that her logical thoughts know she ought to stay far away from Will Queen, instinct drives her in the complete opposite direction. Right for him. She has to play with the edge of the tablecloth just to keep her hands to herself because he’s right there.

“Will...hi,” she replies after a moment when Celeste kicks her under the table. “Hi.”

He reaches up with one hand, grabs at the back of his neck and looks at her sheepishly. “I don’t want to intrude, but I had to come say hello.”

“No, I’m glad you did.” The words tumble out immediately, spoken too quickly and all in one exhale. “It’s good to see you. You look… you look good.”

“Really good,” Celeste adds with a wink and an ‘okay’ sign made with her hand. Maggie openly smacks her arm. Hard. “What, like he doesn’t know? Come on. He owns a mirror,” Celeste protests, glaring half-heartedly at Maggie and rubbing the spot she’d been hit.

Will’s lips twitch into a half smile at that as he tries to hold back his amusement at her friends, but his attention only barely flits to Celeste. Amelia finds whenever they’re together, his gaze never leaves her for long. It would be terrifying how much she loves that if she let herself think about it.

“How’ve you been?” he asks. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, winds up with them in his pockets again.

She wants to take them in hers instead. She wants to lace her fingers between his and soothe that obvious anxiety by stroking her thumbs against his. She wants it so badly that she has to flatten her hands against her thighs and force them to stay put.

“I’m good,” she tells him. “Everything’s really… good.” God, has her entire vocabulary fallen out of her head? “You remember Celeste and Maggie?”

He blinks for a moment before looking to her table-mates. It’s a bit of a respite for a moment because she feels like she can breathe again without the weight of his eyes pinning her down. But he also looks a little lost. And how, exactly, is that so very appealing?

“Camping trip back in the Mesozoic era,” Celeste clues him in, pointing her thumb at Maggie. “She’s the one you made out with. I played wingman.”

“Oh…” Will says uncertainly. “Right. Hi.”

“You’re adorable when you’re worried, you know that?” Maggie snorts, shaking her head. “I’ve got nothing but fond memories of some really excellent kissing the better part of a decade ago. I never gave you my number, so I’m certainly not bummed that you never called. I’m not holding any kind of a torch. And I don’t regret a lovely evening well-spent. So... stop holding your breath, Will. We can be buds. Pull up a chair and join us.”

The relief on his face is palpable as he chuckles at himself, and something about seeing it makes Amelia smile. It’s incredible how quickly he can pull emotion out of her, how effortlessly. He’s not even trying, but just the sight of him makes her feel things. In the moment, she loves it. It’s like downing that first sip of ice water when she hadn’t even realized she was thirsty. But… God, she’s so parched.

She must make some kind of noise, because he looks at her expectantly all of a sudden. But his eyes also drift down to her lips when she pulls her lower lip into her mouth and bites into it gently to cage in whatever other traitorous noises might choose to make themselves heard next. The way his brow tightens at the sight tells her quite clearly that she’s done nothing at all to mitigate the building tension, though.

“I should, uh… I should let you ladies enjoy your brunch,” he says after a moment. He looks like it’s the very last thing he wants to say, though.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Celeste scoffs, chugging a rather impressive amount of mimosa to polish off her glass. “Sit. Stay. Wait… that sounds like I’m talking to a dog. I didn’t mean it that way. Just… take my seat. I need to go powder my nose anyhow and Maggie is going to come… watch me do that.”

It’s the most absurd thing Amelia’s ever heard and she shoots a disbelieving look at her friends. Celeste just shrugs shamelessly as they stand.

“We’ll be back in a few,” Maggie says, giving Celeste a warning look that Amelia can’t quite make sense of. “In the meantime… have a nice chat.”

“Live a little,” Celeste adds with a wink.

The worst part is that she’s glad, that she wants them to step away for a few minutes, that she utterly craves the opportunity to just sit and talk with Will. She wishes she didn’t, but she’s weak when it comes to him, when it comes to how he makes her feel, that he makes her feel.

So, she doesn’t protest as her friends walk off. In fact, she sort of relishes it.

“Won’t your sister miss you?” she asks, looking from Will to the table he’d been sharing with his sister just a few moments ago.

“She had a call she had to take,” he replies. Sure enough, the dark haired girl is talking animatedly into her phone. Amelia has the distinct impression that she’s keeping her brother in her peripheral vision, though. And she’s not fool enough to think she’s gone unnoticed. “I really didn’t expect to see you here.”

Surveilled by his sister or not, Amelia returns her focus to Will. “I was surprised to see you, too,” she admits.

“Look, I’m… I was gonna head over to the bar. Get myself a coffee and my sister a bloody mary,” he says, nodding his head toward the long bar along the far wall of the restaurant. “Would you join me?”

The now-empty pitcher of mimosas feels like a sign - mostly because she chooses to take it as one - and in spite of the fact that this feels like a test she’s suddenly losing, she puts her fingers in his outstretched hand and lets him help her up. It takes a second for him to let go of her once she’s standing and, when he does, his calloused fingers graze against the sensitive skin of her wrist, sending absolute lightning bolts of feeling ricocheting through her body.

Desire is nothing new to Amelia. But this is in a class all its own and she feels paradoxically powerless to it and powered by it. Just being near him makes her head swim and her heart pound and it sets her mind down the path of ‘What if? What if? What if?’

She tells herself it’s instinct, as they walk to the bar, for his hand to rest on the small of her back. She tells herself it’s instinct that she leans into him some, that she savors it.

She’s a liar.

The bar spans both the inside of the restaurant as well as the patio and they wind up out in the sun. That’s better anyhow. The natural lighting flatters him immensely and she’s well past any attempts to pretend not to notice how absurdly handsome he is.

“You’re still in Central City?” he asks. There’s a note of hesitation in his voice and she knows what he’s not asking.

“Yes,” she confirms. “I am.”

He nods and places his order with the bartender before licking his lips and looking down to the bartop. She chimes in asking for another pitcher of mimosas and there’s a long moment of silence after the server walks away before Will speaks up again. But he doesn’t look at her when he talks this time.

“You’re happy there?” he asks. “You’re happy with… Central City? It’s what you want?” Half of him doesn’t want to hear her answer and it’s obvious. Because any response she gives won’t be a good one. Not for him. He wants her to be happy, but he doesn’t want her in Central City. She knows the truth of that right down to her toes. Just a few minutes in his presence and she knows that he wants what he’s always wanted. Her. Them. A chance.

“I’m successful,” she replies. “There’s a lot of opportunity there. It’s good for me.”

“That’s not an answer,” he tells her.

“It’s not?” she asks.

“You know it’s not,” he counters.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not. But it’s honest and it’s enough for her. She’s decided it has to be. But in moments like this, it doesn’t feel as simple as that.

“I saw you, you know,” she tells him. He watches her curiously, waiting for her to say more without pushing her. “On the news a few months ago, going through that window with all the smoke pouring out so you could save that baby.”

Recognition dawns on his face. “The house with the Christmas lights,” he says. “They stapled the strand to the roof and it went through the wire. I remember. They were lucky everyone survived.”

She nods, but her focus isn’t on that family. “I was standing in my kitchen making dinner and I just… I stopped because there you were rushing into a house with flames pouring out of it. And I was so… I was so…” The words escape her. They’re all too much. She’d been too many things, felt too much all at once, and even recalling it now feels overwhelming.

“You were ‘so’ what?” he asks. His voice is a little lower, a little breathless.

“Terrified. Amazed. Regretful. Impressed. I don’t know, Will,” she shakes her head. “I don’t even know.”

“Tell me…” he stops and blows some air through his thinned lips. “Tell me about the regretful part.”

“You know about the regretful part,” she replies.

“Tell me anyhow.”

There’s a desperate edge to his voice, a plea, and it’s gutting because she feels that, too. She knows what he wants to hear. She knows what he dreads hearing. And she knows - in some ways - they’re the exact same things.

“We shouldn’t do this,” she tells him in a near whisper. She tries not to hold his gaze, but she can’t help it. He draws her in so fully, so consistently, and she feels powerless against his pull. “This is a bad idea.”

“I don’t care,” he replies. It’s earnest and so very raw. His beautiful eyes look at her like he just wants something, anything to hold on to. And she can give him that. The truth will absolutely offer him that. But it’s all so temporary.

“This can’t change anything, Will,” she tells him. “I still belong in Central City. I’m still going back.”

“I know,” he admits. “But I still need to hear you say it. Please.”

The look in his eyes is so serious, so exposed, and she wonders when she started to have this much effect on him. She wonders how. By all rights, neither of them should have so strong an impact on the other. They’re scarcely more than acquaintances, after all. A connection like this defies logic and it throws Amelia for a loop. But then, everything about Will Queen always has. So, she thinks, maybe she just needs to stop trying to define him, define this, fit him in some kind of a box, because what they feel for each other surely defies all attempts at categorization.

“All the ‘what ifs,’” she tells him. Her voice is soft and her eyes unwavering from his. It feels like a confession, like a bid for absolution that she surely does not deserve. Because in spite of her regrets, she can’t see herself changing a thing. Not before and definitely not now.

She must be silent for too long because he prompts her with a gentle “The ‘what ifs?’”

“Yes,” she breathes out, swallowing hard.  “What if… what if I’d seen you before Maggie did? What if I’d gone with you to the fair?” The words are hard mostly because she can see it. She can see herself as a college girl with her arms wrapped around his neck, laughing in the river at their campsite. She can see holding his hand on the ferris wheel. She can imagine it so clearly.

And that only makes everything heightened more when Will’s pinky brushes against hers.

It’s far from accidental. Neither of them look down at their hands resting on the bartop, but she can’t hold back the soft moan or the way her eyes slip shut as his finger runs against the length of hers. It’s nothing but a brush of fingers. It could be the most innocent thing in the world. But it’s not. There’s absolutely nothing innocent about it at all.

A shock of feeling races through her, leaves his touch resonating everywhere. It ripples across every nerve ending. And the way her finger twitches toward him, the way her pinky curves to the side, exposing the soft skin between her fingers to his touch is entirely instinct.

There is no hesitance on his part in running his finger against the newly exposed, softer skin of the inner side of her pinky. It’s far and away the most sexual moment she can remember having in years and it’s in public, at a well-lit brunch bar with her friends and his sister in full view.

But she can’t care about the company nearby. Not right now. Not with her entire body tingling and her head spinning. Not with his breathing heavy and his pupils damned near eclipsing the blue of his eyes as he stares her.

She could get swept away in this if she let herself. It’s incredibly tempting. This feeling - Will - is so addictive and she finds she’s already craving more of this, of him, of them. She’s going to have to stop, going to have to go cold turkey very soon.

But not yet.

“What if I’d kissed you at the gala?” she continues. Her voice is so quiet that she might have wondered if he’d even heard her at all had his finger not stiffened and curled around hers. It’s enough to make her press on. “What if I’d stayed and given us a shot? What if I were braver? What if I’d listened to my instincts?”

There’s the slightest bit of pressure against her fingers, an urging to turn her hand over, and she gives into it easy despite her better judgement.

“And what did your instincts say?” he asks. His fingers slide up to her wrist as he talks and he traces soft, lazy circles against her pulsepoint. The shock of feeling sets her cheeks aflame, makes her feel alive, and she suddenly can’t get enough oxygen.

“Oh, God, Will,” she lets out in a hushed rush of breath. It feels painfully scandalous. She bites into the flesh of her lower lip and lets a curtain of her hair hide her face. If she’d thought about it, she probably would have known he couldn’t let that stand. It seems like he can’t bear to stop looking at her whenever she’s near and soon enough the fingers of his free hand are tucking her hair behind her ear again.

“If they’re saying ‘Oh, God, Will,’ I think I like your instincts,” he tells her. He tries to make it sound amused, but that sort of falls flat because he’s clearly, obviously, every bit as turned on right now as she is and his voice is far too gritty to be flippant.

“My instincts don’t matter,” she tells him. But in great contrast to her words, she can’t make herself pull her hand away and she finds her own thumb stroking along the vein of his inner wrist without even thinking about it. He sucks in a wild breath and lets out a truncated whimper, his whole frame curving toward her like he’s seeking out more of her presence.

“I think they do,” he tells her. “I think they matter most. I think instinct tells you what to fight for.”

She recognizes that for the plea that it is. “I can’t, Will. We can’t. You know that.”

“What I know is that I can’t imagine going without seeing you for another year,” Will replies levelly. “I know that just a glimpse of you makes my day brighter and I’ve never met anyone that I want to learn everything about before. Not like this. Not like you. I know I’ve had enough of ‘what if.’ Haven’t you?”

The worst of it is, she has. She can’t imagine another night in her kitchen watching him on the news as he risks his life for a stranger, knowing she doesn’t even have the right to call him up afterward and ask him how he is. She can’t begin to fathom the sense of loss that she knows would hit her if something happened to him. But that still isn’t enough to derail her entire life.

“I’m with someone, Will,” she reminds him - and herself - pulling her fingers back and blinking hard, trying to force logic back into her own mind. “I’m not a cheat.”

“If you think this isn’t already cheating, you’re fooling yourself,” he replies quietly. He looks a little ashamed as he says it and it echoes strongly with the feeling roiling in her gut. “It might not be an affair, but we both know your heart isn’t entirely with him and that’s the more important part.”

She pulls her hand away entirely at that and rubs at her brow because he’s right. He’s right and that’s not fair to any of them.

“He deserves better than this,” Amelia sighs. It’s thready and uneven. “So do you.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Will ventures. He’s pulled back a bit, torn himself from her physical space, but it seems like it takes effort for him to force a respectable distance between them.

“I don’t already?” she laughs. It’s not a pretty chuckle by any means. It’s twisted, a little bitter and a little self-effacing.

“No, Amelia,” he tells her. His voice is longing but distant, as is his gaze. “I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

“Okay then,” she agrees. “What is it you think, Will?”

“I think you’re right,” he tells her. “I think he does deserve better than this. And so do I. But I think you deserve better, too.” She finds herself frozen in place, watching him, waiting for him to continue. “I think your head wants one extreme and your heart wants the other and you haven’t figured out how to have a bit of both, yet. I think you deserve to be successful and happy - blissfully, absurdly happy. But you’ve told yourself you have to have one or the other and that’s just not true.”

“That’s not it,” she says after a moment. Her fingernail digs at a groove in the bartop and she, for once, cannot bear to look at him at all.

“It’s not?” he asks.

“No,” she counters. “I know it’s not a trade off. I enjoy my work and I don’t need him to be successful in my own right.”

“Then, what-”

“It’s easier,” she blurts out, interrupting him and daring to look up at him again. “What he and I have is… solid and supportive. It’s good. It is. But I’d survive if I lost him. I’d be okay. I’d still be me.”

“You’re settling because you’re afraid of being hurt,” Will realizes aloud.

“It’s not settling,” Amelia replies in a huff. “It’s choosing what’s best for me.”

“Does he know that?” Will challenges, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve been with him two years, Will,” Amelia reminds him. “I’m pretty sure he’s well aware of what our relationship is and is not by now. What’s so wrong with picking something simple? With choosing not to risk everything?”

“Without risk there’s no reward, Amelia,” Will tells her. It sounds a little pitying and she knows both his words and his tone are going to stick with her a long time. “The point is the risk. The point is loving someone so much that it would forever change you if you lost them. Don’t you want that?”

“No!” she replies sharply, wrapping her arms around herself. “No, I don’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says softly. “I think you want it more than anything or you wouldn’t be here with me right now. But I think you’re scared of it all the same. I think you’ve been hurt badly and you don’t want to go through it again.”

That’s not quite true, but it still hits a bit close to home and it’s enough to steel her resolve and stiffen her backbone. “I need to get back to the girls,” she announces. She doesn’t look at him as she says it, instead noticing that the pitcher of mimosas she’d ordered is next to her. How long has that been there? It seems like she loses track of the world around her whenever he’s near.

“Okay,” he agrees immediately. That throws her. She’d expected a fight. Her surprise must show, judging by the look on his face. “I want to see you again. All the time. I want to… I want to take risks with you, Amelia, to have something that I’m terrified of losing. But I don’t get to make that choice for both of us. I know that. And anything I could say is pointless if you don’t want to take that risk, too.”

“I can’t,” she replies, her voice broken and wet. It’s a lot to expect him to accept, to even understand, but he smiles sadly at her like he gets it. It’s far more than she deserves and she knows it.

“I know,” he says. She doubts that’s true, but she’s pretty sure he knows she believes it. And that’s enough. It has to be. He slips off the barstool and hesitates just a moment before leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. It’s more innocent than the way their fingers had danced together earlier, but it still leaves her rattled and trying to hold on to the memory of his scent and the feel of his lips on her skin. “Take care of yourself, Amelia. Call me next time you’re in town.”

“Is that a good idea?” she asks as he pulls away. There’s barely a respectable space between them and he smiles sadly as his gaze caresses the details of her face, committing them to memory.

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’d love to hear from you anyhow.”

“Maybe,” she agrees noncommittally. Despite herself, she can picture doing that. She can see calling him up and meeting for coffee. But she also can’t see it ending there. Just the idea of that, just the possibility of something more with him, something real, sets her heart fluttering and sends a thrill rushing through her veins.

And, despite herself, she thinks maybe… maybe that’s something she’s underrated.

If the very idea of him is enough to make her head spin, what would it be like to really kiss him, to make love to him, to laugh together curled up on the sofa, to wake up tangled in his arms. It’s not that she wants these things that surprises her, it’s the force she wants them with. There’s so much there to explore between them and leaving it all uncharted just makes her feel… empty. She feels empty all of a sudden. And there’s something profoundly sad about that.

“Will,” she says, making a wild grab for his arm as he moves away. He looks back at her and she knows she’s got a big piece of his heart in her hands. She doesn’t know how to keep it safe while she protects her own, but she’s going to try. “I’ll think about it,” she promises. “About everything you said and about next time I’m in town. I just… I need to think.”  

She expects him to say that she’s already thinking too much, that she needs to learn to just feel instead, but he doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t say a word, instead bringing their joined hands up to kiss her fingers before letting her go and heading back to the table his sister still occupies. Someone else has joined her there - her boyfriend of the last year or so, if Amelia remembers news reports correctly - but her attention is quickly diverted by her own table where Celeste and Maggie sit staring at her with twin astounded expressions on their faces.

Great. So… that’s gonna be fun.

It takes a moment before she feels steady enough to carry that pitcher of mimosas back to the table so she just sits there staring at the finger his pinky had been running up and down minutes ago. She can still feel it, like a phantom sensation she’s not sure will ever leave her. She’s not sure she wants it to.

He’s so… He makes her feel so much. She’s spent a very long time telling herself that she doesn’t want that, that it’s too dangerous and foolhardy. So, why does that all feel like a lie right now?

When her hands stop shaking and she feels even enough to walk without spilling spiked orange juice everywhere, she gets up, grabs the pitcher and turns back toward her friends.

But the first thing she notices is that Will is nowhere to be found.

The second is that his sister is glaring daggers at her.

Amelia doesn’t know Julianna Queen, but she’s long had the impression that the other woman is not someone you want to piss off. She offers up a thin, disaffected smile before choosing to ignore the Queen girl, because that is really the best plan she can come up with at the moment. Besides… Celeste and Maggie are waiting for her.

“So…” Celeste says as Amelia reaches them and sets down their drinks. “I’m pretty sure you’re both gonna owe me child support.”

“What?” Amelia asks, wholly perplexed.

“I totally got pregnant just from watching the two of you together,” Celeste announces, filling her glass.

“Celeste…” Amelia groans, rolling her eyes as she sits down with her friends.

“She’s actually not wrong,” Maggie chimes in, though she sounds a whole lot less charmed than Celeste does.

“Do you have any idea how many people search their whole lives for a connection like that?” Celeste challenges, shaking her head in disbelief. “And you’re gonna just throw it away without even giving it a chance?”

“And you?” Amelia asks, looking at Maggie. “Are you ‘Team Will,’ too?”

“Hell no,” Maggie scoffs. “I’m ‘Team Amelia,’ now and always. But I do think you’re being incredibly unfair to your boyfriend of several years if you’re making heart-eyes and playing footsie with another man at the bar.”

Ouch.

“I wasn’t,” Amelia counters, feeling her cheeks heat up at the denial. But even she doesn’t quite believe her words. There may have been no feet involved… but it’s not like Maggie’s all that far off. Her wrist still tingles.

“Honey, I love you and I want the very best for you always,” Maggie confides in her. “But is that really Will Queen? Anyone with eyes can see the chemistry and I get how attractive that can be - believe me - but that’s far from all you need in a relationship. You and Thad live together. You’re serious and you’ve been building your lives together for quite a while. Now, either that’s what you want or it’s not, but you need to figure it out because pining for one guy when you live with another is asking for trouble.”

Amelia isn’t sure quite what to say to that. Maggie surely has a point, but Celeste sort of saves the moment by jumping in with a question. “Do you love him?”

“I barely know him,” Amelia protests.

It takes a moment for her to register that she’d automatically assumed Celeste meant Will instead of Thad. And, wow, the implications of that alone…

“Your soul does, though,” Celeste replies weightily. It’s cheesy as hell, but she also fully means it because that’s just who Celeste is. “You feel it. You can’t tell me otherwise because I have eyes and I know better.”

“But Thad-”

“Thad’s a great guy,” Maggie cuts her off. “And he loves you. I like him. He’s good for you, but it doesn’t really matter what I think. What matters is what you think. And, if you’re using him as a shield to keep yourself from having to feel more than absolutely necessary, that’s shortchanging yourself and completely unfair to him.”

“I think you are,” Celeste chimes in before Amelia has a chance to reply. “And, you know what? Now that I’ve seen you with Will, I think you always have.”

“Excuse me?” Amelia asks, blinking in surprise.

“When did you start dating Thad, honey?” Maggie questions. “And why, exactly?”

“Two… two years ago last March,” Amelia replies uneasily. “And… I don’t know, because he asked me?”

“Will asked you, too,” Celeste points out, taking a healthy swig of her drink. “In fact, if I remember right, he’d asked you more than once.”

“What’s your point?” Amelia asks.

“We think you said yes to Thad because you were running out of reasons to say no to Will,” Maggie informs her.

“That’s not fair,” Amelia says, defending herself.

“To Thad? I agree. It’s totally unfair,” Maggie counters. “But I care about that a whole lot less than I do that it’s unfair to you.”

From anyone else in the world, this conversation would probably have made Amelia defensive, turned into a tremendous fight. But this is Celeste and Maggie and there is nothing and no one that Amelia will ever let come between her and her girls. Even when it’s hard to hear, they have her best interests at heart and she knows it.

“Look, sweetie, we’re going to support you no matter what you do,” Maggie tells her.

“But we’ve seen you with Thad and we’ve seen you with Will. And the difference is… It’s night and day, Amelia,” Celeste adds. “It’s like you come alive around Will, like he wakes up a part of your soul that’s asleep otherwise. And, okay, maybe it’s not him you wind up with. Maybe it would all go up in flames and you’d get a little burned in the process. But do you really want to know you can feel like that and then go back to Thad and your over-organized routine?”

“Celeste,” Maggie says warningly. She and Celeste aren’t exactly on the same page, here. For all that Amelia knows they’ll both be happy for her as long as she’s living the life she wants, Celeste is very obviously pushing her toward Will while Maggie would sooner watch her take the more sensible route.

Amelia doesn’t immediately have the words to answer Celeste’s question, so the blonde pipes up again and what she says throws Amelia more for a loop than anything else that’s been said.

“What would your dad have wanted for you?”

The words hit her like a physical blow, something that’s counteracted by Maggie grabbing her hand in comfort and squeezing her fingers as she hisses something lowly toward Celeste.

What would her dad have wanted for her? Everything. Her dad would have wanted everything. He’d been a simple man, an accountant whose entire life had revolved around his wife and daughter. He would have done anything for her happiness and she knows it. If he were alive today, he’d get along fine with Thad, but she can’t see them relating over much. With Will… with Will it’s different. She can see her dad laughing with him - Amos Prescott had always enjoyed a good sense of humor - and she can see Will earning his respect for how much importance he places on his family. But, more than that, she can easily see her dad’s eyes smiling at the way she so easily gets lost in Will’s presence, at how the whole world dims and fades away when they’re together.

He’d relate, she thinks. He’d want that for her.

“I need to… I need to think,” Amelia says breathlessly, echoing her words to Will. “I just need…”

“Holy shit, did I get through to you?” Celeste asks, blinking in surprise.

“Apparently, I owe you twenty bucks,” Maggie tells the other girl dryly. Amelia barely hears the words, though, because her head is spinning. For the first time, the idea of being with Will, really being with him, is something that sounds like it makes sense, like it could work. If her friends support that, if Will wants it, too… doesn’t that make it sound more realistic? Doesn’t that make it feel more right?

“What am I doing?” Amelia asks. The painful thing - the most painful thing, anyhow - is that she’s actually looking to her friends for an answer. Because she doesn’t know. In this moment, it feels as though everything’s been thrown into question and she genuinely doesn’t have any clue which way is up. That’s terrifying, but it’s also oddly freeing even if it leaves her feeling like she needs to find solid ground to land on.

“It’s okay that you don’t know,” Maggie advises. “You know that, right? In fact, it’s better that you don’t rush into anything. You’ve always been so put together, Amelia. And we love that about you. You’re ambitious and you’re a planner. It’s part of what makes you you. But, you’re human, too. You’re allowed to question things. And sometimes plans need adjusting.”

“Does mine?” Amelia asks. The idea of that is startling and even the thought that she’d be entertaining this notion today would have stunned her this morning. But Will has a way of throwing everything into flux.

“We don’t get to decide that for you, hon,” Maggie says with a wry twist of her lips and a one-shouldered shrug. “But for my money… you’ve got two different decisions here. It’s not about choosing between Thad and Will, even though it might seem like that. The first thing you need to decide is if this life with Thad is what you want. Don’t even make Will a part of that equation. If what you’ve got is what you want then… that’s the end of it. If it’s not, then you’ve got another decision to make about Will. But don’t make this some kind of choice between two men. It’s about you, not them. And that’s why Celeste and I are happy to give our full-throated support no matter what you decide to do. I told you before we weren’t Team Will or Team Thad. We’re both Team Amelia. I meant that.”

“Team Happy Amelia,” Celeste chimes in, nodding. “Like, Team Super-Blindingly-Happy Amelia… who is blissful with her soulmate, who throws her plans out the window for once in her life.” So, there’s no doubt what Celeste like to see Amelia do. And Amelia’s not surprised in the least to see Maggie cast their friend an incredulous look. After all, she’d just so carefully toed the line, trying to make them both seem neutral. “What? It’s not like I’m wrong,” Celeste scoffs, popping a strawberry in her mouth as Maggie shakes her head.

“Anyhow… you were right about one thing,” Maggie decides, looking back to Amelia. “You need to think. But the good part of all this is, there isn’t a rush. Take your time. Take a breath. Mull it over and figure out what it is you really want. It’s not like Will’s going anywhere. He’s waited this long.”

That’s probably true, but it also sends a fresh rush of guilt washing over Amelia. Because she knows… she knows that for as much as she’s always told him ‘no,’ she’s just as clearly expressed ‘maybe.’ For most men, that wouldn’t be enough. Not for interest to last this long, at any rate. Will’s different, though. Or maybe it’s just that they’re different together. After all, it’s not like she’s any less drawn to him after all these years.

“You okay?” Maggie asks. It’s only then that Amelia realizes it’s been a few moments since any of them spoke.

“Yeah…” she replies. It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to her. “I’m just… lost in thought, that’s all. Sorry.”

And, oh is that true. Her mind is racing a mile a minute and it all plays out like a movie in her imagination. In her head, she can see showing up at Will’s apartment. He’d be so surprised to see her that he’d just freeze when he opened the door, that same look on his face as he’d worn when he’d first spotted her earlier today. He’d be barefoot, comfortable in his own space, and he’d step back, holding open the door for her and waiting for her to speak.

“I thought about it,” she’d say after the door shut. Her hands would shake, as would her voice. “I don’t want to go another year without seeing you again, either.”

He’d need more than that. There’ve been so many ‘maybes’ between them that he’d need to hear more. She’d step closer to him, slipping her hand into his as he watched her with tentative longing.

“You were right. Some risks are worth it,” she’d tell him. “I think this might be one of them.”

He’d kiss her then. It’d start soft, disbelieving that this is all real, all hot breath and soft lips. But it would escalate quickly. She knows it would. They can scarcely keep their hands to themselves now, but if she showed up at his home, if she said those words to him… Frankly, she can’t imagine they’d even make it to a bed. She’d be so swept away by him so very easily. Her damned hand still tingles from where he’d stroked her wrist and finger earlier. The notion of how every inch of her body would resonate with his touch is heady, makes her flush and swallow hard at the very idea. He’d make love to her so thoroughly, so passionately, that it would further solidify that crazy connection between them. But, truth be told, she’s fairly certain she’d be lost in this thing between them from the moment his lips touched hers. He’d pull her under like a riptide and she’s not sure she’d ever surface.

But, for the first time… she thinks that sounds like something equal parts dangerous and appealing.

“Earth to Amelia!”

“Huh?”

The image in her head fades slowly and she knows it’s very, very obvious where her mind was from the twin looks on Maggie and Celeste’s faces.

“It’s late, hon,” Maggie says. “We’ve been here a bit and I need to meet Jer soon. Are you gonna be okay? Do you want me to cancel with him? We can go veg out in your hotel room and hash through this if you want.”

“No,” Amelia counters immediately. “Thank you, but no. I think I’m going to just take a walk and clear my head. I’ve got a meeting scheduled in a bit, too.” Neither of the girls look all that convinced. “Really, I’m fine. I’m good, actually. I wish we had more time together, though. Brunch a couple times a year isn’t enough.”

“Jer and I will be up in Central City this fall,” Maggie tells her.

“And I’m not going to head to China without seeing you again,” Celeste informs her. “Can I bum your sofa for a few days this August?”

“Of course,” Amelia tells her, a grin spreading across her lips. “You always have a place with me and that would be fantastic. I’d love to see you.”

Whatever else in her life might be in flux, she will always welcome the chance to spend more time with her girls. She’d known she had missed them, but she hadn’t quite realized how badly until she’d actually seen them.

“For real, where the hell is our server?” Maggie asks, looking around the room and shaking her head. “I’m not exactly in a rush yet, but it would be good to pay anyhow.”

Celeste lets out a shrill whistle a moment later and waves wildly toward a man that Amelia only vaguely recognizes from earlier. Honestly, she’s been so distracted that she couldn’t have pulled their server out of a lineup. The man heads over with a clearly fake smile.

“Are you ladies ready for your next round, then?” he asks once he gets there.

“Uh, no,” Maggie corrects. “Just the check, please.”

“Your bill is already covered,” the server tells her. “As is anything else you ladies would care to order. I’ve been told to instruct you that the Dom Perignon would be better without orange juice, but would be an excellent choice.”

“Excuse me?” Celeste blinks, her eyes darting toward the host at the door who she’s been seeing. “Who, uh… who covered it, exactly?” She’s visibly nervous and it makes Amelia wonder if maybe she’s a little less certain of the casual nature of her relationship than she’d let on. But she’s also wrong. There’s no doubt in Amelia’s mind about that.

“It was Will,” Amelia murmurs. She doesn’t even need that confirmed.

“Mr. Queen left you a note as well,” the server says, flipping through the book of checks for his tables until he reaches a loose slip of paper and hands it over. “I presume you’re Amelia?”

“Yes,” she confirms quietly, taking the small piece of paper and unfolding it, half excited and half nervous to see what message he’s left. Ultimately, it’s short, sweet and painfully appropriate.

To no more ‘what ifs.’ Take all the time you need.

She lets out a shuddering breath and her eyes slam shut as her free hand rubs at the furrows of her brow.

“Thank you,” she manages, effectively dismissing the server.

“What’s it say?” Celeste asks eagerly. Amelia’s eyes snap back open at the question and she suddenly finds herself very protective of the message.

“Nothing,” she replies quickly, folding the paper carefully and tucking it behind her license in her wallet. “It’s… it’s nothing. I’m sorry, guys. I need to get some air. I need… I need some air.” She’s nodding at her own words and if it seems a little desperate, a little manic, that’s probably not too far off the mark. “Love you both. I’ll call you tonight? I just… I need air.”

Kindly, neither of them point out that they’re in a restaurant with one wall slid open to blend the indoors with the outdoors. There’s plenty of fresh air. They both stand, each of them hugging her goodbye before Amelia hastily makes her way out the front door, her head spinning and her heart  pulled in so many directions it feels like it might just split apart at the seams.

 Starling City’s weather is gorgeous, and she takes a big gulp of crisp June air the moment she’s out the front door. It’s cleansing somehow, and the bright sunshine makes for a fabulous excuse to don her sunglasses and take her time lingering outside.

 In spite of the fact that she’s not originally from Starling, that she’d only moved here for a job after college - for the job after college - when she sucks in a deep breath of air it smells like home. It doesn’t make sense, but there it is anyhow. Central City has been good to her… very good. Her job, her boyfriend, her life is exactly what she’d told herself she wanted.

 But, even before Will threw all of that into question, a part of her was here. Part of her wants to be at this restaurant every weekend with Celeste and Maggie. Part of her wants a tiny, one-bedroom flat to herself in the trendier part of the arts district. Part of her wants… well, part of her wants something else entire. Another city, another life.

 It’s childish.

 That’s what she decided years ago.

 Life is short - life can be so short - and if you sit idly by then all your goals for it will slip right through your fingers. She’s making a difference in Central City. Her work is invaluable. She has a real impact on policy, on people’s lives. She doesn’t have time to entertain ‘what ifs,’ to linger on silly yearnings that can’t go anywhere.

 Unless… unless she does. Unless that’s more important than she’s ever given it credit for.

 “What the hell makes you so special?”

 Amelia jumps at the voice, turning to find one very familiar, skeptical, dark-haired girl leaning against the outside of the restaurant, scrutinizing her like she’s been put under a microscope and the dark-haired girl can’t quite figure out what she’s seeing.

 “Excuse me?” Amelia asks. Her voice is uneasy and defensive. She’s not prepared for this conversation in any way.

 But then, she thinks Julianna Queen might relish it all the more for that.

 The younger girl pushes off the wall and saunters forward, all lithe grace and confidence that Amelia absolutely does not feel in this moment. She’d look dainty if not for the black leather biker jacket and combat boots and her matching unaffected expression. But Amelia suspects that’s an act, an affect put on for the sake of her image.

 She’d know. She does the same professionally on a regular basis.

 “You,” Jules says again, folding one arm in front of herself and resting the elbow of her other on her hand as she worries her fingers together like she’s trying to physically sort things out. Amelia’s seen the girl’s father do much the same thing while working. “What is it about you that has my brother tied up in knots?”

 Thank god for sunglasses, but Amelia can’t credit the mimosas for the sudden color in her cheeks.

 “Maybe you should ask him that,” she replies. It’s clipped, uneasy, and Amelia can feel her spine stiffening at the sense of an impending conflict. But, then, she’s extremely sensitive about all things related to Will Queen right now.

 “I think he’s put up with enough shit without me quizzing him about why he’s still mooning after you like an eon after one dance,” Jules scoffs.

 “A year,” Amelia responds without even thinking about it. She could kick herself when she realizes what she’s said. She suspects that Julianna Queen is not the sort of person you expose your vulnerabilities to, but it’s too late now. “It’s been a year since we danced, not an eon,” she clarifies.

 Jules cocks her head to the side and looks Amelia up and down like she’s trying to figure out if she’s something she needs to scrape off the bottom of her boot or not.

 “A year,” she allows a moment later. “Have you even seen him since then?”

 Amelia swallows hard and looks out to the street. Cars hurry by like ants, unaware and going about their business, life on a mission. There’s no one on their side of the street, but there are plenty of people going in and out of the mom-and-pop coffee shop across the way. It’s the stuff of daily life, the ins and outs of a city’s lifeblood. It’s routine, the sort of thing she thrives on, usually. But her moment right now is not.

 “No,” she answers. She doesn’t have to, she knows that, but for all her familiarity with the Queen men, she knows very little of the Queen women besides Moira.

 “And a year later he still looks at you like you’re the only person in the room,” Jules points out. There’s no missing the annoyance in her voice and Amelia can’t deny the truth behind her words. She’s not even sure she wants to. “And you sit there looking right back at him exactly the same way. Seems to me like the two of you are still dancing.”

 God, there’s a thought. Amelia’s head swims at that memory - or maybe the mimosas - and the breath she lets out is a shuddering exhale before looking back to meet Jules’ gaze.

 “Your brother is a fantastic guy,” she allows. It might be the biggest understatement she’s ever made.

 “But, what? Not good enough for you?” Jules challenges.

 “What?” Amelia asks. It comes out on a disbelieving laugh. “What are you even talking ab-”

 “You,” Jules announces angrily. “You with your high-powered job and important life. Just because he’s a firefighter instead of a doctor or a senator or something. Just because he’s a bastard. You think you’re so high and mighty. So much better than-”

 “He doesn’t think that, does he?” Amelia cuts off. She doesn’t give a damn what accusations are being thrown at her, doesn’t care in the least what Jules Queen thinks about her. She doesn’t owe her any explanations. But, God, if that’s what Will thinks. If that’s what he believes, what he has believed for years, she’s not sure how she’ll forgive herself.

��But Jules doesn’t answer directly. Not right away.

 “My brother is better than all of us. He’s the best man I’ve ever met.”

 “I know that,” Amelia blurts out. It’s painfully, gut-wrenchingly honest. But, God, she does know that. She’s seen it. His devotion to his family, to his job. His commitment as a brother, as a son. She’s seen it. She’s heard about it for years. Little Nate had rambled on about him all summer as he’d poured coffee around city hall years ago. Aside from his… varied romantic history splashing across the tabloids, she’d also seen much of his dedication to his siblings, his coworkers, his city written out in black and white, played out on television - complete with him in uniform, covered in soot and carrying an infant out of a burning building.

 If you want to talk about good men… Will Queen is prime, always has been.

 “I’m not… I know I’m not better than him,” Amelia continues, licking her lips. “I’ve never thought that. Not once.”

 “Then what the hell are you doing?” Jules asks. “Why the hell are you still dancing?”

 She can remember actually dancing with him, can still smell the hint of his cologne, feel the heat of his palm against her back, remember the rush of his breath as he exhaled her name out against her cheek. She dreams about it sometimes. Waking up is always brutal those nights and her boyfriend’s warm embrace is far from what she wants in the quiet, honest cover of night.

 “I’m not,” Amelia protests. “Not anymore. Dancing is wonderful. It’s fun and it’s… it’s a fantastic escape, but it’s not life.”[1] [2] [3]

 Maybe. Maybe it’s not life. But maybe she wants it to be. God, she is so ill-equipped for this conversation right now.

 “Funny,” Jules says, folding her arms in front of her. “It’s my career, actually.”

 Amelia thinks she’d known that, but she’s not certain and she nods her head allowing the other girl’s point. “It’s not my life,” she clarifies.

 “Because your life is all big important things without any art in them? Without any joy or expression?” Jules snorts.

 “I get a lot of joy out of my work,” Amelia bristles.

 “No,” Jules sighs. It’s a pitying noise. “I don’t think you do. I think you get satisfaction and it’s been so long since you’ve had joy instead that you’ve forgotten the difference.”

 “You don’t know me,” Amelia tells her angrily - correctly - even if it feels like she does.

 “Sure I do,” Jules scoffs. “I know you very well. You’re… pedestrian. You’re a person who hits the same coffee shop at the same time every day and hurries to be at their desk an hour early. You leave late and take papers home to work on at night. You probably haven’t taken a vacation since you started your job. You screw your boyfriend like clockwork twice a week just because it’s been a few days and you feel like you’re supposed to-”

 “Excuse me”

 “-You aren’t exceptional, Amelia. You’re ordinary. And worse, you like it that way. You’re nowhere near good enough for my brother, so quit dancing with him. He deserves better.”

 Jules turns to leave at that, content to have the last word. Amelia will never know what it is that makes her speak up - maybe everything is just too raw to let it end this way - but she knows she can’t allow Jules’ words to stand unchallenged.

 “You’re jealous,” she announces. It’s too loud, too sharp, and the incredulous look on Jules’ face when she turns around feels very, very dangerous.

 “You want to say that again?” she asks slowly.

 “You are,” Amelia tells her, doubling down and pushing her sunglasses atop her head. “You’re so used to being the most important person in his world and you know I’m a threat to that. Because he does look at me and it’s like nothing exists but us for an instant, not even you. Because you see us together and you know it could be so much more than just this, you know it could last. That it could be something real.”

 Jules shakes her head, eyes wide and disbelieving as she runs her tongue along her teeth and takes a step closer until their toe-to-toe.

 “Oh yeah?” she questions, looking up at Amelia.

 “Yes,” Amelia replies firmly.

 “Fine,” Jules acknowledges, raising an eyebrow. “Then prove it.”

 This time, when she turns to head back into the restaurant, Amelia lets her have the last word. She’s not sure what she could possibly say to that anyhow, but the words ring in her ears.

Prove it.

They echo through her brain with every footstep she takes down the sidewalk. Over and over.

Prove it.

Prove it.

Prove it.

The cool air isn’t really cutting it anymore. It feels stale, stifling and the need to escape hits her full on. Without even thinking about it, she waves down a nearby cab - ignoring that an Uber or a Lyft would absolutely be cheaper, she can’t care about that right now - and climbs in quickly, asking the driver to turn up the air conditioning, please. He looks at her like she’s crazy, but does it anyhow.

“Where to?” he asks.

She rattles off the address from memory and the cabbie does another double-take, but doesn’t ask any more questions before pulling out into traffic and heading down the road.

Will’s note practically burns a hole in her purse. She’s so very aware that it’s there and his sister’s words still rattle around her brain like a dare she wants to take. She ignores both, though, and grabs for her phone instead. What she needs right now is a distraction. She needs… she doesn’t know what she needs.

She needs something to keep her from pulling up Will’s address and giving that to the cabbie instead, that’s what she needs.

As she expected, she’s got a slew of emails from work. None of them are of immediate importance, which is good because her mind could not possibly deal with an actual crisis at the moment. There’s one from her mom, too, though. And that’s the one that pulls her attention.

It’s just her regular, rambling novella about her week. There’s a moment where Amelia considers calling her, where she thinks maybe her mom is exactly what she needs right now. But she makes herself put her phone back and pushes down that impulse, because she knows exactly what her mom would say.

“Your heart has wings, baby girl. You need to let it fly.” She can practically hear it. “Life’s too damned short to keep both feet on the ground. The sky’s the limit and you, of all people, deserve to soar.”

But then her mom is prone to following every impulse she’s ever had. She’s been a risk-taker her whole life and it’s both rewarded and cost her time and time again. Having been there for so much of the cost, Amelia’s never understood how she can keep taking all those risks.

No, she knows what her mom’s take on things would be. What she needs right now is the exact opposite voice. She needs balance and perspective if she’s going to make an informed decision that sticks.

Even if it means her next meeting happens just a bit earlier than had been planned.

“We’re here, lady,” the cabbie announces, jolting Amelia from her thoughts. “Can’t say as I ever saw Queen Manor before. Really is sorta a castle, ain’t it?”

Her gaze snaps to the window to find they have, indeed, pulled up to Queen Manor. It’s been awhile since she’s been here, since Moira was mayor, but it looks very much the same. It’s probably looked the same, more or less, since it was built. It’s enormous, stately and - yes - very castle-like.

“It’s appropriate,” she answers crisply, handing the man considerably more money than the meter reads. “Thanks for your time.”

He’s a whole lot happier with the sizable tip and gets out of the cab to open the door for her. She thanks him absently and barely pays attention as he gets back in the cab and pulls away. She’s too busy staring up at the manor and all that it represents.

“Amelia? Darling, you’re early.”

Moira’s voice jolts her and Amelia turns to find her former mentor strolling through the gardens, her arm looped through her husband’s.

“I know. I’m so sorry,” Amelia apologizes, taking a few steps in the couple’s direction to kiss both Moira and Walter on the cheek. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Not at all,” Moira counters, waving off her concern. “I’m surprised, not unhappy. It’s good to see you. You look well.”

“You too,” Amelia sighs, offering up a smile. Just being in the former mayor’s presence settles something in her, leaves her feeling more steady on her feet. “And you, Walter.”

“How is Central City these days?” Walter inquires politely. “I hear good things about your work there. It seems as though you’ve settled right in.”

“I… work is good,” she allows. That question would have been a whole lot easier to answer before running into Will and there’s no doubt that Moira’s picked up on her hesitation. The older woman’s face tightens with a forced smile that Amelia long ago learned to read. Walter’s countenance is a bit harder for her to interpret, but she suspects she’s not fooling him much, either.

“Excellent,” he declares. “I’ll let you ladies catch up, then. Shall I have tea brought to your study in a bit?”

“Mmm, yes please. Oolong would be delightful,” Moira agrees, smiling up at her husband as he gives a curt nod and heads off toward the house. He’s barely out of sight before Moira refocuses back on Amelia, her face suddenly gravely serious. “What is it that you need help with?”

It’s been awhile since she’s been around Moira and, while all politicians seem to be fairly good at reading people, no one she’s met holds a candle to Moira Queen.

“I’m that obvious?” Amelia asks with a broken laugh. It’s a bid for time as she searches for words, as much as it’s anything else.

“You need to brush up on your poker face, Amelia,” Moira tells her bluntly. “I trained you far better than this. Now… who do you need me to call and pull strings with? Is it the housing initiative?”

Oh, Amelia really wishes it were that simple.

“No… nothing like that,” Amelia allows as the two of them head slowly toward the house. “It’s not work.”

“Not work?” Moira asks sharply. There’s an alertness to her eyes that tells Amelia she’d have been considerably less concerned if it were. “It’s personal?”

“Yes,” Amelia admits. “Very.”

It’s like a veil slides over Moira’s face as she readies herself for the conversation ahead, something steels within her and Amelia quite suddenly feels like a child being taken to the principal’s office for acting foolishly. Neither of them say another word until they’re indoors though. They head directly to Moira’s study where the older woman gestures toward the sofa silently before taking the higher-seated armchair for herself.

Always jockeying for position, Moira Queen. Retirement can’t change that. It’s in her nature.

But the first question out of her mouth is not one that Amelia had anticipated.

“Are you pregnant?” Moira asks.

It’s said abruptly for a reason, to earn an honest reaction and establish an upper hand in the conversation. It absolutely achieves both aims. Amelia almost chokes on the laugh that bubbles up in the back of her throat.

“No,” she says quickly. “Definitely not. That’s… not a part of my plans.”

“Neither was my daughter or two of my grandchildren,” Moira points out. It’s true, but the barest reference to Will makes Amelia flinch slightly and there’s absolutely no way that Moira misses that. But she lets it pass for now. “How is Thad?”

“He’s… fine,” Amelia replies. It’s the very best description of things with Thad that she can envision. They’re fine. They’re not great. They’re not even really good. They’re… well, they’re fine.

“You’re not unhappy with him,” Moira deduces. “That’s good. He’s a remarkable man.” It’s funny only because everyone else’s measure today had been her happiness, not her unhappiness. But Amelia can’t linger on that too long because Moira’s questions haven’t finished. “Is he having an affair?”

“No,” Amelia replies, a little insulted on Thad’s behalf. “Of course not.”

“Are you?” Moira asks. It’s sharper, more honed. If words could have teeth, she’s fairly certain Moira’s question would leave a mark.

“N… No,” Amelia replies again. It’s a little uncertain, though - she can’t help it - and the disbelief on Moira’s face tells her everything she needs to know about how that response was received.

“The occasional indiscretion happens, Amelia,” Moira informs her. “I can help you, but not if you lie to me, not if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m not having an affair,” Amelia says more firmly. “I haven’t done anything.”

“But you want to,” Moira observes.

“No,” Amelia laughs wryly. She’s so close, but so far off the mark at the same time. “I don’t. I don’t want to do that to him, to either of them, but I’m just... “ She stops, huffs, shakes her head and leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Is this enough? Thad is… he’s a good man. He’s smart and kind and handsome. He’s headed places and we get along just fine. Is that enough? Is that… is that all that matters? Couldn’t it be so much more than that? Wouldn’t that be better?”

If there was any part of her that expected Moira Queen to smile and agree, it would have been sorely disappointed. The older woman’s eyes narrow and she raises her chin as she studies Amelia’s uneasy, impassioned face.

“What, precisely, did my grandson say to you?”

Amelia finds herself blinking and staring down at the fringe of the throw rug as her mind races and her mouth goes dry. Coming to her mentor for advice had been one thing, to have been read so thoroughly - so quickly - by Will’s grandmother and confronted with her feelings is very much another.

“He’s very charming,” Moira continues. It does not sound like a compliment when she says it. It doesn’t sound like the Will that Amelia knows, in spite of the words fitting. And she finds herself looking up hesitantly, meeting the Queen matriarch’s eyes with far too much vulnerability showing in her own. “The Queen men always have been. It’s both a gift and a curse.”

“It’s not just that,” Amelia replies. It comes out as a near whisper because it’s an open admission that they’re talking about Will and she can’t quite believe she’s voicing this aloud to Moira Queen. “He makes me feel. He makes me dream. It’s not just that he’s charming. It’s like, when I’m with him, it’s like nothing else matters, like the rest of the world just fades to background noise. And that’s… it’s…”

“Addictive,” Moira acknowledges. “The way he makes it seem like you’re everything to him, that’s something that’s hard to turn down, isn’t it? I should know. His grandfather was much the same way.” Moira gets up, but motions for Amelia to keep seated as she heads over to her desk and unlocks a drawer, rummaging through it. “He reminds me so much of Robert, at times. As he gets older, there are moments where he even looks like him. It’s the smile, you know. That rakish grin that makes even the most intelligent of women swoon and question their own common sense.”

Amelia recoils a little at that assessment, but bites down on her lip to keep from saying anything.

“Do you know what the best part of my relationship with Robert was, Amelia?” Moira questions, pulling herself upright and squaring her shoulders. There’s a binder in her hands that Amelia’s trying not to stare at.

“I don’t think we ever talked about him,” Amelia answers.

“We didn’t,” Moira confirms. “But perhaps we ought to have. The best thing about my life with Robert was that he gave me my son.” The way her face lights up at that tells Amelia precisely how much she values that, but she doesn’t linger on the upsides of her relationship for long. “He was very good at making me feel special, of course. Robert was dashing and a blatant flirt. He had this way about him… well it worked in the boardroom as well as it worked at a party. It drew people to him. But men like Robert - like William - are not the sort who are meant for just one woman. They aren’t built like that.”

“I don’t believe that,” Amelia breathes out. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, but that just makes it more instinctive, more honest. “Not about Will.”

“How well do you really know him, Amelia?” Moira chastises with a shake of her head.

“At least as well as you do,” Amelia counters.

“Yes, well… that doesn’t say very much, does it?” Moira asks.

“Then how can you say this?” Amelia questions, standing abruptly. “How can you stand here and admit you don’t know him well, but tell me what kind of man he is?”

“Because I’ve seen it,” Moira replies, eyes widening and jaw set. It’s a challenge if ever Amelia’s seen one. “So have you. You’re just choosing to ignore it at the moment.” She drops the folder in her hands on the desk with a dull thud. Amelia actually backs up a step like it might bite her. “You started this binder for me, Amelia. Would you like to see what’s been added to it since you last looked?”

Amelia’s heart pounds in her ears and she shakes her head violently before she even realizes she’s moving it. “No,” she says quietly. “I don’t need to see that. I know he’s… He’s single. His love life is his own business. It has nothing to do with me at this point.”

The look on Moira’s face is flat out pitying and Amelia hates it - she hates it. Part of her mind screams at her for coming here. Why had she come here? Why - of all people - is she talking to Moira Queen about this? But the bigger part knows that this is exactly what she came for. She’s here to be talked out of her impulses, to bury her instincts and kill the fledgling dreams she holds for more.

“Would it have been your business the night of the gala?” Moira asks. Amelia jerks at the question and bites her lips together shaking her head. She doesn’t want to hear this, not even a little. “Does it matter that he danced so intimately with you, but then he took home a pretty little blonde who stuck around for an hour before leaving with her shoes in hand?”

“Stop,” Amelia pleads. It’s all too much. She doesn’t want to remember that girl so clearly, doesn’t want to be able to picture so easily how Will would have kissed her and taken her to bed. Not when she knows she’d been sitting in her hotel room at the same moment, wondering if she’d done the right thing, second guessing all of her own choices and longing for him.

“Take note of that feeling you’re experiencing right now, Amelia,” Moira advises, rounding the desk and placing a hand on her elbow. “If you choose a man like him, you’ll need to get used to it.”

“She was his date,” Amelia points out, pulling her arm away.

“Yes,” Moira agrees. “And yet he was more than willing to whisper sweet nothings in your ear while he pawned her off on his thirteen-year-old brother, wasn’t he?”

“It’s different,” Amelia insists, her voice breaking. “We’re different.”

“My dear… how many women in that folder do you think felt the very same way?” Moira asks with a sigh. A sinking feeling of nausea hits Amelia all of a sudden and her head spins. She grabs hold of the desk with one hand, just to steady herself, and she presses the other over her mouth. “Maybe you’re right,” Moira allows. “Maybe you are different. Maybe you’re special to him. But you are far too intelligent a woman to play those odds.”

“I know I’m right,” Amelia insists, pulling her hand away from her mouth. She ignores the way tears spill over her eyelids. They don’t matter. Not right now. “I’m right. Will is not Robert. And not all Queen men are like you’ve described them. Oliver would never in a million years even look at a woman other than his wife.”

“Oliver’s surprised me,” Moira agrees. “I hadn’t thought him capable of fidelity. If you’d known him in his youth, you’d have thought the same. But Felicity is one-in-a-million and there was a long line of girls before her who thought they were the one who could snag my son. Maybe you’re William’s one-in-a-million, but are you really ready to risk everything on that? Because, you need to be certain, Amelia. This isn’t just your relationship with Thad and your heart you’d be risking. It’s your job, too. Politics is brutal for women. Are you ready for the scrutiny and the rumors that would come with leaving a prominent state senator for a Queen? Are you ready for if he’s more like his grandfather than you want to believe? A cuckolded woman looks weak. A cheating man gets painted by the press as virile. You know that’s true.”

“He wouldn’t,” Amelia argues. “He wouldn’t. Will’s not a cheater.” All of a sudden, she’s back at the bar with Will in her head and she can perfectly picture his handsome face telling her just that, denying even the idea of them doing anything more than touching hands while she was with someone else. God, her wrist still tingles where he’d run his thumb across it earlier. “Do you have one woman - a single woman - in that entire binder that he cheated on?”

Amelia doesn’t really have any reason to have this much faith in Will, but it’s there anyhow. She just knows. She believes him, believes in him, and that pays off in spades when Moira has to take a second to regain her composure. “I don’t,” she admits.

“See?” Amelia asks. It feels like such a victory and a part of her heart soars at the vindication. “He would not cheat on me, Moira. I know that with every fiber of my being. I won’t lie and say that him being with that girl from the gala doesn’t hurt - it does - but it’s also irrelevant. I can deal with the press and the politics. I don’t care about that.”

“You will,” Moira predicts. “You will when Thad’s career pays the price for you leaving him for a Queen. You will when you give up your own hard-won career for a boy with a nice smile and some charming words that you don’t really know at all.”

“What are you talking about?” Amelia asks. “I’m not giving up my career for him.”

“Mayor Lance has a chief of staff, Amelia. She doesn’t need another one,” Moira points out. “And William is never going to leave his siblings to join you in Central City. Are you considering a long distance relationship? Because I have to say, whether you’re right about him or not, that lowers your odds of this working out considerably.”

Just like that, Amelia’s heart drops again and with it, reality sets in. “I hadn’t thought about that yet,” she admits.

Moira sighs and gestures back toward the sofa. This time, they both take a seat and the older woman takes one of her hands between both of her own.

“I understand entirely where you’re at,” she assures Amelia, squeezing her hands before letting them go. “Moments of questioning yourself are normal, but you need to keep your head about you. You’re a logical woman, Amelia, and you have such a promising future. I would never have taken you on as an intern all those years ago if that weren’t true. But we are women in politics and, my own indiscretions aside, missteps are rarely forgiven.”

Amelia nods. “I just…” she says quietly, stopping to swallow hard. “I just love the way I feel when I’m with him. I’ve never felt that before. I don’t want to let go of that. It feels like a mistake to let it go.”

Moira lets out a hesitantly pained exhale and looks off to the side as she blinks hard. “This is an incredibly awkward statement to make,” she allows, speaking slowly. “But I would be remiss as your mentor if I didn’t caution you to be exceedingly discreet, should you decide to engage in an affair.”

“He’s not a cheat, Moira,” Amelia reminds her, trying very hard not to envision precisely what she’s suggesting and flushing at the realization that it’s Will’s grandmother suggesting it. “And neither am I.”

“Then go home, Amelia,” Moira counsels her, her voice firm and unwavering. “Go home to Thad. Take stock of what you already have. He’s a good man. He loves you and you have built such strong foundations of your careers together. Leave these fanciful notions of William for your dreams. That’s where they’ll serve you best.”

Of everything Moira’s said, Amelia suspects this is amongst the least accurate. It’s not that she won’t dream of Will - she will; God but she will - but the idea that thoughts of him will serve her best there.

They won’t.

He’ll haunt her.

And she knows it.

Oh, God, she feels sick just thinking about it all. Her head swims as reality sets it, gripping tight with its biting claws and leaving her feeling pinned in place with freshly made scars. She has never been a fanciful person, not even before she lost her father. But the urge to let go of her own expectations, of all her plans and carefully managed goals, it’s near overwhelming when she thinks of Will Queen. He brings something to life inside her, something she’s never known before, and she loves that little sliver of herself that surfaces in his presence. Letting that go, intentionally turning her back on him and all the possibilities he brings into her life, it feels like mourning a death of lives unlived.

But she only has one life. And it’s one that doesn’t have room for risks as steep and dangerous as Will Queen.

That absolutely doesn’t make this hurt any less, though.

At least Moira doesn’t seem to judge her for that. Amelia’s grateful for that small favor.

“I’m glad you came to me,” the older woman confides, gripping her shoulder tightly in a quick moment of support tinged with affection. “I hope you know you always can. I can understand the appeal of a charming man with a handsome face, but there’s far more to consider than just that.”

Amelia nods and smiles in response, but it’s forced and thin. Her heart hurts and a big part of her just wants to cry.

It’s a surprise when her cell phone rings, breaking the somewhat solemn air that’s filled the room, and Amelia pulls it out of her purse right away, but pauses before answering it.

“You should take that,” Moira counsels firmly.

Thad’s smiling face stares back up at her from the screen. It’s formal, stiff… polite. The kind of smile she can’t imagine ever gracing Will’s lips. He lives so fully, lets himself feel so much, expresses every inch of it.

“Hello?” she asks as she answers the phone. Moira discreetly leaves the office and Amelia clears her throat as she stands and moves toward the giant picture window that overlooks the Queen gardens.

“Hey,” Thad’s voice greets her. It’s familiar and a little rushed. “You should sit down.”

“Why?” she asks sharply.

“I’ll tell you once you’re sitting,” he replies.

“Who says I’m not?” she questions.

“I know you, Amelia,” he replies with a huff. “You’re pacing.” She stops the moment his words register. She hadn’t even been aware she was moving. “You were going to pace the instant you realized something was wrong, no matter where you were.”

“Just tell me,” she snaps, partly annoyed at being kept waiting and partly at the fact that he’s right.

He sighs, clearly relenting. “I ran into Councilman Marks coming out of Representative Pryce’s office.”

“Why would…” Amelia clicks into work mode immediately, standing up a bit straighter as everything falls into place. “Are they screwing with my healthcare initiative? I swear to god, if Pryce gets his slimy hands on-”

“Hey… it’s fine,” Thad cuts her off, but she’s not done ranting.

“It’s not fine,” she insists, shaking her head. “It’s the opposite of fine. I’ve been working on this for six months, Thad. This is the cornerstone of everything I’ve done this year and if Pryce comes in and gets in my way, I will-”

“I took care of it!” Thad says, interrupting her loudly. “Take a breath. It’s fine. I know what this means to you and it’s good for the city. You’re right. I pulled a few strings. You don’t need to worry. I’ve got your back. You know that.”

Guilt surges through her at those words and she finds herself nodding without realizing it. “Yeah… I do,” she agrees after a minute. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” he promises before pausing. She can practically hear the smile in his voice and it only serves to make her feel worse. He’s a good man, a kind man who loves her, someone whose life she’s thoroughly intertwined her life with her own. She’s lucky to have him. “Think you’ll be home in time for dinner tomorrow night?”

“I, uh…” Amelia swallows hard and pushes down her guilt along with her longing. Two choices, Maggie had said. Take Will out of the equation entirely. Is the life she has the one she wants? It has to be, she decides. It really does. “Yeah, I will be,” she finishes.

“Good,” he replies. “I miss you, Amelia. See you tomorrow night.”

“See you soon,” she agrees before hanging up and slipping her phone back into her purse. Her fingers brush against her wallet and she thinks about the note from Will tucked behind her license. With her path chosen, maybe she should get rid of it, keep it from sitting there tauntingly, just out of reach. But she can’t stand the thought of that, so she leaves the little slip of paper right where it is.

It’ll stay there for many years to come. But, even sight unseen, it never strays far from her mind.

[deificplums]

Fiction Friday Book Review | The Dark Half

The Dark Half by Stephen King

The Sparrows are flying again. 

The idea - unbidden, inexplicable - haunts the edge of Thad Beaumont’s mind. 

Thad should be happy. For years now it is his secret personal ‘George Stark’, author of super-violent pulp thrillers, who had paid the family bills. But now, Thad is writing seriously again under his own name, and his menacing pseudonym has been buried forever. 

And yet… the sparrows are flying again, and something is terribly wrong in Thad Beaumont’s world.

That The Dark Half was written after King’s pseudonym, Richard Bachman, was outed should come as no surprise to those who have read it. The novel itself is about an obscure author, Thad Beaumont, and his best-selling pseudonym George Stark. Thad had taken the leap and outed himself as the writer of Stark’s novels and putting an end to his best selling career so he can work on what he views as his own more serious novels. However, in the world of Stephen King, nothing is ever that simple. After the symbolic funeral thrown for Stark as a publicity stunt, Stark returns from the dead and fictional, hell bent on seeking revenge against those who facilitated his death and convincing Thad that their partnership has at least one book left in it.

Another important point of symmetry between King and his character Thad Beaumont is their addiction. In the novel Thad is a recovering alcoholic and ex-smoker, whereas Stark has given up neither of these vices. It is thus interesting to note that The Dark Half is among the last books King wrote while battling his addictions.

The central theme in The Dark Half is success. Stark has been a successful writer, Thad Beaumont has not been. Stark is responsible for Thad’s ability to live off his writing work, while at the same time his pseudonym had held him back from seriously pursing his own work. While King’s own fiction was far more successful than his fictional counterpart Bachman, I believe King used this work as a way to explore the question of his success. Unlike Thad, King knew that he could be successful without his pseudonym. However, most of King’s work, and arguably all of his greatest work up until that time, had been written while he was intoxicated. In fact, I believe King admits to not even remembering writing some of his most famous novels. I see The Dark Half as a cathartic goodbye to both Bachman and King’s addiction, and a way to explore if it is possible to fight them off and come out the other side. For those who have read the novel or tracked King’s career, you will know the answer.

In terms of style, I feel that The Dark Half had a distinctly darker feel than the King novels I’ve read so far. I have heard Bachman’s work described as darker than King’s own work, so maybe this was another way to pay a final homage to Bachman. Either way, personally I found The Dark Half to be the scariest King novel I’ve read to date. The opening had me disgusted and thoroughly spooked. The visuals of this novel were vivid and at times scenes bordered on being complete blood baths. I think this novel displays yet another side to the world’s greatest horror writer, and to anyone with a strong enough stomach, I would highly recommend it.