#The Country Lane Ghost

[inyourdreampoetry]

Green Lights

Rain falls from the sky above. Two lonesome headlights illuminate the dark night. Raindrops slide down the outside of my window. Nothing but green lights ahead. No need to press the breaks. It’s my time I’ll take. I look around – not a car in sight. Nights like this create a feeling of necessary healing. Lost in thought with no place to go – my home is the open road. Enthralled by…

[theniftycat]

What other Neil Gaiman work might you like?

The biggest thing to know about Neil Gaiman is that each work of his is a mixture of horror, fantasy, and subtle comedy.

That being said, each of his projects is pretty distinct from one another and there might be some that are more up to your tastes than others.

I haven't read some of his newer stuff (because I largely stopped reading as much since the early 2010s), but I'll do my best to remember what matters in other works.

Horror

The Sandman is a great work for horror fans. It's also great for mythology fans and other nerds, but horror is a major push and pull factors.

The comic is probably the greatest body of work Gaiman produced and it's recommended if you're a goth at heart and are comfortable with themes of death and humans being gods' toys.

The Sandman (TV) is a great adaptation, but it's very short so far and doesn't cover the best stories.

Coraline is a horror story for children. It doesn't have anything that's not suitable for kids, but it can be viscerally scary to some people. Both the book and the film are great.

Mirrormask is my personal favourite, it's a low budget film with mindblowing surreal imagery and one of the best soundtracks ever.

It's about a teenage girl who has troubles with her parents (who run a circus, btw) and who gets swiped up by her imagination into a bizarre world that is being eaten by her depression. Not a scary film, per se, but it's disturbing. However, it's a very warm film and it always makes me feel better.

Fantasy

Neverwhere is set in a dimension of twisted London Underground where everything that's straightforward in our world becomes weird and too real.

It really tickled my imagination, I highly recommend the book.

Stardust is set in a more high fantasy setting.

It features kings, witches, ghosts, and a star that fell to the Earth. It has a young protagonist who's not exactly the best or the brightest person, so if you hate such things, stick to the adaptation. In my opinion, the book is just lovely.

American Gods is a darker fantasy that asks the questions: "What if every god people ever believed in became real through the power of their worship? And then what if that worship started fading?"

It's set in the USA and because that country is such a melting pot, there are many gods. And not all of them are happy. This is the book that gave Neil Gaiman his reputation of a writer who loves weird sex scenes.

Humour

Stardust the film is often compared to Princess Bride. It's lighthearted, funny, full of imaginative adventures.

Just a very nice film with an all-star cast.

Anansi Boys is a spin off of American Gods, but it's a lot more lighthearted.

Anansi is a trickster god, so you know things will get funky.

I haven't read The Graveyard Book and The Ocean at the End of the Lane yet, but I hear they're very good as well.

Also, short story collections or Norse Mythology might be a good place to start if you want to get a feel of Neil Gaiman as an author first.

[reasonsforhope]

For the first time in 100 years, Atlantic salmon are once again spawning in the upper waters of the River Derwent. 

The return of spawning salmon to the rivers of Derbyshire is a real conservation success story. After centuries of intensive river management by the county’s burgeoning factories, the fish were driven extinct in many of its waterways.

Since then, the health of some of the rivers have improved to an extent that salmon can once again spawn. But the routes for the fish to return are still blocked by the remnants of the industrial boom, with numerous dams and weirs still blocking the migratory route of salmon attempting to swim upstream.  

Dr Tim Jacklin is a Conservation Officer for the Wild Trout Trust who has worked on river restoration projects that encourage and helps the migration of fish such as the Atlantic salmon. He was involved with the removal of a weir at Snake Lane, Derbyshire, which allowed the salmon to recolonise the headwaters of the River Derwent.

The catalyst for this work was seeing salmon making it all the way up the River Derwent, but then being stopped from exploring the upper reaches where the river becomes the Ecclesbourne.

“We’d started to see large salmon turning up in the Derwent in winter,” explains Tim. “They became sort of local celebrities really. People were going out with their head torches at night and looking into the river, because it’s not a particularly large watercourse and these fish were quite literally as long as your arm, without it being an angler’s tale.”

“So they attracted quite a lot of attention. But it also highlighted the fact that Snake Lane Weir, which was a concrete structure that had been built in the 1970s to replace an old mill, was a complete barrier to fish getting upstream.”

This prompted the work to remove the Snake Lane Weir and replace it with a boulder rapid that the fish would, once again, navigate over and continue on their journey.

“It’s very rewarding,” says Tim. “We opened up a good ten kilometres of spawning habitat upstream, so that translates into hundreds more juvenile salmon that make their way downstream and hopefully to come back and spawn.”

Putting the river bends back in

A little further upstream on the Ecclesbourne River, the Derbyshire Wildlife Trust is working to continue the work started at Snake Lane. At the edge of a farmer’s field a deep, straight channel rushes along under the trees. This was created by diverting the river to increase its flow to power a mill using a weir. This has formed yet another barrier for the migrating salmon.

But not even 20 metres away the ghost of the river’s original route perseveres. Nothing more than a shallow, muddy ditch with a few scraggly trees overgrowing it, the bends and curves of the river’s natural path can still be seen forming the boundary of a field. 

The wildlife charity is now trying to undo the centuries of harm that bypassing the river’s natural route has done, with the hope that the salmon will travel even further up into the headwaters and spawn once more in the gravel of the restored river. 

“A lot of our rivers across the whole country have been straightened,” explains Jenny Kril from the Derbyshire Wildlife Trust. “Unfortunately, what that does is remove any sort of natural habitat that we would expect to see in a healthy river.”

“What we’re doing is re-wiggling or re-meandering the Ecclesbourne, which is essentially just putting the bends back into it. What that does is change the speed and flow of the water. It creates nice beaches and different habitats for a whole host of different species and just making the river more natural.”

It is hoped that this work will create a greater variety of habitats, which in turn will encourage a greater variety of plants and invertebrates, and so boosting the overall biodiversity seen in this section of the river. But the cherry on the cake would be if the salmon start nesting.

“Over the next few years, we’re going to see this whole area just continue to develop naturally,” says Jenny. “We’ll get some sediment being deposited on some of the beaches creating more habitats, and we’re going to do tree planting to further increase the biodiversity of the area.”

“We’re just going to hopefully watch it become the brand-new river and as it should be again.”

There is a long way to go to safeguard the future of the UK’s rivers, but the work on the Ecclesbourne is showing that with the resources and right interventions change can happen and improvements made.  

“I think we’ve got some huge challenges ahead of us, but you know, they’re not making rivers anymore,” says Tim. “So we’ve got to look after the ones that we’ve got.”

-via UK Natural History Museum, April 8, 2024

[evilminji]

Oh... my god? Ghost Reporters.

Imagine it. Their office is in the Zone. They literally FEED of hunting for The Next Big Scoop! And Revealing The Truth! Every honest reporter that got silenced for getting a little too close to the facts. The bloody, beating, heart of societies underbelly.

Every Lois Lane that had no Kryptonian to stop some rich and powerful jackals putting them in the ground.

Well Death sure didn't stop THEM! They STILL want answers! But now they have co-wokers. Oh~ and SUPERPOWERS! And best part?

The newly appointed KING is going too and from the living world. That must mean it's okay now, RIGHT? Your majesty? You're not a RAGING HYPOCRITE, aaaaare you? :) 🎤

And... look. Danny knows full well what these piranhas are up too. He's not stupid. But Madeline Fenton raised a lot of things. Fool? Not one of um. That a LOT of reporters with sharp, sharp teeth and bloodlust in their eyes. He wants to half-live.

He compromises. Illusion of control and all that. Yeah, yeah, they all tooootally respect his authority etc. Give them Them Scoop! He, wisely, gets the fuck out of the way. Whoosh! Off they go!

Thats.... probably gonna be a problem. *siiiiiips his morning coffee* But it's not HIS problem. Not right now.

And? Suddenly all these politicians and business leaders are getting fucking AMBUSHED. Oh? You thought you'd get soft ball "aren't I a man of the people. Buy oil!" Bullshit questions? HA! Where were you on June 27th, 1978, at-

And "according to YOUR words, exact quote as follows-"

Just? They BEAT the leader with the STICK. "Oh but you'll lose access". They'd love to see HOW! They can go through WALLS! Answer the question, coward. "Your gonna make powerful enemies!" Oh nooooo, what are they gonna DO?

Shoot us TWICE?

Hey Mr. Family Values! How's the three mistresses your wife doesn't know about?? "No comment"? That's fine. We already have THEIRS. >:D Good luck with your upcoming election!

And like? As newspapers are shutting down and turning clickbait all across the country? This ONE(1) tiny, middle of nowhere town? Somehow has a horrid, horrid, ARMY of Satan's own Reporters. All apparently willing to die for the News. Throwing themselves at dictators and Supervillians alike.

"We see no God here but the Truth" is literally their papers MOTTO.

The damn thing is basicly a BRICK. You get a paperback of news. Entire planet AND THEN SOME. How?! How are they reporting, IN DETAIL, on the break down of talks between two planets 16 galaxies over? Hal says it's accurate. But what Earth paper would even HAVE that information?

And?? The whole town treats this as normal? There are human children, complaining about the weight of papers, because it makes their paper routes a pain in the ass. Soccer moms discussing alien celebrity drama. Farmers muttering over foreign unrest and how it will impact their corn harvest.

Fucking Lex Luthor, clearly deciding to roll with it, coming to sign himself up for a paper. Gaining a new life long Nemesis upon meeting Vladimir Master, whom he decides is both hot and unbearable. Someone is heard shouting "oh god, there's TWO OF THEM!"

And?? Look. Clark isn't MAD. Or JEALOUS. Nor is he in a secret Reporting War with Jerry from the Amity Chronicle. Because that would be petty and childish. He's just SAYING, maybe they should check the place out!

Maybe Jerry is a DICK and deserves it, is all. (Lois stop laughing.)

@hypewinter @hdgnj @ailithnight

[awritesthings1]

Midnight Interlude

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Wife Reader

Summary: You try to convince Tommy, your husband, to come back to sleep.

ao3 link

-

You awoke quietly in the middle of the night, feeling the weight of your slumber resting beneath your eyes. Too tired to lift your eyelids, you shifted in the bed, searching for the comforting cradle of your husband’s arms, only to find the space beside you cold and empty.

Weakly, you opened your eyes to the dark bedroom. Blinking sleepily, you waited for your senses to adjust while attempting to recall if Tommy had mentioned anything about going on a business trip. Your head ached. Where was that Tommy of yours? You weren’t even able to think because your brain was still buzzing from a peculiar dream. Regardless, you were freezing, and without Tommy to keep you warm, you wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. You cursed, pressing a cold hand to your flushed head. Your nose squirmed at the bitter air.

You weren’t sure how many sleepless nights you could endure without your husband. Lately, he had been going on more business trips than usual and staying up late in his office. You went to sleep before him, and by the time you woke up, he was usually already going about his morning. It was if you married a ghost.

The sheets rustled when you swung your feet to the floor. You stretched your arms awake and rolled your neck to the side, receiving a satisfactory pop in return. Wrapping a silk night gown around your body, you left the bedroom, stifling a yawn as you reached his office, where you heard the cackling of candles and the amber hum peeking through from the crack beneath the door. You twisted the nob slowly, careful not to startle Tommy, and entered the room.

“Tommy? You’re still up," you croaked, rubbing at your tired eyes.

Your toes curled as a shiver passed through your body. The wooden floors of your husband’s office were always deathly cold. And where was that ambitious old soul of his? Hunched over his messy desk, squinting through his glasses as he appeared to be reading over a letter. His marble contours were more sunken each night. His thumbs twitched and fiddled with a fountain pen as if they couldn’t bear to do anything but work. The top buttons of his white blouse (that you were always sure to iron the night before) pealed back to reveal a sliver of skin that you would stare at some nights to ensure he didn’t die working himself to death.

You loved him. God, you loved him. You loved him in a way that certainly would disgust the wives from the country houses down the lane. They loved their husbands in a plain and simple way. Margaret had gushed to you about her marriage and how she had fallen into a timely routine with her husband, dancing around the clock until they fell asleep on a wonderfully fluffy mattress. You stuck your tongue in your cheek. That wasn’t love; that was what men told women love was—a choreographed routine. Tommy was different. He loved you hard. Not just because he was a man and that’s what men were supposed to do, but because he lived and breathed everything he did, even if it killed him.

“I need to write something down." Tommy cleared his throat, too distracted to look up from the letter.

If you were any other woman, you would mistake his tone for annoyance. Not you. The hollow under his eyes spoke for him. Your poor husband never knew when to rest. Even when the moonlight poured in from the window and his hands were stained with ink, that mind of his clicked away into a world only accessible to him. It must be a burden, you think, to have the intellect Tommy had—to be three steps in front of everyone else. Talking to the ladies at the country club exhausted you sometimes because all they seemed to care about was the latest silks and décor from an exotic country or babies with chubby cheeks. It had to feel something like that, like sugar rotting your teeth.

“You’ll have time in the morning,” you insisted, leaning against the doorframe and pushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

The candlelight began to flicker as it neared the end of its wick.

Tommy wet his lips. “I have an early meeting out of town.”

Your shoulders fell. You knew who Tommy was and the priorities he had to balance. His work was important to him, and he did it for his family. That included you, too. But at hours like these, when your nightgown wasn’t enough to keep you warm, you craved the comfort of his arms.

“Come back to sleep,” you whispered, crossing the threshold of the office to stand behind him, where he was hunched over on his chair, writing something down.

Tommy relaxed as you began to massage his shoulders. Those eyes that painted you blue on winter nights fell closed for a moment. His hand itched for his whiskey, resting on the icy glass but never raising it to his lips. Several cigarette butts were discarded on his ash tray, some still puffing smoke. He smelled like a mixture of the two. You remember when you were younger how your nose would scrunch up at the scent of his cigarettes. Now, it was oddly comforting.

“I need to finish writing this letter,” Tommy drawled, reaching for the cigarette case that was buried under a file of papers.

As he pinched one out, you grabbed the match box that had been sitting on the windowsill and struck a match to light it as he perched it between his lips. When the end of it lit up, Tommy took a deep drag.

“You’re a man, Tommy, not a god. You need sleep,” you sighed, squeezing his tensed shoulders.

“Not yet." Smoke escaped his mouth in light puffs as he spoke.

You blinked slowly. “Well, I’m going back to sleep.” It was a half-truth. You were never able to fall asleep after waking up in the middle of the night, especially without Tommy by your side.

Tommy’s rough palm covered your hand, which was resting on his shoulder. He cleared his throat.

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone.”

That was never true. Every time Tommy was gone, the room stank of it. His presence consumed Arrow House; it was as if the walls were made from his flesh and bone. And when he was away, it felt like you were living in a stranger’s home. The paintings on the wall were of a random family, and his office sat as if it were abandoned in a hurry. It was only when he returned that the colors bled back into the walls and you realized you were home.

You leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss on his sharp jaw. He inhaled sharply through his nose. You noticed his attention had drifted from the letter and was now focused on the chandelier.

“Where’s that husband of mine? Hm?”

Tommy continued to take large drags from the cigarette while the both of you bathed in the crackling of the dying candlelight. Eventually, it burned out, and Tommy tapped the butt of his cigarette into the ash tray before setting it down to lean back on his chair. Now dark, he let you slip your hand from beneath his as you straightened your back and ran your nails through his scalp.

He groaned deep and nasally, fluttering his eyes closed. The tip of his tongue wet his bottom lip, and when your pupils adjusted to the dark, you saw the cogs in his head shutting off.

“Come back to sleep.”

“Alright,” he nodded with a grunt.

Most women would have said it was a miracle, not your Tommy. There was no holy spirit that possessed him to say yes. He chose to do so on his own account.

You rode that thought with a smile, turning his head to the side so you could lay a kiss on his forehead.

God, you loved him, you loved him, you loved him.

He sighed deeply, blinking lazily at his hands, which rested on his knees, before standing up. Both Tommy and his chair groaned at the movement. You hushed him and walked him to your shared bedroom, hand in hand. There, you carefully unbuttoned his blouse and slid his suspenders down his broad shoulders. Slowly but surely, you undressed him while his tired eyes watched you.

When you were younger, those eyes terrified you the same way a duck feared a rifle. What you never saw was the love they held behind glaciers of blue. Tommy made sure you saw it ever since. The ink on his hands was dry by the time they came to cup your face. His affectionate touch made more than your heart throb, but the both of you were too exhausted to do anything about it.

You settled for a kiss that he pressed against your lips. It wasn’t passionate or hungry like it usually was, but tender and firm. You loved it all the same.

“I love you." His breath settled on your skin like a warm blanket.

You closed your eyes and leaned forward, letting Tommy carry the weight of your head between his hands. You hummed when he brushed his knuckles gingerly across your cheekbones.

“I love you, too. Now, let’s get to bed before the sun rises,” you smiled, blinking up at him.

He kissed the top of your head, winding his tired arms around your frame to hold you against his chest. He hummed agreeably into your hair, letting his eyes flutter shut. Your arms wrapped themselves around his waist as he held you. You treasured small, fleeting moments like this. It wasn’t often that Thomas Shelby left his boots on the office floor and melted into a puddle. You think that made it all the more special. Your Thomas Shelby, the decorated soldier, the family businessman, and the hardened gangster could step away and become your favorite thing—a loving husband.

By the time you had both settled into the bed, the sheets were still warm, and the moon was still out. Tommy was resting on his side, with his arm draped around your waist as he snored lightly into your neck. Outside the window, the wind howled and crashed against the pane like winter waves. You felt none of it. Tommy’s body acted as a heater, protecting you from the numbing chill that waited at the edge of the covers, threatening to nip at your skin. You smiled, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. Here in the cradle of his arms, nothing could touch you.

[peachetteprice]

Driving Habits | TF141

Disclaimer: Some of these are UK specific, including the style of car, manoeuvres, terminology, and gearbox. That's what happens when the boys live and work mostly in England! Also, I am almost taking my practical test in September, and I need to rant about certain habits. Sorry in advance to Soap and Ghost. Love you both, boys.

Credit to @soaps-mohawk for giving me the inspiration to explore this headcanon! It began with an exploration into what cars TF141 might drive! You can see the original post that inspired this here.

+ Including interactions when driving with an S/O!

Notorious one-handed driver. The other hand is either on the gearstick - just resting, contemplating - or mediating between the gearstick and your thigh. He loves a good reverse bay park. (He's an absolute beast at it, too. No need for minor adjustments. He just... knows the space. And he will make fun of you when you can't park as perfectly as him). Helps to get the shopping in better, because at least you can get to the boot! Has been known to swerve a little bit for birds in the road, but that's because he's an avid watcher, and the poor things get enough grief as it is - he wants to still be able to watch Robins and Thrushes in the trees on the weekend!

Captain John Price:

He does, however, neglect rabbits, foxes, badgers, squirrels, and rats. And the... occasional deer in Scotland? Not out of malice - not at all - but they're not worth swerving over and potentially causing a collision for. He might, only if you're with him - because you'll squeal if he doesn't and positively become harrowed by its body popping beneath the rear tyre - but it's much safer for a driver to simply ram it into the gravel than to mess around with the safety of himself, other drivers, and - of course - you.

Takes extra care around vehicles with stickers that denote that the occupants of said vehicle - bar the driver or secondary passengers - are animals or children. He will be extra sure to check his mirrors, touch on the brakes if need be, and will actively scan for dangerous drivers that he can shield the car from. His duty is to protect, after all, in whatever capacity.

That being said, in his youth, he was known to drive... a little faster than required. Only on country lanes does he still retain some of his more... reckless habits. He may go a touch too fast around corners, and ignore the chevrons that indicate the severity of a turn (one arrow, two, three), and if the road opens up to a sprawling range, whereby speed control for tight corners and blind junctions is not an issue, he will... perhaps... occasionally - only rarely if you're in the car with him - let her rip.

Begrudgingly drives your shuddering little Fiat 500 or itty bitty Hyundai i20 (hey, what do you mean, tiny, it's perfect for the city, John! Pay no mind if your boys giggle and point when you turn up at the base in it...), though much prefers the Triumph Spitfire, 1979, mint-condition, that he bought in 2008 for three grand and fixed up over a ten-year period (when he wasn't deployed, that was) which is now worth £18,000. That is his profit! But he won't let another soul touch it, drive it, or so much as look at it - unless it's you, on a good day - until the day he dies. It's in stunning condition, but God help you if you reverse into the driveway without him watching like a hawk, wiggling his hand as if it were the paddle of an aeroplane conductor, telling you to move closer to the wall and risk scratching your car just to protect his darling baby. It... oh no... it might be the only thing he loves more than you...

But those roads are his home, that's all!

Always, always, always over-revs the engine to get out of a junction. He can't help it! He's used to manoeuvring through rough terrain with a car the size of a military tank - he's bound to forget to treat a normal car with a normal amount of strength. He comes flying into and out of roundabouts for that exact reason! He has to get on and off them quickly enough - don't you know, they're deathtraps, they are!

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley:

He's also prone to checking his side mirrors and rear view mirror an inordinate amount of times for a twenty-minute pop to the shop. He is convinced that the Kia Sportage behind him is right up his tail - he's sure it's stalking you in the passenger seat, especially with your bumper stickers on the rear, the nasty perverts - no matter how many times you explain to him that the mirrors are convex! They will make everything seem closer than they truly are! Now, however, he does not and will not ever brake-check a car, but he will sure as hell give them the dirtiest stare if they decide to overtake him... or until they back off a few more feet behind you.

The poor man gets impatient at lights. He does. And crossings, too. Train, tram, pedestrian, any and all of them. Despises them all. He'd rather a set of traffic lights for people to cross at, than have those silly zebra, pelican or toucan markings along the road that he has to pray Grandma Doris won't divert her walking cane in its bilateral direction. Oh, and he bounces his leg like there's no tomorrow. Again, he can't help it! He isn't used to waiting in cars. He's used to tumbling down roads in Middle Eastern deserts as the crow flies. None of those silly turns and re-routes into estates because he took the wrong turn at a junction. He wouldn't have messed up had he had time to think! Had there been no traffic! And, oh, Christ, the traffic. Simon does not like traffic. He does illegal U-turns as soon as he sniffs there being a road closure - that's how much he dislikes waiting!

You'll never forget the day that he wrenched the handbrake up way too high, and you had to get your father to re-tighten it. You're sure there aren't any more notches he can lift it to. You're rarely ever on a hill that warrants it. He'll crank it up six times just to stop at the traffic light before the Tesco. It's bloody Tesco! It's not Mount Kilimanjaro!

Never gets the bite point consistently. Never gets the damn bite point. Always too low or too high. He doesn't over-rev it like Ghost does, but the amount of times he stalls the bloody car, thinking he's in another one of those tank-sized vehicles that has a brand-spanking new bite point - or dare he say, an automatic gearbox that doesn't even require a clutch - is incalculable. You'd think the man has only just learnt to drive!

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish:

Notoriously speeds through built-up areas. Often commits to doing 45mph in a 30mph zone. Only when there isn't anyone around, like at nighttime! He consistently zooms past speed cameras in his BMW. His poor 3L engine is just too powerful for those dinky little roads. And, promise, he doesn't do it on purpose! He just routinely forgets to glance at his speedometer (and his mirrors, but that's another issue), and he drives for himself and himself only. In fact, he often hums to himself and forgets you're even there, beside him, clutching onto the internal handle on the roof in case he veers too suddenly to either side. His object permanence doesn't prevail unless he has one hand on your inner thigh, and if he doesn't, well, you can kiss safe driving habits goodbye.

(Oh, and he always sits on the brake. And bite + gas. The handbrake is too cumbersome, and his feet are strong enough, Goddamnit!)

Alright, that isn't to say he's an... unsafe driver. He's only slightly inconsiderate. He brakes too harshly, too late, too suddenly, he coasts on the clutch around corners, he never feeds the steering wheel, and he sometimes forgets to check his mirrors before turning into a junction (but he's never T-boned a cyclist... yet... you can give him a tick for that one). But he hums and whistles a nice tune to himself - he prefers it to the radio, and that's not to say he prefers quiet so he can hear the sound of the engine, no, no... never... not at all - and he always makes an overt point to note every field of cows, sheep (especially horses!) as well as every cat he sees lurking along the pavements. Never dogs. Doesn't like the bastards. Got bit once. That was enough to turn him right off.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Beautiful driver. Test-accurate. He could re-take it today and pass with flying colours. What a brilliant driver. The only bad habit he's picked up is driving with one hand (he tends to bite his fingernails on the other when he drives - helps with the stress of commuting in London), and never feeding the steering wheel through his hands. He does the wipe-on, wipe-off manouvre, mostly because he looks hot when doing it, though he tries not to. Mama Garrick always swats his hand whenever he does it because that's how drivers get into accidents, baby!

Car-shares with his mother, whether it's in her duck-egg blue Kia Picanto or his lime green Ford Fiesta - it has failed its MOT three bloody times, and he's revived that girl from death's vice grip more times than he can count, it has the mileage of a postal worker in the 1700s, nearing 200k - but this gentleman always remembers to bring the seat forward and upright after he's finished using it, so that her feet can touch the pedals, and to, naturally, reduce her back pain. He does the same with the headrest, too, because if there's anything he cares about more than his job, it's the safety of his family and friends!

Tends to drive on the cautious side. The only minor fault he'd get in a test would be hesitance because he simply doesn't trust any other driver but himself. His mother drilled that into him. She said that there's nothing worse than watching a car flash its headlights and signal you to go, with caution, as always, because the flash is not universal for 'go', only to pull in front of you and trigger you to emergency brake. Or, God-forbid, a pedestrian puts their hand up at you before they've even crossed the bloody road, and he has to slam on the brakes like he's Speedy Gonzalez at a traffic light. Lordy Lord.

Never mind the fact that he waits too long at pedestrian crossings because there could be somebody shrouded by that tree on the corner there. Do you see it? Over there! No, behind the sign, love! There could be someone - oh, whatever. He has to wait to make sure it's clear - otherwise, Grandma Doris is getting bumped in the legs and thrown fifty feet along the road! And he cares about the elderly!

Always nervously bites the insides of his cheek at roundabouts. Which is the most bewildering part of all, because he's so good at them! He always signals onto the roundabout. Never cuts lanes. Always follows directions perfectly, and if he doesn't, well, I guess you're taking a different route until you can turn around in a safe place. He always signals off the roundabout, too - even at mini-roundabouts - but he'll scrunch his face up every time, huff, and mutter:

"Yeah... botched that one."

...Regardless of how many times you tell him that he's a gorgeous driver! It's sexy, too, how he abides by the Highway code and gives way to more cars than he really should - no, except he really should stop doing that, actually, they're starting to take advantage of his kindness and he doesn't realise it - and how he's so... so... so fucking smooth with gear transitions. Going from stationary to a comfortable 20mph? He'll pop that sucker so fluidly into third (or second, if it's his mum's car) with such prowess that you barely notice the engine take the gas he's giving it. There's no jolt between first and second. He plays those gears like he's bowing a violin. How delicate his fingers are. How gentle his touch. It's mesmerising to watch.

And, you're about ready to give him your hand in marriage when you notice that every time he comes to a stop - on a hill, at a traffic light, in crawl traffic, waiting to turn into a junction, he puts the handbrake on, then takes his foot off the foot brake, then knocks the gearstick into neutral, then takes his foot off the clutch, and waits patiently like the darling man he is. Unlike someone else, he never sits on the brake...

Gaz even brakes in ample time, and you thought he couldn't be more perfect! That's what really gets you going - he gives the car behind him just the right amount of time to slow down that it's almost a waltz, and he's the conductor of traffic. Though... maybe don't let him get trapped at a stalemate on a mini-roundabout where all cars are turning left and are subsequently blocked by the need to give way to the right... his poor brain will short-circuit! If he does, give him a pat on the thigh and let him wait for someone else to make the first move - he hates decision-making when he's off-duty.

Bonus Round - Road Rage!

Captain John Price:

Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley:

Road Rage? You mean, showing a healthy amount of anger and vigour towards a bloody idiot driver? You mean... baring his teeth and swatting a hand at them, occasionally honking the horn past eleven-thirty, even if people are sleeping, or pulling out one of his anger-insurance cigars? That's what road rage is? Well... Christ, he must be terrible for it. Don't tell his boys that... they think he's the most level-headed man on base.

He's slightly oblivious to the technique of cars around him. He drives like he's the only driver in the world, because usually he is - except for those fuckers behind you who won't back off - but if something does happen, and if it isn't too much of an issue, he'll grunt, clench his teeth, grip the steering wheel and let out a muttered 'bastard'. If, however, something really irritates him - especially if another car puts you in danger - he'll honk the horn and flail his hand at the windscreen in the hopes that the driver sees his frustration (even if you're the one driving, he'll reach over and honk the pad for you, even though you've told him not to!)

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish:

Well... he certainly knows a lot of Gaelic, doesn't he, your boy? You've hardly a monkey's bottom of what he's saying, but the vitriol in which he says it - he's not known for bottling his anger very well - makes it clear to you that he needs a hug and de-tox before bedtime. If the accused does anything on the defensive or antagonistic, he has been known to pull up beside them on a two-lanes-go-straight-on road marking, even if it isn't the right way to your destination, just to glare at them and give them the... stern finger. Maybe... maybe a word or two about precious cargo.

Sergeant Kyle "Gaz" Garrick:

Gaz is a simple guy when he's off-duty. He will sigh, tut, shake his head, and mumble 'nutter', or a very hushed 'oh, you absolute...' (bonus: he never finishes his sentence!) It's what his mum does! If another car puts you in danger, he may groan and roll his eyes - but he always asks if you're okay as soon as, and apologises for the sudden violence of his attitude! What a sweet man.

| Masterlist |

[loulouwrites]

DIVULGATION . TOMMY SHELBY

summary: tommy's perfect life comes crashing down around him

warnings: angst, swearing, infidelity (sort of), talks of childbirth, terminal illness, child abandonment, infertility issues, period typical attitudes towards pregnancy and childbirth, period typical sexism/misogyny, loss of a parent, unedited

a/n: i will get to making a taglist, but life is a nightmare atm lmao

word count: 3.7k

In many ways, life had not been kind to Tommy Shelby. He had been raised in nothing more than a slum, in a town that saw no sunny days, any form of sunlight being covered by the thick smog of the factories that loomed over the town's residents - a constant reminder of their destiny. He had volunteered to fight for the King before he truly had time to understand what it meant, the thought of fighting men the same as him in a foreign country seeming better than being stuck in Small Heath for the rest of his miserable life.

He was meant for greater things, and he knew exactly what he had to do to get them.

As haunted as he was, Tommy excelled in nearly all aspects of his life. He had built an empire from nothing, he had secured a country manor for the cost of a shack in Small Heath, and he had a wife that had seemed to be put on this earth just for him.

Every decision he made, every step he took, was a calculated move to protect what he had built and to silence the ghosts that refused to let him be. Tommy Shelby was a man driven by both his aspirations and his demons, forever walking the line between triumph and torment.

She had married Tommy Shelby out of nothing but love. When they were wed, he had just arrived home from France, and people told her he was a shadow of the man he once was, though she never believed them. He was funny, charming, and clever; he just kept that part of himself hidden from everyone but her, which only endeared him to her even more.

They had come a long way since their wedding day. They had moved out of the terrace on Watery Lane into a mansion that was far too big for their small family. She no longer spent her days working in the shady betting office at the back of their house; now her days were filled with planning dinner parties and organising fundraising events for her husband's numerous charitable organisations.

Life was easier now, even if it felt a little emptier. She had thought her family would be bigger by now, expecting a few children to fill the vast house and keep her company, but it had never happened for her. She had wondered if there was something wrong with her, that her body was simply created wrong. It wasn't until she was having lunch at Polly's house that realisation dawned on her.

"You're pregnant," the older woman grinned behind her cigarette.

Her eyes widened at the words, and she dropped the china cup on the table. She had long given up on the thought of carrying a child, so the signs of her pregnancy had gone unnoticed. But the words Polly spoke hit her like a ton of bricks.

She was pregnant.

She left Polly's house hastily, barely glancing at the woman as she rushed to her car, a smile on her face, already imagining Tommy's reaction when she told him. She knew he would be thrilled. He had been pining for a child of his own even more than she had, and the hopeful looks he gave her whenever she was sick pierced her heart each time. But that didn't matter now, she was finally giving him a child, they were finally starting their family.

She called Frances' name as soon as she stepped through the door, asking if Tommy was home yet as she threw her bag and coat on the chair by the door. The housekeeper appeared in the foyer with a nervous look on her face, a rarity for the somewhat judgmental woman.

"Mrs. Shelby," Frances started, wringing her hands together in a timid manner, "you have a visitor."

"Who?" she asked, her joyful smile slowly fading.

"A woman," the older woman replied. "She claims to know your husband."

She understood Frances' apprehension in that moment. It was rare for Tommy to receive female visitors at the house, unless they were family or there for business.

She was about to question the housekeeper further but was interrupted by the front door swinging open. Her husband stepped inside, his eyes widening in confusion at the sight of the two women standing frozen in the foyer, their eyes burning into him.

"Mr. Shelby," Frances broke the silence. "You have a visitor."

"Who? I'm not expecting anyone," Tommy said, walking to stand beside his wife and placing a tentative hand on her waist, not missing the way she stiffened under his touch.

"A woman," his wife said, pinching her lips together.

"A woman," he echoed, his eyes flickering between his wife and Frances. "Did this woman happen to give you her name, Frances?"

"She said her name was Catherine, Mr. Shelby," Frances replied hesitantly. "There is something else..."

The husband and wife fixed her with such a burning gaze that the older woman had to lower her head to evade it, only daring to raise it again when Tommy cleared his throat, signaling for her to continue.

"She has a child with her, little thing, about ten years old."

The tension in the room thickened with Frances' words. All three bodies straightened, Tommy dropping his hand from his wife's waist to nervously rub along his lips.

He didn't notice his wife's absence at his side until he heard Frances' panicked voice call her name as she stormed towards his study, the skirt of her dress swinging from side to side with the force of her steps.

He joined Frances, calling out of her name, but she didn't listen, swinging the door to his study open, her heated gaze landing on the woman sitting on one of the seats at Tommy's desk.

"Who are you?" she spat out, shaking off Tommy as he caught up to her and grabbed her arm.

The woman's eyes widened. "My...my name is Catherine."

"I didn't mean your name," she hissed, approaching the desk. "Who are you?"

"I'd prefer to speak to Tommy alone," Catherine answered meekly, dropping her gaze.

"You'd prefer to speak to Tommy," she mocked, leaning a hand on the desk. Tommy called her name again, shaking his head at her when she looked at him.

"Do you know this woman?" she asked her husband, whose gaze flickered to the woman sat by his desk, a blank look on her face.

"No."

Catherine scoffed at his words, standing up from the chair on shaky feet. It was only then the frail state of the woman was clear. She may have been pretty once, but her sunken cheeks and pale skin aged her, and the drab clothes she wore made her seem worn and tired beyond her years.

"This," Catherine pointed to the child sitting beside her, and the other two adults in the room looked at the boy for the first time since they entered, "is Frank."

The young boy didn't look up at the mention of his name, his eyes fixed to his swinging feet.

"He's your son, Tommy."

"Ha," Tommy's wife scoffed. "I'm sure he is."

Your paragraph is mostly clear and grammatically correct. Here's a refined version:

Tommy called her name again, a warning in his voice that he seldom used when addressing her. She fixed him with a glare she seldom directed at him.

"It was before you went to France," Catherine interrupted the husband and wife's silent conversation. "You and your brothers were buying whiskey for the whole pub. I always remember you sitting in the corner, just watching everyone else have fun. I came over and asked you if you were drinking to celebrate or to forget, and you said..."

"Both," Tommy finished her sentence.

"Oh my God," his wife gasped, her hands covering her mouth.

Catherine ignored the other woman, turning her attention to Tommy.

"By the time I realised I was pregnant, you were already in France, and when you came back, everyone said you were different...I was managing fine so I didn't feel the need to tell you..."

"But now you need money," Tommy nodded, reaching into his breastpocket for a cigarette. "How much?"

"What?" Catherine frowned.

"How much?" Tommy mumbled as he lit his cigarette.

"I don't need your money," the woman had the decency to sound offended at the man's words.

"Bullshit," his wife scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I don't," Catherine insisted. "I'm sick, Tommy. Very sick, and I have no family. It's just me and Frankie."

The silent little boy in the chair finally lifted his head to look at his mother, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"He'll have no one when I'm gone."

"We run an orphanage," his wife spoke, her voice cruel and cutting, "we can reserve him a space."

Tommy's head snapped towards her, shock written clearly on his features. His wife was many things—sarcastic, witty, clever—but he had never seen her as cruel, not until this very moment.

"No," the boy shouted, getting up from his chair to stand beside his mother. "I won't go to an orphanage."

"You won't, son," Tommy addressed the boy for the fist time. "My wife was just joking."

His wife rolled her eyes, stormed out of the room, muttering a 'fuck you, Thomas' as she passed him on her way to the door.

It was late when Tommy finally entered the bedroom; his wife sat at her vanity, removing her earrings.

"They've finally gone then," she sighed, beginning to unpin her hair. "How much did you give them?"

He ignored her, throwing himself down on the bed and placing a hand over his eyes, doing anything he could to avoid meeting her gaze.

"Thomas," she warned, "how much?"

"Nothing," he muttered.

"Nothing? They left without a penny?" she scoffed.

"They didn't leave," Tommy snapped, raising his voice and slamming the arm that covered his eyes onto the bed. He groaned as the hairbrush she had thrown hit him in the chest.

"They're still here?" she hissed, standing from the vanity and approaching the bed as Tommy sat up.

"Just listen," he attempted to place his hands on her hips, but she smacked them away, pacing the floor with her hands in her hair. "I am that boy's father, whether we like it or not, I am, alright?"

She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she paced.

"I'm not going to throw him and his sick mother out on the street," he continued. "That's not the man I am, and you know it's not."

"No, your moral compass is a beacon to us all, Tommy," she rolled her eyes.

"What do you want me to do?" he shouted, beginning to lose his temper.

"Not get whores pregnant, for one!" she shouted back, throwing her arms up. "You've betrayed me, Thomas."

"Betrayed?" he repeated, the disbelief evident in his tone. "I didn't know you fucking existed then."

"Well, I still feel betrayed."

Tommy sighed, rising from the bed and approaching his wife the way he would a skittish horse.

"I know, I know," he sighed, placing a hand on her cheek. She didn't resist, though she didn't lean into it either. "It's a fucking mess, and I'm sorry."

She choked out a sob, dropping her head. "It was supposed to be a good day."

"I know," Tommy murmured, moving the hand that was holding her cheek to the back of her neck and pulling her to his chest. "I'm sorry I ruined it."

If only he knew what he had ruined.

The clattering of knives and forks was all that could be heard in the dining room, there were more than ten people sat at the table and it appeared nobody could find a word to speak.

It had been exactly three days since Catherine and Frankie appeared on the Shelby's doorstep, and the tension had only been rising. She had thought she was doing a good job of being civil towards the woman and child who had ruined her life—nodding at them politely when her attempts to avoid them failed, and choking out a 'hello' whenever she ran into them in the corridors.

Tommy had been less than impressed with her attempts to hide from the strangers, and insisted he throw a dinner party to offically introduce his son to the rest of the family, much to his wife's chagrin.

"Lovely lamb," Arthur muttered awkwardly from the other end of the table, his words met with half-hearted murmurs of agreement.

"Frankie loves lamb," Catherine responded, receiving eye rolls from the woman sat beside her, and Polly who was sat opposite.

"How lovely," Polly offered a fake smile.

"I don't eat it a lot, though," Frank spoke from his mother's side. "Lamb's too expensive for mum."

She and Polly sniggered at the boy's words, covering their mouths when Tommy threw them both a glare.

"You enjoy school, Frankie?" John asked.

"It's okay," the boy shrugged. "I'm not very clever, though."

"Takes after his father," Polly muttered, earning a laugh from the man's wife.

"That's not true," Catherine placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "He's a brilliant artist, and loves to read."

"What about you, Catherine?" Polly leaned forward, puffing on her cigarette. "Tell us about yourself."

"Well...I was a secretary until recently, I'm from not far from you..."

"Fascinating," Polly dismissed her.

"Polly," Tommy warned, subtly shaking his head.

"Why don't we take Frankie outside, Tom?" Arthur interrupted. "Show him how to shoot a gun."

"Oh, I don't-" Catherine started, but was interrupted by Polly.

"That's a wonderful idea, leave us ladies to chat."

Catherine conceded, not wanting to offend the older woman more than she already had. The men all left the table, Tommy having to gently drag Frank away from his mother, leaving the three women alone.

"So, Catherine," Polly began as soon as she heard the door close behind the boys. "Are you planning on staying here until you die?"

"Polly," the other woman gasped at her bluntness, but couldn't help but turn her head to Catherine to await the answer. She had been wondering that herself.

"Well, I hadn't thought about it," Catherine laughed awkwardly. "I just...needed to know Frank would be okay."

"He will be," Polly nodded.

"I know, I know that now." Catherine nodded. "Tommy has been very generous." Her eyes flickered to Tommy's wife, sat beside her, the omission in her statement clear.

"You have no other family that could take Frank?" Polly question, and Catherine shook her head, sweat beginning to pool on her forehead.

"No, my mother died when I was about his age, and my dad passed a few years ago. I'm an only child."

"Bless you," there was malice Mrs. Shelby's tone when she finally spoke.

"It must be scary, knowing you're not going to be here for your child. Trusing two strangers to care for him," Polly continued, not noticing Catherine's face getting paler, nor the way her hands shook when she lifted them to rub her head.

"Polly, I don't think she's feeling well," the other woman frowned when she noticed Catherine's body begin to slump in her chair.

"She's fine."

"No," Catherine said. "I'm not, I think I need to lay down."

They called Frances over, instructing them to take Catherine to bed, neither woman standing up from their seats to assist. They watched as Frances struggled to hold up the frail woman's body as she hald carried her out of the dining room.

"She's a fucking good actress," Polly muttered.

Frances returned to the dining room to inform the two women that Catherine had taken a turn, and the doctor would arrive soon to examine her.

Polly sat unaffected by the housekeeper's words; her counterpart's eyes, however, widened in horror.

"Oh my God, Polly," she gasped. "Have we killed her?"

"Oh, shut up," Polly scoffed, stamping out her cigarette in the ashtray. "She was dying before she even got here."

"Polly," she sputtered. "Your interrogation has literally put her in an early grave."

"Oh, because you were treating her splendidly?"

"I was just ignoring her. You've fucking killed her."

The dining room door slammed open. Tommy stood there, his face red, his eyes stormy.

"What did you two fucking do?"

Two days following the dinner party, Catherine's condition had not improved. The doctor had told them that her illness was so advanced that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Still, she couldn't ignore the guilt that was bubbling in her stomach when she thought about the way she had acted at dinner.

She knocked lightly on the door, opening it gently, careful not to disturb the frail woman that was lying in bed.

"I'm surprised to see you," Catherine choked out, weakly pulling herself into a sitting position.

"I'm surprised too."

"Is there something wrong? Is Frankie okay?"

"Everything's fine," she reassured the woman, moving to sit in the chair beside the bed. "I came to apologise."

She didn't miss the way Catherine's eyebrow's rose.

"The way I've behaved since you arrived has been terrible. I'm not a cruel person, I swear. I was just angry."

"I understand."

She paused, her breath catching in her throat at Catherine's words.

"I would be angry, too, if I were you."

"It doesn't excuse the way I've treated you."

"No," Catherine breathed with a laugh. "But I understand it anyway. You felt like you lost everything in a few minutes, and I was easy to blame."

"I am very sorry," she spoke through the tears in her eyes.

"I am too."

"Well," she coughed, standing from her seat. "I should let you rest."

Catherine called her name when her hand was on the doorhandle, and she turned to look at the sick woman.

"Look after Frankie, please," she said, her voice weak and teary. "He's a sensitive boy. Please look after him, and love him, love him as much as the child in your belly."

"How did you know?"

"I had the same mood swings when I was pregnant," she said. Both women let out a small laugh.

"I promise to look after him... and to love him like my own."

"Thank you."

She approached Tommy, who was leaning in Frankie's doorway, quietly observing the boy as he slept peacefully. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Tommy jumped in surprise before reaching to hold his wife's hands, which were clasped around his stomach.

"You'll be a good father," she spoke into his back.

"Just wish it didn't happen like this," Tommy mumbled. "It should have been you and me."

"It will be," she promised. "You, me, Frankie, and the baby."

Tommy unclasped her hands, turning to face her, a frown on his face.

"You're..."

"I am."

Tommy's expression softened as he processed the news, a mixture of surprise and tenderness crossing his features.

"You're pregnant," Tommy breathed, his voice filled with a mix of astonishment and wonder. He pulled her close again, holding her tightly against him. "We're having a baby."

She nodded against his chest, feeling his heart beat faster beneath her ear. "Yes, Tommy."

Tommy pressed a kiss to the top of her head, overwhelmed with emotions. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you and I'm so fucking sorry."

Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back, her eyes landing on the boy asleep in the bed.

Catherine's funeral service was small. There weren't many people close to the woman, the majority of the mourners being the Shelby family.

Frankie didn't say much the whole day, he just stood at his mother's grave, an empty look in his eyes that she recognised all too well.

They arrived home in silence, Frankie jumping out of the car as soon as it pulled up in front of the house, running inside before anyone could stop him.

"He just needs time," she told her husband, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"I know," Tommy agreed. He was no stranger to death, nor the solemn emptiness that came after.

She knocked on Frankie's door later that evening, popping her head in to see him sat on the carpet, still in his suit from the funeral.

"I'm just checking in," she offered him a small smile, kneeling down beside him on the floor. "How are you feeling?"

Frankie shrugged in response, his eyes downcast.

"It's okay if you want to cry, there's no shame in it."

"I don't want to cry," his voice shook, "I just want my mum."

"Oh, sweetheart," she breathed out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I know you do."

He didn't respond, he just kept his gaze pinned to the blue carpet beneath him.

"I lost my mum too, you know?" she said. Frankie's eyes snapped to hers for a moment, then snapped back down. "She died when I was a bit older than you. She got sick and died a few weeks later; there was nothing anyone could do."

"Do you miss her?" Frankie asked, turning to face her.

"Every day," she told him, "it doesn't get easier. You just learn to live with it. And then, someday, you'll be able to think about her and your time together, and it won't hurt so much. But you'll always miss your mum."

Frankie's lips pinched together in thought, and he nodded, accepting her ineloquent words greatfully.

"I know I haven't been very nice to you," she said. "But we're a family, and if you ever want to talk about her, you can come to me, and I'll listen."

"Okay."

"Okay," she rose from the floor.

"I'm sorry about your mum," Frankie said once she was standing.

"I'm sorry about yours," she replied, offering him one last smile before leaving the room.

Elsie Catherine Shelby was born in the early hours of the morning. She came quickly and was less fussy than other babies, according to the midwife.

Her big brother was excited to meet her, pacing the bottom of the stairs until the midwife allowed him to enter the room, a smile on his face as he greeted his little sister with glee.

"I'm not an only child anymore," he had laughed, poking the infant's cheek gently.

And just like that, the Shelby family welcomed their newest member.

[aphrogeneias]

before dawn — one-shot

pairing: kas!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: it's been days since you watched your boyfriend die in the upside down, and since then, you can't sleep. things change when you encounter a visitor in your kitchen late one night.

word count: 3k

warnings: angst. themes of dealing with grief and loss. possession (kas in eddie's body). mentions of blood and injuries. a tiny bit of body horror. smut (+18). dubcon (reader is into it but still scared). choking.

author's note: this is based on an old, abandoned work of mine and inspired by the kitchen scene in "jennifer's body". it was also written for the prompt "spiritual possession" in my 2023 kinktober list.

The clock on your bedside table marked 3:03 AM when you decided trying to sleep was futile.

Outside your window, Hawkins still burned. The blue light of the witching hour bled through the curtains, bathing your room in darkness, but still tinged with the red that came from the ground, particles rising up the atmosphere. The city had been burning for days, shrouding everything in fire and smoke, turning your home into a ghost town, and your life into a living hell.

Grief and guilt ate on your insides like worms, which was only fitting, since you've been letting yourself rot in your room after the dust settled and everyone else seemed to move on with their lives.

You stayed at that upside-down, twisted version of the Forest Hills Trailer Park watching him die, over and over and over again. The scene played behind your eyes everytime they shut, and you could still feel his warm blood on your hands, his last words echoing in your ears. You never thought you would have to live without Eddie Munson, but having him be ripped out of your life in such a cruel way was more than you could handle.

Your friends made an effort to visit almost every day. When they were not volunteering at the shelter that was installed at the High School gym, Steve and Robin came over to keep company, and even though they were a little unsure, a little clumsy when trying to help you with keeping afloat, you were grateful for their company. Nancy and Jonathan came over often too, being better at helping you clean and making sure you were eating, always bringing something from Joyce, who had told you multiple times you could stay with them, but you politely refused each time.

The fact was that you could have left with your parents when they packed up and went to stay with the rest of your family across the country, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave. Not when you didn't know what was next, it was only a matter of time until he showed his face again.

Eddie had shown you enough horror movies for you to not know that the big bad never truly died at the end, not really.

The memory of him ached as you stared at the ceiling, swallowing back the tears that rose up your eyes. Images of him, lying beside you on that same bed, after staying up too late, watching those ridiculous movies full of gore he convinced you to watch — not that you could ever say no to him, especially not when he flashed you those puppy dog eyes of his. You knew that part of the reason he did that was because you got extra clingy afterwards, letting him cuddle you tight to his body until you fell asleep. Sometimes, if you let yourself go, you could still feel his weight on top of you, his steady breath on your neck, long hair tickling your skin.

You were dragged out of your trip down memory lane by a loud crash coming from your kitchen.

Gasping, you sat up, startled. You were already hyperaware, ready to jump into action at any time, and loud noises put you on edge easily — but this was coming from inside your house, downstairs. The noise didn't stop, clattering around, as if someone was fussing with the doors and cabinets.

It was impossible, since you'd been alone for a couple of days.

With the confidence of someone who had nothing left to lose, you stood up on shaking legs, trying to steady yourself. Trembling hands grabbed the baseball bat that was hidden behind your bed — a gift from Steve, who insisted you couldn't always rely on the butterfly knife you kept in your pocket — and made your way out of the door.

Halfway through the stairs, a voice called out your name.

You recognize that voice, you'd know it anywhere. It was the voice that you heard every night in your dreams, the voice that used to sing to you, to spin grandiose tales just to make you laugh.

Except that it wasn't real, it couldn't be.

Angered by whatever creature that was mocking the memory of your late boyfriend, you marched forward. You knew you could be walking right into a trap, and that one of Vecna's many specialties were his mind tricks, but at that point, you didn't care anymore. He had taken Eddie from you, and now he was dangling him in front of you like bait.

As if your heart wasn't already shattered into a thousand pieces.

You steeled yourself before fully coming into the kitchen, but nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

Crouching on the tiled floor, covered in both dried and fresh blood, covering his chin and chest. was something that resembled your boyfriend. It had his body, still dressed in his Hellfire Club shirt, only now it was shredded, and black jeans, old white reeboks stained in black dirt and blood. It had his face, only now it was pale and gaunt, brown eyes completely gone, irises shining an unnatural shade of yellow.

He called your name again and you gripped harder onto the bat, holding it with both hands and brandishing it in front of you, a silent threat. Standing, he lifted up his hands, rings shining in the moonlight that came through the window.

"Whoa! That's not how I expected to be welcomed back, sweetheart."

You didn't answer. All you could hear was your own heartbeat, ringing in your ears as it threatened to escape your ribcage. Your whole body seemed to shake, but you stood your ground, determined to chase away the living nightmare in front of you.

"Don't be scared. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"You're not real." You gritted between clenched teeth.

"I am real! I promise I'm not tricking you. Just… put the bat down, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you." He repeated. "You know I would never hurt you."

Eddie — or the thing that looked like Eddie — took a tentative step forward, slowly. He looked as disturbed as you were, and a little sad even, his lips turned down into a frown. It was strange to think that, but he seemed fragile, hurt.

"Stay where you are."

"Baby…"

"Don't call me that! You are not real." You raised your voice this time.

"Let me explain, please?" He pleaded. It looked like he was restraining himself, as if he had to make a lot of effort not to go ahead and touch you. "I had nowhere else to go, and… and I missed you."

His voice trembled, along with your resolve.

Still holding the bat with one hand, you outstretch the other, signaling for him to stay away. He looked and sounded like your Eddie, but you didn’t know if you trust what you were seeing at all. Not after everything you’d been through.

“Stay here, okay? I’m gonna… I'm gonna go get some help. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

He simply nodded, going further back into your kitchen, partly obscured by the darkness, which made his yellow eyes shine even brighter. You walked backward until you reached the kitchen entryway, and turned to run up the stairs and into your room, stumbling your way through the dark house.

You fell to the floor when you entered your room, dragging your trembling frame through the carpeted floor, trying to keep your breathing steady. Getting the walkie-talkie from your bedside table, you sat down, leaning your back into the side of your bed, and called out for anyone who might have been listening.

No one answered.

Dread filled your every nerve. Sepulchral silence filled the house as you made your way back downstairs, your limbs still trembling with every step. It was almost ironic — of course no one answered. Of course your undead boyfriend, or whatever thing was mimicking him, was yours to deal with alone.

It was a conflicting feeling. Eddie had never given you any reason to be afraid of him, despite what others believed about him. Now, the image of him made you sick as you saw him again, standing with his back to you in your kitchen.

As he turned around, you flicked the light switch, turning on the bright kitchen light. Not your boyfriend, but the shape of his eyes were the same, and his full lips, now pale after all the blood he lost, turned downward at the sight of you. You wanted to reach out and comfort him, but fear still coursed through your veins.

Tears burned behind your eyes as you addressed him once again, "Eddie?"

You realized he was really trying to keep his distance, staying with his back pressed to the counter, and keeping his hands where you could see them. "Yeah?"

"How do I know… How do I know that you're really you?"

It took a while for him to answer. His tired body slumped forward, his tangled hair falling over his eyes, eyes that never met yours as he started speaking.

"You were wearing this red dress the night I saw you for the first time, and I couldn't take my eyes out of you. I was too chicken to talk to you that day but I went and made you a mixtape. Even tried to have Harrington give it to you because I was too scared to do it, didn't want to see you reject me to my face. He convinced me to do it, and when I finally did you said…"

"...About fucking time."

Your lips trembled with raw emotion, and you could barely keep yourself on your feet as you lunged forward, and Eddie met you halfway. You dirtied yourself with mud and blood as you took him in your arms, and he squeezed you to him like you were the only thing keeping him together — you probably were, just as his solid presence pressed to your body did to you.

You both sobbed, kneeling on your kitchen floor, the cold tiles digging into your knees. You didn't let go.

The rest of the night was spent almost all in your bathroom.

Your mom's carefully picked floral tiles got stained with blood while you maneuvered Eddie around the small space, getting him out of his soiled clothes, and cleaning him to the best of your abilities under the warm spray of the shower.

You'd put a chair under it so he could sit, as he wasn't able to keep himself up for too long, but he was able to tell you, though still a little confused over the details, about what had happened to him.

Something pulled him out. He wasn't sure what, and he's sure it wasn't any of your friends — which you confirmed it wasn't, since Dustin was forced to leave him behind. He felt himself be dragged through miles until he was thrown out of a gate, one of the many that had been opened in the last few days, and when he was conscious enough to stand, he walked here.

You didn't have time or the energy to dig deeper into the logistics of it. The what and the how and the why. You'd do that after you finally got a good night of sleep with your boyfriend miraculously home for the first time in almost two weeks. Safe and sound, like he was supposed to be.

Relief deflated your previously tense body like a popped balloon. After you washed him and bandaged his wounds as best as you could, you got him in bed, and he passed out before you could even get him under the covers. It didn't take long for you to do the same.

Darkness was the first time you saw when you woke up again, a couple hours later. The second thing was a pair of yellow eyes, like a predator stalking in the night, right above your face.

A gasp left your lips as you tried to lift yourself from the mattress, but a hand pressed to your chest stopped you. "Uh-uh. Stay right there."

"Eddie?" You whispered, voice shaking with ice cold fear. "What are you doing?"

He tilted his head, and you could see him more clearly now that your eyes had adjusted to the dark of your room. Behind him, leather like wings unfolded, taking space in your bedroom. The hand pressed to your chest, and the one beside your head, had short, but sharp claws that weren't yet digging into your skin.

You whimpered and trembled under him, dread paralyzing your tongue.

"Not quite. A part of him, yes. He doesn't know it yet, though. It will be our little secret." He bent down, running his nose over the soft skin of your cheek. He still sounded just like Eddie, but there was a graveness in his voice you'd never heard before. "Can you keep a secret, dear?"

He didn't wait for an answer — whoever he was. The same hand that pressed your chest to the mattress beneath you rose up, grabbing your neck. "I asked you a question."

"Y-yes. Yes." You breathed out, closing your eyes. Still, you felt him smile against your face.

"Good. Good girl." His face kept going down, until it reached your exposed neck. He buried his nose in it, breathing you in, and humming deep in his chest at the scent of you. You could feel his lips there, barely brushing your skin, but still raising goosebumps all over your body.

His voice was right below your ear, then. "I just need one small favor from you."

"What do you want?"

"I've been hungry. Starved, darling. I imagine you know how that feels. Your boyfriend here hasn't been a good host, refusing to feed. A disappointment, really. I needed to take matters into my own hands." While he spoke, the thumb that rested over your pulse point caressed the skin there, stroking in slow motions, "I just need a taste. Something to quench my thirst, if you will."

A deep flush rose from your insides, heating you from your tummy all the way to your cheeks. Your blood, he meant. You knew that's what he was implying, but it felt surreal.

"You like that idea, don't you?" He brought his attention back to your face. When he smiled, his sharp canines made their first appearance. "You're an interesting one. I see what the boy sees now."

"Will that help Eddie? You… feeding? On me?"

"If I'm strong, the boy is strong. Trust me, you're gonna need that strength when the time comes."

"What do you mean…"

You weren't able to finish your sentence. His hand went to your jaw and held it in place, puckering your lips and impending your speech. He touched his forehead with his, and looked deep into your widened eyes, "All I need is a yes. That's all I need to hear from you right now."

Without thinking, you nod. You were lost in the unnatural color of his eyes, in the deep register of his voice. The world melted around you, and you stayed there, staring at your ceiling, as his face went back to your neck, and after a brief moment, his fangs pierce your skin, puncturing your pulse.

Everything stopped. Your back arched from the mattress at the feeling of it, and your whole body shakes. His tongue is there too, suckling the blood that falls from the twin wounds, and it didn't stop. Your vision was blurred, your mouth closed shut, no sound left your lips except for the small whimpers you were too scared to even release.

It was too much, and worse, it felt good. The invasion of his teeth into you, his tongue on your pulse, the adrenaline in your blood. You felt ashamed, but you felt alive. Almost involuntarily, your hips writhed on the bed, and your hand went to his hair, pulling it slightly.

He removed his mouth from you, but not before licking a fat stripe to collect the blood that pooled there. "It's okay, sweet girl. I'm almost done. Relax for me."

You had no time to respond. His teeth were piercing you again in a second, and this time you let out a moan, and you had no mind to be self-conscious about how loud it was, because one of his hands traveled under your shorts, but over your underwear, and cupped your mound, letting you grind on it.

Dizzy and lightheaded, and still, you came embarrassingly fast, flooding your cotton panties with warm, sticky slick, riding it out on his rough digits. He rose from your neck, but didn't remove his hand from you.

"That's it, love." He whispered, "See? Felt good, didn't it?"

You could barely keep your eyes open, but he was still above you, studying your face closely. His hand, the one still inside your shorts, moved to pull your panties aside, and collect the wetness there on the tips of his fingers.

He brought them to his lips, and moaned when the taste hit his tongue. "Thank you."

That was all you heard before you felt yourself slipping from consciousness. In those few seconds you were able to hold onto it, you felt his lips lightly touch your forehead, and then, nothing. Silence overtook your tired body.

Outside, the early birds began to chirp, but darkness hadn't ceased, yet. It was always darkest before dawn.

[svthub]

svthub's secret garden: a spring collab

This spring, love is in the air! Take a stroll through our garden and discover our secret world of colorful blooms. Who knows who you might run into...

This collab will contain a combination of SFW and NSFW works. See each individual fic for tags and warnings.

Join the Secret Garden taglist!

peony: one trick peony • @wongyuseokie [NSFW] fluff/angst • csc x female reader

synopsis: choi seungcheol could only do one type of floral arrangement, and the rest he’d pawn off to you, granted he got a ton of orders, but he would always take the orders for arrangements that he could never do. this time he went too far. he took an ‘only peonies’ arrangement–a painfully delicate flower–and took an order for a wedding, and with your luck, you’re the only two florists available that weekend.

tulip: my destiny • @wonuhour [SFW] fluff/romance/angst • yjh x female reader

synopsis: when he first met you he didn't think anything of it but he felt drawn to you. When you two started to spend time with each other he fell in love with you. So he takes you to the tulip garden, hoping you felt the same for him, since this is the place you two met each other for the first time.

dandelion: whichever blooms first • @strawberryya [SFW] fluff/hints of angst • hjs x gn reader

synopsis: a dandelion is resilient, it can weather any storm, and at the end of its life it will even grant wishes to whoever sees its worth as something more than a simple garden weed. your relationship with joshua is the same, you hope, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make a wish that your love will last a lifetime anyways.

rhododendron: sunkissed • @junkissed [SFW] fluff • husband!wjh x wife!reader

synopsis: this year for your anniversary, jun takes you on a trip down memory lane through the flowers of your past together.

carnation: be sweet • @heartkyeom [NSFW] angst/smut • prince!ksy x princess!reader

synopsis: with your country’s finances in trouble, an arranged marriage with a fellow royal is the only viable solution. yet, kwon soonyoung is not a good person, a good prince, and he is certainly not meant to be someone’s husband

foxglove: by line • @wonwussy [NSFW] smut/drama • jww x female reader

synopsis: you know the hotshot ceo is up to no good, and with the interview that can make your career, you’re finally going to have proof.

lily of the valley: valley of broken dreams (and lilies) • @duhnova [SFW] angst/fluff • ljh x female reader

synopsis: you met jihoon when you were both young and dumb — a promise you two made to become big in the music industry laid shattered years later when you lost your ability to sing, and now you have to live in the shadow of your boyfriend while you struggle to come to terms with your broken dreams.

orchid: he was sunshine, i was midnight rain • @dkakapizzaboy [NSFW] fluff/angst/smut • lsm x female reader

synopsis: he was sunshine and roses and you were orchids and moonlight. two very different people in the same industry. he was loved and you were feared, he was a warm cup of tea on a cold day and you were a bucket of ice cold water. what would happen if two highly sought after, up and coming sustainable fashion brands decided to work together on an exclusive, once in a lifetime collaboration?

zinnia: everlasting love • @sluttyminghao [NSFW] fluff/smut • kmg x female reader

synopsis: mingyu wants you to know how much he loves you after dropping hints for years, and takes you on a date you'll never forge, and maybe you'll also figure out you love him too.

lavender: and we meet again • @idyllic-ghost [SFW] fluff/angst/romance • xmh x reader

synopsis: there is something familiar about that house on the hill, even though you swear that you have never seen it before. but you’re drawn to the lavender fields and the oceanview - and the lonesome looking man you see sitting on the porch. when you approach him there is something in his eyes that you cannot understand - a knowing, a deep feeling. the question is, will you ever have enough time to figure out what that look means?

hyacinth: how flowers bloom • @cheolism [NSFW] fantasy/smut • bsk x reader

synopsis: every year, you and the god of spring meet at the edge of the clearing to perform the ceremony that decides if winter will endure or if spring will prevail, repeating the ceremony weekly until spring finally wins. after you won the last five weeks, keeping the world under your icy spell, seungkwan decides to use alternative tactics to dominate you and bring spring back.

trillium: trillium • @beahae [NSFW] fluff/smut • hvc x female reader

synopsis: vernon is flying in to see his girlfriend. oh shit, that’s… you. being away from him since it happened a few months ago makes it hard for it to feel real, especially after two years of what you both convinced yourself was a purely platonic friendship. now that he’s here in the flesh, you are determined to make it feel real. and very non-platonic.

forget-me-nots: promise ring • @lovelyhan [NSFW] fantasy/fluff/a pinch of angst/smut • lc x reader

synopsis: no one would've guessed that the daughter of the town’s royal mage has a soft spot for the clumsiest fire elemental in the entire realm. but when the crown prince suddenly asks for your hand in marriage, you're forced to consider how you feel about a certain lee jung chan a lot more seriously.

[waklman]

The Showoff

summary: jake likes to show you off or you learn why jake keeps protein bars he’s allergic to in his bag.

pairing: jake seresin x female reader

warnings: no use of y/n. fluff, allergic reaction, mentions of dying, jake being a little mean for a second. 18+ blog in general.

word count: 1k

olympic swimmer au

the halfway mark masterlist

Jake Seresin had virtually every reason to be a show off.

The moment his muscled body hit the water, he was truly unmatched—a force to be reckoned with—a smug face you wouldn’t want to see stretching in the lane beside you. If his name merely floated into the ears of elite coaches, the rival teams they managed were in for it on training days. But no matter how many grueling drills their swimmers were pushed to do, they could never truly emerge as a threat to the United States team.

So, the heavily decorated athlete never faltered, not when he knew his country dominated every arena they strode into. 

However, Jake did falter when he was too busy boasting, that he didn't think to check the peanut butter protein bar that his giggly girlfriend was happily feeding him. There weren’t many things that could render the Olympiad breathless, though, you wearing his gold medals did, that was a given. But, peanuts—his worst food allergy to date, that was also a given.

Before Jake could tell you how his coach had no critique for his freestyle stroke, the walls of his throat started to close in on him—leaving him quite literally breathless.

To his disbelief, you were so distraught that you had to stab your boyfriend with an EpiPen, that your mind simply erased the memory of you coming to his rescue.

Even when he spent half an hour swiping away the fattest tears he’s ever seen off your cheeks, you were still adamant that you most definitely killed him. That he refused to move onto the afterlife because he wanted to look after you. 

“Giggles, you need to calm down. I’m not dead,” he firmly assures you, for what feels like, the hundredth time this afternoon. 

If Jake had to sit on the edge of the pool any longer, legs submerged into the water, his toes might as well shrivel off, separate from his feet, and find its final resting place on the pool floor.

Straddled on his lap sits his teary-eyed girlfriend, tracing a trembling finger over the Olympic rings tattooed under his left pec. “What if…you’re just a ghost right now,” you hiccup, eyes still trained on the red ink you’re drawing over. 

“If I was a ghost I’d be haunting Bradshaw right about now,” he confirms bluntly, eyes running over your stuffy nose and puffy eyes. It looks like you’re the one that just had an allergic reaction. 

You sniff, feeling a bit lightheaded when you lift your chin to look at him. 

“But…Casper the ghost—”

“Alright, that’s enough. I ain’t getting myself compared to that pale freak,” he cuts you off, pulling his arena jacket back up your droopy shoulders. Splashed across the back of the official team jacket is Jake Seresin written in white blocky letters, contrasting against the navy blue of his flag colors.

A weary sigh leaves his lips when the reprimand only makes you weakly fall forward, stuffing your face into the crook of his neck. Then, another flow of tears slip out of your eyes, wetting his shoulder. 

It should’ve been obvious to him that you were sensitive enough to start crying again. Jake should’ve known that—should’ve watched his tone with you. But he didn’t. And for that, he feels like a complete asshole.

Carefully, he wraps an arm around you, bicep flexing to ensure that you won’t fall backwards into the pool. Jake is acutely aware that you can’t swim—or float on your own, so he scoots away from the water, petting the back of your head to signal the sudden movement. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Gigs,” he finally whispers, staring ahead at the floating ropes, separating the swim lanes. Months ago, Jake had been hanging onto one of them, playfully arguing with Bradshaw during practice when he spotted you for the first time, sitting in the stands with the coach’s daughter, peanut butter protein bar held up to your smiley mouth. 

“Yes it was. It's all my fault. I packed your lunch today,” you’re quick to blame yourself, mumbling guiltily against his tan skin.

“Actually,” he lets out a soft breath of amusement, coaxing you off him. With his hands moving to cradle your head, Jake intently cools your hot cheeks with his thumbs. Somehow, they're still cold from the frigid waters soaking his legs. 

“I might have snuck those into my bag when you were busy adding Taylor Swift to my playlist,” he confesses, pulling your face closer in to kiss away a tear that formed in the corner of your eye. 

Not quite sure if you heard those words right, you keep still as he leans back and cocks his head at you, waiting for a reaction to load in.

Once it all hits you, you slap your own hands on his cheeks, holding his head between your smaller palms. Now the both of you are grabbing onto eachother's heads. “Why on earth would you do that!” 

There’s not one plausible reason for him to purposefully toss that in with his ham and cheese sandwich. Did he not like what you made for him today? Was that it? Or did it just slip his mind that peanut dust could take him out faster than a bullet can?

“You’re—you’re allergic to peanuts! And you hate the chalky taste of protein bars!” You exhaustedly remind him, more confused than ever. 

There’s a crooked, and somewhat bashful smile on his face when you widen your eyes at him. Sheer horror is written across your features, leaving you oblivious to the gradual heat that colors his cheeks. 

“Okay, but. Don’t you like them? I wasn’t gonna let my girl starve while I ate like a king,” he gives you a offhanded shrug, as if he wasn’t practically contaminating his own food by squeezing the protein bar next to it. 

It’s silent for a few seconds while you two stare at each other—until your face suddenly scrunches up, bottom lip starting to wobble, and tears beginning to drip onto his thigh.

You can't help but to cry at the small gesture. Because Jake knows how much you love snacking on something he was deathly allergic to. Because Jake loves you enough to remember that. Because Jake doesn't care if it could hospitalize him if he kissed you while you ate it.

“No, no—hey quit crying,” he laughs, chest warming when you weep tears of happiness this time. 

The athlete barely flinches when a confused Bradley and Bob walk through the locker room doors, clearly confused by the sight of their teammate chuckling as his girlfriend sobs in his lap, blubbering about peanuts.

All because, Jake Seresin likes to show off his pretty girlfriend—pathetically drowning in her own tears or not. When he goes to kiss the tears away again, Jake thinks that he has virtually every reason to be a show off.

note: okay i love them so much, i've been wanting a grumpy jake x sunshine reader on my blog for awhile so here they are!! thank you for reading and as always reblogs are greatly appreciated.

join the taglist for this series here or follow me on @waklman-library and turn on notifs to be notified when i post!

tags: @genius2050 @eli2447 @s-u-t @dempy @averyhotchner @et-homephone @olymosity @wkndwlff @cruelmissdior @eternallyvenus @laneylovesglen @queerqueenlynn

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Jealousy

Summary: You're in a secret relationship with him, but as he sees you walking with another guy, he feels the need to throw you over his shoulder and carry you away Length: ~0,8k Contains: Themes of jealousy

Yami Sukehiro, the last man of the Yami clan, and the eldest of his family, was a sound man. He wasn’t about status, or possessions, or his own goals to begin with. He had been happy for the longest of times, if he had been able to just live his life, do things he liked… get better at it and just… have a peaceful life.

And when you had walked into his life, he… wasn’t exactly sure what to do about that. Hell, he’d say that getting together with you was a miracle in itself, because he didn’t deem himself to be anything special in the first place, but …Still, you had chosen him, a rat bastard from a foreign country with a strange grimoire. Which seemed so surreal.

But. He had to believe it. By now he had to believe it. Even if you two were keeping it on the downlow, due to him being a Captain. A lot of people might have wanted to use you to get to him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

And it wasn’t something that he was gladly thinking about, but … it was the reality in which you lived. That there were such individuals out there. And that getting under the skin of a Magic Knight Captain, would be a rock turned for the enemy.

It was all for the sake of keeping you safe. So, it would be worth the secrecy, the days and the nights during which he couldn’t see you. It would be worth all the sneaking around.

Or so he thought.

Until that one day… that one damned day when he was walking in a nearby village, and he saw you walking side by side with some guy. And obviously the guy didn’t know that you were taken. Plus, since you were in a secret relationship, with no actual proof of dating someone like a Magic Knights Captain, a title that he knew would hold some burdens, there was a good chance the guy wouldn’t believe even if you did say so.

But still…. Damn the nerve on that guy.

Just walking so casually with his spouse! It made him just bite down his molars. Irritated him. Made his breath low, and steady, and somehow rugged with every passing growl.

The nerve! The guy should just… stay in their own lane if he knew what was good for him.

He walked up to the two of you, radiating the mana only a Lord of Destruction could, and stared at him with eyes gleaming in the light of the sun.

“This guy botherin’ you?” He asked with that low baritone voice of his that vibrated through your body and soul.

“No,” you replied. “My brother isn’t bothering me.”

His eyes turned, cold and emotionless, or so one would have said as it was impossible to tell, towards the brother. The man who was feeble in comparison, and who was shaking in his shoes, looking pale as a ghost.

“I gotta talk with ye,” he told you, and before you barely had had the time to give you a nod, the mountain of a man that was known as Yami Sukehiro, threw you over his shoulder and begun carrying you away, almost as if to make a point.

“H-hey!” Your brother yelled, but you waved him off, telling him that it was fine. Really, it was fine.

And by the time Yami let you down, you were amused by the whole ordeal.

“What was that about?” You mused to yourself, while still managed to sound slightly accusatory.

“What?” He asked, as if it was clear as day. “You’re mine, and I’m territorial,” he explained. “The guy was just… trying to pick a fight.”

“My brother was trying to pick a fight by spending time with me?” You quirked an eyebrow at him, but received a kind of a shrug as a reply.

“Didn’t know it was your brother…” he uttered. “So he just looked like he was asking for it.”

That barely qualified as an answer. But you’d let it slide. This once. Just this once…

“So…” you uttered, while taking a step closer, and fumbling with this cape. “You are… territorial?” You asked, which was replied with another shrug and him rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah…”

“So… you’re not jealous, by any means? If I spend time with another guy despite being in a relationship with you?” There was a tease in your tone, one that made his gaze wander.

“I’m… territorial,” he repeated with a forced tone and a tense jaw.

“I know,” you mused with a kind of a giggle, “ and that’s one of the things I love about you.”

“One of the things?” He glanced with a kind of a smug face, while you knew that it wasn’t genuine smugness. Just a pleased, proud, confident smirk.

“One of the things,” you nodded while leaning forward and pressing your body against his, as he leaned down, and closer to you.

“Good to know…” he uttered with a hushed tone that tried to be a whisper, but the voice that always vibrated through you, resonated with you, wouldn’t allow it to be quite just that.

Another thing you loved about it.

[cecilysass]

Shine On (16/16)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 16: Crazy Diamond

Farrs Corner, Virginia February 25, 2015 Two hours later

It turns out that Bunny Man Bridge is just a bridge. And okay, it’s a little creepy-looking—a one lane road going into a yellowed concrete tunnel under a train overpass—but not very eventful on a sunny, late winter afternoon. There aren’t signs of apparitions, dead bodies, or even Satanic graffiti. Which Jackson finds kind of disappointing after all Mulder’s talk.

Mulder drones on about the telltale hallmarks of paranormal activity, but since most of them would have involved interviewing human witnesses, they don’t seem very promising to investigate. There’s no one around but Jackson, Mulder, and Scully. And interested squirrels.

Still, Jackson is enjoying the outing. He and Mulder scramble up to the top of the bridge and look around the railroad tracks for any clues. Scully watches from the road below, leaning against the car, smirking to herself. After a few minutes Mulder begins to call for the Bunny Man like a lost dog— “here, Mr. Bunny Man, come on, boy”—which makes Scully cover her mouth with her hand and laugh.

Mulder looks down from the bridge at her with this goofy little smile, a whole lot like he’s an eighth grader pleased with himself. Jackson tries hard not to shine the man’s mind, as he’s thinking a surprising quantity of inappropriate thoughts for an old guy.

He gets the basic gist, though—the important highlights. They’re back together.

Jackson can’t help but feel happy for them. Mulder’s hope is contagious. It’s everywhere in the man’s mind right now, even in the dirty parts. It’s inescapable, Mulder’s hope. Like an annoying mylar balloon that keeps floating into your face. Even shining him a little makes Jackson’s own emotions begin to feel lighter, too.

“Is the investigation over?” Scully calls up to them. “I’m hungry.” She cocks her head strategically. “We could go pick up fresh bagels.”

Jackson raises his eyebrows. “I could eat.”

“I think we’re just about wrapped up here,” Mulder calls back. “It’s going to be kind of a drive for bagels though. We’re in the country, Scully.”

She shrugs and smiles. From her pocket her phone starts to buzz, and she rushes to pull it out, sliding into the car to take the call. As Jackson understands it, she’s finishing up odds and ends of her hospital job before she goes back to the FBI.

Mulder regards Jackson seriously. “I’ve got to tell you, Jackson—I’m not noticing any classic signs,” he says, gesturing around them. “No change in temperature, no strange odor.” He points to the birds chirping in the trees around them. “I still hear local wildlife going strong.”

“Yeah,” Jackson says with a sigh. “Maybe the Bunny Man really does only show up on Halloween.”

Mulder’s eyes light up. “Well, possibly we could come back—” He stops himself, but it’s too late. Jackson knows exactly what he was going to say, and he knows exactly why he stopped.

They don’t know where Jackson will be at Halloween. That’s eight months away. He could very well be locked in a juvenile justice facility. That reality hasn’t gone away, however much Mulder and Jackson want to forget and play ghost hunter. Everyone keeps acting like Jackson is just going to stay here and play pretend son, but that’s just not the case.

Jackson has to turn away from Mulder now. Sometimes other people’s hope is painful.

They have to be careful on the way down; the embankment down the side of the bridge is steep. Jackson’s feet, skidding out of control, stumble the last few steps down, and Mulder grabs his arm to steady him.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jackson mumbles.

Mulder’s thoughts are a burgeoning swell of concern, and Jackson knows he’s probably been doing a little shining. “Listen, Jackson—”

“You’ve actually seen ghosts before, right?” Jackson interrupts. He looks around at the wooded area around the bridge, then back at Mulder. “Not just read about them?”

Mulder considers him a moment. “I have, yes.”

“Who were the ghosts?” Jackson asks.

“The ghosts themselves? You mean in life?”

“Yeah. Did you know them?”

Mulder thinks about his answer. “One time it was a couple,” he says. “A couple who died together on Christmas.”

Jackson thinks about that for a moment, a couple who died together and spent eternity together, too. It seems like that might be good. Not entirely unhappy. He gets little visual flashes from Mulder’s memories, but he pushes them out—he’d rather make up his own little story about these ghosts.

“You never met the ghost of anyone you knew when they were alive?” Jackson asks. He hesitates. “Like … your own parents, maybe?”

Mulder’s head turns sharply to him. His gray-green eyes are sorrowful, then shift infinitesimally into sympathy and pity.

“Jackson,” he says, his words subdued, “you won’t get your parents back by searching for ghosts.”

A bird trills nearby, and Jackson’s gaze follows the sound. “Yeah,” he says.

His eyes again fill with tears. This is one of those things he knows he should know better about. Something he can see is a delusion—an idea gullible kids hold on to— but he wants to believe anyway. He wants to think that one day he might see his mom and dad again. How stupid, to imagine friendly ghosts who might pat him reassuringly on the shoulder and tell him it’s okay.

They both stand facing the steep bank of trees, saying nothing.

A very clear sentence runs through Mulder’s mind. If he were staying with us, I would make sure he got a new therapist.

Jackson can’t help but smile, wiping his tears. “If I were staying with you, I’d probably really need one.”

“Yeah.” Mulder snorts a laugh. “You probably would.”

***

Back in the car, Scully is sitting in the driver’s seat, unmoving, waiting for them. The radio is on, turned down very low, a murmur of voices.

“No ghosts,” Jackson informs her as he slides in the back. “Mulder says we can try Gadsby Tavern in Alexandria next time.”

“You all done with your call?” Mulder asks her, giving her a curious look. “Was it the hospital?”

“It wasn’t.” Scully says in a strange voice. “It was Skinner. He had news.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of news?”

“There’s been new evidence in the Van De Kamps’ case. Apparently a … witness remembers seeing a man wanted in Colorado in the neighborhood that morning, leaving the scene.”

“What?” Jackson inhales.

“The charges against Jackson have been dropped. He’s considered a missing child now. The Rawlins police are having a press conference, so it will be hitting the media today at some point.”

“A witness emerges from nowhere?” Mulder asks.

“Yes,” Scully says, and Jackson watches her eyes latch on to his. “And Skinner says the name of this witness has been strangely hard to come by, even for the Bureau.”

“This is good news though,” Jackson insists. “Right? It means I’m free. It’s good.”

He looks from Scully to Mulder. They both turn to him in the backseat, their faces blooming in simultaneous smiles. They’re both holding something back, but they’re not insincere.

“It is, Jackson,” Scully agrees. “You’re right. It means you have a lot more options.” He senses her worry simmering underneath. Something wrong here. Another shoe about to drop.

“Maybe I can call people now,” Jackson says, his eyes darting hesitantly between them. “My friend Louis. Maybe my uncle Wyatt.”

“Probably very soon,” Mulder says, nodding. “I’d like to wait until we know … just a little more.”

“You’re both worried,” Jackson observes softly. “You think something is weird.”

There’s a silence in the car as Scully starts the engine.

“We’re cautious,” Mulder says. “Happy, but cautious.”

***

When they get home from their bagel pick up—and Mulder was right, it was kind of a drive to get to the place with good bagels—Jackson is washing his hands in the kitchen when he feels Rose’s tiny nudge into his mind.

Apparently she’s back at home now, wherever that is. She tells him to pass on some messages. He’s happy to hear from her. He badly wants to tell her his good news, but he thinks about what Mulder and Scully said, and he decides to wait a little.

Jackson can hear Mulder talking on the phone outside. Actually, he is apparently taking a break from talking to whoever is on the line to discuss something back and forth very animatedly with Scully. Neither one of them really holds back their opinion, he’s noticed.

He’s started to put together a few more pieces about them. For one, he’s been curious about how Mulder pays his bills. Jackson’s parents always were very careful about money—clipping coupons, thinking through monthly budgets—but Mulder thinks about money much less than most adults.

Jackson knows that Scully is a doctor, and Jackson understands that doctors make high salaries, which explains her nice car and nice clothes. But Mulder hasn’t seemed to have a regular job for years, and Jackson doesn’t think FBI agents make enough to retire decades early.

When they came home with their dozen bagels, Mulder and Scully went to call this lawyer right away, both of them very determined. From what Jackson can gather, it seems to be a lawyer associated with Mulder’s family. So, Jackson infers, Mulder comes from some kind of family money. He wonders why Mulder doesn’t use it to buy a fancier house or car.

As he selects another bagel, he wonders about Mulder’s family. Who were they? How did they get rich? He wonders about Scully’s family, too. What’s her mother like, the one who is still alive? He could probably ask them all of these questions now that he isn’t a wanted man. Maybe he could even meet the mysterious grandmother now.

Outside Mulder and Scully still seem deeply invested in talking to the lawyer, so Jackson plops down on the couch with his cinnamon raisin bagel.

Chewing silently, he remembers what Scully said about the media getting the story soon. He searches around for the remote and turns on Mulder’s TV, pressing buttons to find a news channel.

When he does, he can tell instantly: the story is public.

A blonde reporter clad in a bright blue coat stands on a snow-covered street in downtown Rawlins, with the words “New Development in Wyoming Murder Case: Police Apologize to Runaway Teen” sprawled underneath her. Jackson is so shocked to see the familiar storefronts of his hometown on the national news he can barely focus on the words.

“...police believe that the victims’ son fled out of fear, and they hope Jackson Van De Kamp will be found safely.”

One of the police officers who’d been at Jackson’s school that horrible day—Davis was his name, Jackson remembers—stands in front of a microphone, looking gray and stricken: “We admit when we make mistakes, and this was a mistake. Mr. Van De Kamp is innocent of all wrongdoing. In all likelihood, he’s a scared and grieving kid. If you can hear this, Jackson, buddy, we want you to come home.”

Jackson stares at the screen open-mouthed, clutching his half-eaten bagel tightly. The rest of the report seems to slide right past him.

“Was that it?” Scully says sharply from behind him. The news has moved on to something else. “Was that the story about you?”

“Yeah,” Jackson says, his voice sounding like a small boy’s.

Scully walks around and sits down next to him on the couch. She picks up the remote and switches the TV off.

She peers at his face. “Are you okay, Jackson?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The police … uh, begged me … to come home. To Wyoming.”

Scully’s eyes are so wide, so icy blue—exactly like Rose’s. They run all over him, as if studiously taking in every detail.

“Do you want to go back?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, blinking.

She picks up his plate off of the coffee table, offering it to him. He sets his bagel down on it dazedly. She replaces the plate on the table.

“You have some decisions to make, Jackson,” she says, her voice gentle. “Not all of them right away. But you do have some decisions to make.”

Mulder appears behind her, his hand reaching for her shoulder. He’s watching Jackson closely, too.

“We spoke to the lawyer about the … custody possibilities,” Scully says. Jackson recognizes suddenly that she’s very nervous. He can feel fear starting to roll off of her in steady waves. “It’s most likely a relative has official custody of you now. Probably your uncle Wyatt?”

Jackson nods slowly. He can’t think of who else would.

“We can talk to your uncle about other possibilities,” Scully says carefully. “Living with us. Short term … or longer term. There are a range of options in the kind of relationship you could have with us. You could just do visits. We could have some kind of shared custody. There’s, uh, more permanent arrangements. Like legal guardianship. Adoption.” She swallows. Her fear is pulsing around Jackson now like a heartbeat. “I don’t know how your uncle will feel about any of this, but we thought we’d check with you before pursuing anything else. We want you to be the one … in the driver’s seat.”

Jackson reaches out his hand to rest on her arm. He doesn’t want her to be so terrified. It’s stupid. Unnecessary. Of course he wants to live with them. She stills at his touch, her eyes widening.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want to see Uncle Wyatt—like, for visits. He’s family. But I’d like to stay here. If that’s possible, I mean.”

Scully seems unable to suppress her initial reaction: she bursts into a pink-cheeked smile; she exchanges a quick, amazed look with Mulder. Her hand covers Jackson’s, and he can feel her intentionally calming herself down. “We’re happy you feel like that, of course. But that was … a fast decision. Are you sure? You can think about it. All the time you need.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.” He tries to make his own tone sound casual, breezy. “Uncle Wyatt has too many dogs and goes to a crazy church,” he says with a shrug. “And I don’t think he’ll argue with you too much if you say you want me to live here. I broke his big screen TV once, and he thinks I’m annoying.”

Jackson doesn’t say everything he’s thinking. That he would actually really like to see what it would be like to be part of their family. That he’d like to know what love felt like, everyday, with them. That he thinks it would be easy, somehow—much easier than he might have expected. That he thinks he understands now that this new relationship with them has nothing to do with replacing his parents.

Mulder’s smile is so wide that Jackson suspects he eavesdropped. “We’d love to have you, Jackson,” he says.

“We’ll talk to your uncle,” adds Scully. “We can be more specific about your options after that.”

“Rose said she could teach you more about how to block me, you know,” Jackson tells them tactfully. “So you wouldn’t have to worry as much about… not having privacy. You know.”

Scully flushes, and Mulder hides a smile. “That might be nice,” Scully says.

“She also said there was a really good STEM high school in Alexandria,” Jackson suggests with more feigned disinterest.

“Rose is full of advice,” Mulder observes wryly.

“Yep,” Jackson agrees. “I got a message from her, by the way.” He eyes the bagel on his plate again. “When you all first went in to call the lawyer.”

“Really?” Mulder says. “A … psychic message?”

“That sounds kind of overdramatic,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes and picking his bagel back up. “But yeah. She said she was home.”

“Good,” Scully says. “That’s good.” She throws Mulder a glance.

“She also said to tell you something, Scully.”

“She … did?”

“She said to tell you that they listened to her.” He looks at Scully to see if that’s meaningful, but her face looks blank. “Rose said that … she told them what she wanted, and they listened.”

He shrugs, deciding it doesn’t matter that much, and he takes a big bite of the bagel. Scully has a point about getting them fresh, he decides. They taste so much better this way. You could only get bagels in a bag at the grocery store in Rawlins.

A plummeting feeling from the pit of Scully’s stomach makes him look up.

“What?” Mulder asks her. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Scully’s face has lost color. “No. I just …”

“Who listened to her?” Mulder insists. “What does that message mean?”

“I asked her … if the Walled Garden leaders listened to her,” Scully says in a low voice. “If they respected her.”

Jackson swallows part of his bagel so he’s able to talk. Through a mouthful: “You think she asked the Walled Garden for something she wanted?”

Mulder stares at Jackson, and then turns back to Scully, his eyes widening. “You think she asked them for something she wanted,” he repeats in a low voice, realizing. “Oh wow.”

“This morning, she said she was going home to take care of something,” Scully whispers, her eyes on him.

Jackson swallows his last mouthful. “What?”

“So she goes home,” Mulder says in disbelief to Scully. “And within a few hours…”

“Is it possible, Mulder?”

Jackson finally gets it. “You think she asked the Walled Garden to make sure the charges were dropped against me. Don’t you?”

Scully and Mulder are still looking hard at one another. “It happened so fast,” Mulder says. “All in less than six hours. If it was really the machinations of the Walled Garden…”

“They have an alarming amount of power,” says Scully. “Over multiple entities of government. An amount of power comparable to…”

“The Syndicate.” Mulder sits next to them on the couch, puts his head in his hands. “Can this be true? I don’t know what to make of an organization like this. They’re not even… strictly human. But they may be involved in… it’s overwhelming.”

They don’t say anything for a moment, looking dazed. Jackson watches them both in profile, unsure what to say.

“What do we do, Scully?” Mulder says.

She looks away, towards the window. There are entire worlds—entire universes—in Scully’s eyes. Jackson feels weirdly like his shine is lost in something enormous.

“I guess it’s fortunate there’s an investigative unit of the FBI qualified to keep an eye on them,” Scully says slowly and resolutely at last.

She turns and picks up Mulder’s hand. He lifts his head out of his hands and meets her stare.

“And keep an eye on Rose, too?” Jackson says incredulously.

“Yeah,” agrees Mulder, a strange finality. “And keep an eye on Rose.”

A fierce undertow of worry from Scully. But is Rose on the right side? How could we convince her? What if Rose were involved with something fundamentally wrong? What about any other members of the Walled Garden Mulder might feel connected to?

They’re frighteningly powerful anxieties, and Jackson doesn’t even understand some of them. They’re shot through with the stinging, luminous heat of her love. But weirdly he doesn’t feel himself getting drawn into these anxieties right now, even though he’s prone to worrying himself.

It’s just the more overwhelming emotion coming at him right now is what’s coming from Mulder. This ridiculous hopefulness. Bigger and more buoyant than ever. It fills up, expands and crowds out all competing feelings.

Jackson isn’t sure if Mulder is essentially being like a gullible kid—if he wants to believe things that aren’t true just to comfort himself. If that’s true, he is much, much better at it than Jackson. Because every cell in his body seems to be singing the same song: somehow, this will be okay. Somehow, what's wrong is going to get better. Jackson decides Mulder feeling like this is a good thing, even if it's not an entirely logical or sane thing.

As Mulder draws Scully into his side, and suggests they watch his favorite movie—some old movie about space that Scully protests vehemently—Jackson notices the influence of Mulder’s hope beginning to work on her, too. She’s arguing back, but she’s starting to relax, too. She’s got this little smile on her lips. Her anxieties are receding, falling into the background.

Jackson pulls his knees up at his end of the couch and stops listening to their good-natured argument. He wonders how it would be received if he asked if his friend Louis could come visit some time. He has a brilliant idea about splashing red paint around the inside of the Bunny Man Bridge and freaking the shit out of Louis. It would be hilarious. Also, he’d just like to see Louis. He misses him.

Mulder and Scully want Jackson to be the tie-breaker in deciding the movie. They both look over and ask him, with curious faces, what he wants to watch.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Finding Nemo,” he suggests at once. “Or The Incredibles.”

“Aren’t those kid movies?” Mulder asks suspiciously.

“Not ... entirely,” Jackson says.

“What are they about, then?”

Jackson considers his answer a minute and lands upon the right words. “They’re about doing crazy shit for your family.”

He wins.

***

Y'all, thank you so much for reading. I’m truly grateful for all of your encouraging, supportive notes and tags. You have no idea what they mean.

[goldenseresinretriever]

You Catch More Bees With Honey: Chapter 20

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Part of the San Diego Dogfighters universe

Summary: Bradley Bradshaw, blindsided by a team he trusted like family has been traded to the San Diego Dogfighters. Across the country from the place he calls home, Bradley feels lost and betrayed. Not to mention the familiar faces and ghosts from his past that he now has to face every day at work. Bradley’s caught between wanting to show his former team the mistake they made in double-crossing him and wondering if it’s time to hang up his skates after one final season. You’re living your dream as the PR representative for the Dogfighters. When Coach Maverick made a bid to bring his godson to the team, you hadn’t batted an eye. Bradley was a good teammate, and a good player. Unfortunately, the Bradley that shows up in San Diego is nothing like your research suggested. He’s moody, irritable, aggressive, and angry, throwing a wrench in all your careful planning. What’s caused such a drastic change in him? And can you figure out how to help him before he makes a mistake you can’t fix?

Series CW: 18+ ONLY, swearing, dead parents, drunkenness, alcohol consumption, violence, sports violence, blood probably, angst, fluff, eventual smut, age gap (28 and 38), enemies to lovers, suggestive language, hockey inaccuracies etc. There will be individual chapter warnings. No use of Y/N.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: This is a repost of my completed series, You Catch More Bees With Honey. It was originally posted in November-March 2023, and was lost when my blog was deleted.

Previous Chapter // Series Masterlist

That night Jake calls for a team outing and Bradley is surprisingly not begrudging as he agrees to tag along despite the fact that usually he’d point out that he’d rather spend the evening with you. There’s one more game on New Year's Eve but the coaches are cutting the guys some slack since it’s the holidays. That’s how you find yourself glaring at your boyfriend as you line up next to each other and you strongly consider accidentally dropping your bowling ball on his foot.

It’s boys versus girls in neighboring lanes and you and Bradley have been tied for the better part of the game. Sure, Jake’s ahead of him, but this competition between the two of you supersedes the overall game. You’d be playing better but Javy had implemented a rule that dictated that you take a shot if you land a gutter ball and you’re more tipsy than you’d like to admit. Bradley, despite his multiple gutter balls, is built like a brick wall and therefore the shots have had little to no impact on his game. You’re beyond arguing the skewed fairness of the game and you’ve descended into quiet rage. You still lead the girls but that means nothing to you if you can’t beat Bradley and as you watch every pin in the lane next to you clatter to the floor with a satisfying crack you’re wondering how good you’d be at shotput. He turns to you, a cocky smile on his lips that dares you to match him.

Sure you and Bradley have a softer relationship but you both have a natural competitive edge that comes from growing up in the world of sports. Yours manifests more often in the form of your stubbornness but when a game does happen to be on the line you’re determined to win. As you scowl at Bradley you catch sight of Mickey smirking behind him. He knows better than to goad you when you’re in competitive mode. You take a deep breath in a poor attempt at collecting yourself. The alcohol is starting to dull your senses so when you release the ball in your hand it veers left, just barely clipping the furthest pin and saving you from another shot.

“You can still spare,” Bradley remarks and you glare daggers into him as you line up again. The sound of his soft chuckle only makes you frown harder and Mickey calls out from behind him.

“Hit them with the trick shot!” You turn around, your attention now on him as you consider his words. The trick shot in question is something you coined back in college when you and Mickey were out with his team and someone challenged the group to a round of bowling with a catch. Every shot had to be embellished in some kind of ostentatious and ridiculous way. The game had quickly devolved into chaos but you’d patented what went on to become your signature move.

“Trick shot?!” Javy exclaims. “Now we have to see it!” Then there’s a chorus of drunk hockey players chanting at you to show off the trick shot and you roll your eyes before you step back and slide your bowling shoes over the slick floor, testing the resistance. You should be able to pull it off even though it’s been years. You take a deep breath and bring the bowling ball up to your chest as your friends start to cheer. Despite your intoxicated state, in college you mastered being able to keep alcohol from affecting your skating technique so as you push into the spin that’s almost a pirouette letting the weight of the ball steady your center of gravity before you slide forward on your shoes across the slippery ground, extending your arm clutching the ball in a ramrod straight position and releasing the ball. You watch as it takes the speed your spin charged it with and barrels straight down the center of the lane before colliding with a satisfying crack and you smirk as the pins tumble in a wave. Behind you, the guys are going crazy and the girls are cheering. You’re about to turn and rub it in Bradley’s face when he scoops you up from behind, burying his face in your neck as he whispers into your ear.

“That’s my girl,” and you feel your cheeks heat as you lean into his touch before leaning up to whisper back in his ear.

“Afraid you’re going to lose?” His laugh vibrates through his chest against your back.

“Challenge accepted, Honey. What do I get if I win?” You can hear the tease in his voice as it rumbles against the shell of your ear and you suppress a shudder.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” you say, voice saccharine sweet, batting your lashes up at him. “Of course, the same goes if I win.”

“Deal,” Bradley says before turning you in his arms so he can kiss you and you can taste the alcohol on his tongue. You hear wolf whistles from behind you that you’re sure are Javy and Mickey as your cheeks heat slightly. Bradley rolls his eyes and pulls you back so the next people can take their turns, not letting you out of his arms quite yet.

***

You smirk across the packed booth at Bradley where he’s sulking over a beer. You’d moved on to a local karaoke bar you’d been to with Mickey and Bob before after the bowling concluded. Jake won for the boys and you won for the girls, Bradley trailing you by a measly two points. He was currently soothing the loss with alcohol as the others excitedly made their karaoke selections. His ruddy cheeks tell you he’s made up for his lack of shots during bowling and you gaze at him fondly thinking of the last time you saw him drunk. You bring a hand up to rub at your long-since-healed jaw and you catch Bradley’s eye as he flushes deeper at the memory.

“Zam, what are you going to sing?” A drunk Mickey interrupts your moment, thrusting the list at you but Bradley plucks it from his grasp, scrawling down his suggestion as your eyes widen with surprise. He’s drunk enough to let his guard down. You’ve heard him sing before, of course, but that was in the privacy of his car and along with the radio. You never pegged Bradley as a performer when it comes to music but absently you remember the baby grand piano in his living room that you’d written off as merely ostentatious decoration. He gets to his feet without a second glance and takes the list back up to the front, ignoring Mickey’s protests that you haven’t signed up yet. He pushes over to where Jake and Javy are arguing over who’s going first and takes charge of the kiosk as they gape at him. You're all watching Bradley with varying degrees of surprise as the alcohol in his veins fuels this bout of confidence.

He grips the microphone, ascending the small stage next to the bar you danced on the last time you were here as the familiar opening guitar riff of “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meatloaf fills the bar and he fixes a hard gaze on you as you realize what he has in mind and you smile, nodding at him.

“Well, I remember every little thing as if it only happened only yesterday,” your crowd of friends erupt into rowdy cheers as Bradley croons into the microphone. He reaches out to crook a finger at you and you bounce to your feet, reaching him just in time for him to lean down with the microphone so you can join the harmonies.

“Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night, I can see paradise by the dashboard light.” He reaches his free hand down to you to help you onto the stage before passing you the microphone.

“Ain't no doubt about it we were doubly blessed, 'cause we were barely seventeen and we were barely dressed.” You sing as he grabs the second microphone. You know it’s an almost nine-minute song but Bradley doesn’t show any signs of slowing as you join the performance, your friends going wild from the table.

Mickey brings you both a glass of water as the spoken interlude takes over and the two of you refresh before the next part of the song. You hand him back the glass just in time for you to take the lead.

“Stop right there! I gotta know right now! Before we go any further! Do you love me?” You meet Bradley’s eyes with a fiery gaze as you crow the lyrics. “Will you love me forever? Do you need me? Will you never leave me? Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life? Will you take me away and will you make me your wife?” You see something shift in his eyes through the alcohol-induced haze as you continue. “Do you love me!? Will you love me forever!? Do you need me!? Will you never leave me!? Will you make me happy for the rest of my life!? Will you take me away and will you make me your wife!? I gotta know right now. Before we go any further, do you love me!? Will you love me forever!?” You step up to him, getting into his face as a part of your performance as your friends lose their minds and the other patrons cheer. Bradley nods softly and it steals your breath as he takes over.

“Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it and I'll give you an answer in the morning. Let me sleep on it. Baby, baby let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it and I'll give you an answer in the morning. Let me sleep on it baby, baby let me sleep on it. Let me sleep on it and I'll give you an answer in the morning.” The intensity in his eyes as he falls to his knees is at odds with the words he’s singing and you know he’s promising the opposite of his words as you continue to play your part, tossing the words from earlier back at him in a back and forth.

“Will you love me forever?” You demand.

“Let me sleep on it.” He begs.

“Will you love me forever!” You can’t keep the grin off your face.

Bradley gets off his knees and you feel your heart catch as he crows the next part, his voice blowing you away. “I couldn't take it any longer, Lord I was crazed. And when the feeling came upon me like a tidal wave, I started swearing to my god and on my mother's grave that I would love you to the end of time. I swore that I would love you to the end of time!” Your heart flutters at the sweet words falling from his lips as you watch him with awe and you wonder if this is the Bradley that Logan, Alex, and Wyatt knew in Philadelphia. “So now I'm praying for the end of time to hurry up and arrive 'cause if I gotta spend another minute with you I don't think that I can really survive. I'll never break my promise or forget my vow, but God only knows what I can do right now.” His amber eyes burn into you and you can’t help but simply stand in awe of him. “I'm praying for the end of time, it's all that I can do. Praying for the end of time, so I can end my time with you!” The crowd does wild and you join them before joining Bradley for the last few bars as the song faded away in true 70s fashion. The crowd in the bar roars as Bradley takes you in his arms and kisses you hard, dipping you in front of the crowd and the whoops and cheers echo off the walls. This feels like a beginning, a new chapter and you’re excited to see where it goes as your teammates storm the stage, tackling the two of you with hugs and more cheers. You laugh and you don’t remember the last time your heart felt so light. Looking over at Bradley you can see the same thing expressed in his eyes and you feel like you’re finally home.

***

“It’s PINK,” Bradley says for what must be the fifth time and you nod yet again. He’s gazing at the fabric spread out on the bed.

“Technically it’s salmon,” you point out and he just gapes at you. You shrug, not an ounce of mercy in your eyes. “A deal’s a deal, Brashaw.” You watch the fear grip his features before you push up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’re going to look amazing.”

It’s New Year’s Eve and spirits are high at the arena. The boys are playing their last game of the year tonight and the locker room is buzzing. The boys have tomorrow off since the only game on New Year’s Day is the Winter Classic. You’re waiting patiently outside the locker room for Bradley. You hear a crow of pure delight from Javy on the other side of the door and you smirk as you imagine his reaction. A few moments later the door swings open and Javy’s wearing a feral smile as he wraps you in a hug.

“I love you, you know that right? It’s like Christmas all over again!” You roll your eyes as you hug him back. The door swings open again and Bradley appears, his cheeks ruddy and matching the salmon suit that makes him cut a dashing figure. His eyes widen as he sees that you’re dressed in a similar shade, the suit new, and you smile at him shyly.

“I thought we could match,” you say with a shrug and he smiles softly for the first time all night. He’s forgone a tie and his shirt is slightly open, exposing his throat and a sliver of his chest that makes your heart flutter in your chest. His curls are perfectly styled and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides let you know he’s making an active effort to not run them through his hair. “You look so handsome,” you compliment him as you cross over to wrap your arms around him and his cheeks turn red for a different reason. His relaxes a little under your touch but you can tell he’s still uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you whisper so just he can hear, guilt gnawing at your chest slightly even as you’re elated that he complied. After losing at bowling the other day, Bradley was at your mercy to do whatever you wanted. Likely he expected it to be something sexual as the two of you can barely keep your hands off each other these days, but you’d surprised him by asking him to let you choose his suit for their next game. You claimed it was retribution for how much he used to hate your suits, to which he reminded you was no longer his opinion on them.

He wraps his arms around you in return, burying his nose in your neck as he strokes your back gently. “Are you happy?” He asks and it’s genuine. You nod against him.

“Very,” you feel his lips tilt up into a smile against your skin.

“Then I’m okay.” He says and your heart aches. He pulls away and bumps your nose against his, gently. “Shall we go?” You nod, and the locker room door swings open and the other guys start filtering out in their suits. Jake’s eyes soften as he takes in the two of you.

“You guys look adorable,” he compliments, fishing out his phone to snap a picture and Bradley doesn’t argue.

“Oh my god, you guys!” Bugs exclaims as he comes around the corner, hearts in her eyes as she takes in your matching outfits.

“We have to do that sometime.” Jake agrees as he finishes with his pictures. Bugs agrees enthusiastically. “And you need to wear his jersey sometime,” Jake points out to you.

“Oh don’t worry, I have,” you say with a cheeky smile that makes Javy whoop with excitement even as Bradley squeezes your waist. The guys start moving to go get their photos taken before the pre-game press and you lean your head against Bradley’s shoulder. “Good luck, tonight.” You murmur and he leans to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“I have my good luck charm, I’ll be fine.” You giggle at that and he pulls you close.

***

Laughter and music are echoing off the walls of Jake’s house. The living room is full of teammates and their families with a combination of children and animals weaving between legs. After the game, everyone met up here to welcome the new year before they’ll eventually head out to enjoy having New Year's Day off. You’re standing in Bradley’s arms, listening to Bob explain the myth of Alaska having six months of darkness. You glance up and you can tell that Bradley’s far away so you gently tug on his sleeve and lead him out the back door to get some air. Jake’s backyard opens out onto a semi-private beach and you slip your hand into Bradley’s as the two of you make your way across the sand. You ditched your heels by the door ages ago and the sand feels cool under your feet. You can’t help but remember the last two times you and Bradley found yourself on the beach as you’re drawn towards the water.

The water is cold as it laps as your toes and you skirt back as Bradley stares wordlessly out at the sea. “Everything okay?” You ask softly as he turns at your words. There’s something you can’t place in his eyes and you’re about to push him gently for an answer when he drops to one knee and your eyes widen. “Bradley. Bradshaw.” Your voice is shaking as you admonish him. His eyes are soft as he squeezes your joined hands.

“I’m not proposing,” he assures you and you let out a shaky breath, “not yet.” He says with a brazen, boyish grin and it steals the breath from your lungs. “But I do want to make you a promise, because you’re it for me, Honey. There’s no one I’ve ever loved more than I love you and like I told you, you’re my family. I will always stand by you and protect you. You’re my everything, and one day I’m going to ask you to be my wife.” Your eyes are full of tears as this perfect man is once again on his knees for you, offering you the whole world. “There’s nothing in my life that’s more important to me. Not myself, not hockey. I don’t believe in fate, but I feel like our moms masterminded this and sent us to each other. I’ve never been so thankful, that I get to love you in this lifetime. A few months ago I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to live anymore and now I don’t think there’s anything I’d rather do than spend every single day I possibly can with you.” He lets go of your hand then, reaching down to shape the damp sand beside him and you smile through the tears cascading down your cheeks as he makes the little sandman, shaping the body and then scooping up twigs and fragments of shells to adorn it. The surf licks up, dampening his pants where he kneels but he’s undeterred. When he finally dusts off his hands after, he stands taking both your hands in his. “You’re my dream, Honey, and I think it’s going to be the sweetest one I’ve ever had.” You smile at him and as he kisses you, you think he might be right.

[awritesthings1]

Tommy Shelby Masterlist

One Shots

Midnight Interlude You try to convince Tommy, your husband, to come back to sleep.

Gone with the Leaves Despite your happy marriage to Tommy, you feel an undeniable jealousy towards Lizzie. Perhaps a day in the forest will do you some good.

Silent Night Set the Christmas before World War 1, Tommy and you share a special moment on the front steps of Watery Lane.

All The Things We Don't Say An anthology of your life with Tommy, from friends to strangers to lovers, and all the little moments in between.

Things That Go Bump in the Night You ask your husband Tommy if he believes in ghosts. The answer might surprise you.

Good Taste The country wives make fun of your sapphire necklace. Tommy finds a way to cheer you up.

Utterly Thoughtless On your wedding night, Tommy begins acting strange. Something is on his mind.

[bromcommie]

moving like a river of trouble crossing

Rating: M | Word count: 10,260 | Tags: Set in the lead up to and right at the end of CATWS, Character Study, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug (And A Friend), Wait No Not That One, Going Down Memory Lane, SHIELD Has Shitty Therapists, Horrible People Still Acting Like People, Captain America Politics, Natasha's Love Language Is Surveillance, Folks Trained For Violence Engaging In You Guessed It: Violence | Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanoff, implied Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow (non-explicit, but still reasonably fucked up by virtue of Rumlow being Rumlow)

(belated) fic for @catws-anniversary, day 2. Thank you so much for putting it together, guys! | march 27th theme: steve rogers | prompts: guilt, "it kind of feels personal" | part of a WIP to be published on AO3

and because I apparently can't help myself with the music-fic thing, playlist for this here

i.

Good morning Captain Rogers. It is 05:15 AM, EST. Up 'n' at 'em. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 04:41 AM, EST. Would you like me to set the blinds to a lower density? Don't you nuh-uh at me, sunshine - get your lazy ass out of bed. You're gonna be late. Good morning, Captain Rogers. I understand you are under some duress right now, but please do not be alarmed. It is 2:32 am, EST. The year is 2012. You are in New York City. You are safe. Please try to take a breath. Would you like me to call anyone?

Good morning, Steve. Good morning. You're gonna be late. You awake? You awake yet?

Sure. Sure, he's awake.

That afternoon he packs his bag, the single duffle that fits all of his earthly possessions. He tries to ignore the vaguely smug tone of Fury's voice when he tells him they already have an apartment set up for him in DC: ten minutes from HQ, real convenient, and has he ever been to see Lincoln Memorial? He'll love it, it's a nice spot for a walk, especially in the summers, or so Fury's been told.

Steve's been to DC, but he's never beeen to the memorial, never seen much of the city outside the confines of the hotel the USO booked for them. He thinks he can count the grand total of places he's gotten to see up close on his right hand, and half of them were in the European Theatre. The other half he's running from now.

He's sure it'll be grand, he tells Fury. Beats the smell of moldy brick in the heat and a patchwork city manifesting ghosts out the corner of his eye, he doesn't say. ii.

They get him a therapist as a part of his onboarding at SHIELD. It’s due diligence, they say, in the aftermath of New York – someone to help him transition into his new role. But it’s been almost nine months now, and Steve’s learning their language, the words that get caught up in between all the red tape: saying assistance when they mean overwatch.

“This is supposed to be a safe space, not an interrogation,” the woman says at the start of her first evaluation, meeting all of his unease with a reassuring smile, and something about the misplaced quality of it puts him on a knife’s edge.

He only pieces it together the second time he’s called in to meet with her, when he's a bit more clear-headed and a whole lot more impatient than during their initial encounter. It only takes a few perfunctory exchanges before he starts registering the image as a whole: the painstakingly nonthreatening, gentle demeanor, the conservative clothes she’s wearing; the pale complexion and the sharp features and the unmistakable lilt to her voice, soft and rolling and decidedly more old country than east coast.

It would feel almost perverse, he thinks from a distance, if it wasn’t already painfully transparent and tactically inept to boot: this attempt at the same trick that didn’t work in their favor the first time around. He supposes he can’t blame them for trying to fill in the gaps between what they could scrounge up from paper and old photographs with something predictable and comforting, something expected of his background and what is now probably regarded as an antiquated time period.

He also knows that going off of little information when dealing with a potential threat is dangerous. What’s even more so, he thinks as he nods politely along to the lady's explanation of their work together, is believing you know more than you do, and that’s the easiest mistake to exploit.

Here's a fact probably still recorded somewhere on a faded death certificate: Sarah Rogers never lived long enough to get gray in her hair like that.

Here’s another, probably only still recorded in his memory and nowhere else: his mother had been fiercely caring, yes, and compassionate to a fault, but her kindness had never translated to docility, and it sure as hell had never translated to softspoken dishonesty.

So when the shrink bearing a near-painful resemblance to her starts asking incisive questions enshrouded in unoffensive words and indulgent tones, Steve packs his entire reality into a series of half-truths without batting an eye and doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

Yes, he’s eating. Yes, he’s sleeping well. No, he’s not on edge – sure, it gets hard, sometimes, but exercise helps, meditation, music. Going out into the world, meeting new people. Trying new things. Yes, he’s ready to be back in the field. No, not so much so that he’s itching for it. Yes ma’am, he’s doing fine, just fine, thank you for asking. iii.

“I heard Hannah’s single,” Romanoff's saying, and it’s not the first time his brain is latching onto the fact that she’s keeping pace with him without losing too much breath, without any discomfort in the cool air that's just starting to roll in as fall bleeds into the city, painting it in darkening evenings and dimming colors. “You know, from forensics? Glasses, leggy, science-y type. Blonde – you like blondes, right?”

“I’m starting to think you only have one thing on your mind,” Steve pants, pushes harder ahead until his calves start burning, just to see if she'll allow herself to follow. Keep moving, keep moving. You awake yet? “Gotta admit, it’s making it kinda hard to enjoy all this quality time we spend together.”

“What, you’re going to stop inviting me on runs? Aw, Rogers. Break a girl’s heart, why don’t you.”

“It’s not really an invitation if you just show up without me letting you know where I’m going, you know.”

She shrugs. “I needed to burn some energy, and you’re not exactly the most unpredictable person in this city.” Her ponytail whips over his shoulder as she follows his sharp right turn around the War Memorial and passes him towards Constitution Gardens, too close and competitive. “Brunette, then? There’s a girl in operations, real tough, good with a gun – at least your propensity for that type has been well documented, but I guess you didn't really have enough time to enjoy it, y'know, all the way –”

Steve knows she’s talking about Peggy, he does. It doesn’t help the hard-wired alarm bells going off in the back of his head any. He digs his heels in, skids to a stuttering halt over the wet pavement, and somewhere in the back of his consciousness he’s quietly pleased that it catches Romanoff off guard a little.

“What, too far?” she jokes, but her eyes are quick over his face; cataloguing the boundaries, the places she can still push.

He's sure it's well-meaning, as much as a blatant handler can get. But some habits are just harder to shake than others. That, he's intimately familiar with.

“If I say yes, will you stop? Or at least stop tailing me?”

“I don’t tail you. That’s below my paygrade,” she says, mouth quirking up at the corner like that’s all the punchline she needs as she types something into her smartphone. “I’ll text you her number. She likes spicy food and old movies.”

“Sure, fine. Great.”

“It is. You'll see.” The phone disappears back into one of the many hidden pockets of her skin-tight leggings. The marvels of modern technology, Steve thinks. Natasha quirks a challenging brow. “Now can we start the actual run finally or have you reached your limit, grandpa?”

He's all but ready to chicken out of the date all week, fighting the urge to cancel at the last minute, but he figures the girl doesn't deserve his bad manners just because he feels like spiting Romanoff when she tries to play his puppetmaster.

In the end it goes...surprisingly well. As Romanoff described, Lina’s beautiful and sharp and a little closed off, tough as nails and maybe even more rigid in her approach than him, but once they get over the initial hurdle of awkwardness and expectations the conversation flows with relative ease. They swap the basics, they talk interests and habits and what moving to DC's like, fun little stories from growing up; he tells her about the butcher on his block when he was a kid that kept a rooster in the backyard, and she tells him about the kid on her floor at community college that set the dorm on fire trying to boil an egg. They talk SHIELD and her work training the new recruits and there’s a spark in her eye as she dives into giving him a breakdown of what he should look into, BJJ and MMA and gyms around town that would be discreet enough to take him in.

“SHIELD’s got plenty of hand-to-hand experts,” she says in a pensive tone over the dessert, “but it can get a little…”

Steve chuckles around his spoonful of the sticky rice, the sweetness of the mango across the back of his palate soothing the previous burn of the spice. Turns out he likes Thai food, too. Who would’ve thought. “Intense?”

“Testosterone-riddled, I was gonna say,” Lina grins, conspiratory. “And paranoid. Not the best scene if you just want to learn,” and he nods along because it’s true, and because it’s a relief to have someone else say it for him.

So it’s nice, and sweet, and ultimately entirely impersonal. He walks her to her door and she gives him a kiss on the cheek, and when she explains how she’s not really looking for anything right now her dark eyes are warm and honest but not overly apologetic. It’s a gesture he’s grateful for.

“Besides, not to be blunt, but you don’t seem all that…” She trails off, waving her hand.

He winces. “Interested? I am, really, but...” And that’s just it, isn’t it. He’s interested; she’s wonderful, just his type, seems to like him well enough. But.

“Look, I get it. We’ve all been there. Can’t really avoid it in this business.” She shrugs as if to say what can you do, smiles up at him knowingly. “Wrong place, wrong time, right?”

And Steve thinks, yeah. Yeah, something like that. iv.

“–piece of shit, every time, wet sand all up in the fuckin’ thing. Goddamn Kandahar all over again,” Rumlow’s muttering, agitated and half to himself, and Steve doesn’t ask about the last part, just dumps his own gear on the rack and drops down onto the bench. They might be friendly, but they’re not friends – Rumlow doesn’t owe him his history. “I get sent to the fuckin’ desert in this weather one more time, I’m gonna start missing New York winters.”

The jet’s engines hum at his back, adrenaline leaving his body in slow pulls as he watches Rumlow work, notes the intermittent scarring over his hands as they strip the jammed gun down like it’s muscle memory, quick and capable. There's not a spot on him that seems unmarred, really - the scars are a continous, scattered motif up to his face, moving faint in the dim light of the jet.

Loved being in the ring, he'd said once with a wry grin, as far back as I can remember. Might've gotten the shit kicked out of me more than was strictly necessary, though. Accounts for me ending up here, in any case.

He’s drawn this exact scene, it occurs to Steve before he can push it away; down to the boxer's shoulders, down to the complaining, and more than once.

“You from the city?” he offers, an easy distraction that Rumlow seems grateful for.

“Yeah. Yeah, born and raised right off of Arthur Ave.”

“No shit?”

“Yep. Good old Belmont.” He looks up, gaze turning sharp at whatever he catches on Steve’s face before he can look away. “Wouldn’t think you’d know where that is. You ever even been past Central Park?”

Steve gets a flash of washed-out color and brilliant light, of Art and Charlie and the rest of them from the Y dragging him up to Harlem; thinks of the queens with their elaborate glamour and loud, unapologetic laughter and that last wet spring before the cops started shutting everything down, of stumbling tipsy towards the A down 155th Street with empty pockets and Jeanie giggling into his shoulder about some honey-eyed daddy that gave her a sweet kiss goodnight. A well-insulated secret, a fleeting memory of feeling like he could swallow the world whole.

It’s not what Rumlow’s talking about, he knows. He nods anyway.

“Loved that neighborhood. My folks moved us out to Staten when I was in high school, though,” and Steve must make an involuntary face at that because Rumlow chuckles and says, “Alright, tough guy. Not all of us had the privilege of living within two blocks of Prospect Park.”

“Neither did I, but it sure beat Staten," Steve snorts. "And it wasn’t even as much of a privilege, back then.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll notice a lot of things’ve changed.” He tilts his head, scratches contemplative at his stubbled chin. Steve wonders if he’s projecting the bitterness in Rumlow’s voice. “A lotta things’ve gone to shit in that place. Food’s still way better than fuckin’ DC, though. Not nearly enough Italians over here.”

“Yeah. All that white marble and not a single decent, roach-infested deli. Real shithole. Should put that on the tourist brochures,” Steve says after a moment, testing the waters. It gets another laugh out of Rumlow, low and maybe a little surprised, and the sound settles like molten lead in Steve’s stomach, grounding. v.

One morning in November he gets a phone call from a Washington Post journalist asking for his statement on the newly planned Captain America exhibit, and then in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it feat of persuasion it’s three days later and he’s somehow been roped into a grand opening ceremony, a speech and a press conference at the Smithsonian.

It lasts for-fucking-ever.

By the time he's back in his neighborhood his ears are ringing with leftover noise and applause, his cheeks sore from a constant smile that'd felt more like a slashed tire than a friendly gesture even as he was forcing it. He'd reverted back to the Best Foot Forward, Always mentality of the bonds circuit quick enough - but at least back then it felt like it had a marginal purpose, no matter how flimsy or false. Back then it didn't drain him this much, he doesn't think, no matter how frustrating. Best Foot Forward these days feels more like sleepwalking his way off a cliff than anything else.

The second he's through the door he shrugs out of the tie and starched shirt chafing at his neck, tries not to think about how he still would've preferred all the commotion and the pretense to the unfamiliar silence of the otherwise big apartment building. Tries to give the feeling resurfacing in him now that he's got attention enough for it a name other than unbearable.

Here's the thing: pain, Steve knows on an intimate level, is something you get used to. It's not to say you forget it exists completely: you just subsume it, you learn to expect it. It’s less about it becoming a habit and more that it becomes a part of you when you’re not looking: fills up all the empty crevices it can find and creates a mold, and that’s the shape you start to take if you live with it long enough. The problem with that is that the longer it goes on, the less space in you there is for other things.

He was five the first time he got really sick. It'd started simple enough – the winter of ’23 came early and sudden, and New Year’s Eve found him in bed with a fever that earned the dreaded prefix scarlet soon enough when the spread of dotted red started taking up more and more space on his body. He'd spent two weeks feeling like someone's dangling him off the edge of the unknown, and much longer than that after with his mother's watchful eyes following him from the window whenever he left the house, like she couldn't force herself to look away.

But he made it. Despite all indications, little Stevie Rogers didn't die, and it was a miracle with a capital M. All he had to do is make peace with having a somewhat faulty heart as a keepsake of his survival and maybe never playing for the Dodgers, which is not to say it stopped him from trying.

But then next year it was the whooping cough so bad it cracked a rib, then his left ear giving out on him after a prolonged sinus infection, then the asthma he barely even noticed amidst everything else until it layed him out flat midway through a game of stickball bad enough it landed him in the hospital. The minor league dreams dissolved fairly quickly after that.

In ’25 he missed more school than he attended. The kids from down the block came round to call on him less and less, and it wasn't too long before they forgot completely and it was just him and a handful of toy soldiers left, with names like Joe and Jack and occasionally if he allowed himself, Steve. Their neighbors started smiling at him more. The grocer started handing him a fistful of candy under the counter every time they came in, looking at his mother in a way that said sorry for your loss and that Steve hated with a passion, least of all because he couldn't even enjoy the pity because hello, here comes diabetes. Then it was the pernicious goddamn anemia and months and months of the liver-fucking-everything diet followed closely by its sworn enemy the ulcers, and then the growing pains, and then the bad back, and then the bum joints –

Here’s the thing about pain: the longer you carry it, the more you forget you’re doing it in the first place. You ignore it because it’s the only way to survive it, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? And that’s when you start thinking you have it under control. You start to think you’ll be ready when it comes for you again.

Here’s the other thing about pain: you’re never ready. It comes as a surprise each time. He wasn’t ready in ‘30 when the neighborhood suddenly started reeking of despair and death and he wasn’t ready in ’36 when his ma went and he wasn’t ready in ’44 when he got shot in the neck and thought oh, so it can still hurt like this. I can still bleed.

Then '45 rolled around and a new thought followed, a miserable dot at the end of a sentence: maybe bleeding out would've hurt less. At least it would've made us even.

None of that experience and understanding stops him feeling it now, again, still, like an interrupted line from that first fever chill to here, standing in the middle of his living room with a glossy brochure full of dead faces in his hand and an exhaustion so deep it roots him to the spot.

And then there’s the anger, of course: equally familiar but much more muted, less expressive than it used to be, dancing around the edges of everything else. He looks back down at the crumpled pamphlet, to where the folded-unfolded-refolded creases cut through the title:

Captain America’s team: the top tier of the World War II effort and a leading example of integration! 

As if they were somehow Captain America's or even the US army’s to begin with; as if it was encouraged and Steve didn’t have to stand around in moldy tents arguing his brand-new, star-spangled ass off with Major Whatshisname and Colonel Whoever-the-fuck for days on end just to keep them eating in the same mess hall and sleeping in the same barracks. Nothing about any of the ugly parts, about the blood and the bureaucracy and the bullshit. Nothing about any of them, either - no mention of Dernier's politics or Gabe's professorship or Morita's writing. Not a single inch of space left for their families or their own stories except as a footnote in Steve's own, a way to make it picture perfect.

Nothing about Bucky other than the barebone facts: he was Steve's friend, he was a good soldier, he died. The meat and blood and soul of the person, left out; the fact of whose fault it ultimately was, conveniently gone.

And that name – the Howling fucking Commandos. The bunch of them would’ve busted a rib laughing at it, laid out all grandiose like that. For one, it’s still as ridiculous as it was back then – sounds more action novel than historical account and distinctly less bureaucratic and arbitrary than the Specialized 107th, which is what they were strictly called in the paperwork. Personally, Steve always thought that out of the variety of nicknames they’ve been awarded, the Invaders was by far the most fitting. Truer to wartime, to what it was they really did, and far more threatening if it ever reached the other side of the line. Then again, from what he’s gathered so far, it seems like America’s done far more than its fair share of invading since. It definitely accounts for the 180 degree change in branding.

Turns out it’s still all about selling comic books and war bonds. And Steve, too caught up in his own sorry wallowing, is just going along with it.

Jesus, he thinks, the tone of it coated in a wry, familiar voice nestled in the back of his brain but much harsher than it ever was in reality, drop the philosophy for one goddamn minute. Anybody ever tell you idle hands are the Devil's playthings? Get moving, Rogers. Trade the speeches in for something useful.

So he does: chucks the paper into the empty white fruit bowl collecting dust on the countertop, turns the TV on to a random channel to break the silence. He doesn’t recognize the title of the movie playing but it’s soothing, the background awash with static and the accents just familiar enough to make for pleasant white noise. He heats up his leftovers, sprawls out on the couch and gets to reading the reports Fury had unloaded on him, tuning in every so often to the witty back-and-forth dialogue. It’s maybe half an hour of squinting at indecipherable bureaucratic jargon before he finally gives up, lifts his head to rub the sleep from his eyes.

One of the men on screen – Nick, Steve thinks, or maybe that one’s Mikey, he hasn’t been following along all that well, to the work or the film – is trying to dissuade the other from visiting his mother’s grave in the dead of night.

It’s 1 in the morning.

That makes it nicer.

It doesn’t make it anything, Nick. A grave is a grave. There’s not a religion in the world that says a person’s soul is buried with them in their grave, the man argues, and it’s like whiplash pulling him out of the serene lull, the memory of a name over a plot in Greenwood he’d never gone to visit, and he thinks, a little disoriented – of course there’d be no soul in that patch of land. The grave itself is empty.

They’d given him reports in the beginning, too: a neat stack of papers, most of them stamped DECEASED in glaring red letters, and the single mocking MISSING IN ACTION. At the very end there’d been a laughably short list of contacts; among them a phone number and address for one Rebecca Barnes-Proctor.

God help us all, he can imagine the voice of George Barnes saying even now, jokingly abject, our Becca’s married a Proddie.

But there had been briefings, then, and the shitshow over Manhattan, and in between all of that the days where he couldn’t even find the will to leave his apartment block, let alone go to Brooklyn. Over and over, he’d given himself the same excuses as with Peggy – it would be too much, too soon, too selfish to usurp her life like that.

Of course, the truth of it all was much simpler. All too cowardly, too, in a way that has the guilt blooming with a vengence somewhere in the pit of his stomach: he didn’t have the guts to look Bucky’s baby sister in the eye, no matter her age, and say, I’m sorry you didn’t get a body to bury. I’m sorry the one time he needed it I didn’t do the job he spent his whole life doing for me. I’m sorry I left him behind when it should have been me down there in the first place.

He watches the two men stumble around in the muddy dark of the graveyard and yell and bicker in a way that strikes Steve as bitterly melancholy, the familiarity of it unmooring.

Mike, y’know what? Now that I’m here, I don’t know what to do, Nick finally admits at the foot of the tombstone, wild-eyed and devolving into a rambling laugh, and ain’t that a kicker. Welcome to the club.

It’s very hard to talk to a dead person, we have nothing in common. Hi, ma.

Nick, you’re making me forget the kaddish, Mike chides with mounting frustration as Nick keeps giggling and it’s not funny, it’s really not, the whole premise of it deeply morbid, but Steve finds himself laughing right along with Nick’s hysterical hiccups, his childlike plea of I don’t wanna die, ma.

You don’t get a choice in the matter, his own mother had told him when he was maybe 8 or 9, faced with the concept of death the first time when Mrs. Kowalski from 4C got sick, if that’s the way the chips fall, then that’s God’s will. But what matters is the middle, what you choose to do with it. Do you understand?

He didn’t, really, not back then, and ten years later when they’d lowered her into the ground all he could think was: what is the point of it, anyway, of all those right choices, if all that happens is you end up dying alone?

Steve hadn’t been, of course. For all of the isolation he’d felt during those last few months of his mother’s illness, he’d never been really alone. There’d been the Barnes’ and the old ladies from church and even some of the folks Sarah had helped treat at the hospital coming by and Bucky, Jesus Christ; Bucky crying at the funeral and saying kaddish for months like Sarah was his own and letting Steve rage and lash out until all the fight had drained out of him, his arms like a vice around Steve’s shaky frame.

And there’s the actual goddamned truth, he thinks, bone-weary. The only truth that matters, the one that’ll never get written on any museum walls: Steve was only ever as strong as the people propping him up.

I think that’s the reason we’re such good friends, Nick is saying to Mike when he tunes back in, and Steve’s not laughing anymore, hasn’t been ever since his throat had gone tight a long few minutes ago, because we remember each other from when we were kids. Things that happened when we were kids that no one else knows about but us. It’s in our heads. That’s how we know they really happened.

What are you talking about? I know what really happened when I was a kid.

Yeah, but no one else does, Nick says, painfully earnest. I mean, everyone we knew as kids is dead.

He shuts the TV off with a soft click, waits a long while before the heartbeat pounding in his ears has settled. Thinks about what it really means, then, to embody the final resting place of all your ghosts.

Maudlin, Bucky’s voice echoes in his head again, fills out the crevices of the silent apartment like a slow bleed. Always gotta be so maudlin, Rogers, like you’re Scarlett O-fucking-Hara. Just get up. Get up, Steve, c'mon.

“Yeah,” Steve sniffs, wipes a rough hand over his eyes; laughs again because it’s a damn joke, all of it, and he can afford to lose the plot in the privacy of his own home. “Yeah, fuck you too, asshole. Go haunt somebody else.” vi.

"Heard you had an eventful weekend," Rumlow comments when they all pile into the locker room the following week, a little roughed up and beat and stinking of iron and sweat but otherwise in decent spirits. "Seemed like a good time, all those pretty girls throwing themselves at you to shake their babies and kiss their hands or whatever."

"Shows how much you know. The pretty ladies were all balding men over the age of 50," Steve says, only half-joking, shrugging into his civvies with a wince. There's a cut on his side where he fell a little too close to a protruding piece of rebar that's already reopened twice by the time they've gotten off the jet, but despite the sharp sting of it he's feeling better than he did just a mere twelve hours ago.

Idle hands turns out to be true enough. Wryly, he thinks he might owe sending an apology up to Sister Andrea, although he figures anyone that enjoyed using a ruler on little kids that much wouldn't have ended up in Heaven, anyway.

"But sure, it was alright. A little too much attention all at once, if I'm being honest."

"Oh yeah?" Rumlow huffs. "Big talk coming from someone who dresses like you do. I hope you didn't show up there wearing that."

Steve frowns down at the faded jeans, the fitted grey shirt – one of many pairs that came with the closet in his apartment. It rubbed him the wrong way, at first, but it's easier in the end; not having all that wide array of choice dumped over his head all the time. "What's wrong with my clothes?"

"Nothing. I just get worried they're gonna start cutting off blood flow at some point, y'know," Rumlow grins, his teeth very white in the bright fluorescent lights. "God forbid we go to a bar one of these days, I'd have to mind every creep from here to Dupont tryna get a peek down your shirt."

"Fuck off," Steve huffs, feeling heat flush down into his neck despite himself. Yeah, blood flow really isn't the problem. He gestures at Rumlow's own undershirt, all slick black and skin-tight, motion packed in. "Look who's talkin'."

"Yeah, but I don't dress like this out there. This is all for you guys," he yawns with a stretch, all exaggerated bravado. "I got one of those, y'know - work-life balances. Out there I clean up nice. You, I imagine you sleep in that shit."

Steve snorts. "You'll be happy to know I clean up just fine. Got the one suit and everything."

"Is that right? They get you decked out in some bespoke threads for the parade, Cap?" He chuckles at the face Steve makes when the word bespoke fully registers. "See if I believe that without any evidence."

Steve digs out his phone reluctantly. He does have pictures, is the thing, woke up the next morning feeling like a sack of potatoes tossed from a great height just to see his phone light up with an email from SHIELD's HR with an attachment sent over for approval - like he was a celebrity ending up in a tabloid, he thinks again with distate, like he should care much either way what he looked like. He thumbs through his email to the one labeled FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION, and shoves it over at Rumlow before he drops onto the bench to sort out the rest of his pack.

"Looking good, you weren't kidding. And the mural's all heroic," Rumlow comments lightly as he scrolls through. "Wait, don't tell me - the little mustachioed, scruffy looking one is the frogeater, yeah?"

Steve laugh comes easier this time. "The little mustachioed, scruffy looking one would've kicked your ass six ways from Sunday if he'd heard you call him that. Yeah, that's Dernier. Gabe, next to him," he lists, trying not to think about how it comes across that he's memorized the order, "Dum Dum - he didn't like that nickname, either - Bucky, Monty, and Morita."

"Sure were big on callin' each other everything other than your names, huh?" The joke is followed by a stretch of quiet, and when Steve looks back up Rumlow's frowning at the phone a little, a flicker of uncertainty over his face that Steve doesn't get to figure out before it's gone. His face smoothes out into a mostly neutral expression, an undercurrent of something unnerved and white-hot, and Steve can't help himself.

"What?"

Rumlow passes him the phone back with a shrug. "Nothing, just - haven't seen those pictures since I was in high school," he says, a little distant like the memory's faded to oblivion since, and hell if Steve'll ever stop finding it strange that all of them ended up in dusty old school books, long obsolete. "Long time ago, now. Guess I just remembered all of you being much older, is all."

He leans back against the wall of lockers, pensive, watches Steve fumble with the zipper of his hoodie where it keeps sticking for a minute. "You must miss it, though. The good old days. Your people."

Steve clears his throat, yanks at the cheap piece of plastic again. The fit and cut, he might've gotten used to - but he'll never get over the waste; just how quickly everything falls right apart in the future. "Yeah, well. Like you said, it was a long time ago."

"It was, wasn't it. Longer for some than others, though," he says cryptically, and Steve really has nothing to say to that that won't land him right back where he was two days ago. He doesn't have to, in the end, because Rumlow throws a curt nod at his front, and it takes a second too long for him to interpret what his zeroed-in expression means, to register the dotting of blood through the thin fabric of his shirt. "You're bleeding all over the place again."

"It's fine. Don't feel it much," Steve says. Something's different. What's different? Wake up.

"Sure. Never do, do you," he says, gesturing to the hoodie with a thoughtful expression that's inching away from the easy banter. "That shit's gonna stain, though."

"I was gonna throw it out anyway."

It should be enough, and in any other situation it would be. Any other situation he'd shrug it off with more conviction, Rumlow'd call him a tough guy with just the right amount of mockery, and the tension would pass. Except that Rumlow had to lead them into uncharted territory and Steve hadn't been quick enough to notice before he was flailing, too exposed.

Except that instead of a quip what he gets is Rumlow's stepping into his space, the casual slouch of his shoulders replaced with something more deliberate when he reaches for where Steve's hand is still holding onto where the teeth of the zipper have gotten all gnarled. In a heartbeat Steve's back to square one: keenly aware of the proximity and every inch of his body in the cramped space; back to that first day in the elevator with Rumlow's dark eyes turned on him with a questioning look and a twist to his mouth that said it's a pleasure, Cap but meant I've been here long enough - you don't impress me any more than any other kid I've seen this place chew up and spit back out.

It'd been enough to get his spine straightening of its own accord back then, too; the sheer challenge of it, pushing at the boundaries of hierarchy. It makes him want to pull away now, want to put the usual distance between them, to get the hell out of this stuffy locker room. Makes him want to push forward until he meets something immovable and solid. Want. want, want - too much and for things that were unreachable. That's always been his problem, hasn't it?

The sound of the zipper is too loud in the mostly empty space when it gets yanked loose, pulled up and over the slow spread of the stain, and Steve realizes with a start that he didn't notice the chatter die down as the few stragglers left the room. Realizes that he hasn't moved a muscle in a good minute, like a butterfly with its wing pinned.

Rumlow's touch lingers, just the barest pressure under his Adam's apple, and Steve's breath catches. Rumlow makes a considering noise.

He snapped a guy's neck with those hands not two hours ago: a thoughtless, instinctive thing in the middle of the ambush that was waiting for them. It's not that Steve's forgotten it; Steve's aware of it to the point of failure. It's just that it got bound up with everything else, the easy reliance and the ribbing bordering on rough and the adrenaline under his skin like a necessity.

Wake up.

Rumlow's eyes on him are sharp, a little curious. Less surprised than they ought to be.

Wake up, get moving, get out of sight. We've been here before.

Steve swallows. "Thanks."

"Sure." Rumlow steps back to hoist his bag over his shoulder and the moment breaks as quick as it came on, the whole uninterruped line of him lax and easy again, surface friendly. "Now you won't scare the guys at the front desk."

And then he's off down the hallway, leaving Steve to lean on the cool metal of the wall and do everything but think about the sudden feeling of being off balance, a little too tight in his skin in a way that only half has to do with the too-quick beat of his blood, the lingering smell of Rumlow's cologne.

vii.

Funnily enough, the Christmas gala almost slips his mind – an extraordinary accomplishment, considering that he spends most of December thinking up viable excuses not to go, dodging Romanoff’s questions and sideways looks with the agility of a man running for his life.

“We can hang out with the civilians. Break the record of how many weapons contractors you can piss off in one night,” she says one brisk and sunny afternoon when she manages to drag him out to a coffee shop barely across from SHIELD, the steam from her tea swirling up in billows to fog her opaque sunglasses. “It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t know any civilians,” he says, deliberately obtuse. It’s a joke; he can’t help that it’s also mostly true.

“What about Kate?”

It’s not a surprise anymore, really, that she knows everything about his life, that she has no problem making that clear to him when she wants to. He’s fine with it, he has to keep reminding himself. Maybe it’s a control thing, like when she acts like she’s not holding back when they spar, a holdover from some other life. Maybe this is the closest they get to trust, and it doesn’t matter. Much like the tails that he pretends not to clock, the check-ins and evaluations and this whole neatly preordained life someone else's drawn up for him – it comes with the package, and what difference does it make, anyway? It’s simpler like this. He can do his job, and if thinking that he’s a situation she has a handle on makes Romanoff feel better, then that’s fine, too.

“What about her?”

“You talk to her yet?”

“I talk to her all the time,” he points out. Natasha cocks her head, the rest of her expression as obscure as her shaded eyes.

“It’s for a charity. The gala.” She keeps switching lanes. Trying to get him to stumble, he thinks.

“Yeah, Ms. Potts said.” Two can play at that game. “You want a date so bad, why don't you pester Barton this much about it?”

“Clint doesn’t need pestering. It’d be good publicity if you showed, you know.”

He scoffs; there it is. “For what, the charity or Stark Industries?”

“So it is about Stark, then.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, over-sweetened and dark. 100% pure Colombian arabica, apparently, and with the price tag to reflect it. The acidic taste sticks at the roof of his mouth. “I don’t have a problem with Tony.”

He doesn’t. Stark’s a good man, he thinks, despite having inherited all of Howard’s arrogance and none of his approachability. Whatever tension was there in the beginning had dissipated, though, the second Tony plummeted thousands of feet from the sky after having, for all intents and purposes, blown himself up to save all their sorry necks. They’d broken bread, shaken hands, parted ways.

For the best, probably. Good man or not, Tony has a singular way of getting under his skin.

And then there’s also the fact that being in Manhattan just doesn’t feel right, not with the destruction still settling over everything like a cloud of noxious dust, the fenced off craters and leftover vigils scattered every few blocks like an improvised graveyard. Good morning, Captain Rogers. It is 4:47 AM EST. It is a new day. Do you see it? Do you see it yet? Are you awake?

It’s not new, this sense of loss: looking at the city and feeling grief, compounded.

“Not what I said.”

“What are you saying, then?”

“I’m saying SHIELD throws shitty office parties.” Natasha frowns and chugs half the scalding cup in one go before pushing up from the table, checking her phone. “I have to go,” she says, gives him a long look that he can’t really decipher, unusually lingering and far too serious by Natasha's standard. “Come to New York, Steve. Or at least think about it.”

viii.

He goes to see Peggy again, because of course he does. She greets him at the door with her most pleasant, polite smile this time, the kind reserved for strangers – Time for my medicine again, is it, darling? – but it’s alright, he understands. They’ve explained it to him, the good and bad days, how there’s rarely any constant. He’s grateful, anyway: just so grateful to have her around, as much as he can. Which is why he doesn’t flinch when she cries, when she calls for him like it’s been another seventy years, why he holds her brittle hand in his until she gets hazy around the eyes again and he feels a nurse’s gentle tap on his shoulder, hears her suggest that he come another time.

He takes the Harley out on the highway and drives aimlessly for the rest of the evening and well into the night, down and out and then back again until the traffic has thinned out to semis and the rare leftover commuter. He watches the speedometer kick up to 80, 90, a 100, the bike struggling, feels the rumble of the engine all the way up his spine when it skids unbalanced over the odd ice patch and thinks, grateful, grateful, grateful.

ix.

“You’re up late.”

“Hey.” Most of the building’s emptied out by now – he’d thought he’d find some privacy in the abandoned atmosphere of the holidays, and instead here Rumlow is when he was meant to be three states over, strolling through his periphery looking like he’s got nothing but time on his hands. “Thought you left with everybody else.”

“Nah. Had some business to take care of.” He settles against the wall opposite Steve, watches him shake out a one-two-three pattern that has the chain of the bag groaning. “Thought you’d be at Stark’s fancy party and putting that suit to good, promotional use.”

He never gets a chance to think about it, it turns out, getting called in two days before Christmas and ending up sending Ms. Potts – Pepper, please, call me Pepper – an overly apologetic, last-minute message excusing himself from the night. It’s a good call, in the end. The last thing he needs tonight is to be stuck in a room full of obscenely drunk, obscenely rich people expecting him to gush over the hors d’oeuvres and play at appearances.

He feels as though what he’s doing right now isn’t much different, though. It takes a whole lot of effort and posturing to dredge up a wry smile for Rumlow, anyway. “Well, it’s been busy here. Couldn’t fit it into my packed schedule.”

Rumlow snorts. He gets that expression on his face, sometimes, that same brand of amusement that makes Steve second-guess whether he’s actually in on the joke or just the punchline of it, that gets him hot under the collar in all the wrong ways. The punching bag chooses this moment to finally release its desperate grip on the physical realm, flying off the chain with one last pitiful creak and sending sand spraying across the floor. Rumlow’s eyes track the movement with unabashed fascination.

He walks over to the neat row of bags Steve’s lined up and picks one up with relative ease, a casual show of strength. “So you gonna talk about it,” he pipes back up, handing Steve the replacement, “or do I have to keep standing around here until you’ve run the rest of ‘em into the ground?”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever’s got you shredding through these poor fuckin’ things at 11 pm on Christmas Eve.”

He wants to point out that he could be asking the same question – that there really is no reason for Rumlow to be here this late when he’s still technically on medical, to be in his usual tac clothes and looking as wired as Steve’s feeling. You ever take a day off? he considers asking, but that’d be prodding. What’s worse, it’d be hypocritical.

“Nothing, you know how it is – mission ran long. Had some leftover energy.”

“Yeah, Rollins mentioned you guys ran into some kinks.”

It’s not exactly the word Steve would use to describe the shitshow of that morning, utter failure avoided by a narrow margin because it was an old school lab, Christ, still had extracurriculars on the weekends and everything, and they just charged in half-blind.

It’s rigged, naturally. The room blows as he’s getting the janitor out, tears the face of the building open towards the sharp drop below, and all Steve can think is what a stupid, avoidable way to die. The electrical fire smell lingers for a long time after the explosion, the patter of the wet snow through the blown roof nowhere near enough to put the flames out.

They’re told to avoid detailing the collateral in the report, after: SHIELD had no way of knowing the complete situation beforehand, they say, short and brooking no argument, and Steve’s getting real damn tired of hearing that. By the time they wrap up cleanup he’s shivery and exhausted and when he finally dozes off on the long flight back with his ear to the monotonous drone of the engine, it’s to vague, uneasy bursts of the taste of ash in the mouth and many small, cold hands dragging him deep into the frozen ground.

Absurdly, the first thing he thinks of when he startles awake is Dugan’s thick mustache chained solid with frost, lips blue with the cold and grumbling under his breath.

"Gee, you're looking awful familiar there, Dum," Gabe'd say, biting off the ends of his sentences with the chatter of his own teeth. "Made this snowman that looked just like you when I was a kid - all white and lumpy with a great big bush over his lip. 'Cept his carrot nose was half as long and he never ran his fuckin' mouth this much."

And despite the cold and the misery, Dugan would elbow him and Gabe'd elbow back, obstinate. And Bucky'd laugh, Bucky'd call them all a bunch of fucking morons, and do they really want their last to be the Germans hearing them squabbling like two bitter old biddies out on the steps of the church for the whole neighborhood to see? Think of the image of our troops, golly gee. God forbid.

He strips out of his wet suit at the compound by rote and doesn’t think about the numbing cold of December among towering trees, of snow burning his fingers raw, clinging to his lashes. He runs until his lungs burn and it’s nothing like that thin, strangling air of the mountain range, nothing like warm skin sticking to icy metal, muscles all locked up and tears hot like bile in the back of his throat and the wind screaming in his ears, and –

Winters are warmer now, somebody’d told him at some point. Something about northern lights and the ozone in the Earth’s atmosphere.

“Kinks, right.”

He smooths out the edges of the tape that’s come loose over his knuckles, tries to tuck it in where he’s spotted red through the fabric. Suddenly he’s all too aware of the seconds lumbering on in silence, the eerie, empty quiet of the building; Rumlow looking at him with a single-minded intensity that makes the back of his neck prickle with heat, gets him on edge in a way he doesn't want to parse, doesn't have the energy to hide from.

It'd be no use, anyway; sometimes he thinks Rumlow can smell it on him, blood in the water.

“Alright, then.”

He aims a perfunctory jab at the bag and lets it swing back to catch it mid-air, brand-new vinyl creaking under his fingers, and considers ignoring the man altogether. He's not feeling generous with his words tonight. “Alright what?”

When he turns back around Rumlow’s ditching his holstered gun on the bench. Steve didn't even notice he was armed. “You said you got some energy to burn – so let’s go a few rounds.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“Come on,” and it’s his voice in the end, if he’s being honest with himself, that makes Steve fold; the cajoling tone and those long, tightly rolled vowels that curl and hook into the sheltered space behind his ribs. “C’mon, man, it’s been a while. I could stand to let off some steam, too.”

Come on, do it for me, Bucky had said in dozens of different iterations over the years and then only once after when it had meant something, only once when he was really asking, back up against the hard bark of the tree with his hands dangling between his legs like a man who had no more use for them. You gotta promise me, Steve, he’d tried, low and worn thin, and Steve didn’t, couldn’t find the words to that wouldn’t be a complete lie and a betrayal. Instead he’d leaned harder into his side, hand at the back of his neck, and wanted and wanted and wished like hell, not for the first time, that he could drain the misery and exhaustion out of Bucky’s body at every point of contact.

Come on, Rumlow says, and Steve goes, Pavlovian.

He rewraps his hands in silence, waits for the other man to tape up before he steps into the ring.

“Y’know, it could’ve been worse,” he says, circling Steve, tone casual, “No casualties is better than what we get most days. So you might as well stop with all this self-flagellation bullshit, Cap. It’s no good.”

“You wanna keep talking,” Steve goads him because it’s worked in the past, because it really has been a long day, “or do you wanna fight?”

They start off slow, Rumlow testing the waters and Steve pulling his punches by habit by now. He manages to land a few hits that don’t really scratch the surface, doesn’t pull back in time to avoid Rumlow’s hook. His blood rushes at the first, second, third collision, zings up his spine and sharpens everything out, bright Technicolor; it’s good, doesn’t even hurt, he’d almost forgotten –

It gets real brutal real quick, after that.

“C’mon. What, you gettin’ bored already?” Rumlow says the third time he gets past his guard, an edge of something mean and frustrated in it. He strikes out again just to skirt off Steve’s belated block, more provocation than actual intent. “Jesus, you fallin' asleep on me? Fight the fuck back, old man.”

“Look who’s talkin’,” Steve gets out, putting distance between them. “Ain’t you supposed to be passed out drunk on eggnog in Staten Island right now?”

“You ever stop running your mouth? No wonder you were the neighborhood punching bag, kid.”

“I weighed a 100 pounds soaking wet, I had to compensate. What’s your excuse?”

He’s slow this time, too. Rumlow’s not someone who signals. The kick to the plexus sends Steve stumbling back and something pops, loud. He coughs once, twice; shakes it off.

“Aw, there he is. You’re alright,” Rumlow says, deceptively sweet, dismissive. “You’re just fine. Come on, Cap. You gonna quit being a pussy or what?"

Here’s the thing: he’s not sure he likes Rumlow all that much, really, can’t read him all the way to be able to say for sure; isn't sure that he wants to. They don’t know each other, not in a way that counts – it’s only been a handful of times that they’ve even worked on the same team in the time Steve’s been in DC, even less they've gotten to have anything that counts as a real conversation outside the single locker room incident, but he’s been leading men long enough that he can pick up on the patterns. He can see the way Rumlow commands respect among STRIKE, knows the type, besides: collected and confident and purposeful, committed to the cause to the point of failure. Violent, too, sure, shooting for the head when Steve’d still be asking questions; a little too rough around the edges, sometimes, yes, but so what – Steve’s seen his fair share of that. Steve’s lived it, felt it on his own skin, inside and out, been in it for three whole years. So what. He’s not about to run away screaming.

It isn’t even the first time they’ve done this, beaten the shit out of each other after hours in the deserted facility. It’s not the first time he’s seeing Rumlow in this light, eyes dark and focused; liking it a little too much, maybe, liking riling Steve up and drawing blood. A natural progression to all the things about him Steve maybe didn't want to notice and all the things that had his full attention since the second they met.

It’s fine – Steve figures, this body can take it. It’s what it was made for, anyway. Steve figures better here than out there, and out there Rumlow’s all brutal efficiency and casual competence and Steve trusts him to have his back, get the job done, which is the only part that matters. Steve trusts him, is the thing, and that carries more weight likeability ever could.

Rumlow’s fist connects with his jaw and he feels it rattle up into his teeth, the dull pain like a live current through his body, whiting everything else out: you awake, Steve? You awake yet? Is it enough, to still be able to bleed?

So sure, maybe it’s the violence that gets him. Maybe it’s that Rumlow fights just dirty enough and doesn’t pull his punches with Steve, grins at him sharp when he spits blood from his busted lip and squares back up. Maybe it’s just that he’s not afraid to touch him or look at him wrong. Everyone else seems to be.

He blinks sweat out of his eyes and creeps in close, lands a few swings in quick succession that have Rumlow easing off, head snapping to the side.

“Yeah. That’s it, there you go. C’mon,” he laughs, pushes damp hair out of his face in a well-worn afterthought of a move, and Steve –

Steve has to remind himself, is the thing. Every goddamn day of the week he has to keep reminding himself of where he is. Eventually, he thinks, it might stick – but God, he’s sick and tired of it.

They don’t even look alike. For one, Rumlow’s much older than Bucky ever got to be. Has the scars and the experience and the too-mean edge to his voice to prove it.

But in the end, when he's got Steve face down on the floor, breath hot down his neck, it turns out it doesn't really matter all that much.

He bucks anyway, if for no other reason just to prove a point to himself, just to feel his bones grind together. You're still moving, you're still just going forward, heart pumping like it's gonna burst with it. Rumlow twists his arm further up his back, grip iron tight. “I said stay down.”

“Yeah, fuck you,” Steve pants into the mat. “Pretty sure this ain’t within kickboxing rules.”

“Pretty sure there was no talk of rules in the first place. I keep tellin’ you, don’t I, you gotta get that or else people’ll think you’ve gone soft. Someone might take advantage.”

“You ever quit talkin’ shit?” Steve throws back at him.

“Nah.” Rumlow shifts, the weight of him heavy and hot, too close. Steve can’t catch his breath. Rumlow’s knee is still pressing into his back and he can already feel a bruise spreading at the bottom of his ribs that’ll be gone in the morning. He doesn’t even feel it all that much. He never even – “See, I don’t think you’d want that.”

Steve could break the hold with ease. He could throw Rumlow off and still walk away with most of his dignity intact. Steve could do a lot of things.

He’s fucking tired, is the thing. He’s in his body and buzzing hard out of his head and it hurts, Christ, it hurts so bad, has for such a long time now, and it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter one bit.

Keep moving, keep moving. Maybe he doesn't want to. Maybe it's alright if it's not him, anyway; a river of trouble, cross currents, carrying him along.

It’s just easier, in the end, to trust someone on his team. That’s all there is to it. It's easier, it is, it's getting there at least, Steve keeps telling himself as he lets Rumlow take him apart in more ways than one.

Eventually, he thinks, he might even believe it.

x.

He meets Sam Wilson on a humid day in late May when the sun's barely made its way up, the sky an overripe color and all of his bruises already healing or healed or tucked neatly all the way back under the surface. Like many things with him these days, it starts off as muscle memory; then a shot in the dark, then relief when it works.

It still takes all of his willpower not to physically retreat when he's hit with the familiar, tired refrain:

You must miss the good old days, huh?

But then Sam cuts straight through the middle of it: Sam calls his bluff, quick as hell but with kind, serious eyes and an outstreched hand, and by the time the sleek black car rolls up to the curb with a roar Steve's got another title in his little book of the future and a chest that feels slightly lighter than it did when he jolted awake at 3 in the morning.

Romanoff pulls them back out onto the street without a word, and he doesn't even mind the knowing look she casts his way all that much. Just looks out the open window, the spring air whipping past as the speedometer ticks up 40, 50, 60, and thinks about whether the farmer's market will be open when they get back in: having some fruit in that goddamned fruit bowl might be nice for a change.

(epilogue)

When all is said and done, he thinks he really should have seen it coming. There was no talk of rules, and it's Steve's own damn fault for not listening. When the dust settles and the Potomac still reeks of a gasoline fire, when Steve's switched back onto battlefield efficiency despite the nightmares creeping into his subconscious with a vengance, it really shouldn't feel personal.

Except for the memory of Rumlow's slick grin in the too-bright, too-close space of the elevator, except for the phantom feeling that he can still sometimes smell scorched skin on his stomach; except for the way Bucky's horrified expression is burnt into the backs of Steve's eyelids like a brand, like a scar that won't heal fully.

Except that it's nothing but personal, in all the ways that matter.

Sam looks at him in question when he pauses in the middle of breakfast, eyes glued to the closest thing that passes for a modern TV in a roadside diner in Bumfuck, Iowa. Hospital breakout, the breaking news states, three dead, seven injured, dangerous fugitive on the loose. Be advised. Do not engage. Do not engage.

Yeah. Too fucking late for that now, isn't it.

"You alright?"

That's a loaded question, he thinks. I'm not sure what that really means and I don't know if I have for a while, he thinks.

You awake, Steve? You awake? You see it yet?

"Fine," he says, and digs back into the cold, gummy pancakes. "You think they got any blueberries in this place?"

Sam's face cracks into a smile, dubious and slow and then all at once. Sure, if you say so. Sure, I see what you're doing, but I'll trust your lead. Prop me up, I've got you right back. "Man, I don't think they even have hot water, but. Gimme five minutes and a Captain America name drop, I'm sure we can figure something out."

xx

[strange-dreams-are-made-of-these]

Take My Whiskey Neat (Part 2)

Summary: Logan and his newfound daughter take a trip to Alkali Lake. One is in search of who he was before 1979. The other is looking for who her parents were before she joined Charles Xavier's school. Ghosts come back to haunt them both. How will they act when faced with these challenges? Part 1 Tags: father-daughter fluff, angst, canon typical violence, creepy stalker mentioned in first section, broken bones, use of firearms, use of an original character Word Count: 20k+ A/N: I do not own any of the characters mentioned except for Amaris Howlett. The divider credits are in my master list. Images found on Pinterest. Amaris' face claim is Devery Jacobs. Also, if you think something in here is written wrong (when it comes to the heritage of the character) PLEASE TELL ME!

Leaving the school hadn't been something she planned on being a forever thing. There would always be a part of her that stayed with the school, and it with her, beyond just the memories tied with it. Danger room sessions with her fellow X-men, crying to Storm when a boy broke her heart for the first time, supporting Jean when she thought she blew her chances with Scott, asking Charles why he gave her chance after chance every time she accidentally hurt somebody else. Of course, teaching the kids was another fond memory of hers.

Though none were more fonder than the sleepless nights she stayed up on the rooftop with him.

She was brought out of her thoughts when she saw Logan signaling to her, pointing at the next exit sign about a mile away. They had been driving for a good portion of the day before winding up in Toledo, Ohio. With the sun setting behind them, Amaris wondered if Logan wanted to continue riding along toward the Canadian border or if he wanted to find a place to stop for the night. They still had quite a way to drive to reach Alberta, let alone to get to the border of the countries.

Logan revved the motorcycle engine as he led Amaris and Jeep to the exit lane, aiming to find a place to lie low for the night. His mind had been whirling most of the drive, flooded with the memories of his life, the things he began to remember. The images that felt the most vivid were of him and Amaris when she was a baby. They were the warmest in his mind, a time of peace and comfort, along with the woman he saw. He couldn't believe he had a family, or that his memories and time with them had been stolen from him.

However, other memories flooded his mind. Brief glimpses of him in army uniforms, holding guns and other period clothing flooded his mind. So many visions of war clawed within his mind. He can remember certain scenes of different wars he had been in, remembering the look on other people's faces. He saw blood splattered across the floor of forests and pastures and heard bullets flying and ricocheting off of people and their environment.

What bothered him more was the pounding he heard in his head heavily outweighed the roaring of the engine of the motorcycle. He needed off of the hunk of metal, at least for a few hours.

The Jeep roared behind him as Logan found a little side-of-the-highway hotel to stay at, one of those big commercial ones. The big red sign advertised eighty dollars a night. It was the perfect pitstop for their long journey, and with a bar across the street, Logan knew he would find some peace and quiet in his mind.

He found a space to park the motorcycle, and Amaris pulled the Jeep up alongside him. As he stood up, the motorcycle creaked as it rose up into its normal fashion. Logan rubbed the palms of his hands, hearing his knuckles pop as if metal rubbed against each other. He watched as Amaris hopped out of the jeep, stuffing the keys into the pocket of her jeans. Neon lights began to illuminate the stretch of road they found themselves on before music from the bar began to play.

You are in charge of the rooms, kid, I need a drink. He tilted his head just enough to crack his neck before turning around and crossing the road.

Amaris rolled her eyes, grabbing both of their bags out of the jeep. She found her way to the main office, entering with the sound of little bells alerting the receptionist of her arrival. A little television was on a news channel.

"As of tonight, the New York police department, the FBI, and other governing agencies still do not know what happened on Ellis Island or Liberty Island last week. An up-and-coming group named The Friends of Humanity has deemed the act a mutant resistance, calling for a mutant registry. At this time, The Friends of Humanity have not been backed up by a governing body."

The receptionist hummed. We're better off without mutants. Freaks. The comment was made to himself, but with her slightly enhanced senses, Amaris was able to hear it.

If only he knew she was one of the few mutants responsible for the destruction on Liberty Island.

Or how many people she and the X-Men saved that night. Mostly the X-Men. All she managed to do was destroy parts of the museum and get her neck snapped by Sabertooth.

The man watched her as she approached the desk, setting the bags down at her feet. I need a room please, two queens.

He eyed her up and down, staring at her a little too hard for her liking. He looked down at a room registry he had, looking at the options. I can offer you a room with a king... and I'm not just talking about the mattress honey. He winked at her, smiling a half smile.

It appeared he had been missing the majority of his teeth, and the ones he still had were filled in with silver fillings. Amaris did her best to hide her physical repulsion from the heavier-set man. Sorry, I don't feel like sharing a bed with my brother. She remained firm in her response, though she could tell this didn't deter the man.

He looked back at the list, then clicked his tongue. hmm, I dunno...

Amaris looked over at the screen again, seeing the report about the mutants. About her, and her father, and her friends... her family.

Just, tell me you don't service... them... here. Speaking against mutants, against incredibly talented people like her students and her friends was something she would never do. It felt as if she had betrayed them with her words, but she knew others had to do the same thing.

He looked at the screen, then back to her. He nodded, writing in the document before him. It seems as if I do have a room left, with two queen beds. He produced two keys as Amaris handed him cash. What is the last name for the reservation?

Amaris squatted down, picking the bags back up. Howlett.She grabbed the keys after replying to him, making a quick exit, and turning in the direction of the hotel room. She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking the thoughts out of her mind. Calling her kind out like that just to gain the favor of the receptionist in exchange for a dry place to sleep for a while.

What would the Professor say?

Amaris had found the hotel room, entered it, and set their bags down on the beds. With nothing much left to do, she made sure to lock the door behind her, before entering the bathroom. She flipped the light on, the stale yellow-white light showed her the dingy countertop, small shower, and equally small toilet. She removed her jean jacket, turning and tossing it onto one of the beds. She began to run her hands through her hair, pulling the ponytail holder out.

Her hair was rather long, having kept to the traditions she read about growing up. She knew from an early age she had been Indigenous, mostly thanks to Charles Xavier who dug into her mind to see where she had come from. With his help, she was able to read and research about her native ancestors, the Blackfoot people.

Her hair was the biggest connection she had to her ancestors and her family. As it relaxed behind her, her hair stretched down to almost her waistline. The ends of her hair looked a little wind-sharpened. Nothing her hairbrush couldn't handle.

Her hair was the least of her concerns right now.

She could hear the door of the room creak open. Knowing she had locked it behind her and having both keys in her jeans pockets, she knew Logan wasn't around. She stayed facing the mirror, as the sink and counter area was exposed to the room behind her. She took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she listened to her surroundings.

She quickly snapped around, grabbing the wrist of the receptionist, pinning it backward to the point the man had grabbed his arm and began sulking backward. Next time, pal, I hope she isn't as merciful as I am.

He began to plead with her, sobbing "no's" between winces and groans.

Amaris flashed her teeth at him, as she growled her slightly sharpened canines shimmered in the dull light of the bathroom. Pull some shit like that again, and I swear to you, you won't be able to run back home with your tail between your legs. She then continued to walk him back toward the door, pinning his wrist back even a little further. She opened the door, making sure to lock the door behind her. Now, be a good little boy, and make like a retiree heading to Florida. She let go of his wrist, watching as he grabbed at it and held it close to his chest, turning around and making his way back to the office.

She knew it wasn't safe to be by herself right now, and she had a feeling Logan could easily get into some trouble here. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, walked through the little parking lot, and crossed the street.

The music grew louder, as did the sounds of voices flowing out of the bar. Logan sat at the corner of the bar, puffing on a new cigar he had tucked away in his jacket, holding a glass of whiskey in his hand before him on the bar top. His eyes darted from the glass to the mirrored-back bar watching the young woman enter the bar, walking up to his side and taking a seat. He turned to look at her, his fingers reaching out to take a strand of her hair between his index and middle finger. Has it always been this long?

Amaris pointed at Logan's glass when she made eye contact with the bartender before turning back to her father. Ever since we met last week. She really should have tied it back up again. I don't normally wear it down. It gets in the way.

Logan huffed a little as the bartender refilled his glass and brought one out to Amaris. He took another puff of his cigar, letting its smoke fill his throat and lungs before blowing the smoke out. I'm not a good person.

Amaris grabbed her glass, scooting it closer to her, the tips of her fingers covering the lip of the glass, holding her face with her other hand. What do you mean? She asked him.

He brought his glass up to his lips, swallowing the amber liquid in one gulp, setting the empty glass on the bar top. The burn was something he thought would bother him more than the conversation at hand, though here he was. I need to figure out what happened to me, what led me to where I am today. He tapped the ashes of his cigar into the tray sitting between them before he looked back at her. When the Professor...he gestured with two fingers to his temple, I saw things that I've only seen in the movies... and more.

Amaris looked at him puzzled. Her lips parted, intending to speak. However, she was caught off guard when a hand grabbed her head, forcing it into the bartop.

A shotgun was loaded, cocked as the hotel receptionist stood with two men. One of the men held Amaris' face into the bartop. Logan stood up quickly, his claws exposed. Amaris braced herself on the bartop, her bone claws were exposed, though with her hands not positioned in the right way, the two long claws that would appear at her knuckles were now forced through her palms. She groaned against the pain of the claws in their unnatural position and the sensation of the bridge of her nose grinding against the old liquor-soaked wooden bar. I told you she was a mutant! She attacked me at the hotel!

Some of the bargoers left the bar quickly, grabbing their items and leaving the scene. Some of the others stayed behind, unsure which side they would jump into.

Logan looked at the three men, pointing a hand toward them. You want to fight a mutant, fine. Fight me, leave her out of this.

The receptionist pointed the shotgun at Logan. You must be the brother she mentioned about. Mr. Big Man In Charge. I can see where she gets her sour attitude from.

Logan looked between the three men. He slashed at the shotgun, though not enough of it to disable the weapon. Kill the mutant bitch, Frank.

Amaris stepped on the man's foot, causing his grip on her to loosen a little. He dropped his head at the same time she threw hers backward. The back of her head and his nose collided. Amaris spun around, maneuvering the man around and throwing him behind the bar. Logan slashed at the gun again, destroying it as he eyed the clerk. Amaris moved around Logan, ducking down and kicking the man's feet out from underneath him, knocking the third man off of his feet and onto the ground. She was able to manipulate her claws back into her forearms, grabbing a fistful of the man's shirt at his neck, and standing over him.

Logan grabbed the other man by his jacket, Don't get me wrong, bub. She can have a sour attitude, and we share that. But that mutant bitch isn't my sister. Logan's eyes shifted back and forth as he looked down on the other man. He could smell just how terrified he was from the encounter. That's my daughter.

Amaris heard the words, though as rough and gruff sounding as he threatened the other man, Amaris instantly felt emotionally pulled to Logan. To her father. The man who just a few minutes prior stated he wasn't a good man. How did those words taste now?

Now, you just ruined my night, and I lost my cigar. Why don't I repay the favor by ruining that smug grin of yours? Logan brandished the claws from his right hand, a sinister glint in his eye as he smiled down at the man.

Amaris turned to look back at Logan. She knew they had to be better than that, to give mutants a fighting chance. Dad, we can't go around mutilating humans because they threatened us.

Logan held his eye contact with the heavier-set receptionist, shaking his head slightly. Mutilating? No. Plastic Surgery.

Amaris looked back down at the man below her. She let go of his collar, standing up straighter and running a hand through her hair. I think they got the picture.

Amaris turned to look at her father, though was met with a blade to her chest, right below her heart. The first man she tossed over the bar and came out fighting again. She groaned, feeling the blade begin to move as her muscles, tendons, and tissues began to regenerate before gripping the knife and pulling it out of her chest. That was not very nice. That hurt. She rubbed the spot where he had stabbed her, often finding open wounds extremely itchy as they healed. The man looked down at where her wound would have been, mortified as he watched it heal almost instantly with very little blood staining her shirt.

The man who had been lying on the ground had rolled over, getting to his feet, and ran out of the bar as quickly as he could. Logan stared at the man in front of him. Okay fat boy, you have about three seconds to get your glory hole friend here out of this place and go home before my patience decides to take a vacation.

Amaris nodded, still holding the knife in her hand. She bent her elbow in front of her, running the blade between the fabric of her shirt, wiping the blood away. Trust me, running home to Mama is the best-case scenario here. She whispered to the man, Frank, smirking a little.

The Howlett's watched the men run away in fear, grabbing onto each other as they hollered, leaving the establishment. Logan turned to look at Amaris, his once stone-cold facade cracked as Amaris found the concern that filled his eyes. She nodded a few times, waving her hand at him, letting him know she was fine. She put the knife in her boot, keeping it as a souvenir from the encounter. She walked back to her seat, picked the chair back up, and set it where she found it.

The bartender threw a rag over his shoulder, crossing his arms. He looked between the two mutants, shaking his head back and forth. Money is money, I don't care where it comes from. But I can't have you two here. Not because you're mutants, but because your presence has already drawn too much excitement for one night.

Logan grumbled under his breath walking out of the door in front of Amaris. She nodded, leaving some cash on the counter and grabbing the bottle he left where they had been sitting before following suit behind Logan. She looked down at her shirt, her fingers running over the sliced fabric. Look, let's get a couple of hours of sleep before we get back on the road.

Logan looked over at her as they crossed the street. You first. I still have a few hours left in me. It was a lie, but he couldn't stand being in Ohio for any longer than he needed to.

Amaris shook her head. You're the one on a two-wheeled machine that weighs as much as you do, if not a little more. She looked up at him, having been nearly half a foot shorter than him.

Logan continued to march on, almost ready to hop back on the motorcycle and continue to ride on. The only thing keeping him from doing so was his bag was now in the room, and he had no idea where he was going. I don't need somebody else to worry about me, he commented. He meant for it to sound absolute, however his tone betrayed him.

She could hear the slight fear in his voice, almost sounding like a whisper between the two of them. She handed him the bottle as an offering. She couldn't find any words that sounded right to reply to him. It was hard for her since she grew up in a safe place while he had wandered around without a clue about who he was or what he was. She had that luxury, he did not.

It was hard on him since he learned a few things about himself at the mansion. He had become a loner because of what a man did to him. He had nothing to go off of to find out who he was. Then to learn he had a family, a rather small one, but no less a family that he cared for and supported. Now, he was reunited with a young woman who was his young daughter once, at a point in both of their lives where they were dealing with their identities. Logan looked down at the bottle, accepting it from her, remaining silent.

Amaris led him to the hotel room, opened the door, and walked over to her bag. She pulled a CD player out with some headphones. She had a disc already loaded into the player, Hybrid Theory by Linkin Park. Logan looked at her, watching as she crossed the room again, taking a seat in the chair next to the little table. I told you, get some sleep. She responded, kicking both of her feet on the tabletop.

Logan took a swig from the bottle, narrowing a brow at her. He had plenty of time to brood around her, but he needed to make it to Canada. He sat down on the bed, kicking his boots off before leaning against the pillow and headboard and setting the bottle down on the side table. He relaxed his shoulders, shutting out the sounds of the world around him as police sirens could be heard approaching the bar. He thought they should have left, but he went against his better judgment, deciding sleep was better for them.

Amaris monitored the situation outside, parting one of the slits of the blinds to see the bartender meet the cops outside. He pointed down the road as they conversed. Music and lyrics filled her mind as she watched for nearly twenty minutes. The police left the bar, heading down the road in the direction the man pointed them. Amaris began to wonder if he was a mutant himself or just somebody unbothered and truly meant what he said earlier. There is still some good in people out there she thought to herself, looking away from the bar and back down to her CD player.

She skipped back to Crawling when she began to hear the subtle breaths of Logan who was drifting off to sleep. The lyrics suddenly became darker for her as she looked over at her father.

There's something inside of me that pulls beneath the surface, Consuming, Confusing

With a quiet exhale, Amaris looked away from Logan, looking down at her CD player wondering why she had decided to listen to this album.

In the early morning hours, Amaris and Logan loaded up the jeep with their items. There was no sign of the receptionist from the previous night or any of his buddies. Logan straddled the motorcycle again, a distinct creak of the metal filled the air briefly before he turned the engine over. They had enough gas to get them out of Ohio before needing to make another pitstop. Logan led the way, pulling out of the parking lot as Amaris followed him in the jeep. Logan seemed intent on leaving Toledo as quickly as possible. After the events of last night, she didn't blame him.

Amaris had never been to Canada before. The furthest west she has been is Nevada. There was a conference about mutants that her very good friend Dr. Hank McCoy invited her to. He was more like an uncle to Amaris if she had to label it. He is incredibly smart beyond his years. He had been one of her teachers once before he was elected into office, Secretary of Mutant Affairs. Amaris remembered the party the mansion had when he left, wanting to send him with a warm send-off. Hank had always been an honored guest at the school, serving as one of its first round of teachers, and a X-Men himself.

It was strange to discover she had been Canadian, though she knew everybody came from someplace. She wondered if Logan too had been originally from Canada. With the way he looked, he only appeared in his younger to mid-thirties, despite being at least old enough to be her father. She was twenty-four now, choosing to celebrate her birthday on the first of every year because she did not know when her actual birthday was. It felt nearly impossible to know that information now. If they lucked out, maybe they could find some information about Logan, and in turn, maybe about her too.

Or her mother. Kayla.

Amaris and Logan had crossed the Canadian border three hours prior. It was a nervous process for Amaris as it had been the first time she left the United States, though Logan seemed so calm and cool about the situation. He led the charge, stating they were returning home to pick up a few things before heading back to New York. She admired how quick he was to come up with a story, and Amaris was quick to follow up with it.

They arrived in Calgary, needing to find their next place to rest up for a bit. Logan had wanted to find a spot to drink while Amaris was more invested in doing research. She needed to find somewhere for them to start, and logically the library was the best place to start. Logan watched as Amaris grabbed her coat, using the thicker one that she packed since it had been colder out today. You really think you are going to find something at the library?

She turned to look at him, having just finished braiding her hair in a single braid. I'm sure I can find something out about Alkali Lake. You need to have all the information you can get so you can find some answers.

Logan finished lacing up his boots. What do you get out of all of this? We've driven well over a thousand miles in four days. Just for what? A road trip?

Amaris shook her head. I've had others help me figure out who I was, as a person, my whole life. I just want to repay that favor, and hopefully, help you not find out who you are. I want to help you remember what you were.

Logan stood up, approaching Amaris as he looked her over. He still couldn't shake the image of the woman, Kayla, out of his mind. He could see Kayla in Amaris, and he could see himself in her. It was rather unsettling for him, only because he knew that he had been emotionally tied to her already. He wouldn't know what to do if something happened to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, nodding as his lips pulled into a thin line. Don't get into any trouble here. I know you attract trouble.

Amaris looked up at him, confused if he was just saying that, or if it came from potential concerns about her. I'll behave. The only scrape I can get into is with a piece of paper from a paper cut. I promise.

Logan nodded, then dragged a finger over her hair again. I like it like that. It suits your face. Logan stepped away, grabbing his wallet, passport, and keys. This gave Amaris time to leave, heading out of the hotel room and walking toward the stairs.

To have a dad was a strange feeling for her. Somebody who cared for her, well that was something else. Her family was Charles, Scott, Ororo, Jean, and Hank. She had a familial bond with students like Jubilee, Kitty Pryde, and Bobby Drake. She had a couple of lovers in the past, all of them having left the school to go down their own paths.

Some days she felt she could still hear him walking around the school, or smell his aftershave. Her mind would play tricks on her in her most vulnerable moments, often feeling his presence wrap her up in a cool embrace when her mind was fighting between waking up and going back to sleep.

She approached the jeep, hopping into the driver seat and turning the engine over. As she settled into the seat, a big gust of wind kicked up behind her, and just as fast as it rolled through, the wind rolled right out. It certainly caught her attention, along with the very faint scent that came with it.

It couldn't be. It was just another trick of the mind, reminding her that no matter how much of a mutant she was, she still was human at the end of the day.

Amaris left the parking lot of the hotel as Logan left the hotel room, watching her drive off toward the library. He was ready for a drink, and maybe some pool. He knew he was acting hard on her, acting as if the situation wasn't something natural. He was having a hard time believing that he had been nobody to everybody nearly two weeks prior. Now he was a part of the X-Men, and he was a father. Or that his daughter was an adult in her mid twenties.

That he had forgotten about her.

It was honestly for the best for her. He couldn't fathom being a father. Could mutants reproduce? It seemed like a silly question, seeing as they were nothing more than humans. They just happened to have special abilities, as Charles taught him. What was so special about steak knives in his arms and healing abilities?

Logan huffed, heading toward the motorcycle, wanting his drink as quickly as possible, and space between him and Amaris.

While Logan went on the hunt for his next drink, Amaris found her way to the library. She was honest when she said she was going to do some research about the lake, however, she had a few more keywords she wanted to search. Howlett, Logan Howlett, Kayla, Kayla and Logan.

Selfishly, she wanted to know where she came from. What hospital was she born in? Where did her parents meet? Where did they live? Alberta in the Seventies had to be different from the turn of the century.

She parked the jeep, grabbing the notebook and folder she brought with her. She was going to find some answers, no matter how much time she had to invest in it. She owed it to Logan. She owed it to herself.

It was easy to gain access to the library. She approached the counter to speak with one of the librarians. Hey there. Can you help me find some information about Alkali Lake? There was a military base there, and I was hoping there was something about that here.

The older woman looked at her. Alkali? She asked her, confused before shrugging her shoulders. I'd suggest looking in our geography section. Third row to your right, toward the middle of the aisle. If not, come speak with me and I'll give you computer access.

Amaris nodded, parting ways with the older woman before heading for the section. Every footstep she took felt heavier and heavier as if walking into impending trouble. She could feel her breath hitch in her throat as she entered the aisle. A pounding sound echoed in her mind as she walked in the row, approaching the section.

She turned, scanning over the many rows of books. Her eyes read the spines as quickly as she could, eventually reading one that caught her eye. Alkali Lake: A History.

She reached out to grab the book at the same time a slight breeze swept past her. A figure now stood with their back leaning against the bookshelf. The book she was once focused on was now in their hands. He opened the book, flipping through the pages. Princessa, I did not know you were interested in lakes. His voice was velvety smooth as always, though his posture was different.

Amaris looked up at the man, his accent filling her ears once again. His aftershave filled her nostrils as the fabric of his jacket rested at his sides. Pietro?

He closed the book, leaning away from the bookshelf, handing the book over to her. What is the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost. His icy blue irises pierced her hazel eyes. Suddenly, they both were twenty and twenty-three all over again. He thought she hadn't changed in the slightest, albeit her hair was longer now.

Amaris took hold of the book, observing his features. His eyes and his hair were much different now. He almost looked much happier. Not a ghost, she commented, pressing her brows together. You changed your hair. The roots of his hair remained dark brown, though he bleached the majority of its length. Did you cross paths with Justin Timberlake?

Pietro nodded, running a hand through it. Do you like it?

Amaris smiled, nodding as he took a step closer to her. She exhaled sharply, then took half a step backward. What are you doing here, Pietro?

He chuckled a little, then pouted his lip. Maybe I missed you? He watched her as a flush of pink graced her cheeks. Last time I checked, this isn't New York. And it's certainly not the mansion. What are you doing up here?

Amaris looked down, needing to break herself away from his gaze. This didn't make any sense. What was Pietro doing in Alberta? Uh.. I'm doing some self-discovery. It wasn't lying, but she wasn't telling the whole truth.

Something the man knew about Amaris was her inability to keep eye contact when she was hiding something. Come on. How long has it been? Three years?

Amaris looked back up at him, doing her best to keep a stone expression. Four. Four years since Pietro decided to leave the mansion, wanting to find his father and know why he and his sister were pawned off to the care of Charles Xavier when their powers were activated. Something Amaris couldn't blame him for wanting, but to do everything in his power to keep her from joining him on his trip was something else.

Pietro whispered lowly between the two of them, holding his hands out to his sides as if throwing in the towel. What is that place? He asked, pointing at the book.

Amaris pulled the book toward her chest. I don't know yet. That's why I'm studying it.

Pietro spun on his heels, placing a hand on her shoulder. Perfect. We can study this book together, then. He had been more than half a foot taller than her, though Amaris had been shorter than most people she had met. She stood at a solid five feet and two inches tall on a good day. With Pietro being nearly six feet tall, she often found herself climbing on objects to be somewhere near or at his eye level. Before she could even put up a fight, she found herself walking in tandem with Pietro toward an empty table. Just like old times.

Amaris watched as he took a seat at the table, then she followed suit. Settling the book down on the tabletop, she reached for her notebook. The sound of whirling air filled the space again. Once she had her notebook and pen in hand, she looked back up to see him looking through the book again. Too bad super speed doesn't come with speed reading.

Amaris reached over the table, taking the book from him. Believe me, I remember. She rested back in her chair, flipping to the index of the book. You never answered my question from earlier. Why are you here, Pietro? She peered up, staring at him over the book.

I could listen to you say my name all day long, he cooed, finding it rather relaxing. He crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair as he balanced it on the back two legs. I haven't heard from my sister in a couple of weeks. Last place I knew her to be was in this freezing hell hole.

So you came to the library? Please, I know you better than that. Amaris flipped to a chapter in the index that piqued her interest, rolling her eyes at his comment.

Pietro hummed a little, looking at her. No. But the sound of Summers' motorcycle rolling through the city was certainly something of interest to me. He rested all four legs of the chair on the ground before leaning on the table. So where is Summers?

Amaris looked up at Pietro, fumbling with the pen in her left hand. In New York, with the others. Amaris brisked over the sentences in the book, pulling out a few points. A location of an old quarry. Knowing militaries could be finicky about their locations, she wanted to make note of the quarry.

Pietro tilted his head, looking at the notebook she was writing in. Then who's on the bike? Your new boyfriend? He tested her, wondering what he was up against.

She looked visibly disgusted. Gross, no. A year was written, 1973. He's a friend. Scott and Ororo saved him a couple of weeks ago near Laughlin City, just north of here.

Pietro nodded, pressing his lips together. So you are just escorting him home with Summers' motorcycle.

Amaris set the pen down, looking at Pietro. Didn't you say your sister was missing? Isn't that more important than wondering if I'm dating anybody?

So, you are single. He commented, smiling again.

She tapped the pen on the notebook, her patience running thin with him. I have other things I'm doing right now.

Pietro nodded again, looking into her eyes again. Like destroying Liberty Island?

Amaris set the pen down on the notebook, Sssush! she commanded, then looked around to make sure people did not hear him. She looked back at him, clenching her jaw momentarily. How do you know about what happened on Liberty Island?

Pietro chuckled looking at her expression. World leaders gathered on Ellis Island, and some funky shit goes down on Liberty Island. Mutants are to blame. X-Men were obviously involved.

Amaris crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair as she crossed her legs. What do you want to know?

For starters, what are you really doing here?

A pair of boots could be heard approaching the table. The heavy smell of a freshly smoked cigar filled the air. Amaris knew her father was within feet of her. She smirked, knowing it was her out of the conversation.

Logan walked up behind her, noticing the other man. He observed him, quickly deciding something was wrong with the conversation at hand. Is everything okay here? He asked Amaris, standing behind her.

Amaris smirked at Pietro. Yes. She turned to look up at Logan briefly before looking back at the icy man. Just catching up with an old friend.

Pietro chuckled a little. You have a funny way of describing friends, Princessa. Logan eyed him, and a very low growl could be heard emitting from his throat.

Amaris smirked, knowing this was more for her entertainment than anything else. Pietro, this is Logan. My father.She watched as his smug grin began to evaporate. Logan, this is Pietro Maximoff. He was a student at Charles' school. She could hear the shift in his posture as she spoke. Pietro is my ex-boyfriend.

Pietro stood up quickly, adjusting his jacket. He never knew Amaris to have a father, nor to expect him to look so young. Logan watched him, silent as he watched the man squirm around. Your fath- Pietro's lips drew into a flat line again. It's nice to meet you, sir. I need to go, though. I need to find my sister.

Logan watched him, a master of the uncomfortable situation, as Pietro backed away, retreating from the mutant duo. He exhaled the breath he held onto, then walked around the table and sat down. What was his deal?

Amaris shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. He was always skittish. She looked back down at the book, picking up the pen again. A word to the wise, never date somebody with super speed. You'll regret it.

Logan nodded. Is he trusted enough to know about us?

Amaris nodded, scanning through the book again. Pietro is known for a lot of things. Betrayal and snitching isn't one of them. She looked back up at him after writing some more brief notes. What happened with the drink and pool?

Logan shrugged his shoulders. The scene is rather dead right now. Plus, I knew you couldn't stay out of trouble.

Amaris looked up at him, narrowing one eyebrow. She set the pen down, studying Logan for a moment. She studied his features, how he sat in the chair, how smug he looked poking fun at her time spent with an unexpected visitor. Misery keeps company.

An older man approached the table, appearing in his early sixties. Logan? Logan Howlett? Is that really you, boy?

Logan was quick to turn to the man, running a hand over the back of his neck. Me?

Amaris knew this was an opportunity they needed to find more information. Oh, sorry sir. This is my brother, Robert. Logan is our father. She watched as Logan looked back at her, winking at him to make him play along.

The older man was still fixated on Logan. His lip quivered as he spoke. Really? No kidding! Logan would have to be well into his fifties by now. My God, rest his soul.

Amaris was quick to respond again. Yes, he truly is his father's son. She paused for a moment, thinking about the later part of his sentence. Yes, I was still very young when it happened. Robert had a car accident not too long ago and he is experiencing some amnesia.

Logan looked from Amaris up to the older man, nodding. Right... yes. Really bad accident, as I have been told. He gently kicked her foot under the table, earning him a glare.

The older man nodded a few times, then turned to the girl. You must be little Amaris! Oh heavens, I remember your parents pulling up to the yard with you in the middle. You even took a little tumble in my office once. Logan was so quick to pick you up. He was mortified every time, constantly looking for scratches or bruises. You were a tough little cookie.

Her eyes softened a little, hearing the story the man told them. She struggled to push those feelings to the side as she continued her investigation. The yard?

The older gentleman chuckled a little, holding his belly. The lumbar yard. I doubt you would remember any of that now. You're much too young for that.

Logan looked up at the older man, placing a hand on his hip as he spoke. You know, I can't remember where the yard is. I keep trying to remember, but it all is still very blurry.

The older man nodded, placing a hand on Logan's shoulder. It was about an hour and a half west of here. There's a house built on it now, but the yard was there. A little lumber mill area that was operational in the seventies. Logan didn't make much, like the rest of us, but he made it work for his family. The man squeezed Logan's shoulder, proudly looking down at him.

His family? Amaris asked. Sorry, that sounded obvious, didn't it?

The man nodded. Most of the other guys didn't understand Logan. He was focused on his work and remained silent most of the day. However, he always smiled when he saw Kayla. She was a pretty young woman, she would be proud to see how big her little one has grown. Just as beautiful.

Kayla was a pretty woman.

Kayla was.

A woman appeared at the table. There you are, Hank. You can't run off like that. She gently scolded the man, taking hold of his arm with hers.

Hunny, look. He pointed to Logan and Amaris, proudly beaming. It's Logan's kids.

The woman turned to look at the two mutants. Her face lit up as she recognized their features. Her face then drew into shock, as if she had been seeing ghosts. It can't be.

Amaris looked over at Logan briefly, rolling her eyes to hint they should go. Logan ignored the direction, pressing on. We were just on a little trip. We were passing through, and we remembered Dad was from south Alberta. What was the harm in trying to find out some things about him?

The woman nodded, clinging to her husband's arm. Logan was such a hard worker. He was very reserved. I remember the day we found Kayla... and the car accident.

There seem to be a lot of those, lately, Logan commented, earning him a kick from Amaris.

What do you mean by finding Kayla? And the accident?

The married couple looked at each other, a somber look in their eyes. They silently agreed, then took the other two open seats at the round table. They held hands, resting them on the top of the table before the man began to speak. It was the summer of seventy-nine. Late summer, as school had started back for the young ones. Logan and Kayla pulled up to the yard, that Camino was an amazing car.

Hank, these kids came here to find out about their dad. Not his car.She spoke, squeezing his arm.

Amaris picked up her pen, slid her notebook in front of her, and kept eye contact with the couple.

Anyways. Kayla drove off as Logan and the rest of the boys loaded up and headed out to the site. Some of the men said Logan had acted funny. One thing led to another, and Logan ran away from the site. The gentleman looked down at his hands, shaking his head. You would have thought him a deer or a baby moose with how fast he was running. We called out for him, thinking he was suffering from the effects of the heat.

We found Kayla's body. She had been attacked in one of the clearings. It had to have been a bear, or a mountain lion. There was so much blood. He continued on, seemingly a little more upset each time he spoke. Amaris looked over at Logan, trying to read his face as they listened to the story. His expression from his nose down was solid, mirroring that of a brick wall. His eyes betrayed him, revealing the shock and horror he felt internally.

The older woman began to speak. The next day we found the Camino crashed into a tree near one of the bigger bridges around here. The floorboard was littered with whiskey bottles and beer cans. We searched for several days, but we could only come to the conclusion that..

The opening under the bridge leads into Alkali Lake. It was nearly a hundred-foot drop. If anything survived an impact like that, there wouldn't be much left to battle the current from the waterfall to the lake. The man finished the story, feeling the need to owe it to the two younger people.

Logan remained silent, Amaris could hear his heart race as his chest began to swell with bigger and more rapid breaths. Do you know what happened to their house? She asked, wondering if, by some miracle, it was still there two decades later.

The woman nodded. Yes, it's still standing, though it's in quite disrepair. Some say they can feel their spirits there, living as if life hadn't moved on from them. It's a big reason why it never sold and was just left abandoned.

Logan broke his silence, tracing a small circle on the table with his index finger. Where can we find it?

The older woman nodded, holding her hands out to Amaris for the pen and paper. Amaris made sure to flip her work over to the next page and hand over the items. She scribbled the address on the sheet of paper and then handed the items back. I don't know what will be left over there if you're looking for something in particular.

The man nodded, staring intensely at Logan. I never remembered Logan to have a boy.

The woman shook her head. Hank, our memories are failing us. He looks just as handsome as Logan though. She then turned back to Amaris, smiling warmly. You should stop by and see Koko.

Who's Koko? Should I know her? Amaris asked, quickly writing down the name.

The woman waved her hand. No, but Koko can help you find some pieces of your mother's heritage. She has a little shop next to the post office. She sells things she makes with her family. The beadwork is amazing. She also happens to have some records about Blackfeet families for the last seventy years.

Amaris nodded, closing the notebook. Logan took this as his sign to get up from the table. Thank you for your time. We appreciate what you could tell us about good ole Dad. He turned to walk toward Amaris, wrapping an arm around her shoulder after she gathered her things, wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible. Really? Amnesia?

Amaris hummed a little as the father and daughter made their way to the exit. He won't remember by tomorrow, she spoke confidently.

How can you tell, Logan questioned her.

As they crossed through the doors, she turned to look at him. He is sick. There is something wrong with him. He has a tumor, I think in his head.

Logan narrowed an eyebrow at her. How can you tell?

Amaris sighed a little heavily. When I was younger, maybe around thirteen, I could smell this really strange smell on one of my teachers. It smelled like heavy minerals, mostly iron. I kept pleading with him to see a doctor. Turned out he had a mass on his kidney, noncancerous thankfully. After that, Charles and Jean helped me practice my sense of smell. I was able to detect tumors easily, but then I began smelling colds and flu before others knew they were sick. She looked down, chuckling a little. I could heal from those ailments very quickly, but I always knew when others were sick before they ever started showing signs and symptoms.

Logan looked down at her. That's how you knew Kelly was sickly? She merely nodded in response to his question. That's impressive.

Amaris chortled, Not as impressive as smelling emotions. That certainly gives you a major step up on the battlefield.

Logan groaned a little, letting go of her shoulder. Yeah, let's keep the battlefield talk to a minimum. He had still been battling the visions he saw about different war zones he had been in. I tell you what, why don't you go to that shop the old lady was talking about.

Amaris watched him as he walked over to the motorcycle. What are you going to do?

Logan mounted the motorcycle, fishing for the keys. Keep my distance, make sure Mr. Blue-eyes stays away from us. Before she could get a word out, Logan revved the engine of the motorcycle, moving it to a better position to take off. He didn't bother waiting on the younger woman, choosing to head toward the post office himself. It couldn't be that hard to find, though he could give himself some time to think.

Logan had plenty of new things to think about now, and with each passing day, it became increasingly harder to not think about at least one soft spot he had. He had found himself taken to Storm. He couldn't tell if it was her warm eyes, her cool touch, or her demeanor. She commanded the room and the skies. He found himself thinking about her in the time passing from town to town from New York to Calgary. She seemed to pop up in strange places when things seemed to be coming to a head. She soothed over what the problem was, and then directed the next move.

He wondered how she was doing. What was she doing? Maybe teaching a class? Or running a mission with the others. Or she could have been on a date with a man he didn't know about. Or showering by herself.

Amaris honked the horn behind him, gesturing to the light as if it had been green. He exhaled, taking off again as the two traveled through the city. Still, he couldn't get her out of his brain.

About an hour later, Logan was leaning against a wall, his arms crossed as he stared at the storefront. Amaris had been inside for a while now, speaking with Koko. He could hear a phone ringing in his pocket. He pulled it out, looking more like a shiny belt buckle. It was a design for the X-men, allowing them to communicate with each other. Hello? Logan asked, still keeping his eyes on the storefront.

Logan, how's the trip going?

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightening a little. Her soft voice filled his ear canal, and he could almost feel his arms chill up. Huh, didn't think I'd be hearing from you. He shifted his weight around, kicking a rock before looking at Koko's place again.

Storm giggled a little, sounding amused. You have a promise to uphold. I have something of yours, so you must come back at some point.

Logan nodded. Oh yes, I remember. The missing weight from his neck had been a brief reminder of what his next steps had been after looking into Alkali Lake.

Good. Then your memory should serve you well in order to answer my previous question. She mused, a different tone in her voice, one that conveyed professionalism, but also personal inquiry.

Logan took in a deep breath, crossing one arm over his chest and tucking his other elbow on his wrist as he held the phone up to his ear. We made it to Calgary super early this morning.

Storm hummed a little at the words. That's impressive. You guys must have hardly slept.

Had she really been worried about their rest instead of how the trip was going? There's a difference between catching a few Z's and sleeping.

Oh? She asked, sounding rather quiet on her end. What's the difference?

Logan whispered darkly, I'll teach you when we make it back.

Storm was silent for a moment, though not too long. Come now, Logan. You know, it sounds like you're flirting.

Logan watched as Amaris left the store, a bag in her hands as she turned toward the Jeep. Oh doll, you don't know me well enough. He had smirked at the end of his sentence. His eyes caught a brief glance as something blue caught his eyes. There had been a side door that blocked the view of who was inside. However, Logan could clearly see the frosted hair and light blue jacket combo. Hey Storm, can you do me a favor?

Storm seemed a little caught off guard. Yeah, I suppose I can.

Tell me everything you know about Pietro Maximoff.He watched the young man, who appeared to be speaking to whoever had answered the door.

Pietro?She stammered the name a little, quickly thinking about what she knew. He was a student here. He left about four years ago. He wanted to travel the world.

Logan nodded, now standing off of the wall and dropping his crossed arm to his side. He and Amaris?

Storm's voice dropped a little, sounding sad. Amaris hurt him in the danger room one day. Just a scratch on his forearm. They had a fight about it. He called her an animal and said feral animals belonged in cages. He left the next morning. She hadn't been sure she should have been telling him that information. Is everything okay, Logan?

The older man watched as the younger one left very quickly, in less time than a blinking eye. Yeah... His eyes then drifted to Amaris watching as she loaded up the jeep. Thanks.

Storm pouted a little on the phone. Logan?

His glance shifted a little to the distance as she spoke. Yeah?

Storm hesitated a little, then mustered the courage to speak again. Can I ask a favor?

Sure, he whispered.

Take me out when you get back.

His eyebrows lifted a little, hearing the request. His heart felt as if it had raced a little, stuffing his hand in his jacket pocket. Yes ma'am. Logan knew he would have to leave, and see what was up with Amaris and the store owner. I'll talk to you later. Logan hung up the phone before he could give Storm enough time to respond, then tucked the phone back into his pocket.

He walked across the street, approaching his daughter. Find anything good in there, kid?

Amaris had turned around to face him, sporting a new braid in her hair with some beads in the colors of orange, yellow, and red. I couldn't tell if I was ever going to get out. She mused a little at the thought. Nothing about Kayla could be found here. But Koko was sure to send us on our way with some elk jerky.

Logan wasn't sure what to make of it, nor about seeing Pietro snooping around. Let's take today to unwind from driving. We can leave tomorrow and head on out.

Amaris looked up at her father, giving him a nod. He turned around, heading back to the motorcycle. She had watched him as he peered around in all directions as if he was looking for something. She grew a little concerned, wondering if he had remembered something else from his past, or if he was itching to get out of Calgary now.

The Jeep was packed with their belongings. Logan had fixed his backpack, making sure they had items like flashlights, matches, and some other items. He didn't need the flashlights as he could easily navigate the dark with his night vision. He wasn't sure why he was able to do this, other than having heightened senses. Still, it was for peace of mind to have.

Amaris had bundled up, wearing a dark red shirt paired with a brown flannel and a cargo jacket. Her boots were tightly laced, and her bag was resting in the passenger seat of the jeep.

The two had traveled up the mountain range a little, finding a clearing they could stop at. Amaris took a moment to appreciate the mountains. The top was covered in a thick layer of snow, the trees barren as the wind kicked past them and out over the open body of water. It had smelled so fresh, the innocence of the lake below them and the untouched snow above them. It was simply beautiful.

Logan scanned over the area, for the first time in a while hearing nothing. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling free from everything beyond the two of them. His mind could rest as he felt the peace the scenery provided them.

This peace wouldn't last long, as they both had their own missions. He exhaled, feeling the cool air he exhaled rush back on his face. I'm going to the quarry by myself. You should go to the house. He sounded firm in his instructions as if giving commands to the masses. We both have things we need to do, and we can't be in each other's way.

Amaris looked up at him, pressing her brows together. How do you know that?

Logan turned and looked down at her, putting one hand on her shoulder. Because what I am looking for isn't what you are looking for. He watched her as her eyes searched his. I'm looking for me. Who I am, who I was. You're looking for your parents.

Amaris exhaled a little, sounding like a gasp. I want to help you.

Logan shook his head as he watched her. Sometimes you have to do things on your own. He wasn't a sentimental guy, at least he believed that. He knew he had some things to work out on his own, but he couldn't subject her to his darker past. Logan closed the distance between him and Amaris, bringing his other hand to cup the back of her head. He embraced her, for the first time since he woke up in the infirmary.

Amaris hadn't been used to gestures like these from parental figures. Charles was her father figure, and he did his best. Yet, this was different. It was her father wrapping his arms around her. She could finally feel that security blanket she had been missing the majority of her life. It felt warm enough to burn her skin and heavy enough to bury her. It felt like home, what it should have been.

Logan placed a brief kiss on her hair, pulling away from the hug as he pinched the braid Koko had put in her hair. The pad of his thumb ran over the beads in her hair as his eyes lingered over them. Let's meet back here. If either of us don't return by this time tomorrow, take this phone and call the X-Men. Logan showed her the phone, put it in a bag, and then walked over to a tree, hanging it up on a barren branch.

She placed a hand on her hip, watching him as he hung the bag up. Does it have to be up so high? She joked at first, needing to exert some of her emotions. As he turned to face her, a smile crawled on his face, shaking his head as he looked down. Don't give me a reason to use the phone. She told him sternly.

Logan chuckled a little, now holding the keys to the motorcycle in his hand. Don't make me hunt you down.

The duo shared another look at each other before Logan mounted the motorcycle again. As he turned the engine over, some of the snow beneath him shifted. He started to climb up the road of the mountain again, leaving Amaris behind him.

The young watched her father as he continued on his drive, crossing her arms over herself, savoring the last little feelings from her father's warm embrace. It would be something she would hold onto until she saw his face again. She turned away from the beautiful scene of the snow-covered mountains and the still lake waters, entering the Jeep again. She turned the engine over, with only one thought on her mind. Please, Professor, watch over us. A simple plea was muttered before Amaris turned down the fork of the road, now making her way down the mountain pass toward the location of the house. The paper map had been weighted down on the passenger seat next to her, being her guide of where she was going.

For the first time in nearly twenty-one years, Amaris had been on her own.

And she was scared as hell.

She had turned the radio back on, playing a mix tape she had brought with her. The sweet instrumentals of Zombie began to play. The music filled the empty space of the Jeep, yet it still never reached her mind. There were so many questions she had been asking herself, and she was running short of proper resources to find those answers.

Nearly two hours later, Amaris came across the entrance of the road that would lead her to her childhood home. The closer she approached, the more she felt something was wrong. It couldn't be this easy to find the house without something going wrong. Her heart felt as if it would burst, and the pounding in her head grew louder and louder. She stared down the road, looking out to see the edge of one of the cliffs maybe a mile down the road. There hadn't been much foliage aside from some snow-covered bushes and grass. She had been so high up on the mountain that she could see bits of clouds that were leveled with her.

The woman shook her head, leaning against the steering wheel, a warm ball pooling in her stomach. She looked up to the sky as she heard the screeching of an eagle. She watched as it flew above her, circling a few times before turning toward the house, flying nearly parallel to the road. Amaris leaned back in the driver's seat, putting her foot on the gas pedal as she followed behind the bird.

She approached the house, seeing some piles of debris that were scattered about the property. The cabin house looked as if it was built in a circular shape with large beams on the roof covered in whatever debris could be tossed around. She shut the engine off, stepping out of the vehicle slowly as if her presence would notify an unsuspecting guest.

The eagle had landed on one of the beams that rested above a broken glass door. It watched as the young woman walked up a couple of steps where a once magnificent deck had been built. She covered her hair with her hands as she stepped into the cabin home through the broken glass doors. It had been four in the afternoon, according to her watch, but the inside portrayed a very different setting.

Aside from the bits of sunshine that poured in from the holes in the roof, the cabin home had been cast in darkness. She took a quick scan from right to left, looking at furniture that hadn't been touched in twenty years. The air had been a little stale-smelling, knowing not much had passed through this place aside from the occasional looter.

Amaris approached a medium-sized, round dining table. There had been a newspaper on it, the edges curling in as the paper had faded to a yellow hue. The words were hardly legible at this point, making its date useless. A wooden bowl had been knocked off along with a salt and pepper shaker. One chair remained, turned out to face the kitchen area.

She stepped over the piles on the floor where the ceiling had fallen in or where animals had made little nests to use. Some of the cabinet doors had been opened up, and a stary plate here and there remained. The young woman picked one up, running a finger around the rim of the plate.

Creak

Amaris turned around, exposing a blade she had in her shirt sleeve, throwing it in the direction of the creak. As quickly as her face turned from defense, her gaze softened, lowering her arm and catching her breath. What are you doing here?

Pietro, who used his speed abilities, caught the blade with his dominant hand. He spun the blade in his hand as he took a step forward, approaching the counter. You seem to like saying those words in the same sequence. He set the blade down on the countertop, then slid it across to her, leaving lines of dust on the countertop.

Amaris eyed him, not reaching out for the blade. You seem to like to pop up in places you have zero connection to. Her tone was cold, the opposite of their encounter at the library. You better start talking.

Pietro leaned against the weathered island, crossing his arms as he looked down at Amaris. You told me you were going to Alkali.

I did, it's beautiful. Do you need directions?

Pietro laughed darkly, his eyes raking over her form. I guess some people never change. His thumbs wiggled in the little cutouts of his sleeves as he rubbed circles into his arms. Why are you acting short with me?

Amaris gritted her teeth as she watched him. None of this made any sense to her, and everything in her mind had told her to run as quickly as possible. "Let's see, the last time we spoke, not yesterday, you cursed me in Sokovian. You called me a feral animal and said I belonged in a cage as if there was an opening in the zoo. You left without telling me.

Pietro exhaled sharply, looking down after her response. He remained silent for a moment as he gathered his thoughts. His piercing blue eyes met her warm hazel irises, stirring something between them. I was stupid, Princessa-

Amaris brought her hands up at her face level, curling her fingers and then resting her arms at her sides. Stop calling me that. I am not a princess. I am not your princess. I am an animal. You made that clear. I've made that clear.

Pietro reached a hand out to her, however she took a step away from him, turning around to face the ruins of her childhood home. She swallowed hard, tightening her eyes as tears threatened to spill over.

I was much younger then. I don't know what it's like to have powers like you, just like you don't know what it's like to have powers like me. He continued, watching her as she reacted to him.

Amaris turned around, tears be damned as she replied. You don't think I've ever imagined what it would be like to have super speed? Or angel wings? Or literally any other power? Do you know how much sleep I have lost thinking about how I hurt you? Or how I may lose control one day and hurt somebody else? Do you know what it's like to have pain constantly ripping through your hands when you're driving, or writing, or doing literally nothing? She felt a couple of tears stain her face as she watched him take in her response. Do you know what it felt like to sit up on the rooftop and watch you willingly turn your back on us and leave the mansion because of one shitty danger room session? You didn't have the nerve to tell anybody you were leaving. I had to watch you as you walked, and then ran away.

Amaris breathed heavily, letting everything she had felt out, mostly through her words. Pietro took another step closer to her, making Amaris take another step backward. Amaris, every time he spoke her name, he would always roll the r, I should have never called you an animal. I should have never made those comments.

Her furrowed brows slowly softened, returning to their normal state as her eyes widened at his statement. Her clenched fists that threatened to bear her claws loosened up as she watched him take baby steps toward her. This wasn't the normal Pietro she had been used to, somebody who had a hot temper and was quick-witted was now remorseful and acted wounded.

Scratches heal, they leave scars that have stories to tell. He then raised his jacket and shirt sleeve revealing the scars she had left. The very faint, yet defined scars. I've carried a little bit of you with me these last four years. Every day I get to wake up to you, and every night I get to say good night to you.

Amaris shook her head, freezing in place, as he finally walked up to her. He looked down at her and lowered his sleeves, the cold nearly affecting him instantly. Pietro, why are you here?

His hands reached to cup the sides of her face. Amaris tried to pull away but was unable to, only able to look down as a final tear left her eyes. I saw you again, and I knew I couldn't let you go again.

She could feel his presence begin to close the short distance between them, and instinct kicked in.

Control your breathing, and imagine the space around you, minimal movements make for big differences.

Amaris brought her hands up, forcing his hands off of her face. She walked away from him, walking toward the torn and weathered couch. I was never yours to lose. She looked down and spotted a blanket, covered in leaves and mildew.

Princessa, I-

Creak

Get down! Amaris yelled, rushing over to him and yanking him down to the floor. She could hear voices outside of the cabin, the sound of a couple of engines cutting off, and radio chatter.

Pietro collapsed to the ground with her, unable to hear exactly what she heard. What are you doing?

Amaris rolled her eyes, peering around the corner to scan the wall opposite of them. I swear the next time you say those words, you will be tasting them.

Found them, sir, permission to engage? came a deep voice from a man. There was radio static for a brief moment before the sound of falling glass could be heard.

Hope you have your dancing shoes on. She replied before stalking her prey. She had already been in a vulnerable position, being in an environment she had not been used to. However, she would make things work. She slipped over to the couch, flipping it over as two men entered the cabin. They fired their weapons at it, sending stray feathers and stuffing around. Amaris used it as her distraction, jumping out from behind the flipped couch and attacking the men. She had disposed of them, killing them with three claws to their chest.

Another began to fire at her. Pietro made his way around the counter, using his powers to move one of the bullets around to face the gunman again. Amaris watched as he fell to the ground and Pietro faced her, giving a thumbs up. Her attention was diverted when she took a stumble forward, feeling the burning sensation of a bullet entering her back. Fuck! she grunted, taking a moment to stand up again. She turned around to face three more gunmen. Of course, it has to be guns.

The gunmen began to fire again, several of the bullets hitting Amaris and littering her jackets and shirts. She charged at them, sheathing the claws of her right hand to punch one of the men in the face. She then unsheathed the claws again, stabbing another of the men.

She felt a wisp of air as Pietro joined her in the squabble, taking the third man and tossing him off the little deck. He turned around to see Amaris killing the other two guards, the backflow of blood splashed on her face as a dark look overtook her features.

Amaris stood up, her claws retracting slowly as she breathed heavily. She turned to look at her ex-lover, seeing a mix of emotions on his face. Whether it had been a post-rush of adrenaline he had, or if he had been mortified by what he saw, she didn't have time to care. She walked over to the man who was now on the ground. She knelt beside him, lifting him up by the collar of his shirt. Who the hell are you?

The man grunted, recovering from the fall he took. Wouldn't you like to know, sweetheart?

Amaris nodded a little, her jaw dropping slightly before pulling a half smile. Oh, you think this is funny? Amaris stood up, dragging the man by his collar as she approached the edge of the cliff. He squirmed under her grip, desperately driving his heels into the dirt. She had been strong enough to pull him to the edge, flipping him over to look down at the drop below them. I'll give you another chance. You tell me who you are, or you become the wolf's next meal.

The man's cries slowly turned into laughs as he looked down at the opening below him. You'll kill me either way. Why should I tell you who I am?

Pietro walked up behind her, holding his hands out. Woah, think about this. The Professor didn't teach you this.

Amaris looked at the man, then back to Pietro. There's a lot he taught you that you forgot about. She then looked back at him, now shifting some of his weight over the side of the cliff. Why did you come here?

The man shook his head, the same demented tone vibrated through his voice. You were not the target.

Amaris was puzzled at his response. Who?

You already know who.

Amaris felt a fit of rage fill her again. She screamed, picking the man up and throwing him back toward the house. She walked back to him, unsheathing her bone claws again. Who do you work for?!

The man looked at her, catching his breath. It's too late for me. She watched as he flexed his tongue, then heard the distinct sound of something cracking in his mouth. A couple of seconds later he began to convulse before a gray-blue substance seeped from his mouth.

Amaris stood up, shocked by his actions. She watched as he suffered through the effects of the self-ingested poison, looking at him with disgust. Pietro stood at her side, looking down at the man. He was at a loss for words about what he saw her do, how quickly she acted, and how ruthlessly she defended herself.

She heard the radio static again, coming from one of the corpses. She walked over to the body, finding a radio clipped to his vest. She picked it up, pressing the button. I don't know who you are, I don't care who you are. I need answers.

An older man's voice responded to her. I am not looking for you, pet. At least, not yet.

She had been disgusted by his response. Why were they always so creepy? If you're looking for an animal, you've found one.

He chuckled before responding. I know. Each member of that team was embedded with a microchip that would relay to us their vital signs. Seems you like to take direct approaches. You should keep up the good work.

Amaris shook her head, pressing the button again. You come looking for me again like this, or anybody I care about, understand no moral code will keep you safe from me.

Trust me, Miss Howlett, we will be seeing each other. Hopefully next time, it's in person.

She dropped the radio on the man's body, looking down as it rolled right off of him. She turned to head back into the house, though she was grabbed by Pietro. He firmly held her elbow in his arm, earning him a look from the shorter woman. We should leave. They will send more men out here.

She tugged away at him, freeing her from his grasp. Not until I find something. She didn't give him any time to react as she turned away and entered the home again.

Logan had found a part of the lake that had been mostly untouched. The cold winds came rushing past him as they moved the tides of the lake. Snow crunched under his boots as he took in the scenery. There had been a dam at the lake, separating a small portion from the rest of the lake. It didn't seem to be serving a particular purpose, other than dividing the two bodies of water.

He removed the cigar from his mouth, blowing out the smoke as he figured out his next steps. He found himself wondering what he would find at the facility. If it had secretly still been active, what would he find there, and if this would resolve his problems? The Professor had promised him answers, yet Logan craved more. He wished the older man would have magically restored his memory, and figured out what wall was blocking him from being able to remember his past and who he was.

Until two weeks prior, he was Logan, The Wolverine.

Now he was a father, a cage fighter, and an X-Man.

Logan found his way to the facility entrance of the dam, the place where he had been told there was a quarry. He came across a half-broken barbed wire fence with government signs on it. The broken fences and the decaying metal and wood gates told him that the place hadn't been touched in years, maybe over a decade. Logan was met with a white wolf at the gate, the two animals staring each other down. They seemed to have come to a silent agreement as the wolf turned around and walked into the facility. Logan followed behind it, making sure to give them each enough space.

As Logan approached the gates he looked to his left, spotting a sign.

Alkali Lake Industrial Park Department of Energy and Natural Resources

Logan pushed on, sliding through the gate to finally see what was on the other side. He looked around, shocked to see ruble about him, the ruins of a building were all that remained aside from the lake.

"No", he thought. This couldn't be what Charles had seen in his mind. This wasn't the right place. There was nothing.

Logan screamed out loudly, exposing his metal claws as he slashed at a decaying column, snow shuffling around him as the debris fell. He fell to his knees, looking up at the sky, crossing his arms as they lay in his lap. It was all gone, none of it was there.

He hadn't been sure of what he was trying to find, or what he would find when he did. Yet, this felt more devastating than finding anything. Another thing had been ripped from him, something he was missing was gone again, and this angered the man. Why was this happening to him?

Amaris had shuffled through the house, moving debris so she could look under it or access parts of the cabin that had been blocked before. Pietro followed her, keeping his distance as she tore through the home. Amaris, there's nothing here.

The shorter woman grunted as she moved one of the collapsed roof beams that had blocked her from a closet. I refuse to believe that. Something has to be here. She pulled on the doorknob, opening a closet. There were clothes still on the hanger. Nothing seemed to have been touched, the roof above the clothes was still intact, and no sun had pierced through. She moved some of the hangers, finding some flannels and band t-shirts. She had pulled one flannel out, her fingers running down the sleeves. It was a brown color, somehow having a lingering pine smell to it. Hold this. Amaris extended the item out toward Pietro.

He sighed, then took the garment from her. You came here for a shirt? I would have bought one for you.

Amaris continued to look through the closet, squatting down as she found a metal safe. She pulled it up, wiping her hands over the top of it.

Alkali Lake Industrial Park Department of Energy and Natural Resources

She stood up with the case in her hand. No, we're here for this. She walked around him, heading back to the kitchen area. She avoided the bodies of the men they had killed, a strong scent of metal filling the room. Amaris set the case on the countertop, her hands now hovering over the latches.

Pietro followed her, tossing the shirt over his shoulder as he hung onto it for her. What's the matter?

She looked at the words of the case, feeling a sense of dread begin to brew in the pit of her stomach. My parents lived here... I lived here. My mother died when I was three, my father lost his memories, and I ended up in Charles' care. She exhaled a shaky breath as she finally unlatched the case. I need to know who they were.

Pietro stood next to her as she removed the top of the case. He wasn't sure how he could help her at this point, other than silently support her. He watched as her small hands began to shake as she reached for the first layer of contents.

Amaris picked up a set of photos, letting out a sound close to a muffled sob. The top picture had been of two people standing in front of the house. The man had been Logan, his arms wrapped around a woman who was holding a baby. The woman was beautiful. The black and white picture had given Amaris her first-ever glance at her mother.

She flipped to the next picture, showing Kayla asleep on the couch. The third was Logan holding an older Amaris on his shoulders in the living room. The same living room where that once little girl killed militia sent out for her.

She carefully set the pictures back in the case, now pulling out a weathered folder and a journal. She opened up the leather-bound journal and began to read the first page.

My name is James Logan Howlett. My mother was Elizabeth Howlett, my father was John Howlett. I have a brother named Victor. I was born in 1832 in a private estate to my parents some years after Victor. My wife's name is Kayla Silverfox, an ordinary person compared to me, though she is extraordinary next to me. I have a daughter, my little moon. Amaris was born in April of 1976 in Calgary. I wish to one day give her a life worth living, and I hope that she is a normal human like her mother, so she may never live a curse like mine.

Her eyes scanned over the sentences multiple times. Her mind could not comprehend what she was reading.

James Logan Howlett... born in 1832

She lowered the book on the countertop, her shoulders slumping. Pietro's quick hands rested on the small of her back and her forearm. Princessa?

Amaris looked from the journal to Pietro, her eyes filling with tears again. Tears she had been terrified to release for days. For years. My father... he's - he's over one hundred and fifty years old. Her voice came in a whisper as she verbalized what she read. His eyes widened as he searched her face, wondering how it had been possible.

Amaris turned back to the book, slowly flipping through the pages. There had been mad scribblings of different dates in time. The American Civil War, The Spanish-American War, World War One, World War Two, the Korean War, The Vietnam War. Scribbling of troop numbers, commanding officer names, division classes, and military ranks.

The pounding returned to her head as she realized that her father had been involved in almost every single major war in the northern parts of North America for nearly one hundred years. This made his night terrors and mumblings sense now. He had been a man who had fought in turmoil for one hundred years, who only remembered the last twenty-one years of his life. This isn't fair. She muttered, closing the journal, unable to read more about what had happened to him.

Pietro set a hand on hers, pleading with her. Stop. Don't do this to yourself.

Amaris shook her head, looking up at him. I have to know what happened. She persisted, now looking down at the folder. Pietro removed his hand, watching as she studied the folder.

Amaris looked at a letter that rested on top. The handwriting had been different, more wispy and thin. Her eyes widened at the greeting.

Amaris covered her mouth as she turned around, leaning against the counter for support.

My dearest Amaris,

If you are reading this, it means I am no longer here and something terrible has happened. I only ever wished to burn this letter one day and hoped you would never have to find out the truth.

I hope I get to see you grow up. I want to see what type of person you become. I already know you are as stubborn as your father, which will be my biggest challenge when raising you. I also know that you brought a new light to his eyes the night you were born. I thought I knew Logan before that night, but he surprised me and became a different kind of man as soon as his big arms wrapped around your tiny little body.

I want you to know that out of everything you learn about what has happened, my love for you has never changed. It never will. What I did was something I will never expect you to understand, but I hope one day you will forgive me for it. I only wanted to save my sister, your aunt, from the ones who made your father into what he is now. I didn't want to betray his trust, as I do love him. But my darling little honey badger, I had no choice.

I may be dead less than twenty-four hours from now, either by the hands of your father, his creator, or his brother Victor Creed. Victor is a mutant like your father and I, he goes by Sabertooth. I will do everything in my power to make sure you are well looked after when I am gone if your father can not take care of you. When you miss me, only turn to the moon. It is there I hope to go so I may look down at my beautiful child. My Amaris.

With all of the love in the world, and the deepest of apologies,

Your mother Kayla Silverfox

Amaris fell to her knees, her chest heaving. She wanted to scream, parting her lips, however, her emotions were too thick all she could let out was a gasping sound followed by silent sobs. Pietro dropped down, wrapping his arms around Amaris, and pulling her toward him. What is it?

Amaris leaned into his chest as he held her, holding the letter close to her chest as her tears fell in her lap. My-my..moth- Another sob rumbled through her chest as her brain looped the letter back again. She buried her face into his chest, the zipper of his jacket scratching her nose as she tried to burrow deeper. Pietro held her in one arm, his other brushing down her hair, cooing to her in an attempt to soothe her. Amaris tilted her head up to look at him, breaking her silence again. My mother turned my father over to whoever made him into what he is now. She betrayed him, and now he doesn't know who he is.

She continued to cry as Pietro brushed the hair out of her face, then pulled her back in, cupping the back of her neck as he held her. Let it out. I'm here.

Amaris wrapped her arms around him, trying to pull him closer. He thought she was human, and she lied to him... why would she lie to him? Pietro remained silent as Amaris tried to process her feelings, wondering how on Earth her father fell head over heels with Kayla, who seemed more than willing to trade him for the world.

The night had been the longest of Amaris' life. She collapsed into the arms of her ex as he stalked her through the Canadian Rockies. She unleashed a small portion of her animalistic side as she killed armed men coming for her and Pietro. She found some clothes that smelled of her father, found photos of her family, and found devastating news about her parents.

Amaris looked through the folder to see its remaining contents, mostly holding written communication from Kayla to Victor or to "Agent Zero", speaking about Logan and getting him to return to his brothers. Kayla had been working for months with Sabertooth to make Logan join them again. She found a plan Kayla wrote about convincing Logan, with her powers, that she had been killed by Victor. Plans that would lead Logan down a path to choose to undergo experimentation in the Weapon X program.

On the opposite side of things, she read through her father's journal, reading his stories from different wars. It was hard to believe that her father and Sabertooth, a man who had killed Amaris two weeks prior, had been the best of brothers fighting side by side in the wars. The words were sickening to her, reading about how much her father had changed for his family for him to never learn of Kayla's betrayal.

She walked out to the jeep, accessing the damage on it. The engine had been shot multiple times and various colors of fluid stained the snow below. There was no way she was going to be able to drive it back down the mountain, let alone across two countries. Pietro had run away like a scared dog the moment she left the living room area the night before, leaving her alone on the mountaintop. She looked over to the other vehicles that the militiamen brought. She knew they would be tracked by its agency, making it easy to find her. When she thought all hope was lost she turned her head to the side, finding another building on the property.

Amaris was drawn to the building next to the cabin. It seemed to be in rather good shape, as if it had been regularly checked in on from time to time. She was cautious in her approach as she walked up to it. There had previously been a large door that no longer existed, which displayed the contents of the building. Maybe it was an old garage door or a large barn door that no longer existed.

Her eyes were drawn to the center of the garage, something large was in the middle with a weathered tarp over it. She gathered a large handful of the fabric, ripping it off of the object. Her eyes widened seeing the restored 1965 El Camino the old man had told her about previously, sitting in the garage of its owner.

She laughed to herself, approaching the door and opening it up. The window had been rolled down and the keys were sitting in the bench seat. Oh, Dad. Her whisper filled the cab as she entered the driver's seat, her hands resting on the steering wheel. She looked down at the keys, picking them up as she eyed her damaged jeep sitting in front of the house.

Amaris put the keys in the ignition, switching it over. The rumble of the engine grew in decibels as she revved its engine, bringing the classic beast to life. With a new means of transportation, Amaris turned the car off after looking at its gas tank reader. The jeep had enough in it to fill up the Camino. She had a plan. Siphon the gas from the jeep, put the extra canteen of gas in the trunk bed along with everything she found, make sure everything about Xavier was out of the jeep, take the plates, and go. Once back in the city she could call Scott and get him to fix some documents to make the Camino legal with the plates and tags of the Jeep. It was perfect!

She packed up the case in the Camino along with some clothes that survived over the years and some photos she was able to save. Pietro had left in the middle of the night, needing to find a place where he could comfortably get warm. The young woman left the cabin home, regretting having ever searched for it. She would have rather lived her life without the answers had she had a thought that maybe something else had been working against her.

Then there was that group that attacked her, she had no idea who they were or who sent them. The threat that one day he wanted to was the next motivation she had to improve her skills. She wasn't a little Barbie doll to be played with when others wanted, she was going to be a force they dared not to cross.

She approached the spot where she had last met her father, seeing a figure in a leather coat sitting on the edge underneath the bag he hung up. As she cut the engine off, Amaris sighed, grabbing the case. It wasn't hers to have, it was his. She shouldn't have gone digging through the case, but she could not deny herself the anticipation of knowing its contents.

The woman trudged through the snow bank and then took a seat next to him. Logan looked over at her, taking in a deep breath. Pine, peppermint, and gunpowder. Amaris felt his stare, turning to look at him. Instead of answering the unasked question, she held the box in her hands, holding it out for him to take.

Logan looked at the box, taking it. He saw the same words as he did on the gate of the dam, hearing something shifting inside the box.

Before you open it, Amaris started, Just know that whatever you think after this, I still want to help you find the answers you're looking for.

Logan looked from her to the box. He battled with opening it himself, wondering what rabbit hole it would lead him down. Here goes nothing, right? The man opened up the case, finding it in the same order as Amaris found it. Pictures on the top of a life he didn't remember. The images did try to dig a response out of his mind, but nothing stuck.

The next thing he pulled out was the journal. He tapped his fingers on the cover of the book. There was nothing at the quarry. It's been destroyed by the weather, and I'm assuming other things.

Amaris looked from him to the lake below them, watching the water rippling around the little islands and the shores, looking down at her hands. Well, you missed all the action. She chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

Logan nodded. So that's why you smell like gunpowder, and you lost the jeep?

Amaris reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out five bullets. The one from my shoulder was the most painful to shed.

He looked from the bullets to the journal, his fingers pinching the cover. Hope it was worth finding this. Amaris' face grew cumbersome as she put the bullets into her pocket again, watching him open the journal. She watched his face switch emotions from curious to shocked, then to anger.

Logan's eyes scanned over the sentence, recognizing the handwriting as his own. It was cleaner though, practiced strokes with a pen. The man who wrote it clearly wanted his words to be legible as if he didn't want to forget who he was.

Logan let out the breath he held in his chest as he read over and over again the beginning paragraph. His name, his parents, his brother, his birth year.

Sabertooth? Sabertooth was his brother? In what universe would that make sense? The same man that had nearly killed him two weeks prior, threatened Ororo's life. The same man who killed the young woman next to his side, his daughter. Sabertooth's niece.

He swallowed hard as he looked down at the world. It only made sense why Sabertooth's vendetta ran strong against Logan. The man closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath. This wasn't what he thought he would find.

Amaris looked up at her father, wanting to do anything for him. Unable to find the words, she did something she even thought herself was questionable. She leaned against his side, her head resting against his shoulder. People evolve over time. They change their clothes, their hair, and sometimes their personalities.

Logan opened his eyes, turning his head to look down at her. His chest heaved a couple of deep breaths before he looked back down at the box. Inside he found some more pictures and a folded-up piece of fabric. It was a canary-colored baby dress. He set the journal down, reaching for the little dress. He held it up with both of his hands, his thumbs and index fingers pinching the shoulders. His eyes scanned it, never imagining seeing something so little being able to wear it one day. He brought it up to his face, inhaling a deep smell. His eyes flashed open staring out at the lake in front of him but his mind faded back to 1976.

Memories of a baby crying could be heard. The crying turned into laughter. "Where do you think you're goin', little lady?" he asked the little baby crawling on the floor. He saw images of himself sitting on the couch as the little girl sat in his lap drinking a bottle or eating a snack. Images of him holding his little family filled his mind.

Logan lowered the garment from his face, looking over to the girl sitting by his side. She looked up at him, seeing the shock spreading across his face as he smelled the air around her. Amaris?

The woman stared at him, narrowing one eyebrow. Dad? What's the matter? She could hear his heart pounding a mile a minute.

He dropped the dress, his hands reaching out to cup her face, one thumb dragging across her cheekbone. I... I remember. His words came as a whisper as his eyes quickly examined her features. She smelled the same as she did as the baby he remembered, aside from the new baby smell. Cinnamon, fir wood, and evening primrose. His jaw quivered as his hazel eyes met hers. I remember you. Logan fell into his heart's wishes, pulling her into his hold. It had been a different type of embrace compared to the one before. Somehow, a different side of his personality awakened by the dull scent of his baby girl, now a grown adult.

Amaris's eyes were wide as Logan pulled her tightly, holding her close to his frame. She almost felt the force of his strength was going to suffocate her before long. It was then that he pulled away from her, looking her face over again. You look so much like your mother. He studied her as if it had been the first time he saw her.

Amaris bit her tongue as he spoke about Kayla, somebody she had been the most anxious to learn about. Now knowing her secrets and how it drove the family apart.

The sound of snow crunching thankfully ended those thoughts. Amaris pulled out of his hold, standing and spinning around, unsheathing her bone claws. Logan stood up as quickly as possible, discarding the metal case to the side as the metal pierced through his skin. He stood over her and she hunched down near the ground.

Men began to approach the two of them, guns pointed at them. Amaris could hear static again near her ear. Her tiny braid that was weaved by the older Blackfoot woman brushed past her ear. She listened closely as a slight hum could be heard near her ear. She gripped the lock of hair, using her bone claws to cut it away. She put a tracker on me.

Logan snarled as he eyed the team of eight men. One of them began barking orders. This can all be very easy for you. Surrender and we won't hurt you.

The mutant man shook his head. I'm tired of taking orders from men like you.Logan charged at the men, bullets beginning to fly through the air. Logan made his way to the leader of the group, piercing his chest with his metal claws, and then tossing him over the hood of the Camino.

Amaris ran towards one of the outliers as he began to follow her father. She ran up behind him, jumping on his back before stabbing him with two claws. The man fell to the ground, using the last bit of energy he had to fire his gun again. Unluckily for Amaris, it pierced through one of the tires on the Camino.

With two of the men down, the others began fighting without order. Logan used the body of the first man he killed as a shield, approaching two more and quickly taking them out with expert precision. Logan tossed the body of the man to the side as another man charged him head-on.

As the man knelt on the ground, Amaris ran up to him, using him as a ramp as she placed one boot on his back to give her a running jump at the man. She sunk both of her hands into his shoulders, using her body to her advantage as she shifted her weight around and maneuvered him to the ground. Logan had been taking care of the last three men while Amaris stabbed the man beneath her several times. If you're gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough, little girl.

The man used his weight against her, pinning her in an awkward position for her. In the flip, he wrangled one of her hands around, nearly snapping her wrist. Tell your old man Stryker says hi. The dying soldier maneuvered them one more time and a grueling snap could be heard.

Amaris looked down at her freed hand, only to see the three bone claws had been snapped off. She looked at the soldier who was slowly dying with a bloody smile as the missed three claws protruded from his shoulder and neck area. Amaris breathed rapidly, then hollered out as she gripped her wrist.

Logan had finished handling the business with the last of the troops when he turned around hearing her scream. He rushed over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. As he took a step around to face her, his eyes caught the sight of her broken claws, observing the jagged cuts of the bone. His hands reached out for hers, looking over the damage she took. Charles can fix this.

Amaris looked up at him, the pain in her face overtaking her drive to hide her emotions as she began to cry. She shook her head before speaking, He can do many things, but he can't fix my mutation. Her eyes shifted from his down to her wounded hand. Blood dried on her lip as the last little drop fell onto one of her broken claws. I'm sorry, I lead them here. Her voice came as a whisper, turning to look back at the lock of hair hanging onto a rock on the ground next to where they had been sitting. They're looking for you... and I led them to you...

Logan knelt down in front of her, shaking his head as he pulled her face to look at him. People will always be looking for me, I suppose. But you didn't do this. It ain't your fault, baby girl. He wiped away a run then ran down her cheek. We need to get out of here as fast as possible. Avoid that boy of yours, get back to the mansion.

Amaris looked up at him, pressing her eyebrows together. But Alkali and the quarry-

It's gone. What I have that's left of me is what you found in that case, and You. His voice faltered toward the end, cracking with emotion. His hazel eyes met her hazel ones in a different light from their previous interactions. Something in him came to life when he remembered her as his little baby, following him around the house and clinging to his pant legs. Dancing in her high chair as they listened to music or had been eating. Snoring softly on his chest with her mother tucked under his arm asleep at his side. I found you, and I ain't about to let you go.

Amaris leaned into his hold, holding her injured hand closely to her chest as he wrapped his arms around her long hair, doing his best to comfort his little girl. We're gonna take this nice and slow, okay? Come on. He spoke to her, his arms wrapping under her legs and behind her back, picking Amaris up into his arms. He walked over to the Camino, opened the door, and set her in the passenger seat. He closed the door, walking over to the motorcycle. As easily as he picked her up, he picked the motorcycle up, setting it into the trunk bed of the Camino. He finally walked back to the metal box, picked it up, and walked toward the car with it.

Amaris looked down at her backpack, knowing she kept the file safe from him. The last thing she wanted him to know was that his family was so traitorous to him that to know even the woman he once loved was willing to trade him for her gain felt wrong. Would he ever think the same of Amaris, who only wanted to protect him from the truth? Would she hurt him more by concealing these documents from him?

The pain of her injured claws receding back into her forearm had been more painful than the thoughts she had. As Logan entered the cab of the Camino, he looked over at Amaris, watching her knuckles and wrist heal over. He turned the engine over, shifted it into gear, and drove down the mountain. They needed to get to the Mansion as quickly as possible, for their safety, and for more answers.

Nearly three weeks had passed since the events of Logan being attacked. In that amount of time, he had become a part of a team that defended mutants while also protecting humans, learned he had a daughter, and began to remember his past. He recalled more memories from different wars he had been in with each passing day since reading his old journal. He could also faintly remember his brother's face, how they cared for each other well and had been close. Now, Victor was gone, a shell of what he used to be in Logan's memories.

Logan led the drive down the driveway of Xavier's Institute, the motorcycle roaring with the old Camino following behind him. As they approached the garage of the mansion, Logan could see students and teachers peeking through the curtains. He chuckled to himself, finding a good spot to park before turning off the engine.

He walked to Amaris as she got out of the Camino, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Well, that was a great vacation. She commented, grabbing the box of items she rescued from their home. What are you going to do next?

Logan pursed his lips, shrugging his shoulders. I should speak to Charles. There has to be something we're overlooking. He walked by her side as they walked around to the main entrance of the mansion. And you?

Amaris didn't know what she should do. There were a million things on her mind, but her next steps back in the mansion seemed a million miles away. I don't know.

Logan opened the door, walking through and holding it open for her. You'll figure it out, I'm sure.

Logan! Came a giggling-sounding Rogue as she approached Logan and Amaris. She carefully wrapped her arms around his neck as he reached to hug her back. Amaris had closed the doors as the two interacted. Some other students passed by, greeting the man as they walked to their next classes.

Did you miss me, kid? He asked as they let go of each other. He chuckled when she shook her head no. How are you doing since we've been gone?

Good, really. Find anything you were looking for out there?

Logan tilted his head side to side, then nodded. Just a few things. He watched as a teenager approached Rogue, looking to be her same age, if not a year older. Who's this?

Bobby eyed him, holding his hand out. I'm Bobby. Rogue's boyfriend. He sounded very stern as if warning the older man. Logan reached out to shake his hand. Call me Iceman. Logan watched as Bobby's hand turned to ice, freezing Logan's hand.

Amaris approached them. Bobby. There are different ways to introduce yourself. She spoke, then watched as the two let go of each other's hands. Bobby nodded, remaining silent. Bobby is one of my students. Well, as long as I haven't been replaced or let go of.

A set of heels could be heard walking down the stairs next to them. It's okay, you just used all of your PTO for the year,Storm spoke, placing her hand on the rail. Look at who's come back.

Logan had looked up first, meeting Storm's gaze as she descended the stairs. He smiled, watching her every step. Yes, well, I left something here when I left. I had to come back for it.

Storm nodded, reaching for her neckline and removing the dog tags, gently handing them over. Logan smirked looking from the necklace to Storm. I wasn't talking about these, he hummed, earning him a chuckling response from Storm.

Amaris looked at Bobby and Rogue. Why don't you two go study or something? Who knows, we might have a pop quiz this week.

Bobby groaned at the sound as Rogue's gloved hand took hold of his hand and walked away from the adults. What are you going to do, Amaris? Storm asked her, using this time to avoid Logan's stare.

I'm going to find our good doctor. I need a patch job, she wiggled her fingers, looking up at her father and giving him a wink before walking away from her best friend and her father. What a wild concept.

Oh, she's downstairs. We picked somebody up yesterday. You should find her there. Storm then turned her attention back to Logan, his hand still cupping hers as she held the dog tags. We're taking the kids on a field trip tomorrow. We can always use an extra set of eyes when it comes to the students.

Logan hummed, looking down at their hands before looking at Storm again. I thought we were going out? As promised.

Oh, we are, Storm stated matter-of-factly. Tonight, seven o'clock. You pick the place.

Logan nodded as she set the necklace in his hand before walking away from him and heading down the hallway. Yes, ma'am. He spoke to himself, feeling a warm pit in his stomach. He couldn't remember what it was like to feel for another person before. He knew he deeply cared for and loved his daughter, but this was obviously a different type of feeling. What was it about the woman that made him feel so strange?

Scott appeared in the hallway, crossing his arms as he looked at Logan. Enjoy your joyride?

Logan looked at the other man, nodding. He fished for the keys out of his pocket, tossing them to Scott. It needs gas.

Scott caught the keys, and then tossed them back to Logan. Then fill her up.

Logan caught the keys, nodding slightly. After I take Storm out. He turned to walk down the hallway, hearing Scott mumble a little.

Logan walked down the hallway until he found Charles' office, hearing him on the other side. Before he could knock he could hear the older man's voice in his head. Come in Logan. Logan opened the door, adjusting his backpack as he entered. How did you fair?

We found some things, but not enough. He took in a deep breath as he watched the man in the wheelchair. Somebody had followed us for a while. Somebody who i think you know better than Amaris does.

Charles looked at him perplexed. Who was following you?

Logan took a seat on the couch as Charles gestured to him. Does the name Pietro Maximoff mean anything to you? He watched as Charles face turned white. I'd say it does.

Charles signed, looking at Logan as he spoke. Pietro was a troubled student. He was constantly in trouble with the staff here and local law enforcement. I will say he did observe better judgment when he was around Amaris.

Logan nodded, resting his forearms on his knees as he leaned in, locking his hands together. I think he is up to something.

Charles looked shocked. What do you mean by this, Logan?

He showed up where we were in Calgary. Said he was looking for his missing sister, but I could tell he was lying. Logan replied, unable to shake the feeling.

Did he say which sister, by chance? Charles asked.

Logan shook his head. No. As he watched Charles' expression change, he knew something else was wrong. Does it matter which one?

Charles moved his wheelchair so he could look out a window. He watched as children played on the basketball court. No, but Logan, there's something you should know about Pietro Maximoff. Logan watched as Charles spun his chair around to face him. Pietro's father is somebody you've already met. To know that you've had a run in with him already is concerning, but to hear he is potentially searching for a sibling ramps up this concern I have.

Logan stood up, walking over to Charles. Who?

Charles looked pained as he looked at Logan. Erik Lensherr. He choked out, thinking about the potential trouble that was brewing. Magneto.

Logan searched the Professor's face, watching as the man seemed to fall into a deep sense of dread. He followed us around, showed up in the places we went to, but he was actually following Amaris.

Charles looked up at Logan, hearing his words. I understand that she is your daughter, but I must implore you, you must keep an eye on her. If Pietro has decided to show up in place she hasn't been before, or he for the matter, she must remain guarded. She loved him, but he-

Logan could hear Charles' heart begin to quicken, a sure sign of panic or fear rising in his veins. He isn't any good, is he?

Charles shook his head, remaining silent as the two came to a silent agreement. Something was wrong, and some type of storm was brewing.

Amaris had dropped her items off in her bedroom, making her way down to the lab where she had been told she would see Jean. She had been wearing one of the band t-shirts that she recovered from the cabin home. It seemed he used to like The Rolling Stones int he seventies. It had been one of her fathers as the fabric swallowed her frame whole. All she needed was a pair of JNCO jeans and she could blend in with her students.

Jean walked around the corner, nearly walking into Amaris. The women laughed, catching their breaths before speaking. It's so nice to see you back, and in one piece! Jean spoke, looking thrilled to see the young woman back. Amaris' face fell from a happy one to a little somber one. What is it?

She held her hand up, wincing as she unsheathed her claws. I'm mostly one piece.

Jean was shocked, bringing her hands to touch the broken bones. My dear. She whispered analyzing the breaks. They were terrible, jagged and splintered.

Amaris nodded, biting her tongue as Jean touched the bone. The broken ends felt like live wires as the older woman examined them. I don't know if there is anything that can be done about it. I thought you were the best place to start.

Jean sighed a little, then holding her hands between both of hers. Let me do an exam. I'll speak with the Professor and Hank. Maybe we can do something like a prosthetic or figure out if your bones have any healing properties.

Amaris nodded, then following Jean into the Infirmary. She stood next to one of the tables as Jean began to gather some supplies.

Well I be. 'His must be heaven. Came a husky voice.

Amaris looked up, seeing a man with long red hair looking at her. She tilted her head to the side. Why? Because I'm an angel? She asked in her most dramatic flirty voice, sarcastically replying to the age old pick up line.

The man shook his head. If you're an angel, then I'm in the wrong place. See, 'dae don't fly down here wit me. It's too low for 'dem, an' their wings would burn up.

Amaris laughed a little, making the man point at her. Tell me, what's you name, Chere?

Amaris approached his bed, finally seeing his eyes. His irises were reg and the whites of his eyes were black. Amaris, Amaris Howlett.

The man grabbed her hand gently as she approached. Remy Lebeau, at your service. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles, causing a warm flush to flash across her cheeks and down her neck. He looked up at her, then running his thumb over her knuckles. They call me 'da Gambit.

Amaris felt the smile creep onto her face before she could counteract it. Gambit, huh? That's a cool little codename you have there.

Remy gave a small nod of his head, looking up at the woman. I'm sure yours is somethin' to marvel at too.

Oh, no. I don't have a code name. She responded, forgetting about her hand at this point.

Give me a couple days, Gambit promises he'll give ya a nickname worthy to be chanted.

Jean cleared her throat as she entered the room. Amaris turned around quickly as Remy let go of her hand. This had certainly been the most exciting thing that has happened to him since being recovered by the X-Men.

Amaris left Gambit as he winked at her, having a funny feeling that by the end of the week he would have a different outlook on his life, and it might be due to the shy woman he met, Amaris Howlett.