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pearlywritings · 1 year ago

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Courted by a... Hero?

synopsis: Diluc has feelings for you, but is under the impression that you do not reciprocate - his courting attempts show as much. But he comes to find out, that you are at ease around his alter ago...

It won’t hurt to try and court you as the Darknight Hero. Right?

pairing: Diluc x fem!reader

tw: fluff, pining, courting, seemingly unreciprocated feelings, Darknight Hero!Diluc

word count: 3k words

a/n: this was suggested by a lovely anon~

Diluc Ragnvindr is enamored with you.

Diluc Ragnvindr thinks he is not that subtle about his affections. But it seems that he actually is, because otherwise the Master of the Dawn Winery does not understand how you manage to miss all the clues, all the longing gazes, all the small compliments and acts he does for you in attempts to hint that he'd like to court you.

Аpparently the longing in his eyes is lost in his regular stoic and a bit mournful expression, small compliments are so polite that it's not hard to mistake them for his gentlemanly antics, and his other actions are just a thread away from acts of service and help, which, given his сhivalry nature, do not stand out too.

Diluc doesn't get many opportunities to see you, since you do not visit the tavern often, but he tries so hard to make the meetings more numerous. An invitation to play cards at the Cat's Tail here and there, an insistence to walk you home, an offer to accompany you through the market as you go grocery shopping, always coming with an excuse of checking on the goods to tell Elzer later what purchases they should change for the Winery and its workers. Adelinde always smiles at him knowingly whenever some new dishes are added to his menu.

He is trying to show his affections to you, he really does, but he is too dense for that to come out exactly as he pictured it in his head. However, when you smile at him softly, accepting his offers, when you vent a little to him about a stupid coworker, when you stop at the Good Hunter to have supper with him - he thinks that the long process is worth it.

It's a great surprise, but the first time he gets an opportunity to hold you close is not a part of you dating him. No, your relationship is far from that, and his persona is hidden under the mask and a hooded cape, as he carries you bridal style. He is well aware of you staring up at him, but he can't make himself lower his gaze and meet with yours. He is just bringing you to a safe place after you twisted your ankle on a late evening run to catch a cat for your neighbor - a sweet old woman, whose pet seems to love escaping on an almost daily basis.

It's so hard to believe that he managed to be in the right place, at the right time, yet he chides himself for not arriving earlier - he could've caught you, preventing you from injuring yourself and falling.

But it is such a quiet night… Maybe that's why he heard your painful yelp from two blocks away, rushing to help whoever got themselves in danger, and finding you sitting on the pavement and rubbing your leg.

"So… Mister Darknight Hero," he nearly groans at the name people gave him. He is intrigued by your lack of fear though, or at least worry, about some stranger picking you up and carrying you somewhere. The relaxed ring of arms wrapped around his neck only further proves it.

"Yes?" Diluc makes his voice gruff and low, still avoiding eye contact.

"Where are you taking me?" You sound curious, and the redhead can't help, but feel a bit aggravated - shouldn't you be concerned? Of course he is not taking you home - it'd be both creepy if a stranger knew your address and stupid, since your leg needs proper examination and treatment. Though still, you are so willingly accepting the masked man's help and entrust your fate in his arms fully, that it makes sarcasm evident in his words.

"On a late night date," he huffs with a slight roll of his eyes, letting his boldness out - something he can't allow himself to do often in the broad daylight as Diluc Ragnvindr.

"Oh really?" There is a hint of amusement in your tone, like you are enjoying his admission. "We've just met and you are bringing me on a date already? My, aren't you a forward man, Mister Hero. And where is this amazing place that's open so late? The tavern?"

"The hospital," Diluc does not realize it, but his cheeks are tinted pink, even if his voice remains inexpressive. However, he easily notices how relaxed you are in his hold, in his presence - even shooting teasing comments back at him and calling a date, well, a date. That's like more progress than he's had in the past month trying to court you.

Can it be… that he must change his approach? You, of course, can be attracted to completely different qualities in a man, and he should've taken it into consideration. Maybe this whole time he's been doing everything wrong.

Yet it’s too early to jump to conclusions, even if the winery owner slowly but surely grows desperate. To avoid false assumptions he decides to give it a proper thought tomorrow, after he visits you to check on your condition, bare of his alter ego.

As the morning comes and the sun gets brighter, Diluc is patiently waiting for the afternoon to see you. Half a day is enough for him to ‘receive the news’ about your condition however, but those several hours are excruciating. Are you well? Does your ankle hurt? Are you hungry? Maybe he should bring you food from Good Hunter… Are you thinking of him? Or…of tonight?

These thoughts are eating at his consciousness and when the midday eventually comes, the poor man looks exhausted. Lisa, whom he bumps into near the Alchemy stand, comments on it accordingly. Oh, but how fortunate it is, that she is the one to tell him about the events of last night and your current whereabouts.

“She looked ecstatic though,” the woman smiles, hands crossed and an intricate bell chiming on the tip of her large hat as she walks beside Diluc. “You should’ve seen that look on her face when she was telling me about the hero who saved her… Oh, but you will, won’t you? I am guessing you are going to pay her a visit.”

“You are correct,” the redhead nods, eyes trained on the today’s menu of the restaurant, as they get closer. “Right after I buy her some lunch.”

“A bouquet too, perhaps,” the smile turns teasing, emerald eyes glinting with knowledge. “I wonder when…” she pauses, but then decides against speaking what’s on her mind, shaking her head. “No matter. Good luck, Diluc.”

Luck? It’s such an abstract thing, something the wine tycoon doesn’t want in his life. If he needs something - he’d forge it with his own two hands, the ones that are currently occupied with a steaming meal and fresh flowers as he steps inside your chamber.

You are so lovely. Crimson eyes take in your resting form, basking in the sunlight from an open window. Warm rays kiss your cheeks and nose, falling right on the pages of a book he is sure Lisa has brought you. Tranquility suits you like the best of dresses and for a moment he gets lost in a scene before him, honored to be a part of it.

That is until you lift your gaze and look at him and this time it’s your smile that makes the noble man go weak.

“Diluc! Hi,” your voice is so soft, bursting with excitement, which is also evident in how quickly you shut your book and put it away. This is a signal for the redhead to finally move closer and he eagerly takes this chance.

“I heard about what happened to you,” he offers you flowers and you gasp - a beautiful sound that touches the deepest strings of his soul. “I wanted to make you feel better. Also, I brought lunch.”

“Diluc…” There is appreciation in your tone, one, that strokes his ego. “You really didn’t have to, but I won’t decline the offer. Not to offend anyone,” you lower your voice, “but the food here is terrible.”

And he laughs. That’s a deep marvelous sound, that comes all the way from the confines of his chest, reserved for you only. Your giggles compliment it so perfectly, and when you hide behind the flowers, with only your eyes on display, shining and crinkling from joy - he falls in love even harder.

It almost feels like a date his nightly persona promised to take you on - flowers, delicious meal, his undivided attention… And even though it is not all that different from all the other times you spent together, this one feels far more special.

“So… You say you were saved by the Darknight Hero?” This question has been dancing on the tip of his tongue long before you even started to retell him the story of tonight. You nod vigorously, chewing on the most delicious chicken you’ve ever had.

“Mhm. And Archons, when I say this man is bold, he is bold.”

Your tone and the way your eyes just glinted… Can he assume you love such a character more? Should he…pursue you under the disguise of your savior?

He sure can try.

And try he does. Every night you would receive a masked visitor in your window. Every day Diluc would also come, to bring you fresh flowers, glorious meals and with hopes to know what you think of his other occupation. The Darknight Hero turned out to be charming. Diluc Ragnvindr is charming too, but it’s a different kind of charming - secure, understanding, reliable, loyal. While his alter-ego is mysterious, brooding, flirting and bold.

You seem to enjoy the latter. Why else would you wait for him, refusing to sleep, knowing that the Darknight Hero would come? Why would your eyes remain soft when gazing at an already not a stranger, yet not an acquaintance still? Why would you entertain his jokes and ask to tell you about what he does for Mondstadt? Watching him perch on the windowsill, chin resting on your fisted hands and purest interest written all over your face...

He was so right to ask the staff to move you to a different room with a bed close to the window. Doesn't matter he had to climb to the third floor, it's all in the name of love, however cheezy it sounds.

Only one question remains - how should he bring up the courting? Every normal woman would freak out if a man she barely knows (come on, even his face and voice are veiled) asked her out. Soon you'll be discharged, and climbing into your apartment's window is inappropriate too. The night strolls? No, he can't rob you of more sleep than he already selfishly does. But what should he do…

You seem to like it though, so there is absolutely no reason to complain.

You notice his silence. Curiosity replaces all other senses, just as it has been for all these nights you’ve spent with the man, and you cock your head to the left shoulder, observing, trying to guess what's behind the wall of his mind.

"What got you thinking so hard, Mr Hero?" At least you dropped using the whole title, which he is forever grateful for. "You look like someone who's trying to solve an extremely difficult case. Mind sharing? Maybe I can help."

Archons, you are so-so precious… and not completely wrong. He supposes, that since you’ve already started this conversation… He might just give it a shot. After all he is an entirely different man for you now, right? The straightforward one too.

Yet why is his heart thumping so wildly in his chest?

“I was… am wondering, if such a gorgeous woman, sitting in front of me right now, would let me court her.”

That’s it. The words are out, no turning back here. It feels surreal, true, but the male reassures himself that at least one issue is going to be out of his way, and whatever decision you’d make - he’d take it. Even if you angrily chase him out of the chamber.

However, it’s so hard to look you in the eyes - those pretty eyes that are filled with warmth and admiration, two things that are easy to turn into a freezing cold and disgust.

“You? As in the Darknight Hero?”

Here it is. Here is the implication that might as well as mean that whatever you two built during the few nighttime meetings is now ruined by a simple half-flirtatious suggestion.

All he can do is nod.

“I am sorry, Sir,” oh, the everlasting softness of your voice... Is that really how one delivers the rejection? “But there is already someone in my heart. I hope you will understand.”

Of course he does, no matter how painful it is. A delicate soul and a loving heart of yours can’t stay unoccupied, it would’ve been stupid to think so. Doesn’t matter the notion pierces his heart - he mustn’t take it close to it while wearing a mask.

“I apologize,” is all he can mutter, the voice suddenly slipping its usual gruffness, but no attention is spared to it.

“No need,” he is aware of the groan of the mattress as you shift, pulling your legs over the edge of the bed, and fully facing him now. “I am actually grateful for you being here to hear that. It’s been hard to keep it all in,“ this he understands even more. “Can I ask for a small favor?”

“Sure,” it’s the least he can do for making you uncomfortable.

“Can I whisper his name to you?”

The night is magical. There is no other explanation than its luring spell for why the man who’s just gotten rejected is sliding off the windowsill and moving closer to you to grant you your request. It’s also possible that your curiosity is contagious, but, Diluc does not dwell on it, he knows that the Darknight Hero wouldn’t.

Just as he doesn’t have time to react. A startled gasp is stuck in his throat, a hand shoots up, but it’s too late. Thick crimson bangs are spilling from under the pulled hood and ruby eyes widen in fright when the mask is pulled off of his face. He freezes in his bending position, staring at you in disbelief, fingers curled in a grasp not so far from his face. The face you know all too well.

“Knew it,” you look content, twirling the beaked accessory between your fingers. Your smile is serene, and the image of a beautiful tranquility once again makes his heart skip a beat. What’s going on? Is this even real? Is there an option to let the ground swallow him whole? What do you mean ‘you knew’? Is it a good thing? Is it a bad thing? Is he screwed?

Archons, is your relationship screwed?

“Diluc,” it's his own name that shakes him back to reality. The blush creeps up his cheeks, mixing the blazing hues of embarrassment and shame.

“Yes..?”

You cock your head again, the smile getting wider.

“I promised the name of whom my heart belongs to, no? It’s Diluc. Diluc Ragnvindr. You.”

He swears he will faint right here and now. It must be a dream, it must be!

“You are thinking it’s a dream, aren’t you?” With a sigh you abandon the mask on the duvet, reaching out for his gloved hand, carefully tracing the back of it with the tips of your fingers. “Well, it’s not. And I am serious.”

“But-” He clears his throat, cursing the weakness in his knees at the barest of your touch. His mind is rushing, he can’t make logical conclusions, he can barely think with everything suddenly crashing and crumbling around him. So his heart takes over, bringing up his most sacred concern. “But I thought you were not interested in me.”

“Of course I am!” He flinches when the offense slips into your tone. “Of course I am, it’s just… you never asked me about dating. And I falsely assumed you are satisfied with what we already have.”

And he was. For the longest time, until it became obvious that he is not.

“When you saved me that evening I knew it was you. There is no mistake in the comforting warmth your body exudes, nor in the way you generally carry yourself. Also those strong hands… Can you name that many claymore users?”

You’ve known all this time?

“Forgive me for being selfish,” you chuckle sheepishly, unconsciously fiddling with his fingers, and Diluc finds it both cute and reassuring, calming even. “I kept you both during the day and at night for myself. I just wanted to know this side of you better. To know you better. And when you asked me under the disguise of the Darknight Hero… I just knew I wanted to hear that from the Diluc Ragnvindr.”

“In that case,” he lowers on his knee, clasping your hands in his and lying to himself that it’s not from how his body collapses with relief, clinging to you as if you’ll turn out to be just a piece of his desperate imagination, “I am selfish too. Because I was coming to you day and night with the exact same thoughts.”

“Does it make us a couple of selfish idiots, who clearly lack communication skills?” You giggle, and, Archons, what a splendid sound.

“I guess it does. Though I’d like the ‘couple’ part to become more real," giving your palms a squeeze, Diluc takes a deep breath, and with a new-found confidence makes his intentions clear. "Y/n L/n, will you go out with me?”

“Yes!”

The redhead cannot keep in his own laughter when you tug on his hands to draw him closer, to throw your arms around his broad shoulders and bury you face in his hair, smiling ear to ear. Gingerly he places his own palms on the small of your back, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder, and releasing a shaky breath.

Together. You are officially together.

And he is going to take his time with you.

taglist: @axerrri

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #diluc x fem!reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact fluff

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red-eagle-fire-protection · 2 months ago

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bettergeology · 11 months ago

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lemuel-apologist · 6 months ago

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Listen. The way that universities treat ADHD is deplorable. The way that the public at large treats ADHD is just as bad, but universities in particular are fresh on my mind, given where I am in life, about a month post-graduation.

This post is a bit of a preamble. Bear with me.

I struggled through three and a half years of genuine college being the way I am with no buffer; had an unwelcome epiphany of a diagnosis at the end of my second-to-last semester; and had the best semester, confidence- and social-life-wise of my life-- which was, simultaneously, the worst semester of my life academically. I have gone on and on about organic chemistry and how it fucked with me, but I don't know that I have gone into why.

Post-diagnosis, I was presented with the opportunity to tell my ochem professor about anything that could be an issue during the semester. I debated it; I debated it very seriously; but this form was a graded assignment, and I had to either tell him or not tell him, and it was better than I tell him than not. So, I told him, in very edited-down words, that I have some issues with anxiety and I have ADHD. Both have, because of how I am as a person, meant that I have to approach labs in a certain way and I probably will freak out at some point, but I was optimistic that it wouldn't be an issue at that point, and I would recuse myself to the hall if it was. (After all, I'd been medicated for about a month and, in that time, had survived moot court, navigated a family member's arrest that I advised on forensically, and cooked for two family events. I was fine. I was only medicated for the sake of anxiety. It was working as planned.)

I have a bone to pick with that professor in particular for a lot of reasons. He had a lot of interactions with women that rubbed me the wrong way, but none of them crossed that line like they did with me. I told him the way that things were going for me, I told him what I needed (a chance to eat before class, some extensions as needed on assignments, and clarifications on what he wanted done with equipment), and he consistently held me to a higher standard to other students, stepped in to mess with my fume hood when I didn't ask him to, and, importantly, would dock anyone up to five points from their labwork for being late to class, meaning that I couldn't eat before lab, since I had to sprint uphill from my osteology class-- which he knew, because that was something I told him. I vented very briefly, in exasperation, to my Senate advisor, who was the only member of faculty anywhere near administration who knew about my ADHD; and, when she asked why I didn't see about more formal accommodations, I reminded her the state of our school's Disability Services processes, which we were in the middle of advocating for fixing, as a block (famously hard to navigate and famously impossible to get through in a timely manner, meaning I wouldn't be able to do anything about it before I graduated-- and it wouldn't guarantee nonretaliation anyway).

And you know what? I got a D+ not because of him, but in SPITE of him. I got a C total not because of him, but in SPITE of him. Eat my FUCKING ass.

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red-eagle-fire-protection-agoura · 4 months ago

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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The young rioter surveyed the scene. A bus and a car blazed on O’Connell Bridge while masked groups marauded across the city centre looting shops, attacking police and shooting fireworks, turning the air acrid.

A police helicopter hovered and officers with shields and batons were assembling at the far end of O’Connell Street but the heart of Dublin, for now, belonged to the young man in a black hoodie who started to dance in the glow of the flames.

Comrades cheered as he punched the air and jigged to a soundtrack of breaking glass, shouts and sirens. He held his arms aloft like Rocky and paused, mesmerised by the mayhem. “Beautiful,” he said. “Fuck-ing beautiful.”

For other people in Ireland and elsewhere who saw images of Thursday’s anarchy it was the night Dublin went mad. For participants it was the night the city came to its senses – that here was an overdue venting of rage, a reckoning.

Ireland, according to this narrative, has opened the floodgates to foreigners with no controls or checks, leaving rapists and murderers to prowl the streets, and no one – not the government, not opposition parties, not the media, not the police – is taking it seriously.

So when social media rumours attributed a horrific stabbing attack on three children and a creche worker to a foreigner – Algerian, Moroccan, Romanian, versions varied – groups descended on Parnell Square, the scene of the crime, and decided to unleash chaos.

“People need to fight for this country,” said Samantha, a 27-year-old mother, as masked youths clashed with police attempting to retake Eden Quay along the River Liffey. “I’m not racist; I don’t mind people coming in if they respect Irish people. But the likes of the toerags coming into this country – they’re not vetted and are causing havoc.”

The unfolding scenes, in contrast, were legitimate havoc, a corrective to a political establishment impervious to previous protests over rising numbers of asylum seekers, said Samantha. “When we do things peacefully we get ignored.” She had left her five-year-old at home without dinner in order to join the revolt, she said. “I’m out here fighting for my country. We shouldn’t have to do this.”

Others echoed the refrain: to make Ireland safe, wreck the capital.

“It’s not right but it had to be done. The government is not listening,” said one man in his 20s, a bystander rather than a looter. “This isn’t against foreigners. We were the first emigrants. Immigrants are driving our buses, cleaning our hospitals – we need them. But they need to be vetted.”

Ireland’s demography has been transformed in recent decades as a booming economy reversed the historical flow of emigration. A fifth of the 5 million people now living in Ireland were born elsewhere. A recent increase in refugees from Ukraine and other countries fuelled a backlash amid concern over a housing shortage and straining public services. The number housed by the state jumped from 7,500 in 2021 to 73,000 in 2022.

Amid the destruction on Thursday night there was some linguistic nuance, with “non-national” usually preferred to “foreigner”, and “unvetted” or “unregulated” preferred to “illegal”, and an aversion to the label “far right”.

There was nothing subtle about the targeting of police. Bottles, bricks, fireworks and other missiles rained down on officers, many of whom lacked helmets and shields. The crowd cornered and attacked isolated officers, leaving several injured. Eleven police vehicles were damaged.

Journalists too were unwelcome and photographers had to conceal cameras. “He’s with the Guardian,” a man in his 60s, holding a tricolour, shouted. Younger, hooded men formed an intimidating cluster. The worst sin was to be with RTÉ, the national broadcaster, or the liberal Irish Times, which were accused of cheering the “replacement” of Irish people by new arrivals.

Many onlookers were appalled. “It’s heartbreaking for Dublin, for Ireland, for Europe,” said Matthew Butler, 28. A 53-year-old postman who gave his name only as John expressed fury. “Just a bunch of scumbags out to wreck Dublin city. The gardaí [police] should have free rein to beat the shit out of them.”

On Friday, Leo Varadkar, the taoiseach, said the rioters had shamed themselves and Ireland. “I want to say to a nation that is unsettled and afraid: this is not who we are – this is not who we want to be – and this is not who we will ever be.” The Garda commissioner, Drew Harris, blamed the disturbances on a “lunatic, hooligan faction driven by far-right ideology”.

The mob had diverse motives. Some belonged to fringe political groups and were veterans of protests against refugee centres. Some were opportunistic gangs that seized the chance to loot sportswear and alcohol. Others came for the spectacle and the chance to post dramatic footage on social media.

All, however, scorned the idea that Ireland is a safe, stable society. The economy is at full employment and the state is flush with tax revenue but their social media feeds depict a country overrun with “non-native” predators such as Jozef Puska, a Slovak man convicted earlier this month of murdering a teacher, Ashling Murphy, in 2022. As the night wore on, an unfounded rumour spread that one of the children in the Parnell Square attack had died.

It did not seem to matter that one of the people who stopped that attack was a Brazilian Deliveroo rider, Caio Benicio, and that Dublin gangs have assaulted numerous South American couriers in recent years.

Chilling threats of assaults against immigrants were made on a WhatsApp group titled “enough is enough”. “Everyone bally [balaclava] up, tool up,” said one man. “Let’s show the fucking media that we’re not a fucking pushover, that no more fucking foreigners are allowed into this poxy country.”

However, the mob targeted property and police rather than foreign and non-white bystanders, who watched in bewilderment.

As police gradually regained control James, a 33-year-old labourer, confronted a phalanx of shields on Burgh Quay, drawing cheers from others who hurled missiles. After being sprayed in the face, James staggered back to Butt Bridge where a Brazilian man, who had experience of being teargassed in his home country, offered recovery tips.

James thanked him but in an interview said “unregulated” arrivals were ruining Ireland. “We’re rammed to the gills with foreigners doing mad shit. You can’t do this to Irish people. I’m getting out of this country, I’m burning rubber. It’s not safe to walk around here.”

Mohammed Gaber, 27, an accountant who moved to Ireland from Sudan and is now an Irish citizen, came into the city centre to check on his sister, Ebba. He lauded his adopted home but worried about what the riot might augur. “Irish people are so welcoming. I’ve never experienced any discrimination. But this is crazy. This is the first time that I feel that there is something big.”

With roads sealed off and smoke pluming over Dublin, Ebba, 33, was blunter. “This is terrifying.” She was not sure of reaching her job as an emergency doctor at a police station.

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moonshine-nightlight · 2 years ago

Text

Selfish - Part Two

Eisha felt bad complaining to her friend Mariella, since she was always putting other people’s problems above her own. She felt worse that, no matter how much she appreciated Mariella listening, she’d rather be living out some of the naughty fantasies about her instead. If she wanted to stay Mariella’s friend, and get some of her delicious cookies, she needed to keep those thoughts to herself.

But can she?

Urban fantasy; friends to lovers, Naga, FxF, SFW, (2/4)

[Part One] Part Two [Part Three] [Part 4 - NSFW]

Mariella got so caught up in Eisha’s venting session that the sound of the oven timer going off made her jump.

Eisha was a wonderful storyteller—hilarious and cutting—for all it did truly sound like a terrible day. It had been easy for Mariella to forget everything else around her.

She grabbed an oven mitt to pull the tray out, checking the cookies over to ensure they were the right amount of done-ness, and then setting the tray down.

After setting a timer on her phone for when to move them onto her cooling rack, Mariella hastily pulled out the chilled dough for the next round. Eisha had moved over to the other side of the room to get a refill on her drink and Mariella appreciated the space to focus.

She knew some of the other residents were intimidated by the tall naga—Eisha herself certainly encouraged that perception—but Mariella had never been afraid of her. If anything, she rather liked how Eisha could get when she was putting someone in their place. Sometimes Mariella just felt self-conscious around her. Mostly she just wondered what someone as cool as Eisha was doing with a silly cafe owner who rarely left her building. Eisha traveled throughout the tunnels and likely met all sorts of far more interesting people across the entire city.

Eisha must have a million better things to do than keep Mariella company while she baked—trips outside of the city, which Mariella had never left, going to nightclubs Mariella would never be able to even find, let alone get into, more interesting friends to hang out with. Eisha was someone who liked to do, who was always moving. Even now her tail was flicking and recoiling, poking and prodding the cushions of Mariella’s couch. And yet here Eisha was, turning back around—too sharp and too real for Mariella’s cozy little apartment on a Friday night.

Mariella turned back to the oven with the fresh tray. No, she was just getting in her own head—Eisha never acted as though she didn’t want to be here. She was under no obligation to come over and help Mariella liven up her evening. Eisha didn’t have a problem with telling people off when she wanted to, never did much of anything she didn’t want to.

That was why the customer service parts of Eisha’s job rubbed her the wrong way—she liked to make her honest thoughts and grievances clear, not stifle them because of how important the client was. Not when she had a legitimate complaint that any other delivery address would be forced to accommodate. But the Aerie felt they were above that sort of thing. The fact that Eisha’s manager agreed is what made it really rankle.

Mariella slid the next tray into the oven, set the timer, and without looking, said, “Don’t. They’re not cool yet.” She turned around with a smirk to see Eisha’s hand whipping away from the other baking sheet. “I haven’t even put the icing on,” she scolded, teasing.

“They barely need it,” Eisha grumbled, obviously trying to hide a pout.

Mariella couldn’t help but laugh at the disgruntled look on friend’s face—this was the person everyone was afraid of. With her fangs tucked away, her eyes purposely not making eye contact, her red hood pulled in close as if to make herself a smaller target—Eisha could only look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Eisha crossed her toned arms as she wound dejectedly around the stool Mariella got for her. Mariella claimed she bought it so she could have seating for anyone who visited—and she did try to make sure she had something for everyone—but it was obvious that the sleek and black style was chosen to appeal to Eisha specifically.

“You can wait another five minutes,” Mariella brushed off, pleased as she was by the compliment. It was a good reminder to focus back on the icing though. While she began taking that round off the baking sheet and onto the cooling rack to be iced, she asked, “Do you think you’ll have to go back next week?”

“At least once,” Eisha replied, more of a hiss to the final word than she usually allowed. Her hisses always got more prominent when she was annoyed. Actually, Eisha seemed more worked up than usual. She was twirling a candlestick holder with the hand not holding her second glass of straight vodka and her whole body seemed coiled tight, even though usually she relaxed after complaining.

Granted, Eisha was technically more relaxed than when she arrived, Mariella thought as she whisked the icing one last time before moving to fill the piping bag. Is something else besides work bothering her? And if so, why hasn’t she mentioned it? Eisha could keep secrets better than anyone else Mariella knew—not that that was saying much given nearly everyone in the building was a bit of a busybody. She didn’t usually bother keeping them from Mariella, not if they were about her.

“I don’t want to keep thinking about it—that’s a problem for Monday. What about you?” Eisha asked. Mariella turned to find Eisha leaning forward to brace her arms on the counter. Her green skin contrasted vibrantly with the black halter top and black skirts she wore tied about her waist to allow free movement with her tail. Along with the red of her hood and the yellow scales she had scattered across her like freckles, she always seemed to be more real than the rest of Mariella’s muted apartment.

“What about me?” Mariella asked, more than a little distracted—always caught off guard by Eisha’s presence and appearance when she had looked away. She resisted the urge to sigh at Eisha’s magnificence as she leaned back against the counter.

“Come on, make me feel better about my stupid work by telling me about something you’ve had to deal with,” Eisha said. “I know how entitled those customers of yours are, not to mention the other leeches in this building.”

“Eisha,” Mariella bristles, because she doesn’t want to have the argument about letting her family take advantage of her.

Eisha holds up her hands, palms a lighter green the rest of her. “Yeah, yeah, I’m not trying to start shit.” Before she leans forward, her smirk wicked, “But that means one of them did do something, doesn’t it?”

Mariella sighed, putting a hand to her forehead. She didn’t want to give Eisha anymore ammunition, but she did really want to complain. Her brown eyes meet Eisha’s yellow ones and she could see Eisha really isn’t looking to push tonight, not about that. She still seems strung too tight, but she’s looking for a distraction, not a fight. “Jak might have been a bit pushier than usual this week. He always gets entitled when his little buddies from out-of-town stay with him.”

“What’d he do?” Eisha’s eyes glinted triumphantly, always satisfied when she was proven right.

“Parked across his spot and Mrs. Grunli’s—because of his fancy new car,” Mariella admitted, “and had his boys take all the visitor’s spots and the maintenance bay reserved Jilli’s van.”

“What a dick,” Eisha said, her voice sharp with contempt. “Let me know if you want me to talk to him. Or do more than talk to him.”

Mariella knew she shouldn’t find the offer endearing or hot, but it sort of was. “No, no, he’s all talk,” she said, knowing for all she appreciated and liked the idea of Eisha intimidating the most aggravating of her neighbors, it wasn’t worth the trouble—that he would stir up or to Eisha, who certainly had far more important things to do than help Mariella with difficult neighbors. “I’ve already talked to him. He fixed his own parking job—saying it wasn’t that bad even though it definitely was—and claimed he didn’t know about the maintenance spot.”

Eisha rolled her eyes as Mariella huffed. “I let his friend park their van in one of my employee spots—Hanna’s out for the week. He wouldn’t take one of the normal spots for it because it has a lot of sensitive equipment in it.”

“Oh does it now?” Eisha drawled, propping her head up on one hand, the red nail polish with some sort of speckled yellow and black design unfairly well done despite her short nails.

“Apparently, they’re in a band—one that’s gonna make it real big and I’d regret letting anything happen to it,” Mariella replied and this time she was the one to roll her eyes. “His neighbors certainly don’t agree, if that’s who’s been practicing all day. Had to deal with that too. Ran out of my whole supply of lemon and double chocolate chunk cookies trying to smooth things over between them all.”

“You shouldn’t have to bribe him or anyone else to get them to follow the rules,” Eisha pointed out, Mariella’s frustration mirrored in her voice. A bit of accusation there too.

“I just wanted his issue resolved in the shortest amount of time,” Mariella replied, a touch defensively.

Eisha hummed in disapproval, but didn’t say anything more. Mariella knew Eisha thought she let the other inhabitants of the building get away with too much, but she couldn’t help it. They were her family, even shitty cousins who thought too highly of themselves.

“Don’t know why you let them walk all of you,” Eisha grumbled before tilting back her glass to finish off her drink. “Don’t deserve you being so accommodating.”

“I don’t let—” Mariella started, more than a little heated at the familiar argument, when the timer went off. The loud and unexpected beep caused her to automatically tighten her grip as she turned towards the oven. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that what was in her hand was the filled icing bag.

It predictably squirted out.

Mariella grimaced at the feeling of icing hitting her neck—and the sight of it on the counter—but ignored that for now, grabbing a mitt to pull the second batch of cookies from the oven before they overcooked.

Setting the tray down, she turned from the oven to grab the cooling rack and she caught Eisha’s long split tongue flicking out to taste the scent of freshly baked cookies. Trying her best to ignore the heat the sight of that tongue stirred up, she fussed with the cookies. “Shoot, I’d meant to start the next batch so they’d be ready to put in right away.”

With a sigh, Mariella reached over to turn off the oven for now. She needed to ice the first batch and then move the second batch to cooling racks—and clean up the icing—before rolling out the dough for the third batch to put in the oven. Better to just shut it off for now.

Taking off the mitt, Mariella retied the icing bag and made sure there was still enough icing for this round. Glad there was, she began carefully piping, barely noticing out of the corner of her eye that Eisha had moved around the counter, from the living room side to the kitchen side.

“Alright there, Mariella?” she asked, voice sweeter than usual—tempting Mariella to do something that would ruin their friendship. Mariella felt an odd sort of tension go up her spine–not intimidated but…Eisha only talked sweet when she was up to something.

“I’m fine—but this is why I don’t usually let anyone in the kitchen with me,” Mariella replied, trying her best to focus on icing but wanting to make sure Eisha knew she was only kidding.

“Am I too distracting?” Eisha teased, her voice slipping into a more flirtatious tone while her tongue flicked against her fangs.

Mariella immediately trained her eyes back on the cookies, cursing her friend for being so effortlessly seductive. “Yes,” Mariella replied belligerently. “You’ll be sorry when these don’t come out right.”

Eisha chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m sure they’ll be perfect. You made them after all.”

Mariella’s cheeks flushed and she hurried to get a plate down, purposely bumping Eisha as she did so. “Oh shut up,” she muttered. “You’re already the taste-tester. No one else is stealing them from you.”

As soon as they were all on the plate, Mariella put that cooling rack to the side, but before she could turn around, a slim green hand came over her shoulder to pluck one of the cookies. Mariella could feel Eisha’s presence behind her, above her.

She waited with bated breath as Eisha took a bite, a satisfied hum leaving her mouth. Even if Eisha always seemed to love these, it was still a relief to hear and Mariella felt some of the unusual tension that’d been building up her release at that sound.

“Delicious,” Eisha complimented, particularly sibilant in her delivery.

Maybe Mariella was relieved too soon, as heat of an entirely different kind swooped in to make her nervous all over again. No one else’s comments on her baking did this to her, Mariella thought resentfully. Just Eisha’s. Stupid crush. “T-thanks.”

Mariella needed some space or else that slightly industrial smell from Eisha’s motorcycle mixed with her perfume, which was cinnamon, was going to make her do something she regretted. Turning, Mariella tried to get Eisha to move backwards, which worked to some extent.

Of course, now there were the naga’s eyes to contend with—hypnotizing and intent. A change seemed to come over her friend, a strangely determined light entering those eyes.

Eisha reached out a hand and carefully wiped off the icing that’d been on Mariella’s collarbone for the last few minutes. “You work so hard, taking care of everyone else,” Eisha said, her voice soft and leading. “But who takes care of you? Hm?”

“I do, I guess,” Mariella replied, staring far to intently the icing on Eisha’s finger. Mariella nearly choked on her own saliva when Eisha’s long, red tongue flicked out to wrap around her own finger, cleaning it off. Mariella only barely held in a whimper of desire, heat pooling low in her stomach at the sight.

Obviously turning around had been a bad idea so Mariella turned back from Eisha to grab a dish towel and wet it—maybe cleaning up the rest of the icing would prevent any more distracting Eisha…well, anything.

“You should let someone else help,” Eisha’s hand landed on Mariella’s back, cool and strong, causing Mariella to suppress a shiver. Why did everything the other woman say sound so suggestive? Mariella just wanted to have a conversation with her friend in her home without illicit thoughts taking over.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I could do?” Eisha wheedled. “Even just so you can relax?”

Mariella’s mind flooded with a myriad of ways Eisha could help her relax, none of them likely what the naga actually meant.

“R-really, Eisha, you don’t need to do anything special,” Mariella managed, moving away along the counter, vaguely wiping at it as she went under the weak pretense of cleaning. Once she was a few feet away, she turned back to give her friend a smile.

It wavered when she realized just how close the naga still was—how tall she was still making herself by rising higher on her tail than usual—causing Mariella to suppress a shiver.

“Just being here with me is more than enough.”

[Part Three]

#my writing #story: selfish #selfish #naga #female monster #female naga #third person #wanted to finish this by the end of the year and idk if that's gonna happen #but i'm making an attempt to finish drafting it at least before i go back to work #we're back to eisha's pov for the rest of the fic #this whole fic is basically just #how short can i make the set up to spicyness while making the characters still real enough for readers to be invested #giv or take how part 3 goes it might be kinda short #i'm basically gonna cut it at being rated T for those who prefer a fade to black #leaving part 4 to basically just b smut lol #this may b my least popular story #but i write for myself in the end #let me know what you think!#osha compliant

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iamprchung · 8 months ago

Text

The Spider and the FBI: Part 2 "Upon the Axle Tree"

Mulder races across the country to reunite with Scully and Skinner, all targeted by vengeful mob hitmen. The chase intensifies as the trio struggles with communication breakdowns and a manipulative prisoner who exploits the simmering tension between Scully and Skinner. Exhausted and seeking refuge in a secluded motel, a heated confrontation erupts, forcing Scully and Skinner to face their long-suppressed emotions that ignite a spark. Now, amidst the chaos and danger, Scully, and Skinner must not only outrun pursuers but also navigate the complexities of their brewing emotional entanglement.

"...Upon the Axle-Tree" Part II of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

I-84 Sweetwater County, Wyoming Thursday, July 1st 5:48 p.m.

"The cellular customer..."

"You are trying to reach," Scully finished the message now emblazoned in her memory as she terminated her umpteenth attempt to contact Mulder. "Yadda, yadda, yadda," she scoffed, putting the phone down.

Skinner glanced at her, frowning at her uncharacteristic tone.

"Still no luck contacting your partner," Bernstein said from the back seat.

Scully didn't respond and tried to concentrate on adjusting the air vents then her seat belt and the slight twist that had developed in it.

Skinner flicked his eyes to the rear-view mirror, seeing Bernstein half-smiling as he nodded to himself.

"You're concerned," the man said, "of course you are. So far away from him."

He was quiet then, watching the scenery go by with a pained expression.

"Absence," he finally said with a long, dramatic pause. "Absence, it does make the heart grow fonder, you know, Agent Scully."

Eyes forward, jaw clinched, she refused to respond.

"In today's world it's hard to believe that, when travel is so readily available, bringing the once forlorn together. Perhaps that's why so many relationships fail. Odd, isn't it? But to desire something is always so much more interesting, satisfying even, than actually having it."

"Is there a problem, Bernstein?" Skinner questioned the man.

He looked thoughtful. "No, I don't believe so. Is there?"

"It seems like you have a problem keeping your nose out of other people's business."

"Well, how observant," he retorted leaning slightly forward. "Now isn't that why we're all here, because I stuck my nose into other people's business?"

"We're here because you embezzled from the wrong people."

"Are there right people to embezzle from?" He countered. "Don't you see that I'm like the Robin Hood of the underworld."

"And John Gotti's the Sheriff of Nottingham?" Skinner came back.

"What a stale reference, I'm shocked," Bernstein mocked surprise taking out his bottle of eye drops to toy with the cap. "I would have expected something less mainstream from the Assistant Director, that is your title, isn't it?"

"I hope you're prepared to talk this much on the witness stand, Bernstein."

"The FBI sat upon the axle tree of the chariot... what a dust I stir, they say..." Berstein muttered to himself.

"Is there something you want to share with the rest of us?" Skinner questioned the man.

"I need to get out of this car." He said, petulant.

Skinner started to protest but Scully spoke first.

Leaning her head against the seat, she rolled it restlessly, saying, "so do I. There was a sign for a rest stop back on the road a mile or so, let's pull over at it for a moment."

************************************

"The cellular customer..."

Scully put the phone down, warn by trying to reach Mulder. Surly it was the service area, she thought, glancing around at the terrain. Mountains and hills, and wide expansive of nothingness, where cell towers were sparce. Yes, certainly it was just the service, she told herself and forced her attention toward the rest stop restrooms.

It was beginning to feel like Skinner and Bernstein had been gone a long time. Hopefully, Bernstein wasn’t turning a simple trip to the bathroom into a holy nightmare for Skinner. She was all too familiar with the man’s ability to twist every situation into an opportunity to spew his poorly disguised psychological manipulation.

She certainly wasn’t going take the quiet for granted. Maybe they had been gone for what seemed like a long time now… but it was a much-needed break from Bernstein’s constant needling commentary. She was grateful for Skinner running interference, recognizing the man’s schtick and not letting it get to him, and he was doing what he could to keep Bernstein from getting to her as well.

Scully was grateful, but she couldn’t help but reconsider Skinner’s motivations for inserting himself into this assignment.

She'd known him long enough to understand his attitude of getting things done right by doing them himself, especially when it came to situations such as the one with Bernstein. But still, after everything that had happened over the last eight months, the close calls to overstepping their boundaries, he shouldn't have come. He should have sent someone else... or should he have? Why should he alter any actions he would have normally taken? What indications did she have to determine his arrival as anything more than a strictly professional gesture of caution and concern other than her laughable presumptions of his interest in her?

She straightened in the seat rigidly, her initial excitement passed, replaced by unclassifiable animosity. There was no escaping the inability to understand where the man stood, on either a professional or personal level. It was so aggravating that she could just-

The cell phone rang beside her, and she jumped.

"Damn it," she cursed both the phone and herself. "Scully," she answered the call, huffy.

"I miss you, too," Mulder's sarcastic voice came back at her, "Bernstein getting to you?"

"Uh," hesitating, she caught sight of Skinner and Bernstein approaching the car. "Something like that," she replied and quickly shifted the subject not wanting to lie any more than necessary, "where have you been, I've been trying to call you for the last hour and a half, Mulder?"

"Sorry, I just got one of the less popular call blocking features on my cell phone about two hours ago- At least I think it was two hours ago... my watch has stopped."

"What are you talking about?"

"I had the Corleone twins waiting for me at the motel room when I got back from the doctor this afternoon," he explained, "and my cell phone got caught in the crossfire."

"Are you all right?"

"Sore, but otherwise fine, no leaks."

"Who were they, and how did they find you?" she questioned as she got out of the car, meeting Skinner as he approached.

"One got away, the other is in the hospital right now having a bullet taken out his shoulder. He wouldn't talk, but I should have something back on him soon, I sent his picture and prints in before I called you."

"How could they have known where we stayed?" Her question piqued Skinner's curiosity as well as Bernstein's.

"Who?" Bernstein questioned nervously, getting no response from either of his keepers.

"Tit for tat, Scully," Mulder offered his opinion, "they've got their sources the same as the Bureau. Judging by the time it took them to get here, I imagine your call to Skinner this morning clued them in to our location. But they didn't know you were leaving, somewhere their information got screwed up."

"What happened?" Skinner asked her while making Bernstein get in the car.

"Mulder had a run in with two men at the motel we stayed in last night," she answered him briefly.

"Scully, who was that?" Mulder asked, but before his partner could answer, he cranked out more questions, "was that Skinner? What's he's doing there?"

"There were no Agents available from the Denver office-"

"None?" He exclaimed.

"Mulder," she mirrored his tone, "no, there weren't."

"No wonder I couldn't reach him in his office." Mulder replied after a moment then gave her the description of the man who escaped him, as well as the car, but he would undoubtedly replace it with another vehicle. The state police were alerted and now she and Skinner. It was only a matter of taking all precautions possible now to avoid their location being discovered once again.

"I can't go back to D.C. after this, I want to join back up with you and Skinner..."

"No," she told him abruptly, "we can't risk you leading them to us."

Skinner's eyes narrowed when he heard this.

"You need back up, Scully."

"At this point Mulder we may be best left alone."

Reluctantly, and not altogether convinced, Mulder agreed and let her go knowing full well there were more than enough ways to pinpoint a person using a cell phone, even in the middle of nowhere.

"Did Bernstein make any calls while you were in the room?" Skinner asked her, keen to the situation by just her end of the conversation with Mulder.

"No," she shook her head.

He took a deep breath, pushing the folds of his jacket back to plant his hands on his hips. "Did either you or Mulder make calls out from the room phone?"

"No, when I called you, I used my cell phone."

He searched the interstate, his jaw grinding some consideration.

"How ever they found out," he finally said and turned, going around the car to the driver's side door, "it's going to be hard for them to do it again as long we keep moving."

*******************************

Chugwater, Wyoming 10:46 p.m.

It may have been a quarter of eleven for Wyoming, but Skinner's internal clock was still running on East coast time; his head throbbed, his eyes hurt, and his back was stiff. He was far from being a lightweight when it came to going without sleep, but he'd been going steady since 6:00 a.m. and nearly seven hours of his day had been spent behind the wheel of a car, not to mention the two-hour flight into Cheyenne, then another forty-five minutes into the Rock Springs municipal airport.

He was exhausted he reluctantly admitted to himself pulling into the Chugwater Inn parking lot. He had wanted to keep going, driving through the night, sharing shifts at the wheel with Scully, but she was in no shape to drive.

Despite the fact that he had done all the driving since meeting up with her, she'd gotten no rest.

He looked at her in the seat next to him; head tilted toward him and against the seat back, her eyelids fluttering slightly. She had been trying to sleep, but just couldn't seem to settle in. And it seemed as though every time she did drift into any type of deep rest Bernstein had made another request to stop.

Skinner glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing that the man had stretched out on the back seat and appeared to be sleeping quite contentedly. Too contentedly, giving Skinner the gut feeling that there was something in the works with this guy, even in his sleep.

Skinner turned his attention back to finding a parking space, which wouldn't be hard; there were only a couple of cars in the motel's small parking lot. The lack of guests wasn't surprising; the place was far from the interstate, yet appeared to offer all the luxuries that a motel along the interstate might. There was a small diner attached to one of the three one story buildings and an even smaller gated pool set at the center of the U-shaped arrangement.

He eased the car to a gentle halt, cutting the engine off as he gave the place a serious scrutinizing before turning to wake Scully.

This time he hesitated to look at her, amazed again by how easily he was touched and with suddenness that was both overwhelming and infuriating. His ability to control these unexpected surges of acute desire, brought about by the most obscure of circumstances- the certain way light played upon her features, an idiosyncrasy of a turn, a step, a smile or glance, the inflection or particular cadence given to a word or phrase, had substantially diminished... but was not completely gone.

Looking away he took a deep breath, clearing his mind a moment before turning back to wake her.

"Scully," he quietly said touching her arm with deliberate indifference.

She lifted her chin, glancing around.

"Where is this?"

"Chugwater," Skinner answered pulling the keys from the ignition.

She frowned briefly, glancing around behind them, toward the road. "I don't remember Chugwater on I-84, are we still in Wyoming?"

"Yes, just northeast of Laramie. I decided that we should get off the interstate, at least for the night."

Wise idea, Scully agreed. If they were being followed staying off the main drag was their best course of action. "We're on route 34 if you want to look at the map to get your bearings."

She nodded but didn't bother to reach for the map, she would look later, and right now she just wanted a decent meal and some sleep.

"I'll get us rooms," Skinner told her opening the door to get out, "why don't you get us a table in the diner?"

She got out and started to open Bernstein's door to take him with her, but Skinner stopped her.

"I'll take him with me, Scully." He told her.

Again, probably for the best, she appreciatively thought. If Bernstein made a break for it, she couldn't guarantee her ability to stop him. As tired as she was her senses were dull and her reaction time was undoubtedly a fraction of the norm.

Skinner rapped his knuckles on the rear window before opening the back door, Bernstein sat up abruptly, looking disoriented. But despite his apparent disorientation Skinner suspected that the man had been awake and eavesdropping the whole time.

***********************************

The diner was small with a long counter and booths running the length of the front windows. There was only one customer other than Scully, a man in jeans and a plaid short sleeved shirt sitting at the counter, smoking cigarettes, and talking to the cook who was resting casually on his folded arms at the counter, obviously taking advantage of the lull in business.

Seeing her enter the cook straightened up and nodded to her. "Evening, miss."

The customer turned halfway looking over his shoulder, then fully turned to get a better look and deliver his own greeting as well. "Evening."

She returned the greetings and slipped into a booth facing the entrance, exhausted and suddenly wondering if she even had the energy to eat. Looking around she noticed the mishmash of red, white, and blue decorations strung across the establishment in a careless sort of way. Looking at the decorations she realized with surprise that Independence Day was rapidly approaching, not that she had had any plans for the holiday, she rarely did, but just the fact that she had forgotten it surprised her.

The cook came around the counter to her booth.

"Can I get you some coffee, hon?" He asked handing her a menu that doubled as a place mat.

"No, just water and two more menus, please."

"So, you're not traveling alone then, huh?"

She looked at the man a second, processing the question. "No, I'm not."

He nodded grabbing a couple more menus from the counter. "Glad to hear it, I didn't think a pretty young woman like you should be out here all alone."

Scully controlled the impulse to roll her eyes, but barely. She pursed her lips and nodded, thanking him politely catching sight of Skinner heading down the drive with Bernstein from the office.

"You're dressed awful nice to be traveling," the customer at the counter called over to her. He had turned his seat to face her booth. "There is a convention around here or something?"

She regarded him a moment, noting the deep creases in the back of his shirt and the lap of his jeans created by prolonged periods of sitting, and concluded that the semi parked out on the road in front of the motel belonged to him.

"No, there isn't." She replied and Skinner came through the door, Bernstein in tow.

The man at the counter took one look at him and swiveled his chair back around to face the kitchen.

"Evening," the cook greeted him after a moment of sizing him up.

Skinner nodded and ushered Bernstein into the booth ahead of him, up next to the window, then slumped into the seat opposite Scully brushing her legs with his own.

"Excuse me."

"Hmm?" She said having hardly noticed.

Bringing Scully's water, the cook came back to the table. "Can I get you fellas something to drink?"

Skinner glanced at the water glass. "I'll have water also."

"So will I," said Bernstein, then in his usual eccentric way added, "but with a twist of lime in it, please."

The cook looked at him. "Lime?"

"Yes, a twist will do."

The man frowned. "You want me to squeeze some lime juice in your water?"

Bernstein shook his head. "No, a twist. You know," he said bringing his cuffed hand up to wriggle his fingers, "a twist."

Skinner pulled his arm back down. "Plain water will do." He told the cook.

"Well, I think I got some lemons back there, but I don't know about limes." He informed them tilting his head to check out the situation with the handcuffs.

"That will work." Bernstein agreed pulling his eye drops out.

"Hey, uh," the man said gesturing toward their cuffed hands, "what's this?"

"We're transporting a prisoner." Skinner answered gruffly.

"I'm the prisoner." Bernstein grinned.

Scully was already digging for her identification.

"You two marshals?" The cook persisted.

"No," Scully said pulling her ID out, but Skinner had been quicker.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said holding open his badge case for the man to look at.

The cook bent forward squinting at the badge and identification card.

"Hey, can I see that?" The man at the counter called jumping off his seat to come over. "I never seen one of those things close up for real."

Skinner flipped the case shut and pocketed it before the man could cross the short distance between the counter and booth, in no mood to deal with this nonsense.

"So, you're a lady FBI Agent, huh?" The cook asked Scully with a cockeyed grin.

"Yes." She said and sighed. "I am."

"Wha’d, you do, fella?" The cook asked Bernstein.

Even Bernstein was beginning to look irritated now.

"It's very involved," he answered beginning to fidget the eye drops bottle cap.

"Could we get our water?" Skinner asked the man laboring to maintain an even tone.

"Oh, yeah," the cook said sounding surprised and as though he had forgotten. "Sorry about that. I'll be right back."

The man was gone, and Skinner was glad, he didn't like the way he had been eyeing Scully. He wasn't a man easily taken to jealousy, but this wasn't matter of jealousy but rather a matter of common decency. Both the cook and the guy at the counter had been leering at her since he'd come through the door.

He looked across the table at her, considering for a fraction of a second brushing her legs again with his to get her attention, hoping to communicate how tired he was and to find that she was just as tired, noticing his silent plea to forget eating and go to the rooms.

As though reading his mind she looked over the rim of her water glass, meeting his gaze. There was hardness in her eyes, tension pulling at the corners, but there was still some measure of loveliness Skinner found in those blue pools.

"Rooms?" She asked him, putting her glass down, her voice growing hoarse.

"Yes," he pulled two keys from his pocket, looking at them for a moment before he put one on the table in front of her.

"They're adjacent to each other," Bernstein told her smirking.

She flicked her brow and pursed her mouth briefly. "Okay, well I'm starting to reconsider exactly how hungry I am." She said taking up the key.

"So was I." Skinner replied taking his glasses off a moment to rub at the bridge of his nose. Surprisingly, there was no protest from Bernstein. Perhaps he too was just as exhausted as they were. "Are you hungry?" Skinner asked him outright.

He shook his head. "No,” he answered, sounding genuinely tired. “I am thirsty, though."

Skinner nodded. "Drink your water and we'll go."

"I think I'm going now," Scully said and started to get up. She hesitated, waiting for protest or approval. There was neither. "All right, then," she stood looking at the key, "number 18."

Skinner glanced over his shoulder at the deserted parking lot, catching once again the trucker watching Scully. "It's the far building." He told her, turning back.

"I'll need my bag," she said, and he handed her the car keys. "I'll move the car in front of the rooms."

He almost told her to be careful but held his tongue and just kept an eye on her as she went, watching her reflection in the far window of the diner.

"Are you worried?" He heard Bernstein ask. Skinner glanced at the man who was watching him closely. "What could happen to her?"

Skinner turned his eyes straight ahead, grinding his jaw. "You always watch your partner's back."

"And what a lovely back it is," Bernstein murmured looking down at the eye drop bottle in his hand.

Skinner started to speak but stopped, looking at the eye drops. He'd seen Bernstein fidgeting with them all day but never use them, and then something he'd overheard once in a bar came back to him; a conversation between two bartenders when they thought no one could hear.

"Why don't you let me give these to Agent Scully," Skinner said taking the bottle suddenly and swiftly from Bernstein. "She's a medical doctor and should be in charge of administering pharmaceuticals."

"But those are just eye drops." Bernstein protested urgently.

"Exactly, so you won't be in immediate need of them, will you?"

The cook appeared at the table setting water glasses in front of Skinner and Bernstein, one with- shockingly- a twisted lime peel in it.

"Uh, well, very nice," Bernstein seemed torn between wanting to reclaim his eye drops and approve of the water. "Excellent service, yes."

"That the way you wanted it?" The cook asked appearing concerned.

"Yes. Yes, just perfect."

The cook nodded glancing around. "Where'd your little FBI lady go?"

* "Sweet dream baby, sweet dream baby, sweet dream baby... How long must I dream?" *

From the jukebox, the smooth crooning of Roy Orbison began to play through the diner as Skinner straightened in the booth, bristling at the cook’s choice of words. "Agent Scully." He corrected the cook, his tone saturated with exasperation.

"Like Vin Scully?" The truck driver asked from the jukebox.

"I suppose." Skinner answered tucking the eye drops into his pocket.

* "Dream baby got me dreaming sweet dreams the whole day through. Dream baby got me dreaming sweet dreams in the nighttime, too." *

"I sure wouldn't mind being her prisoner, if you don't mind me saying." The truck driver said returning to his seat at the counter.

* "...dream baby make me stop my dreaming, you can make my dreams come true..." *

"I swear," the cook declared shaking his head as he walked back behind the counter, "there's just something about those red heads, boy."

"Mmm, hmm," the trucker agreed. "Spitfires, every one of them I've ever met." He turned to Skinner, asking, "I bet she's one, id'nt she?"

Skinner ground his teeth on shapeless curses standing up out of the booth dragging Bernstein along like a rag doll, causing the man to spill water down his shirt.

"You're talking about a federal Agent," he rebuked their seemingly innocuous comments, "deserving of a hell of a lot more respect than you're displaying right now."

"Huh?" The cook looked surprised almost scared.

"I didn't mean any harm." The trucker defended himself.

"We were just talking in general, don't get all bent out of shape now."

Ignoring the cook, Skinner hauled Bernstein out the door and the man had to jog a bit to keep up with him as he marched across the parking lot.

"They said they didn't mean any harm," he told Skinner. When there was no response, he added. "Okay, I take it that you noticed the staring. Well, you can't blame them, she is really very attractive."

"Put a lid on it, Bernstein." Skinner warned him, pulling the room key out.

"Please," Bernstein continued insolently. "Someone doesn't conform to your ridged tenets, and you just tell them to shut up? Come on, you can't say you don't recognize how engaging a woman Agent Scully is. A man would have to be blind not to see..."

At the motel room door Skinner stopped and turned to glare at Bernstein. "I respect her. I respect her decency and capability as a federal Agent. She deserves more than to be considered a pretty face."

"I don't think it was just her face they were looking at." Skinner glared at him, and Bernstein looked back at him a moment, something fiendish growing in his eyes. "This has nothing to do with respect," he finally said smirking.

Skinner squared his jaw. "I know your game, Bernstein. You examine and test all the angles, if you can't pit one against the other, you create suspicion, invent jealousy, or provoke confusion. I've dealt with better than two-bit mob bookies like you, and she's dealt with better. So don't play me because I'll kick your ass in the end."

Bernstein looked at him, unruffled. "This has nothing at all to do with respect."

Reticent, Skinner turned and unlocked the door, shoving Bernstein inside the room.

***********************************

Despite knowing she'd be woken for the car keys, Scully drifted asleep atop the bedspread. Exhaustion had won. Her mind tumbled into dreams, fueled by random sounds: a truck, a dog, then voices. One, new. The other, familiar - deep, forceful, oddly soothing. Even with its unappealing qualities, the voice drew her in, murmuring needs.

"Scully?"

Her body reacted to the sound of her name on his lips, twisting with fine craving... If only he knew his power over her.

"Scully!"

She sat up abruptly, the demanding shout jerking her out of sleep. Disorientated, she went to the door, and opened it—Finding no one outside. Confused, she learned out, looking up and down the walk. “Sir?”

"Scully, wake up!" Skinner's muffled voice came again followed by a harsh pounding. She turned toward the sound seeing the door that joined the two rooms. “Great,” she muttered and started across the room.

"Just a minute," she called fumbling the dead bolt to open the door. “Sir, I—” Once again, there was no Skinner, only Bernstein looking back at her from where he was comfortably perched on one of the two beds in the room.

“Lose something, agent?” he asked with a smirk.

“What…?”

“Scully, what are you thinking?” Skinner asked suddenly from behind her, coming through the front door of the room she’d left standing open. “Leaving the door open like that?”

She turned to him, taken off guard and dazed. “I thought you were outside, then I…”

“You need to be more careful.” He grumbled, looking around the room.

“I am, I was just confused by all the yelling and banging.”

“Fine,” he dismissed her explanation. "I need the car keys."

“Okay then,” she huffed, aggravation rising quickly with his abrupt dismissal. Snatching the keys off the dresser she all but threw them at him. "Here," she snapped back mirroring his brisk tone.

He looked at the keys then her, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What the hell's wrong with you? You come storming in here barking at me without cause—”

“The door was standing open, Scull—”

“I didn’t know if something was wrong the way you were yelling and banging at the door—”

“I wasn’t yelling or banging at the door—"

"Everything okay in there with you two?" Bernstein called through the open door from the next room.

"No!" Scully and Skinner shouted in unison only to realize their mistake.

“Y-yes.” They staggered to correct themselves.

“Get some rest, Scully.” Skinner grunted, turning to leave the room, pulling the door solidly shut behind him.

Scully glared after him. Contention was their standard of operation, but this had been one of the most pointless arguments they had ever had. Pointless, and telling; they were exhausted, taxed beyond norms, and to anyone paying attention, they were both suppressing a multitude of underlying feelings.

Unfortunately, some was paying attention.

“You know,” Bernstein began from the other room, “the two of you really need to—”

*************************

The Ranch Inn Frontier, Wyoming 11:37 p.m.

Evicted from the Pink Cloud over the shooting, Mulder sat in the corner of his new motel room under the amber glow of a hanging lamp, a report spread across the table in front of him. He poured over the information that had been faxed to him at the local police station from Washington, seeing that now, no matter what the circumstances, Skinner and Scully needed back up.

Steven "Sharkie" Machenko was well known among the law enforcement community; a former Pittsburgh police officer discharged from the department for misconduct, he moved on to a full-time position with those he'd been helping while still a police officer. Aside from his inside knowledge of police work, Machenko also seemed to have a special skill for 'dislocating' people - he was wanted in connection with four disappearances in three states.

Sharkie would be getting a lot of visitors to his hospital room soon enough, Mulder mused turning his attention to the next piece of faxed information; a list of those believed to associate with the man. The pictures were distorted from the facsimile transmittal, but he could make out faces well enough to recognize one as the man who got away at the Pink Cloud motel.

Lawrence Martin Gryzwac was also well known among law enforcement agencies. He had been connected to numerous Mafia lieutenants, as well as a sundry of crimes that ranged from prostitution to gambling, and murder, but never prosecuted due to either insufficient evidence or the unwillingness of witnesses to testify, or worst yet, their disappearances.

Mulder cursed letting him slip away.

He started to check his watch before remembering it had stopped running after the fray at the Pink Cloud. Checking the digital clock beside the bed he reached for his cell phone before remembering it had given its life to save his earlier that day. Damn, what else is going to get broke, his thoughts going to the motel room phone and dialing Scully's number.

"...The cellular customer you are trying to reach has traveled beyond..." Mulder cut the standard message off, dialing Skinner's cell phone number.

The number rang a couple of times then, "Skin-"

Mulder opened his mouth to speak before he realized Skinner's voice had been cut off. He re-dialed.

"...The cellular customer you are trying to reach has traveled beyond the service area or is unable to answer your call. Please try your call again." Mulder ended the call, pouting at the phone thoughtfully a moment before getting up to gather his things into his travel bag.

He didn't figure Gryzwac for the type to let driving all night stop him from finding someone, and Mulder wasn't that type either.

If he drove all night along I-84 he could catch up to them at some point, he thought studying the faxed report once more before packing in his bag. Or pass them up completely. In any case he would be closer than he was now to help.

****************************************

"Damnit," Skinner mouthed a curse, pressing the keypad on his cell phone with more force than its operation warranted. The battery had discharged during the course of the day and apparently all it took was a few rings to completely drain it.

He suspected it could be Mulder calling. Had he tried to call Scully? He hadn't heard a phone other than his own, and he believed he would have heard anything through these walls judging by the sounds he could hear from the next room over. Thankfully, Bernstein had fallen asleep before the mewing and ohing had begun or surely, he would have kept his mouth running all night about it.

Skinner sat in the dark, facing the window and listening to Bernstein stirring in the next bed. He figured if the phone ringing hadn't woken him, fumbling around in the dark for his phone charger wouldn't either. No matter, he needed to charge the phone.

After a series of misadventures trying to find a free outlet, Skinner settled back into bed, waiting for the phone to charge.

Laying there, too tired to sleep, he stared into the dark no differently than before the phone had rung. He listened to the sound of Bernstein's light snore and heard what sounded like thunder in the distance. Counting seconds between the distant rumbles, Skinner heard the a door open. It was Scully's room.

Without hesitation, he was up and at the window, obscured by the heavy curtains. There she was crossing the parking lot her gate determined, in sock feet and wearing a dark tee shirt and shorts.

He followed her path glancing ahead at the building where she was evidently headed. There, next to the office was a bank of vending machines. I should have known, he mused watching her become silhouetted in the glow of the soda machine lights.

"Next time you go to the vending room, Agent Scully, try to dress more appropriately." His words came back to him, images following with absolute clarity.

Months ago, he had turned his back to her, his eyes searching the hotel hallway for both others who might amble upon the embarrassing scene, and simply look away, to preoccupy himself. He studied the wallpaper design then scrutinized the light fixture which needed good cleaning, from there he glanced at the fire hose case directly across the hall from him. The first reflection he had caught was of himself-- then Scully. He meant to turn away but couldn't, he was frozen, his eyes locked on her bare reflection. Chagrin and guilt gripped him, swelled in his throat, but fascination firmly fixed his eyes on her and the elegance of her movements in that absurd moment.

Skinner shut his eyes, laboring to exercise the memory, but only more came to him.

It was dark out there on that rock in the middle of the lake but there was enough light that he could see the appealing curve of her neck and the damp hair clinging to it. And when she leaned forward the move gave a certain extra hike to the already short hem of her dress and threatened to expose every last inch of her thighs.

He nearly jumped back from the window when he realized she'd turned and was starting back across the parking lot. She was an observant person no matter how fatigued she might be, and he knew if he moved, she would catch sight of the curtains shifting.

He watched her pass holding his breath until he heard the door to her room shut and lock. Stepping back from the window he released his breath, feeling guilt-ridden.

"Did she catch you?" Bernstein's voice came out of the dark unexpectedly and Skinner did jump.

He didn't say anything getting back into bed.

"Just watching your partner's back, huh?"

"Go back to sleep, Bernstein." Skinner grumbled.

"Well, I was asleep until all this heavy breathing woke me up."

Skinner opened his mouth and shut it quickly. The only breathing Bernstein needed to worry about was his own and if it's possible to do it through the pillow he was ready to smother him with if he didn’t shut up.

***********************************

Twin Star Drive in Theater Outside Tokey, Wyoming 11:58 p.m.

Under a pitch-black diamond studded curtain of night, the peaceful, rhythmical sound of crickets was shattered by the sound of gunfire and a police scanner. Muzzle flashes broke the dark, illuminating objects in brief strobe light-like effects- brush, car hood, brooks brother collarless shirt.

Picking off kangaroo mice scurrying in front of the deteriorating outdoor movie screen, Lawrence Martin Gryzwac sat perched on the hood of the 1976 Caddie he'd picked up at a car lot in Prince Town off route 6, listening to the police scanner he had transferred from the Seville he and Sharkie had been traveling in and that he had had to ditch thanks to the smart-ass FBI Agent.

He squeezed off the last two rounds in his nine-millimeter at scurrying shadows. A squeal sounded somewhere near the rusted, leaning remains of a swing set in a long-abandoned playground.

Gryzwac smiled to himself, humming 'Three Blind Mice.'

Smart-ass FBI pretty boy, he thought while exchanging the empty clip for a full one. Won't have such a smart mouth once he gets it blown right off that face of his. He squeezed off another round into the shadows, the scurrying creatures playing effigy to the federal government.

The muffled twitter of his cell phone sounded from inside the car prompting him off the hood and to the front seat. Turning down the scanner he answered the phone, "yeah?"

He listened for a moment, then, "why the fuck doesn't anyone know where they are? They haven't checked in yet, oh, well that explains it, perfectly fuckin' clear. I'm telling you now, you get her to find out where they are and you call me right fuckin' then, Frank. You hear me? Or I'll come to Washington and break the freakin' bitch's neck myself."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Coming soon Part 3

#The Spider and the FBI #skinner scully fanfic #walter skinner #scully #mulder #xfiles fanfic #xfiles #the x-files

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