#already muting left and right just in case

[perceptivehands]

biggest fear rn is potentially following someone on social media who posts about the show you want to erase from your mind in the (near) future 🥴🥴🥴

[loveinhawkins]

Head spinning from blood loss, Eddie still manages to keep up a steady stream of curses as he lies in Steve’s arms, as he feels the jolt of Steve sprinting through The Upside Down.

“Fuck,” Eddie breathes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fucking bullshit, fuck.”

“Good,” Steve says, frantic and out of breath. “Good, that’s—keep it up, Henderson says it can be, like, a sorta pain relief? Something about—”

“Fuck.” This time, Eddie chuckles through it. “S’not why I’m saying it.”

“No?” Steve says in that weird, measured tone that just silently screams panic, panic, panic. “Why?”

“Jus’ making sure,” Eddie says, and he knows that doesn’t make sense yet, can’t quite get his brain to work everything out. “Those’d be shit last words, so. They won’t be. You… fuck, ow. You know? Here lies Eddie Munson: fuck.”

Steve laughs, maybe a little hysterical, a little desperate, but mostly genuine. “Yeah, you’re right. That’d be really embarrassing, man.”

Eddie suddenly can’t find the energy to act insulted, even though he badly wants to make Steve laugh again—but it turns out, he doesn’t need to say anything, because Steve keeps talking.

“D’you know what that would be, though? A damn good yearbook quote.”

And Eddie laughs, too—laughs even though it hurts. “C’mon, man, Higgins would never let—”

“Eddie,” Steve manages to drawl out, even as he dextrously weaves through the vines on the ground, like Eddie’s just said something particularly naive. “You think Higgins looks over the yearbooks? You just gotta sweet-talk the yearbook committee, they pay the printers to turn a blind eye, and—”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what I’m known for. Sweet-talking,” Eddie says. He tries very hard not to cough, has the horrible feeling that he might tear himself in two if he does.

“Don’t sell yourself short, dude,” Steve says.

And Eddie would blame that on the blood loss for making him hear things, but then Steve’s hands gently squeeze around him like he means it, and…

“So what… what was your yearbook quote, Harrington?” Eddie says. He firmly ignores the fact that his voice is becoming increasingly slurred.

Steve picks up the pace, kicks through the door into the trailer. His breath hitches once, but not from physical strain; Eddie knows that he’s frightened.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Steve replies, chiding, because he’s so goddamn brave, too. “Not telling you that until we get out of this.”

“Tease,” Eddie says.

But he must not get it out very clearly, because as Steve heads to the Gate, he murmurs, “Stay with me, Eddie.”

There’s some rope Steve had stashed in the corner of the living room, just in case, and Robin and Nancy must’ve made use of it to get Dustin through, because it’s already hovering in the air, waiting for them.

“Okay,” Steve says, half to himself. “I’ve got this.”

Eddie attempts a nod. The room spins.

Or maybe it’s just that they’re moving somehow, that Steve’s pulling them both up the rope, somehow not letting go of Eddie; and then he can hear muted yells from the other side, and he’s being lifted up on his own, like he’s ascending to heaven or some bullshit like that, and he almost wants to demand a re-mark on his English paper, because religious symbolism is fucking hilarious, actually.

“You’re a goddamn trapeze artist, Harrington,” he says, and Steve must hear him this time, because there’s a laugh from just behind him, a fucking beautiful laugh, and then Eddie’s falling, and he’s—

“Oh,” Eddie gasps, and his hand goes to his side instinctively, and he didn’t think he had much more blood in his body left to lose, but… “Oh, shit.”

His vision tilts sickeningly, and right before he passes out, he sees Steve appear in front of him, sees his face turn white.

“Eddie,” he’s saying, “Nance, what do I—oh my god—”

-

When Eddie wakes up, everything is fuzzy, his head full of cotton. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth that he has enough awareness not to panic about, that he somehow knows isn’t blood.

“So?” he says through the fog, lifts his eyelids just enough to see Steve is beside him. “What’s your yearbook quote?”

“Christ, you’re annoying,” Steve says with a smile, but he’s speaking in the thick, nasal tones of someone who’s been crying. “Thought you were on stuff that makes you forget all the stupid shit.”

“S’not stupid,” Eddie says indignantly.

For some reason, Steve’s eyes soften. “If you say so. Just rest right now, Eddie.”

“Can’t,” Eddie moans. He’s already made the mistake of looking up: the lights are too bright, quickly turning into nauseating swirls. “Feel sick.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says. “They said that’s normal. Hey, shh, just lie back. It’ll pass.”

But Eddie shakes his head and—ooh, shit, not a good idea.

“Y’should move, man,” he says. “Don’t wanna puke on you.”

Steve scoffs. “Eddie, you could literally throw up in my hair, and I wouldn’t give a shit.”

Eddie laughs, feels a bit pathetic that it comes out wet around the edges. “I just… wanna sleep,” he says, because he does, but he knows the nausea will keep him up—feels abruptly tearful, like he had done as a child with whooping cough, up for the whole night despite his fatigue.

“Here,” Steve says. “Close your eyes.”

And as he does so, Eddie feels a soothingly cool palm across his forehead. Steve. It’s such a gentle touch, such a kind touch that Eddie thinks he might cry—thinks he can only partly blame whatever drugs he’s on.

“Better?” Steve asks.

“Better,” Eddie agrees. And then, like a fool, he hurriedly says, “Don’t stop, though,” out of fear that Steve will draw his hand back at the answer.

Steve doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease him even the slightest bit.

“I won’t,” he says, like an oath. His thumb rubs over Eddie’s temple. “M’sorry you feel shitty.”

“It’s okay. You’re right, it’s passing. Think… think it was just… lookin’ at the lights.”

Eddie sighs without meaning to, lulled by the repetitive path Steve’s fingers are tracing, over and over.

“Mm-hmm. Keep your eyes closed, then.” Steve hums softly, just in thought, not even close to a lullaby, but Eddie feels himself starting to drift off to it anyway.

“It’s a nice room you’ve got,” Steve says. “I would’ve rioted if it wasn’t. Big window. Just a view of the parking lot, sorry, not exactly five stars.” Another hum. “Kinda pretty in its own way, though. It’s getting a bit warmer. I saw—the other day, I looked out and saw these kids, there’s some grass a little bit away from… they were making daisy chains, I think. Was never good at… couldn’t get ‘em to tie right. So I’d just kinda tug at the grass, and… Hey, d’you know, some of the kids—like, our kids, I mean—they don’t even know about the buttercup thing, holding it to see if it like, glows, under your chin? I told Max about it when she got outta here—shh, she’s okay—and she just looked at me like I was crazy. She’s good at daisy chains, man, she told Lucas it was five dollars per flower and he paid it all, wore the damn thing on his wrist for the whole day. Stupidly sweet, but I couldn’t even say so or she’d, like, punch me.”

And Eddie’s used to painting a picture with words, used to creating fantastical landscapes out of thin air during campaigns. But as Steve goes on, talking about the kids (their kids), and flowers, and all the little signs of spring that he can’t see, Eddie falls asleep thinking that Steve’s given him the most beautiful, ever-changing view: how he sees the world.

-

Eddie doesn’t forget about the yearbook, but he doesn’t bring it up, simply because Steve keeps quiet about it.

It’s after a few weeks of the dust settling, reassurances that the nightmare’s over: of seeing Wayne and breaking down in tears of relief, of countless visits from everyone—mostly Dustin, second only to Wayne, of course; Eddie still says Steve’s tied for second place, at least, but Dustin insists it doesn’t count whenever Steve’s only there fleetingly to drop him off before heading to work.

It’s on an afternoon when he’s not expecting anyone, and Steve comes in, drops the yearbook right on top of his blankets.

Eddie looks down at it, hovers his hand over the front cover until Steve raises one eyebrow, as if to say, go ahead.

It doesn’t take long for Eddie to find him. The picture is… there’s something beautifully imperfect about it, as if Steve had been caught by surprise by the flash going off when it did, lips tilted into a smile that’s relaxed rather than the typical rigid, picture-perfect look.

Eddie thinks that he finally gets what Wayne means whenever he says someone has ‘soulful eyes.’

And underneath the little box framing Steve’s picture, there’s…

There’s nothing. It doesn’t stand out, because not everyone on that page had opted to have a quote, but…

Eddie looks up. Steve shrugs, but his eyes are downcast.

“Yeah, sorry.” His voice is quiet; Eddie can hear a touch of embarrassment, and he hates it. “It’s not even… I didn’t even choose to keep it blank, really, the yearbook committee gave the deadline so far in advance, it… I had the time. Could’ve put anything.” He shrugs again. “Guess I couldn��t… guess I just, um… had nothing to say.”

Eddie closes the book. Sets it aside. Doesn’t take his eyes off Steve.

He gets it. If it’s even possible for him to be included in a yearbook, he’s confident he’d do the same—how do you even begin to sum up…? There’s nothing he could say about this year.

There are no words for it. For any of it.

But Eddie knows the ones that count.

“Tell me about work,” he says. He has the feeling Steve’s determinedly squeezed in a visit during his lunch break, his name tag askew.

Steve smiles, wrinkles his nose uncertainly. “But that’s so boring.”

“Nah,” Eddie says. “Maybe I like hearing what you have to say.”

Steve looks up finally; he smiles a little like he had in the photograph, as if something like a flash has surprised him.

And he talks about work.

But it’s more than that; it’s so much more. Eddie’s getting to see through a precious window.

He hears about how Steve noticed Robin wearing odd socks, and he only teased her about it when he was sure it wasn’t a deliberate twist on fashion she was trying out. How the sun meant it was hard to see the T.V, so he drew the blinds when no customers were around, made it feel like him and Robin had their own private cinema. And Eddie smiles fondly when Steve recalls smelling some kind of coconut perfume he couldn’t place, and Robin had started a list guessing names, just because he said it reminded him of a family vacation when he was four.

Eddie sees it all.

He doesn’t need clever one liners, or statements of grandeur.

He just needs Steve’s words.

[chronically-ghosted]

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity. 

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove. 

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring. 

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.” 

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face. 

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?” 

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys. 

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum. 

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter. 

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.” 

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it? 

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.” 

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.” 

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently. 

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store. 

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.” 

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.” 

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in. 

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves. 

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?” 

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you. 

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.” 

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal. 

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar. 

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens. 

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie. 

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?” 

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam. 

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?” 

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her. 

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist. 

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.” 

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once. 

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils. 

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor. 

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling. 

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck. 

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?” 

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller. 

Joel Miller. 

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man. 

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void. 

“Back off, both of you.” 

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?” 

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change. 

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart. 

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t. 

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up. 

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.” 

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth. 

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you. 

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent. 

Then he shakes his head.

“No.” 

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.” 

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.” 

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins. 

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment. 

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart. 

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.” 

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers. 

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.” 

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way. 

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.” 

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens. 

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.  

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot. 

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.” 

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.” 

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack. 

And then he nods. 

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.” 

And that’s it. You have a job. 

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens. 

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers. 

Take it, his eyes command. 

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away. 

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart. 

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask. 

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes. 

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins. 

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one. 

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.” 

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her. 

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much. 

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say. 

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth. 

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.” 

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest. 

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood. 

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it. 

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.” 

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon. 

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole. 

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion. 

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure. 

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection. 

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale. 

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse. 

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land. 

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.” 

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him. 

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees. 

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops. 

Grass. 

Fields of it. 

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust. 

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water. 

A river. An oasis in a wasteland. 

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager. 

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had. 

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature. 

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store. 

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.” 

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face. 

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee. 

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.” 

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other. 

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down. 

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?” 

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride. 

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes. 

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?” 

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel. 

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?” 

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned. 

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight. 

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.” 

“You know you already read better than I do.” 

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.” 

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined. 

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.  

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.” 

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?” 

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?” 

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground. 

“You said you can clean? Cook?” 

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside. 

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right. 

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare. 

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards. 

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves. 

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull. 

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself. 

A pantry. A cellar. 

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims. 

You realize two things within seconds of each other. 

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground. 

and

there is so much food. 

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret. 

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning. 

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint. 

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter. 

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret. 

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need. 

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.” 

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.” 

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens. 

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. “He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now. 

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes. 

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.” 

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers. 

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone. 

“I'm sorry?” 

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.” 

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do. 

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.” 

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it. 

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.” 

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon. 

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong. 

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon. 

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have. 

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze. 

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.” 

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says. 

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him. 

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.” 

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg. 

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,” 

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse. 

“It’s not up for discussion.” 

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears. 

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy. 

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you. 

“Thank you . . . Joel.” 

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you. 

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel. 

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will. 

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake. 

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders. 

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands. 

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen. 

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap. 

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in. 

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table. 

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious. 

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.” 

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.” 

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?” 

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same. 

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.” 

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding. 

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?” 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.” 

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields. 

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.” 

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.” 

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs. 

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible. 

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?” 

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time. 

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?” 

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan. 

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer. 

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight. 

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students. 

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.” 

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor. 

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity. 

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.” 

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye. 

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous. 

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing. 

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories. 

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.” 

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.” 

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns. 

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling. 

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in. 

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?” 

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors. 

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door. 

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again. 

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side. 

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face. 

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?” 

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life. 

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay. 

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles. 

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.” 

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring. 

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.” 

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet. 

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach. 

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.” 

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces. 

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.” 

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her. 

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel. 

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes. 

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,” 

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.” 

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.” 

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold. 

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take. 

All you can do is nod. 

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods. 

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut. 

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing. 

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit? 

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger – 

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand. 

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again – 

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces. 

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap. 

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone. 

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had. 

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce. 

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s? 

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise. 

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah. 

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey. 

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers. 

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling. 

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms. 

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,” 

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.” 

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods. 

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need. 

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions. 

“How long has this been going on?” 

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods. 

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.” 

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name. 

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together. 

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes. 

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes. 

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles. 

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief. 

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed. 

You realize then how badly your palms ache. 

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you. 

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else. 

You call his name and he doesn’t move. 

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.” 

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame. 

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike. 

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint. 

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness. 

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky. 

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness. 

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.” 

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?” 

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.” 

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it. 

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.” 

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling. 

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth. 

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.” 

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie. 

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.” 

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all. 

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch. 

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice. 

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body. 

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm. 

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight. 

And then he drinks, without saying a word. 

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all. 

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen. 

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone. 

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah. 

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache. 

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin. 

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth. 

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin. 

Polio, a disease of freezing agony. 

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself. 

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek. 

“You have a special girl here, Joel.” 

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him. 

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty. 

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up. 

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?” 

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily. 

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.” 

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.” 

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t. 

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him. 

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain. 

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,” 

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?” 

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning. 

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous. 

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?” 

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?” 

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.” 

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.” 

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.” 

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine. 

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.” 

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence. 

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her. 

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you. 

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving. 

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?” 

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince. 

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.” 

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie. 

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you. 

Really looks at you. 

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know. 

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful. 

For you. 

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes. 

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says. 

For her. For the children in your lives. 

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you. 

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm. 

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap. 

“I know.” 

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it. 

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night. 

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you. 

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you. 

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!” 

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age. 

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter. 

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.” 

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face. 

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.” 

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin. 

END OF PART I 

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

[causenessus]

love notes

part 0.16. REMEMBER IN THE MORNING

“i’ll be your morning bright goodnight shadow machine i'll be your record player baby if you know what i mean i was your starry-eyed lover and the one that you saw we were just two moonshiners on the cusp of a breath and i've been burning for you baby since the moment i left."

from paul by big thief, left at the maneater, shiga, japan

after his last text, she’s waiting in silence, staring up towards the shadowed ceiling of her dark room.

she’d been caught off guard initially by his texts, and it had only worsened the longer it went on. her throat felt like it was going to close up. one moment he was calling her out and saying his own sweet things, and the next he was brushing everything off. she wasn’t sure what to trust and what not to. he was adamant about denying having a part in any of the pictures he had sent, but this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. there was the flower box, too, and the story osamu had told her.

now that she thought about it, it had lined up too well. a fire extinguisher box that suna had put up instead of a flower box, which omi had accidentally mistaken for the extinguisher box? it was convoluted to even think about, and way too coincidental.

but she couldn’t bring it up now, that was months ago and it’d be wrong of her to try and coax the truth out of him when he was obviously drunk, no matter how much he tried to deny it. she almost jumps when her phone lights up again and starts buzzing, her ringtone playing through her headphones as she stares at the screen for a second.

she’s going to answer, of course, but she almost wishes she had said no to calling. she’s not sure what they’ll talk about tonight or what he’ll remember in the morning. she’s not sure if she should bring up anything he’s said so far ever again in case it affects their relationship.

she’d be heartbroken if he blamed whatever he said tonight on being drunk (in contrast to how insistent he was currently being that he would say these things if he wasn't intoxicated), but she’d also feel equally as nauseous if they never talked about this night again.

she blinks rapidly, feeling tears well up in her eyes. ‘what was she crying for?’ perhaps she's realized that they've both already gone too far. when they woke up in the morning, things wouldn’t be the same anymore. one look at their texts and he would read that she had stupidly admitted to having tweeted about him before, and she would have no excuse for her actions. 

she needed to answer the phone.

she wiped her arms with her sleeve, taking a deep breath for answering. 

“hi,” she speaks softly, starting their conversation off as she always does.

“hi,” he says back like he always does, although tonight his voice is a little breathy.

she starts to play with the edge of her sheets, unsure of what to do with herself, “are we calling to talk about something in particular?”

she can hear him shift around in his own bed before he gives her a noise of disagreement, “no... i guess you were right, i really just want to sleep but i like falling asleep on call with you. ‘makes me feel like i’m there with you.”

she almost turns on her phone to hit the mute button as she chokes back a noise of surprise, face turning red. she’s paralyzed in her bed, mind trying to formulate a response. “oh. i like being on the phone with you too,” she immediately slaps her head at her own lame reply. she was trying to convince herself that he just likes her presence. all friends like each other’s presence. he didn’t mean anything more. “you’re sleeping on your side, right?”

he hums out a small noise of agreement, probably already half asleep, and the thought makes her smile. “okay, well then goodnight, suna. i’ll see you tomorrow when you get back.” she turns onto her own side, eyes closing as she tries to calm herself down.

his voice makes her eyes snap open again, “call me rin.”

she’s at a loss for words. is he asking her to say it or just reminding her?

“you keep switching between ‘suna’ and ‘rin,’” he mumbles slowly, words slurring together. at least she knows he’s definitely drunk. “i know you said i wasn’t pressuring you to call me it, but the way you never remember on your own makes me think you don’t want to call me it.”

“no i–” she has to take a shaky breath as quietly as possible. “i want to. i promise. it just feels so personal. like i still can’t believe you want me to call you it. and i don’t know— sometimes you get a look on your face when i call you it so i thought maybe you didn’t like it and wanted to change your mind.”

he lets out a laugh and she ends up kicking off her blanket, suddenly too hot to be under any cover. “you’re funny. and horrible at overthinking, you know that?” she tries her best not to cry out of embarrassment.

“i just make that face because it surprises me. i’m not used to it yet but i want to be. i like when you call me rin. i like it a lot.” she almost feels dizzy, hearing his voice come in through her headphones.

she tries to rationalize with herself: he’s drunk. he’s going to say things that he doesn’t mean. “you’re drunk, suna,” she forces herself to say, “i’m not gonna listen to anything you say right now.”

“call me rin,” he repeats again, almost sounding like he’s begging her. her heart is racing, and she can’t even bring herself to say no to him again. “call me rin, please. i’ll tell you it’s okay again in the morning. i swear.”

she’s staring straight ahead at her wall now, not even sure if she’s breathing. finally, she takes a deep breath, exhaling as she responds, “okay, fine.” she feels a little stupid doing it, but she turns onto her other side, facing her phone as if he’s there with her. “goodnight, rin. see you tomorrow.”

she can almost feel the smile in his voice as he responds, but she can’t see it. see that he really is smiling, and he’s turned onto his side, facing his phone as well, “goodnight, y/n.”

prev. | m.list | next

extras <3

MANEATER REFERENCE RAHHH AND INKED AND MBB THEY'RE LITERALLY PART OF THE UNIVERSE NOW IDK WHAT YOU EXPECTED

thank you to mo for being like my biggest supporter ever <3 @guitarstringed-scars

maneater y/n kicked ass and played banger after banger like she does every night

everyone got absolutely wasted (except for omi who dragged them all home, bless his heart LMAO)

suna got drunk for like three reasons, 1. he didn't want to think 2. he thought maybe everyone would leave him alone 3. in case he did feel like making bad decisions at least being intoxicated would keep him from chickening out

AND ALSO I HATE WRITING DRUNK PEOPLE IT FEELS SO WEIRD SO I DON'T EVEN TRY I'M SORRY. LIKE I MADE ONE ACTUAL TYPO IN SUNA'S TEXT ABOUT BEING A GOOD TEXTER AND WAS LIKE "okay yeah whatever" BUT I'M SORRY JUST KNOW I WASN'T TRYING

RAHHH DOUBLE UPDATE BC I CAN'T HELP MYSELF WHAT IS GOING ON

suna was simultaneously so out of it during their texts and so locked in like he just said whatever came to mind and then y/n would question him and he'd be like "hold on what"

random plug but i am also planning a band au smau and eggy wyr and i have created an entire playlist u should check out and try and guess who it's about

taglist: @0moonii @iluvmang @bluebeanbee @wyrcan @oyasumeii @froyaoya @gyuijns @nbcvs @milkteade @eggyrocks @makkir0ll @mylahrins @cherrypieyourface @vivian-555 @sharkerino @r0seandth0rns @staileykout @lunavixia @thvvluvr @elliott0o0 @wolffmaiden @rockleeisbaeeee @toges-cough-syrup @cnnmairoll @ryeyeyer @hibernatinghamster @localgaytrainwreck @lemonocity @bows4life @sereniteav @madiexuberant @eclecticeggknightpsychic @phoenix-eclipses @sonicsolos @httpakkeiji @brkfclub @snail-squasher @starry-magicshop @cr4yolaas @kitnootkat @zzzlevislothzzz @iluv-ace @iluvaquaphor @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21 @applepi25 @twiishaa @girlkissersco @sleepystrwbrryy @encrypta

[herenya-writes]

To Kneel at Your Feet

So, uh, I tried my hand at a little Dreamling fic when a particular image wouldn't get out of my head.

~1850 words, Rated T (violence, non-graphic injuries, a bit of foul langauge), pre-relationship Dreamling set a few months after Dream escapes the fishbowl but before he's told Hob who he is

When a shadow fell over him, Hob figured he was fucked. Well, even more fucked than he already had been.

The day had started pretty normal. Term was over for the summer, and he had finally finished the last of the marking the night before, so he had let himself laze in the sunny patches of his bed until almost noon when the grumbling of his stomach drove him to the kitchen for food. The rest of the day had been syrupy slow, with a light frisson of anticipation running through. He was meeting his Stranger tomorrow morning for brunch, their first pre-evening meeting and the fifth one they had had since his Stranger had returned. So it was with a spring in his step that he had gone through the rest of the day, chatting with Mrs. Giles up the road about whether he could buy a few cases of her jam to serve at the Inn, taking a stroll around the park, mixing up a batch of scones. When Sasha called in sick, he had gladly picked up their shift bar-tending at the Inn, and even that had been lovely. A faster pace than the rest of his day, sure, but the night had been full of familiar faces and easy laughter.

He had been closing up the Inn and wiping down the last of the tables when the bell above the door rang. He didn’t get out so much as a word before the bullets were flying.

He managed to dodge them for a good while, but even his immortal body got tired of crouching and diving eventually. Plus, there were three of them, all armed, and only one of him. He had a bat and an array of knives behind the bar and an assortment of weapons in his flat above, but he didn’t see how he could get to either of those places unscathed. He’d survive, of course, but that could cause even more problems depending on how smart these thugs were.

His next dodge had been a bit too slow, and as he slid behind the sturdy oak of one of the booths a bullet buried itself in his shoulder. He snarled at the pain and pressed a hand to the wound on instinct. His immortality meant he’d survive no matter how many times these assholes shot him, but it didn’t stop him from feeling the bite of metal burrowing into his flesh.

It was as he was leaning against the wood, listening for footsteps and considering his options that a shape blocked the light above him. He swore and held up an arm to guard his face on instinct, but when he looked up it wasn’t one of the thugs he saw.

In the muted light of the Inn, his Stranger stood, clothed as always in his black coat, jeans, and boots, a minuscule frown pulling at his lips.

Without thinking, Hob grabbed the hem of his Stranger’s coat and yanked him down. His Stranger went, and a millisecond later bullets soared through the air where he had been standing.

“Sorry, friend. You chose a dangerous time to stop by,” he gasped. He had grabbed his Stranger with his left arm, and the bullet wound in his shoulder was protesting loudly.

His friend’s face took on a pinched expression, brows furrowing in a way that would have been adorable in another situation.

“You are injured,” he observed, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. Hob could listen to that voice all day, and despite the circumstances he could feel his heartbeat slowing at just those three words. “You are not healing as you should.”

Hob blinked and looked down. Damn, his Stranger was right. One of the side effects of his immortality was that any injuries he sustained healed rapidly. Serious stuff like disembowelment still took a long (and excruciatingly painful) time to heal, but the process happened much faster for him than a normal human. He had been stabbed in a knife fight once in his second century of living and by the time the other fellow had hit the floor the only evidence of the wound had been the blood on his skin and the tear in his shirt. A bullet hole should have shown evidence of closing by now, but it was still gaping open and bleeding freely.

“At least I won’t have to cut the bullet out later,” he joked, but the tremble in his voice ruined his attempted levity.

“There are very few weapons in this world or another that could harm you so,” his Stranger declared, and something like lightning flashed in his eyes. His expression turned stone cold, and in a fluid movement he rose to his feet and turned toward the gunmen. Hob scrambled up after him, biting back curses, but he stopped short when he realized there weren’t any bullets flying through the air.

In the space of a blink, all the shadows in the room seemed to lengthen and gather around his Stranger, and Hob swore he saw recognition begin to dawn on the face of the lead thug as his Stranger stepped forward and extended one pale arm.

“Servants of the Morningstar, by what edict do you walk the Earth and seek the life of one to whom Death has denied her gift?” His Stranger’s voice buzzed with barely-restrained power, and something deep in Hob’s human brain told him to run and hide. He stayed where he was, though, and so did the gunmen, even as they trembled in obvious fear.

“Dead or not, the glory of claiming an immortal’s head for Lucifer’s throne room is undying,” the one in the middle declared. Hob was almost impressed with how even their voice was.

“You have attacked him in his home, unarmed and unaware of your challenge. There is no glory here, hellspawn.” His Stranger spat the word ‘glory’ like it was vinegar on his tongue, and all three creatures (he had thought they were human, but now he could swear an outline of fire flickered around them) recoiled. Still, they didn’t flee.

“He is unclaimed, Dreamlord. Glory or not, he’s ours for the taking!”

The shadows in the room deepened impossibly, and the air pressure dropped fast enough that Hob’s ears popped and every hair stood on end. His Stranger took a menacing step forward, standing directly between him and the gunment now. When he spoke, the power in his voice shook the floorboards and set Hob’s very bones buzzing.

“Is that so? Allow me to correct that oversight.”

His Stranger threw back his coat, and it melted into a midnight black robe. The folds of the fabric were ablaze with swirling galaxies that seemed to spill into the shadows that surrounded him. The power radiating off him now was equal parts strange and familiar, like hearing a song for the first time but immediately knowing the chorus. Any unease Hob had felt settled at once, even as the gunmen began to quiver and keen in dismay. His Stranger spoke over their sounds of distress, his voice firm and unyielding. In that moment, Hob had no doubt that he could make any declaration and reality would bend itself to reflect his will.

“I, Dream of the Endless, Shaper of Forms, Oneiromancer, Prince of Stories, King of the Dreaming and Nightmare Realms, declare Hob Gadling to be under my protection. Harm him and know the unfettered wrath of the Dreaming.”

Hob had been a lot of things in the past 600-plus years. He’d tried his hand at just about everything that had held his attention for longer than a week, and he had even been decent at a fair chunk of it. Hell, he’d even been knighted once! Right now, he probably had enough wealth squirreled away in stashes across the world to keep him living comfortably for the next two hundred or so years. At his core, though, he was nothing more than a peasant.

His knee hit the floor before his Stranger even finished speaking, and he barely felt the way the movement shocked his still-bleeding shoulder. All he could do was gaze up at his Stranger, awe, in the oldest sense of the word, flooding him. Dream of the Endless. His Stranger had a name. His Stranger was a king.

He wasn’t sure what happened with the thugs after that. There was a moment when the Inn got so dark all he could see where the pinpoints of light in his Stranger’s eyes and the galaxies swirling in his robe, and the next the light had returned and his Stranger had turned that fathomless gaze on him.

He lowered his eyes. “My king.” His tongue was heaving in his mouth, and his throat was sand paper. There was a spit of crimson blood, his blood, on the hem of his Stranger’s robe.

“You would kneel and call me king? Even after the wrongs I have committed against you? I did not even grant you the courtesy of my name.” Power still rumbled in his Stranger’s voice, but it was leashed now in a way that sent a spark racing up Hob’s spine. God help him, but he had always loved a bit of danger.

He risked a glance up and saw his Stranger’s perfect lips twisted in a frown, his brows drawn together like Hob was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out.

“I don’t need anything from you that you aren’t ready to give, my friend. You came back to me, and that was more than I could ever hope for.” Those words strayed a bit too close to another truth—that he would have waited forever just for a glimpse of his Stranger’s face, just to hear a single word from his lips—but Hob wasn’t about to start lying now, not when this magnificent creature, this otherworldly lord, had deemed him worthy of his time and attention despite all odds. His Stranger had returned after over 100 years to sit in a pub and listen to Hob ramble about airplanes and smartphones and humanity reaching the moon. How could anything he had to say possibly have captured the attention of a king with no doubt a million other duties to attend to?

His Stranger regarded him, galaxies swirling in his black eyes to match the ones dancing across his robe. Hob tore his gaze back to the floor for fear of falling in.

“Rise. You owe me no servitude or obeisance, Hob Gadling.”

Hob wanted to disagree, but he kept his mouth shut and did as his lord bid. He bit back a growl of pain as he stood, and in a blink his Stranger was there, long arms wrapped around his shoulders and holding him up with unnatural strength. Together, they hobbled up the stairs to his flat, and his Stranger laid him gently on the couch and let Hob grip his hand too tightly as he dug out the bullet lodged in his shoulder, seemingly uncaring of the way the crimson blood stained his pale fingers.

[ellephlox]

Muted Dawn

Pairing: Matt x fem!reader

Summary: You get mugged in the middle of the night, but Matt isn't there to save you.

Warnings: mugging, canon-typical violence, swearing, injuries, physical/verbal assault

In mid-summer, the midnight air of New York had a surreal balminess to it. You wore a tank top and a thin red jacket on top, your suitcase rolling loudly behind you as you hurried down the sidewalk. Every crack, every pebble, every sewer grate — they were all thunderclaps compared to the otherwise quiet evening. The luggage was too heavy to carry, though, so it would have to roll behind you.

It was a long day. You'd flown out to visit family, and your return flight was supposed to be midday. It had been cancelled, though, leaving you to scramble for a layover that could get you to New York by morning. It was a complete shit show, and you'd had to sprint to your gates at the airport with this stupid shitty suitcase that you were half-tempted to just dump in the garbage.

Matt still thought you'd arrived in the evening. He texted you earlier that he had a case to work on with Foggy, and that he'd be up in the office plowing through work, probably until early morning.

You didn't have the heart to tell him that you'd actually touched down in New York at eleven p.m. because that would be a surefire way to pull Matt out of work to meet you at the airport. Dragging him from his responsibilities — which were already too numerous — was the last thing you wanted.

So, solo travel in the middle of the night was your only option. You took the airport train to the nearest station, and from there took a train, and from there took another train that deposited you at 50th Street. Matt's apartment was only a ten minute walk, tops, from the station. Just a short walk. Too short to justify calling an Uber, mostly because you didn't exactly have a lot of money left in your wallet and your next paycheck wasn't for another few days.

Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump—

"Shit," you said aloud, staring between your luggage wheels and the sidewalk, which had switched from mildly smooth to practically cobbled. That didn't bode well for your plan to walk quietly back to the apartment. You snapped the handle down and tried to carry the suitcase again, but managed only to go a few steps before your arm felt as though it were going to break off. "Come on."

"Need some help?" The voice that came from the shadows was most definitely not Matt's, and goosebumps ran down your arms immediately. You didn't bother answering; it was always best to ignore anyone who tried talking to you on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. To regain some speed you pulled your handle back out — no sense in trying to be quiet now — and continued on your way, the thumps more rapid this time as you picked up the pace.

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump—

"I asked you a question, darling." To your horror, mingled with the sound of your suitcase wheels smashing along the sidewalk were now footsteps, and a figure appeared in the corner of your eye.

"You gonna answer? Not very nice of you." He jogged in front of you, blocking your way effectively, and now you could properly see him. He was pale — practically pasty in the moonlight — and wore a sweatshirt so stained it might as well have been a used napkin at a greasy fast food joint. He had a beard, untamed and straggly, and despite the wild look to him that suggested he was hungry, he was big. Most definitely someone you didn't want to try taking on in a fight.

"Get the hell out of my way," you snapped at him.

"I want to see what's in that suitcase. It's making a hell of a racket."

"Sorry to disappoint." You tried to weave your way around him, but he stepped in front of you again.

Damn it. You suddenly regretted not texting Matt about your late arrival. If you had, you wouldn't be alone on the street right now — Matt would have been beside you — and this wouldn't be happening. Fear, potent and throbbing, swirled in your stomach like a dense fog. You felt like a wild animal, ensnared in a trap with nowhere to go. You glanced behind you; the street was just as empty and silent, with the few streetlights flickering menacingly as though about to burn out.

"Look, bitch, you want to do this the easy or the hard way?"

"I said, let me get by. I don't want any trouble."

"Trouble?" he said, then laughed, scanning you from head to toe. "You look like little Red Riding Hood. What're you going to do?"

"I can scream. People will come and you'll be in deep shit."

"You're a fucking idiot if you think that. These back streets of Hell's Kitchen are the furthest you can get from help, darling."

"Unless the devil hears me," you breathed out, depending on the hope that this man had heard of Matt's other persona. "Then I have a good feeling your legs will get broken. You heard of him?"

Except the devil wasn't out tonight. He was instead filing paperwork, far away on the other end of the Kitchen, and probably wearing a suit. Unless the man in front of you fell for the bluff... you were thoroughly screwed.

But the man pulled out a gun, which you had not been expecting. "Devil ain't out here. No one's seen him in a few days. Hard way it is, then. You scream, darling, and I'll shoot you between the eyes."

You froze. Never had you felt so helpless in your life. Your heart was banging against your chest like a frantic bird, trying to escape, and yet your limbs wouldn't move, for fear of that black weapon pointing directly at your head. "Please," you said finally, the word coming out in a rasp. "I just want to go home."

"And you can, once you gimme what I want." The man pointed the gun at the suitcase. "Open it up."

You trembled slightly. Should you try fighting him? Sure, Matt had taught you some basic self-defense, but this man had a gun. What could you do against that? Maybe you could try grabbing the gun, or kicking it from his hands, but... that was ridiculous. You had hardly any training. Most likely you'd end up falling on your ass, and then the guy would put a bullet in you.

No, your best chance was to comply. Slowly you bent down and fumbled with the clasp of the suitcase, your hands shaking so hard that it wouldn't open up.

"I said open it!" the man demanded, jabbing the gun against your temple. It was cold and hard, and against your volition you yelped, squeezing your eyes shut. When the bullet didn't come, you slowly opened your eyes, and resumed your struggle with the clasp, finally popping it open. Shame grazed your face as you opened the luggage to unfolded laundry and toiletries haphazardly thrown in; not that this man cared, but somehow you felt as though your last shred of dignity was chewed up and spat on.

Maybe Matt would finish his paperwork early and put on the suit. Maybe he could hear you, right now, and he was on his way, leaping across rooftops. But no one was coming, and you stepped back, allowing the man to root through your belongings. He stooped over the suitcase, his gun now dangling at your side. You eyed him. Though you weren't exactly fast, especially compared to Matt, maybe you could make a break for it, and at least get away. Your suitcase was a lost cause at this point, but frankly, you didn't care.

Do it. Now. While he's distracted. Before you could lose your nerve, you took off, terror burning in your veins and making you pump your arms as hard as you could. You were only a few blocks from home, not far at all —

But footsteps rang behind you, heavy and faster than you. You chanced a look over your shoulder, and hardly had time to react before the man behind you overtook you entirely, tackling you to the sidewalk. Pavement slashed and gnawed against your skin, burning white hot — your cheek, your knees, the palms of your hands.

"Never run away from me like that before I'm done," the man said, in an almost childish way, as though a toy had been taken from him. He grabbed you by your arm and pulled you roughly to your feet. "I'm not finished with you yet."

By this point, tears were flowing down your cheeks, and all sense of shame was gone. Nothing mattered now except surviving, leaving this man and getting into the safety of home. Desperately you thought of the couch, and the shower, and bed, places that had seemed so close just ten minutes ago and now felt impossibly far away. "Please," you begged him. "Please. Take whatever you want, I just want to leave. Please."

He wrenched your arm in response, twisting it back much farther than it wanted to go. You shrieked, thinking that your arm must be broken, but then he let go and slapped your face, right across the cheek that still burned from the fall.

"Quiet!" he said roughly. "Let me finish." He kept his grip on your arm as he bent down to return to the suitcase, and you were yanked off your feet, falling to the ground like some absurd doll in the hands of an aggressive six-year-old. You didn't watch closely what the man took, because your vision was too blurred, but a dazed glance downwards told you that your laptop, earbuds, and jewelry were gone.

"Where's your wallet?" he asked, turning back to you. You didn't question him at all and reached into your pocket, your fingertips searching obediently for the wallet. Where are you, Matt? The man wasn't patient, though, and plunged his hand into your pocket to take over. You stayed stock still, the feeling of his hand against your thigh more disturbing than you could have predicted, as he extracted the wallet, then your phone, and pushed you away.

"Now here's what's going to happen," he said, pulling the gun out again. "I'm gonna let you live, because bodies are hard to take care of. But if you try squealing, if you go running off to a cop — if you tell anyone at all, I swear I'm going to find you and kill you." He took out your license and read it aloud — your name, your height, your weight, your address. "See, darling, I know everything about you. And if I get a whiff that you've tried telling someone about this little exchange we had tonight, I'll come to your address, and I'll slit your throat. Got it, darling?"

You nodded violently.

"Now get out of here," he said, and shoved you one last time. You didn't hesitate, and ran.

He could have taken more. Your clothing, your bracelet from Matt that you wore, your body, your life. All those you still had. The things he'd taken were meaningless, just trinkets. Things you could buy again.

But this reasoning didn't comfort you at all, and the moment you were in the safety of the apartment, with the door locked, you broke down altogether. You could hardly breathe, and every two seconds you ran to the window to check the street, certain that you'd see that stained sweatshirt ambling along the sidewalk, or hear a sudden knock at the door. Your phone was gone, so there was no way to call 911 if you needed to. And Matt wouldn't be able to reach you, either. You wished, like never before, that you could have his hearing. The ability to know when Matt was on his way back, and to hear him coming down the sidewalk, would be infinitely comforting; even more so would be the assurance that you'd hear that man who mugged you if he decided to come to the apartment.

But all you could hear was the whir of the refrigerator and your own shallow breaths.

It was therefore a heart-wrenching shock when you heard the deadbolt unlock, maybe an hour later. Maybe two hours later, or three. You weren't sure; time was a vortex, or even a black hole, with an event horizon so monstrous that everything was sucked into it.

Matt's home. As if you were dropped into an icy bath, you suddenly leapt to your feet. You hadn't showered. Your clothing was torn at the knees, and that man's scent was probably all over you, not to mention blood was smeared across your face and hands from the scrapes. Not good. Not good at all.

You ran into the bathroom just as the front door sprung open, and you only caught the smallest glimpse of the storm cloud of emotion already on Matt's face before you slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it.

Why, exactly, you were hiding from him, when there was no doubt he could smell the man and blood either way, wasn't clear to you. Maybe it was the shame of him seeing you like this. He was so capable, so responsible, and to sense you on the floor like a puddle... it made you feel even worse than you already felt. Yes, you'd wanted Matt to save you, but it was too late now, wasn't it? Now you were just going to be another thing he had to take care of.

So, a shower it was.

Matt's fist pounded on the door. "Y/N? What happened?"

"I'm showering."

"It's two in the morning. I can smell your blood and your heart is flying. What happened?"

This time, it wasn't Matt asking, but the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. You could hear it in the low growl of his voice, the restlessness that simultaneously wanted to defend you as well as throw a punch at something.

"I'm okay, Matt. I'm okay. I just need a minute to clean up," you told him, starting the water. "Please."

"Y/N, if you don't unlock this door, I'm going to knock it off its hinges."

The thought made new tears spring to your eyes all over again. Your money — all gone. You'd have to cancel your credit cards now. And while you'd spent most of your money while visiting family, you'd had at least two twenties in your wallet — forty dollars, now gone, and forty dollars less to fix a broken door with.

Matt must have sensed the tears, because his next words were much gentler. "Whatever happened, you can tell me. I can—"

He fell silent. You peeled off your jacket, examining the scrapes on your hands briefly. Those would sting in the water, undoubtedly. Taking care of them was an imperative. Matt had a case to work on, and a city to save. The thought of him being preoccupied with your damn hands was enough to make you want to throw your fist into the wall with anger. Anger with yourself. How could you have let yourself get mugged? If you'd just called a fucking Uber from the station, then this would never have happened.

Matt said something on the other side of the door, too softly for you to hear.

"Didn't catch that," you said, as casually as possible. Priority number one was making sure Matt didn't know the extent to which you were freaked out.

"I said, who did this?"

"I don't know," you said evenly. It was harder than you thought it would be to keep your voice steady, when every instinct in you wanted to say it with a sob, and to curl back up on the floor. Standing was too hard, listening to Matt was too hard, simply breathing was too hard — every time you closed your eyes, the feeling of the gun against your temple returned to you.

There was a sudden click, and the door swung open. Matt had unlocked it, somehow, and you didn't have the energy to question how he'd done it.

His presence was like a live electric wire as he stepped into the room. You could feel the tension rising within him, threatening to spill over if you didn't give a name or a hint of what happened. You crossed your arms, wishing you'd left your jacket on, even though it didn't make a difference for what Matt could sense about you. The scrape on your face seared angrily and the fleeting thought passed through you that Matt could probably feel the heat of it just as clearly as you.

"I said I was fine," you said finally, keeping your voice controlled. "I told you I needed a minute."

"That doesn't matter when you're hurt. I need to know how hurt. Let me just feel—"

"Matt, please." You were shaking now, and torn between collapsing into his arms and never letting him know the extent to which you were absolutely petrified. Matt froze.

"Do you need me to leave?" he asked softly.

"I... no. I don't know what I need. I need..." A thrill of horror raced through you at the realization that you hadn't checked the window in awhile. What if the man was coming up the street now, on his way to break in and finish the deed with a bullet in your head? A bullet in Matt's head? You brushed by him and hurried to the window, squinting out at the dark.

Matt followed, and this time he didn't wait before coming up right behind you and cupping your cheek with his hand. It was gentle, but not a romantic act — you could feel the way his fingertips grazed over the scrape, accounting for the grit and sweat and blood that adorned it. Unable to bring yourself to move, you stood like a deer in the headlights as his hands then moved to your temples.

"No concussion," he said, but his jaw remained just as tight as he lowered his fingers to your own hands, breezing over them gingerly.

"These scrapes need to be cleaned." His face tensed as his hand hovered near your thigh. "Did he—?"

"No. No, I was just..." Mugged. It was too embarrassing to admit, and the word lodged in your throat. "Just some things were taken. Phone. Wallet. Suitcase."

"Jesus, at seven in the evening? Did anyone see? I want a name. A description. Anything. I'll find him and—"

"It wasn't seven in the evening." You dipped your head, tears welling again. "My plane was delayed."

You feared that he was going to be pissed, but instead he simply looked bemused. "Why didn't you say anything? I would've met you at the airport."

"Because you had work," you said, more stiffly. "And I know that me getting robbed looks bad, but I don't want to be your burden. Foggy needed your help tonight, not me."

"Not you? That's bullshit, Y/N," Matt said, and the electricity that had been buzzing in his movements finally exploded. "The reason I put on the damn suit anyway is because I care about people, including you. And you — you're above the rest, because I love you. Don't you see that? I need this, I need to find whoever did this, because if I don't, then I've failed you. I've failed myself, I've failed the city, I've failed my faith."

"Matt, it's not that serious. I overreacted, that's all."

"Like hell you overreacted. How do you think I felt when I left work and heard your heartbeat from two blocks away, racing like you were staring death in the face? When I got into the apartment and could smell your blood? When I came in here and could taste your fear?"

"I didn't ask you to sense those things," you snapped, and the moment the words were out of your mouth, you regretted them. It wasn't as though you could have simply elected to not see Matt that time he'd arrived at the apartment, torn up and bloody, or simply turned your head when you'd heard him yelling in the hospital as Claire stitched up his guts. In fact, it was impossible to not pay attention even more at times like that. Your mouth was dry as you shook your head. "I'm sorry, Matt. I don't mean that."

Still, he didn't get mad at you. "I know."

And it was that, his patience despite the energy palpitating in his fists that made you sink onto the couch, placing your face in your hands. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I... I can tell you what happened. It's just that admitting it makes it so much more real. It's humiliating."

Matt sat next to you, just shy of touching you. Waiting for your permission, likely. "Who was it?"

"Bearded man. Stained sweatshirt, really large — probably six foot four."

"Where?"

"Three blocks directly west of us."

"How did you get the scrapes?"

You closed your eyes. "I tried to get away. He tackled me. There was a gun, too. He kept it pointed at my head, and — Oh, God. He said if I told anyone, that he'd come here. He's got our address because of my license. He said he'd come here with the gun and—"

"Pointed at your head?" Matt's voice dropped to a dangerous low again, reminiscent of the devil. "You could've been killed." He got to his feet, stalking to the cabinet and unbuttoning his shirt.

"Matt," you said weakly, unsure of how to make the request for him to stay. He wanted to leave. He needed to let out the energy and protect, as was his standard, but you needed him to protect from here. The thought of being alone in the apartment was unbearable; you wanted him by your side, keeping you safe with his presence, not the mask.

"I wasn't there for you." Matt's fists were clenching and unclenching rhythmically as he stood in front of the suit, shirtless. Contemplating, or strategizing? You weren't sure. "I — if he had shot you — I can't—"

"Matt," you said again, louder this time. "I need—"

You were about to say "you" but the energy broiling in Matt's stance made you fall short. He needed to do this. You could be alone for a bit longer, you told yourself. "I need the bandages," you finished. "They're... not in the bathroom."

"They're under the kitchen sink," Matt said, and suddenly he turned around, his expression softer. "Let me help."

Inwardly sighing, you sat on the armchair, hugging your knees, while Matt cleaned your scrapes with a steady hand. He didn't say a word as he worked, his eyes darting about uncharacteristically. You still couldn't get a read on exactly what he was thinking. There was no chance he'd be angry at you, but that didn't preclude him from being disappointed.

How many other people would have been able to hold their own against that man? Everyone else in Matt's circle would have been capable. Frank, Jessica, Danny, Luke — they wouldn't have been even fazed at all. Elektra would have had a field day with him. Even Karen and Foggy had proved themselves quick to react in dangerous situations, and you couldn't help but think anyone in that situation other than you would have walked away unscathed. Your cheeks burned at the thought, as much as you willed them not to.

"What is it?" Matt said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

Of course he'd notice the shift in your temperature.

"Maybe I deserved it," you said, a bit bitterly. "I shouldn't have been walking out there. Like you said, I could've called you. And I didn't. I could've learned more self-defense over the past few years, and I haven't. It's my own stupidity that's got me where I am."

Matt stilled. "You're blaming yourself?"

"I'm blaming my lack of foresight."

He resumed dabbing at your hands, and was silent for so long that you thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally, he said, "With that line of reasoning, then it's my fault Elena Cardenas was killed. I should have done more."

"That's not the same, and you know it."

He ignored you. "It's also my fault that Foggy got shot, that time we were in Reyes's office. If I had been listening more closely to what was going on down the street, then I would have heard the threat coming sooner."

"Matt, come on. You know what I meant."

"And it's my fault that Fisk got out of prison. If I had the wherewithal to kill him the first day I met him, he would never have—"

"Stop it!"

"Do you get it?" he whispered. "It's not your fault. We could preoccupy ourselves all day with the ifs that might have changed what happened. But you can't beat yourself up over the ifs that you couldn't have predicted. The bad people in this world don't get to benefit from your own self-degradation. Never take the fall for something they've done."

You let out a short laugh through the tears that caught in your eyes. "You give great advice, Matt, but you're terrible at following it yourself."

"Touché. Take off your pants for me?"

You smiled. "You really know how to sweet-talk a girl."

Matt brushed his thumbs over the corners of your eyes, exactly where they were still damp. "Well, maybe once your knees are cleaned up, I'll show you how it's really done."

You pulled off your pants and tossed them onto the couch. "You're not... heading out onto the street?"

"I'd rather be here."

You hardly dared to believe it. "You sure?"

"Positive." He didn't hesitate as he bent down onto the floor, methodically poring over the scrapes with the washcloth. "You're my priority."

A warm glow flushed through your cheeks, this time out of relief, and the smile that tugged at Matt's lips told you that he sensed it. You let him finish bandaging up your knees before you grabbed his arm and pulled him next to you on the armchair. There wasn't much space, but you lifted your knees so that he was partially underneath you, squeezed next to one another so tightly that you could feel his heartbeat.

"Hey," you said, after a moment. "How'd you unlock the bathroom door without a key so quickly?"

"It's an easy trick. Stick showed me years ago."

"Can you show me?"

"A good magician keeps his secrets," Matt said. At your frown, he laughed. "I'll show you tomorrow."

"I love you," you said, resting your head on his shoulder.

"I love you more than you'll ever know," he answered. You fell asleep to his hand running through your hair, the billboard outside rotating between hues of violet and cobalt, and the faint thrum of the muted air conditioner in the apartment above.

When you woke, you were in bed. It was still early; the dawn outside was muted. Matt must have carried you into the bedroom, because you had no memory of moving in there yourself. For a moment you feared he had taken to the streets, but feeling the warmth on your left, he was still there, and had been for some time. You shifted, trying to get nearer to his warmth. He said nothing but tugged you in even closer, his arms and legs thrown over you protectively.

What if you had been shot and killed? The thought was eerie. This bed would be empty. Matt would surely be out for the man's blood. And all this... you wouldn't ever get to experience it again. It was far too easy to take each day for granted. Far, far too easy.

One day at a time, then, you decided, and closed your eyes again as Matt's hand crept over your own.

[daughter-lilith]

❅In Every Life❅

Halsin x Fem!Reader | Modern AU, Parallel Universes Part 1

Summary: Another day on modern Earth as you finally wind down for the late night in your quiet home. All is as it should be. All is normal as you prepare for bed. That is, until a tall, hulking man with pointed ears shows up at your doorstep claiming to be your lost love from another time and realm. But he’s a stranger. A stranger who forever changes everything you thought you knew about your life.

Explicit 18+ (In future Parts)

CW (For whole story): Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Tension, Oral, P in V, Shifting, Pain, Love, Halsin is Emotional!

Word Count: 5.1k

A/N: After 10...11-ish years, BG3 has finally ended my fanfic hiatus. After years of focusing on original novels, I’m honestly so excited to get back into this genre!

For anyone who prefers to read on ao3, you can click here. And for those who prefer third-person POV (what I write most), I have an alternate upload also on ao3.

Lastly, this is technically a 1–2-chapter novella that I'm breaking into about 4-5 parts so it's easier on the eyes. So, apologies in advance if there are any awkward breaks between parts.

You patted the lightweight cream over your face, gently massaging it across your cheeks and up to your forehead until it was evenly spread. Smiling at yourself, you took in your appearance one last time for the night, comfortably dressed in nothing but a fitted tank top and black underwear. You had just finished some extra late-night gaming with friends, and you sighed, remembering that you probably should’ve used that time to write instead. Maybe you should’ve used any free time to write, rather than getting lost in other simple pleasures. The third book of your romantasy series wasn’t going to finish itself, and the deadline was fast approaching. Soon, your publishers will be expecting an update.

Turning off the bathroom light and exiting, you put those thoughts aside for now. Right now, you needed sleep, not to fill your head with worry. ‘I’ll get back on track tomorrow’, you thought to yourself. Your townhome was quiet, save for the distant churning sounds of the dishwasher downstairs. Your bedroom emitted a low light from the TV, though the volume was muted. You walked barefoot across the plush carpet, toward your phone that was placed on the small table next to your bed. 3:03 a.m.: the bright numbers flashed at you. You plugged it into its charger, then laid on your queen-sized mattress.

Grabbing the remote, you shut the TV off, which left your room almost fully dark were it not for the soft, orange glow emanating from the salt lamp near the TV. Snuggling under the covers, you exhaled a breath, closed your eyes, and gradually awaited the sweet lull of sleep. A few minutes had passed maybe, you weren’t sure, your consciousness was dangling on the edge of dreams yet still linked to your waking reality. A sound filled your ears, a familiar rumble that shook you out of your near-slumber, eyes fluttering open.

Your eyes landed on the light emitting from your phone, the screen completely illuminated. You usually left your phone on vibrate just in case of anything, but it wasn’t typically a disturbance. And you didn’t normally get messages at this time, except for the occasional random notification from someone who likely lived in a later time zone. Still, as the screen darkened once again, you closed your eyes, not worrying about it. You were a decent sleeper, and once you had fully slipped under, the chance of a quick notification waking you was quite slim. But not even a minute later, another vibration of the same pattern. Your eyes flicked open again, followed by an annoyed sigh as you relented and reached for your phone.

You squinted as the brightness already felt overwhelming despite not having fallen asleep yet. 3:12 a.m. You looked over the screen, noting the blue icon of your security camera followed by the text: ‘a person detected in your front yard’. Then another notification directly beneath it: ‘a person detected at your front door’. You lifted a brow in curiosity. It wasn’t unusual for random things to trigger your camera; a neighbor walking about, even at this hour, or perhaps your neighbor’s cat who strolled the streets at the most random hours. Maybe even someone driving off. Either way, you decided you were going to snooze the alerts but not before checking first.

Unlocking your phone with the print of your thumb, you tapped the first notification. Immediately, your stomach twisted and a heaviness filled your chest. The beat of your heart rapidly accelerated, and you could hear it echoing in your head, a panicked thumping. It wasn’t your neighbor’s cat, or someone walking by, or even movement from a car… Through the camera’s night vision, a man stood directly in front of your door, his head angled down so you couldn’t see his face. He had one arm- one huge, muscular arm- leaning against the doorframe like he was dealing with an internal battle to remain standing. Or as though he had the weight of the world on his rather broad shoulders and looked to your door for comfort. His other arm rested uneasily near his side, it looked like his fingers were tapping against his leg, unable to keep still.

Those expansive shoulders flexed in his position, tensed. And he was tall, almost filling up the entire field of view were it not for the height the camera was set up at. Dark hair, maybe a dark brown, you couldn’t quite tell in this light, was half tied up in a bun, the rest of it pooling at his collarbones. But despite his massive frame, what stood out the most to you were his ears. They seemed a normal size for his head, but the top of them curved into a tall upward point. ‘Elf ears?’ you silently questioned, confusion merging with your heightening anxiety. Surely, they had to be a prosthetic or molding, they had to be, and yet they blended with the bottom part of his ears so well.

You were sitting straight up now, the uneasiness in your belly increasing. What do you do? It was rational to call the cops, you knew this, but how soon would they get there? Do you try and scare him off? Threaten him? You lived alone, but he didn’t know that.

A new wave of panic surged as you tried to remember if you had locked your door. Of course you did, you always did. But what if- what if this was the one stupid night that it slipped your mind? What if— your thoughts were halted when you noticed the stranger lifting his head.

You gasped as he stared at the door for a single moment before his eyes roved up towards the camera. He started tilting his head as he looked intently at the camera, studying it, until his head paused, almost like he knew he was being watched.

You were frozen as you took in his gaze, so intense, so focused. The front door light was on, and paired with the night vision, you could tell he had bright eyes. And those eyes seemed to steal your breath, pulling you in even through the camera. There was so much depth behind his eyes: strength, power, kindness even. But another emotion burned brighter than the rest, a sense of…desperation- if you could call it that. A hopeful desperation, maybe. But for what?

As he looked at you, or so it felt like, you found yourself completely captured by him. The mere sight of him seemed to slow the nervous hammering of your heart, and you took this strange moment to take in more of his features. Apart from his ever-enthralling stare, he also seemed tired, like it had been days since he last rested, like he was too stressed to even get the chance. Four, very precise scars swiped across the right side of his face, from his forehead, cutting across his brow. Whatever injured him, it luckily missed his eye, only continuing to the bottom part of his lip and chin. And on the left side, a curving pattern of tattoos swirled along his face, from the top of his forehead to his chin, and maybe even to his neck but it was difficult to tell from this angle. You couldn’t make out the color, but it was clearly darker than his complexion, dark enough to notice.

A new realization simmered in your mind as your eyes were fixed on him, despite the scarring on his face and the tired look in and around his eyes, he seemed…handsome. He was handsome. More than that even, and perhaps that’s what made it more difficult to look away. You shook your head rapidly. No, his looks didn’t matter. They couldn’t matter. He was a stranger outside of your house at three o’clock in the gotdamn morning. ‘Get it together,’ you thought to yourself.

But the movement of his lips pulled you out of your analysis and self-reprimanding, and your heart battered once again as a new wave of anxiety passed through you. He was saying something. You didn’t hear him, as the sound was muted on your end. Your finger hovered over the volume symbol, trembling. Pressing it wouldn’t give your voice sound, but it would allow you to hear his. Before you could talk yourself out of it, your thumb turned on the volume. Instantly, the distant sound of the soft wind passed through the phone. Your heart beating in your chest, you watched the stranger and waited. And it wasn’t long before his lips moved once again.

“Can you hear me?” the stranger inquired, his voice low and gentle through your phone. When he spoke, a cloud of air flowed from his mouth, a reminder of the brisk night. The sound made your stomach tickle, a new sense of nerves but not of fear.

A brief, grave sigh followed his inquiry, and it only confirmed the emotions behind his eyes. He was definitely desperate for something, perhaps even afraid?

You didn’t dare turn on the speaker to respond, your voice suddenly feeling dry as you tried to swallow any bits of saliva you could.

“Please. I mean you no harm,” the stranger spoke again. His brows curved inward, and his mouth slightly turned down. So much suffering in his warm, kind eyes; so much heaviness in his large arms and shoulders.

Your mouth parted slightly, and you found yourself standing now, rocking side-to-side on your heels. Somehow, deep in your core, as his plea rumbled through your phone, you felt the sincerity in his voice. Your intuition was always quite strong, and at this moment, all sense of fear and suspicion began to wane. The logical next step would be getting the police on the phone while keeping an eye on the stranger from one of the upstairs windows. Instead, your thumb found itself hovering over the speaker. Swallowing, you exhaled an unsteady breath and clicked the button, permitting sound from your end now.

“What do you want?” You tried to sound intimidating, but your voice came out softer than you intended, and you clenched your jaw at how vulnerable you sounded.

The stranger’s eyes widened, and his pointed ears seemed to perk up, a surprising hope filling his gaze. A quick mist of air escaped his lips as you heard him release a quick breath. He stepped back from the doorframe, standing taller, and when he spoke again, you could’ve sworn you died right then and there if you weren’t so very clearly still standing. He had spoken your name- well, almost. He used the shortened version, a nickname only your closest friends and family sometimes referred to you as. There was no way he’d know that name.

With a new resolve, you spoke again, this time your voice came out louder, more confident. “How do you know that name? Who the hell are you?”

He said your name game, softer, desperate, his brows once again curving inward. “You’re here, you’re truly here. Please, may I come in? I will explain all.”

Come in? There was no way that was happening… right? The rational part of your brain was like a blaring siren, shouting at you to do the smart thing. But you often moved through life with your heart first, your emotions, leaving your mind to sigh in relief when everything worked out. Or, scrambling to pick up the pieces of your mistakes. You couldn’t let him in, you shouldn’t.

“I will not harm you. Never,” the stranger affirmed, closing off his promise with your name. Another feeling simmered in your heart when he said your name once again, so naturally, like it had left his lips a thousand times before.

“And I should just trust you?” you retorted, your voice a harsh whisper. But your curiosity was developing by the second as you glanced at your robe lying haphazardly in the middle of your bed.

You heard him sigh, his shoulders lowering, a heavy sense of defeat fueling such a simple action. But he didn’t seem irritated or impatient. And the more he peered into the camera, at you, a pool of dread and grief burned into the wells of his bright eyes. An uncomfortable jolt shot across your stomach at the sight. You knew nothing of this man and had never seen him before, but you couldn’t swallow the sorrow that arose in your chest, nearly causing you to forget to breathe. You were always quite empathetic, but this was…unique. Bizarre.

“What does your heart tell you?” you heard him ask, the words so gentle and pure from such an incredible stature of a man.

You blinked rapidly at the question, your voice suddenly caught in your throat. Quickly, you tapped the speaker on your phone to silence yourself. A shaky exhale escaped your throat, and you could hear your heart thumping again.

You stared at the man, whose eyes seemed to glow due to the greyscale night vision. You quickly pondered his question…your heart often told you many things, some right some not so much… And yet, as you stared at this man, who stood outside your door in the middle of the night, quick trails of air consistently leaving his lips, your heart answered. Without another thought, you took two steps towards your bed and picked up your robe, swiftly throwing it over you, your arms sliding in with ease. You wrapped it snuggly around your frame, feeling warm except for the skin below your knees that was left exposed.

And now, your heart was guiding you towards the stairs, down the steps, until you were sneaking down the short corridor to your front door. Your phone was still gripped tightly in your hand, and the stranger once again muttered a gentle plea. The sound of his voice caused a prickle across your arms, a new bundle of nerves as you got closer to your door.

Your house was almost completely pitch-black, except for a few flickering lights from alarms, the thermostat, the Wi-Fi modem, and cable boxes. The steady swishing sounds from the dishwasher were the only audible company, but even it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the drumming of your heart.

Coldness hit the bottom of your feet as you left the softness of the carpet and stepped into the entryway. You stopped in front of the tall, burgundy door, the wooden frame the only thing keeping you separated from the stranger. Thankfully, you had indeed locked it, top and bottom, but even that didn’t seem like it would be enough if he chose to get in with force. Glancing at your phone screen, you noticed he diverted his attention from the camera, angling down to stare at your door. You were holding your breath again, unbeknownst to you, and swallowed harshly.

“You’re right there…” he murmured, reaching to place a hand on the door. “Please.”

Your stomach fluttered at his voice; the baritone was much clearer now that you were hearing him from not just your phone but directly outside the door. You closed your eyes, whispering a silent prayer to anyone who was listening. If any guardian angels are listening, now would be a great time to have my back.

You opened your eyes and glanced at your phone. “Just…take a few steps back.”

Immediately, he removed his hand from the door. “Of course.” The large man retreated some, walking backward down two steps.

Satisfied, as much as you could be anyway, you placed your phone down on a small stand near the door, then reached to unlock the door.

One click.

A quick exhale.

A thumping heart.

Another click.

You reached for the light switch next, flicking on the warm-white glow above your head. You began turning the handle, your mind a wild array of thoughts and images of what could happen. But it was your heart in the end that silenced the panicked voices, your heart that gave you the courage to proceed.

Pulling the door back a few inches, cold air instantly prickled your cheeks, causing a shudder to shoot down your back. You leaned your head in between the small opening, instantly locking eyes with the man just a few feet from you.

Your breath hitched. Even standing two steps down did little to lessen the intimidation of his height. His eyes widened as they met with yours, a flash of relief and hope reflecting in his… what looked like hazel eyes. A gleam of silver or blue seemed to glow in the specks of his irises, perhaps from the lighting, but it was otherwise mesmerizing. You could better make out the swirling tattoo on his face, a deep red that only seemed to bring more attention to his eyes. Subconsciously, you ended up pulling the door back more, your body now half exposed to the outside.

The strange man breathed a quick sigh, much more joyful than the ones from earlier. “It’s you. It’s truly you.” A smile spread on his face, deepening the laugh lines on his cheeks. His large arms extended toward you and he took a single step forward.

Instinctively, you recoiled, and he froze, a wave of regret painting his expression.

“Forgive me,” he rushed his words, his muscled arms now hovering in surrender. “I am stricken with disbelief. But I meant what I said, that I would never harm you.”

Without the echo and semi-clarity of speaking through your phone, you could feel the sincerity in his words far more than before. The way his gaze pored into you, the shame that seemed to hover at the idea that he just frightened you, your fear began to wane. Yes, he did startle you just now, but then instantly soothed your anxiety on his words alone. You eyed him up and down, slow, taking in more of his appearance than what could be seen through the camera.

He was even larger. Bulging muscles looked like they wanted to flex in his arms, held back by a strap or belt across his biceps. Green leaves padded his shoulders, decorating the intricate garb he wore. You slightly narrowed your brow in question. He definitely looked like he could’ve just left some sort of Renaissance faire or some comic convention, but at this time of night? Maybe if it was Halloween that would explain things, except it was a few weeks into winter.

Brown armbands covered what you could only assume were thick forearms beneath, and he was wearing pants that were partially concealed by a flowing white skirt- or at least what used to be white. It looked stained, like he had once fallen in mud and he was only partially able to wash away all the evidence. Still, as your eyes returned to him, you certainly couldn’t deny the sculpted ruggedness in his face, his jawline. He wasn’t just handsome, but beautiful even, strange attire and all. And his age, you couldn’t quite measure it. When he smiled, he looked like he could’ve been late thirties. But he appeared a bit older when he frowned, maybe early forties.

“Who are you?” you questioned, feeling slightly more comfortable. You opened the door further, feeling your legs tingle, reacting to the cool air.

But he didn’t answer right away, seemingly lost as his gaze similarly roved over you. But it was slower, more deliberate, and you crossed your arms around yourself, almost self-conscious under his analyzing eye. And even though your robe covered you almost completely, you still remembered you were practically naked underneath. Could he tell that you were?

Clearing your throat, he startled, the leaves shaking over his shoulders, and locked eyes with you again.

“I am Halsin,” he said, confidence oozing in his timbre. A hearty smile followed his introduction, and your caution continued to fade and drift away.

Halsin, you thought. You shifted your mouth to the side, pondering. It didn’t ring a single bell. You had a few lovers in your past, some casual to serious. But there was no way you would’ve ever forgotten such an unfamiliar name, especially if it was attached to the absolute tower of a man before you. You looked at him once more, noting a flicker of hope in his eyes. Hope that maybe you would know something.

“Where did you come from…Halsin?” He frowned at your inquiry, visibly dispirited that his name did not connect with you. “You’re not exactly dressed for this weather,” you continued. His arms were completely exposed, and his clothing certainly did not seem well-suited for the winter. While it wasn’t below freezing, there was an evident chill in the air, a reminder that spring was still well off. You suspected that he had to be at least a little uncomfortable.

Halsin smiled at your observation, a gentle chuckle leaving his throat. “You are correct. I did not think to prepare for which season would greet me. As for where I came from… it is a realm quite far from here.” He glanced away, off to the side as he paused. When he looked back at you, there was a sense of uncertainty in his eyes. “A place called Faerûn.”

“Faerûn…” you murmured, narrowing your brows as your eyes searched his face. “I’ve never-- is that a country? An island?”

His smile remained, though laced with a touch of gloom. “A continent.”

A continent? Not one you’ve ever heard of before. A name like that wouldn’t have been hard to forget, especially if it was one of the continents of Earth. You released a soft breath, trying -and failing- to mask your budding confusion.

You heard Halsin speak, his smooth baritone drawing your attention back up his tall frame. “He warned me you may not remember…but I was hoping…” His words drifted off into the cold air. When he spoke, he wasn’t looking at you, like it was meant to be a side thought.

“Who warned you?” Your breath came out harsh as an involuntary gasp escaped you.

He bowed his head slightly, bringing one arm across his chest. “Silvanus.”

Another name unfamiliar to you. You stared at Halsin, quizzically, and it was clear to him that he understood the gnawing confusion that rattled you.

“Perhaps I can come inside to talk? I am fine with this brisk air, and I do not mind explaining all out here but…” he sighed, concern etching at the corners of his eyes, “you are trembling. And I don’t think it’s from fear, not entirely.”

As he said this, a shudder dashed up your back. You weren’t aware how long you’d been shivering, too baffled by the large man before you. Too distracted by this entire interaction. But a sudden passing wind supported Halsin’s observation of you, and you curled your toes inward, trying to shield them from the cold. The air prickled your lower legs, traveling up your thighs and your back. The robe that clutched your frame was as warm as it could be, but not warm enough to soothe you against the winter’s air.

After a light sniffle, you steeled yourself and stared at him directly. “I’ll let you in, but you have to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” he quickly responded.

“Tell me something about me that only those who know me would know. Just one thing that involves me.”

Halsin rocked back on his right foot a bit, shoulders squaring a pinch as he tilted his chin slightly. He turned his head to the side, his expression deeply focused, thinking. Meanwhile, your heart was amping up again, a fleet of nerves crackling in your gut as you awaited his answer. This was it. This was the moment that would solidify if you could completely throw even more caution to the wind and allow this strange man to enter your sanctuary, in the middle of a winter’s night, alone. Finally, Halsin’s voice filled the night air once more, a soft timbre.

“Your back,” he started, still looking away. “There is a mark there- a small streak- it begins near your lower spine, tracing further down, only stopping at,” he paused, a small smile tugging at his lips. He cleared his throat before continuing. “It’s lighter than your overall complexion, the only such mark on your body.”

You froze, your voice stunned into silence. Your lips parted, but only the warmness of your breath trailed away, forming a small, fading cloud. Halsin finally looked at you again, uneasily pressing his lips together.

A beating heart thumped loudly. Yours or his? Of course it had to be yours. But the way he was staring at you, the slight tremble in his lips, a brief rock on his heels, he was nervous. Uncertain. Perhaps desperately hoping he was right. Visibly, he did not appear to be an easily nervous man, that he could ever seem to lack any confidence, and yet you felt his nerves even more than you saw it. And he was right- the birthmark that trailed down the end of your spine. Only a few would know of it: your parents from when you were a child, your closest friends who helped zip your outfits up on occasion, and some ex-lovers who were lucky enough to have you in a position of giving them such a view.

It wasn’t something you hid per se, but you didn’t really flaunt it either. In most, if not all pictures of you, you were either clothed or facing forward. Maybe some passerby caught a view of it at beaches or pools, but one had to be really paying attention.

“How…” you breathed, searching his eyes. “How did you know that?”

A brightness washed over his face, and his shoulder evened, standing taller. “Because I know you. And I could never forget you… my heart.”

His… heart? A flush of warmth filled your cheeks. Something in the way he said those words, the way his unwavering eyes focused on you, meant something to you. You meant something to him.

Sure, you could mark him off as some weirdo stalker, that had to be it. It was the only thing that made sense. But an unpleasant tickle poked your gut at the idea, like the very thought of him being such a thing was an insult. And looking at this mountain of a man; who dressed like he came from another time, with large, perfectly pointed ears and a large scar that didn’t seem to be fake… No, he wasn’t just some stalker.

“May I?” He gestured towards the space between you and the door.

You bit the side of your bottom lip, heart thumping. Another rush of wind passed over your feet sending a more vicious chill up your legs. So, you leaned fully to the side, pulling the door back as far as it could go. Halsin seemed to release a breath of relief, before stepping up and towards you. You nearly gulped as he did, almost forgetting just how much taller he was since he was initially standing a few steps down.

He kept his gaze on you as the distance closed, and his large frame nearly filled the entire entryway. You watched him intently, neck angled up the closer he came. Instantly, the scent of pine and sandalwood filled your nose, amplified by the warmth radiating from him. How was that possible? He had been standing in the cold for some time and yet it was like the setting sun in the middle of summer had just entered your home. You almost smiled, overtaken by a sudden sense of peace and tranquility. Of strength and protection. Of the wild and the power that came with it.

Halsin continued to peer down at you, a nearly-there smile on his smooth-appearing lips. You weren’t the shortest person in the world, but you’ve never felt as dwarfed as you do now. Halsin moved by you, careful not to invade too much of your personal space, which was almost impossible in the small entryway. Finally, you broke contact with him and turned to close the door, one final breeze blowing inside as you did. You closed your eyes briefly, shooting another quick prayer before turning around and hustling past the hulking man.

You moved towards the kitchen, feeling the weight of his steps calmly following. You almost turned the main light on but hesitated; the idea of the bright light illuminating the whole room suddenly made you nervous. It was much brighter than the one by your door. This would mean facing him fully, without the presence of faint shadows to help mask any emotions. That and, you were still very much in your robe with just a tank top and your underwear beneath. Your hair wasn’t a mess per se, but not exactly presentable for a guest. Or for whatever he was. So instead, you turned the rotating switch, activating the spherical ceiling lights. A warm, dim glow gradually filled the space as you turned it halfway and stopped. Just enough light.

“Most intriguing,” you heard him say. You didn’t understand what he meant but decided not to question it. There were already too many questions, and you wanted to get to the most important ones first.

Stepping toward the island at the center, you finally turned to face Halsin again as you stopped at the side of the counter. Your kitchen was decently sized and typically didn’t have an issue with a couple of people being in it at once. But Halsin absolutely dominated this space. You noticed his eyes searching behind you, at a very particular area with a quizzical expression. Looking over your shoulder, nothing but more counter space, the sink, and the dishwasher. Was that what he was looking at?

“Oh, I can turn it off if it helps,” you said casually. Maybe it was distracting him. You leaned towards it and hit the pause button instead of canceling it entirely. Instantly, a new silence filled the room, and you were already missing the steady, rhythmic whooshing sounds of the washer. At least it drowned out the sound of your heart which now all too familiarly thumped in your ears.

Turning back to Halsin, who was already looking at you, made you fiddle with your fingers, trying not to cower beneath his gaze. This was your space he was in, your home. So you steeled yourself as best as possible, steadying your breaths, and held his gaze, waiting.

But Halsin continued to watch you, once again trapping you under the powerful pressure of his stare. You licked your lips, tense, and you could’ve sworn you heard his breath hitch.

“Halsin?”

He blinked. “Forgive me, I am just…” he exhaled, smiling, “taking you in.”

Part 2 here! Hope you enjoyed! Would you have opened the door?👀👀 & Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in the final part either as a comment or in tags if you reblogged, that way you can binge it or just simply be notified when it's complete!

[spooky-bunnys]

The sound of glass breaking made (Name) jump. He was home alone at the moment as his husbands were at work. They were checking on the clubs under their gang of Bonten. So he knew thay sound wasn't a good sound.

(Name) quickly sent a message to the groupchat him and his husbands had. Before quickly turning into his cat form and slid under the couch. Of course he took his phone with him so the people who broke in wouldn't find it.

(Name)'s phone started vibranting. It said a call was coming through. So he answered. Putting it on speaker and left out a soft meow. Which let whoever was on the other end what they needed to know. The people had made it to where he was.

In the Haitani car, the brothers had muted their side of the call. Listening carefully for what was going on. This wasn't the first time someone broke in. But considering (Name) is alone at the house made them nervous. They had let the guards off for the night.

They froze as they heard footsteps too close to the phone that they'd like. They felt their breath hitch as the footsteps stop. But relaxed when they continued. Good they were leaving.

"MEOW!"

They felt they're blood run could at the sound of (Name)'s scream. They'd found him. They heard distant talking. Then the sounds of breathing caught their attention.

"This him? Looks like a regular house cat."

"Nah man. His fur matches the color of the ears and tails from the photo. That's him."

"Good. Hurry up and knock him out before his turns back. We can't afford for him to have any marks."

The brother traded look of dread. They knew those voices. Those were the men that came to Bonten. Wanting to join directly under Mikey. But they were rejected. They weren't qualified or trusted to be Bonten excutives.

So this is how they get back at Bonten? Kidnapping Mikey's brother and their mate? Did they have that bad of a death wish?! They heard someone clear their throat. They knew where this was going so they unmute their side.

"Hello Haitani's. We've got your pussy cat bitch." The person on the other side let out a loud laugh.

"Listen closely. We know who you are. Just know that when we find you. You'll beg to die."

They heard a crunch then a beep but they knew what happened. They broke the phone so it wouldn't be tracked. But they didn't know, Bonten don't need phones to track people. Especially someone whose as important as (Name) is. Considering Mikey has all Bonten excutives and (Name) are all chipped.

In case something like this happens. It was all (Name)'s idea. After Sanzu got so high nobody could find him for almost 3 weeks. So everyone agreed to be chipped. Although it took (Name) a while to get Mikey to agree to it. But everyone knows Mikey would do anything for (Name).

They knew one thing for sure. They needed to get to Bonten Headquarters. Now.

~

When the brothers arrived at Headquarters, they weren't exactly expecting everyone to be there. But Bonten was. Along with (Name)'s best friend Muto. When the brothers entered Mikey's office, it was like the others knew something was going on.

As they all entered Mikey looked up from the paper work with a raised eyebrow. The brothers didn't waste anytime to explain what had happened. Even going as far as to replay the call. By the time they heard the crunch, anger had already surrounded the office.

"I recognized the voices. It was that group of men that came in like last month. The one that wanted to join Bonten right under you Mikey."

"Wait thats what I came here to talk about."

Everyone turned to where Muto stood. His face covered in a serious look. While his arms were crossed across his chest. They looked at him confusingly. He rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face.

"I was literally telling you guys that people were tailing (Name) and I today. Were none of you listening?"

The said members avoided eye contact. Muto huffed and ran a hand through his hair. He hated when shit like this happens.

"Has anyone checked his chip yet?"

At Mikey's question everyone (minus the Haitani brothers) froze before slowly looking at Kokonoi. Who had already pulled out his laptop. Immediately setting up (Name)'s tacker. They quickly huddled around the laptop. Looking for the (color) kitten icon that was (Name)'s icon.

Takeomi pointed at he quick moving icon. Which gained eveyone's attention. It was heading towards the Tokyo airport. That got them up and going. Practically tripping over each other trying to get out to the cars. Surprisingly Mikey was the first out of the office and into the elevator with the others and Muto following.

~

(Name) didn't know where he was or how long he'd been out of it. All he knows is the bag he's is, definitely needs to be cleaned. Like damn it smells like sweaty gym clothes and old socks. He was going to have a very long shower after this is over.

He isn’t stupid. He know's his husbands and possibly his brother were coming for him. This wasn't his fist rodeo. He also knows this won't be the last time something like this will happen. But he's always resuced by his loved ones.

Then he's kept under watch by said loved ones. (Name) definitely is gonna have a bubble bath and vacation once this setles down. He can already feel the stress and gray hair. (Name) shut his eyes. Trying to get as comfortable as he can. Since it'll probably be a while before he's found.

All of a sudden the car swerved and (Name) heard a lot of yelling and gun fire. Which meant a few things. First, he was found. Second, he can't have a nap. Finally, he will be lecturing his loved ones if they make the car he's in crash. He doesn't want to be injured in this form.

The pain is worse in his cat form, then his human form. (Name) already had a low pain tolerance. He didn't need to be reminded of it!

The car swered again before it stopped. (Name) didn't move. He didn't know where in the car his is, but if he had to bet he'd bet the trunk. (Name) heard cars opening and closing and more gun fire.

So like any of time this happened (Name) just patiently waited until he knew he was safe to reveal his whereabouts. The gun firing went off for a while longer. (Name) was just trying to get out of the bag he was in. Which was rougher then usual considering someone tied the opening.

(Name) froze when everything stopped. His breathing slowed. Trying to listen carefully to the surrounding sound. He didn't move until he heard familiar meowing. Which he immediately returned loudly. Announcing his location.

He heard a click and he saw brightness through the bag. So he was right. The trunk. He felt the bag get picked up which quickly startled him. Making him hiss on instinct. (Name) felt the bag he was in be snatched which again made him hiss. He hard aruging between one of his husbands and Sanzu.

The bag shook as someone untied the opening. Revealing a smiling Ran and a slightly smiling Mikey. (Name) launched himself towards the two. Extremely happy that he was out of the gross bag. Which had turned out the be a draw string bag. (Name) purred as he rubbed himself under Ran's chin and against Mikey's cheek. Making the two males huff out a laugh.

(Name) sent them both a look soon after. Which they immediately knew what he wanted. A glass of milk and a shower.

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Vil Schoenheit - Playful Dress Vignette

"I was able to witness such a rare sight"

[Playful Land – Bazaar]

Puppet: Come By, Come And See! Would You Like A Playful Land Souvenir!?

Vil: …...

Vil: Well, I thought I would get some souvenirs for those back at school, but…

Vil: These accessories, medals, and mugs… aren't really gifts I would give others.

Vil: Oh, is this… a badge? It's small, I do like how prettily the gold shines.

Vil: This may be a perfect find. Could you wrap this up for me?

Puppet: Of Course!

Jade: Oh my, Vil-san. I thought you would be exploring the park, but have you turned to souvenir shopping already?

Vil: That's right. I spotted some lockers earlier, so I thought I would use those until we leave.

Jade: I hadn't noticed there were lockers available.

Jade: I planned on leaving souvenir shopping for later, but if that is the case, then I suppose it won't be a bother to shop for some now.

Vil: Well, if you weren't over here for souvenirs in the first place, why did you come this way?

Jade: Me? Something rather fascinating happened to have caught my eye…

Vil: Something fascinating?

Jade: Indeed, take a look at these.

Vil: These are… fashion accessories?

Jade: Yes. These are character hats, character headbands, and other various accessories that can be worn around the park.

Vil: A hat with fox ears, a scrunchie with a small cat figure attached to it…

Vil: There are even sunglasses with frames that look like a silhouette of a fox.

Vil: So, you like these kinds of character merchandise? That's actually rather surprising.

Jade: WELL, YES, ABSOLUTELY! Although, I haven't had much luck purchasing any since I left the Coral Sea.

Jade: Unfortunately, it's quite difficult to coordinate outfits with these kinds of poppy and cutesy merch…

Jade: I wonder if there is anyone out there who could suit such specialized character accessories.

Jade: If they did exist, I would love for them to show me how they'd wear it, but I'm sure that's easier said than done.

Jade: …That would be much too convenient, right?

Vil: You... I'm more than certain you are lying through your teeth when you say you like such cute merch.

Vil: Does this mean you've come all the way to this shop to try to get a rise out of me? What a charming personality you have.

Jade: Oh, my. A lie…? Nonsense. Please believe me, Vil-san.

Vil: I assume you're only here to try to see me struggle matching those accessories to my outfit.

Vil: Allow me to show you just how fundamentally flawed your scheme is.

Vil: After all, our knowledge and experience are nowhere near the same.

Vil: Well then, first… Ah, I'll start with the sunglasses.

Vil: My current outfit has a base black color, with a purple focus and red accents.

Vil: I do not want to upset the balance of these colors. With that in mind, I would choose this one.

Jade: Those sunglasses have such a vivid red frame… So you chose it based off your accent color instead of the base color.

Vil: Yes, of course. The face is the most prominent part of your body, so it would be a waste to frame it with a color as muted as my base color.

Vil: Next are the earrings. Since we don’t want it to clash with the sunglasses, here we would choose a subtle gold or white gold shimmer.

Vil: The scrunchie should be an eye-catching pink that doesn't take too much attention away from the sleeves.

Vil: I'd match the backpack to purple, and attach plenty of charms to it, within reason.

Jade: …Wonderful. Although you are decorated in character goods from head to toe, your refined presence still shines strong.

Vil: Naturally. Character goods like this are just another facet of fashion, so as long as you keep to the fundamentals, you can't go wrong.

Vil: Specifically, one must always be aware of the color balance. You cannot simply throw everything on without any thought.

Jade: I see, this has been a wonderful learning experience. I shouldn't expect anything less from someone like you.

Vil: Obviously. There isn't a fashion item in the world that I would not be able to put to good use.

Vil: …Or is that too much of a boast? Fufu.

Jade: This was astounding. By the way, may I…

Vil: No photos.

Jade: Ah, I see. That is a shame.

Vil: Well, I've finished choosing my souvenirs, so I'll be off. Goodbye, then.

Jade: …Yes, I'll see you later.

[Playful Land – Gentle Square]

Vil: Playful Land truly is large.

Vil: There's the Catch the Star wheel, an Undersea Walk… As well as a Brawl Bungalow.

Vil: I would love to visit every attraction I haven't been able to check out yet, but there may not be enough time.

Jade: Indeed. Taking into account what free time we have remaining, I would think we could perhaps look into 2 or 3 attractions.

Vil: I concur. That may be the case, especially considering the crowds.

Vil: …Also, Jade, I thought we sent our separate ways back at the bazaar. Why are you still following me?

Jade: I simply thought it would be more exciting to stick with you, Vil-san, than look around on my own. I have no ulterior motives.

Vil: …Honestly, I absolutely cannot believe that. Especially with how much of an innocent front you're displaying.

Vil: Well, no matter. I was just thinking about actually finding some activities to enjoy here at Playful Land.

Vil: And, well, you've an abundance in forethought, so you may not be a terrible companion.

Vil: If you absolutely must, you may join me.

Jade: Thank you very much.

Vil: There is a certain place I would like to go. Let's head there.

[Playful Land – Expedition Whale]

Vil: We've arrived.

Jade: This is…

Vil: Expedition Whale, the largest roller coaster in this amusement park.

Vil: Obviously, we cannot pass up the main attraction. Come, the line is over here.

Jade: Wait a moment, Vil-san. Why don't we visit the Brawl Bungalow first?

Vil: …Huh? Why? The roller coaster is right in front of us.

Vil: You want us to head towards the Brawl Bungalow from here, and then turn all the way around to come back here? I think that is a complete waste of time.

Jade: No, I… The line for the roller coaster is rather long, so I thought perhaps waiting for our turn may be a waste of our time.

Jade: If we use that potential waiting time to visit another attraction, perhaps we could be able to enjoy an additional one…

Vil: …Sigh.

Vil: You know, Jade. I'll only say this once. I gave you permission to "follow me if you must."

Vil: I never said you could direct me anywhere. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings.

Jade: Right, my apologies. Only, if we consider our limited time remaining…

Vil: Oh… And here I thought you would back off because I was a little sterner there. How odd.

Vil: I don't think you rather look to be that interested in the Brawl Bungalow, either. It's as if you are trying to avoid the roller coaster entirely.

Vil: I'm sure it absolutely isn't the case, but… Could it be that you're attempting to avoid the roller coaster because you're scared…?

Vil: That couldn't possibly be the case, right, Jade?

Jade: Of course not. To tell you the truth, I am simply worried for you, Vil-san.

Jade: It seems as though the roller coaster will splash us with water in the end…

Jade: I couldn't help but be concerned for your beautiful makeup. We wouldn't want it to run.

Vil: Mmhmm. If you say so. Uh-huh…

Vil: If my makeup runs, I just have to fix it.

Vil: Is that all you have? Come on, let's go.

Vil: Well, now… The coaster is about to move. Are you ready, Jade?

Jade: Ready? I'm not entirely sure what you mean… I am still fraught with worry for you, Vil-san.

Jade: I must at least be prepared to shield you, after all, in case your makeup runs.

Vil: You truly don't ever stop speaking. …But I wonder, how long will you be able to keep it up?

[clank, clank, clank…]

Vil: Look Jade, the view is breathtaking. We can see the whole of Playful Land.

Jade: Yes, truly… It is very high… And from this height, I assume we're about to…

[clank!!]

Jade: URK…!?

Vil: …Heh.

[RRRRRGGGGGGOOOOORRR!!]

[SPLASSSH!!]

Vil: Ahh, that was a superb thrill…!

Vil: Rollercoasters this long and thrilling are completely out of the ordinary.

Vil: But, I'm quite elated to have been able to experience such a one-of-a-kind attraction. On top of that…

Vil: I was able to witness such a rare sight: Jade, speechless.

Vil: I'm sure you tagged along, hoping to find some reason to rib me… I'm sorry it didn't work out for you.

Jade: …...

Jade: …Oh no, I am just the same as ever. That was a enjoyable coaster.

Jade: However, perhaps I would like to refrain from riding it for a little while…

Vil: Oh, have you recovered already? I guess I should at least commend your moxie.

Vil: We're moving on to the next attraction, Jade. I'm nowhere near satisfied yet.

Requested by @farfalla049.

[still-breathing-au-p3r]

He’s walked through this door what feels like a million times already, but Akihiko finds himself hesitating outside of Shinji’s room today. He’s struck with the terrible, paralytic notion that yesterday was just a dream, and that when he walks into the room he’ll find Shinji unconscious and unresponsive again. 

It’s an absurd idea to even entertain, let alone be so afraid of, but– he really doesn’t know what he’d do if that ended up being the case. 

Akihiko’s wrestling match with his own irrationality is interrupted when he realizes he can hear voices coming from the other side of the door.

One of them belongs to the lead doctor for Shinji’s case, talking about– something. Akihiko can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but he definitely catches the response. 

“No, nothin’ like that.” Akihiko would be able to recognize Shinji’s voice absolutely anywhere, in less than a heartbeat. He knows it every bit as surely as he knows his own.

He leans against the wall and finally lets go of the breath he’d started holding. 

Shinji really is awake. Akihiko hadn’t imagined it out of pure desperation.

Now he has to actually work up the nerve to open the damn door. It’s been all he could think about from the moment he’d left the hospital last night until this exact moment, but now suddenly the idea of speaking to Shinji seems as daunting as a title match. It’s never felt that way before. 

Yet another thing Shinji would laugh at him for. He’s amassing a collection.

Well, since Shinji’s doctor is here, Akihiko figures he ought to be polite and knocks instead of letting himself right in. When he does, the muted conversation on the other side of the door grinds to a halt.

“Who in the world could that be this early?”

“‘S probably Aki. Dunno anyone else who wakes up at the a– the crack of dawn like he does.” 

He exhales, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Just hearing Shinji’s voice again smooths down some of the prickling edges of his nerves. This can still be salvaged. 

Hopefully. 

“You can come in, Sanada-kun.” 

Akihiko steels himself before he opens the door, and he still feels nearly bowled over when Shinji’s eyes meet his. Seeing them open yesterday was emotional enough when Shinji could barely keep them focused. Now his gaze is alert and aware, fixing on Akihiko with the keen scrutiny that he’s come to find so familiar– it’s almost overwhelming. He very nearly chokes, though at least this time the universe shows him a little mercy and he doesn’t make any embarrassing noises.

“Uh–” God. He needs to get a hold of himself. “Sorry for coming by so early.” Akihiko shuffles inside and closes the door behind him.

Shinji snorts quietly and looks away. 

“It’s no trouble,” The doctor replies mildly, though Akihiko has a feeling he’s a little annoyed at being interrupted. “We can continue this conversation later then, Aragaki-kun?”

“Sure,” Shinji shrugs lightly. Akihiko has no idea what they were talking about, and it’s really not any of his business to ask. He steps out of the way and takes a seat in a nearby chair, as the doctor takes his leave to give them some time alone. Akihiko appreciates it, even if it does feel a little awkward at first. 

“Never known you to be so sheepish.” Shinji’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Never known you to censor yourself like that,” Akihiko shoots back immediately. Despite the circumstances, all he’s been through these past two weeks, all his apprehension and hope and the nausea-inducing slurry they’ve blended into– despite everything, it’s still as easy as breathing to slip right back into their familiar, bickering rhythm. 

“Yeah well, the doc doesn’t appreciate ‘profanity’ in his hospital.”  Shinji rolls his eyes. “His words, not mine.” 

“When has that ever stopped you before?” 

“When he’s got the same glare as Sawashiro-san.” 

“He can’t be that bad,” Akihiko laughs. Out of all the matrons who’d been at the orphanage, Sawashiro-san had been the most intimidating by an oceanic margin. She’d practically been a boogeyman to the younger kids– and the older kids, however much they would have denied it. She had never been cruel, at least not in hindsight, just ruthlessly strict. And after all this time, even Shinji still can’t say her name without an honorific.

“Go ahead and try swearing around him then,” Shinji returns. “See for yourself.” 

Akihiko folds his arms and scoffs amiably. He will not be doing that.

He feels so much more relaxed now than he did when he first walked into the room. He wishes he could keep things like this, continue to bask in the simple camaraderie of nostalgia.

He knows he can’t.

[next =>]

[highlordofkrypton]

ACOTAR Omegaverse Week // Day 1 - Nesting

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

SUMMARY: Tamlin's things have been going missing from his manor in the Spring Court. More specifically, all the clothes Rhysand has gifted him are disappearing one by one. It's time for him to get to the bottom of this mystery.

PAIRING: Alpha Tamlin x Omega Rhysand

TAGS: General Audiences, fluff, light angst, nesting, no smut

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Ahhh, my very first entry to @acotar-omegaverse-week! I've never written for Omegaverse before, so this is totally new to me. Hopefully, as the week goes on I get a better grasp of the universe. I hope you guys like it!

TAMLIN AND THE CURIOUS CASE OF UNGIVEN THINGS

That's strange… It was here just last night.

Tamlin stares at the plush velvet chair by his closet, the one where he tosses things that he is either far too lazy to put away in the separate room three feet away dedicated to his and his mate's clothes, or that he uses frequently enough that there is no point in putting it away. The shawl was made of white fur, purchased somewhere in the Winter Court—or so Rhysand told him.

He liked that shawl. It was nice to throw over his shoulder and run his hands through its softness, absent-minded, while working.

Perhaps it has been sent to cleaning.

The High Lord catches Alis, startling the little urisk who was puttering around the manor chasing chirping dustmites with her broom.

"My lord!" She straightens, as if she should never offend him with the sight of her… doing her work. Alis has old values, ones that Tamlin does not particularly adhere to.

"Good morning, Alis. Have you seen my shawl? The white one?" Tamlin describes it, holding his hands out to better show its size. "I would think it was sent to cleaning since it's not on my chair."

"No, no… I instructed the others not to touch anything on your chair unless you put it away for cleaning." Alis hums. It's better that way, so not to assume their lord was done using it when he still needs it. "Perhaps someone took it by accident. I hope it's not another sock elf."

"I thought we put out old clothes for them to steal instead of our laundry." Tamlin frowns. The sock-elves had stolen a sweater he rather liked, too.

"I thought so, too. I will look into this myself, my lord." Alis bows and shuffles away as quickly as she can without running.

Maybe he shouldn't kick up such a fuss. A new shawl can easily be bought, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Rhysand that he lost yet another gift from him. Come to think of it, Rhysand has been giving him a lot of things lately. Tamlin should give him something in return; he's been so busy with work, the gifts must have been a quiet way to ask for his attention.

Rhysand, much like the shawl, is nowhere to be found in the manor. He left a note on their beside table, a vague but trustworthy 'be back soon'. His absence gives Tamlin time to think of a way to shower him with the adoration he deserves, so he gathers a piece of hand-pressed parchment, a quill with gold ink and heads to his library to sit in his favourite chair—

"My chair is missing?"

Now this is ridiculous. It was an egg-shaped chair with a base made of marble and a very comfortable cushion. The chair was large enough to accommodate Tamlin both in his already massive Faerie form and in his beastly shape, should he want to curl up in something den-like.

"Your what?" Rhysand asks, popping his head into the library.

"My chair. My favourite chair. It's missing." Tamlin motions at the very empty spot in the very full library. There's even a circle on the ground of dust and discolouration where it used to be—that's how long it was there.

"Oh my," Rhysand says in muted concern. "This is a tragedy. Oh well, we'll just have to order a new one."

"I don't want to order a new one. I liked that one. Do you know how long it takes to get the cushions to fit you just right?" It also smells of him, his childhood, and it has all the memories that matter. "What if they don't make them exactly like that anymore?"

Tamlin huffs, trying not to pout. Oh, if the other Lords could see him now, sulking because he can't find his favourite egg-shaped chair.

Rhysand approaches him, reaching up to cup his cheek and caress it with his thumb. "I'm sure it'll be alright. I remember the exact dimensions. We'll get you a new one and break it in together?" He grins.

The thought of marking their territory and just basking in each other, erasing the scent of anyone else who's ever touched the chair makes him happy. Tamlin is a simple faerie; he asks for very little, and if Rhysand promised to cuddle him for all eternity and nothing else, he would be a very, very happy man.

Tamlin leans in, pressing a kiss against Rhysand's lips, smiling, and pulling him close. He moves to his neck, breathing in the scent of him and nipping at the skin there lightly. Humming, a very different kind of territorialism spurs in him.

"Wait, wait," Rhysand palms his chest, politely asking for distance. "I wanted to give you another gift."

The Night Prince steps back, opening a drawer encrusted in one of the ornate wooden bookshelves and pulls out a black box. He hands it to Tamlin.

"What… What is this for? Rhys, you're spoiling me. I should be begging for your forgiveness for being busy." Tamlin accepts the gift, but doesn't open it. "You should know," he starts, looking openly guilty. "I keep misplacing the things you've given me. I suspect we may have a sock-elf problem, but I should have been more careful."

Rhysand smiles; he isn't angry at all. "Things are… things. What matters to me is being able to give you these gifts. Even if you make use of them for just a day, it's good enough for me. Open it."

Tamlin kisses Rhysand again, opening the gift. It's a beautiful dark green robe, almost black, that glimmers with colours when held directly under sunlight. It's beautiful. More importantly, it's so soft and velvety.

"You should wear it. Make sure the size is right," Rhysand grins.

***

There's only so much Tamlin can lose before it starts to keep him up at night. The beautiful deep emerald robe disappeared after a day of having it, which is a record, honestly. He can't pass it off as a conniving creature playing a trick on him anymore. It's now a reflection of his capabilities as High Lord. A skill issue, per say.

Then again, he could be awake because the right side of his bed is empty and there is nothing more sobering that missing a part of him.

Tamlin worries. Everyone knows that.

He sits up on his bed and realizes his sheets are missing too? What is going on? Tamlin expects the slide of cool spidersilk against his bare skin, and though he naturally runs hot and kicks the sheets off, he still expects them to be there.

A part of him wonders if Rhysand was kidnapped, bundled up in the fancy sheets he insisted on and carried away into the night. The thought makes Tamlin jealous. If there is any sweeping away to be done, it is by him and him alone.

Fuck taking the stairs; Tamlin must find his mate quickly. He blows open the windows with a hint of magic, launching himself out of his manor and tumbling onto the ground, two floors down, with ease and grace. He sniffs the air, and locks onto the scent, sprinting straight into his forest.

Any other night, he would drink in the beauty of the trees, the symphony of the cicadas, the owls and the foxes, but Tamlin is on a mission. He cannot and will not be stopped until he finds his mate. His hunt takes him down a familiar path, straight towards his second home—a den that he played in as a child, then turned into his own safe haven as he grew older and his father grew crueler. It is the only place where his secrets are harboured and his vulnerabilities are shown.

He hasn't needed his den since Rhysand came into his life—since Rhysand stayed in it.

Tamlin blinks, and his eyes shift to better accommodate the darkness.

"Rhys? I know you're in here."

No response.

As he steps into his den, he realizes… it's been transformed.

The den has always been nothing more than a cave. It's walls were enough to make him feel safe and he would always sleep facing its entrance. No one could get him without his knowledge. The animals would visit and watch over him, of course, but no one else was welcome. (Not until Rhysand.)

Now, it's brimming with things. All the things Tamlin thought he lost, the gifts ungiven and taken back by one clever mate. He walks along the edges, touching the portraits of them and of Rhysand's family. He finds nearly every toy from his childhood; his mother had tried to save what she could from his father's annihilation of his childhood, and Rhysand must have found where she hid them. Tamlin picks up a toy cart with a long, long string. He used to fill this thing with flowers and berries, then drag it along behind him through the forest and all over the manor.

There are books here too. Tamlin recognizes them as Rhysand's. The Spring Court has never tolerated human 'fairy-tales' and he only knows of them because Rhysand has read him each one as proof that humans are brilliant.

Naturally, his egg-chair is here, too. Tucked at the back of the cave, right up against the wall, its opening is blocked by pillows upon pillows. Rhysand's scent leads right to it.

Tamlin tries to hide his smile as he leans in and plucks one pillow out. The rest start to topple, but Tamlin is careful to push them inwards into the nest.

"It seems I have found my thief."

Rhysand's expression is far too cool for someone buried to the neck in Tamlin's clothes.

He's hiding.

That's the problem with faeries like them. The way they were raised—it didn't matter what their natures were. They needed to be exactly what their fathers needed of them. Tamlin needed to be strong and immovable. Soft things were barred from him, even his heart needed to be made of stone. Rhysand needed to be sharp, but not bothersome. He always handles things alone.

Tamlin doesn't ask why he wasn't told or invited to help.

"May I enter?"

Rhysand shrinks into his pile, hiding his face except his watchful violet eyes. "You may," he says without a hint of emotion.

Tamlin crawls into the nest, careful not to squish Rhysand or disturb the hoard of things. Rhysand likes his things in particular order. Tamlin has no preference, so he's happy to adjust to his mate.

"I'm wounded," Tamlin sighs dramatically, taking Rhysand's own words and intonation for when he isn't getting his way. "My mate would rather my things than me and my," he pauses, trying to find a word that only Rhysand would use. "Luscious self?"

"Luscious? I do not say luscious." Rhysand unburies himself to glare at Tamlin. "You were busy."

"And you know that I would drop everything for you, if you told me you were nesting."

"I don't need you to drop everything. I have everything under control." Rhysand's jaw ticks, determined to handle himself. Were they in the Night Court, Rhysand would run his court, nest and make sure that Tamlin doesn't lift a finger because that's just who he is.

Tamlin crawls closer, squishing him purposely this time.

"Then control me," Tamlin leans in, breathing his words against Rhysand's warm lips. "Fit me into your plans. Hoard me like all these things. I am yours," he reminds his mate, kissing him slowly. "Do with me as you please, as long as you're doing it with me."

All this is new to both of them.

Tamlin has always known his dominant Alpha nature, and for his own safety, he had to swallow back his instincts. He wasn't afraid of what his father would do to him, but rather everyone else between them—his brothers, his mother and everyone Tamlin has even glanced at. The battle between Alphas is ugly and violent, especially in the transition of power. At the end, they both knew it was his father's mistake for not killing him at birth.

For Rhysand, Tamlin knows it was the opposite. Suppress, suppress, suppress, was his mantra. Not only did he have to hide, but he needed to deny every instinct within him. At least Tamlin could be a lesser version of himself, but Rhysand…

"You are perfect." Tamlin whispers between kisses. "You are stronger than I am."

"Liar," Rhysand denies.

"You are," Tamlin hums, catching his lower lip between his teeth. "I wouldn't have been able to do this alone. I need you by my side. Also, my den is a lot cozier than it was before. I might have to move out here."

Rhysand rolls his eyes and kicks at him from the layers of stolen clothes. "Flatterer." He says, clearly won over.

Tamlin pushes the clothing aside, snuggles in beside Rhysand and curls at his side, before putting the nest as it was. He says nothing, happy to kiss Rhysand's shoulder and listen to him breathing.

"I want to have a baby," Rhysand says suddenly.

The confession has Tamlin tensing, a reaction that comes from deep within rather than anything to do with actual thoughts. He eases after a moment. "Okay."

"I'm not even sure we'd be good," Rhysand can't even finish the sentence. The shame is visceral. His mother did her best and his father was selective in his affections. He knows how true mates love each other, and he knows how it feels when an Alpha rejects his offspring. It's not that he thinks Tamlin would—Tamlin would be a great father. "I just… With you… I feel ready. My body wants…"

The half-Illyrian flushes, turning to try and bury his face against Tamlin, but they only end up in a more intimate position, foreheads pressed against one another. Tamlin can see the worry on his face. Tamlin kisses them way.

"We will be good parents."

"How do you know?"

"Because we know pain. We know everything not to do."

Tamlin will never raise a hand against his mate or his children. He will never use them as weapons. He will listen when they speak. Everything his mind and body has come to know—all the violence and punishment he has come to expect—he will go against it. He will raise his little ones without fear. They will be free to be happy.

"That's horrible, you know that right?"

"But it's the truth." Tamlin assures, nuzzling Rhysand. "We have all the time in the world. You can over analyze this as much as you need," he teases.

"Oh, fuck you."

The Spring Lord grinds against Rhysand's hip with a playful grin. "Mmm, is that a request?"

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧

Bucky had more than one way to scare the living daylights out of you — it wasn’t just in his job description; it was in his nature.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 》 Scare Actor!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 》 1.1k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 》 Crack, Bucky is a little shit, fluff

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 》 I wasn't kidding when I wrote Bucky is a little shit in the warnings.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔 》 @buckybarnesevents Build a Bucky Bingo ჻჻჻ Crackfic (November), Teasing (January) — Masterlist 》 @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It was one thing that you fell into a quick pattern of ease with, Bucky’s prosthetic — he never went in depth as to how it came about, how the inner workings of robotics and outer casing of metal worked. It intrigued you endlessly, and he revelled in it. 

More often than not, you would be sidled up to Bucky during a movie night or cuddled up in bed, just mindlessly relaxing and subconsciously fiddling with his metal fingers. The smooth, cold plains of it felt strange against your warm skin, and they seemed to be just as dextrous and responsive as his right digits. 

And, if you were honest, you knew Bucky was watching you curiously while you observed — the soft smile while he stared at you made your heart flutter and stomach flip with the tenderness of it. 

That wasn’t to say that he did not take advantage of your fixation, either. 

“What’re you doin’, Kotenok?” Bucky asked quietly. He was sitting on the couch, phone in his right hand and scrolling with his thumb, while you grabbed his left and placed it in your lap to run your fingers over the plates; watching with intent while they clicked and whirred under the pressure of your touch. “Hmm?”

You blinked and looked up at Bucky, who was already looking at you, a small smirk on his lips. 

“I, uh– I just wanted to–” You stuttered as his hand whirred, and the plates from his knuckles to his elbow, all the way up to his bicep shifted and clicked under the pressure of his flexing fist. “Whoa,” you whispered, entranced. 

“So damned cute,” he murmured, then he leaned across to kiss you on the cheek. “But I gotta go get somethin’, I’ll be back, alright?”

“Okay,” you said numbly, and you shook your head slightly as Bucky rose, then walked to the door. “Be safe.”

From the doorway, Bucky smiled at you. “Always, baby.” 

Time slowed in his absence, and you grew restless while he was out doing who-knows-what out there, in the cold and in the snow. The Christmas movie you started to play did little to help, but still, you got up with a grunt. 

“More cookies,” you mumbled resolutely.

In retrospect, that was your mistake. 

The clatter of dishes and ingredients being thrown together with ease distracted you, and the hum of the movie playing in the background dulled into muted noise; a backdrop for your adventure in the kitchen. 

You were in the middle of throwing a cup (or three) of chocolate chips into a bowl of batter when you heard the slam of the front door, then the thud of Bucky’s boots over the floor. “Hey, babe,” you called in greeting. “I’m in the kitchen.”

There was no reply. You stopped in your tracks and glanced over your shoulder. “Bucky–? Babe, is that you?”

The silence sent a thrill of fear up your spine, and your heartbeat set your ribs aflame with the pain of it — who the hell had gotten in?

“Bucky, this isn’t funny–”

“Sorry, baby! It’s me,” Bucky said, and his voice was muffled. You set forward to find where he was, but he continued, “Don’t panic, I just had to, uh– My hand froze up.”

“Oh,” you breathed with intense relief, and your body sagged against the wall with the weight of it. “Don’t fucking do that, you idiot—you scared the shit outta me.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be there in a minute,” Bucky replied, and you heard the sound of his prosthetic whirring loudly against something. “I know you’re bakin’ cookies and I want one, please—you can’t see it, but I am poutin’ at you.”

“Of course you are,” you muttered, shaking your head. Louder, you said, “Well, hurry up and you can have some warm ones before we watch another movie.” 

Bucky hummed and the whirring continued, the sound of his prosthetic working overtime to break through the cold. It wasn’t the first time you had witnessed this happening — the beginning of the flurries of snow made Bucky groan with annoyance and grumble about more regular maintenance. 

“Cookies will cheer him up,” you said quietly, smiling to yourself, and you padded back into the kitchen to take one of the now freshly baked, chocolate chip cookie trays from the oven. The oven door creaked open, and the strong smell of cocoa and sugar filled the room. 

The tray slid onto the counter with all of the cookies neatly round and plump — a Christmas miracle in itself. You sighed happily before yelling over your shoulder, “Buck! They’re ready, come on over when you’re done.”

Again, there was no reply, but you figured he was focused on his arm and defrosting it in its state. Which made it all the more surprising when you felt the chilled metal of his left hand on the small of your back. 

“What the fuck!”

Bucky’s bark of laughter and then his shuffled footsteps could barely be heard over the pounding of your heart in your ears — you whirled to face him, glaring heatedly at your boyfriend while he stood there, clutching his stomach, and almost in tears from laughing. “What the fuck, Bucky! What the fuck!”

“Oh my fuck– You should have seen your face!” Bucky wheezed, his face going a rosy red. “Help–”

“No,” you spat, but there was no venom behind the words. “You fucking suffer, you absolute asshole. How could you?”

“I had to!” Bucky cried, still laughing. You narrowed your eyes at him. “Oh my fuckin’– Okay, I’m good. Let’s have some cookies–”

“Like hell will I let you have cookies after that.” The platter of the baked treats was whisked out of reach, and you strode, chin high and shoulders set back into the living room. “They are all mine now.”

Bucky rushed in after you, pouting with wide eyes. “Baby, no!”

“Baby, yes,” you whispered back, promptly sitting comfortably on the couch. The absolutely heartbroken pull of his mock hurt almost broke your facade, but the warmth from the plate of cookies on your lap thankfully pulled you back to your senses. “Now sit down, you’re blocking the TV.” 

“Hmph,” Bucky huffed, and he flopped down onto the couch next to you, pointedly boring holes into your temples with his stare. “Please?”

You flicked your eyes towards him, brow raised. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Pozhaluysta, Kotenok?”

Your body tensed at the lilt and use of Russian, and you glared at him. “One.”

“Spasibo, detka,” he whispered, and he kissed you on the cheek. 

“Asshole,” you muttered back, and he laughed.

pozhaluysta = please spasibo, detka = thank you, baby

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[torreshalstead]

what if your eyes looked up and met mine (one last time)

Summary - She must be hallucinating, he couldn’t really be here could he?

But the stranger at the bar was so incredibly familiar; the wave in his hair, the slope of his shoulders, his jacket. She knew that jacket. It used to hang in their apartment.

When he turned around she realised it wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

Jay Halstead was here. In D.C.

Notes - This is set in a slightly different universe to the previous fix-it I posted but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless 🫶🏻 also this is my 30th Upstead story! Happy Reading! ❤️ AO3 Link

It didn’t quite feel like home yet but she had started to settle in.

Hailey had been in DC for 3 months, she had found an apartment that fitted her perfectly and was well within her budget so had managed to move out of the government funded accommodation a month ago and if she never saw a mattress that thin again it would be too soon. Apparently memory foam was not something they had ever heard of. She had fallen in love with the coffee from a little shop round the corner from her new place and had quickly become a regular who no longer needed to give her order when she entered. She had continued with her running and had swapped the Chicago Lakefront Trail for the Mall, the early morning sun hitting the white sand just right as she tallied up the miles although now she was running because she enjoyed it not to keep her mind busy. A small change in mindset now allowed her to find the joy in the activity and look forward to the times she was able to pull on her running shoes and head out the door. She had made an effort to get out and explore on her weekends rather than sitting inside by herself and had ticked off a couple of the museums already.

No, it didn’t feel like home yet, but she was happy.

She had lived in Chicago all her life but here no one knew who she was, she was just another agent on a case or just another customer in a shop. The name Hailey Upton didn’t have anything attached to it, no history with her father, no ties to a unit with a less than pristine reputation, no failed marriage. Here, Hailey could be whoever she wanted to be.

She had tried to be more approachable and friendly at work, taking up her coworkers on their offers for after work drinks or sitting with them in the cafeteria at lunch time. It was baby steps but it was working - she had even been added to a group chat that she still hadn’t muted which was an achievement within itself.

When Hailey went home each day to the apartment which was still sparsely decorated but was purely her own, she knew she had made the right decision leaving her old life behind. Sure the goodbye’s had been difficult, walking away from everything and everyone she knew for a new city had been a lot but she had never once regretted it. The age old saying that a change is as good as a rest seemed to be ringing true, at least for her.

Hailey was just tidying up her desk, the stacks of files were threatening to topple over if they didn’t get returned to the filing cabinets soon when she glanced a look at the clock on the far wall.

6:30pm

And she was the only person left in the open plan office space. If this was Intelligence they would all still be there, ignoring the want to go home, pushing the thought of a home cooked meal to the back of their heads when the takeout was ordered or the vending machine raided. Kim would be on the phone to the sitter apologising again that the case had run long and they wouldn’t be home as early as planned. Intelligence had taken over every aspect of their lives and it wasn’t until she started her new job and had the opportunity to see what a work life balance was supposed to be that she even realised it. It was like they had been wearing blinders for years and she had finally been given the opportunity to take them off and see everything that had been hidden.

She was still learning not to be the last one out the building every night, but it was a learning curve.

Hailey remembered she had agreed to meet some of her colleagues at a wine bar downtown tonight. It wouldn’t have been her first choice of venue but it was all part of her new mantra to say yes to things and to expand her social horizons so she had agreed to go. She probably should have remembered an hour ago and then she would have had enough time to go home and get changed into something more appropriate for the location but she had gotten distracted and now it would be cutting it a little close to the time they were supposed to meet as it was. Still, she pulled the hair tie out of her hair and shook out her loose waves, took off her blazer and draped it over the back of the chair and headed out the door. Small steps she thought as she made her way out of the building and down the street.

Maybe they’ll serve whiskey at this wine bar, she thought.

That had been wishful thinking but she had been greeted with a large glass of Pinot Noir when she had arrived and Sandra, the loud and bubbly brunette who worked two desks over from Hailey, had ordered some olives and nibbles for the table which was well received.

The wine was nice, the company was pleasant and even Hailey had to admit the bar had a nice atmosphere. It was busy, most of the high top tables were full and there were people standing around just enjoying the music that was echoing from a duo of string players in the corner who were playing softly. In Chicago it would have been the sort of place that Hailey would have walked past and never dreamt of going in, she may have even scoffed if someone had suggested it but as she accepted a second glass of wine from the waiter, she realised she was enjoying it.

Maybe she could be a new version of herself in this city, one that enjoys wine over whiskey she thought as she listened in to the conversation about two people that she had only met once and whether they may or may not be starting a relationship.

Hailey was just thinking she should probably call it a night, she had planned to run a few miles in the morning before her shift when someone sitting at the bar caught her eye. It was a familiar head of brown hair, the slope of the shoulders, ones she would never forget thanks to how many times she had run her hands over them, a brown jacket that used to hang by the door in an apartment she used to share.

Used to share with her husband.

Her ex-husband.

Who was still in South America and wouldn’t be in DC.

But as he turned his head slightly, and her eyes locked on his, she felt her stomach drop onto the beautiful roman tiled floor.

She ripped her eyes away from his and stared at her empty glass, the dregs of the maroon liquid doing nothing to still her mind from the realisation that Jay, her ex-husband Jay Halstead, was sitting in the bar with her.

Should she go over and speak to him?

Surely if he wanted to speak to her, he would have approached her.

But then maybe he wasn’t sure she wanted to speak to him.

Hell, she wasn’t sure herself.

Her mind was running a mile a minute, scenario after scenario pulling to the surface only to melt away and be replaced with another one before she had time to comprehend the first. A huge part of her wanted to run. To turn and exit the bar, return to the relative safety of her apartment and wash her mind of ever seeing him again.

But another part of her wanted to see him, to speak to him, to confront him. To find out why the hell he was in her new city, in the very bar she was enjoying drinks at and just staring at her from across the room.

There was an aching in her heart, a tightening with each beat that couldn’t believe he was almost within touching distance. That if she just walked across the room, at most 10 paces, she could reach out and touch him, feel his skin against hers for the first time in years. And she wanted that more than she had ever let herself believe. She had told herself, lied to herself that she was over him. That the longing she had felt for months after he had left had disappeared, fizzled out and if she ever did get the opportunity to see him again, she wouldn’t want to, she could be the stronger person and turn away. She knew, as she looked at him in that moment, that she couldn’t do it, she couldn’t turn away.

‘I’ll be right back,’ she whispered to Yvette, the older lady who reminded Hailey of Trudy who was sitting next to her. She nodded in acknowledgment before returning her attention to the conversation which had now shifted to a local musical festival they were all thinking of attending the following week.

Hailey slid off her stool and walked over to the bar. To Jay. It felt like she was walking through molasses on the coldest day of the year when the snow was 3 feet deep. Each step felt harder, heavier and longer than the last, like it was an optical illusion and she wasn’t getting any closer to her intended target. In both less time and more time than she hoped though, she was just a step behind him.

As if sensing her presence, he turned around.

‘You grew your beard out,’ she said quietly, her eyes roaming over the familiar but unfamiliar features.

‘You cut your hair,’ he said, his own eyes locked on her face.

‘It suits you,’ she said.

‘It suits you,’ he echoed.

They stayed staring at each other in silence, essays of unsaid words hanging between them, speeches that neither wanted to start but both wanted to speak.

It was Jay who broke the silence. ‘I understand if you want to say no, but can we talk?’

‘It’s loud in here,’ was all Hailey said, she still wasn’t fully able to comprehend the situation she had walked herself into.

‘Tomorrow?’ He suggested, his eyes wide in hope but his voice gentle without any pressure. He was leaving the ball firmly in her court.

She nodded before the brain cells that controlled her speech had time to wake up and realise what the ones controlling her movements had done.

‘Outside the Natural History?’ He offered, his shock at her acquiescence obvious. ‘We can walk, maybe grab a coffee?’

‘Okay,’ she said, not louder than a whisper but he heard her. ‘Before work, 7.’ She added flatly and he nodded in agreement.

‘7 it is,’ he smiled and Hailey had to battle every part of her that wanted to fall into his arms at the look of that smile, every part of her that wanted to ignore every moment of the last two years, every tear, every unanswered phone call, every angry thought and just feel his arms around her again.

She turned around and headed back towards the table with her colleagues on it, feeling like she was a character in a video game that someone had just made walk in this direction, her movements not her own. And then when she turned back towards the bar and saw the empty bar stool and untouched whiskey glass on the counter, she wondered if she had imagined the whole moment entirely.

Because why would Jay Halstead be in DC?

Why would he be in this bar?

Maybe the two glasses she had drunk had been stronger than she thought, because the chances were just too slight. It must have been a hallucination - it was the only explanation.

——————————————————————————

‘I didn’t think you’d show,’ Jay said as she approached where he was sitting on a bench outside the Museum. Considering it was now 7:45 and they had agreed to meet at 7, it was a fair assumption. With anyone else she would have been shocked they had waited that long, but not with Jay.

‘I wasn’t sure I would,’ she admitted, her shoulders raising in a small shrug. She stood awkwardly a couple of feet away from him, unsure if she should take a seat and still not certain she had made the right decision to show up this morning anyway.

‘I’m glad you did,’ Jay said, his voice thick with honesty and genuine thanks. ‘Shall we walk?’ He asked.

Hailey nodded and the pair fell into step with each other quietly walking up the mall. The early summer sun was reflecting off the sand and Hailey wished she had had the forethought to grab her sunglasses on the way out of her front door. She had been slightly frazzled this morning so they hadn’t even factored on her radar, she had been more concerned with what she should wear. What did one wear when meeting up with your ex-husband who you definitely still had some sort of mixed up feelings for and hadn’t seen in two years and had appeared out of the blue? It wasn’t exactly something she could google - she didn’t imagine many people had the same issue.

She had settled on her navy blue work slacks and a pale grey short sleeved shirt with pleats running down the front. It was relatively non descript but it was also completely new. It was part of her DC wardrobe and as such meant it had no memories of them or their relationship weaved into the stitches. It was clean.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes before Hailey broached the topic that had kept her awake and staring at her ceiling for half the night.

‘Why are you here Jay?’ It wasn’t accusatory, it wasn’t angry, it was simply matter of fact. A question she wanted to know the answer to.

‘Guess I should lead with that,’ he said. She could feel him looking at her, a glance of his eyes and a slight head movement every couple of seconds but she kept her focus straight ahead. It gave her the grounding she needed. ‘I went back to Chicago, to find you but you weren’t there.’

Of all the things she had expected to come out of his mouth, that wasn’t it. It shocked her to the point she came to a stand still, her eyes leaving their spot on the horizon she had been focused on to stare at him, her mouth a gasp. He smiled bashfully before continuing on their walk, Hailey a step behind him as it took her a moment to regain the ability to continue forward motion.

‘I went back and Trudy told me where you were. Took a little bit but she said you’d got a new job, she might have threatened me a little before telling me. So I got on a flight and came here.’ He spoke as if it was a foregone conclusion, like why else would he have done anything else. ‘I didn’t call because I didn’t want to impose on your new life.’ He added after a beat.

‘So you stalked me instead?’ Hailey quipped back.

‘You make it sound nefarious, but it wasn’t like that. I just thought if it was meant to be then I’d run into you, I went to a couple of bars close to where you worked and then I saw you.’

Hailey was trying to take in what he was saying but she was struggling to understand.

‘It was meant to be? Since when do you believe in fate?’

‘Since it led me to that bar and back to you.’

Hailey’s breath hitched in her throat, his words washing over her like a cold front.

‘What would you have done if you didn’t see me in a bar?’ She asked.

‘I hoped I would.’

‘And if you didn’t?’

‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet,’ he admitted, his boots scruffing lightly against the sand as they continued their way south on the mall. The silence was thicker now after his reveal that he had come here to find her. Before that moment Hailey could have written it off as purely a coincidence, that it had been just one of those moments that you couldn’t explain when you ran into somebody from your past in a place you least expected to see them.

‘What did Trudy say?’ Hailey asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

‘Told me I needed to be sure of what I wanted before I saw you, that if I got on the plane to you it needed to be for good this time, I couldn’t leave again,’ he echoed the sergeant's words back to her. ‘And I am Hailey, I am sure.’

She swallowed and nodded her head - he might be sure but that didn’t mean she was. She didn’t know what she was.

‘So you’re back?’

‘I am,’ he agreed.

‘Did it work? Getting away?’

‘No,’ he answered without taking a breath, without a single hesitation impacting his gait. ‘It made me lose you.’

‘You lost me when you walked away,’ she said without bitterness. The bitterness had ebbed away after the first few months, it was hollowness now that took its place.

‘I know I did, and I have never regretted anything more,’ Jay said, his voice cracking slightly.

‘Why didn’t you come back?’ She asked, hating the brokenness that tinged her voice, the pain that was still evident in her words. ‘Why didn’t you fight for us?’ For me.

‘I was a coward,’ Jay said. She stole a glance to her left, to see the man who for years she had known better and more intimately than anyone else, have genuine pain etched across his face, even the newly grown in beard couldn’t disguise it - his eyes told her everything she needed to know. ‘Didn’t think you’d want me and before I had plucked up the courage, the strength to reach out to you and be honest and admit my mistake, you filed for divorce.’

‘You stopped fighting, I had to too.’

‘And I never blamed you for it, I understood. As much as it hurt, I understood Hailey. I still do.’

‘You signed them,’ she said, the question unasked but obvious.

‘Of course I did,’ he said surely. ‘You asked me to.’

His words were true enough, she had asked him to. When she had filed and knew that the papers had been sent to him she sent him a text, a singular line and asked him to sign them. She had assumed he had wanted to and he never responded. Her message sitting on read until she had stopped looking at their previous conversations and had hidden them from view.

‘But you came anyway.’

‘I tried to be happy without you, to move on, you clearly were so-’

‘I was a mess Jay,’ she interrupted him. She needed him to know the truth, she didn’t know why but that she knew for certain. She couldn’t have him believe that she had brushed him off and that his leaving hadn’t left a deep hole in her that she was still healing day after day.

‘You left Chicago.’

‘I did, I got a new job and came here and I like it, Jay. I really do.’

‘Are you happy?’

She took a moment to respond, to consider his words, the question he was asking. ‘I am.’

‘That’s all that matters,’ Jay said lightly. She wanted to look at him again, to see if his face matched the words that he was speaking but she couldn’t do it, she kept her focus down at the ground, watching as their feet walked in tandem.

‘Where will you go now?’ She asked, her mouth voicing a question she wished she didn’t care to hear the answer to. But she did.

‘That depends,’ Jay said.

‘On what?’ She asked, her eyebrows furrowing slightly.

‘If I burnt every bridge with you or if there’s even a slight chance I can earn your trust back.’

The belt that had been tight around her chest since she had seen him last night constricted even further, the breath in her lungs vanishing and her heartbeat quickening in an attempt to make up for it.

‘I don’t know,’ she said honestly, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing the spot on her ring finger that she still hadn’t got used to being empty.

‘That’s not a no,’ Jay spoke slowly, a voice she had often heard him use with children or people in pain on multiple cases. The voice he used when he didn’t want to spook them.

‘I need time Jay,’ she said breathlessly, the tightening not offering her any reprieve.

‘I’ll give you all the time you want, Hailey.’

‘I can’t be the only thing keeping you in DC,’ she said quickly. ‘You can’t stay here just for me.’

‘I’ve got an interview tomorrow. Training Academy with the feds. Thought it was time to try something new’

‘Good luck,’ she said and meant it. Jay had always excelled when training recruits, she had often imagined him taking up a position at the CPD academy when he decided field work wasn’t what he wanted anymore.

‘Can I let you know how it goes?’ He asked gently.

‘I’d like that,’ she felt the corners of her mouth upturn in a small smile. The first smile she had felt since spotting him on the bench and swallowed her pride to walk over to him.

‘And Hailey?’

‘Yes Jay.’

‘I truly am sorry.’

‘I know,’ she nodded. ‘I am too.’

‘Is it enough?’

‘It might be,’ she said. ‘I hope it is.’

‘Me too. Me too,’ he said and the silence fell over them again except this time it wasn’t as heavy or raw. It felt hopeful. Like the future she had once envisioned was coming back into focus again, a little changed, a little different but a possibility.

[qierxing]

i would love to see wanderer have to deal with someone who just doesn't care.

your first thought when you see him snapping at a poor person who happens to get on his wrong side is 'oh. this guy's an asshole'. it's not a flattering thought, but this isn't your first time encountering a guy who acts holier than thou.

your friends tell you he's a menace, he's already scared off anyone that's not up to his infinitesimal standards. Even the matra step carefully around him. You shrug and say "he's a step above an angsty teenager".

Wanderer who tells you that you're strange. his anger is much more muted compared to before he was known as Scaramouche; when he was filled with misdirected anger and rage and hatred-albeit it still shows when he makes a scathing insult to you. He feels a bit annoyed when you only stare at him unimpressed, and respond with "So...do you want to get lunch with me or not?"

Nahida tells him how glad she is that he's making a friend. he retorts that he's only entertaining you because you're by far the least annoying person to be around. You don't demand things of him. You're not suspicious of him. Actually, do you even care about him?

Wanderer gets the answer one late night.

It's annoying. you don't seem to give a flying fuck that a suspicious man keeps intruding into your home for dinner. and on top of that, making it a habit! do you have any self preservation?

"Of course I do." you reply with no offense in your tone.

"You just told me where your house key was in case I needed to come in." he responds flatly.

"You're the one always coming over, though. Just thought I would make it easier."

he chokes on the water he's sipping, and you hand him a napkin without a missed beat. how dare—

...ok, fine. he admits it. He likes you more than he originally thought. Enough to the point where his heart pounds and he looks forward to the times when he can be with you again.

so he's more than just pissed off to find your house empty at night time. granted, okay, it wasn't guaranteed that you would be cooking like usual tonight, but it's practically a given that you would have dinner together. right?

clearly not. Wanderer finds you lounging with your friends at Lambad's Tavern, exchanging easy quips and banter over fried samosas and skins of snake wine. His vision turns red at the sight of you leaning your head on a friend's shoulder, tired from the night's reveries.

he has half a mind to make sure that friend goes missing the next day or with a clear message that you were his but.

he's petty. he's hurt. he cared about you! do you know how hard it is to make him do that?

it's about time you cared too.

he may not have the original influence he had as a Harbinger, but he knows how to pull strings. and he'll make you realize it if it's the last thing he does.

he will make you care about him—if only to not feel like he's being left behind again.

[sunny-ssunset]

Unbearable.

Kyle broflovski x Mute! Rebellious! Fem! Reader

divider from pinterest

♡This is my first oneshot i'm really sorry if it is cringe i am really new to writing and hopefully this is good. AGED UP

♡If you have any feedback please like message me or comment something i am always looking to improve my writing.

He knew who she was, Of course he did. Watching and waiting until she was taken into the principals office, Over, And Over. And again.

Kyle knew she didnt really communicate. He knows that She wasn't good at listening, He knows about her small habits. The way she twiddles her hair when she's frustrated.

However Little did kyle know that one small action would change his perspective of her forever.

divider by @k1ssyoursister

The bell rang and there she was storming out as fast as possible, Kyle didnt really understand why she did that, why she was so desperate to leave. She didnt have anywhere to be? He'd know of course.

His eyes glued to her fast paced movements, her silky h/c hair flowing as she walked, walked? no actually she was striding? Maybe charging? Or-

"Khal? What the fuck man?" He looked at Kyle with a displeased eye. "We were supposed to leave for lunch ages ago why are you just standing here looking at her?" Emphasising his tone on her, Whilst Kyle snapped out of his trance.

"Yeah dude you've been watching her for the past three days its fucking weird." Stan piped up, Kyle glanced at him, looking a bit betrayed.

"But guys she like- doesn't talk, h-how is that- how does she-" He sighed, failing miserablely at justifying his case.

"Why should it matter if she doesn't talk? Kenny barely talks?" Getting a huff from Kenny in agreement

"But thats- thats different I dont understand-" "You guys its taco tuesday we are missing outttt" Cartman interjects, He then goes on about how women are lame and that he is soooo hungryy...

Kyle shook her off his mind, I mean surely she didnt think about him like this.... Right?

After sitting down in the cafeteria, Kyle looking for Y/n, Stan talking about Wendy, Cartman stuffing his face,

"Hey I'm gonna go grab my notebook? I think I left it in class." "Yeah dude thats fine see you later"

He darted out if the cafeteria, Retracing his steps back to his maths room, And in the corner of his eye he saw her.

She looked a bit disheveled, frantically looking into every drawer in the empty classroom. Kyle's gaze sharpened, He really didnt understand her. He has always been good at reading people. He can tell someones personality from a subtle movement. But he just couldnt understand Y/n, And he hated it. He hated how no matter how hard he tried, You just wouldnt open up. Kyle hated it he found you so unbearable.

Kyles daydream was interupted by Mr Mackey's voice,

"Y/n this is the third time I'm seeing you here like this. I'm going to have to send you to the principals office M'k-"

"Its my fault- I told her to get something for me." Y/n, Mr Mackey and Kyle all share a look of shock, Kyle not understanding why that came out of his mouth, Why he felt the need to save her.

"Mkay well im still gonna have to punish you so detention today after school both of you"

Divider by @k1ssyoursister

As the day went on Kyle stressed about his detention, "PAHAHAHAHA KYLE- AHHAHA DENTENTION-!!!" "Shut up Cartm-" The school bell cut him off in Kyles advantage.

"I just want to get this over with and not talk about it for the rest of my life"

"Y/n And Kyle sitting in a tr-" "SHUT THE FUCK UP FATASS!" Kyle growled, Storming off to his dentention.

As he walked into the room, Y/n was already there, "Ah Kyle you are hear I trust you can keep an eye on her as i know you usually dont get into trouble M'kay, I'll fill out some errands outside if you guys just do some homework, M'kay?"

The clock ticked as Kyle hurried on with his homework, Until a note got passed to him. He looked up at Y/n, Confused he opened the note,

'Hey stalker.'

Shit she knew all along. He thought he was being slick.... :(

Kyle fumbled not really knowing what to write back

'Hi.'

He passed to note on, Red faced avoiding eyecontact.

'Thank you for helping me'

She looked up at him, tilting her head, she smiled with an expecting eye, she passed the note back on. In the corner of his eye, Kyle saw another note. He opened it up and decided not to write one back.

"Your welcome, to be honest i dont think you should just be sent away like that" He smiled, Still feeling a bit shy. Y/n smiled at him.

"Your just saying that cuz you like me." She smirked, a michevious glint in her eye.

"Y-You talk?" Kyle gasped, looking a little shocked as he realised how rude that came off, "Sorry I- uhm-"

"Sometimes." She smiled.

"I uhm- would you like to go out sometime, You know because i "Like you" "He chuckled, looking a bit embarrassed, A pink glow on his face. She giggled, nodding back to him. I guess she wasnt as unbearable as he thought.

divider by @k1ssyoursister

[fernandopiastri28]

quand c'est? - part 3~ ln4 x op81

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Yeah, yeah, he’s an idiot and should just accept defeat. He shouldn’t push himself so far. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so the attempt is mute. Oscar knows he won’t listen to him, he should just give up while he’s ahead.

warnings: major illness, cancer, sickness, major angst wc: 2267

Lando ends up back in bed, a pair of Oscar’s boxer’s awkwardly sagging around his ass and a plain black quadrant shirt on. He’s been loaded up with pain medication and he can still taste the powder of the tablets lingering on his tongue. Oscar’s off in the gym doing a workout with Kim and had only left after much insistence from Lando.

He’d tried to check his phone, catch up on anything via social media he’d missed or answer some messages from family and friends, but it felt as if just looking at his phone screen was burning his corneas and brain, so he settled for staring up at the ceiling.

He thought about Oscar for a bit, but thinking about his boyfriend for too long resulted in him being half chubbed up against his thigh at seven in the morning. He could’ve done something about that, maybe it would’ve helped reduce stress from his body, but he was too tightly strung to do anything to himself- he genuinely thinks it would’ve killed him if he put his body through something as strenuous as wanking.

And that’s genuinely fucking embarrasing, so he tries to sleep away the shame.

Lando’s woken up by a heavy mass crawling on top of him. “Morning,” He grumbles as Oscar drapes himself half onto Lando.

“Morning,” His voice is less thick with sleep, but he’s clearly tired and panting, “You feeling better?”

“Mhm,” He shifts to wrap his arms around Oscar. His shirt is slightly saturated with sweat, as is his hair, but it’s nothing he hasn’t gotten used to. It’s part of being and/or dating an athlete. “Somewhat,” He adds- he feels far from ‘better’ or ‘good’, but it’s more manageable.

“Feel up for anything?”

Lando quirks his eyebrow, very forward, “Early morning sex?” It’s uncommon for them to have sex in the middle of a race weekend due to the imminent aches that Lando has to suffer post penetration, but honestly, it couldn’t be worse than his head right now, and if it makes Oscar happy- he’s down.

Oscar’s cheeks go splodgy red, “Tha-that’s not what I meant,” Lando isn’t sure why he gets so flustered and awkward about it. They hooked up for the first time in silverstone 2023, and that was over a year ago. Since then, they have been many cases of slow and languid sex before the race weekend and last night rushed fucks at the end of it.

“Okay? Then what did you mean?” His fingers drift through Oscar’s fluffy swoop, already dried and not showing a trace of being sweaty. Lucky bastard.

“Uh, a shower maybe?” They basically just had a shower, Lando doesn’t see the point. Maybe Oscar is testing his abilities to see if he can withstand a shower this time around. “Or get up and ready for the day if you just want to skip to that- we have some media stuff around midday, so I was thinking we could just wander around Orchard road until then,”

Lando thinks about it for a bit. He likes orchard road, pretty much each building is an architect's dream and an engineer's nightmare. Plus, there are quite a few luxury shops, so he could go get some new clothes and shit- but, it’s always so busy whenever he’s been in the past. Busy means being recognised, being recognised means having to take photos and autographs, interacting with fans means being peppy and.. and being normal Lando.

He can’t be normal Lando today, his body can’t even fake it.

“Not Orchard road,” He shakes his head, mumbling into Oscar’s arm as his nose juts against it. “I can’t do- can't deal today,” And of course Oscar is sickeningly understanding.

“All good, Lans,” God, he loves when he calls him that. It just sounds so good with his accent. “I’ll let Jon know, yeah?”

“Why?” Lando feels dopey, his mind clogged up with drugs.

“He’s your trainer, he needs to know if you’re unwell,”

“Yeah- okay,” His eyes blankly focus on his nails, where they’ve grown out too long like Oscar’s always are. They gently scrape down Oscar’s back, faint red lines appearing in its wake.

They stay like that for a few minutes, Lando unmoving and silent. “What’s going on in your mind?” Oscar’s got his eyes on Lando’s unfocused ones. “You look so out of it,” His thumb slides across Lando’s cheek, and he struggles to bring his mouth to answer.

His tongue rests heavily in his mouth, and it feels like his brain might throb out of his ears. He hadn’t noticed that he was coming off the painkillers because it had been so sudden, and he’d been trying so hard to just focus on Oscar.

“Empty,” His voice is hardly there, much like how it sounds after a party that consists of a lot of screaming.

Oscar licks his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to Lando’s lips. “Don’t feel up for talking?” His face is bare centimetres from Lando’s, and his features are all fuzzy being so close up.

He shakes, I’m not up for anything. It’s too many words for now, so he stays silent. It’s weird, only minutes ago he’d be considering the aspect of having sex, now he can hardly blink on command.

Maybe this is what it’s like being properly sick, and he’s just always gotten lucky with only having brushes with bad colds.

Oscar rolls off him after a little bit, and Lando’s eyes shut again. He doesn’t notice how much time passes- seconds, minutes, hours. It feels like it’s only been a 10 minute power nap when he’s awoken by Oscar again who tells him it's ten am and they actually need to get a move on.

He’s in a very typical Oscar outfit- black castore shorts and a team supplied papaya polo shirt. He has an 81 cap in his hand, his other hand on his hip. “Lando,”

“Oscar,” Lando slurs as he tugs the blanket further over his head.

“Lando, if you’re not up for the race today- just tell me,” He sighs, a frustrated one. “I’ll tell Jon, the team just needs to know now so they can get Pato race ready,”

He doesn’t get a reply, “Lando, wake up, mate,” He’s getting increasingly more irritated, and so is Lando. “Lando, wake up, Lando- fucking hell. Lando!” His voice is about as loud as the Oscar Octaves go, and Lando genuinely wants to smack him across the face.

Lando groans, a weird strangled noise of pure affront, “Shut the fuuuck up, Oscar,” He pushes the covers down and just stares at Oscar. “Fucking hell,”

Brown eyes meet green eyes- very unfocused green eyes. Green eyes that have no emotion behind them. They’re open, they’re there, but it doesn’t look like Lando is actually seeing anything.

“Jon’s looking for you,” God damnit Jon, does the man have anything better to do with his life?

Well. He is employed to pretty much hound Lando like a dog, so he is actually doing his job.

That makes one of them.

“And you need to get dressed, we’re just gonna head straight to the motorhome and shoot some stuff, alright?” Oscar sits on the edge of the bed and Lando’s lip juts out slightly. It would be unnoticed by anyone else, but Oscar knows each and every quirk of Lando’s. “C’mere,” He opens his arms.

Lando shuffles to prop himself up, not able to quite sit up. He makes a slight scoot forward before letting out a harsh breath. He’s not sure how much he’s going to be able to do today at this rate.

Oscar meets him halfway and embraces him. “You can’t race like this,” He hums, “You’re burning up- you could hurt yourself,” Lando allows himself to fully zone out, the words going in one ear and out the other.

Yeah, yeah, he’s an idiot and should just accept defeat. He shouldn’t push himself so far. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, so the attempt is mute. Oscar knows he won’t listen to him, he should just give up while he’s ahead.

“I’m.. gunna get dressed,” The words fall out of his mouth awkwardly, like they haven’t had time to fully form before they’re said.

Oscar moves back, standing up too. “Great,” He knows there’s no use in trying, so it’s better to just cheer Lando on where he can- make him feel somewhat better.

Oscar goes to the front door to put on and lace up his shoes while Lando debates what he wants to wear. Despite the uncontrollable sweating the night before, he’s feeling on the edge of a shiver, so after a long debate, he settles for a random pair of black jeans and an orange hoodie, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He shuffles into the bathroom, staring at his appearance for what feels like a concerning amount of time. It feels compulsive, in a way, like he physically cannot control his eyes to look elsewhere. He goes into autopilot as he reaches for his toothbrush, squirting toothpaste onto what he hopes are the bristles.

He turns the sink on, waving the toothbrush around in a hope to get it wet enough. He could’ve just settled for a dry brush, like he’s caught the younger boy doing a few times, but the thought makes his body physically cringe. According to Oscar, it’s better for your teeth, to Lando, it’s psychotic behaviour.

Lando gets impatient after a minute of brushing and spits out the toothpaste from his mouth into the sink, wiping his lips clean with a towel after. By this point, his eyes are working again and he can see. His headache has also weaned off somewhat, so that’s exciting.

He emerges from the bathroom, trying to remember what he needs to pack for the day. Phone, paddock pass, hat, journal, camera. Phone, paddock pass, hat, journal, camera. Phone, paddock pass, hat, journal, camera.

He can’t find his pass. Fuck. Where the fuck is it.

He grabs his pillow, tossing it to the ground with the thought his pass would be under it. It’s not a crazy thought, it’s happened once or twice before. He looks under the bed, which is a difficult task as it hurts to move usually, so squatting down and tilting his head towards the ground feels hellish. It’s not on the desk, not yesterday’s bag or jacket.

It’s just- gone.

“Lando, Lando,” Oscar repeats, walking up behind him. A hand loosely wraps around Lando’s bicep and he jerks at the feeling. “What’s wrong? Have you misplaced something?”

“Yeah, my- my pass,” His eyebrows knit together, a look of frustration and anxiety painting his features.

“I have it, I saw it on the ground this morning and grabbed it because I knew you’d forget it,” The aussie calms him, handing it to him as proof. Lando presses his fingers into the card tightly, squeezing it as if he’s worried it might fly off.

“Thanks,” He smiles, relief flushing his system. “I love you,” He looks over his shoulder, pecking Oscar on the lips. “Sorry- for being mad earlier,” Deep breaths and sighs break up some of his words, but Oscar can understand him all the same.

“It’s all good- you’re not well. I understand why you’re just a bit out of it,” Oscar holds Lando’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Just get your shoes on and we can head off,” Lando’s nostrils flare in effort as he steps towards the door, bending down to get his shoes on.

Oscar looks hesitant to ask if he needs help, his mouth opening and closing a bit like a fish, “I’m okay, I’m good to go,” Lando stands up, steading himself with a hand on the wall, out of sight of Oscar.

Oscar pauses in front of him, and for a few seconds they just stare at each other, then Oscar slides his hand up Lando's cheek and kisses him softly. Lando melts into it, moaning embarrassingly easily and quickly. God, he hadn't realised just how much he needed this until now.

They physically have to pull off each other after a few minutes, Oscar’s face flushed pink and Lando’s chest heaving through desperate shallow pants. “You’re so hot,” Lando bites his own bottom lip, grinning hard.

“Don’t-” Oscar warns, “Don’t do that face or we’re not gonna leave for another hour,”

Lando wants that insanely bad, but he genuinely thinks his legs would buckle and break underneath him if he tried, so he’s the one who opens the door and leads them outside of the room.

They go down the elevator, down to the ground floor where they’re practically attacked by fans. Their hands get separated, Oscar being pulled into a different direction by a pack of young boys while Lando’s swarmed by a group of teenage girls.

Lando’s sure he’s taken about 30 photos and signed about 20 shirts by the time they’re able to get properly outside and into the car. Oscar takes his hand back, squeezing it harder, “Sorry about that, I know you wanted to avoid the fans today,” He murmurs, doing his best to comfort his unresponsive boyfriend.

Lando’s tongue drags over his teeth, recognising the gap in between his two front teeth, the slight difference of lengths between each tooth, the ridges in them. He moves to sucking on the inside of his bottom lip, pinching it with his teeth. The pain is distracting from another uprising headache.

He won’t say anything to Oscar this time, he’ll just tough it out.