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stupidocupido · 5 years ago

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tous les mêmes

tous les mêmes, a Split (2016) AU.

Three witches wake up in an unknown place after being attacked by a man. Abused and scared they wait in a locked room for what’s next. The one who took them is not like others, because he is not really one person. Stuck in his body are multiple personalities. All waiting for the worst one to come out...

I came up with this idea about a year ago as a joke during a convo with @/avesatanormalpeoplescareme (gone but not forgotten lol). She actually kinda came up with the ending, so I have to give her credit for that!

This fic is also published at the archive.

Warnings: non-con, dubcon, sexual content, kidnapping, violence, stockholm syndrome, told in fragments, christian!reader, virgin!reader

Involves: jim, michael, duncan and xavier (and some more)

Tous les mêmes

one Her head is throbbing, her muscles are sore. Her eyes are still closed, she is afraid to open them. There hangs an iron like smell in the air, the air itself is pressing on her loins. Her hand goes to her neck, her fingers automatically close around the silver cross that is hanging there.

The weak cough that is coming from her left makes her eyes finally snap open. She immediately scans the room for an exit. There is only one, and it is closed. There are no windows either, their light comes from a single fluorescent light bulb on the ceiling.

It feels like she’s underground, but for all she knows she can be in some sort of garage as well.

There is another cough, and her eyes finally find the source of it. It is fellow witch Coco St. Pierre Vanderbilt. Sitting with her on the bed is Mallory, another witch. She sits up straight now, watching the other girls.

“Where are we?” Coco asks.

What a dumb question. As if they’re not locked in the same room. She remembers the attack. There had been a fight, someone had attacked them from behind. Her hand goes automatically to her cheek when she thinks about earlier. Her skin feels painful and is burning. She can feel dried up blood where it hurts.

The other two girls don’t look too good either. Coco her blonde hair is a mess, her blouse is ripped, and the skin around her left eye is blue. Mallory looks even worse, her lip is split and there is blood beneath her nose.

Mallory does not ask questions. She places an calming hand on Coco’s trembling shoulders. “That does not matter, what matters is how we get out.”

“Good, you girls are awake.”

Three heads turn around to watch where the sound comes from.

A tall blonde man watches them from the opened door. His grey blouse seems expensive. His hair is kept back with lots of gel. He is the one who attacked him, he is the one who took them. But somehow, he looks different now.

She doesn’t know what it is. But when his eyes fall into hers, she needs to resist the urge to grab for her necklace. His stare is so intense, almost as if he is trying to find her biggest weakness. She stares back at him, trying to remember his face for when they escape.

When he looks away, her stomach feels heavy and her head is weirdly light.

“Don’t bother trying your magic on me. Magic doesn’t work here.”

He is looking at Mallory’s fists now.

“You. You seem feisty, I choose you.”

Mallory is the strongest of the three of them. But without her magic she is just a small girl with not a lot muscle to defend herself from her much taller attacker. The man grabs her, a nasty grin on his handsome face. Mallory struggles, but he is too strong for her. So she screams, the first thing she learned. “Pee yourself! Pee yourself!”

Coco tries to free Mallory from their kidnapper, but she’s not strong enough. And when the door closes, it’s just the two of them. Coco is trying to get the door open, to save her friend. Her nails are scratching the iron and she’s screaming Mallory’s name. She is still sitting on her bed, frozen and afraid.

It’s a minute later when the door is smashed open again. Coco falls on the ground. A crying Mallory gets pushed into the room again by their kidnapper. He looks disgusted, Mallory her legs are wet. The door closes with a bang and it’s the three of them again.

Much later is Coco still holding the crying Mallory. She is stroking her back, whispering words she cannot hear. She feels like she is watching someone else’s tragedy from the rusty bed. And it always had been like this. At the academy where Cordelia only has eyes for her star pupils.

She is nothing like them, even though she so badly wants to fit in. She is an unusual duck in a group of swans. She belongs in the water; yes. But she does not belong with them.

two They’re trying to come up with a way to escape without having to use magic. They can be smart, there must be a way to trick their capturer. They had of course tried using magic, but he had not lied. Nothing worked, it seemed all they had now was their fists and intelligence.

“Maybe we can distract him. If one of us can escape it’ll be enough.” Mallory tries.

“We don’t know where we are! Maybe we are in the basement of some cult. How can you be so sure there aren’t other doors behind this one?” She shakes her head, there must be another way.

“Then what do you propose? That we wait around for Cordelia to get us? We may be dead by then.” Coco’s voice is annoyed. She shrugs, she doesn’t know what to do either. But running doesn’t seem like the best option.

When the door opens again the witches stop their whispering. He is wearing a long black dress now. His hair is styled in a different way. His eyes scan their faces and the way they look.

“Don’t you kids look awful, oh sweet Satan! I knew he wouldn’t be able to control his urges.” He shakes his head. His voice sounds different than before. It’s higher pitched, it almost has something feminine.

The three witches share a look, none of them know what is going on. Maybe he is playing with them to confuse them. To make them weaker, to make them easier to take when he is done playing.

“He knows he is not allowed to touch any of you. I will talk with him.” He shakes his head again.

Then his eyes fall upon her face. She feels herself getting cold when his eyes are staring her up and down. Is he going to take her now?

He comes closer, there is concern in his eyes. She can see how Coco and Mallory look at each other and then at the door he had left open.

He leans down, so that they are on eye level. She does not move away when his hand goes to touch her face. Long fingers trace the cut on her cheek. His fingers are cold against the throbbing skin. His blue eyes are filled with wonder as he leans in closer to examine the wound. “Don’t you worry my dear, I will take care of you.”

“Who are you?” It’s a way to keep him distracted, but she is also genuinely interested. Why is he acting like he is someone else?

“Oh, silly, I am Ms. Mead of course.”

His eyes are so blue, that she is taken back by them. Now his hair is not being kept back by gel, it gives it the chance to be in its natural state. His blonde curls are wild and beautiful. He does not look crazy to her, not like someone who would kidnap three girls. But he knows they have magic, there must be something more.

There is something about his face that feels familiar. Maybe it is because it straight comes from the paintings how they image heaven to be like.

He is studying her as she is studying him. There is something about him that is not right. But there is also something that is very right. Something familiar, something that reminds her of Cordelia and nights of studying magic spells.

“Coco! Run!”

The spell is broken, he is someone else now. Something changes in his eyes, she can’t exactly pinpoint what it was, but something is different. He stands up so sudden it hurts her head. She scrambles back on the bed, afraid for what he is going to do now.

But he does nothing, he stays very calm. Too calm. He turns his back on her, facing the opened door where Coco ran through instead. He looks more annoyed than panicked.

“Did you really think I don’t have this whole place locked down? After every door you will find a new one.”

A desperate cry is the proof of his words. He leaves the other two witches without giving them another glance. And when the door closes behind him, the echo from Coco’s screams can still be heard in their room much later.

three “Where is Coco?” Mallory her voice is sharp. He looks more optimistic than normal. He is wearing earrings and shorts now. Another personality? So far, they had met three versions of him. The one who took them, Ms. Mead and now this one.

He walks towards Mallory, squeezing her cheek. “Coco is where all good girls go to.” His voice is amused. This character seems to be more of a tease than the others.

“And where do good girls go?” Mallory is not afraid and she damns her for it. Why can’t she be quiet? He laughs loudly, finally letting go of her cheek.

“I don’t know, ask Billie Eilish.”

He looks around the room. “Pff, this place is a mess.” He places his hands on his hips, he is looking at her now. She rolls her eyes, finally showing some sort of emotion. But it is Mallory who once again says something.

“Didn’t you know that kidnappers don’t hire cleaners?”

She sends Mallory a look. Does the girl have a death wish? Normally she would understand Mallory’s confidence. She is the future supreme after all. Mallory is popular because she is kind. Confident because she is loved and fearless because she is powerful. But she is none of that right now.

He looks Mallory up and down, his smile almost mocking her.

“You all look hungry, let me make you girls a sandwich. The best chef in the world taught me how to do so.”

He opens the door again, gesturing with his hand that they should follow him. They both stand up from their beds, she walks behind Mallory away from their prison.

Where their room is dimly lit, the hallways are anything but. The place is sterile, and everything is white. It reminds her of a hospital or maybe even a lab. There are a lot of doors, but none of them indicate Coco’s presence. She wonders if the other witch is still here. She doesn’t want to think about other options.

The kitchen he leads them to is really messy. But here the floor and walls are white as well. There are again no windows. This makes her think they might be underground after all. However, it is clear that this place is huge.

He gestures them to sit down at the table. He turns his back on them. He is gathering bread, peanut butter and jam. Her eyes stay on the large knife in his hands. He uses it to put everything on the bread.

“What is your name?” She breaks the silence. She watches how he cuts the sandwiches in half with the large knife. The chairs they’re sitting on are very uncomfortable. Mallory moves in her chair. She’s watching the knife as well.

He looks over his shoulder, showing her his white teeth. “Xavier.”

When he turns his back to the counter, he has two plates in his hands. He had made them peanut jelly sandwiches. She stares at the bread, wondering if it might be poisoned.

Mallory is the first one to bite into the food. So she follows. Slowly she chews on the bread, it doesn’t taste like it’s poisoned.

“And?

Do you like it?” He watches them eat. He seems to be impatient for an answer.

Her and Mallory share a look, before nodding. “It’s delicious, you should become a professional.” She is being truthful; the food is good. But perhaps it is also because it’s the first thing she ate in a while.

“Neh, I want to be an actor. You girls want another one?” He is looking at their empty plates.

Mallory smiles very careful. She can see something building in her dark eyes, she is planning something. “That would be amazing, thank you.”

Xavier moves to the counter again. He takes four slices of bread, throwing them on the cutting board without a care.

“The trick is to use just a little bit more jelly. And always put it on white bread.” While Xavier is working on the sandwiches, Mallory had stood up from her chair. She is moving quietly away from the table, to stand behind it.

She makes eye contact with her. Shaking her head, pointing with her head towards the big knife he has in his hand. But Mallory ignores her. Her hands wrap around the chair, pulling it from the ground.

She throws the chair against his back with all her strength. He falls down against the counter, the knife still in his hand. He lets out a painful gasp. When he turns around, Mallory is throwing her plate in his direction. It hits his chest, it breaks in three pieces when it falls to the ground.

Mallory wastes no time, sprinting towards the door. It is not locked, but she can see from here that behind the door is another hallway.

Xavier looks at the door and then at her. His cheeks are flustered with anger.

“Go to your room.” His voice is murderous, his eyes are flaming.

“NOW!”

He shouts when she doesn’t move. She is too afraid to not do what he told her to do. So she runs from the kitchen, runs through the white hallways and lets herself fall on her thin mattress.

There she prays and cries for her sisters. She prays for Mallory to get out and for them to be saved. She prays for Cordelia to find them and for Coco to still be alive.

It’s hours later that she stops mumbling to her god. Mallory doesn’t return and neither does he to lock the door again.

With cheeks that are wet and a throat that is sore, she watches how the lights in the halls turn off. Will she ever get out of here?

four His feet are bare, he is wearing a yellow shirt and his hair is messy. He is sitting in the opened door, watching how she slept. Or more like how she pretended to sleep.

“What is your name? I am Michael.” He sounds very young, his head is tilted like a dog that is waiting for a treat.

She tells him her name. He does not stand up, instead he moves his knees to come closer to her. He is holding something in his hands. She can’t see what it is.

“What is your favourite colour? Mine is red.” She frowns at his question. What does he want?

“I don’t think I have one.”

He lets out an annoyed sound. “Who doesn’t have a favourite colour? You’re weird.” She tries not to feel offended, not when he is acting like a young child. But what if he is that young child? What if this is her way out?

“Michael, how old are you?”

“Ten, how old are you?”

She laughs, surprised with his answer. It doesn’t look like he is playing her. He seems to think he really is a ten-year-old boy.

“A little older than you, I am afraid.”

“Oh. Will you play a game with me?” He shows her what he had been hiding from her. It’s a small red racing car. It looks so small in his large hands, it isn’t right. She looks up to watch his face instead. She swallows, her stomach empty, her throat begging for water. But she knows it is better to amuse her captor and his many personalities.

“I am too thirsty to play games, Michael.”

She can see something change in his demeanor; like a child who does not get what he wants this grown man is about to cry. She wonders, how can he be so dominating and small at the same time?

How can he be grown but still look like a child? She grips his hands before he can cry. His eyes immediately go to where she holds him.

“Maybe you can get me some water? We can play after.”

But Michael shakes his head, already moving away from her. “I don’t think Duncan will like that, but maybe Ms. Mead can bring you some.”

She grabs his arm before he can truly leave her. “We can play later then. Maybe tomorrow night?”

He looks down at where she is holding him, but when he looks up again, he is smiling.

“As long as you don’t tell the others I was here!”

She smiles, letting go off his arm. “It will be our secret.”

five “How many of you are there?” He had brought a box with toys the next night. She’s sitting on the thin mattress now, he is still on the floor. The cars and the dolls they were playing with long forgotten.

“About ten. But Duncan and Ms. Mead are the strongest ones.”

Duncan, Ms. Mead, Xavier, Michael.

That are four, will she ever meet the other six? Does she want to meet the other six? Michael had picked up a game console from the ground. It’s an old Gameboy, she used to own one that looked exactly like this one.

But Michael doesn’t turn it on to play, instead he is watching her necklace. “Do you believe there is a god?”

“Yes.”

“Then you also must believe there is a devil.” She feels uncomfortable, she doesn’t like to think about there being one.

“I guess there must be evil as well.”

“He is in us. They’re trying to lure him out. That’s why the three of you were taken. But I won’t let them hurt you! We’re friends now!”

He is offering her the Gameboy. She can feel her stomach turn over. She thinks everyone has something evil inside of them, but the literal devil? But she nods, taking the game console from Michael.

“Yes, we are friends.”

“I don’t think you are a good friend.” A different voice, his smile is even different now. She let’s go of the game console, it falls down to the ground.

He is eyeing the cross that’s hanging just above her breast like Michael did.

“I bet you are one of those virgin girls who say they gave themselves to god. But I know you are a freak, ready to be ripped apart.” She knows this personality; it is the one that took them. Duncan, the cocky fuck boy. If they weren’t captured Madison probably would have liked to fuck him, just to degrade him.

Her hand goes to the cross hanging just above her breasts, she refuses to answer him. The steel is warmed by her skin, it feels comfortable in the palm of her hand. A beacon of hope, she does not dare to pray now. But when she is alone, she does.

“I bet your cunt will be so tight when I take your virginity. I bet you will bleed, I bet you will scream for me.” Duncan comes dangerously close to her bed. She looks away from him, watching her knees, she tries to control her breathing.

The mattress sinks where he sits on it. She wants to move away from him, but his hand is cupping her cheek, forcing her face in his direction. “Will you be a good Christian girl for me? I can be your god.”

She moves her head away from him, shifting her body to the other side of the bed.

“You are no god.”

It is the first thing she says. It makes Duncan laugh; his body is shaking with it. Duncan his laugh is different from Ms. Mead’s and even Michael’s laugh. He moves closer to her body, gripping her leg. He is too strong for her.

“No, we are the devil. And right now I want to taste one of god’s fruits.” He pushes her down, she screams. She tries to hit him, but it has no use. She closes her eyes when his hand grabs her breast. She prays to a god, who does not seem to care. Why her? Why was she taken?

“I bet you like this, I bet this is what you pray for when the door closes.” With his other hand he opens the blouse. Impatient he pulls at the buttons, he almost tears the fabric apart. His cold hand goes into her blouse, his hand is pushed into her bra. His nails press into her flesh when he cups her breast. She cries out in pain, her body struggling against his.

Duncan his breath is hot against her skin, his hand kneads her breast. She tries to escape, but it has no use. His mouth is placed against the pulse in her throat, he sucks at the skin very lightly. The moan she lets out because of his motions stiffens her.

And then suddenly he moves away. His breathing is uneven, his hair is a mess. “I am sorry, I am sorry. Please forgive us. He knows he is not allowed to touch you; but sometimes he has urges.” Another personality, she does not know this one yet.

“Who are you?” She asks, closing the blouse Duncan had opened so forcefully. He gives her a weak smile.

“Jim.”

six It is Jim who opens the door the next time and all the times after. She can see it in the way he walks and in the way he smiles. Even his face is softer than the other personalities. Where she tried to manipulate Michael first, she now knows she should try Jim.

In the beginning he doesn’t talk a lot about himself, but he is very interested in her. Everything she tells him; he seems to care about. Always asking for more and more. From her favourite colour to what she likes to drink before she goes to bed. From her first love to her worst fears.

She tells him, because there is nothing else to do. She can’t escape him anyway. Whenever she thinks she has a chance, Jim slips away from her.

Jim only starts telling her more about his past after a few days. He was the first one. The only one. But due to circumstances at home he had turned to drugs. Maybe it was the trauma of having an abusive mother, a father that doesn’t care and a sister that doesn’t understand him what caused all of this. Maybe he took too much drugs and created someone who cares. Someone who understands, someone who will never leave him behind.

His parents had died during a tragic fire, where their whole house burned to the ground. His sister had decided to leave it all behind. Travelling the world for her to never return. Leaving him alone and unloved.

She can see him now, alone in a burned house with no one who cares about him. The only one he had was himself, so maybe that is why he decided to create people who would care.

Or maybe all of it is real. Maybe there are personalities trapped inside this man. He did know they were witches. Maybe he is cursed, maybe that is why he took them. Hoping that the three of them could help him to become just Jim again. She doesn’t know why she is here. But what she does know, is that she feels sorry for Jim.

He needs to be loved; he does not deserve to be sad.

“All I ever really wanted to do was surf.” His smile is so sad that it burns. It might have been weeks, it might have been just a couple days. But he is all she knows now, the only friendly face, the only one who cares about her. The one who knows what others don’t, and the one who was willing to ask for more. When she is with him, she no longer is just a duck swimming in the same direction as the more majestic swans. With him, she is something entirely rare. He makes her feel like she is like there is no one else like her.

And when he tells her with eyes filled with years that he wants her to be free, she isn’t so sure if she wants to be. He tells her that he had tried to free them. But when he even thinks about not locking the doors, they take over.

But the thought alone is enough, he does not want to steal her freedom. He wants her, them, to be free. And she wants that for him as well, she wants him to taste what freedom is. She wants them to taste it together.

She can heal him; magic can make him whole again. She can make his days bright and they can just do what he always had wanted to do.

So she is the one to kiss him when he tells her his favourite colour is blue. Long but soft, eager to heal all that once burned with pain. To kiss his aching away and make him forget about the others. Her fingers are digging in his hair, the taste of him on her tongue. He smells like the sea, and it feels like she’s in falling into deep waters.

They kiss and kiss, until her lips grow sore and her panties are wet.

When he leaves, she slides the cross between her index and middle finger. Asking god why something forbidden feels so right.

She thinks of blue and how he described it. How it is the sky and how it is the sea. How it is sadness and how it is honesty. But to her, it is only his eyes. And that might be her new favourite thing.

seven “I want you to be free, really.” He is grabbing her hand, as if he is afraid his words aren’t enough to convince her. But she doesn’t need much convincing to know that he is being truthful. She moves their intertwined fingers up to her face. She pushes her head against the back of his hand, a small smile is playing on her lips.

“Maybe we can start small. Why don’t we go to your room?”

He takes her to the kitchen, her hand in his. He opens the door, behind it there is another hallway. This place is so much like a maze, that she wonders if it was built to keep people in. Maybe it was built to keep them in, but it could also be built to keep him in.

This hallway is not empty. There are all sorts of electronica lying around. She even spots an ancient computer screen. There are multiple doors here as well, but he is leading them towards the one opposite the door they came from. He does not give her the chance to take the place properly in. He almost seems desperate in his movements. Almost as if he is afraid another personality will take over if he’s not fast enough.

Behind the second door is grey concrete stairwell that goes up. This place is badly lighted. It reminds her of the stairs that are in underground parking lots.

It maybe takes them five minutes to reach the top. And at the top there is another closed door. He unlocks that door and when he opens it, her eyes need to adjust to the bright light.

She knows better to ask what kind of place this is. But it seems like her earlier guesses where right. They are in some sort lab. The third door had led them to some sort of welcoming hall. There is one desk standing in the weird room and it’s empty. Maybe it’s night. She can’t really tell the time anymore.

The fourth door he opens, leads them finally to his bedroom.

It’s not a big room. It almost looks like some sort prison cell. His bed is placed against the concrete wall. There are no windows and the walls are empty. There is a small dresser opposite the bed and there are toys on the floor. They’re Michael’s, she recognized the red car immediately.

Jim closes the door behind them, she pretends she doesn’t notice that he locks it.

“They’re still alive.” He suddenly tells her when they sit down on his bed.

She is ashamed for not asking it herself. She had only been thinking about him and how she could save them. Never thinking about the wellbeing of Mallory and Coco.

Jim frowns. “You don’t look happy. They’re kind of your sisters, right?”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t think I ever really belonged with them. I love them and they love me. But it’s never as much as they love each other.”

Jim is silent for a while. She doesn’t mind the silence; she has a lot to think about. Being a witch is everything that her faith taught her to be wrong. So it was real shock for her to discover she actually is what her parents consider a sin. She hasn’t spoken with her parents ever since she moved to New Orleans. The other girls are all that she has left.

“Maybe we all are just trying to find something to hold onto. You your faith and perhaps the other witches. Me the others inside of me.” Jim his voice is soft, he is not looking at her, he’s watching the wall. She grabs his hand, forcing his attention on her once again. She let’s go when she has his attention.

“Do you ever feel alone?” She asks.

“All the time, even though I never really am. There is no one who can truly understand what it’s like to be me.”

Her smile is sad, because he is right. She will never understand what it’s like to be him. But in return he will never know how it is to be like her.

“I feel so empty most of the time, as if something is missing. As if a part of me was taken when I found out I was a witch.”

“Because of your faith?” He looks at her again. She shrugs, not sure what exactly is what makes her feel like this.

“I guess so.”

Jim is silent, when he speaks again his voice is very soft.

“It feels like you understand me better than anyone else ever has.” He is looking at his knees. His sad tone breaks her heart. She grabs his hand again, her other she brings to his face. She is touching his chin, forcing his head up.

“Maybe it’s because they never tried to.” She whispers. He opens his mouth to immediately close it again. He leans closer, her hand still on his face.

There is an urgency in his kiss that never was there before. She doesn’t mind it, welcomes it even. She feels like a walking cliché, but with every kiss he gives her, she wants more. She moves her legs up the bed, allowing him to push her down on it.

Her hands creep up under the shirt he’s wearing. His skin is smooth beneath her exploring fingers. He almost has no scars. She expected there to be burns, because of the story how his parents had died. But there are none. Maybe he had been safely outside when it had happened.

He helps her take his shirt off, he throws it next to his bed. She can feel the heat of his skin through her blouse. And it’s not enough, she wants to feel his skin against her own. He is fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. One by one he opens them, exposing her skin to the cold air of his room.

He kisses her again, leaving wet prints of his lips on her skin. He goes lower and lower, until he is at her pants. When he looks up, she only nods.

She wiggles from her pants, leaving her in only her underwear.

Jim does not stare at her body, instead he looks at her face. He places his warm hand on her stomach, he slowly moves it down. He moves his hand until it is between her legs. She feels heated, with him being so close to where no one was before. The only thing between their skin, is the thin cotton of her underwear.

He never loses eye contact. When she doesn’t stop him, he looks away. He starts to rub over her underwear. First only his thumb. But when her body starts to relax, he removes his thumb with index and middle finger. He moves in a slow steady pace, which feels really good.

She had touched herself before. But being touched by someone else is different. It’s a good different, she decides. But maybe that is because he knows what is doing. Not too much pressure, but he’s also not too soft with her. It’s almost as if he knows exactly what she wants.

“Oh Jim, it feels so good.”

He takes this is as an invitation to slide her underwear down her legs. He continues his rubbing, but it feels even better now. His fingers slide easy through her wet folds. It didn’t take him much at all to make her this wet.

Maybe it is because he is so careful, maybe it is because she’s so turned on, but it doesn’t feel as weird as she thought it would be when he pushes one finger inside of her.

His finger is obviously larger than hers. At first that’s the only thing she can think of. How it feels to have him inside of her. But when the feeling becomes somewhat normal, she can focus on the pleasure it brings her.

She doesn’t even really notice he had added a second finger. Her hips move shamelessly into his touch, her soft moans are filling her own ears. She didn’t know she could make sounds like that. But it only feels natural. He is so soft with her, so sweet for her. Her hands grab for the sheets. The cotton clenched in her sweaty fists. The soft moan she lets out sounds like his name, when the feeling of release washes over her.

His palm is wet because of her, she almost feels ashamed when she sees it. Jim brings his hand to his face, sniffing her scent in. It is a bit weird to her, but in a way it’s also very hot.

He is pulling his pants down now, exposing the bulge in his boxers. A jolt goes through her body. She did this. She isn’t sure why she likes it so much. Maybe because this means she has as much control over him as he has over her.

“Lie down.” She orders him. He does what he is told, watching how she is the one exploring his body now. She doesn’t kiss him like he was kissing her, she only gives him a very light touch. Her index finger tracing from beauty mark to beauty mark. When she arrives at his underwear, she looks at him again.

“Do you want me to touch you there?”

“Fuck, yes.”

He pushes his body up so she can remove his underwear. His cock springs free, almost hitting his stomach in the process. She has never seen one this close before. She is fascinated by it. By how soft and vulnerable it looks. She wonders how it feels like. Does she need to be soft with it, or does he prefer someone who is rough? She looks away from it, afraid to make him feel uncomfortable if she stares for too long.

“Can you show me how to touch you?” Her cheeks grow hot, she feels embarrassed that she has to ask. Jim sits up a little, leaning on one elbow.

“Give me your hand.”

He brings her hand to his cock. “Just wrap your hand around it.” He feels warm in her hand, and she likes how it feels. He wraps his hand around hers then. He starts to move their hands down and up. Up and down, down and up. Until they fall in a pace he apparently likes.

When he removes his hand from hers, she keeps up the pace he had set. She moves her hand like he showed her to do. A bit hesitant at first, but she grows more confident when he lets out a low moan.

She decides to test it a little. She goes a little slower, to go faster again when he lets out another moan. She leans closer to it, so she can place her free hand beneath the moving one.

With every sound he lets out, she grows more confident. Her hand goes down to cup his balls. She once had one of the witches talk about them and how they should not be forgotten.

“Stop, or I’ll come.” His voice is sharp, it almost sounds pained. She removes her hands immediately, afraid she did something wrong.

She turns her head to watch him. When looks up to her it’s as if nothing else really matters anymore. He loves her and she thinks she can love him. They’re all God’s creatures and she was taught to care for them all. She never felt like this before. Is it her wanting to fix him? Or is because she really loves him? And does it really matter?

“Kiss me.” She doesn’t know what else to say, not when his body is trembling under her touch like this.

He obeys, he crawls on top of her so he can kiss her. His skin is so hot against hers, it makes her feverish. She wants all of it, she wants to be burned by his skin and touch. She wants to burn to ashes with him. Collided, connected, together forever. She wants all of him, she wants him to have all of her.

His cock is hard and ready against her stomach, he must want her as badly as she wants him.

“Jim, I am ready.”

“Are you sure?” She can feel him against her entrance. And she knows she’s ready for this. She reaches her hands out to touch his face. His beautiful, angelic face. She moves her hands from his face, bringing them slowly to his back.

“Yes, I want this.” He kisses her again. Her nose, her cheek, her mouth and her throat. She sighs, her finger spread on his skin. He enters her very slowly. He kisses her when she lets out a gasp when he’s fully inside.

And for a very blissful moment she feels whole again. There is no pain, only a dull ache. The feeling of being one, the feeling of being with someone you love. She never thought she would give herself away in a situation like this. But it is happening right now, and it feels so good.

Jim his eyes are closed, his body is trying to stay still. His hands are placed on the pillow on both sides of her head. She can see sweat dripping between his furrowed brows. “You feel so good, you’re so tight. Please tell me it does not hurt.”

Her hands move up, her fingers intertwined with his curls. “No, you feel very good, it does not hurt.” This is all Jim needs to hear to start his movements.

Tears fall from her eyes, not out of pain but because all the emotions that are swirling around her head. What is she doing? Why is she doing this? But all of her doubts shatter when his hips fall down on hers once again.

A surprised moan comes out when he hits a spot. She did not expect for it to feel good. “What was that?” He immediately asks, his voice worried.

“Do that again.” She says breathlessly.

Jim circles his hips in a way, the thrust harder this time. It hurts a little, but it is not an unpleasant feeling. It reminds her of the feeling that comes with pushing on blue marks. She used to do that a lot when she was younger, the pain it gives is dull enough. Only this feels better, this is the best kind of hurt.

Her nails are scraping his back. The skin destroyed beneath her nails. Suddenly his movements become rougher, the voice he speaks with now different.

“I knew you were a freak!”

This is not Jim, this is someone else. She tries to push him off, but he won’t move. Her nails curl into his skin. “Go away, I don’t want you here.”

She finally is able to push him of her. He laughs when he falls down on the mattress. She feels dirty, she feels used. But above all of that she’s angry with him for ruining the moment she had with Jim.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell your god that you’re a dirty slut.” It’s too much, she had enough of him and his taunting words.

“You pathetic excuse of a personality, you’re worthless. You’re nothing, no one will miss you when you fall from the light.”

“You fucking bitch.” Duncan harshly grabs her wrists. His eyes scream murder, but she doesn’t care. She pulls herself from his grip. “I am not scared of you.”

She spits in his face. A feeling of triumph masters her, when she sees how shocked he looks.

But then, something changes.

A low growl breaks from his throat as all the colour is drenched from his face. Veins become visible when his skin grows paler and paler. The lights in the room are flickering, she is getting cold. The blue of his eyes disappears, leaving his eyes black and soulless. She slowly moves away from him, until her back hits the wall.

He no longer is Duncan, he no longer is like any of the other personalities. He is the demon from all her nightmares. He is the devil, he is all that is evil. She wants to scream, call for her Jim to come back, for any of them to come back. But nothing comes out. Her mouth is opened in a silent scream, when the demon leans closer to her.

He pushes his nose against her throat, smelling there where her she can feel her own heartbeat. His skin is dry and as cold as ice. His cold hand takes hold of her shoulder to push her down. The scream finally comes out. A raspy sound that does not sound like her own voice. But at least something is coming from her. She screams, but no one can really hear her.

His claw like hand is placed upon her mouth, silencing her immediately. His body is pressed against hers keeping her in her place. She struggles against him, but it has no use. Behind her is concrete, in front of her is the demon.

She can’t move, she can’t escape. It’s teeth are scraping against her skin. It’s breathe is hot and stinks of blood. This is the moment she will be killed, she is sure of it. Its mouth is at her ear now. He will rip it off, he will eat her alive.

The tip of its toxic tongue licks her jaw. A shudder goes through her body because of the sensation. Her nipples harden because of the small gesture. She damns herself for responding to it like she does. Hell will swallow her whole if the demon will not.

It nips at her skin like she is something sweet that should be savoured. Her back arches when his mouth is at her throat. Her body moves in response, rubbing against the demons.

Its teeth sink in her skin, she cries out in pain. Blood pours from the wound, wetting her throat, it drips upon the mattress they lie on. It feels strangely good. Maybe it is because she’s close enough to dead to feel heaven.

She falls down on her back when he leans away from her. Whimpers fall from her mouth, her hands automatically go up to touch the wound. She tries to close it, but she doesn’t think it has any use. He will kill her anyway. She starts to cry; she doesn’t want to die like this. Naked and afraid, eaten alive by a demon.

He climbs on her, ready to bite again. His hands are placed on both sides of her head. Her own blood drips from his chin on her face when he leans closer to her face.

He licks the wound he had made and she lets him. This isn’t a terrible way to go. One bite and she will be gone. Her eyes close, tears are still falling from them. Cold hands are wrapped around her throat now. At least she will die loving someone. Jim, Jim, she could not save him.

Her eyes snap open when the beast let’s out a howling sound. What is she doing? When did she become something helpless, when did she something that no longer craves for control? She always finds a way out, so why doesn’t she find one now? So she pushes back, with all her strength. Until the demon falls on his back and she’s on top.

She looks down on him. His face is covered in her blood, the flickering lights in the room are mirrored in his black eyes. The veins she can see beneath his skin remind her of storms and their lighting.

But she sees something else too. He is still Jim, only his face had changed. He may think it’s another personality, she thinks it’s not. It is still him. And she loves her damaged boy. She is a witch and she must be able to tame this demon. She has god on her side, she can cast the evil from this boy. Love will always conquer, good will always win. So she will conquer him, she will defeat evil.

“You’re not like this. Please listen to me, I know there is good in you.” Her hands are cupping his face and he does not fight her. If he was truly evil, he wouldn’t have allowed her to take control.

“Please, let me help you. Let me save you.”

He doesn’t answer her, he grabs her arms instead. He rolls the both of them over. She’s on her back again. She tries to turn them over again, but he pushes his whole body against her. She wiggles, trying to free herself from his weight. But she can’t.

She wants to believe it still is Jim, but with the way he is watching her it’s hard. Drool leaks from the corners from his mouth, eyes too dark to see real emotion in them.

He forces her legs open with his knees. Despite the fact he seems to be only hungry for her flesh now, she can still feel how hard he is. His erection is placed against her pelvis. She only has to move her hips a little for him to be between her legs again.

Tame the beast, conquer the devil. Maybe she feels too much for him to not sin. So she moves her legs, grabs his head and pulls it down. Warm lips meet cold ones, she kisses him until she no longer can taste her own blood in his mouth.

The demon kisses her back, his sharp teeth clashing with hers. She moves her hand between them, taking hold of his cock.

She tries to tell herself that all he needs is love, that he just needs to feel warmth. But she is only half convinced it will really work.

She guides him between her legs, his hips almost move automatically when he is where she wants him.

He is inside her again, but this time it’s not like the first time. He does not wait for her to adjust, does not ask her if she’s okay. His body is heavy, but his weight is the last thing she thinks about. She knows she has to be gentle, to let him know there is still good in this world. But she really can’t bring herself to do so, not when it feels so good to be like this. She pushes his face away when it leans down closer to hers, instead she pushes her face against his shoulder.

He moans, he groans, he growls. With every animalistic thrust she feels herself slipping further and further away from all that is good. This is sinning, her body moving with his, the pain it gives turns her on. This is everything god forbade her to ever participate in. Her body is wet with sweat but also her own blood. It makes it easier to slide over his body. Her cheeks are wet with old tears.

His skin is turning hotter with every thrust, but he is still not her Jim. So she bites him, her teeth piercing through his dry skin. She bites until he bleeds, until she almost chokes on his blood and tears are falling from her eyes again.

She’s not surprised to be the first one to come, because she knows it’s a sign. She has chosen her faith and she cannot return to anything she had left behind now. She screams Jim’s name when her climax hits. Maybe to taunt the beast, but also because she hopes it will bring him back.

He pulls out before he can cum inside of her. Instead he spills over her stomach.

He does not move from her, instead he looks down on her. The demon almost looks amused. It’s teeth are showing when he leans down to touch the damaged skin of her neck. His fingers trace the wound he made, almost as if he wants to make sure it’s real. His fingers go lower and lower, until they’re wrapped around the cross of her necklace. He brings his face closer to hers now. His lips are touching her earlobe.

“You can’t save us.” His voice is raspy, low and it gives her goose bumps. It feels like all her hope is gone, as if someone snatched out the fire inside of her. He pulls the necklace from her. The cross hidden in his fist.

He leaves her naked and alone in his cold bed after. She is trying not to cry when the door closes.

eight She is alone when she wakes up again. Her body is covered in bruises and the sheets are a brownish red from her blood. Her hand goes to her throat, where she can feel the imprint of his teeth. She is aching everywhere. Her back is hurting, she can barely sit up without wanting to fall down again.

She whimpers, not wanting to cry again. He didn’t return after he had left her. She wonders if he even is himself again. Maybe he was right after all. There are other personalities, it isn’t it just a disorder. He is cursed, the demon she saw yesterday wasn’t him. Why would it take the necklace? Jim wouldn’t do that. Jim wouldn’t hurt her like the demon did. She is sure of it.

She feels dirty and used, but most of all she feels something else. She tried so hard to save him. Maybe she needs to save herself first before she can save him.

She gathers her dirty clothing, putting them on again. When she’s fully dressed, she walks very hesitant towards the door. What will be behind it? Will it even open?

The door isn’t locked and behind the door is the empty lobby. She starts to walk around, trying to open other doors. But they’re all locked. Except his bedroom and the door they came through yesterday.

She decides to explore the empty desk that’s standing in the middle of the lobby instead. The papers on the desk tell her that this building belongs to Kineros Robotics. But what’s in a name? She sits down on the chair. The person who normally sits here really has a thing for purple. Because almost every personal item is in that particular colour. She opens one of the drawers and it’s immediately the right one. There is a key that looks like it belongs to the front door.

Bingo, she can escape.

But why is she hesitant? Why does she feel like she would betray him if she leaves? Maybe he feels bad about what happened last night. She must find him first. And she must find her sisters, she needs them now more than ever. But she needs him for that as well. He is the only one that knows where they are.

So she goes downstairs again. But the kitchen is empty. But the door to their hallway is opened, so she goes that way. Maybe he is in her room?

There is something different. Two doors in the hallway are opened, while the one to her room is closed. There is a blood trail from one room to the other. She slows down her steps. Her gut is telling her to run away right now. To leave him and never look back again. But dumb like she is, she ignores the feeling. She stops when she is in front of the first opened door.

The first thing she sees is Coco. Her whole body is covered in blood. It looks like she was attacked by a beast. Or a demon. She ignores the voice in her head, slowly she walks closer to the room. She can hear faint sounds now.

The room looks exactly like the one she was being kept in. Her body stiffens when she sees them. He is leaning over Mallory. His hand is in her chest, he pulls her heart from it. She sees how he brings the organ to his mouth, and he bites.

She backs away from them until her back hits the wall. He is eating her heart like it’s the most delicious thing ever. Mallory’s dark eyes are still opened, staring at Coco’s body next to her. But she is not alive. They both are gone. Her hands grab for something to hold onto, she feels like falling down. Both her hands touch the wall instead. Her heart is beating furiously in her chest. She covers her mouth to let the scream she wants to let out in. She needs to throw up, she can feel the bile coming up.

The moan that comes from the demon makes her snap out of her panic. She moves away from them as quietly as she can. Making her way to the kitchen. The only thing she is thinking about is how to get away from here as fast as she can.

The desk in the lobby is still empty. But she doesn’t waste time. She’s running towards the large door, the key she stole earlier in her left hand.

The door opens easily and when she is outside, she lets out a breath. It seems to be the end of the day but the sun is still up. She runs from the building, not looking back until she is sure she’s far away from it. When she turns around, she can still read the letters on top of the building. Kineros.

All she is thinking about, is Cordelia. Her sisters are killed, she needs her supreme now more than ever.

She asks the first person she sees on the street for their phone. The woman gives her a weird look. Probably because she looks terrible. With shaking fingers, she types in Cordelia’s number. And when she takes the call and hears how the supreme says her own name, the witch finally feels safe again. It’s going to be alright; she’s going to be fine.

nine Back in Kineros the blonde demon smiles to himself, his face still covered in blood. He is Jim, he is Xavier, he is Duncan and he’s even Ms. Mead. But most importantly, he’s Michael.

They all are real, really made up by him. He knew he had to do something drastic to lure Cordelia away from the sacred grounds of their New Orleans academy. She would never come to him without a good reason. Cordelia had killed his adoptive mother and he will make sure Cordelia will meet her end.

Soon there will be no witches left to mess with his devilish plans. He plays with the cross he stole from her. No witches, except her. He will keep this one. Something to bring with him to his new world. Michael will not forget the way she so easily had given him all of her love. He is not without cravings after all.

But first, destruction. He will kill them all as gruesome as he had killed the other two witches. They will never know what is coming their way��

..............................

pfew, thank you for reading!

if you speak french, or maybe listen to stromae, the title of the fic already gave away the ending. tous les memes means ‘all the same’.

shout out to chef bertie, the chef who taught xavier how to make the best sandwiches.

..............................

tags: @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @ccodyferns @thechildofmay @queencocoakimmie @queenie435 @isoldedax @bethskarsgard @littledemondani @theghostoflangdon @boofy1998 @bademliimagnum @gold-dragon-slayer @venusxxlangdon @nana15774 @isoldedax @napping-is-my-favorite @anacerta @vampirefairyestelle @wroteclassicaly @icylangdon @peachesandfern @hecohansen31 @melodylangdon @leatherduncan @michaelsapostle @michael-langdon-appreciation @hadesruinseverything @themiswrites @blakewaterxx @rocketgirl2410

#fanfiction #michael langdon x reader #duncan shepherd x reader #jim mason x reader #xavier plympton x reader #ms mead #michael langdon #xavier plympton #duncan shepherd #jim mason #mallory #coco st. pierre vanderbilt

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durrzerker · 4 years ago

Text

Taskmaster: The Line. Chapter 7: Play The Fools

As the ragtag party of children and their eclectic assortment of guardians climbed the stairs leading to the roof of the old Masters of Evil mansion, Wolverine was starting up a conversation with Akeja, who had been openly admiring her fighting style and claws all night. Eric, somehow, had become the favorite of almost all of the other kids; the Scions were warming up to him, whatever crime that Mara claimed that he and Taskmaster had committed against them all but forgotten as they asked him about what it was like to shrink, how it felt to be a giant, and if any of them would ever be twenty feet tall.

"Maybe!" Eric replied. "I've seen crazier things." He was clearly enjoying the attention, carrying the wounded boy whose name Tony had already lost across his shoulder like a sandbag, yet even taking the time to ensure his broken leg wasn't bouncing around. He was clearly enjoying the positive attention, and Taskmaster didn't blame him; there wasn't a whole lot of that in Bagalia.

For his part, though? Tony wasn't taking his eyes off of Spymaster, and it wasn't just because she had a sweet can (she did). He wondered if she knew, like Black Ant seemed to, that The Hub was apparently his wife. How common was this? Was it even a secret, or were they all laughing behind his back? Resisting the urge to corner Eric about it right this moment - not the time - Tony glanced back over his shoulder. The only one of the children who wasn't with the rest of the group was Cassandra, who was watching him as intently as he was Spymaster.

"What?"

"Waiting for ya tae run away."

"Very funny, and not happening," he scolded her.

"Did last time."

Not having a response to that, he fell silent until they reached the helipad. With a button on her wrist, Spymaster de-cloaked the quinjet that she had waiting for them; sleek and black, it looked to Taskmaster like a stolen SHIELD prototype; he could even get a sense of the missing markings on the wings. "You appropriate this yourself?" He asked curiously.

"Maybe. Not like SHIELD's intact anymore, what use is it sitting in some hanger?"

"I'm sure Uncle Sam would find use for it."

"Considering our current situation, I don't really give a fuck what Uncle Sam finds a use for," she replied harshly. "You've been thinking about what I told you, right?" Opening the kamikaze door of the quinjet, she started gesturing the children closer. To Tony's surprise, Mara stopped in front of him.

"You think we should go with her?"

"I think so, yeah." He didn't hesitate; it seemed clear enough.

"...You're a weird guy, Taskmaster. I mean, the costume really gave it away, but...I hope you understand that what's coming next for you isn't your fault. That doesn't mean you can't take responsibility for it, though." The way she stared up at him as she spoke took the witty retort right out of Tony's throat. He lingered for a moment, watching this strange little child with the wisdom that she had no business displaying like this, before she turned and promptly boarded the quinjet.

When Taskmaster and Eric went to follow, Spymaster stopped in front of the both of them. "We need to split up. Taskmaster, I have a location for you to go after Ross. He's going to send an extensive force after both of us; he's almost as angry at you as he is eager to get the kids."

"Now hold up a minute, lady," Taskmaster complained. "WHY? What the hell did I actually -do-?"

"I don't have time to explain, and a short version will just make you more curious," Spymaster replied. Before he could speak again, she cut him off by grabbing hold of Eric by the collar. "You and Wolverine are with me. Need your abilities, and the kids like you more." Laura didn't protest; it was obvious that she was always going to

"Yeah!" Black Ant cheered, hopping on board the quinjet. "Hear that, Tony? I'm the MvP."

"No, that's TESS-one, but she's too heavy for the plane," Spymaster assured him. As Eric slumped his shoulders, she brought the rest of the children aboard and turned her attention to Taskmaster. "Masters, this is important: You're going to find out what happened here soon. I -promise-. But trust me, because this comes straight from the Hub: You can't know until the children are safe. She asked me to relay that, and for you to keep believing she has your best interests in mind -- because she does." Ensuring that all the children were on the quinjet, Spymaster climbed on as well, grabbing the sliding door to start closing it until she was stopped by Taskmaster's harsh words.

"If she cares so much, why the hell hasn't she told me she's my WIFE?!" he snapped.

Glancing back at him, somehow sounding sad even through her voice scrambler, Spymaster shook her head. "...Oh, Tony. She has."

And then they were gone.

Standing there in the midst of a warm Bagalia night, clear skies offering a lovely view of stars that he had no interest in seeing, Taskmaster took a moment to collect himself. The violence and hedonism of his current lifestyle was effective at drowning it out, but in quiet moments like this, he could feel it; a deeper guilt, a hungry and gnawing void of self-loathing that threatened to consume him if he didn't feed it.

'Why do you think he takes these jobs?'

By the time he opened his eyes, the quinjet was gone. No Spymaster, no Wolverine, no Black Ant. He tried to reassure himself that this was a good thing. He worked better alone anyways, and the kids needed the backup the most.

"At least I got you, Tessie." He looked up to the gargantuan adamantium robot, who was still dressed like a twenty foot french maid. It was dusting the roof.

Taskmaster's mission, ultimately, was simple: he just had to follow the Wrecking Crew. Doing so with Tessie as his backup would be easier said than done, considering that even with the robot's prototype flight technology, it was still something of a massive and loud target. Instead assigning it to follow at a distance, he descended into the garage of the old Masters of Evil headquarters, heading for the vehicle bay that he'd had installed shortly after he had taken over. As tempting as his over-designed blue-and-orange motorcycle was, he needed to take a different approach; even idiots like the Wrecking Crew would know when they were being followed, if only because Ross was likely reminding them to check.

True to Spymaster's assessment, they were clearly hustling to get out of the city. The tracker she'd given him displayed them as making a beeline for the Marina; they were rapidly navigating the city's dense streets with superhuman jumps from the way the display 'bounced'. Considering his options, Taskmaster eventually left the garage not in one of his well-armored war wagons, but a simple and sleek black ferrari. This would require a different kind of approach.

Piledriver grumbled as he approached the marina's reception center; this place was pretty damn high security, which was unsurprising considering what kind of goods Bagalia both imported and exported. Checkpoint, checkpoint, ID card reader, ticket salesman, weird demon that only spoke backwards, checkpoint -- but after nearly half an hour, he was finally through and had passes for each of the rest of the Wrecking Crew. "You wouldn't believe the fucking wait out here," he grumbled as he started handing the entry badges to his companions. "Come on."

By the time he'd gone back to get the rest of the crew and headed into the marina, Piledriver could tell that something was amiss. "We're in Dock 3...wait. Whose is -that-?" What should have been their empty spot was occupied by an enormous and garish yacht, white and blue with a massive statue of a posing siren on the front.

"What an ugly piece of shit," Wrecker grunted. "Hey! Who the hell's in our spot?! We got a ride coming! You gotta move!"

"Tally HO there, friends!" Came a booming voice. Emerging from the deck of the yacht, a thin and older-looking man planted his hands on the rails. "Say I parked in your spot, eh? Didn't mean to! I've been making this my 'marina marination' center for the past ten years, though, ha ha! Didn't think they'd rent it out to anyone else!"

Exchanging looks with each other, the Wrecking Crew shook their heads before Piledriver spoke back up. "Hey, idiot! We ain't here to chat about it! Just move your ugly fucking ship unless you want us to destroy it!"

"Oh, I sure don't want that! Let me just come on out of here...." He started towards the steps.

"Don't come out here!" Wrecker complained. "Just -- just move, man! We're not kidding!" He sighed in frustration when the elderly gentleman ignored them entirely, making his way out from the yacht onto the ship and approaching the four supervillains with oblivious cheerfulness.

"Well now, I'd be remiss not to shake your hands for the warning first! No need to rush, no sir...name's Art Vanderbilt! Don't know art, never built a van, but I stand behind the nom de guerre nonetheless! You all attending a costume party, then? Why wait for your vessel? You should ride with me instead! The Painted Pomegranate's a class act of a ship, yes sir; once made it around the coast of Somalia in only four days!" He boasted.

"...That don't sound very fast, old timer," Bulldozer chimed in. "Look, you seem pretty nice, and we ain't in the business of beatin' up random old people, but you really got to go. Our ride's gonna be here any minute."

"Oh, I'm sure they'll see me and wait their turn!" The gent replied, dismissively waving a hand. "Come, come, you'll love the Pomegranate! Sweet as her namesake, and twice as juicy! You may be asking how a ship can be juicy, but no sir, I won't spoil the mystery! You'll just have to find out for yourselves!" Whirling a ruby-headed cane, he started back towards the yacht. Wrecker raised his weapon, eyes bulging with rage, but Piledriver stopped him with a hand.

"Wait. This old coot's clearly lost his damn mind," Piledriver whispered. "We follow him aboard, maybe we can rob that ship before we sink it. We got time before Ross shows up."

His irritation giving way to a smile, Wrecker nodded in agreement. "Best idea you've had all day. I could use some cheering up after that hide-tanning we got back at Zemo's. Come on, then. We'll knock him out when we get on board, then loot to our heart's content."

All feeling very smug, the Wrecking Crew boarded the yacht behind Art.

"This here's the deck, where I like to play shuffleboard with the missus," the elderly man droned on as they circled around towards the cabin. "Are you gents and ladies feeling parched? I've got a 1912 Vermouth that you wouldn't believe; goes down smoother than my morning medication, that's for sure!"

"I could use a drink," Demolisher eagerly replied. "You hear that, -gents-? I'm a lady. No one ever calls me a lady; I think I like this old guy!"

"Oh, I like you too!" Art replied, opening the door to the cabin. "Remind me of my daughter; professional weightlifter. Built sturdy like yourself." As they all filed into the luxurious room, with leather seats and a large navigator's table that seemed to meticulously track the location of every brothel between Bagalia and California, the garishly dressed elderly man retrieved a large bottle and five glasses, pouring each halfway full and passing them around.

"Classy place," Wrecker complimented, his eyes already roaming over an expensive-looking statue above the steering wheel. "All these trinkets must cost a fortune."

"Oh, you'd best believe it! Never settle for less than the best; that's what father always taught me," Art replied. "Four million dollars worth of furnishings in here alone!" He didn't seem to notice the greedy smiles traded by the Wrecking Crew at that. Raising his glass, Art toasted the group, then took a deep draw. Everyone else did as well, with only Piledriver hesitating briefly to make sure that the old man was actually swallowing his. Figuring that meant it was safe, he drained his glass.

"Wow, that's good stuff," Demolisher complimented. "I had my doubts considering this ugly ship, but you've got decent taste, grandpa."

"Thank you!" Art puffed out his chest happily.

"Shame we're gonna have to take it all from ya," Piledriver said ominously. "You offered us a ride - think we're gonna take it. This vessel's ours now. You gave us a drink, so if you ask real nice, we'll let you off without any broken...broken..." Mumbling a bit, the man touched his tongue. "...Ith numb...my tongue numb."

"Hey...yeah...I don't -- I don't feel good," Wrecker grunted, blinking rapidly. "Old...old bastard poisoned us. You son of a--" He took a swipe at the elderly man, but with surprising quickness, Art simply ducked back, smiling innocently.

"Oh my...has the wine gone bad?" He took a sniff, then sipped it. "No, seems good to me."

Collapsing against the table, Piledriver watched the rest of the Wrecking Crew start to go down. Demolisher sat heavily in the captain's chair, already unconscious; Bulldozer was trying to make himself throw up, but faceplanted before he could. "How...?" Piledriver asked. "I saw you...saw you drink."

"Sure did, slick. Didn't poison the wine. Like I said...it's fine." Dropping his disguise, the impression of an old, frail man giving way to the skull-masked visage of the Taskmaster, their host threw his head back and drained half the bottle in a single go, belching as Piledriver lost consciousness.

"It was your glasses. I told you D-listers not to fuck with me."

It had been about four years ago that Taskmaster had come up with the 'Art' persona. From body language to facial expressions, his photographic reflexes allowed him to impersonate just about anyone and anything he could physically copy; what most people didn't realize was that this allowed him to take on other identities. From the accent to the walk, he could become someone else entirely at the drop of the hat. With his image inducer, the design of which he'd been improving every year since the first time he'd picked it up, he could even alter how he felt or how much he seemed to weigh; it was amazing what you could accomplish with enough stolen Stark tech and a willingness to get your hands dirty with it.

Vanderbilt, specifically, was known as a bit of a ponce around these parts; that was just how Tony liked it. If there was one lesson that Taskmaster had taken from Deadpool - not that he would ever admit it to the lasagna-faced bastard - it was that people were inclined not to take you as seriously if you acted like a complete fucking idiot all the time. 'Art' was as close to Wade as Tony would ever act, and that was an act of great pain for him -- but the mission demanded it this time, and the Crew had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker; not that he'd ever consider fooling these morons a real achievement.

Crouching down to dig through Wrecker's pockets, he retrieved the tracker that Spymaster had placed and then swiped his cell phone, checking for text messages. Nothing. "Damn How am I supposed to know when Ross is comin--" He didn't even finish the thought before the yacht began to shake. "What the fuck?" He glanced out of the window; waves were rising far too fast to be natural, and nearly six other vessels, spaced out as far as half a mile away, were starting to capsize as if something under the surface was lashing out at them from below.

He knew better than to stick around; no sooner had the floorboards began to crack and snap than Taskmaster dove out the cabin window onto the deck, then sprang over the railing back towards the dock. His haste saved his life, as he'd barely made it in time to avoid an enormous metal form crashing through the edge of the walkway and through his very expensive, very nice Painted Pomegranate. In place of the wrecked ship, torn apart like so much paper, was a gargantuan nuclear submarine, pitch-black and twice again the size of an aircraft carrier, the likes of which Tony had never seen before.

Yet something about it felt incredibly familiar.

#taskmaster #tony masters #marvel comics #fanfiction #wolverine #laura kinney #x-23 #eric o'grady #black ant

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loislane-ana · 2 months ago

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1906 Stanley Steamer Vanderbilt Cup Racer - Jay Leno's Garage

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#cars #Youtube

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faveficarchive · 5 years ago

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The Secret Histories: Part 2

An Archaeologist, High and Low

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Set soon after All the Colors of the World, an old flame wanders back into Mel’s life, and threatens a relationship already wrought with unspoken problems. Janice is sent off to Bavaria to work with the Monuments Men, and Mel isn’t far behind. Will their shaky relationship withstand the test of distance, violence, and ancient obsession?

September 1945

Sergeant Sally Phillips stared anxiously at the pair of khaki legs that emanated from under the car she usually drove. Grunting sounds came from the partially hidden body. "Janice, can you fix it?" she said.

"I don't know yet, Sal. Cars other than Fords...I don't know much about," Janice replied from under the vehicle. They were in a driveway outside the U.S. Embassy; Sally, with whom she became friends during basic training at Fort Oglethorpe, was a driver for the U.S. Ambassador's Office. She had called Janice in a panic, remembering that her friend knew something about cars...and she, hardly Rosie the Riveter, knew nothing about them, except how to drive one.

Sally despaired. "I know. But I can't take it back to the garage. They'll kick my ass. This is about the third time this thing has died on me, and Murtlock'll kill me..."

"It's not your fault. They should know that," Janice said, her voice muffled.

"You know how that bastard is. If anything goes wrong, he blames one of us."

Janice chuckled. "Yeah, you're right. Murtlock is a real prick."

Unfortunately, Sally felt his presence before she could warn Janice. She snapped to attention. Major Murtlock, their commanding officer, was standing right behind her. There was no telling how much of the conversation he heard, but the last statement alone was more than enough to...she sighed inwardly. She knew that Janice would get the worst of whatever shit Murtlock would ladle out; her friend was too outspoken and too indiscreet about her affair with the beautiful black-haired woman that Sally had met only once...whatever her name was...she was a looker, though, almost enough to make me switch teams...

"Stupid foreign cars...ACKPHLT!" Suddenly Janice slid from under the car, covered in oil. "God, I think I swallowed some..." Janice tried to wipe the oil off her face with an equally black hand, which made it worse.

Then she noticed Murtlock.

From her position on the ground he looked even bigger than usual. And he was a big man, probably six and half feet in his stocking feet. This was one of those moments when she envied Mel her height; if she were as tall as her beloved companion, she might feel a little less intimidated, even sitting down. The Major scowled at her, his heavy black brows crashing in consternation. "Don't get up, Covington," he rumbled. "I have something for you." He pulled a packet of papers out of his jacket, and tossed them down to her. They landed in her lap. "I'm very pleased to say you have new orders. You're shipping out in two days. The information"—he nodded at the papers—"is all there. I hope you have a pleasant trip," he grunted sarcastically.

"Yes, sir," Janice replied perfunctorily. Her lips shifted nervously in a frantic attempt to dissuade a smart-ass smirk off her face.

"Oh, and by the way, you've been promoted. To Lieutenant." He glared at her in disgust while she raised both eyebrows in surprise; the idea that such a woman could be an officer was simply too much for him to bear. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

He turned on his heel and left.

Sally exhaled with relief. "He sure knows how to sweet-talk a girl," she cracked, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. She handed it to Janice, who took it gratefully and proceeded to wipe oil off her face. Sally peered at the papers in her friend's lap. "Hey, where do you think you're going?"

Janice handed them to her gingerly, clasping them between greasy thumb and forefinger. "You tell me," she replied. "I'm too sullied to touch them. At least Murtlock thinks so."

She was also too nervous to read them, and didn't give a rat's ass about Army protocol—at this point in my so-called military career, I'd announce my orders with a bullhorn to anyone who would listen, she thought.

Sally unfolded the papers and scanned them quickly. "You're going to...Bavaria? Some place called New—what—stein? Fucking Krauts and their mile-long names."

Sally watched as Janice scratched her cheek thoughtfully; her friend did not seem too surprised at the news—in fact, her green eyes narrowed knowingly. "Huh, I'll be damned." So I'm the bait. Good. At least I'll be there to keep an eye on that blonde bitch.

"Why?"

"Long story. Wanna get some lunch?"

"Sure, Lieutenant Covington."

"Now that was a surprise." Janice hoisted herself up from the ground.

"Yeah." Sally grinned, and poked her friend in the ribs. "Congratulations, you little dyke."

***

June, 1937

"You're amazing," Catherine said. She laid on the floor of her room, gazing up at Mel, sprawled in her divan. The Southerner's feet dangled pleasantly over the edge and she hummed "Oh Susannah" in her rich, pleasant voice. Her dark hair cascaded over one arm. She was quite drunk, having consumed five gin and tonics. Catherine had thought it would only take two; but she is a big girl...a very big, beautiful girl. "I can't believe you've never been drunk before."

"No...once I got just a little tipsy on some sherry, at a Daughters of the American Revolution benefit..." Mel suddenly found the ceiling very fascinating, as her head lolled back of its own accord.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Mel burst into laughter. "I don't want to tell you...it's so stupid."

"Then don't." Catherine wiggled the empty bottle. "Wish we had more."

"Me too."

"I bet we could get some from Daphne."

"Oh dear. Daphne doesn't like me. You better ask her yourself."

"She's merely jealous of you, my darling." Catherine stood up. "Come on, let's go."

"Jealous?"

"Of course. Don't play Miss Modesty with me, Melinda. You're both incredibly beautiful and smart."

Mel giggled. "Oh, thank God someone said it. I really wanted a compliment."

"Really? I couldn't tell at all." The blonde held out a hand to Mel, who hadn't moved from the couch. "Come along."

"Must I?"

Catherine smirked sadistically. "You must."

Reluctantly Mel took the proffered hand and hauled herself up. Trailing behind Catherine, she was amazed at her own ability to walk in such a state, and quietly marveled at herself as they navigated the stairs to a lower floor, where Daphne's room was located.

They were giggling quite loudly when they crashed against Daphne's door simultaneously. Catherine pounded upon it. "Come on, Daph, open it," she roared.

Another minute of pounding, plus the threat that Mel would sing "Swanee River," finally persuaded the reluctant Daphne open the door. Like in a Keystone cops film, the two lovers spilled through the doorway. Catherine was on the floor, with Mel atop her, laughing like children.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," said a voice above them. Daphne, of course.

"Hallo, darling," Catherine trilled. "Melinda and I seem to be having a crisis."

"Yes, you're both in my room, uninvited."

"What, I thought we had an invitation!" Mel burbled. She and Catherine began a new round of giggling as they stood up.

"Don't be a bad hostess, Daph. There's a quite simple way to get rid of us."

"I know. All I have to do is let you continue to make a ruckus here, and they'll expel you."

"No, dammit. I want a bottle. Of scotch."

"Or gin. That's my favorite," Mel interjected.

"I don't have any fucking alcohol, Cat. It's all gone." Daphne drummed her fingers on her desk.

A dead giveaway, Catherine thought, watching the spidery fingers drum their distress signal. She always does that when she's nervous...or lying. "You don't expect me to believe that, do you?"

"I had guests over yesterday. We drank everything here."

Catherine's dark eyes narrowed, and the mood of the room seemed to alter with it; it was one of those sudden shifts that occur deep in the night, and/or deep into drunkenness. "You bloody little mooch. All the time I've paid for your drinks, bought you things...you won't even give me a damn bottle of booze?"

Daphne returned the angry glare, a fire blazing across her cheeks. But she said nothing.

Mel rolled her eyes. She didn't know why Catherine had insisted on coming down here in the first place. "Let's forget it, Catherine," she said. "I'm tired anyway. Let's just go back upstairs and go to bed."

Daphne's cold eyes did not leave Catherine's. "Go on, then. Listen to your little tart. Get out."

Mel wanted to laugh out loud. She had never been called a tart before, or anything even close to hinting at sexual promiscuity. Usually she was called "cold," "aloof," "frigid" (by a Freudian acolyte at Vanderbilt who had stuck his hand up her skirt within 20 minutes of their first date), or a "tease." It was an amusing change of pace.

"You should mind your manners, darling," Catherine threatened in a low voice.

"Or what?"

Mel gripped Catherine's arm. "Leave it," she said quietly. "Let's go."

"Look, you cow, will you just shut up?" Daphne spat at Mel. "Everything was fine until you came along, you miserable twat. Do you think she really loves you?"

"Shut up," Catherine growled between gritted teeth.

Daphne was on a roll. She inserted herself between Catherine and Mel. She was not as tall as either one of them, but stood her ground menacingly, her angry, contorted face near the Southerner's, the curls of her marcelled hair shaking and threatening to unfurl into Medusan tresses...or so it appeared to Mel's gin-addled mind. "Come on. You don't really think Catherine feels anything for you, do you, you little fool? She only wanted to bed you because you're supposedly so damned beautiful." She paused, grinning triumphantly, before delivering the coup de grace. "And because she wanted to deflower you."

Catherine opened her mouth to file the obligatory protest (true enough, but...), but she saw something that intrigued her. It was like a translucent film were covering Mel's face, darkening her features and her cerulean blue eyes. It was an anger that transformed her entire being. She had never seen her lover so angry. And it excited her. She watched, fascinated.

Daphne had noticed the transformation too, but bravery—or, more accurately, stupidity—caused her to fling one final insult in Mel's face. "You're just another notch on her belt," she drawled.

When Mel swung her arm, it was in a wide, lazy arc, as if hitting Daphne were barely worth expending energy. But this belied the force of the backhanded blow which sent the woman hurling through the air, across the room.

Mel blinked. Jesus Christ, did I just do that? She looked down at her hand, which trembled. It had been like a splash, a blot of black ink, that had spread within her, into a terrible rage. She clenched the shaking hand.

The few seconds that they stood there seemed like hours. Catherine’s look was one of amused amazement as she turned her eyes from the body slumped in the corner to Mel’s confused face. Then she slowly made her way over to the body. She felt around for broken bones, checked Daphne's breathing and pulse, and returned to Mel. "I think she'll be fine," she remarked airily. "Let's go."

Mel blinked. "What? We can't leave her here. We should take her to the infirmary. We need to tell someone...the dean..."

The blonde laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. We'll both be sent down if that happens. And she's fine, trust me. She's a stupid girl with a thick skull. She'll live. And she'll know better next time." She placed her hands on Mel's warm cheeks and kissed her soundly. "You're magnificent. I love your strength. Your power. You think you don't have it, but you do. You really do."

Blue eyes narrowed at her in disbelief. "You're crazy," Mel retorted bluntly. Or maybe I am the one who’s crazy. What did I just do? What's wrong with me?

Catherine's lips twitched a little, biting back a dozen different retorts. "I'm crazy, but I'm all yours." And you don't know how true that is, my dear Melinda.

She was on a black horse, chasing a group of men who ran away from her on foot. There was a dull pain traveling through her legs, which were twisted and crippled; when she looked at them, she wanted to scream. A rage in her was so thick and bitter she could bite into it. With each stroke of the sword it seethed, then cooled, until the need struck again: the black urge to lash out, to kill, to obliterate. Man after man fell under her. The last one begged for his life, and then a man on horseback, his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, shouted at her not to kill the last one. But she did it anyway. It felt...so good. Better than anything in her miserable life up to that point. Better than the money. Better than the fucking. Better than the power.

It felt so good. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?

The question burned in her mind as she woke up. And she woke Catherine as her body jerked forward, out of the blonde's loose yet possessive grasp.

"What is this?" Catherine murmured a sleepy protest.

"Nothing," Mel replied perfunctorily, Southern manners always at the ready. I could be bleeding, I could be dying...yet I'd still say "Oh please, don't mind me, I'm fine." Her voice felt so hoarse that she hardly recognized it.

"Bad dream?" The tone was casual.

"Yes." She sat up, on the edge of the bed, and groped for the glass of water that she knew would be on the night stand.

"Tell me." An edgy hint of command in the voice.

"I don't want to."

"Come on," Catherine cooed gently. She let her fingers trail along Mel's bare back. A shudder—desire, disgust, perhaps both—shimmied along her skin.

The tepid water felt good as it soothed her ragged throat. "All right," she murmured. Cautiously she settled back on the bed, as if sleep itself would reach up and claim her again, and the nightmare replay itself. But it didn’t. And so she told Catherine about the dream.

The blonde's legs had wrapped around Mel's as she told the dream, and contracted, almost painfully, then relaxed. "Very interesting," Catherine commented. "Why do you think you're having these dreams?" Well, at least those sessions with Freud were somewhat helpful—I get to steal his inane questions.

"I'm not sure...when I was little my Daddy always told me these stories, about some ancient warrior woman—we're supposed to be her descendants somehow. They were scary sometimes, but she—my ancestor—always wore the white hat. But in this dream, it's like I am her, but she is...not a good person."

"Hmmm. Funny how things get twisted around like that." This time Catherine sounded amused. She let her fingers run along Mel's smooth shoulders.

"I think...I'm just feeling bad about what happened the other day." Mel alluded to the Daphne Incident, which had occurred a scant three days prior. But this morning, in the courtyard, she had encountered Daphne as she and Catherine left the quad. Instead of entering the building, as she obviously intended to do, the girl bolted like a prized race horse, in the other direction. Mel had never seen anyone look at her with such abject fear.

And Catherine had laughed. This time, her laughter seemed brutal as it echoed through the air. And so familiar.

"Oh darling, just let it go." The fingers skittered along her skin.

There was something about the way Catherine touched her...it was stimulating, yet there always a threat — implicit in the curl of her hands, in the way she held back, in the way she pulled back when her touches grew too wild or passionate — of anger, as if that tactile contact would erupt into violence...if they were not careful.

And the funny thing is...I sometimes think I feel it too. Am I just projecting it onto her? Mel slid her arm out of Catherine's grasp easily. She stood up and threw on a deep blue robe. "I think...I'll read for a while."

Catherine laughed derisively. "Do you still remember how? I don't think you've picked up a book in at least a month."

Mel rubbed her aching head. She did not know how she could possibly read with such throbbing in her skull—another hangover contributed to her dissonant state of mind, already troubled by the dream—but she wanted to try. "I know," she replied grimly, and left the bedroom.

***

1945

"Guess what."

"What?"

"I'm a lieutenant."

"Have they gone mad?"

"I think so. But guess what else."

"What?"

"I have orders to go to Bavaria."

Mel stared at Janice in shock. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" she demanded.

"Sorry, sweetheart, your needs seemed more...pressing." Janice had been sprawled out in the wing chair—her favorite seat—in Mel's hotel room, her legs flung comfortably over an arm of the chair, when Mel arrived. Before she had a chance to say anything, she felt Mel's mouth on her own, and the delicious combination of kisses and caresses made her forget about the promotion, about Germany, about everything.

"Damn it all," Mel muttered. She stood up from her kneeling position in front of the chair, impatiently shoving locks of her loosened black hair behind her ears and straightening her skirt.

"Hmmm, Miss Pappas is swearing. Never a good sign," Janice teased gently. She sat up in the chair and buttoned her shirt, which had become undone in their proceedings.

"If Catherine had anything to do with this, I'll..." Weeks ago, she had officially turned down the offer. She had thought the matter closed. And every day, she hoped for Janice to be discharged, so they could get on with their lives. It all seems like some sinister plot. And if Catherine is involved, it probably is.

"Of course she had something to do with it," Janice retorted gently. "You were the one who said point-blank that you wouldn't go without me. She obviously wants you to be there, Mel. So she ships me there, you follow. I should be grateful I'm not being sent somewhere else."

"I don't trust her."

"Neither do I. But I can't refuse orders." As much as I’d like to.

"This is ridiculous! They should be discharging you. We should be going home." The tall Southerner paced a little, hands riding on her hips. It was rare that Janice saw her so agitated.

Janice smiled. "You look like you’re gonna bust me out of the Army, like Jimmy Cagney busting out of jail."

Mel scowled and hung on stubbornly to her bad mood.

"Mel, we will go home soon. I promise you," Janice replied soothingly. Wherever that was, she thought sarcastically. But I do know...my home is wherever you are, baby. She watched as Mel scanned the room disconcertingly, as if searching for something. She chuckled a little, then withdrew the scholar's glasses from her breast-pocket and held them out to her. "Here."

How did she...? Mel smiled. "Thanks."

"You know," Janice began quietly, "it's not as if we haven't done dangerous things before." She watched as Mel slipped on the glasses. Much as Xena was transformed by the sword in her grasp, the armor on her body, the chakram at her side, so Mel was transformed with glasses. They were a shield, and a weapon: her well-honed intelligence glinted in her magnificent blue eyes, refracted by the glasses. Her scholarly demeanor, self-effacing at times yet always rigorous and keen, was firmly in place. "Battling Ares was a pretty impressive stunt," the archaeologist added.

"That was Xena, not me."

"Well, it was you and not Xena who went to Macedonia in the first place. Pretty risky for a Southern belle in high heels."

Mel conceded this with a hum. She rubbed her neck. "I just...want some time with you. We nearly lost each other, do you know that? You've spent over a year getting in and out of dangerous situations. You got shot. Your friend died. You...almost died." Her voice wavered. "It's all too soon to risk losing you again."

"My life has been pretty dangerous in general," Janice smiled bitterly. "That's probably not going to change...much." Will it change? Also, did she want it to change? She loved the danger of what she did, thought little of risking her own life, but now...looking at Mel, she found a very good reason to keep herself in one piece. A very good reason for telling the Army to go to hell. Which I'd very much like to do at this point, she thought.

Mel sighed in exasperation. "Don't patronize me, Janice Covington. I'm not totally naive. I know what you do is sometimes risky. And I know it's worth it, for the scrolls. That is a risk I'm happy to take. But this was a war. In a way...it's not really over yet. And that is a totally different ballgame, as you would put it." She looked at Janice, who had raised an amused eyebrow. "I did use that word correctly, didn't I?"

***

September, 1938

When she was a child the sight of Manhattan from the sky was exciting. She could forget her fear of flying as they sailed over the toy city. It felt as if she could reach out and touch the tip of the Empire State Building—if only because she wanted to.

Now, as the plane descended toward Idlewild, she did not look out the window at the glorious city. Indeed, she had not looked out the window in hours. She had fallen into a light sleep; a stupor, almost, where she kept the conscious world at bay. The plane was not crowded, fortunately, and she sat alone.

She opened her eyes at the stewardess's touch upon her sleeve. "Miss, we're landing in five minutes...please fasten your — oh, I see it is fastened! Good girl!" She smiled at Mel (a blonde, a damned blonde just like Catherine, thought the irritated Mel) and moved on to another passenger.

Good girl.

She turned her brooding gaze to the window. Her father was supposed to meet her at the airport; they had a suite at the Plaza. He thought that staying in New York for a few days might cheer her up before they headed home. He informed her that he had bought a new house, in North Carolina, where they would live. But...why? she had wailed on the phone, immediately thinking of their home in South Carolina, where she grew up, where she could still look at a chair, or a curtain, and still recall her mother being there, inhabiting that particular physical space.

She could practically hear his shrug over the transatlantic connection. I think we both need something new in our lives, don't you?

She had not told him what happened, why she suddenly decided to leave Cambridge. She used the increasing conflict between the English and the Germans as an excuse, but she knew he wasn't entirely fooled by that. What could she possibly say, how could she possibly phrase it? (Even though he knew her nature...) Sorry Daddy, I fell terribly in love with this debauched girl who dumped me after six months...who made my body come alive, who did things to me I couldn't even imagine, yet who made me see the darkness in myself...I never hated myself so much as when I loved her.

If this is what love is about, I'll have no more of it. This is what happened when I stopped being a "good girl." No more love. No more desire.

She glared at the stewardess.

No more blondes.

Her father had a taxi waiting at the airport. She had to admit that it felt good to be really taken care of again; he had hugged her fiercely when she came through the terminal, after her passport and luggage had been checked.

The minute they entered the cab her head fell back against the seat, as if a lead weight had burrowed itself in the bun of her hair. She closed her eyes.

He squeezed her arm affectionately. "You haven't been sleeping." His tone challenged her to contradict the obvious.

"Not...very well." She scrunched her eyes as if in pain, then opened them with an effort. "Daddy, I've been having dreams...they're very odd."

"About Xena," he said flatly.

She seemed surprised. "Yes. You've had them?"

He nodded. "I used to have dreams about her...oh, all the time it seems, when I was young. Rather horrible at times. Violent. She wasn't always a great heroine, you know."

Mel frowned. Yes, he had always said that—that Xena had been "bad" but then she turned "good." But Mel had pictured Xena, her wicked past, and her ultimate redemption in terms of, say, Bette Davis in Jezebel. Not hacking people into bloody little bits. "But you don't anymore?"

He smiled wistfully, and rubbed his chin with his thumb in a thoughtful manner. "No, I don't. It's strange...I stopped having the bad ones, not long after I met your mother."

The following day at the office, Mel informed Frobisher of her decision.

He did not seem surprised. "So you're going?"

She nodded.

"I assume Janice is being transferred there."

She nodded again.

"That's the only reason why you're going, isn't it?"

She paused, looking guilty. A slight smile creased her face. And she nodded again.

He returned the smile wearily. Again, she felt bad; his office was busier than ever, and she hated leaving him in the lurch like this. But as busy as he was, he gave her top priority. "Then let's get cracking on the paperwork, shall we?"

The day seemed to pass quickly, once she made the decision, as if a burden had been lifted. When she arrived back at the room she found Janice already there, sitting comfortably in her favorite chair, a few envelopes scattered on her lap.

"The Army has finally seen fit to deliver my mail," she growled. "All of these are about six months old."

"What did you get?"

"A letter from Dan's mom...which was nice," she added cautiously. She had written to Blaylock's mother after his death, and now she had received a kind letter in return. I thank you for all that you did, his mother had written. But I didn’t do a goddamn thing, she thought. And it called forth that feeling again, the empty burning sensation...of failure. It was easier to get it under control now, but there was no doubt it still existed within her. She continued. "And, um, something from Harvard—they want me to teach a class in the fall. I think they figure that since they can't get any alumni donations out of me, they might as well put me to work. And this." Amused, she held up a pink envelope.

"Janice, darling, I think you better inform your army of ex-girlfriends that you are quite unavailable now."

"Look at the return address."

Mel peered at the upper left corner of the envelope. "Jack Kleinman?"

"I always wondered if he was a nancy boy," Janice said idly, as she tore open the letter.

Mel smirked, recalling Jack's puppy-like attentions to Janice. "I don't think so."

"Let's see what he says here....He apologizes for the stationery, says it belongs to his sister...says our cousins are fine..."

"Cousins?" Mel blurted in alarm. Good God, she can't be related to Jack.

"He means the scrolls. That's his 'code' for it."

"Oh." Mel was impressed. "I didn't know you two had worked out a 'code.' "

"Actually, we haven't...it just says right here in the letter, in parentheses, 'you know I mean the scrolls when I say cousins, right?' "

Mel laughed as Janice continued to scan the letter. A strange look came over the archaeologist's face. "What is it?"

"He asks...about you, how you're feeling...if you've fully recovered from your..." The deep green eyes turned up from the letter and stared at her. "...influenza."

It hung in the air between them. Oh...damn, Mel thought, surrendering to an obscenity. She couldn't think of what to say.

"He...misspelled it, of course." Janice tapped the paper with a finger. "I know Jack exaggerates things sometimes, but..." Her hard, inquisitive eyes caught her lover's guilty look. "He's not making this up, is he?" she demanded quietly.

Mel closed her eyes for a moment to regain herself. "I...no, Janice. He's not. I was...very ill."

The lithe young woman stood up so quickly that it startled Mel. She paced, something she loved to do when angry or frustrated. "Why didn't you tell me?" Janice spat out. "You...you could've died." Now you know how I felt, Mel thought. "Why did you keep that from me?"

"It wasn't important at the time." Mel was surprised at her calmness. "Finding you was."

Janice continued to fume. "Goddammit! Well, you found me, and you still didn't tell me!" she shouted.

"I'm telling you now." It had been a long time, it seemed, since she had encountered Janice's temper. Probably not since they first met in Macedonia. It threw her a bit, but she hoped that by remaining calm, she could get her companion's blood pressure to decrease.

"Only because you had to. You got caught." Is that a sneer on her face?

"I...I didn't think it was important," Mel responded helplessly. The Southerner felt as if she were in emotional quicksand.

"Bullshit! It's more than important. You withheld the truth from me."

Whatever thread of patience Mel possessed snapped. So she wants to be honest here, eh? She couldn't fight the dark impulse to lash out. Hello, darkness...hello, Xena. "Since we're discussing the truth here, Janice, there is something I must ask you." The tone was low, the accent almost gone under the burden of the deepening voice. The eyes were icy. "Would you care to tell me if you've made an acquaintance with an Englishwoman named Meg? During the war?"

The look of shock on Janice's face was simultaneously satisfying and sickening to Mel. So it's true. Janice's jaw shifted. "How did you know...about that?"

"I was mistaken for her in a pub. The gentleman who did the mistaking told me a little tale he heard, about Meg's amorous encounter on a ship with, I believe he said, 'A little American WAC.'" She let her eyes run over Janice's figure in a mocking appraisal. Even in her anger and pain she felt a flicker of desire. And love. "I believe you fit the bill."

"Christ," Janice swore softly. "How did—"

"Everyone on the ship knew. You're fooling yourself if you thought otherwise."

And I thought I had been so...discreet. Everyone hid it well, I must say. No one acted different, no one said a damn thing. But they sure as hell didn't keep it to themselves. Janice rubbed her temple. "You? You were in a pub?" she asked distractedly. The dizzying revelation of events left her disoriented. And picturing Mel in a smelly pub seemed the height of this surrealism. Yet it seems anything—everything—is possible these days. The whole fucking world has been possessed by madness, why not us as well?

Mel shook her head in disbelief; she did not know if she would laugh or cry. "I was looking for you," she retorted angrily.

A silence stretched out for a few seconds, as they took it all in. "I never thought I'd see you again," Janice whispered.

The tall Southerner slammed her hands down on the table that separated them, and left them there, spread out before her. "Did you think I'd let you go so easily?" Mel growled fiercely. "Couldn't you tell how much I loved you?"

Frankly, no, Janice thought. "I didn't know...I thought...I meant very little to you." She saw the pained look on Mel's face. And instantly felt sorry. "Why? You know why, Mel. You did since the day we met. Since the day we recognized who we truly are. You were the noble heroine and I was your sidekick, never measuring up to you. I know now...that's not the way it was for them. But I didn't know—I still don't—if that's the way it would be for us."

Mel walked away and sat down for a moment. She felt...very tired, and her voice was edged with resignation. "I suppose...I had no claim on you at the time." Tell me otherwise, Janice. Please.

Janice leaned uneasily against the table, unable to say the words that sprang instantly to her mind. Actually you did. You already had my heart. I just didn't know it, really. Before she could get past the shame, the anger, the hurt, and say the words, she heard the door slam.

***

Mel entered Hyde Park. The sky was already darkening and a fine rainy mist descended from the sky and drizzled her hair and face. Good....she thought. That means I can cry and no one will notice. The rain came down harder, and it felt good, even strangely comforting. She sought shelter under a large tree for a few minutes, then realized that wandering around in the rain was doing little good, for the same thoughts circled around in her mind. Confounding woman! She cursed the skies. Why do I love her? It's probably some sort of karmic debt. She walked back to the hotel, her coat wet, heavy, like armor. Probably not as heavy as armor, but if Xena had to wander around the hot sticky ancient world saddled with such weight, then my respect for her has risen even higher.

As she entered the lobby she encountered a strange sight: Sergeant McKay was standing awkwardly in the lobby, nervously twisting his cap. The big ruddy Irishman looked rather incongruous within the ostentatious elegance of the hotel. His stricken look told her all she needed to know.

McKay did not hate Janice, but he did possess an irrational fear of the beautiful young woman. No doubt it stemmed from his belief that she was somewhat unnatural: the attire (even off duty, she never changed out of khakis), the smoking, the swearing...she was, he thought, everything a woman shouldn't be. Melinda, on the other hand, met with his approval. He suspected the nature of their relationship, and didn't really want to know any more but, he thought, a woman should act like a woman, and not—he concluded, watching Janice pace the hospital corridor like an expectant father, cursing under her breath—like that.

He was the first to see Mel emerge from the room down the hall. When he jumped up from his seat Janice glared at him in alarm, then stopped as she saw Mel's approach. Still damp from the rain, she pushed rain-curled hair out of her face with an absent-minded air.

They looked at her expectantly.

"He's had a stroke," she said, as calmly as she could.

Approximately two hours ago McKay had entered his superior's office, to see if the old man needed anything before he left for the day, and he found Frobisher slumped over the desk, unconscious.

"Will he...?" whispered Janice.

"They don't know. It's rather touch and go right now." Wearily she sat down.

"Bloody hell," murmured the Sergeant. "I've got to get back to HQ, then. Have to let everyone know..." he sighed. He already felt exhausted. Mel touched his sleeve gently; despite his gruffness, she knew McKay was quite devoted to and fond of his commanding officer. "If you need anything, Sergeant, let me know. I'll probably be here most of the night."

"Miss, you should go home," McKay insisted. "You're all wet—your coat, your hair...don't want you to get the flu, you know."

At the word flu she felt Janice's hard gaze on her again. And she returned the glare. "I'll be fine, Sergeant." McKay nodded, yet squirmed as he sensed the discord between the two women. I don't want to know, he thought.

Her eyelids fluttered, and the blue eyes emerged like butterflies from a chrysalis. The clock at the end of the corridor read 6:35. Morning, she realized, and stretched her long, aching limbs. The doctor would be around soon, she remembered, and would update her on Anton's condition.

Her sleepy eyes blinked in disbelief

Janice was curled up fetally in a chair across from her, sleeping. She clutched her cap as if it were a teddy bear. She stayed here with me. Last night, Janice had left with McKay, and returned a half-hour later with clothes for Mel. Wordlessly she had placed them beside Mel and walked away, down the corridor, without a word. Mel never knew that she had returned; when she drifted off to sleep around 2 (or was it 3?) she was alone.

She felt relief. When she watched Janice walk away from her last night, she wondered when she might see her lover next. Will she run off and join the Foreign Legion this time? Disappear on a dig? Go on a bender? She sat and studied the sleeping woman, as she had done on many an occasion: the brows, darker than the red-gold hair (which was pulled back in a pony tail), were pressed together, as if the archaeologist were deep in thought, even unconsciously; the cheeks were slightly flushed, the full lips parted sensually, the breathing deep and regular. I think you tamed her, Anton had said to her about Janice a few weeks ago. Was this proof of that, the fact that this woman was back at her side? I like her a little wild, Mel conceded, but I'm also glad she's here.

She was so engrossed in her study of Janice that she did not notice the nurse who had crept up to her on little cat feet and gently touched her shoulder. "The doctor's here," she told Mel.

The doctor, waiting for her at the end of the corridor, was young. Yet like so many young men of his generation, he carried around a sense of permanent fatigue, as if the rest of his life would not be long enough to recover from the war. And it probably wouldn't. "You're Colonel Frobisher's...wife?" he asked, with uncertainty.

She almost laughed. "No, just...his family."

He looked confused for a moment, then continued. "I see. He's had a rather nasty stroke, as you've been told. His chances for survival are good, since he made it through the night. As for a full recovery, I can't say. Only time will tell. I'd like to keep an eye on him for a few days, then we'll send him home. He's a bit groggy, but you can see him in a few minutes."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

Later she entered his room. He looked smaller, paler, fragile. As did her father, when he was dying. It was more dramatic with Daddy, she thought, since her father had been a big, strapping man. It had been agony to see him waste away. And it was almost as horrible to see this. Not again, she vowed. I don't want to go through this again.

Janice could smell coffee. Coffee...I need to get Mel some coffee, her foggy brain registered the imperative. Her body jerked awake. The first thing she saw was a cup of coffee in front of her face, held by a familiar, beautiful hand.

"Good morning," Mel said softly.

"Oh Mel," groaned the archaeologist, as she stretched out the kinks in her back and legs.

"Hmmm?"

"Goddammit, I was going to wake up before you and get you some...coffee" She took the proffered cup. "I fucked up again."

"You didn't." She said it gently. But she knew it would not convince Janice—or even herself, she was ashamed to admit—of that fact.

"Thanks." Janice stared into the black liquid, as if she had never seen coffee before. "How is he?"

"He's...better. They think he'll pull through. How much damage has been inflicted to his body, and to his mind...well, they just don’t know yet. We have to wait and see."

An uneasy silence passed between them.

I should apologize, Janice thought. I should tell her I didn't mean to hurt her, I didn't mean for it to happen...it meant nothing, I love her, I really do.

I should apologize, Mel thought. I did lie to her. And I really don't care about what happened. She could sleep with everyone in England right now, and I wouldn't care...would I? Okay, maybe everyone is pushing it...but it doesn’t matter as long as she loves me. Right?

But what Mel thought—and what she said—were quite different. A deeply imbedded impulse to hurt, something she scarcely acknowledged, something she was afraid of, reared its head and bared its ugly truth.

"I can't go with you," Mel blurted. I'm such an idiot, Mel sighed. I could have said it...in a better way. "You know that."

The words were like a hammer. "Uh...yeah," Janice acknowledged in a husky voice, while blinking like a punch-drunk boxer. "I know that. You should be here. For him."

"Janice, I'm sorry."

The newly promoted lieutenant stood up and stretched quickly. "You know something? I've got to go. I need to be briefed before I leave tomorrow."

Mel felt helpless. "I...will I...?" God, you can't leave like this. She reached out to touch Janice's arm, but she skittered easily out of Mel's grasp.

"I'll...see you later. Okay?" Janice managed to force the words out. Before Mel could respond, she was gone, striding quickly down the bleak corridor.

She had reached her threshold of exhaustion. She finally left the hospital in the afternoon, returned to the hotel, and collapsed. When she awoke several hours later, she was contorted on the bed, in her slip, and the wild colors of the sunset were flooding the room. She chastised herself for not closing the curtains earlier, and was debating getting dressed merely to go over and close them, or to dash over, scantily clad, and risk having someone see her. Propriety strikes again, she thought heavily.

Then she heard the key in the door.

The door swung open, and Janice swayed in. Drunk. Her rolling gait managed to carry her over to the bed, where she plopped down on the edge. Mel slid over to where she sat, and gasped. Blood dribbled from the archaeologist's nose, and had coated her lips. "Oh, God," whispered Mel.

"Fight," Janice supplied.

I thought so, otherwise that was one very rough debriefing you got, Mel thought. She stood up with the intention of going to the bathroom and procuring a washcloth to clean off the blood. Janice grasped her arm. "No," she moaned the protest. "Stay here for a minute."

Mel sat down on the bed and touched the bloodied lips with her fingers, wiping away some of the blood. "What?" she whispered urgently.

"Kiss me."

She did not. Instead, she pressed a cool hand to Janice's warm forehead. "Why, why do you always insist on hurting yourself?"

"Do you think I punched myself in the face?" Janice was angry, but did not pull away.

"No, that's not what I meant." But I can probably guess what happened to you, darling. You went into a pub, and you picked a fight with the biggest, nastiest piece of work you could find. If beating yourself up isn't sufficient enough, you find someone else to do it for you.

"Don't say anything else. Please."

"But—"

"I need you." Janice's lips, saturated red, claimed Mel's. The bitter, coppery tang of blood seeped into the scholar's mouth. It did not bother her. I know you so well, your blood has mingled with mine since our beginning. How many times has your touch burned through me and quenched itself within my blood, my heart? Could anything you give to me, could anything you do, be so horrible? Nothing, except leaving me. She felt Janice's hands tangle carelessly within her hair, and she slid a hand inside a khaki shirt, her touch gliding over the smooth neck and rippling shoulders. She felt guilty, thinking that perhaps they should be talking about everything that happened. But the desire was a way of coping with the imminent loss, the easiest way of doing so. It was a way of saying goodbye. As she stripped away the clothes, so she hoped someday she would be able to strip away all the layers of defenses, the bravado, the insecurities of this...complicated woman.

And I’m not complicated? she asked herself.

She gently pulled Janice back on the bed, and covered her with her own long body. Then her mind stilled and she listened as their bodies spoke to one another.

Later in the night Janice had awakened. Another nightmare. Mel held her as her breathing slowed, and until the sweat on her brow cooled. Janice never really talked in detail about the dreams, or what happened in them...all she knew was that they were somehow connected to what happened in France, to her friend's death—Janice somehow felt guilty about it. She gently traced the small scars on Janice's strong thigh, where she had been shot. She felt a muscle twitch under her fingertips. As the scars intersected each other, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, so did something formulate in her mind.

"You've never killed anyone before, have you?" Mel probed gently.

Janice's head, buried in her chest, shook from side to side. No.

The gun she always carried, the Smith & Wesson...she knew that Harry had given it to Janice, and, from seeing her in action with a gatling gun, she knew the woman could shoot. But she hadn't really thought it through—in a way, didn't want to know—if Janice had ever really shot anyone. Or killed anyone. She didn't want to know if the rumors about "Mad Dog" Covington were true, didn't want to know if Xena's bloody legacy tainted them both. But one afternoon in Macedonia—after Ares, just before they returned to the States—she recalled the Smith and Wesson flashing in the sun as Janice twirled it around, like Jesse James. It was a romantic image. And she had felt the first glimmer of desire for Janice at that moment: her quick hands, her wide grin, her tanned, lithe body, the golden hair that rivaled the sun in its luster....Janice had caught her fearful yet fascinated look at the gun, and laughed. Usually I just wave it around, fire off a few shots maybe, and people leave me alone, the archaeologist had assured her.

***

Alexandria, 1933

A wooden ramp lead down into the excavation pit. The crew of a dozen young men watched as a bloodied, unconscious body rolled unceremoniously down the ramp, staining the pale wood on its journey. Dust swirled around the body, as it thudded to a halt in the dirt.

Fayed, the foreman of the group, looked at the body unsympathetically. He clucked and pushed back a lock of his unruly black hair. He had known that the man who lay at his feet would not last long here: He had seen the way Cherif had eyed Harry Covington's daughter. And since Cherif was his wife's cousin, he felt an obligation to warn him that it wasn't worth it—that Covington would beat him within an inch of his life if he tried to seduce her, and would definitely kill him if he succeeded in bedding the girl. And he had been right.

He turned his attention to Covington, who loomed above them at the edge of the pit. He was short yet powerfully muscular, built like a wrestler. Shouting in Arabic, hands on hips, he informed them all that the next man who laid a hand on his daughter would die. Then he ordered them back to work.

Reluctantly, the group of men walked away from the body. Except Fayed, who awaited Harry's instructions.

"Fayed..." Harry began wearily.

"Yes, Harry?" Fayed was the only one in the crew who was bold enough to call the archaeologist by his first name.

"Get that bastard out of here. Drive him home. Get someone to help you if you need to."

Fayed nodded.

"And Fayed?"

"Yes?"

"Tell your wife I'm sorry."

The Arab nodded again, a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't wait to tell his wife I told you so.

Harry walked back to his tent. He hesitated in front of the flap, and took a deep breath. He pushed back the flap and entered.

Janice was curled on the cot, her legs tucked up against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was pressed against her knees. She did not look at him as he came over to her. He sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. "Janie?" he whispered.

Almost a minute passed. then finally she raised her head. Her lip was bleeding and, he noticed for the first time, there were violent bruises around her neck. His anger flared anew, and he recalled the scene he had found just a half-hour ago, when he came back from the marketplace ahead of schedule: Cherif in the tent, one hand pinning Janice down by the throat, she half-naked and squirming under him, his other hand fumbling with the buttons on his trousers.

The guilt hit him. Dammit, I shouldn't have left her here. In fact, she shouldn't even be here at all. This is no place for a girl. But where would she go—willingly, for that matter? She'd follow me here every time. I know her. Gingerly he reached out and touched her hair. she did not pull away, but he felt the shudder travel down her body. "I'm sorry, Dad," she said hoarsely.

"It's not your fault," he said emphatically. "If that man knew the proper way to behave, it wouldn't have happened." He sighed. "Honey, let me take care of that lip for you. Then I'm gonna show you how to take care of yourself. It's been a long time coming."

Intrigued, the girl looked at him quizzically.

He stood up and walked over to the other cot in the tent. He threw off the thin blanket and reached under the pillow. Grinning, he pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver. "I'm gonna show you how to use this. Between that and some boxing lessons, kid..." his smile faded, and he concluded darkly, "...no one's ever gonna hurt you again."

***

A jeep sailed across the runway. Catherine, watching from the hangar, half-expected the thing to rise off the ground, as if it were a plane too. As the vehicle drew nearer she recognized the red-gold hair flying in the air, the eyes hidden by sunglasses. The jeep stopped at the other end of the hangar. Covington climbed out of the vehicle, exchanging a few words and a quick hug with the driver, another WAC. Interesting. Is the little bitch capable of cheating on her lover? I couldn't be so lucky. It would make things too easy.

With her rucksack slung over a shoulder, Covington swaggered over to her. She wasn't in full uniform, Catherine noted with disapproval. A leather jacket covered the white t-shirt she wore, which showed off her taut physique quite nicely—and Catherine did approve of the flat stomach and the full, rounded breasts that were available for her viewing pleasure. They probably fucked like rabbits last night. In fact, I hope they did. For it will be the last time, I swear.

"Lieutenant," she drawled in greeting. "Glad you could make it." Upon a closer view, she saw that Covington’s nose looked a little red, a little bruised. Oh dear...did she make Melinda lose her temper? It takes a lot...but it is possible, and this one is just as annoying as Daphne ever was.

"Sorry about the delay. I woke up late."

"Of course," replied the OSS operative archly. "I won't ask what detained you. That wouldn't be terribly lady-like, would it? Not that either of us are ladies." She let a grin curl her face. Let the torture begin.

To Covington's credit, the young lieutenant did not rise to the bait. She smirked in return. "I agree, neither one of us are ladies. But that shouldn't keep us from our mission, should it? Are we ready to go?"

Catherine nodded toward the bomber that sat on the runway. "Yes. Over there. Shall we?" together they walked toward the plane. Catherine pulled a silver cigarette case out of a pocket and opened it with one smooth gesture. "Cigarette, Lieutenant?"

Janice hesitated for a nanosecond, then accepted. No point in antagonizing the woman. Sometimes a cigarette is just a cigarette, no? And besides, I could use it. When she left in the morning Mel had still been asleep. She had not the heart to wake the slumbering scholar, nor had the time to leave a note. She only hoped that Mel understood somehow. But I ditched her again. Maybe now she'll ditch me...for good. I guess I deserve it.

"Thanks," she said to Catherine, as the blonde agent lit her cigarette.

"Who knows, Lieutenant...this may be the beginning of a beau-ti-ful friendship," the OSS agent declared in a sing-song voice.

Janice let the angrily spewed smoke speak for itself.

***

October, 1945

"Thank bloody Christ," Sergeant McKay said, as he opened the door of Frobisher's home, and saw Mel standing on the doorstep.

"Hello to you too, Sergeant." She strode into the townhouse, bringing with her a gust of crisp autumn air. Once again he felt like a troll next to her, and cleared his throat anxiously.

"Er, sorry, Miss Pappas. But the Colonel's been acting funny today...and I'm just glad you're here."

"What's happening?" Mel asked, as they mounted the stairs to Frobisher's bedroom.

"He won't stay in bed, and he's been wandering around everywhere. It's like he's lookin' for something, but he won't tell me what."

He probably can't, thought Mel. Since his release from the hospital almost three weeks ago, the Colonel had been unable to speak, and barely able to move. Usually when he did speak, it was nonsense, although the notes he handed to Mel yesterday made more sense than usual. Every day since he left the hospital she would come by and spend the better part of the day with him and the nurse. Usually she read to him. Her unconscious selection of reading material — Trollope's Can You Forgive Her? — irked her, the title wailing its insistent question, immediately bringing to mind her errant lover.

Yesterday, however, he had seized the notepad she had bought for him, and a pen, and rather laboriously scrawled out the following message:

I hate Trollope, it said.

She nodded sympathetically. "How about Austen?"

He made a face.

"Balzac?" I'll go through the alphabet if I have to, she thought.

He shrugged. Then nodded. Then, as if he suddenly remembered something, started to write on the pad again. After a few minutes of watching him grimace and scowl with the effort, the pad was thrust at her.

Go to Germany.

"I can't...not now," she replied firmly, mentally begging him to change the subject.

He shook his head vigorously, like a wet dog trying to get dry. "Oh!" he cried softly, in frustration, which startled her. Again he set to work on the pad. Beads of perspiration popped against his forehead.

"Take it easy," she cautioned him gently, laying a hand on his arm, which trembled under her touch. He handed another message to her:

You don't understand. It's danger.

It hit a nerve. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. "I know it's dangerous. I know. But she's a grown woman. She can take care of herself." And she better...because when I get my hands on her, I'm going to kill her, Mel had thought angrily. And while that had been the day prior, her anger still lingered, of course. She leaves without so much as a word, not even a "goodbye"...what am I supposed to think? It's my own fault too, I should've said something, I should've said so much...she is driving me insane...this whole situation is driving me insane. Mel was agonizing over this in her mind for what seemed like the millionth time when she and McKay entered the Colonel's bedroom.

The old man stood in the center of the room. His bathrobe hung limply around his thinning frame, as did his fleur-de-lis pajamas. His gray hair, uncombed, stood out in wild tufts here and there. He looked utterly confused.

"Uncle Anton, I never thought I'd ever be saying this to you, but...get into bed right now!" Mel chastised.

"Nonsense," the old man muttered. "I need..." he trailed off with a sigh.

McKay looked at her, concerned. She tapped her shoulder bag, hoping to distract him. "I did bring some Balzac," she said. It was an old leather-bound volume that she bought at a bookseller's on Portobello Road earlier in the day: A Harlot High and Low. Another title that prompted her mind to wallow in all sorts of scathing commentary concerning Janice Covington. None of which she said, of course.

He sighed and looked around the room.

"Are you looking for something?" she asked.

"Love in all the wrong places," he replied.

McKay rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me what you're looking for, I can help you," she offered. "Maybe if you try to write it down."

He shook his head. "My...bag," he said emphatically. "Leather!" he cried.

"Your briefcase!" she clarified.

He nodded vigorously.

"What d'ya need that for?" McKay asked impatiently.

Frobisher growled.

"Just...look for it, Sergeant. Please?" Mel asked.

It took him half an hour, but finally McKay found the old leather briefcase. It was in a broom closet downstairs, where McKay had shoved it weeks ago after bringing home the Colonel's clothes from the hospital. The Sergeant had apparently mistaken it for a real clothes closet.

He brought it up to Frobisher, who snatched it from him and proceeded to rummage through it with great speed. He sat on the edge of his bed, Mel beside him. Papers fell at his feet as he dug through the briefcase. Finally he was staring at a black leather binder. He thrust it at Mel.

She took it and opened it. The first word she saw, screaming out to her in blood-red letters, was CLASSIFIED.

"Anton," she protested, "I can't read this!" She shoved it at him.

He shoved it back.

She exchanged a look with McKay, who appeared just as confused—and nervous—as she.

Anton's eyes were pleading as he held out the binder to her. Reluctantly, she turned her head to the document, and started reading in her usual brisk manner. But as she progressed her mouth dropped open in quiet shock. "Oh...God," she whispered.

The classified report—it was not directed to Anton but the London head of OSS, and she had no idea how he had got a hold of it—detailed Catherine Stoller's activities in Berlin during the war. She and a fellow agent had been posing as an SS official and his wife: Hans and Lotte Steiner. Three months before the end of the war, her fellow operative was dead, an apparent suicide — an encoded radio message sent by Catherine indicated that their mission had been found out. She had escaped capture, but he did not; rather than risk revealing anything to the enemy, he took his own life. Catherine had then disappeared until resurfacing in London just after Germany's surrender.

An additional document, attached to the report, was a deposition from an SS soldier, a prisoner of war. This man claimed that, indeed, the Germans had discovered — indeed, had known for quite some time — that the officer known as Hans Steiner was a British agent. They monitored his movements for some time before arresting him. After a unsuccessful attempt at extracting information from him, he had been executed by one of their agents. A double agent. Catherine Stoller.

She let the sheaf of papers fall to floor. History repeats itself. Even the history you do not know, even the history you are not aware of.

Anton's hand sought hers, and squeezed it with more strength than she imagined he had. "Go," he said simply, his voice ravaged.

She nodded mutely. Didn’t I say I had a bad feeling about this?

#xena #xena warrior princess #mel/janice #mel/janice fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #femslash #fanfiction #mature

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