#a yank is anyone in the northeast of the US

[contortionyx]

To me, anyone in the northeast of the US can be called a yank. A YankEE however is a fan of the baseball team.

yank poll incoming

Bonus points if you tag where you're from and your answer. thank you kisskiss

[rosemaryreaper]

Where was Nick when Hancock evacuated the Diamond City ghouls to Goodneighbor?

Back in September, I started working on a fic that covered exactly that…then I tossed it aside because I thought it was bad. But now I actually want to finish it. It’s a short Nick POV fic that follows the three days before McDonough passes the Anti-Ghoul decree. Also featured are Ellie, Security Captain Lennie Sullivan, and a still human Hancock. Here’s a snippet from Chapter 2, which is the night before everything goes to hell.

* * * *

In the end, there was nothing to be done but wait. Ellie returned with more than enough documents to fit the bill, and after another round through the line, the guard let him through with minimal hostility. When he tried to subtly linger to keep an eye on things, Security threatened to shoot him for loitering, so there was no choice but to return to the office. Lennie never returned. Neither did many of the ghouls.

Convincing his old circuit board of a brain to focus on work after that morning was difficult, but it didn’t change the fact that he still had a half dozen interconnected missing persons cases on his desk. Sitting around doing nothing wasn’t going to help anyone, ghoul or missing girl, so the least they could do was be productive with the spare time. He got Ellie to bring out what she had dubbed “the conspiracy board”—a big map of the Commonwealth they had pinned to a corkboard—and the two of them spent the afternoon moving around colored pins and strings, trying to work out which route the traffickers were using to smuggle these girls around the state.

“Think Bunker Hill could be a stopover?” Ellie asked, tapping her fingernail on a red circle to the northeast.

“They’d have to go through Goodneighbor first,” Nick said.

“I don’t doubt it. Sounds like the sort of business Vic’s gang would get mixed up in. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s responsible for this whole horrible trade.”

“Still could be a third party. Or a bit of both. We won’t know till we learn more.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t be surprised either.” He added another pin to the board. “If they’re using Bunker Hill, then they aren’t the only party stashing that particular kind of cargo there overnight. I have a contact I can talk to, see if his guys have noticed any odd goings on.”

“Sounds promising,” Ellie said.

“Let’s hope so. This is one trail I absolutely do not want to leave to get cold.”

Arturo was the neighborhood tourist. Nick would have to catch him alone sometime soon; ask him to get a message through to Deacon and his crew. If anyone was an expert on smuggling people through the Commonwealth undetected, it was the Railroad.

The door screeched open, and a choked sob tumbled through its frame. Violet shuffled in, fully weeping within Riley’s embrace. To her, Riley said, “Here, sweetheart, let’s just sit down for a spell, okay?” To the rest of the room, she said, “I’m going to fucking kill someone.”

“Oh, Violet.” Ellie rushed to grab a blanket from the bedroom. “Here, have a seat, honey.” While Riley lowered Violet into the cushioned chair, Ellie wrapped the blanket around the poor ghoul.

Jax stumbled out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed and in their undershirt, which had rolled up to expose their bandages. “Vi? What happened?”

Riley’s brows shot up. “What the hell happened to you?”

“New exercise regime,” Jax said.

“Jesus Christ,” Riley said. “Somebody jumped you.”

“What?” Violet gasped through tears.

“It’s nothing, Vi,” Jax said. “What’s wrong?”

Violet let out another sob. “I’ve never been s-so humiliated.”

“Oh no,” Ellie said. “They didn’t accept any of your papers?”

“None! The boys and I tried everything. Yefim even tried to draw up something last minute, but they wouldn’t take any of it! Now I’m going to lose everything—my home, my job. I won’t survive outside the Wall, not for a night.” She bowed her head and cried.

Ellie yanked open the drawers of her desk, pulling out a whole stack of handkerchiefs and a mug, the latter of which she filled from the coffee thermos. She murmured to Violet, out of even Nick’s broad earshot, until she could convince her to hold the mug in her hands. Nick sent a silent thanks to fate that he had hired her. He had been about to say something a hell of a lot more blunt.

“Nonhumans,” Riley snarled. “Nonhumans! We’re not another species. We’re not animals. I have half a mind to march up to the Stands right now—kick down doors until I find every councilman responsible. They want to see feral? I’ll show them feral.”

Nick said, “You’ll get yourself shot.”

“I’ll get myself shot outside too. This way will be quicker.”

Jax said, “None of our lot are getting shot outside if I can help it. Not if they stick with me.”

“Oh, look, it’s the ghoul savior,” Riley deadpanned. “Right now, if I had to bet on who would win in a fight, you or a mole rat, I’d back the mole rat.”

“It’s not all hopeless, is it?” Ellie asked, rubbing Violet’s back. “Some ghouls still managed to vote. Riley, you did.”

Riley scowled. “I did, barely, because I’m fortunate. They gave us no warning, no time to get our papers in order—and a lot of ghouls didn’t. Screw all the drifters, I guess.”

Nick could sense Jax giving him a look out of the corner of his eye. One of the “I told you so” variety. Ellie was giving him a different kind of look. One that placed far too must trust in his nonexistent ability to overcome the odds. You can do something, Nicky. Right?

Nick could do something. He could turn his investigation towards the city, root out who was pulling the strings—who had organized the guards, who had influenced the Council, who had to benefit from all the chaos. It would take time, but he was nothing if not persistent. His joints hadn’t rusted to a halt yet.

But the ghouls didn’t have time. They had tonight. The proverbial nuke had already been launched. Catching the crook here wouldn’t save anyone until after there was no one left to be saved. So, Nick would do something all right: he would shield them from the blast best he could and help those who survived out of the debris. No more. No better.

“Jax is working on an escape route,” Nick said. “I’ve been scrounging up supplies. You need something—help organizing a caravan, a spare gun, anything—you say the word.”

The room calmed, but not in a comfortable way. The room calmed in the same way a snake calms when it is too cold to move. Violet had quieted. Jax looked determined; Riley grim. Ellie turned her face away.

Jax crossed over to Violet, offering her a hand up. “Come on, Vi. Why don’t we get you back to the Dugout? You look like you could use something stronger than coffee.”

Violet accepted, sniffling, and they slipped an arm around her shoulders. With a quiet murmur of thanks to Nick, she and Jax made their exit. Riley didn’t follow. She gazed down at the empty chair, then up at Nick with that grim expression. She stalked forward, and he froze, startled, as she threw her arms around him.

Most folks weren’t lining up to give the metal man hugs. It wasn’t the kind of relationship he had with Ellie, who was technically his employee, and it wasn’t something he would ever initiate with a client, no matter how distraught. He was hyper aware of his own strength as he lifted his arms, and they hung suspended for too long as he tried to recall the last time he had calibrated them. He briefly considered blacking out to run a quick diagnostic.

But the moment had already gone on too long, and something of the old Nick kicked in. He rested his hands on her back.

“Hey now, Doc, this isn’t like you,” he said with something like humor.

Riley chuckled, with something a little less like humor. “Just saying thank you, gumshoe—for everything. In case I don’t get the chance to.” She pulled away. “I could use a drink too. Might as well celebrate my last night, while it lasts. Feel free to join.” Then she made her exit.

Ellie was on the verge of a question again, but she still didn’t want to ask it, because she still wasn’t looking at him. He looked at the board with all its strings and pins. He looked at the empty chair, the abandoned blanket, the untouched coffee. He released a long breath, forever weaker than it should be. Then he donned his coat and his hat, and he offered his secretary his arm.

It got her attention. With a faint smile, she linked her elbow with his, resting her other hand on his forearm. And they made their exit too.

[jellybeanium124]

so if you, the nonamerican reading this don't know, within the country, "yankee" only refers to someone from the northeast part of the country. I'd be hesitant to call anyone from below new jersey a yank and even then, might be best just to stick to the new england six. it is inappropriate to call someone from anywhere else a yank and if you call someone from the south a yankee they'll get mad at you. HOWEVER. I think having a cute little nickname to refer to americans by would be good for us. like the kiwis got it right. anyways my suggestion is burgerino. any american with a half decent sense of humor will laugh at that and if someone gets mad then they're just a stick in the mud and you don't have to worry about where in this big-ass country a person is from. we are all burgerinos.

[stawpny]

this is random 😔

I have this little hc that I’ve been thinking abt

NY— because of NYC— has many different families

like he has Chinese, Puerto Rican , Italian (+ his Ma and Grams), German, and Greek families (probably more too)

He has two separate uncles as well: One Scottish, and the other Irish

and a whole truckload of people he calls his nieces and nephews even if they aren’t related to him in any way shape or form

I feel like this idea could be kinda funny but also wholesome too

like I see York trying to learn their language but also him getting forced in their cultural clothing that clearly dont fit him

every other week there’s another wedding he has to attend. what can he say, he’s a busy man.

-

during the reformation or reconstruction era (the era after the civil war, forgot what it was called) York was sent down to a handful of southern states to “help” but he ended up doing nothing and being sent back to DC by the state he was in.

anyway, he had been told by South Carolina to just sit still and he would be there to send him back, as stated in a letter to York, but York hardly could sit still, so he started walking around the streets of some random town.

this kid, I’ve named him Edward (idk if that’s historically acc but wtv), came up to him and stared at him oddly for a hot minute. York just kind of stood awkwardly, as he does, and stared back. York felt kinda self-conscious about his Yankee-ness when he looked him up and down.

Edward then took York by the sleeve and led him back to his house, which was around a half a mile walk, ignoring New York’s questions. It was like a non-hostile kidnapping.

When Edward’s father saw York he stared at his son with utter confusion.

-

Edward’s dad: Who the hell is this?

Edward: He’s my new pet. I’ve named him Yank.

New York:

Edward, shrugging at his fathers blank stare: It’s short fer Yankee Doodle.

-

Edward’s dad laughed at him and left. York just stood there, awkward as ever and somewhat petrified of Edward. He’s dealt with stone-cold Northeast states his whole life (and was one!!) and yet a southern child was his breaking point.

it came to dinner, and he, of course, wasn’t allowed to sit at the table.

-

Edward: Yank! Boy, sit!

New York: I.. what..?

Edward: I SAID SIT, NOT SPEAK! SIT!!

-

York did as told and knelt on the floor by the table, praying for South Carolina to arrive soon.

—

got a bit carried away there, but it felt like something I needed to share

he also never told anyone about this and it was Southie who walked in to him kneeling by a dinner table with a glass bowl infront of him.

York said he would murder him if he said anything, so he didn’t.

the best part was Edward’s family 1) completely ignoring him and 2) using southern slang that made York want to throw himself on the floor and cry because what the actual fuck does it mean?

“happier than a pig in shit” Edward, I beg, explain

[piratesexmachine420]

Thinking about the term "USAmerican".

'cause, like, it's obviously artificial, right? I've never seen anyone use that pattern for smaller states, never seen an argument about how "actually you should be using the terms 'DRCongolese' and 'RCongolose' to avoid ambiguity; there's more than one country called the Congo." (Maybe that's just selection bias though. "I haven't seen this argued" doesn't mean it isn't or shouldn't be.)

How would you even pronounce "USAmerican"? "Yu Es American"? That's six syllables, nobody is gonna say that out loud. "Oosamerican"? Now you sound like Jar Jar Binks. It only really works when written.

And like, I get it. There are a lot of countries in the Americas, why should American mean "Someone from the USA" when European, Asian, African or Oceanian are all unambiguously referring to continents.

I've heard some people and places argue for variations on "United States-ese" -- but this isn't much better. We don't call people from the United Mexican States "United States-ese". When Brazil was officially the "Republic of the United States of Brazil" nobody called them "United States-ese". Then again, I've never seen anyone misunderstand what someone else means by "The United States" -- so it's still better than "American" from that metric.

And all the other alternatives I've seen, the ones that just abandon adapting "The United States of America" and start from somewhere else, are worse. "Columbian" and "Washingtonian", both for the capital, don't work for a multitude of reasons. First, no other country has a demonym derived from the name of their capital city, because that's also ambiguous. "Did you mean 'Londoner' as in 'from London' or as in 'from England'?" -- that's a dumb question to have to ask. Secondly, "Columbian" and "Washingtonian" already have too many meanings. "Washingtonian" could mean "from D.C.", "from the state of Washington", or a billion other cities and counties within and outside the USA. "Columbian" could mean "from the Columbia river valley" or mistaken for a misspelling of "Colombian", among countless others.

"Yankee" or "Yank" is alright, but internally tends to refer to the northeast of the country. You'd probably get a lot of south/southeasters mad at you. Then again, I frankly don't care about respecting a culture founded on chattel slavery and a deeply held respect for the armed overthrow of democracy. Call me back when your politicians reflect your demographics, we'll talk then.

Until then, my vote goes to "Yankee". Cope and Seethe, Jefferson Davis.

[purplesauris]

Desperate Measures

Inspired by a prompt from @writinglizards  "Higher Vamp!Jask feeding on Geralt for like...Important and Unavoidable reasons." I have come back with more vampire!Jaskier (is anyone surprised?)

Read it on AO3 here!

“Surely you aren’t suggesting I stay back at camp?” Jaskier tilts his head to the side, appraising the witcher before him. Said witcher in question pauses in his prepwork, sighing heavily and capping the vial of Swallow he’d just brewed.

“Is that what you interpreted from ‘stay here’?” Geralt’s voice is dry, and he watches, unamused, as Jaskier makes a face at him and crosses his arms.

“Geralt, I am not some human you have to protect.”

“No, you’re an untrained higher vampire who I don’t want to babysit while trying to fight a leshen .” Jaskier gasps, affronted, and presses a hand over his heart as if the witcher has wounded him grievously. He sputters at a reply, irritated, and Geralt’s expression is cool as Jaskier tries to form some kind of argument. Geralt sighs heavily again, rubbing at his forehead and tilting his head back to look at the sun peeking through the trees. “You have to promise not to do anything stupid.”

Soft lips press to his neck then, and Geralt hums as Jaskier nuzzles him, grinning against his skin. “Swear on my life.”

“You’re immortal.”

“Swear on your life?” Jaskier tries again, and Geralt huffs, rolling his eyes and tilting his head down to kiss Jaskier’s forehead.

“It’s better, I guess.” Jaskier grins, and he slips away to get ready. Geralt isn’t sure what Jaskier has to do to get ready for a hunt, but Geralt doesn’t worry about it yet. He worries about his own prepwork- finishing the potions he’ll need, making sure his silver blade is sharp and covered in Relict oil. It’s going to be a hard fight no matter what, but the pay will be well worth it and he might actually have enough to go to the armorer in Velen after this. They’re camped as close to the supposed sighting as Geralt is comfortable with, and when he can’t stall anymore he stands, sliding his sword back into its sheath on his back. He smothers the fire, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke to ground him before he turns toward the forest.

There’s a soft noise from beside him, and he glances over just in time to see Jaskier hop down from a tree, clad in leather armor. The sight stops Geralt short, and his brows furrow in confusion. The leather hugs Jaskier’s form tight, bulked up around the most vital parts of him and thin at the joints to allow for movement. Jaskier catches him looking and spins in place, grinning.

“You like it?”

“When did you get it?” Geralt doesn’t want to admit just how much he likes Jaskier in armor, and he turns to begin walking again.

“Oh, maybe a decade ago? I figured that once I finally told you what I was you would be more agreeable to letting me tag along.”

“I’m not.” His reply is automatic, but Jaskier only chuckles, easily keeping pace as Geralt slinks further into the forest. Geralt listens to the soft creak of leather, but Jaskier’s armor appears to have been meticulously cared for and makes minimal sound. That’s good. “Tell me what you know of Leshens.”

“They don’t taste good.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone is sharp, and Jaskier huffs beside him, keeping his voice low as Geralt’s eyes track every broken leaf or odd footstep.

“They’re particularly formidable forest spirits who’s only objective in life is to kill, and kill quickly. They are capable of using roots, minor teleportation and control of wolves and crows to take down prey.”

Geralt hums in surprise, and Jaskier bumps their shoulders together. He sounds as if he were reading from a bestiary, and Geralt knows that’s because of Jaskier’s memory. Geralt can smell the pride radiating off of him, and he secretly nurtures the kernel of it in his chest. Jaskier has been studying- particularly the more dangerous foes, it seems. “What would I use against them?”

“Beside silver? Relict oil, Igni, and Yrden if desperate.”

“Good. Now hush. Hear them?” Geralt stops then, lingering a bit as Jaskier tilts his head and closes his eyes. He’s still for a moment before his head turns northeast, and Geralt’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Crows.”

“Where there’s crows, there’s an idol.”

“Lead on, love.” Jaskier’s footsteps are silent, and he hardly seems to be touching the ground as they move closer to the sound of wings and cawing. The first group of crows fly away in a flurry of wings, and Geralt hunts around a bit before shaking his head. Nothing. They sneak to two more flocks before Jaskier tilts his head, jerking his chin toward a thick tree.

There at the base of the tree is an assembly of branches, a staff almost, with a deer's skull firmly mounted atop it. Leaves have been carefully arranged around it, as if it were a mane, and Jaskier hmms quietly. He seems to admire the craftsmanship, and he takes a step closer to look. He doesn’t touch, thankfully, but the closer Jaskier leans to look the more Geralt’s skin crawls. He keeps careful watch of their surroundings, but the forest is eerily silent, as if holding its breath. “We have to destroy it to lure the leshen out.”

“Allow me, love.” Geralt draws his sword and downs Thunderbolt, rolling his wrist out and watching as Jaskier reaches forward. He crushes the skull between his hands with a dull crunch and rips the branches apart, tossing them wide. A low, mournful bellow shakes the branches around them, and Geralt’s nose is filled with the scent of blood and decaying leaves. He watches with bated breath as the leshen walks from behind a tree, then another, and then another, teleporting in a slow circle around the two of them. They watch each other, no one moving until the leshen raises a long, clawed finger and points straight at Jaskier. Geralt swears, but Jaskier laughs, the sound of wings rapidly blocking out the sound. Crows pour from the treetops, talons outstretched, but Jaskier is in front of him before he can breathe, arms outstretched.

“ GO .” The word vibrates with ancient, shimmering power, and the birds veer off in every direction around them, screeching. Jaskier glances back at him, nodding once sharply before taking off like a bullet through the trees. The leshen’s attention remains firmly on Jaskier’s fleeing form, crows batting between the two of them in a test of ancient wills. Geralt slips into the fray, slashing at the leshen with practiced, smooth strikes. He rolls away from a wide swing, rolling again when the ground shakes, roots unearthed and stretching toward him. The leshen seems to switch focus to an active participant, and the crows switch as well. Geralt can hear Jaskier call out to them, keeping their attention mostly diverted so that Geralt can prioritize the leshen.

The leshen battles with deadly efficiency, swiping with long claws and shaking the ground under Geralt’s feet. Geralt adjusts as best he can, but he hangs back when howls resound in the air. Having tired of Jaskier’s intervention with the crows the beast has called wolves, and Geralt spins and twirls out of the way of snapping jaws, dispatching each wolf that gets too close. The wolves do their job though, and Geralt snarls when jaws eventually latch onto his calf, tearing at the muscle. Geralt moves with the wolf, keeping his muscle mostly intact, and he swings his blade down blindly. The wolf lets go of him and Geralt downs a Swallow, ignoring the dampness that spreads through his pant leg.

Jaskier materializes from the treeline, breathing hard at the tang of Geralt’s blood in the air, and Geralt watches as Jaskier’s fingers curve into claws. They bite deep into the wood of the leshen’s body, tearing gouges from the bark and sending leaves flying. There isn’t blood really so much as sap, but the leshen dissolves into smoke, Jaskier chasing instinctively. Geralt’s calf has healed enough that he can limp after, favoring the one side. Jaskier circles the smoke the way a wolf circles a wounded deer, and Geralt yells a warning. A leshen injured enough is like cornered prey- viable to do anything to survive. Geralt leaps forward when he senses the leshen finally appear, sword plunging upward as the ground quakes under foot. He feels his blade scrape against the wooden core of the monster, scoring the heart, and he sends a wave of heat through his blade.

It’s a trick that Eskel had taught him- a way to push his signs into the runes inscribed down the length of his silver, and the leshen bursts in flames immediately. It brays and swings wildly, but Geralt pulls back and ducks, slashing at leg and watching as the spirit goes down, writhing in a ball of flame. Geralt doesn’t wait for the leshen to stop moving, severing the head with one mighty swing and watching as it rolls halfway over and settles, horns digging into the earth. He hears a pained wheeze to his left, and he looks over to see Jaskier in an odd position, half standing, half crouched, impaled on at least six different roots. They twist and burrow into his skin, punching right through the leather armor, and Geralt sheaths his sword without bothering to wipe it off.

“ Fuck . Don’t move.” Geralt circles Jaskier slowly, trying to find where to begin, but Jaskier is making these odd hiccupy gasps and Geralt’s heart leaps into his throat. “I have to cut them away.”

“No, just leave me-”

“Jaskier, shut the fuck up.” Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut and he glares at Geralt, bearing his teeth when the man gets close. Geralt does it back, hissing low in his throat and pressing his lips together when Jaskier falls into sullen silence. Jaskier squints at him, growling when Geralt begins cutting away at the roots. He focuses mostly on the ones that have looped back into Jaskier’s body, pulling each one away with a wet noise. Jaskier jerks and groans with each one that comes free, and Geralt tries to ignore the small chunks of Jaskier that come with some of the deeper roots.

“Geralt, either yank me off these right now or get the fuck out of the way-” Jaskier’s voice wheezes out of him, devoid of it’s usual musicality. Geralt can hear the same odd fluttering in Jaskier's voice, and he realizes Jaskier has at least one punctured lung. Geralt does as Jaskier asks, tucking his knife away and grabbing onto Jaskier with firm hands. He begins to mutter a count, Jaskier bracing for it, but Geralt hardly says two before yanking Jaskier up and off the roots. His body comes away with a wet squelch and Jaskier howls in pain, writhing in Geralt's grasp. Jaskier's hands come up to shove Geralt away on instinct, and he goes stumbling back at the force of it. Jaskier tumbles into the dirt, wheezing and snarling and back arching up off the ground.

Geralt approaches slowly, hands up and shoulders slumped to make himself seem smaller. Jaskier tracks him, pupils constricted to pinpoints, and Geralt goes down on his knees beside Jaskier. The ground around him is slick with blood, and Geralt has never seen Jaskier bleed so much. Holes riddle his abdomen and chest, and Geralt tries not to stare through Jaskier to the forest floor beneath him.

"What can I do?"

"Leave me." Jaskier's chest rises and falls in uneven, stuttered breaths, and Geralt shakes his head immediately.

"There has to be something -"

"Geralt, the only thing I am liable to do right now is rip your throat out and drink like a glutton to dull my pain. I will heal in a couple of hours, now leave ."

Geralt goes still at that and Jaskier thinks perhaps he's been a little too beastly, but Geralt sizes him up, eyes glowing in the light of the forest. Geralt fishes a vial from the small pack at his hip, downs it in one go, and begins to remove his armor. Jaskier watches in pained confusion, head swimming, as Geralt rolls his sleeves up and leans down over Jaskier.

"Will it help your healing?"

"Think seconds instead of hours. But I'll- I won't be able to stop."

"You will." Geralt smiles at Jaskier then, trusting and warm, and Jaskier feels supremely unworthy.

"Geralt-"

"You will. And I have ways to stop you if you don't." Geralt sits patiently as Jaskier thinks it over, eyes wary and afraid, but Geralt takes the bard's hand and squeezes lightly. Jaskier reaches up with a shaking hand, cupping the back of Geralt's neck and drawing him down. His touch is gentle, light, but Geralt moves with him without any resistance and Jaskier kisses him once.

"Thank you." Jaskier breathes, and Geralt opens his mouth to say something, but the only sound that comes out is a strangled moan as Jaskier sinks his teeth into his neck. Geralt can feel his pulse slamming through him, and he hopes that the white honey has had enough time to work or Jaskier is going to be in for a rough time. The first initial flash of pain melts away from him quickly, and Jaskier drinks greedily, shaking underneath him and hands gripping Geralt's ribs tight enough that he can feel them creak in protest. Geralt sags into Jaskier as he feeds, and maybe this wasn't the best thing to do in the middle of the forest, but he couldn't bear the thought of just leaving him here.

Geralt, despite the circumstances and rather shitty surroundings, is embarrassed to find himself rather aroused. He hadn't thought about it when he'd asked Jaskier to take from him, but Jaskier's fingers have slipped up and are tight in his hair and he keeps making these soft little sounds that goes straight to his groin. It doesn't help that Jaskier seems very, very skilled at what he does, and Geralt groans quietly. The noise seems to shake Jaskier, because he pulls back with a gasp, lips bloody and pupils blown wide. Geralt wants to say something about knowing that Jaskier could control himself, but he's being tossed onto his back like a sack of potatoes and Geralt's head spins at the sudden movement.

Geralt hears the buckles of armor coming undone, and he turns his head to watch as Jaskier rips off his ruined chestpiece. He leaves it in a heap by the leshen and moves with one fluid movement, swinging a leg over Geralt's hips and grinding against him. Geralt gasps at the sudden sensation, and his hands fly up to grab at Jaskier's hips as the man leans down, lapping at the blood on his neck and sealing the puncture wounds shut. Jaskier's hands are propped on either side of Geralt's head, and he rolls his hips in quick, fluid movements, panting and whining. Geralt presses his hips up, trying to give more friction, and he moans when Jaskier's hips bear down, pinning him into the dirt and grinding particularly hard. Geralt tries to catch Jaskier in a kiss, wrapping an arm around Jaskier's shoulders and pulling him in.

Their teeth clack together uncomfortably for a second and Geralt can feel his lip slice open on one of Jaskier's teeth, but it only serves to goad Jaskier on. The fresh taste makes Jaskier's hips jerk against Geralt, and he groans happily when Jaskier kisses him rather thoroughly. Geralt's heart races in his chest as he pulls Jaskier more flush against him, and Jaskier whines against his lips, hips stuttering and losing their easy rhythm. Geralt's other hand applies steady pressure to Jaskier's hip, helping smooth out Jaskier's desperate rhythm and guiding him when he gets close.

"So good, Jask- you close?" The words feel silly in his mouth, and he isn't usually one to say much, but Jaskier whimpers at the praise, nodding and babbling.

"Don't know what you do to me- please, I can't- please, Geralt, please-" Geralt shushes Jaskier softly, kissing him again and rolling his hips up to meet Jaskier halfway. Jaskier shudders, gasping in short stunted breaths, and Geralt's hand slips to Jaskier's ass, grabbing and shoving their hips together. Jaskier's hips jerk in Geralt's grip, and he ruts messily against Geralt as he comes, whining low in his throat and twitching when Geralt grinds up against him to work him through it. Geralt doesn't stop the easy roll of his hips until Jaskier goes boneless against his chest, shivering and twitching with overstimulation. Geralt presses kisses into Jaskier's sweaty hair, humming when Jaskier stirs and groans.

"Feeling better?" Geralt's voice is a whisper when he talks, and Jaskier's hands slip from the dirt to rest on Geralt's shoulders, fingers drawing idle patterns.

"I've healed, and more embarrassingly, made a mess of my pants like a teenager. I would say I'm feeling much better." Geralt chuckles quietly, pressing another kiss to Jaskier's temple just because he can and hissing when Jaskier shifts in his lap. Jaskier huffs out a hot breath, rolling his hips, but Geralt grabs at him to keep him still and grunts.

"I'm fine. I don't have enough blood in me to stay conscious and be hard."

"Pity. It'd be less embarrassing if you made a mess too." Geralt laughs at that and Jaskier gives a pleased hum, smiling against Geralt's skin from where he's tucked his face into Geralt's neck.

[jkl-fff]

Dipper and Norman, #50

Thanks for the prompt!

Comedy Golem

It was a rest stop like any other in the Northeast. Just a gas station with some picnic tables, surrounded by deciduous woodlands. But the car pulled into it all the same. Two young men—partners in work, partners in life, and partners not infrequently in actions of questionable legality (although “crime” was such a strong word)—then set themselves up at one of the picnic tables, producing sodas and sandwiches from a cooler.

Laying out a map of the Northeast, Dipper gestured towards a sizeable splotch of green in upper Pennsylvania. It was labeled “Alleghany National Forest”, its shape vaguely reminded Norman of an elephant’s head (with an upraised trunk), and it was clearly the epicenter of a wide swath of red post-its marked with names and some rather recent dates. “As you can see, we’ve got its—his? her? their? whatever—probable location pretty well pinned down.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Norman replied around a bite of sandwich. His tone was deadpan, as it usually was (perhaps an occupational hazard of being a Medium … or of spending most of his time around the Pines family and their own special brand of insanity). “Practically pinpoint accuracy, in fact. Only … 1000 square miles of untamed woodlands for us to search.”

“Pff! Untamed,” Dipper scoffed with the kind of elitist scorn only heard from people who hail from west of the Rockies whenever the subject of Appalachia’s wilderness is broached. “Right. Which means we might get as low as three bars during our investigation. How perilous. Besides, it’s barely even 800 square miles—I checked.”

“Of course you did.”

“But, nah, I think I’ve actually narrowed down the location even further. To riiiiiight … here.”

Norman craned his neck to read the spot his friend tapped (after lifting aside the veritable blanket of red post-its covering it, as it was the center of the epicenter). “… Squirrely Stars Campground. Huh. That why they call this thing ‘the Squirrel Hill Golem’?”

“Nah, that’s because the first sighting was in a neighborhood of Pittsburgh called Squirrel Hill.”

“… You’re yanking my chain. You’ve gotta be.”

“Nope.” Dipper gestured to that segment of the map. “Read it and gape in bewilderment. But, considering Pittsburgh has a massive Jewish population and that’s one of its major sectors, sorta makes sense a Golem would first come outta there. My research suggests it was a Rabbi named Mahara Chelmman who made it back in 1997 (although she wasn’t a Rabbi at the time she made the Golem), but that’s not 100% verified; could’ve been two other people.”

Norman considered that, and it all sounded reasonable enough. For a given value of reasonable, at any rate, since he was dealing with a Pines here. A very negotiable given value of reasonable. “… So did the Golem run off from Pittsburgh a la f-Frankenstein’s Monster upon being rejected by its … Um. How ‘bout we just use a Third-Person, Singular ‘they’ for now?”

“Works for me.”

“Okay. Yada-yada, Frankenstein’s Monster rejected by their creator?”

That got a shrug in response. “Hard to say. Most accounts suggest everyone was cool with them. They might’ve just, like, decided they wanted to live their own life? It was the 90s …”

“So they ran off into the woods of Northern Pennsylvania for the next … twenty-ish years. Sure. Why not? Lots of mud out here—Golems do need m-mud, right?”

“It helps. Makes it easier for them to, like, heal or regenerate and such. Anyway, I’m thinking you will infiltrate the camp and blend in there—”

“Squirrely Stars,” Norman couldn’t help but smirk at the dumb name.

“—to find out what the people there know, maybe interview some Ghosts, too, if there are any. It’s where the highest concentration of sightings are clustered, so someone’s gotta be able to give us something workable.”

Norman nodded his assent. “Makes sense. I’m g-generally better at talking to people—”

“Right? Those were my thoughts exactly!” Dipper hastened to agree.

“—and not like you can communicate with Ghosts 97% of the time, anyway. What about you, though? If I’m doing the people-work at camp, what’re you gonna be doing?”

“Trek around the area out a ways from the camp. See what traces of the Golem I can forestry up. Footprints, magical energies, that sorta thing. Leg-work while you do the people-work. Also makes sense, right, since I’m better at that kinda stuff anyway?” Dipper asked. In a tone of voice that was … almost leading.

Which instantly made Norman a bit suspicious. But there wasn’t anything in that assessment either of them could disagree with, so he had to concede, “… I suppose you’re better at all the, um, stuff out in the woods—”

“Great!” Dipper was already halfway back to the car. “Let’s get moving! I’ll drop you off there.”

***TWO HOURS LATER*** PARKED OUTSIDE THE ENTRANCE TO A DIRT ROAD BENEATH A SIGN READING “SQUIRRELY STARS CAMPGROUND WARNING: NATURIST PROPERTY”

“Okay, but WHY do I have to be NAKED?!” Norman shrilled at the young man he had, until roughly five seconds ago, thought would always be his partner in life. Whereas now he was thinking that young man was about to be his former partner in life. Because he might kill him. Just straight-up murder him with a hefty tree branch or a sharp rock or maybe his bare hands.

Being a Medium meant their relationship wouldn’t have to end at death, true, but you couldn’t exactly call someone your “life partner” if they were dead. Especially if because you killed them by repeatedly smacking their face into the steering wheel or hurling them right into the sun or strangling them with their own seatbelt. That tended to sour most relationships.

“Look, I realize—”

“WHY does ANYONE have to be NAKED?!”

“Because it’s a nudist colony. Or … Well, maybe ‘nudist resort’ is more accurate?” Dipper mused aloud to himself. “Meh. Either way, ‘cause that’s the no-dress code here.”

“But WHY do I have to be NAKED?!”

“How else are you gonna infiltrate and then blend in at a nudist colony and/or resort? C’mon, man, you gotta think logically about this.”

“Yeah, but … WHY does ANYONE who is ME have to be NAKED?!”

“They prob’ly won’t talk to you if you’re not,” Dipper explained, his manner reasonable enough. For a given value of reasonable, at any rate. A very negotiable given value of reasonable. “Like, you’d make them uncomfortable .”

“Oh, well, I c-certainly wouldn’t want them to be uncomfortable!” Norman retorted witheringly.

“It won’t be for long. Just long enough to, y’know, fit in a little and scrounge some info.”

“Never worried about fitting in before,” Norman grumbled. “Don’t see why I should start now. Anyway, if this’s so easy, why aren’t y-you doing it?”

“You said it yourself: You’re better at talking to people, I’m better at ‘all the stuff in the woods’.” And Dipper couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across his face as he quoted him.

“… I hate you soo much right now.”

Dipper shrugged. “That’s fair. But, seriously though, it’s safer this way, too, ‘cause I’m Jewish.”

Norman blinked. Then he blinked again. “… What?”

“I’m Jewish, so the Golem won’t try to hurt me if they’re acting, like, confrontational.”

Norman shook his head. “Okay, no, I’m calling bullshit on that.”

“Dude, you know I’m Jew—”

“No, yes, I know you’re Jewish,” Norman snapped impatiently. “I mean I’m calling b-bullshit on that being some sorta, like, pseudo-mystical-religious-ethnic protection from Golems.”

“Golems exist to protect Jewish people,” Dipper countered, a little condescendingly. “They, like, physically can’t hurt us. Everybody knows that—it’s the first thing you learn about Golems.”

“Even assuming that’s true—and I don’t assume it, in fact, I contest it—how in the 79 Hells’re you supposed, like, to prove your Jewishness (especially to a vaguely humanoid shape made outta mud)? You gotta yarmulke on under that stupid cap of yours I don’t know about?”

“First of all: screw you, my cap is iconic.” Dipper even took a moment to admire his reflection in the rearview mirror, straightened his cap ever so slightly, and made fingerguns at himself. “Second of all: I’ll just say a birkhot or something. Ooo! Maybe even one of the secret ones from the Kabballah! Though a regular one’d prob’ly work fine.”

“Oh, please, I c-could do that. Doesn’t prove anyth—”

“No, you could not. You don’t even know what a birkhot is.”

“It’s like … a prayer and magic incantation rolled into one,” Norman replied (albeit hesitantly).

“Pff! No, that’s not what a bir—”

“In fact, I’m 100% certain I’ve heard you describe birkhots exactly that way,” Norman asserted, not hesitant any longer. “Same way you d-describe the other (and I quote) ‘sorta pseudo-mystical-religious-ethnic spells and incantations and stuff’ you’ve got memorized in pre-Catholic Latin and Ancient Greek and Old Nordic for whenever we gotta deal with a … y’know, with a demon-adjacent, supernatural entity.”

Dipper considered that a moment. Then he admitted, “Okay, maybe yeah, that does sound like something I’d say. But the point—”

“HA! Vindication!” And Norman pounded the dashboard in triumph.

“But the point is, I can recite ‘בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה' אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הַעוֹלָם, דָיַן הַאֱמֶת׃’ at the drop of a hat—wait! the drop of a freakin’ kippah—with all the additional, apotropaic hand signs … Whereas you can’t even do a basic exorcism or protective spell in any language.”

Norman crossed his arms and sulkily looked out the passenger window. “Well, s-some of us just t-talk to the spirits and such. Like a n-normal, polite person … w-works just fine … ” Eventually, he huffed, “Why in the 79 Hells is a Golem even hanging around a n-nudist colony?!”

“A resort, I think.”

“I will murder you,” Norman stated, as if making a solemn vow. “With … an ice cream scoop.”

“Heh! Love you, too. Soo … does that mean you’ll do it?”

“You haven’t even answered my question.”

“Honestly? No clue. I just kinda assumed the Golem turned out to be, like, a pervert? But maybe they feel more at home among other people who aren’t wearing clothes? But, anyway, will you? … C’mon, Normy-warmy,” Dipper wheedled, his voice taking on a cutesy, coaxing, pleadingly singsong tone. “Pleeeease, Normy-warmy?”

“… That is ch-cheating, and you know it.”

“Pleeeease help me with this Monster Hunt? You just gotta talk to some people (and/or Ghosts). It won’t even take that long. Heck, if the people in there are anything like me, once they see you naked, their brains’ll stop working due to awestruck amazement—”

Norman grumbled, “S-soo much cheating.”

“—and they’ll be soo mesmerized by your sexy body (and beautiful smile)—”

“Why am I dating such an honorless cheater?” But, despite his protests, Norman was blushing.

“—that they’ll be compelled to do whatever you want for, like, the rest of their lives. It’ll be quick and easy. I promise.”

Feebly, Norman made one final attempt. “…But I sunburn so easy—”

Dipper reached over to open the glove compartment. Inside was a bottle of SPF100 sunscreen.

“… Fffffine. But you owe me big.”

“Deal!”

“I’m talking, like, a solid w-week of pampering.”

“Deal!”

“Romantic dates. Fancy cooking. Back rubs on demand—”

“Deal!” And Dipper punctuated that with a kiss to Norman’s cheek. “Now strip! Oh, but you can leave your shoes and socks on (the nudists aren’t idiots, even if they are sorta nuts). And, also, they usually use backpacks for holding onto all their stuff. What with not having pockets.”

Pulling off his shirt, Norman sighed. “Why do I keep letting you talk me into stuff like this?”

[dragonscanbeplantstoo]

Agape

an Oil & Sky story

I was boring that summer in Milan. I was already boring in Dresden, and boring before that, in Paris and Montpellier. But those three months I spent trapped under the Milanese sun were a singular boring. Like one of those bottled ecosystems, I needed almost nothing to exist, and impacted almost nothing with my existence.

I was there for Degas; for a three-month fellowship dedicated to his philosophies and techniques. It had to be in Milan, because Degas had already chewed Paris to pieces. He was in every café, around every corner, a weight on every dancer who dared to turn across a Paris stage. Paris was a place to study Degas. But this fellowship was more than that, it was about emulation, about becoming. There was no better place to become Degas than Milan, home of DaVinci, home of the finest opera house in the world. Untouched and ripe for fifteen young artists to possess in the same way he possessed Paris. And possess, I did. I arrived in June and lived above the only café in the city that opened before 7am. I would never adapt to the Italians’ lackadaisical approach to time. The proprietor called me his ‘6:45 girl’, always ready with my cappuccino at the exact time I stumbled up to his counter. It wasn’t exactly the same as my morning coffee back home. Less milky, and less of it, but it did its duty. By the bottom of the cup, I was alert enough to paint.

Studio hours were 9am-5pm, Monday through Saturday. I stood in the northeast corner of the room with my back to everyone else. The windows concentrated the heat on my skin and made me sweat, but it kept my hands warm and loose until the lunch hour. A bright-cheeked nonna across the street from the studio sold paninis the size of my head for four euros. But the time I’d finished it and the paper, the hour was up, and critiques began. My walk home took fifteen minutes. At home, I painted.

The only days I didn’t go straight home were Fridays, when we were required to go to the opera. I would have gone anyway; it’s what Degas would have done. Ensconced in the dim with my sketchbook spread across my knees. My universe lit only by the stage as I followed dancers and singers with my charcoal. Afterward, my classmates poured out into the night for pasta and wine, but I was so dazed with music in my ears and colors behind my eyes that I could do nothing but go home and stain my hands with paint. After a week or two, they stopped inviting me. After a week or three, they stopped talking to me about anything that wasn’t a canvas. I suppose I made it too much effort.

What do you like to do, Maeva? Paint.

What do you do on Sundays, Maeva? Paint.

What are you doing for this week’s piece, Maeva? Painting.

Looking back, it seems a little bit improbable. Three months of eight-hour days together, and I never went out for drinks, or hung out at their places, or laughed in the studio. I was that ecosystem, sitting on a shelf. There when they arrived, there when they left, barely existing outside of the studio.  

When they drew me, because of course we drew each other, it was always in black lines. Irises, eyelashes, bangs. Things like a chin or a nose barely suggested. They were boring portraits, but Degas would have been proud. My classmates did not draw me as I looked, they drew me as I was—a series of shapes barely connected, a nebula anchored to nothing.

There were never many things securing my Chucks to this plane of existence. But that summer more than ever I was ghostly, gossamer, barely real. So little held me down that I could have discorporated at any moment. Blown away on a breeze, liquefied in one of the famous Italian thunderstorms. I could count only three things that prevented my fate. Three little things. Coffee, of course. After coffee, Degas.

That summer Degas was the weight in my heels, and Degas gave matter to my mass. He grounded me in the purity of the studio, in mystery, vagueness, and fantasy. When I walked across the cobblestones, when I selected my brushstrokes, when I followed the dancers in La Scala with my charcoal, he was there, haunting my ear. My purpose was crystalline. I threw out Monet that summer, Cezanne, Renoir. Instead I made my prayers at the altars of the Old Masters. Caravaggio, DaVinci, Raphaelle, Botticelli. I painted almost everything from memory, because he disliked painting by eye, and he was right. The memory of a dancer’s foot will always be more beautiful than the foot itself. To paint from memory was to paint something more. Something just real enough to be beautiful, and just false enough to be art. That summer I agreed with every word Degas said and ever would say, except one. When Degas said the recipe for beauty had been lost, he was wrong. It was not a fault of philosophy, but of time. Degas died in 1917, so he was not alive in 1999 when Corin Olivier was born.  

Corin was the third thing, the last thing. The touch of sunshine my ecosystem needed from time to time, the flutter of pulse that proved I still had a physical form. I was there for Degas, but it’s possible I came because I knew Corin would be there too. He was the only thing that could pull my mind away from my painting. Fridays, at the opera, and every day, when I yanked the paper open to the arts section and hunted for a face I could draw better than any photograph. He was in it most weeks, which gratified me. La Scala wasn’t giving him the lead roles yet—he was still only a student—but they couldn’t resist showing him off over the summers. He sang chorus or supporting roles, and the papers were in love with him.

My classmates too, were in love with him. First with his piercing voice on Fridays. Then with his soft curls and sweet smile on the day he visited me at the studio. I didn’t blame them. Corin was a piece of art, and they were admiring him. But they had no idea how delicate he was. The work it took to keep him from shattering. They watched him sing as closely as I did. They giggled about him over their canvases. They asked me for pieces of him.  

Will you bring him to dinner, Maeva? No.

Ask him to come sit for us, Maeva? No.

Can you introduce me, Maeva? No. Corr doesn’t have time for you.

That was an outright lie. Corin had time for anyone who asked. But Corin was mine.

He was mine on Sundays. On Sundays there was no studio, so I spent my mornings at the café, reading the long paper and eating too many pastries. Around 10:30, the chair across from me would screech. When I looked over my paper, he was there, his pretty chin propped on his deep brown fingers. Milan suited him in a way that should have been illegal. Sandy buildings brought out the warm tones in his dark skin, and his eyes, striking anyway, were made all the bluer by the sky overhead. In the summer heat he wore flannels with the sleeves scrunched and slim jeans, his amber throat and ankle bones always exposed to the caress of the sun. The rolled sleeves were new for me, something he never would have done in my mind. But he had finally gotten the tattoos he wanted. Gleaming black, wrapping gracefully around his wrists to cover his scars. I had mixed feelings about them. Corin got his coffee, and then I handed him the astrology section of the paper. He read his horoscope—Leo—and read me mine—Aquarius. He was teasing me, but I listened. Corin liked astrology because it gave him an identity, a framework for his behavior. That summer I understood in a way I never had before, and never would again.

We talked, about everything, and nothing. He teased me about my love affair with Degas, and I offered him pastries just to watch him glare at them. He nursed a single cup of espresso for hours, and that, I didn’t make fun of. I knew it was the only one he allowed himself a week, a tiny risk he took only when he was with me. I didn’t want to sour it for him. Sometimes, while he drank, I sketched him. It was in flagrant disobedience of Degas, to work plein-air like that, but I did it for Corin. Not because I couldn’t draw him from memory, but because I enjoyed watching him move and muse while I captured him in pencil. Whenever I drew his hands with the new tattoos, I had the perverse urge to reach across the table and touch the inside of his wrist. Study the scars and track marks I knew were hidden there. I never tried. We both had classmates that hung around the café on Sundays. Neither of us wanted to give them more questions than they already had. When we finally rose to go upstairs, I saw them scrutinizing us. I’m sure they thought we were sleeping together. Maybe we should have. Maybe that would have felt less delicate.  

And they were, those afternoons in my bedroom, so very delicate. When Corin crossed the threshold, he would toe off his Chucks, raid my poetry collection, and sprawl across the foot of my bed. He read poems to me, or more often, he sang poems to me. I stood on my pillows and added to the flowers I was painting across the walls. In that close summer air, his voice blossomed like the peonies under my paintbrush. Each octave uncurling like each petal with its own tones, veins, shadows. Still unequivocally apart of the same whole. I found myself painting his voice into my mural. I mixed pinks like the undertones of his high notes. Pressed my brush into the wall to match the gravel of his lows. Caught the roundness of his breath on the edges of leaves and stamen. Like memory to the dancer’s foot, his voice made my peonies so much more.  

I painted until the light was peachy and my hands ached. I would drop my brush into water, and then I would drop myself onto Corin’s chest. The sudden heat always gave me goosebumps. My legs rested beside him, and my mouth hung over his. He finished what he was saying or singing, a smile teasing at his cheeks, and then he exhaled with me. It wasn’t really kissing. It was no different than when I spread my fingers across his ribs, or pressed my cheek into his pulse. It was making sure he was still pulling air into his enormous lungs, beating blood through his fragile heart.  

Only occasionally did we speak. Occasionally Corin would suck in a wonderfully long breath and say things like:

“One day I’m going to write songs about the paint in your eyelashes, Maeva Leroux. But no one will ever hear them.”

I lifted my face from his neck. “Why not?”  

He closed his eyes, the sunset turning his eyelids burnt orange, and sighed.  

“Because I was born for Verdi.”

I understood his resignation. I understood precisely, because I was an ecosystem planted and bottled for Degas. Isolated from the world by thick walls of glass, and flourishing inside.

[urlneverheardofit]

Chapter 1: The Black Prince

So I'm working on a rewrite for my project and just put out chapter 1 2.0. Thanks to everyone who made suggestions on it

The last black dragon in all of Azeroth was residing in a faraway land, nestled in a mystical continent was a long mountain range that blocked a third of the land from the rest. In this mountain range was a series of peaks that were shrouded in mists. The peaks were home to a narrow mountain pass which in turn was home to a lone tavern. This tavern was a two-story building, had a balcony overhanging a hot spring and was heavily guarded.

This is where The Black Prince took shelter. Surrounded by trained guards and assassins sworn to protect him, in the middle of nowhere on a continent largely unheard of until recently.

The Black Prince. Such an honorable title for such a hated position.

He was a dragon.

Son of a mad king.

He was the last of his bloodline.

The Black Prince had a lot stacked against him when it came to his reputation, that madness and corruption that ran in his blood didn't help.

Still, The Black Prince, more informally known as Wrathion, did his best to alleviate the concerns of the other dragon orders, and the rest of the world. After all, his father Neltharion was not the only Aspect to go mad.

The Dragon Aspects were leaders of the different orders of dragons, called Dragonflights, and they ruled over their respective colors, while none held more power than any other.

The Red Dragonflight was charged with protecting life of all forms. They were lead by the beautiful Alexstrasza, the Life-Binder.

The Blue Dragonflight protected all the magic of the world, helping the mortal races understand and use magic themselves. They had originally been led by Malygos but after the Nexus wars and Malygos' descent to madness, the young dragon Kalecgos had taken the mantle of Spell-Weaver.

The Bronze Dragonflight were the keepers of time. They were led by Nozdormu, who, in an alternate timeline, went mad and became the Infinite but in the current present, stood proud as the Timeless One.

The Green Dragonflight were the protectors of the Emerald Dream, as well as patrons of nature itself and were lead by Ysera the Dreamer.

Finally, the Black Dragonflight, the once noble protectors of Azeroth had been corrupted, twisted to insanity. Now all the remained of them was a horrible memory of their once leader, who was originally named Neltharion the Earth Warder, but would forever be known as Deathwing. The last living fragment of the once-proud order was Wrathion himself, spared of the corruption thanks to the actions of a red dragon.

The Earth Warder, the Spell Weaver and the Infinite, all lost to madness of one form or another.

He understood, to some extent why others reacted the way they did, but he had not yet proven himself to be following in their footsteps. It was not fair to judge him for the sins of his fallen ancestors.

After Deathwing's defeat, ironically taking place on the day Wrathion hatched, the world had moved on, according to the other flights. Since the mysterious lands of Pandaria had been rediscovered in the southernmost part of the world, Wrathion had been interested in the new land. He refrained from exploring this new land himself until some years after its discovery. Partially because he had been so young and he had needed time to mature and learn what he could from his predecessors, save the insanity, of course.

He had begun his life in the mountain fortress known as Blackrock Mountain. The former lair of Nefarian, more famously known by mortals, who were responsible for his death, as Blackwing. Nefarian's lair had provided a perfect hatching ground for a black dragon whelp. With the lower level of Nefarian's lair being submerged in magma. It was in the accursed lair of his half-brother that Wrathion's studies had begun.

Nefarian, in life, and in undeath as well, had been an avid experimenter, his studies and tests had been long and painful on its draconic victims of all colors. Dragons that had been taken as captives by Blackwing's lackeys and were tormented in unspeakable fashions.

Their slow deaths had not been in vain, however, because Wrathion had been able to glean much of the study's results from Nefarian's meticulous notes. He had learned much of the history of his beloved Azeroth within those tomes.

A dozen years passed in a lair he hated even the thought of. Wrathion had noticed early on he was not growing any larger as a normal dragon would. He had also realized at the end of those years that he would need to introduce himself to mortals at some point or another and thus moved nests, knowing he needed a more suitable location for him to begin to work on transforming himself into a mortal so as to hide the fact he was, in truth, still a whelp.

Thus Wrathion had traveled to from the continent known as the Eastern Kingdoms to the continent on the Western hemisphere known as Kalimdor. Thankfully, he had recruited a blue dragon to help transport him via a portal to his destination. His new den was located in a cave that spiraled down for miles and whose mouth looked like a dragon's toothy maw. This cave had once belonged to his half-sister, known as Onyxia, who, while not the scientist that Nefarian was, and had assisted Deathwing by hatching his army of dragons instead.

He spent another six years of learning to perfect his transformation. His human form was a tall, lean human with caramel-colored skin, blazing red eyes, and long curly black hair. He even had something of a beard starting to grow in.

Despite his human form aging accordingly, for the time being, his dragon form remained a whelp. A small black scaled whelp with big red eyes and absolutely no useful natural weapons yet. Small as the day he had hatched. Still, his humanoid form looked like a grown human. So it would be child's play to fool mortals, simply do not transform into a dragon around them and none would be the wiser.

Only after he had mastered staying in his human form for extended periods of time did he set off to Pandaria. He had inherited his father's hoard and was able to fund himself a number of guards and agents. Again Wrathion enlisted the assistance of a blue dragon to simplify his transport to Pandaria. Securing a place to stay and a group of sailing mages he began to set up his studies once again. Pandaria was interesting to the dragon because after so long of isolation the secrets it may reveal to a young dragon were alluring on its own. Plus it allowed for practice interacting with mortals of all stripes.

Which brought him to the present moment. He sat alone at a sturdy wooden table with similarly crafted benches on the long sides of the furniture. To the north was an open archway to the hot spring Wrathion liked to soak in at sunset. It was as close to familiar as he got out here. In the Northeast corner was a staircase leading up to the guest chambers. East of that was a two-person bar. The tavern was staffed by a mated pair, both of the Pandaren race, who were humanoid bears for lack of a better description. The male ran the bar and the female was the one who served the food and drinks to anyone sitting at the table. Given that Wrathion was the only patron in this quaint tavern the male had busied himself with refurbishing the building to accommodate the tastes of a dragon. In the south of the room was the open doorway out in the mountain pass. He had two bodyguards who stayed at his side at all times. One was an orcish woman called Left. The other was a human woman called Right. Right guarded the door to the hot spring. Left guarded the threshold out to the mountain pass while Wrathion wandered in thought, having taken the day off after a particularly daring delve into ancient ruins.

"You have visitors," Left grunted, and shortly thereafter Wrathion heard them too. Turning and setting his elbows on the table so he could listen and watch. Many hoofbeats thundered down the gravel-road pass and stopped outside the tavern. There was shifting in equipment, the rustling of armor, and hushed voices as the mortals approached the tavern.

Wrathion didn't have to wait much longer before he could see them through the doorway. It was a patrol of about nine soldiers bearing blue and gold coloring on their otherwise undecorated white plate armor.

In the center of the organized square of the soldiers were three individuals that stood out. The first was a wolfman. He stood on two feet like a human but he was covered in shaggy gray-and-white fur from head to toe, had enlarged fangs and claws, and bore no other weapons. He wore thick leather armor, which paired well with his stern blue eyes, and his ears were flattened to his head.

The second was a hulking human man with long brown hair, deep brown eyes, and wearing heavy blue and gold armor adorned with lion head pauldrons. He carried two massive blades that were forged around globes of light, a deep scar over his eyes and nose, and a firm set scowl on his face told Wrathion he meant business.

The last was a short, slim human boy with a shock of blonde hair, eyes as blue as the sea. He wore decorative blue and golden clothing. He walked with a cane and a severe hobble yet he was clearly the youngest of the group, but he kept up well with his faster companions. He looked shy and timid, glancing around as though some unseen predator would leap out of the shadows cast by the mountain range to swallow the boy whole.

Wrathion's attention was yanked from the boy forcibly when the big human male stood in the doorway, blocking out Wrathion's view of the other two.

"Dragon," The man began in a gruff voice, gazing right into the eyes of Wrathion without flinching, "I am King Varian Wrynn of the Alliance. We come to ask for your assistance."

[flo-machina]

Kick, Punch, It’s All In The Mind

It was the Third Day of the Invasion. Midday. 

I need to become a hero.

The Chungler was now deeply familiar with his patrol route through the Valleys of Orgrimmar. He ran through them all, trails of sweat and Vapor in his wake as one by one, he dispatched Ghoul after Ghoul that burst up through the ground, or absently fell from high above the clifftops.

Kick. 

The Chungler disliked fighting the mindless dead above all else. There was something extremely disconcerting about the experience, his hoof making contact with bone, his fist on flesh. The lack of Feeling within, not as it was in the scant times he’s scuffled with a Forsaken adversary during the Fourth War. They, even in their state of decay, had a Feeling when stricken upon.

Punch. 

It was like hitting a heavy bag. Just Force upon Mass. A dull, wet thud. Maybe the crack of bone, the rip of sinew. The unsettling popping noise that comes from dislodging a limb from its socket. And though anything, everything else he has ever dusted knuckles with, everything else recoils. They react to being hit. They experience pain, or at the very least concern.

Chop.

But not the Scourge. These things did not deter them, should they even reach their notice. They press forward, they rage forward, they grasp and swipe, with jaws that bite, with claws that catch. They will stop at nothing to feed on you or anyone else when their hunger rises. They would run, and they would collide with walls or posts or trees or spikes or weapons or oncoming fire… They would lose flesh, fingers, eyes… and press on. Slowed down only by Force upon Mass, and that alone. That disconnect of feeling, as if to make contact and hit nothing… It unsettled him.

Block.

He ran. He jogged. He Chungled his route dutifully, at the Commander’s Command. And at the six or seventh hour of the day’s patrol, he decided he would use his duty as an excuse to check on a friend. Up, to the Northeast. Past the Caravan. Across the bridge...

Duck.

That was Mister Fox. That was Mister Fox. He wished that it was not, very intensely. But that was him. Saying those… strange things. He was in pain. It didn’t take a Chungler to see it, but see it he did. Heard it in his heart. Felt it in his spirit. Not that Mister Fox made any effort to hide it, rather that he very pointedly made it known, especially to Chungler that he was...

Jump.

His heart, in his throat, leaps up and down upon his gut as a trampoline. He wants to pound against this door, so easily could he just obliterate it with one swift Strike, how he could grunt and heave and yank it off the hinges, how he could simply charge and barrel through with his mighty Force upon Mass. To get inside, to see her, to make sure she was safe… to help her get away.

Turn.

The Chungler, no longer alone, attempted to convince a wearied Postman that their friend was not home. Slip the parcel under the door! Easy breezy, as ever! No problems today for friends! Gently, he tried to nudge a change of scenery, to get an early jump on the job for the night! Commander Commands us back to the Pass, back to the Keep, to retake the homestead! Once we do that, we can be safe, and we can offer safety to our friends who are very quite, like... stressed out, man! The sooner we leave, the sooner we can leave!

Pose.

Do not flinch. Do not wince. Do not grimace or express alert. Just be cool. Just vibe. Just chill. It is Mister Fox again, and he is still Very Upset. And Reko is here, and he is also Very Upset, but in a different way. And Kisa is here, and she is Very Confused and probably also Very Upset by that. Do not show your hand. Do not allow yourself to be perceived. Do not allow another Lie to be exposed, no matter how bad you are at keeping them. Just wave. Just leave. Just pick your friend up by the head like a grape and leave and you can come back later and you can maybe help probably. But not now. Now, it’s time to go. Right now, we need to help something else, and this… this will be alright. Yska said so. She should know better than anyone if it’s going to be all right. And she said so. That thing, those things, everything that you’re afraid of...

It’s all in the mind.

[echotovalley]

so because I’m taking a writing break but still super needy

I figured I would post this outline for a pokemon au that I’m never going to write. it’s basically notes from a conversation I had back in early 2018? Imagine my surprise going back now and realizing this might read much like Detective Pikachu - cubone is just my favorite pokemon

***before we get into anything please know that while I play pgo and I’ve learned LOTS of new pokemon, I’m still the most familiar and attached to the og 150 + 1. I also probably get a lot of canon pokemon rules and history wrong but my heart is in the right place

reblogs appreciated! | come talk at me about your thoughts or literally anything

premise: keith might not be a pokemon person

but pokemon are definitely a keith person

- for unknown reasons keith docks in cuba, he's kind of just been getting work and moving moving always moving because one place never works out for long. pokemon are everywhere but it's not his thing.

it never happened for him besides why would he make an animal be saddled with him? there's no stability there. and again, he's always moving. through so many different regions.

he doesn't have the heart to yank a sandshrew onto a barge across the atlantic or a charmander up the northeast coast of the US. he can barely take care of himself. and it's weird by now. to not have a pokemon by now. they were everywhere and so normalized.

they were part of everyday school curriculum and even in hospitals and rescue stations. which is another reason why he never stayed in one place very long because not having a pokemon didn't incite people to trust you.

bc even team rocket (team rocket still sounds so much better than team galra but team rocket is the galra) had pokemon that bonded and trusted them.

he gets a room and some horrible job on the coast and basically just gets by. tries not to cause trouble or get caught or encourage rattatas or a caterpie to follow him home because they could still smell half the lunch he didn't eat tucked in his bag

- i'm plotting by the seat of my pants but what really kick-started all of this was the thought of Keith finding a wounded cubone in the middle of the night.

it's too dark and raining to tell what animal or pokemon attacked it or if it was a person that fractured the skull he wore enough for a piece to break off along the jaw

the cubone sustained a mean looking scrape to its face and this is not what keith needs right now but he can tell the cubone's crying and kind of just accepted what's happened and it keeps pawing at the missing piece in the skull and keith may not actively interact with pokemon but he doesn't hate them and he still has a heart.

he's docked in cuba and his spanish just gets him by to get food and money and not anger anyone

he didn't think the barge's docking region through all of the way so he's got a cubone to help with rudimentary spanish that sucks on the best day but he's going to try and get the cubone help

he starts rushing through streets and people's yards because he could have swore the town had a gym he passed but in the dark and rain it takes him a full hour to find the gym.

- duh it's closed but he's at least going to bang on the doors and hopefully it's going to set off an alarm or something

the police will show up or someone will be able to take the cubone where it needs to go. his hand is numb from knocking as hard as he could before the door is whooshed open and someone is spitting rapid fire spanish like venom and he thinks he manages to get out that he can really only speak english and shoves the cunbone into their hands.

before he knows it, he's being yanked by his collar into the gym and down hallways and finally into the blinding lights of the pokemon center on sight.

there's more spanish and faces that look so similar that its clear it's a family that runs the gym.

- beep beep guess who's family owns and runs the gym

the pokecenter is actually a rehabilitation center founded and run by the McClain family for several generations

he gets questioned after the cubone is taken back behind the doors and it takes someone repeatedly snapping their fingers in front of his face to get him to come back to the conversation.

his name's keith, he's from the US, he just found the cubone - no he doesn't know if it has an owner, doesn't even know if it’s wild or if it has a nearby pack or how it got hurt or how long it’s been hurt.

but keith,

keith is his name and he can at least answer that.

he stays there over night and finds out that Marco is the one that answered the door. Veronica is the one to actually examine him because he looks like he's about to pass out.

their mother is the one to assure him the cubone would be fine - her daughter Rachel attends to injured pokemon and gets another son Luis to show Keith to a room in their house and keith passes out the second he stumbles to a bed.

- in the morning, when he goes to the bathroom and is in the middle of washing his hands, another son is banging on the door for Marco to get out of the bathroom and that's the first time he meets lance

when Keith yanks the door open he tells him to freaking stop because he's clearly not marco.

an older man, probably come to break up a fight, stops and blinks at keith before shouting over his shoulder about not remembering having or getting another kid (arthur "and who are you???" weasley style)

(our boy Lance has a minor panic about the cute random guy is his bathroom at 8 a.m.)

Keith gets shoved down at a table covered in food for breakfast and can't keep up he definitely has a headache and is ready to throw himself through a window when he's asked about his pokemon and if they need help too

he doesn't have pokeman and never has had one and isn't really interested and this family has centered their entire lives around it

- he sees the cubone again, in recovery and it paws a little at his hands in thanks

over the next few days, he stays with them and somehow gets roped into doing chores around the facility and given an assigned seat at their table for meals and he's just T H R O W N

they literally have an arbok taking a nap in a hammock in their backyard and a pod of seadras in an olympic pool in the gym just hanging out (doing little races between each other or chasing each other)

a vulpix he learns belongs to one of the McClain siblings (Rachel) sunbathes and sniffs at his feet while he’s working in the yard

and there's a persian destroying blinds in the living room window and a charizard in the kitchen

and some random small children he learns are marco's are throwing or shooting across the floor fridge magnets as a game with a magnemite

- begrudgingly on McClain’s part, keith’s assigned to Lance for being shown around the rehab center

lance takes him to the beach and out into the middle of the ocean on a boat

Keith: "this is where you feed me to a gryados"

Lance: "close"

and a freaking L A P RA S pops up out of the water and clicks at lance and makes little waves in his direction and they do a damn forehead touch he's crazy this is crazy

Keith: "YOU HAVE A LAPRAS???!!!!" - because even keith who doesn’t do pokemon knows what the heck a lapras is

Lance "I don't have a lapras. Nobody owns her. We just give her her room and protect or heal her when she needs it"

- the next few weeks see lance having to admit keith isn’t so bad and that just because he doesn’t have a pokemon, it doesn’t mean he actively dislikes them

the cubone is attached to keith - despite his bad attitude, lance says

this is the initial thought that kicked this off: keith asks if they have a 3D printer and once the cubone's injury is fully healed, he makes a mold for the missing piece and fits it in place

lance denies crying

"you've done one (1) good thing, kogane"

- then the real plot kicks in when the lapras is captured and taken from the beach by team rocket

lance blames keith because of the timing, because of keith's vague answers on where he's from, why he has no friends or family, no pokemon

insert painful, raw, yelled, "I TRUSTED YOU"

keith convinces him he's not part of team rocket and the main story starts where lance and keith leave to go after the lapras and return her to cuba.

- before they leave, rachel throws a pokeball at keith "i think your cubone might like this one"

and lance's eyes get huge because he knows what it is and then a pokemon is coming out of the pokeball

and it's a marowak

the cubone very carefully and slowly approaches her and the marowak just watches and waits. the cubone brushes its bone across the marowak's foot and then approaches and okay keith's eyes definitely water as he watches this marowak kind of take in the cubone.

(THE CRITICAL HIT COMES WHEN THE CUBONE EVENTUALLY EVOLVES. I like to think maybe through poke-magic the skull fixes itself when he evolves and the cubone hands the 3d mold back to keith and gets keith to put it on a chain safe for his skin to wear the 3d mold piece still)

- obv they get the lapras back,

they find out keith's mom was a double agent ofc for the team rocket faction that took the lapras

they meet hunk and pidge and allura and coran and romelle and others along the way to take down team rocket because what’s a pokemon au without the power of friendship

- keith and lance wait at the airport in cuba

it's for shiro, he had let keith travel because he saw that keith needed to find room to grow and find who he was

obviously keith is not 10. he and lance are 17.

anyways he rushes keith and pulls him into a big hug and tells keith how proud of him he is

the first thing lance tells shiro is about the time keith almost stepped on an exeggcute and how they chased him

or the time he almost sustained a skull fracture from a taurus and the time a seel thought keith was its mom

there was also that time with a magby-

keith: “OKAY LANCE WE GET IT THANK YOU”

BONUS:

keith being mildly terrified of the pokemon hanging around the McClain properties

Lance: "if you want to lay in the hammock just move him"

Keith: "just move him?! it's an arbok not a lap dog"

a nest of torchicks gets laid in the backyard and follows keith for two days after they hatch and lance laughs so hard he cries because keith can't shake them and he winds up tripping and they all jump on top of him

keith might not have been a pokemon person

but pokemon are definitely a keith person

[bestillmyslashyheart]

Who can you call?

On Ao3

Thanks to @caitlesshea and @el-gilliath for reading this over and helping me work out the kinks

1.

The first year, surprisingly, was the easiest. Fresh off of Rosa’s death and fleeing Roswell, Liz assumed that it would be the most painful year of her life and in some ways it was but in others, in the ways Liz expected, it really wasn’t.

For someone who had never been away from home before getting in her car and driving to California, she wasn’t homesick. Maybe it was the near constant communication with Maria and the regular check ins with her dad or even the pretty regular phone calls from Kyle, but she didn’t miss Roswell. She missed her sister, of course, and she missed seeing the people she loved, but she didn’t miss home. 

She thought the holidays would get to her but her dad came out to visit and they did some sightseeing in Southern California and it was good. It wasn’t their usual Christmas celebration but it was a new tradition. For all that they didn’t talk about Rosa, they felt her with them the whole time. 

So no, the first year wasn’t hard. 

The second year, however. Well, that was a different story.

She got through the summer okay. Maria came out to see her for a few days and she spent the rest of the time with her new college friends and it was good. 

If she missed Roswell a little bit, that was to be expected. If she missed a regular girls night out with Maria, well she could call her up. If she missed her dad, that was what Skype was for. 

At some point, she missed Roswell with an almost physical ache, though. And it was that point that she picked up the phone and dialed a number she hadn’t called since she left Roswell in her rear view mirror.

The phone rang. And rang. And then went to voicemail.

Liz hung up without leaving a message. She cradled her phone in her hands, staring at the front screen, practically daring it to ring.

It didn’t but that didn’t stop her from staring.

“Uh, Liz?” Her roommate asked.

Liz grunted in response. 

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

She heard her roommate start to say anything else but the phone started ringing and cut her off. Liz stared at it in amazement for long enough that it stopped ringing and beeped with a missed call.

She shook her head and quickly called back. As it rang she threw her legs over the side of the bed and fled the room for some privacy.

“Hello?”

Liz almost sobbed in relief at the voice. 

“Liz?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m here,” she assured. “Hi.”

There was a light chuckle. “Hi.”

Liz found a corner in the common room and crouched down behind an empty chair. There were other people in the room but she ignored them.

“I’m sorry to call out of the blue like this. I know it’s been a while.”

“That’s okay. I get it.”

Liz closed her eyes. “I’m really sorry. I should have-”

“Liz,” she stopped, “it’s okay. Really. What’s up?”

She sighed and rested her head on the wall. “I miss home. I don’t want to but I do.”

There was a pause. “So go home. I’m sure your dad would love to see you. Maria too.”

“I know. I would love to see them too, I just- I can’t. I just- I hate that place.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” 

Liz smiled. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There was a loud sound on the other end followed by mild cursing.

“Shit, I have to go.”

“Oh ok,” Liz paused. “Could I-” she stopped.

“I’ll call you later? We can commiserate on the hellhole that is our hometown?”

Liz smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Ok. Talk to you later, then. Bye, Liz.”

“Bye, Alex.”

2.

After that first phone call, they became far more regular. Both of them loved and missed Maria and talked to her regularly but there was something that the two of them shared that Maria just wouldn’t be able to understand. Neither of them really missed Roswell, per se, but there were times when they just really needed to talk to someone who would understand. Someone who grew up in that town and who got away. Neither really had any intention of ever going back, either, despite the fact that their fathers and Maria were there.

Sometimes Liz got the sense that Alex had something else in Roswell for him to go back for but he never talked about it and she didn’t push.

It wasn’t until Liz’s junior year that either one of them suggested meeting up in person. By that time, Liz had already transferred schools. She liked her school but she’d chosen it partly because Rosa had talked her into it and she still saw echoes of her sister around every corner. 

Alex had laughed at her when she told him she was transferring to a school on the east coast but she just ignored him. He told her that she wouldn’t be able to handle winter but Liz wanted a change of pace. She wanted to see the Atlantic, dip her toes in another ocean.

She loved it and she thrived (something she gleefully pointed out to Alex during one of their chats. He just laughed at her and told her he was happy for her). Right up until winter hit.

It snowed in New Mexico, okay? It wasn’t like she’d never seen snow or experienced the cold. But cold in New Mexico was not cold in Massachusetts. They were too very different beasts altogether. 

“You’re the one who decided to move to the Northeast.” Alex was entirely unsympathetic when she told him.

Liz stuck out her tongue at the phone. “Fall was wonderful, okay?”

“Fall isn’t winter.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Like your an expert in the seasons, Alex Manes. How’s Florida?”

“Hot,” Alex replied quickly. “Boring.”

“What the military’s not all fun and games?” She teased lightly. Alex’s military service was still something she didn’t understand but she knew enough to tread easy.

Alex hummed. “Nothing to do. Mandatory leave.”

Liz sat up in her bed. “You’re on leave?”

Alex hummed again. “I tried to switch with someone to cover them for the holidays but apparently I have to take leave.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t,” Alex admitted. “It’s just been accumulating and they told me I have to use some of it.”

Liz paused. “So what are you doing with all this free time you suddenly have?”

“Nothing.”

Liz arched an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

She could almost hear Alex shrug. “It’s Christmas, everyone I know has gone home to their families and like hell am I going back to Roswell so I’ve just been in my apartment.”

A smile slowly etched its way across her face. “Wanna take a trip?”

Alex paused. “Where?”

“Massachusetts.”

“What?” Alex laughed. “Is this you inviting me to visit?”

“Yup!” Liz told him. “Look, I’m not going home for Christmas either and my dad can’t afford the time or plane ticket to come all the way out here so it’s just me in my empty apartment for the next two weeks while my roommates are all at home. You should come up. That way we are slightly less pathetic for the holidays.”

Alex didn’t say anything for a beat. “I’d like that. I’d really-”

“Great!” Liz said brightly. “I’ll text you my address and you just come up whenever you want. I promise I’ll be here.”

Alex agreed and they hung up and Liz put the thought out of her mind. She loved Alex but she knew how much he valued the distance he’d gotten from Roswell and for all their phone calls, she was a reminder of Roswell. There was a greater than average chance that Alex wouldn’t ever show up.

The next day there was a knock at her door late at night. Liz eyed it warily from her spot curled up on the couch. With the school deserted for winter break, she didn’t know anyone in town and she hadn’t ordered anything. 

There was another knock. “Liz?” She heard Alex’s voice call tentatively. 

Liz kicked off her blankets and raced over to the door, sliding a bit in her socks. She unlocked the door and yanked it open to find Alex Manes standing outside. His hair was shorter than she’d ever seen it, the make up and the jewelry absent for the first time in years, his shoulders stiff, and his clothes neatly pressed. He looked nothing like her friend from high school and yet it was undeniably him. 

He shifted idly on his feet under her scrutiny and Liz had to smile. “You’re actually here,” she exclaimed softly as she stood on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around him. She heard a thud as his bag hit the floor when he hugged her back. They swayed back and forth for a few minutes, both reluctant to let go. 

Eventually, though, Liz pulled away. “Come inside. It’s fucking freezing out here.”

Alex laughed but picked up his bag and followed her into the warmth.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Liz said again.

“You invited me,” Alex reminded her.

“I know and I’m super glad you came but I kind of thought you wouldn’t? I know you hate any reminders of Roswell.”

Alex ducked his head and smiled. “You’re not a reminder, Liz. You’re my friend.” 

Liz cooed and hugged him again. “Okay, you’re probably exhausted. I can grab some blankets and pillows and set you up on the couch.”

“I’m actually okay. The flight wasn’t too bad. I mean, if you’re ready to go to bed, then-”

Liz shook her head. “No, I was just watching TV.”

“Mind if I join?”

Liz nodded. “Yes, actually, I do.”

Alex nodded back solemnly. “I understand. Some shows are just sacred.” He picked up his bag. “I guess I’ll go home then.”

He got one step before they both started laughing. Liz pointed him to her bedroom to put his stuff down and change and then got resituated on the couch.

A few minutes later, Alex tucked himself under the blanket with her and they watched the show in silence. It was surprisingly comfortable. Liz had thought that there might be an awkwardness after so long apart but it was like they’d just seen each other yesterday. 

Alex stayed for almost two weeks, through Christmas and New Year’s, before heading back to Florida and it was the best two weeks Liz had spent in Massachusetts. That’s not to say that she hadn’t made any friends at school, she had, but there was something about the comfort of an old friend who understood you in ways you barely understood yourself.

3.

Her phone rang in the middle of her graduation ceremony, Alex’s name flashing brightly on the screen. Liz hurriedly sent him to voicemail before her (former) professor could do more than glare at her. 

She tucked her phone away and slouched in her seat as she looked around. Most of her peers were clearly zoned out as the speaker droned on but there were a few that actually seemed to be paying attention. Liz tuned back in for a few minutes before diverting her attention back to more interesting matters like counting the number of water stains on the ceiling. 

Why had she graduated from here? Oh yeah, because she needed to actually get a degree instead of bouncing around schools for fun. Liz rubbed at her eyes, mumbling an apology as her elbow jostled the girl next to her. Liz was reluctant to call her a friend, after all she’d only known her for a semester. The unfortunate by product of completing her undergrad in five years at three different schools was that she didn’t really have a chance to form lasting friendships. 

Most of the time that was fine with her, she didn’t need deep friendships really, she had Alex and Maria. Though it had been a while since she talked to Maria, she knew she could always count on her to be there if Liz needed her.

Her phone buzzed again. Liz frowned at Alex’s name and sent it to voicemail again.

[To: Alex]

I’m at graduation

[From: Alex]

Shit. Sorry. Call me later.

[From: Alex]

Congrats!

Liz huffed a quiet laugh at the delayed second text and put the phone away as her row stood up to walk across the stage. 

It was a while later, after the ceremony and the pictures with her dad and the few friends who asked, and after the celebratory dinner, and after the ice cream, that Liz remembered to call Alex back.

She waited until her dad was lying down in the hotel room before she pulled out her phone and dialed his number.

“Hey,” she greeted brightly when he connected. 

“Hey,” he returned, notably subdued compared to her. “How was graduation?”

Liz scoffed and flopped back onto the spare bed. “Boring. I should have skipped it but my dad wanted pictures so…”

“Well if Arturo wanted pictures-”

“Then Arturo gets his pictures,” Liz finished with a grin. “What’s up with you?”

Alex didn’t answer right away.

“Alex?” Liz sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m being deployed.”

Liz stilled. “Where? How long? When?”

“Afghanistan. Eight months. I leave in three weeks.” Liz let out a breath. 

“Eight months? Your first one was only three.”

“I know. They’re usually six so I guess it evens out or something, I don’t know.”

“You still in Oklahoma?” Liz asked. It was Alex’s new posting but she wasn’t sure if he was still there or if he had more training. He was always off somewhere doing more training.

“Yeah, I’ll be here until I deploy. Why?”

“Because I’m going to come visit, of course.”

“Liz, you don’t have to do that.”

“Shut up, yes I do. Besides, I just graduated and I have literally no idea what I’m going to do next. Might as well take a few days or whatever to come see you.”

Alex made a noise like he was going to keep arguing but eventually he just sighed. “I’d like that.”

“Good. Give me a few days to pack and drive and I’ll be there by the end of the week?”

“Sounds good.” Liz could almost hear his smile over the phone.

“You’ll have to take me to that ice cream place you were telling me about. Best shakes in Oklahoma right?”

Alex laughed. “That’s what they say. I still think the Crashdown’s are better.”

“You’re biased.”

“Yeah, I am. Tell your dad his shakes are better than the best in Oklahoma, okay?”

“I will. See you soon, Alex.”

“See you.”

Liz hung up and stared at the phone, the panic of sending her best friend into a warzone slowly seeping in.

“How’s Alex?” Liz looked over her shoulder at her dad and forced a small smile.

“He’s good. He’s being deployed again, this time to Afghanistan.”

“He’ll be okay,” Arturo assured her. “He’s smart, he knows how to stay out of trouble.”

Liz snorted. Alex was smart enough to stay out of trouble so long as he wanted to. Sometimes he found trouble far more interesting than safety, though. “I hope so.”

“You going to see him?”

She nodded. “Yeah, he’s stationed in Oklahoma right now so I’ll drive out there for a few days, maybe a week. He’s gonna take me to this ice cream joint that boasts the best milkshakes in Oklahoma.” She smiled. “He says yours are better, though.”

Arturo smiled. “He’s a filthy liar but I’ll take it.”

Liz laughed and switched over to her dad’s bed and cuddled up next to him, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. “He’s gonna be okay.” She didn’t pose it as a question. Her dad answered it anyway.

“Of course he’s going to be okay,” he kissed the top of her dad. “He survived his father, he can survive anything.”

A week later Liz sent her dad a photo of her and Alex sipping milkshakes with the caption Yours are better.

Both were grinning brightly around the straws.

Arturo tacked a copy of it to the wall in the kitchen of the Crashdown and told everyone who came in that his shakes were better than all of Oklahoma’s.

4.

Liz positively skipped up the steps to Alex’s apartment. They’d been living in the same city for months now but she still hadn’t gotten over the slight thrill it gave her that she could just pop over to Alex’s apartment.

“Hey Patrick!” She greeted when she stepped onto Alex’s landing only to see his roommate closing the door behind him. “Alex home?”

Patrick gave her a weird look. “Is he expecting you?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I had something to do downtown so I just came over. I thought we could go check out this new band I heard about. Is he not home?”

Patrick looked at the door. “No, he���s home. But Michael’s here so I don’t know how free he’s gonna be.”

Liz cocked her head in question. “Michael?” Patrick’s eyes widened and he glanced between her and the door and back to her.

“You know what? I have got things I need to do so I’m gonna go. Alex is inside but he has company so enter at your own discretion. Door’s unlocked.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder as he passed. Liz stared after him for a beat before walking slowly over to the door. Alex hadn’t mentioned that he was seeing anyone but she wasn’t sure what else Patrick could have meant. She dilly dallied for a few seconds before shrugging her shoulders and pushing the door open. 

Liz eased the door closed slowly and followed the faint sounds to the living room. “Oh shit. Sorry!” She clapped a hand over her mouth and turned on her heel when she saw Alex straddling a guy on the couch, his shirt on the floor behind him. “I’ll call you later!” She tossed over her shoulder as she hurried out the door laughing. She made it one step outside before her brain processed exactly what she had seen. 

Alex, half naked, in a hot guy’s lap. A hot guy with a head of gorgeous curls currently wrapped around Alex’s fingers. Curls that Liz recognized. 

She spun on her heel and went back inside. “Michael Guerin?”

Alex’s head snapped up to stare at her, his feet now firmly on the floor and his shirt in his hands. Michael motherfuckin’ Guerin sat on the couch in front of him, his hand outstretched towards Alex. When she said his name he half turned towards her, a scared look on his face before he plastered on a smile. 

Michael waved cheekily. “Hey Liz.”

Liz stared at him then glanced up only to stare at Alex. He had the most awful expression on his face, like he was legitimately afraid of how she’d react. She shook her head. “Hey, Michael. Sorry to interrupt.” Alex stared at her like she had three heads but she powered on. “I was coming over to see if Alex wanted to go check out a new band with me tonight but I can see that he probably has other plans.” She smiled at him and he relaxed slightly. “But if you want to see downtown Denver, though honestly I don’t know why you would, then call me.”

She waved awkwardly and turned to leave when Alex’s voice stopped her. “Wait, Liz.” She spun back around. 

“Sorry to barge in like that, really, I should’ve called to tell you I was coming over.”

“No, that’s not-” Alex stopped and took a deep breath. He looked at Michael, a clear question in his eyes that Liz couldn’t decipher. Michael didn’t say anything for a beat before he pushed himself off of the couch.

“I’m going to run to the store and get stuff for dinner,” he announced. Alex glared at him but Michael just smiled. He took a step towards Alex before he froze. He didn’t actually look at Liz but she knew it was her presence that stopped him and she frowned.

Michael moved away and Alex made a noise, his eyes flickering to her before he grabbed Michael’s arm and pulled him back in. Liz turned her head away as they kissed.

“Don’t take too long, yeah?” Alex said softly after they separated. “You just got here.”

She turned back in time to see Michael nod and kiss Alex again. When he pulled away, Alex’s fingers stay tucked in his belt loops until he physically couldn’t hold on anymore. Michael smiled wistfully at Alex and nodded to Liz before leaving.

In his wake, Liz shifted her weight awkwardly as she looked at Alex. Alex played with his fingers and didn’t look at her. “Why are you scared?” She asked softly. 

Alex flinched. “I’m not-” he stopped and closed his eyes. “Just- the last time we got caught like this was by my dad and he-”

He didn’t continue but Liz didn’t need him to. Alex was rubbing at his left hand almost unconsciously and Liz wasn’t an idiot. She could connect the dots just fine. 

She dropped her purse on the floor and stepped over the back of the couch and landed in an awkward heap in front of Alex, her arms already outstretched to pull him into a hug. He resisted briefly before hugging her back. 

“You don’t have to be scared, Alex. Not of me. Not ever.”

“I know,” he whispered into her shoulder.

She slowly pulled away but kept her arms on his shoulders so he couldn’t go too far. “Are you okay?”

Alex smiled sheepishly and nodded. “Yeah, you just startled me really. Kinda threw me back to high school and it just-” He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So uh- what the hell?”

Alex rubbed at the back of his neck, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Which part?”

Liz let go of him and settled back onto the couch. She stopped and considered where she was sitting and quickly shifted to the other end of the couch. Alex rolled his eyes and she laughed.

“Michael Guerin?”

Alex nodded and sat down. “Remember the guy in the museum?”

Liz’s eyes widened. “The guy who kissed the life out of you? The one you would be willing to stay in Roswell for?”

Alex blushed but nodded. “It was a really good kiss.”

“Damn. That was almost eight years ago! Why didn’t you tell me?” She picked up the pillow lying on the ground and smacked him with it.

He looked away. “I don’t know, honestly. There were plenty of times when I could have, should have, even. I just- I didn’t.”

“Who knows?”

“From Roswell? No one.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “No one? What about Max or Isobel? Or Maria?” Liz’s own communication with Maria had sort of fallen by the wayside but she knew Alex kept in touch with her. Alex shook his head.

“I’m not there and I don’t want to be there. It’s hard to talk about it I guess. You’d have to ask him but I imagine it’s easier to just let it be something that happens when he visits. Patrick and my friends know but that’s about it.” 

“So he visits often?”

Alex shrugged. “It depends. When I was stationed in Florida we met up in California once and he came out to Oklahoma a few times. Since I got posted here last year he’s been up a couple of times.”

“When was his last visit?”

Alex blushed and tried to hide a grin. “Remember when we got that blizzard? The city was basically shut down for a few days?”

Liz nodded slowly. It had only been about two months since then, really. “Yeah, I tried to get you to come over before it started and you said you couldn’t be on the opposite side of the city from the base in case you got called in.”

“Yeah,” Alex drawled. “I actually had that whole week off, I wasn’t even on call. Michael came up. He got here the day before the snow started.”

Liz laughed. “You could have just said you wanted to get snowed in with your boyfriend instead of me, I would’ve understood.” Alex stilled when she said the word boyfriend. “Alex?”

He shook his head. “Sorry. Yeah, I know I could have but I’ve gotten used to not mentioning him? I knew at some point I needed to tell you, it’s been long enough that it’s getting absurd, but I didn’t know how to bring it up.” He paused and shifted in his seat. “Do you remember when you started at UC Boulder and we went out for drinks?” Liz nodded. “We talked about lost loves or whatever?” Liz looked away. “You talked about Max Evans and you said if you ever had any regrets about leaving Roswell it was him.”

“What about it?”

“Michael came up the next weekend. I was going to tell you then and have you come over and we could hang out but after you mentioned Max and missing someone from Roswell, I didn’t want to bring up the fact that I’ve been sort of hanging on to someone from Roswell.”

Liz reached over and grabbed Alex’s hands. “Hey.” She waited until he looked at her. “First, don’t ever be afraid to tell me something, okay? Even if it might make me a little maudlin for a day or so. And second, what do you mean ‘sort of hanging on’?”

Alex shrugged. “We’ve never really defined our relationship. It’s not like we’re dating. I know he hooks up with women when he’s in Roswell and I’ve gone on my fair share of dates between his visits.”

“But he keeps visiting?”

“Yeah.”

“...and you keep wanting him to visit?”

“Yeah,” Alex nodded. 

“That doesn’t sound like you’re hanging on.” Liz told him softly. “It sounds like a relationship. An undefined, unconventional one sure, but a relationship nonetheless.”

Alex shrugged. 

“Do you love him?” She asked softly and she watched in amazement as Alex’s whole face softened, his lips turning up in a smile.

“Yeah. I do.”

She smiled. “I’m glad. You look happy, Alex.”

“I am.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while before Liz stood up. “I should go. I don’t want to intrude on your time with him.”

Alex rose with her. “Text me the name of the bar you’re going to. We’ll see if we’re up for it.”

“Will do,” Liz promised as she gathered her purse. She was halfway to the door before something occurred to her. “When I visited you in Oklahoma, before your last deployment, I remember the day I left I asked if you were okay and you said you would be. I assumed you meant that you were dealing with it but I remember distinctly that you were looking at your phone and smiling when you said it.”

Alex stared at her. “How- why do you remember that?”

She shrugged. “On the phone, that was Michael right?”

Alex rolled his eyes but nodded. “He got there like an hour after you did.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “I’m glad he was there for you.”

Alex smiled softly. “He’s always there when I need him. Even when we fuck up and don’t talk for a while.”

Liz furrowed her brow at that. She opened her mouth to ask when the door opened and Michael came in, his arms laden with grocery bags. He froze when he saw her. “Should I go back out?”

Alex smiled and Liz laughed and shook her head. “I’m leaving.” She turned to Alex. “I’ll talk to you later?” He nodded and gave her a quick hug.

“Michael,” she nodded at him. “Nice to see you again. We’ll have to catch up while you’re here.”

“Liz,” he smiled and jerked his head at Alex. “Set it up with the bossman. He controls our schedule.”

Liz laughed and let herself out while Alex protested loudly.

5.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Liz chanted softly as she paced the small bathroom.

“Do you know what time it is?” Alex’s voice was groggy and Liz silently apologized for forgetting the time difference now that he was on the east coast again.

“Diego proposed!” She hissed.

Alex paused. “Oh god. What did you say?”

“Yes?” Liz grimaced.

“What? Why? You don’t love him.”

“I know! I panicked!” Liz told him, a touch too loud. “Fuck, they’re gonna hear me.”

“Who? Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom at his parent’s house.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he just proposed! It’s his birthday so we came over for dinner and after dessert he announced that the best birthday present would be me agreeing to be his wife and then before I knew what was happening he was down on one knee and his family were all looking at me and I’m pretty sure his mom was recording it and I panicked okay?!” Liz continued to pace.

Alex snorted and tried to stifle his laughter.

“Don’t laugh asshole. This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” Alex told her. “Why the hell did he think proposing was a good idea? You guys have only been dating what a year?”

“Almost two,” Liz admitted. “We started dating before you got relocated.”

“True, true. Wow time really does fly when you get older.”

“Oh shush, we’re 27, we’re not old.”

Alex laughed. “Okay, real talk. How are you going to let him down?”

“It’s his birthday and I’m at his parent’s house and I already said yes.” Liz dropped her head against the door in a loud thunk. “What was I thinking?”

“You weren’t, clearly.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“What do you want me to say? You just agreed to marry a man you don’t love.”

Liz groaned. “But I could! He’s so sweet and kind and he loves me.”

“All good qualities,” Alex agreed easily. “But he’s also boring.”

“There’s nothing wrong with boring!” Liz tried to defend.

“See you’re not even arguing that he’s not boring.”

Liz groaned. “Ok fine but my point still stands. Boring doesn’t mean he’s a bad choice.”

“Your heart’s not in it and you know it.”

“Oh who are you to give me relationship advice? How’s Michael these days?” Liz snapped. “Shit, no. Alex, I’m sorry.”

“Wow,” Alex remarked faintly. “Fuck you too. You called me remember?”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry,” Liz apologized.

Alex sighed heavily. “It’s late. I need to sleep and you have a fiance to go talk to.”

He hung up before Liz could say anything more. She pulled the phone away from her ear only long enough to hit redial.

It went straight to voicemail.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Liz began after the beep, “what I said was completely uncalled for. I was just feeling defensive for some reason and I lashed out and I took a cheap shot that was cruel and unnecessary and I’m sorry. I love you for answering the phone when I called even though I know it’s late there and thank you for listening to me ramble on about my problems. I did call you for advice and I shit on you when you tried to give it and I’m sorry.” Liz paused to consider her next words. She knew Alex wouldn’t like them but if she was already in the doghouse she might as well make it worse. “But Alex- you should call him, okay? I know you said you wanted to do rehab on your own and you didn’t want him showing up at the hospital again but you don’t need to shut him out completely. He’s worried and he misses you and you should really call him.”

Liz jumped at a knock on the door. “Liz?” Diego’s voice came through.

Liz closed her eyes and finished her message, her voice lower so Diego couldn’t hear. “I hope you know if I end up going through with this you’re gonna be my Man of Honor so I need you to forgive me my big mouth, okay? I love you.” She ended the call and pulled the door open to see Diego’s worried face.

“Everything okay?”

Liz smiled. “Yeah. I just called Alex to tell him.”

Diego grinned. He’d always liked Alex more than Alex liked him. “What did he say?”

“He said he’s happy for us, of course.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “And that the next time I wake him up in the middle of the night somebody better be dying.”

Diego laughed. “That sounds like Alex.” He pressed a kiss to her lips and pulled back. “Do you want to rejoin everyone or go home?”

Liz barely held in her sigh of relief. “Home, definitely.”

+1

Liz drove up the long driveway almost on autopilot. She’d come out here countless times in high school with Kyle and she could find her way easily enough that her thoughts started to wander. 

Back in Roswell one day, less than that really. It had only been a couple of hours since she pulled up outside the Crashdown and saw her father for the first time in years. In that time, she’d run into Max Evans twice and someone had shot up her family home. Liz was even half convinced that she herself had been shot, despite the lack of a wound of any kind. 

She slowed to a stop and got out. There was a light on in the cabin and the flickering of a TV through the window. Liz smiled as she tugged the door open.

Alex looked up and over at her from his spot on the couch. “Hey stranger.”

She groaned dramatically as she closed the door and flopped down on the couch next to him. “I hate this town,” she whined into his blanket.

Alex laughed. “You’ve been back, what, six hours?”

Liz nodded. “I ran into Max Evans.”

“Oh.” She looked up at the odd tone in his voice but he just waggled his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” She sat up. “He was running a police check point outside of town and then he came by the diner and we shared a shake and then someone shot up the place and he-”

“Someone shot up the Crashdown!?” Alex sat up and looked her over. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she waved him off. “I think I hit my head when Max pulled me to the ground but other than that I’m fine, I swear.”

Alex searched her eyes before nodding. “Okay. So Max Evans, personal hero, huh?”

Liz groaned and fell back against the couch. “He’s so hot.”

Alex laughed. “If Max Evans being hot is the least of your problems right now, you’re doing okay.”

Liz didn’t say anything.

“Liz?” Alex prodded.

“I forgot how much everyone hates us here,” she said quietly. “Hates Rosa. I just- I’m really glad you’re here Alex. I don’t know what I would do in this town if you weren’t.”

Alex didn’t offer any platitudes, he just reached out and wrapped her in a side arm hug. 

“How’ve you been since getting back? It’s been what? Two weeks?”

Alex hummed in agreement. “It’s been an adjustment. I’ve pretty much been avoiding town, honestly. Just go in for groceries and whatnot before coming back here.”

“You seen Michael yet?”

“No,” Alex exhaled. “I drove out to his trailer a few days ago but he had company so I left.”

“Alex-”

“It’s fine.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck.”

Alex took a deep breath. “That’s true. But I don’t have any right to be upset. Not anymore. Not after I shoved him away.”

“You should go see him. He misses you.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Who do you think he texts when he’s drunk and feeling sorry for himself that he’s not with you?”

“Patrick,” Alex answered. Liz tilted her head in concession. 

“Okay, besides Patrick.” She nudged him. “He doesn’t really have a lot of people to talk to about it, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He shifted so he could look at her, a sudden gleam in his eye. “Ok, enough about me. Tell me about Diego.”

Liz groaned and covered her face with her hands. “Oh god, no. I can’t-”

“How did you do it?”

“I was awful.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh it was. I just- fuck I just started packing up my car and he came by with Richard-” 

“That’s his best friend, right?”

Liz nodded. “Yeah so they came by to pick me up for something that I had completely forgotten about and they just pulled up next to the car and Diego was all confused and so so dumb about it.” Liz hated to speak ill of him because she did care for him but there was a reason she left. “He kept asking if I was cleaning or donating some stuff. Just trying to come up with any reason besides the obvious. And finally I just gave him the ring. God, Alex, I didn’t even have it on. I’d already taken it off. How awful am I?”

“Okay, yeah, that’s pretty awful.”

Liz smacked him lightly. “You’re not supposed to agree with me. You’re supposed to make me feel better.”

“How about I be honest instead?”

Liz sighed but nodded. “Yeah okay let me have it.” She waved him on.

“There were quite honestly a thousand different ways you could have broken up with him that would have been better than that. Number one would have been not accepting his proposal in the first place.” He leveled her with a stern look.

“Yeah, I know,” Liz agreed easily. Because she did know. And if she hadn’t fucked up with Alex so badly she might have been thinking about Diego enough to have corrected herself then and just told him no. 

“So…” Alex started after a while.

Liz raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“You are no longer engaged. A free woman once more…”

“Yes…”

“Exactly how hot did Max Evans look in his deputy uniform?” Alex grinned.

Liz scrunched up her face and sank down into the couch with a slight squeal. “So hot. I think it was the hat.”

“The hat definitely doesn’t hurt.” Alex remarked idly. Liz stared at him.

“You think Max-”

“I have eyes and the guy’s hot, okay? But no, I wasn’t talking about him.”

“Michael wears a cowboy hat?”

Alex nodded. “It looks so fucking good on him, too.”

Liz laughed. “Ok now that I have to see.”

“Take a picture and send it to me, yeah?”

“Or…” Liz replied. “You could just go see him yourself.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” Alex said. “When are you gonna see Max again?”

Liz grinned. “Maybe tomorrow.”

[nix-needs-coffee]

Asking for a Lot

Prompt: "Can you just act normal for this evening? It's all I ask of you." "You're asking for a lot then."

Boleyn and Aragon go to a party and deliver some vigilante justice.

I don't even know anymore. Thanks @casual-crispy for suggesting more moments between these two and giving them a common enemy.

AO3 Link

“Can you just act normal for this evening? It’s all I’ll ask of you,” Catherine pleaded. She already knew what Anne’s answer would be before she voiced her request, but felt it was necessary to do so anyways.

“You’re asking for a lot then.”

Catherine sighed and shook her head, knowing that the evening was going to be a long one if Anne was going to pull her usual antics. They were already later than was considered fashionable for the party due to Anne’s incessant need to try every combination of outfit, hair, and makeup before she inevitably returned to the first set that she had put on.

She wasn’t even sure how she was the one that got landed with accompanying Anne that night. The other girls had all taken off in the first taxi while she was the one stuck providing feedback for everything Anne owned.

By the time they arrived at the party, everyone had left sobriety long in the past and was teetering on the dangerous side of tipsy.

“Can you believe they’re serving wine in plastic cups?” Anne asked incredulously. She eyed the bar with disbelief, “Oh my God, that’s Champagne. Catherine, they’re serving Champagne in plastic,” she frantically batted at Catherine’s arm and the alarm on her face was as though civilization was collapsing around her. “We need to leave. Immediately.”

Catherine didn’t entirely disagree, though because it was Anne, she rolled her eyes and tugged her toward the bar to pick up their own offensively served drinks.

“An insult to the entire northeast region of France. Cheers,” Catherine tapped her plastic cup against Anne’s and tried not to flinch at the dull, unsatisfying, thud of a sound.

Anne’s lip curled in distaste as she brought her cup up to drink. She scrunched up her nose and squeezed her eyes shut as she took a sip. To her surprise, the disdainful presentation did not alter the taste of the contents, and with a few more sips, she had forgotten about the packaging.

Catherine was about to take her leave, knowing that the more alcohol Anne consumed, the less she wanted to be around her -- even less than she usually wanted to -- when a man’s voice caught her attention.

“Oi, would you look at that! Go on, talk to her. With a face like that she ain’t gonna turn you down.”

“Ah, no way, mate. Not even with a paper bag,” his friend laughed. “You have the history with dogs, you get in there.”

The first man gave him an encouraging shove in the direction of the woman at the center of their attention. His friend stepped around and pushed him the same way. Beer sloshed over the sides of the cups and onto their trousers, and before their roughhousing could get too out of hand, Catherine and Anne moved themselves away from the scene.

As they stepped away, the woman they were referring to came into their line of vision.

Anna.

Catherine’s heart wrenched in sympathy. It wasn’t that she thought Anna was missing out on a catch with either one of the troglodytes that now had each other in headlocks. It was the narrow conventions of beauty that seemed to exclude the friend that she found to be breathtaking.  

So caught up in despondency, Catherine almost missed Anne lunging at the men with her fists raised in the air. Thankfully, she was able to catch Anne around her torso and pull her away from the scene before she could draw any attention to herself.

“Let me go! Didn’t you see who they were talking about? They’ll need the paper bags when I’m done with them,” she hissed in protestation as Catherine dragged her behind a column and out of view.

“Have you not spent enough of your time jailed?” Catherine looked back at the men, noting that their beers had been replaced and they were still giving each other little jabs in the shoulders, laughing obnoxiously. “I have a better idea.”

***

Anne was leaning over the bar, her face brought down to her cup still sat on the ledge. The carbonated bubbles tickled her nose, and she took a careful sip. It was filled to the brim with Champagne after she combined a few other servings, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to wrap her hand around the flimsy plastic and pick it up without sacrificing some of her beverage.

Finally at a level she deemed as safe, she picked up her cup and grimaced as the action caused some of it to overflow. Exactly what she was trying to avoid. She stumbled a bit as she made her way from the bar and collided right into the back of one of the men that had been talking about Anna.

“I am so sorry,” she slurred, throwing an arm around the man’s shoulders but directing her apology to his friend.

“That’s alright, darling. Here let me help you,” he responded while slipping an arm around her waist to steady her. He pulled her close to his side and dropped his hand a little lower to Anne’s hip, where his fingers tightened uncomfortably.

“Are you gents here by yourselves tonight?” Still not acknowledging the man whose grip was growing tighter.

“Not anymore, we’re not.”

Anne gave a petulant expression laced with disappointment. “Oh, I wouldn’t want to upset your girlfriends. I’ll just go.”

“No. What I meant was now that you’re here, we’re not alone anymore,” he explained condescendingly while bending over to try to make eye contact with her.

Anne feigned, rather ostentatiously, to catch on.

Catherine, watching from nearby, could not have rolled her eyes any further back if she had tried.

Anne deliberately avoided making eye contact with the first man by keeping her gaze locked with the second. She gave him a shy smile, tilting her head slightly, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. When he returned the smile, she bit her lip and let her eyes drop down to the hand on her hip, trying to convey her discomfort at the contact.

It seemed to have worked, much to Catherine’s surprise as she looked on. She thought for sure that at least one of them would have picked up on the swindle. She discreetly pulled her phone from her bag and started to video the show.

The second man reached out and took Anne by her elbow, attempting to pull her closer to himself and out of the grasp of his friend. “Here, love. Why don’t we go get you a top up?”

Anne eyed her cup, still full to capacity and dribbling down the the side as her arm was jostled. “Yeah, I could really use a top up,” she agreed.

Catherine was all but floored by Anne’s ability to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She was certain that it was a first for the girl. She watched as Anne tried to step away from the first man and join the second toward the bar, but the first man did not relinquish his hold on her waist. Instead, he pulled her back in.

“I’ve got a top up for you right here, baby,” he said salaciously. Anne tried not to gag as he put his other arm around her, spilling some of his beer down her back.

“Hey man, she was going with me,” his friend yanked at his arm, sending even more beer down Anne’s dress.

“She came on to me first.” He prodded at his shoulder making enough room for Anne to slip out from between them.

“Mate, she walked into you. She’s been making eyes at me.”

“Making eyes at you? She’s all over me.”

“Are you blind? She ain’t interested in you,” he shouted, squaring up to him so they were nose to nose, chests puffed and fists clenched, staring and breathing heavily.

Anne, not even bothering to try and be inconspicuous, strutted over to Catherine while chugging the rest of her Champagne.

The men started trading shoves and jabs again, much like they had earlier in the evening, but this time there was none of the good-humored nature to it.

Alcohol now addling her brain, Anne howled with laughter as their aggression escalated. She clutched at Catherine’s arm to keep herself standing while Catherine continued to record the aftermath of Anne’s meddling.

“You were right. This is so much better,” she cackled, wiping tears from her eyes.

A little less steady on her feet, she held onto Catherine as they went to find the rest of the girls again.

***

Nursing a severe hangover the next day, Anne had not moved from the place she dropped in the couch after she had forced down the breakfast Jane had made. Catherine was in the arm chair next to her, just as worse for wear.

“Did anyone know there was a fight at the party last night? I guess it was pretty bad too. They had to call the cops. Someone has put the end of it online. Have a look,” Anna said to Jane in the kitchen.

“I could swear that is Anne cracking up in the background,” Jane replied as the tinny sounds of Anne’s joy sounded through the phone speaker.

“Catherine was with her all night. She wouldn’t have let her anywhere near a fight.”

Catherine snorted. Anne smiled into the cushion.

[friendlyfacestabbing]

Gravity is a Cruel Mistress (the people chasing us are worse): 1/3

Summary: Patton falls from the roof of a six storey building. Logan is determined to catch him. (If Logan does a little falling of his own, then that’s neither here nor there.)

Chapter 1: In which Logan has Opinions on ties (and Patton is inconvenienced at a Police checkpoint).

A/N: Part 2 of Renegades! Or: And they were roommates! kids on the run from a totalitarian government! Chapter 1 is up, and I’ll post the remaining two chapters over the next few days. The boys are 15/16 in this one. It’s technically platonic, but you wouldn't have to squint particularly hard to make it pre-romantic Logicality.

Words: 2075

Warnings: Heights, Police, Retail, Parkour (let me know if I’ve missed anything).

AO3 here.

Part 1 here.

It is 4:28 on a Wednesday afternoon, and Logan has been running for approximately eighteen minutes and thirty five seconds. He is currently sprinting across the rooftops of the local retail district, and doing his best to dodge chimneys, ventilation ducts, glass ceilings, aerials, enraged pigeons, and long long drops to the ground. Running along with him are his closest friends Virgil, Roman, and Patton. Oh, of course. And the squad of government enforcers they picked up roughly eleven minutes ago. Just in front of Logan Roman is darting around a skylight, while further ahead Virgil hurdles an air conditioning unit. Logan flicks a glance over his shoulder and notes that Patton has dropped back slightly, but is still comfortably outpacing the dozen people in black body armour bringing up the rear.

It is pure accident that has landed the regime's goons on their tail. They hadn't even been doing anything illegal. Apart from existing, of course. And travelling without a relevant district permit. And carrying fraudulent identification documents. And using assumed names. (And Virgil never travels anywhere without at least one knuckle duster.) Alright so there was some technically illegal conduct occurring, but they weren't actively making trouble. Anyway.

They'd been sitting on a bus…

Roman and Patton are quietly talking, Logan is reading a newspaper he's found and Virgil is staring out the window at the passing shops. Which is when the bus makes a stop, two Transit Police get onboard and begin inspecting all of the passengers' ID Cards. One of the grey uniformed officers approaches them, and the four calmly and without any hesitation hand over their cards. (They really are excellent forgeries.) Cards marked, photos verified, personal data scanned, and “Victor Zalakos”, “Rory Anderson”, and “Lucas Preston” are cleared for travel and have put their cards back in their pockets. But “Patrick Northington's” card is not returned, and the officer wanders back to his colleague and they hold a whispered conversation, while shooting appraising glances at Patton.

“Patrick Northington!”

“Yes Sir?”

“Come here please,” and one of them gestures “Patrick” over.

“Okay!” Patton bounces out of his seat, the very picture of helpful citizenry.

Logan isn't worried. Patton can project an absolutely flawless air of dutiful obedience at will, and has wide-eyed innocence down to an art-form. Logan has watched him walk away from no less than six obviously incriminating situations simply by appearing politely baffled and anxiously patriotic whenever the authorities challenged him. Talking his way out of an ID card mixup is going to be plain sailing, and a pleasure to watch. Then the officer pulls out a retinal scanner.

Logan feels Roman inhale beside him, and he can see the sudden tension in the line of Virgil's shoulders.

Patton obligingly pulls down his glasses and holds perfectly still for the scan, and then while the machine is processing he chirps, “Is there a problem, officers?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with citizen,” the first states in a bored monotone.

“Oh good!” says Patton, and hooks his fingers into the back of his trousers. I'm blown.

Logan catches Roman's eye and lifts an eyebrow. Noted?

Roman shoots back a disarming smile. Message received.

Virgil turns casually and leans one arm against the seat back. “What are we thinking for dinner L? Pasta? Curry? Pizza? Tacos? I could go a pizza.” Escape plan 1, 2, 3, or 4? I like 3.

“Mmhmm. Pizza is good,” Roman muses. 3 might work.

“I don't think we are in the pizza shop's area anymore, but the curry place does delivery,” counters Logan. Our location is bad for 3. 2 will work better.

“True,” agrees Roman.

Virgil is nodding as well, and then he turns and calls down the bus, “Hey Pat! We're gonna go for curry later! Okay?” We're going for escape plan 2. Objections?

Patton shoots a grin over his shoulder. “Sounds good Vi!”

They have whatever time it takes the retinal scanner to finish processing and completely expose who “Patrick Northington” really is. Logan knows that isn't long, and is already cataloguing what the next steps of survival have to be. First, Patton distracts the officers while the other three smash the rear window emergency exit to leave the bus. Second, they navigate the surrounding traffic and run northeast towards the shopping centre. Third, use the late-afternoon crowd to lose their pursuers. If successful, alter appearances and lay low amongst the arcade games until pursuers have given up and departed. If unsuccessful, go to Phase Two: Use the shopping centre's escalators and emergency stairwell to get to the roof. Pull the fire alarm on the way up to delay pursuers and shut down centre electrical systems. If possible, vandalise the fuse box and cause a blackout. Run their previously scouted path across the rooftops to the south (plaza, construction zone, old rail shed, train station, aquatic centre, warehouse currently being refurbished, mattress factory, occupied warehouse). Hide in their bolthole in the industrial district. It's a solid plan, meticulous and bulletproof, the trademarks of anything Logan and Virgil get their figurative hands on. He nods to himself. Between the four of us, provided no one is injured, this should work.

The scanner beeps. Virgil, Logan and Roman all subtly tense.

One of the officers whispers in awe, “Holy shit. It's him. I don't believe it.”

The other frowns and grabs Patton's shoulder firmly. “I'm calling it in.”

“Sir? What's happening? Him who?” an utterly baffled Patton exclaims loudly.

Time to go. The three rise very quietly from their seats and head to the back of the bus. Virgil slips his brass knuckles out of his pocket and prepares to break the window as soon as Patton makes his move.

“Nice try. Elridge,” the first officer sneers, and Logan has to look back now because Patton is about to be brilliant and he doesn't want to miss a second of it.

“What? But I'm Patrick Northington!” Logan knows from experience how that plaintive voice of innocent befuddlement, combined with enormous sky blue eyes and an open freckled face will make anyone doubt anything, including their own name. “The scanner even says so!”

And when both officers look down at the display, just to make sure of the evidence of their own eyes, Patton grabs the hand on his shoulder, yanks hard and flips the officer over his hip and into his partner. Patton then snatches “Patrick Northington's” ID Card, bolts down the aisle of the bus and tumbles straight out the smashed back window alongside Logan. They land on the road together and zigzag across three lanes of traffic after Virgil and Roman, who are already just shy of reaching the shopping centre courtyard.

They'd done their best to blend in with respectable society before they left base, but the four are still slightly shabbier than the crowd around them. Back on base they'd be wearing whatever they felt like, usually shirts with angry slogans, fingerless gloves, oversized jumpers, shredded denim and pyjamas. Out in public they have to look far more respectable. Roman has removed his piercings, Virgil's hair is back to brown, Patton looks like a golfing advertisement and Logan is even wearing a tie. Which is exactly how he looks on base as well, now that he gives it some thought. What else am I supposed to do? Take it off? A tie is an incredibly useful object. It can be a bandage, a gag, a pair of handcuffs, a blindfold, a sling, a belt... How else is one supposed to inconspicuously smuggle three feet of solidly woven fabric with a multitude of purposes except by wearing it?

They all spread out slightly while keeping each other in view, reach the front entrance, and attempt to disappear by matching the movement and demographics of the crowd around them. Patton attaches himself to the back of a group of highschoolers and trails along giggling. Virgil wears his best dead inside retail-worker-on-a-break stare and is immediately invisible. Logan does a convincing impression of a young scholar and/or professional with places to be. Roman engages a young man selling hand cream in an intense conversation about cuticle maintenance for ten metres, where he switches to chatting to the next salesperson about salt lamps.

They are making solid progress past the foodcourt when a solid wall of people up ahead interrupts their ambling escape attempt. Apparently, a posse with “get me your manager” haircuts has lost their tenuous grip on reality, gone completely postal, and thrown furniture through three shop fronts while setting fire to the bins. (Logan spent a season in retail and does not miss it. He honestly prefers being at war. There's less screaming, and if you get shot at least you're allowed to sit down.) There are firefighters onsite, as well as a full squad of Government Enforcers to contain the carnage and take statements from witnesses.

Between the roped off broken glass, the various rescue personnel, store security, the still agitated instigators and every other curious passerby, the commotion has created a blockage in passageway, and people are only getting past the mess in ones and twos. After a bit of a scramble over debris (not a problem). And some close proximity to several enforcers (…...has the potential to be a problem).

Roman (currently out in front) chucks a glance back over his shoulder to Logan and lifts his eyebrows. Yeah?

Logan grimaces and slides his glasses up his nose. No other options.

Roman shrugs, and joins the slow stream of people diverting around the mess. Patton allows two other people in front of him, then follows. Just as Virgil is stepping forward, he looks back at Logan, and then at something over Logan's shoulder that makes his eyes widen. Logan sends him a questioning look, and Virgil turns back and keeps moving slowly after the others, but he's tapping his fingers on his right thigh. The pursuit is back.

Logan doesn't look back, but keeps pace with everyone else. We need to clear the blockage and get moving again, before-

“STOP THAT KID!!!”

Well, before that.

It's not a problem yet. The transit officers are still a good distance away. The corridor is packed with people, especially children, so any enforcers close enough to actually apprehend them have no idea which kid to go after.

Which is when one of the officers yells, “PATTON!!! STOP!!!”

And Patton looks up. Right into the face of the nearest enforcer, who is watching him very closely. Still not necessarily a proble-

“Oops,” says Patton.

Fifteen feet away Logan sighs in frustration. Now it's a problem. Roman grabs Patton and yanks him away from the enforcer reaching for him. They both dash away, as Virgil emerges from the press of people he's spent the last two minutes elbowing a path through and sprints after them. Logan gives up on navigating the crowd and instead starts dodging his way through the police tape and debris. He can hear more shouting from behind him, so he pulls a stand of magazines down in his wake for good measure. On to phase two.

At the top of the escalators Virgil rockets ahead to deal with the fusebox and Roman sets off the fire alarm. The shopping centre is immediately filled with wailing sirens, flashing lights, and panicking people that are far more concerned with leaving the building as fast as possible than being of assistance to law enforcement. Three steps up the maintenance stairway to the roof the lights go out, and Virgil rejoins them shortly afterwards.

Roman is the first through the door onto the roof, and he is immediately looking around on the ground for something to use to jam the door closed behind them. Patton, Logan, and Virgil emerge as well, Roman shoves a rusted star-picket through the door-handle, and they stand for a brief second grinning hysterically at each other. And then Logan turns south, and they all begin to run towards where they know they'll be safe. There is the shriek of metal behind them as someone tries to force the door, but Logan isn't concerned. They're running now, and something would have to go catastrophically wrong for them to be caught. Dashing across rooftops is something they've been doing for years; the world of open sky and twisted metal is theirs and the mid-afternoon breeze snatches at their clothes as they figuratively fly across the skyline.

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The Drunken Lie

Hello!  By popular demand, this is a sequel to ‘The Sober Truth’.  T rating.

Thank you for reading!

--

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Ellie rolled her eyes, following Hardy up the path to his front door as they bickered.  She’d entirely lost the thread of the ‘discussion’, more focused on disagreeing with him for the sake of riling him up.  While once it would have been for the enjoyment she got from listening to him rant and rave in that Scottish accent, now it served a...  better purpose.

She licked her lips.

“All I’m saying is,” he snarled, yanking open his sliding door, “don’t make promises I have no intention or interest in keeping!  Just because you’ve got a bleeding heart-”

Hardy cut himself off, staring inside the door at his house, and she frowned.  Leaning to the side she peeked around him, smiling even as her heart fell, their plans evaporating into smoke.  “Daisy!  What’re you doing here?”

Nudging her stunned partner out of the way she bustled inside, greeting the girl with a well-received warm hug.  The teenager had cut and dyed her hair since the last time she’d been back to Broadchurch, and Ellie admired the short, straight, fluorescent pink hair.  “This looks lovely!”

“Thanks, Ellie,” Daisy grinned, raising a curious eyebrow at her father.  “I’m trying not to be insulted by how disappointed you are to see me, Dad.”

“Of course I’m happy to see you,” he recovered, hugging her close and shooting Ellie an apologetic look when his daughter couldn’t see.  “But, erm, why are you here?”

He led her to the couch, Ellie dithering in the doorway, unwilling to interrupt but sorry to lose, among other things, her dinner date.

“I… needed a favor.  From both of you,” Daisy added, when Ellie moved to leave.

“Anything,” she promised, perching on the arm of the chair while Hardy settled next to his daughter.

Hardy shot her an exasperated look of warning, before turning his gaze on the teenager.  “Are you in trouble?  Or… trouble?”

“What?  No!  And, no!  Dad!  Jeez,” Daisy complained, crossing her arms and glaring at him.  “Come on!”

“I just… wasn’t expecting you.  What’s going on?”

The teenager took a deep breath, tucking her hair behind her ears.  “Um, remember how Mum’s getting married?”

“Yes,” he said shortly, and Ellie nodded in agreement, biting her lip to hide a smile.  She honestly couldn’t care less about Tess’s impending wedding, but the initial news had been what had pushed her and Hardy together – for that, she’d like to thank her.  Maybe.

Well, probably not.

“So, I’m supposed to be in the wedding, give her away, whatever.”

“Okay?”

Daisy fidgeted with a ring on her middle finger, turning the band and sliding it off and on.  “Well, I just found out why they’re getting married.”  She gave them both a significant look, one Ellie caught and understood immediately, shaking her head with a soft sigh.  She could hardly judge though; it was the same reason her own marriage had come to be.

“Why’s that?”

Poor, clueless bloke, Ellie snorted, and he glanced between the women, confused, while they shared an eye-roll.

“She’s pregnant.”  Daisy broke it gently, and Ellie watched his expression carefully only to see the confusion clear, with no hint of longing or regret.

“That’s nice,” he said neutrally.

His daughter shook her head, pink hair bouncing with the movement.  “Not really – I sort of flipped out on her.  Turns out it’s made her introspective, wants to ‘heal the wounds of the past’, so this new kid can… I dunno, have a place in my life or something.  That’s what she wants at least.”

A gnawing feeling started low in Ellie’s gut as she realized what the favor was likely to be, and already wondering how she would keep Hardy from losing his mind.

“What d’you need with us, then?  An excuse not to go?”  He didn’t seem to have gotten it yet.

Daisy shook her head slowly.  “I, uh, told her I refused to go if you weren’t there.”

There it is.

“And?”  Hardy’s expression turned thunderous, steam practically coming out of his ears and making Ellie wince.

“She called my bluff,” she said miserably.  “Said ‘fine, whatever, he can come – though he’ll be at the farthest table.’  And I said… well, I told her that you wouldn’t come without your fiancée,” Daisy’s voice trailed off, and she offered her father a tentative smile.

“My fiancée?”

Ellie groaned, burying her face in her hands.

Daisy had the good sense to look ashamed.  “I didn’t think she’d go for it, I was trying to be unreasonable!”

“Well, tell her you’ve thought about it and you’re a big girl, you don’t need Dad there with you.”  Hardy was unsympathetic, though Ellie noticed he steadfastly refused to look at her, focusing on his daughter a bit too intently to be genuine.

“I can’t do that!  Dad, please?”

“Is that how I’m involved?” Ellie asked, trying to divert Daisy’s attention away from her father for a moment so he could rein in his anger.  “You said that I was…”

Daisy nodded.  “Sorry, I know it’s not like that between you, but… it would really mean a lot.  If nothing else, it’s a free night away, and they’re doing it all posh.  You won’t know anyone but us, and you’ll never see any of them again.”

“I know them all!”

She waved dismissively, not even glancing back at him.  “This isn’t about you.  Chloe’ll be there too, but she already knows about the ruse so that’s not a problem.  Please?  Don’t make me go alone.”

Ellie sighed, but was unable to deny pleading eyes.  “All right.  When is it?”

Daisy winced.  “This Saturday.”

It was Thursday evening.  Hardy looked ready to have a stroke.

“Daisy!”

-

In the end, it was easier to sneak away than they'd first feared.  They already had the weekend off, and if her vague explanation led her father to assume it was a work trip, so much the better.

They left the office at three on Friday, Ellie behind the wheel as they headed northeast.  Despite the last time having been a good five years earlier, the drive to Sandbrook was almost like muscle memory.  Of course, she thought, checking on Daisy in the backseat via the rearview mirror, this is a much different trip.

It was funny, how much had changed.  Then, Hardy had been terribly ill and downtrodden, borderline hopeless, and Ellie's rage had been about the only thing she could feel.

Now Hardy was healthy, his daughter's love doing as much for his heart as the pacemaker.  Ellie… she had found peace, had moved on.  Joe rarely plagued her dreams, and she looked forward now, not back.  The man beside her had quite a bit to do with that, even before they had started their relationship a few weeks earlier.

"I know you're not thrilled about this," Ellie said quietly, double checking the mirror to make sure Daisy was distracted with her earbuds and smartphone, "but consider how this is good."

"What good could possibly come from this?" her partner grumbled from the passenger seat, turning his head to do his own check on his daughter.  It hadn’t been discussed, but Ellie was a detective – it was clear enough that he hadn’t shared his new relationship status with the teenager, one who was already upset enough about her mother’s remarriage.

She hummed.  "For one, we actually get to spend the entire night together.  And not just 'cause we're stuck at work.  In a bed and everything."

Hardy's eyebrows rose as he considered that.  "True.  First time."  He swept his eyes over her, sparking a low burn of desire to flood her belly.

"Free cake.  I looked the place they're having it up - easily £150 a plate."

His expression fell to a scowl and he went back to staring out the window.  After a minute he said softly, "You realize basically everyone at this wedding will know who I am, right?"

She did, but tried for levity anyway.  "Someone certainly thinks a lot of himself."

"They'll all know about the case, and the affair, and how clueless I was about both," he ignored her.  "How my incompetence let not one, but two child-killers escape justice."

"We got the Ashworths, and Ricky Gillespie.  They'll all rot in prison for decades."

He smiled sardonically.  "Most of the guests will be friends and co-workers.  They'll all know about- Danny."

Ellie's breath caught - she hadn't even considered that possibility.  Then she rallied. "Well, if they're gossiping about me then they're too busy to talk about you," she shrugged, knowing her would-be casual air wasn't fooling him.

"Miller-"

“We’re a team,” she cut him off firmly.  “Who cares what people you haven’t seen in seven years think of you.  And remember, we’re here for Daisy, to make this easier on her.  So no matter what happens, we will focus on her.  Hang the rest of them.”

When he didn’t answer she glanced in his direction, wondering if she’d somehow over stepped, only to find him gazing lovingly at her.

“What?”

“Sometimes you know exactly the right thing to say,” Hardy murmured, reaching out to brush his fingertips against her cheek and over her ear.  “You’re right – this is for her.”

“And the free hotel room.”

“Aye, and that.”  His expression lightened, turning teasing and a bit naughty.  “You, me, two nights alone… anything can happen.”

Ellie laughed softly.  “I hope you know I have high expectations.”

“Me too.”

They shared a promising grin, and despite his daughter in the backseat not knowing about their deepening relationship she felt free.  Free to be coy and flirty, to bask in her new relationship.  To feel like a woman, instead of just the exhausted mother/daughter/employee rut she’d been in.  To wear a pretty dress, and touch her lover boyfriend significant other in public, be seen together.

She pressed a little heavier on the gas pedal, pushing the car forward.  She couldn’t wait.

-

“Really, Daisy, it’s fine,” Ellie promised, as they stood in the doorway to Ellie and Hardy’s room.  “You should be in your room closer to the rest of the wedding party.  We’ll be fine.”

“But won’t it be awkward sharing a room?” Daisy hissed, keeping her voice low as she looked around for other potential guests.

Hardy let out an annoyed sigh.  “Daiz, we’re adults.  It’s fine.  You have stuff to do with the wedding.  We will see you in the morning, yeah?”

The girl nodded slowly, biting her lip.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” they said in chorus, Ellie trying to rein in her delight at being so close to being alone with her boyfriend in a room with a bed.  And a lock.  “I promise,” she said more moderately, hoping she didn’t look at happy as she felt.  “Now, run along.  Your mum’s waiting.”

“Breakfast is until ten.  See you then,” Daisy said reluctantly, trudging back towards the lift.  Her room was a floor up and farther down the hall, near the rest of the wedding party, while Ellie and Hardy’s was as far from Tess and Daisy’s as they could discreetly manage.

They waited until the doors closed on her to enter the room, setting their bags down by the wall and surveying the single king bed.

“Such a shame they couldn’t get us those double beds,” she smirked, crossing her arms and turning to him.  “However will we cope?”

“We’re adults, I’m sure we can share it in an adult manner,” Hardy’s eyes twinkled, and he pulled her close, their arms wrapping around each other.  “Hi.”

“Hello.”

He kissed her leisurely, the promise of the night to come making her blood sing.  “We’re finally alone,” he husked out, hands smoothing along her side.  “What do you want to do?  Dinner?  We could get a drink?”

Ellie was hardly a passive participant, and she hummed, starting on the buttons of his shirt.  “I could use a nap.”

“Oh?”  He moved backwards towards the bed, working on the buttons of her own blouse.  “I could… cuddle you to sleep, if you like.”

She laughed, letting his shirt hang open in favor of opening his belt.  “You can something me to sleep, all right.”

It was a long time before they made it out of the room in search of dinner.

-

Ellie’s eyes snapped open, and she inhaled sharply to find a nose a hair’s breadth away from her own.

“Sorry,” Hardy whispered, thumb drawing soothing arcs on her skin when she automatically tensed.  “Did I wake you?”

She carefully shrugged one shoulder, relaxing into the mattress.  Daylight was starting to peek through gaps in the curtains, offering just enough light to see his face.  He looked peaceful, and happy, and Ellie let a shy smile grow across her face. She was happy too, was happy to wake up next to him, and couldn’t help herself.

“I love you.”

It took a moment for his expression to brighten further, a beaming smile spreading across his face.  “Aye?”

Ellie nodded, chuckling softly.  “Yes.”

Hardy leaned forward, kissing her, and she rolled quite willingly to her back, tugging him atop her.  Though he’d already said the words the day they became a couple, she’d held back, pretended not to be sure.

Of course, it wasn’t so much a pretension as a protection, but when she allowed the walls around her heart to crumble, she had to quietly admit to herself that she did, in fact, love him.

She’d spent the last fortnight trying to figure out how to say it, when to say it.  This hadn’t been what she’d envisioned, had hoped they’d both be dressed at a minimum, but lying there, with him, waking up in his arms…

She couldn’t wait any longer.

“I love you too,” he whispered joyfully, peppering kisses across her face.  “Truly.”

“I love you,” Ellie repeated for the simple pleasure of doing so, running her hands over his back and sides, reveling in the feel of him against her.  “So much.”

They missed breakfast.

-

Ellie nodded, working hard to keep her polite smile as the woman she was talking to wittered on about her children, or her dog, or something – she’d long since tuned her out.  Hardy had left her alone at the table twenty minutes before to fetch drinks from the bar, and within a minute this woman had claimed his seat and started talking her ear off.

“Sorry, how do you know the couple?” she interrupted, mentally willing Hardy to return as quickly as possible.

“Oh, I work with them,” the woman tucked away an errant curl, grinning widely.  “Known them for years. Knew her ex-husband, too, he was our DI.”

“Ah.”  That caught Ellie’s attention, and she narrowed her eyes.  She was certainly used to people insulting Hardy, had said her fair share behind his back during the first investigation, but felt a stronger-than-normal need to defend him.  “Is that so?”

The woman nodded sagely.  “Bit of a wanker.  Well, more than a bit.  Dave’s a much nicer bloke, if you ask me.”

Ellie pursed her lips, trying to choose her words carefully.  “He had an affair with a married woman, while married himself.  Not sure he’d top my list.”  Quite the opposite.

“Well, apparently Hardy’s got quite the type.”  She leaned closer before looking around quite obviously, lowering her voice to whisper, “I heard he moved to a little village on the coast and had an affair with a married DS down there.  From what I’ve heard, he’s even marrying her.  Can you imagine?”

“I’m certain you don’t have all the facts,” Ellie said coolly, reminding herself sternly Don’t embarrass Daisy and Hardy.  Don’t ruin this.

“Apparently he framed the woman’s husband for murder!  I always knew he was an arse, but that’s a bit extreme, don’tcha think?”

Ellie had enough, rising abruptly to her feet and snatching her purse.  “For your information,” she started quietly, meeting the woman’s gaze head on, “Alec Hardy is easily the most noble, caring, principled man I’ve ever met.  He is an excellent detective, entirely dedicated to bringing about justice through the courts.  I am very proud to call myself his partner, and am very much looking forward to the day I call him husband.  Now piss off.”

Spinning around with the intent of stalking away from the table, she walked right into Hardy’s chest.

“Oh, fuck,” she muttered as he steadied her, glancing up at him with wide eyes.  “How much of that did you hear?”

“Eh, basically none of it,” Hardy shrugged, eyes twinkling madly.

“None?”

“Maybe just a bit,” he whispered, one hand settling on her hip as the other cradled her head, mindful of her fancy hairdo she’d spent a solid twenty minutes lecturing him on not messing up.

A small smile spread across her face, as the memory of the woman’s cattiness melted away and she focus on him.  “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He kissed her then, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for interpretation, dipping her slightly.  If she had been capable of thinking in the moment, she’d have thought something along the lines of the newlyweds didn’t kiss like this earlier.

They broke apart, panting slightly, and without another word Hardy took her hand and led her towards the exit.

Daisy stood between them and the doors, eyes so wide she must have seen the kiss, and Ellie flushed.

Hardy, however, barely blinked, just flashing his daughter a smile on the way past.  “See you in the morning.”

They pushed through the doors into the hallway, eyes meeting before they immediately burst into laughter.  Wrapping their arms around each other they headed for the lift, still chuckling.

“So…” he started pseudo-casually as the doors opened, “‘looking forward to the day I call him husband’?  Mrs. Miller I’m positively scandalized.”

Ellie hit the button for their floor, before turning to grin up at him.

“If that scandalizes you, you’re not ready for our wedding night.”

[luckyspike]

Adventures in America, Ch. 7 - The Mix-Up Kid

In which the storm chasers enjoy the delights of a Waffle House

Adam learns Warlock’s birthday

And a storm brews ahead

Yes, figuratively, but also literally. This is a tornado-chasing fanfiction, honestly. Did you think I wouldn’t actually put a tornado in the damn thing?

Start from the beginning: ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 | ch. 5 | ch. 6

or follow this link to my fanfiction tag

-

Adam could have whooped when Noel informed him and Lucky that they wouldn’t be meeting in the lobby until eight the next morning. “There’s gonna be storms, probably to the northeast, but it’ll be afternoon by the looks of it. Get some sleep tonight, boys, an’ we can meet up for a late breakfast and decide where we’re headed.”

They didn’t unpack much - pajamas, toothbrushes, and that was about it. Adam took a hot shower, quick as he could, and when he got out, he found Lucky laying on top of his covers, earbuds in, face-timing with a friend. Adam gave him a thumbs-up - his turn for the shower if he wanted it - and settled onto his own bed, pulling his phone out and making sure he was connected to the wifi before he texted his parents to see if they were awake - they hadn’t been, but they were so eager to hear from him that they took his call, voices thick with sleep but happy nonetheless. He could hear Dog snoring on their bed in the background.

They were happy to talk to him. They were glad to hear he was having fun, and reminded him to be careful and stay safe. He told them about Lucky, and Noel and Rachael, and everything he’d learned so far. “It sounds like a good experience,” Arthur Young said. “Just ah … you do know when the tornadoes are coming, don’t you?”

“I mean, largely. They can be unpredictable.” He heard his mother make a worried noise. “No, mum, but like, they have this program called Baron, it’s running all the time, and it shows radar and gives warnings, and Rachael and Noel have been doing this for ages, so they’re really good at it too. And careful.” He considered telling them about the safety precautions Noel had reviewed earlier, but considered that the things he had warned them against might actually be more alarming than the safety instructions that followed, and he decided to leave it out. “Anyway, you don’t need to worry, promise. How’s things at home?”

“All well and good,” his mother replied. “We miss you of course, and Dog misses you - he was sniffing around in your room the day you left - but Anathema said she’d have a word with him and he’s settled down since then.” He heard the dog’s collar jingle as his mother, or father maybe, presumably gave him a scritch behind the ears. “He’s a very good boy.”

Adam grinned at the unmistakable sound of a small dog’s tail wagging so hard it was beating against the bed cover. “Aw, yeah. Give him a hug for me, yeah?”

“Of course, love. Arthur, hug Dog, would you? He’s closer to you.” Adam’s mother yawned, drowning out some of the grumbles in the background and the sounds of more happy tail-wagging. “Have you spoken to your friends? Oh, and Anathema and Newt asked about you this afternoon.”

“Not yet, figured it’s kind of late. I’ll send an email.” He yawned as well, prompted by his mother. “Maybe in the morning. You can tell them I’m good though, if you see anybody.” He yawned again. “Sorry, I’m kind of beat.”

“Jet lag,” his father answered sagely. “You ought to get some rest then, Adam.”

“You guys too,” the boy added earnestly. “Sorry to call so early - I’m all messed up with the time zones -”

“No, Adam, we’ve been waiting to hear from you.” He smiled, and the slight ache of homesickness that had settled in his chest as soon as he’d boarded the plane lifted a little at the warmth in her voice. “Text anytime, love, and we’ll talk if we can.” She blew a kiss into the phone. “But get some rest for now, alright? Sleep well, and let us know how tomorrow goes!”

“Will do, Mum, Dad. Talk to you guys later. Lots of love.” He ended the call, and sat back against the pillows, continuing to tap on his phone, sending the video of the hail storm off to the group and his sister. To his surprise, Pep texted back almost immediately, sending a message of ‘Dude what!’. He paused. Then he called.

“Hey storm rider!” she answered. “What’s up, Adam? Cool video!”

He couldn’t help but grin. “Hah. What are you doing up?”

“Driving in to London with the girls later today, and I couldn’t sleep. Hopefully Addie is willing to drive because I’m going to be napping.” She yawned. “So how’s America?”

“Crazy.” He laughed. “I went to Dunkin Donuts this morning.”

“Mm. America runs on Dunkin, I’m told. You meet anyone cool?”

“Well, the people I’m with are really cool.” She made a curious little noise. “So there’s Noel and Rachael, the guides - I told you about them. They’re super nice. And I think between the two of them they might know everything about weather. We drove for like, 11 hours today, and you know we only went through two entire states?”

“Wow.”

“And I napped for part of it but a lot of it they were teaching us stuff … Man, Pep, there’s so much.” He scrubbed his face with his hand. “I know you guys always made fun of me for how much I talk about weather sometimes, but honestly I don’t know like … anything.”

“Well, maybe not compared to the experts,” she teased. “But compared to me and Brian and Wensley you know way more than any of us.” She coughed. “So who’s ‘us’ on your trip? There’s another student?”

“Oh! Yeah. He’s cool.” Adam heard the shower shut off, and wondered how much he should really say. “He’s American, but he lived in London for a while, he said. You know, I think his dad might have even worked at the air base?”

“No,” Pepper laughed. “No way. Only you, Adam, would find the one American in the entire world who even knows about Tadfield and grew up in London. And of course he’s obsessed with weather. You should find out if he lived in Tadfield at any point, like when he was a baby or something.”

Adam considered it. “Nah,” he said at length.”What’re the odds?” He yawned, as Lucky stepped out of the bathroom, dressed only in boxers, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel. “I’m sure we’ll talk about it at some point.”

“You’d better. Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, me too.” He heard the sound of sheets and pillows being pushed around. “Might try to get a couple hours before I have to go.”

“‘M gonna go to sleep too.” He let his eyes drift closed. “Jet lag’s brutal.”

“I bet. And all that time in the car probably didn’t help.” She yawned again. “Can you send us more videos tomorrow?”

“If I see anything, yeah.”

“You think you might?”

“Dunno. Everything’s supposed to happen in the afternoon, so we’re gonna wait to see what the morning looks like.”

“Well. Send us stuff even if you don’t see anything. Send us videos of weird Americans.”

“Yeah, okay. Talk to you later, Pep.” He hung up the phone, laughing while he did so.

Lucky flopped into his own bed, yanking the covers up over himself. “Friends?”

“Yeah, back home. Pepper.”

“Isn’t England like … six hours ahead of us?”

“Yeah.” Adam shrugged. “I dunno, she said she was up. Figured I’d give her a call.” He grinned at his phone, before locking the screen and plugging it in to charge. “I sent the gang a video of the hail. Most of them prob’ly never seen hail that big before.”

“Yeah, that was wild.” He folded his hands behind his head. “Hope we get a tornado tomorrow.”

“That’d be cool.” He sighed. “Pep told me to send more videos. Said if there wasn’t anything interesting in the weather I could send her videos of crazy Americans.”

Lucky laughed. “I’ll act extra crazy tomorrow if we don’t get any weather. You can send her a video.”

“I’m not sure she’d count you since you grew up in London.”

“Nah, only until I was eleven, and even then other than the like … the housekeepers and the gardner, everyone was American. Well, except Nanny. But she was Scottish.” He shrugged. “Then my dad got reassigned back to the States and I’ve lived stateside ever since. So I’m pretty American.”

“Eleven?” Adam asked, pointedly not opening his eyes. “Huh.”

“Yeah it was weird.” Lucky yawned. “There was this whole thing in the middle east and then boom, back to America, no more England. Honestly, I think my mom was just sick of random diplomatic trips. I’ll tell you about it some time, that whole trip to the middle east was so weird.”

“Yeah,” Adam replied, faintly, feigning fatigue. “Yeah, gotta remember to tell me about it. Never been to the middle east.”

“You’re not missing anything. Avocado farms and weird professors and that’s about it, far as I remember.” He shut the light off, and rolled over, away from Adam. “G’night, dude.”

“Night,” said Adam, on autopilot. Minutes later, he heard quiet snoring, and all the better, because his mind was racing.

Most eighteen-year-old boys are, by nature, not particularly introspective. They may be bright, the may be clever, they may be well-educated and top of their class and very high-achieving, but it’s the rare boy who is capable of reflecting on all of the information presented to him, reconciling it with what he already knows, and then reaching accurate, logical conclusions that may be distressing to him. Often, denial worms its way in early, and until the correct answer knocks the boy in question directly on the head, the powerful lure of denial will always draw him away, convince him that another conclusion is more likely, or more desirable.

Adam Young, though, was not most eighteen-year-old boys. To start, he was the Antichrist, even if he’d turned his back on that years ago and preferred not to think of himself in those terms. Further, he was quietly introspective, a trait he’d developed due to, well, being the Antichrist, and always, in spite of himself, watching his own thoughts for hints of Not Being Adam. Messing About. Antichristly things, essentially.

That could be to his advantage even now, though. And right now, his mind was cranking into overdrive, combing through what he knew. Warlock Dowling - father might have worked in Tadfield, was working in England when Warlock - Lucky - was born, Lucky was raised in England. Satanist nanny and monk gardner. Random trip to the middle east when he was eleven, followed by a sudden departure from London, never to return to the UK again. Or the middle east, come to think of it.

Adam wondered if he had stayed in touch with anybody from London. Particularly, the nanny and the gardner.

It all sounded very suspicious.

“We would have been with you from the beginning, you know, but there was a mix-up,” Aziraphale had told him once, years ago. Adam remembered that he’d gone to Aziraphale crying - it happened sometimes, more then but still these days, blessedly rarely - about what he’d done in the few brief hours when he really was the Antichrist. The things he might have brought about. The fate he and the world had so narrowly avoided. “We would have loved to be with you.” Adam remembered how the angel had hugged him, stroked his hair, dried his tears. “It was an unfair burden to lay at your feet, Adam, and Crowley and I always wanted to help but … there was a mistake. Best laid plans, and all that. It doesn’t undo what was done, and I am frightfully sorry about the lead-up, the way we treated - or didn’t treat - you, but know that had we known, we would have been there. But Adam, even then, you were brilliant. You are brilliant.”

There was a mix-up.

Warlock Dowling snored gently.

- 

The next morning dawned hot and humid. Lucky and Adam woke with the alarm around nine, and lazily set about getting ready for the day. Adam checked his phone to find messages from his friends about the hail storm (“don’t let those brain you,” from his sister and, “dude what if it hits you,” from Brian), replied when he felt it was indicated, and pulled on a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt. Lucky was ready to go shortly after, and they stepped out of the motel room and into the air. Lucky made a noise of disgust.

“Talk about humid.”

“Ugh, yeah,” Adam agreed, trying to ignore how his t-shirt was already sticking to his skin, even though he’d only just come outside. “Good storm weather though, yeah?”

“Should be. I’m sure we’ll get a look at the radar over breakfast.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get us a tornado today, huh?”

“Or some serious hail,” Adam agreed. A part of him - a large part of him - wanted to say sod it to the weather and have a serious talk with Lucky about his upbringing, his birth, his life to that point. How old was Lucky? They were roughly the same age, Adam knew that, but they could easily be a year or so apart, and all of the stuff that sounded suspiciously occult might have just been a coincidence. After all, it was all relatively easy to explain, in the harsh light and oppressive humidity of the Oklahoma day: American diplomat posted at a British airbase, family moved to the nearest metropolitan area, lived there for years, made a brief foray to the middle east - and America was so involved there around that time, Adam remembered, that that was hardly unusual - and then returned to America. Unusual, certainly, but not … occult. And having a diplomat for a father wasn’t exactly commonplace, so even then a bit of unusual-ness could be forgiven.

The Scottish Satanist nanny, though, reared her presence in his mind. The monk gardner. Good and evil.

Adam shook his head, when he realized that Lucky was speaking to him. They’d walked to the truck together while Adam thought and, on autopilot, he had set his stuff in the bed of the truck and closed the gate. Noel and Rachael were nowhere to be seen, not yet, but Adam thought he heard them talking on the other side of the motel. “Huh?” he said, looking to Lucky.

“Nothing,” the other boy shrugged. “Just talking about the radar. All this moisture and warmth - if we have any cold air from the northwest at all, we run a really good chance of catching a storm today.”

“Yup.” Adam leaned back against the truck and looked around the parking lot idly, arms crossed over his chest in spite of the heat. He met eyes with a stranger - a businessman, by the looks of him, dressed all in brown, with neatly-combed salt-and-pepper hair - that was sitting on the trunk of his rental car, reading a book. The two exchanged taut smiles, and the stranger returned to his book. “Hopefully out in the middle of nowhere, where we can get a good luck without too much people an’ stuff being around.”

“Yeah, that’d be ideal.” Lucky waved to Noel and Rachael as they approached. “Hey guys!”

Rachael raised her thermos in greeting. “Morning morning! You guys ready to hit it? The radar looks pretty good.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yep.” Adam opened the back gate of the truck for her, and she tossed her bag in. “You hungry? I’m starving. Hop in, we’re gonna hit the Waffle House and go over the game plan.”

“No Dunkin?” Lucky looked surprised.

“Gonna mix it up today, get exciting.” Noel snickered. “And also she has her own bag that she used to brew a pot in the room earlier this morning, so she’s already fueled-up.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “She’s an addict, guys, I’m telling you.”

The boys laughed, while Rachael pointed out, “There’s worse things. Alright, load up, we have a storm to talk about, and I want some waffles!”

The Waffle House was such a uniquely American experience that Adam started taking video almost as soon as they entered. From the way the entire restaurant greeted them as they walked in, to the waiter’s accent, to the menu itself, he sent all of the snaps to his friends. There was no reply, not when it was so early in England, but he looked forward to the messages that would probably come through later, after everyone was up. 

He tucked into a truly massive waffle and two eggs for breakfast, topped with a few strips of crispy bacon. It tasted exactly like he’d imagined it would, and he devoured it with gusto, finishing before Rachael even got through her second cup of coffee. Noel, still working at his omelet, pulled his laptop out of his bag and handed it over the table to Adam. “Check out the radar, Adam, and see what you think. There’s some really interesting stuff shaping up; let me know where you think it might be.”

Adam cracked the computer open. Next to him, Lucky studied the screen intently with dark eyes while Adam poked the cursor around the radar screen, randomly at first, and then slowly in a more organized fashion, tracing fronts and pressure systems, gradually hovering more consistently over a spot in mid-Kansas. Lucky nodded, never speaking, when he agreed, pointing at times. Across the table, Noel and Rachael shared companionable silence, Rachael with her coffee cradled in her hands and Noel slowly working at his omelet.

“Ready to show your work?” Rachael gestured to Adam to turn the laptop around, after he and Lucky had exchanged a few words and seemed to settle on a location. “Let’s see it.”

“I think,” Adam said slowly, pointing to the screen, “the best shot of anything happening is going to be right around here.” 

“Hey!” Rachael grinned broadly. “Nice job, guys!”

“Yeah?” They exchanged a high-five. “Yeah!”

“Maybe a little more east,” Noel added, after he’d swallowed his last bite of omelet. “But really good for day two! What made you settle on that area?”

Adam and Warlock traded off explanation duties as Rachael settled up with the waiter, she and Noel adding information and correcting them as needed. In the truck, they settled in, Rachael in the driver’s seat for the first leg, and set course for Kansas. There wouldn’t be as much lecturing today, Noel assured them, and although Adam was eager to learn, he was truthfully a little grateful for the break. As they drove across the plains, he and Lucky put their headphones in, Adam listening to his downloaded playlist of tried-and-true favorites while he took video of the blue skies and white clouds, saving them to send later, when he could get to wi-fi. Around nine, he did get a text from Aziraphale - Crowley’s phone, of course, but the grammar and punctuation gave the angel away - bidding him to stay safe and out of trouble. He smiled, faintly, and settled back in the seat to watch the landscape drift by.

Lunch was sandwiches from a little deli they passed on their way through a town for gas. Adam savored the turkey and cheese in the back of the truck, Noel informing them that the time would be tight for the afternoon storms and they couldn’t afford a proper stop. He must have drifted off after he ate, because the next time he woke it was because Rachael had nudged his knee. She pointed to the screen of her laptop, excited. Adam leaned in. “Look at this,” she said, excited. Adam nudged Lucky, who had likewise drifted asleep with his headphones in, and ignored the muzzy noises the other boy made as he woke. “See the body of it there? It’s been holding steady for the last hour.”

Adam squinted. “Is that a hook echo?” He pointed to a part of the screen. Rachael, thoughtful, turned the screen to look. “Ah, no! But it might be an elephant trunk-type signature …” She studied it for a few seconds. “We’ll keep an eye on it. You awake, Lucky?”

“Mm yeah.” Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, Lucky unbuckled his belt, the better to lean forward and study the computer.

“Check out the base velocity data.” She changed views, and both boys blinked. “Do you know what you’re looking at?”

“Not … really.” Adam cocked his head. “Something about the wind speed in relation to the radar site?”

“I think I’ve seen it before,” Lucky chimed in. “Is it … wait. Green away and red toward? Or red away? Or is it speed …”

Rachael shook her head. “Not quite, but you guys are already ahead of the game - a lot of chasers your age don’t know anything about base velocity until after their first chase. So Lucky, it’s red away, and green toward.” She pointed to the screen. “Doesn’t really have anything to do with the speed of the winds, just how they’re moving in relation to the weather station. So when we’re looking for rotation, obviously, we want to see red and green really close to each other, right?”

“Makes sense,” Lucky agreed. 

“So look here.” She pointed. “Now this stuff up here -” she twitched her hand to gesture vaguely at a scattering of red amongst green, “- I think is just artefact but this, this looks concentrated. See that?”

Adam and Lucky exchanged a look. “Like, it’s the dot, right?” Adam guessed.

“More or less.” Rachael flipped back to the regular radar view. “But you see how it correlates to a high-precipitation area? Means there’s probably a mesocyclone in there.” She clenched and unclenched her fingers, excited. “We might get a tornado today, guys. Definitely a lot of lightning, if the precipitation holds together.”

“How far out are we?” Lucky asked, shifting anxiously in his seat.

Noel answered this time. “Probably an hour or two. We should start seeing some more interesting clouds soon. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Adam and Lucky settled back, each looking out of their own window, while Rachael and Noel talked about something else - photography, something with Rachael’s lightning set-up - in the front seat. 

“Have you ever seen a tornado?” Adam asked Lucky, as he craned his neck to see more to the front of the truck.

“Oh, yeah! Not up close, but one time in Virginia there was a little one and I could see it from the back yard. It didn’t last very long, but it was really cool. You?”

Adam thought about the tornado in Tadfield, when he was eleven. “Nah,” he said, stuffing the memory away. “Been in a few bigger storms, but you know … England.”

“Yeah, really severe weather isn’t really a big thing over there, huh? They get tornados though sometimes. I think.”

“Really little ones usually, yeah,” Adam agreed. “They don’t last long, normally, or do much damage.”

“I know another chaser from England,” Noel chimed in as he drove. “He comes over for the season every year. We were talking about it one time, he said that England has the second-most tornadoes per land area in the world.”

“Seriously?” Adam blinked.

“Yeah, but it’s a small area.” Lucky frowned. “And they’re not big?”

“No,” Noel agreed. “Not usually. He lives right in what he calls England’s tornado alley.” He laughed. “A little southwest from London I think he said? I can’t remember the name of the town. Most of the twisters there are around 95MPH wind speed, so they’re not really that powerful, but he told me he chases over there sometimes, if he’s home when they’re around. He showed me a few photos.”

“It was pretty cool - you don’t really think about tornadoes in England,” Rachael chipped in, absently. “Where in England is Tadfield, Adam?”

“Northwest of London,” he answered, using the city as a reference point. “About, oh, two hour drive I think, usually.” He did not add that most of the recent times he traveled to and from London by car, the car was being driven by a demon, and travel time was therefore significantly reduced. “It’s not a big village at all. Biggest thing there is the air base, and even that’s pretty small now. Population-wise, anyway. It’s mostly computers.”

“I think that’s why my dad got reassigned to London,” Lucky said thoughtfully. “Plus, you know, diplomat. London made more sense I guess.”

“Yeah it would do.” Adam looked sidelong at the other boy. Lucky didn’t notice, staring out of the window. “So you were born in London?”

“No, actually. It’s kind of a crazy story - my parents were supposed to fly in to the air base together, but my mom ended up having to go alone for a few days because there was something with the president? I dunno, Dad never actually said what it was. But anyway Mom flew in and then like, went into labor while she was staying at the air base waiting for him, so I ended up being born there.” He shook his head.

“Oh.” Born at the air base. Adam could have laughed with the relief of it. Another thought occurred to him. “Aren’t pregnant women not supposed to fly, though?”

“I dunno, probably.” He shrugged. “I guess when the president says go, you go.” He snorted. “And then, so like, she’s at the air base, but then she said they didn’t have a doctor that knew how to deliver babies? So she had to go to this weird hospital with nuns to have me. Worked out in the end, Dad got there after I was born and we went to the place in London like they’d planned.”

Weird hospital with nuns. The words echoed in Adam’s ears, in between the pounding rush of his own heartbeat. Weird nuns. Satanic nuns, maybe? How do you ask if someone was born in a hospital full of Satanic nuns? 

“Wild story,” said Rachael from the front seat, but as far as Adam was concerned, she might have been a thousand miles away. “See the clouds up ahead?”

“Supercell!” he heard Lucky say, distantly, and the other boy - the other boy who was born in a weird hospital with nuns, to a politically-connected family, and then raised by a satanic nanny and had a monk for a gardener, and then went to the middle east when he was eleven - leaned forward to start chattering on with Rachael and Noel. About storms.

Adam loved weather, but at the moment, nothing could be further from his mind.

“When’s your birthday?” he blurted out, stopping the other three mid-conversation. And then he blinked, realizing what he’d done, as Rachael and Lucky looked to him, puzzled. “Sorry, never mind, wasn’t paying attention.” He forced a weak smile.

“August 23. You okay?”

“Yeah,” Adam lied, immediately turning to look out the window. “Wow, check out that cell!”

“... Yeah. It’s big.” Lucky looked over to Rachael, who had raised her eyebrows questioningly. Even Noel was glancing curiously between the two students in the rearview mirror. Lucky shrugged at Rachael, the universal ‘I have no idea’ gesture. “You alright, Adam? Really?”

“Fine.” We have the same birthday, born in a weird hospital with nuns, we’re probably the same age, they thought I was him, they thought he was it, it was him, it was this guy …

“Nerves are totally normal,” Noel said a little more quietly, not taking his eyes off the road, or the storm cell ahead. “Don’t worry - we’re gonna get plenty of videos if anything happens, but we’ll keep our distance. It’s early still - by the time we’re five weeks in you’re gonna wanna drive the truck yourself.”

It was him, he was the mix-up, it was - And then Adam stopped himself, because some part of him realized that this wasn’t productive, he wouldn’t change or alter anything with this line of thinking, and furthermore, he was in the back of a truck which was headed straight for what looked, on radar, to be a supercell with significant tornadic potential. “No, it’s fine,” he insisted, with a shake of his head. “No, I’m sorry. Sorry, really, I think I’m just still a little messed up from the time change, but I’m fine. Seriously,” he added, when Rachael and Lucky looked to him, radiating concern and curiosity. “Let’s do it - I’m so ready.”

Rachael watched his face for another minute and then made a decision, apparently, because she nodded ever-so-slightly, and turned back to her laptop, maneuvering it so the two in the back seat could have a better view of the screen. “Good, because you see that on radar?”

“Hook artefact,” Lucky breathed, as Adam watched the picture twist on the screen, the red blob at the center of the storm leaving a trail to the southwest that was just so slightly starting to curve north-easterly. 

“I think so. Let’s take a look at the base velocity.” As she switched views she grinned, and Adam saw what she was moving to point toward right away. “See it?”

“Mesocyclone?” Adam asked, eyes wide, insisting his brain focus on the task at hand. There would be plenty of time to really process the fact that he was sitting with the other Antichrist - the not-Antichrist, the mix-up kid - and hunting tornadoes with him later. 

“I think so.” Rachael looked up, out of the windshield, and the students followed her gaze. Ahead, the clouds towered, gray and ominous and piled on top of one another, all the way up to the stratosphere. “Looks good for a tornado, guys.” A bolt of lightning shot through the clouds, illuminating pockets and curves. “Let’s get it.”

-

Now with Chapter 8!