#also when the camera went to foolish he clearly did not expect to be on camera at that specific moment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haloud · 3 years ago

Text

things we could burn in one go (eminence) - chapter 7

also on ao3

Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Isabel Evans & Max Evans & Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Forrest Long/Alex Manes Additional Tags: post-s2, Canon Compliant, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, starts forlex ends malex, other characters may appear - Freeform, tags subject to update

Chapter Summary: Alive but weak, Michael wanders Alex’s house as he tries to come to terms with the past few days.

Excerpt:

At night, Alex slept in his bed, and Michael slept in the guest room, but the sheets were Alex’s, the pillows were Alex’s, the walls and floor were built to hold him, he picked out the curtains. Alex was inescapable. And now, neither could Michael escape knowing that he still slept in old band shirts worn soft and peeling, that he composed music with his eyes closed and hid his written notations in books around his house, that he kept all his condiments room temperature and screwed up his nose at the thought of cold sauce on hot food. All these domestic details he’d lived and loved without, stuffed inside the empty spaces in his skull after only a few days.

What was he supposed to do, knowing this? The little details made up friendships, too, for certainly Michael knew plenty of his siblings’ idiosyncrasies, even kept shelves in his heart for lovely little scraps old one or two-night lovers had left him as parting gifts.

But things would never, ever be so simple and nostalgic and normal with Alex. Too many years had passed for Michael to even attempt to fool himself. His ribs sung like a tuning fork struck pure, and Michael longed, with the oldest, basest longing, to be anything so useful for Alex to set the music of his life to. And here he was, sharing Alex’s house with Alex and Alex’s boyfriend’s dog and Alex’s boyfriend’s toothbrush on the sink and Alex’s boyfriend’s clothes in the laundry.

So he’d live with it.

“Fuck!”

Michael’s water glass flew to his hand but bumped the edge of the table and skidded the last few feet, spilling water across its surface. Still cursing, Michael shoved his chair back and got to his feet to clean shit up the old-fashioned way, on weak and shaky legs, with weaker and shakier lungs.

Max kept healing him, checking for any possible little injury, but it seemed that Michael was just weakened by the enormous strain Jones’s “teaching” had put on his body, and he’d have to build back his strength.

So there it was. All his fears about not being to protect anyone, all the needy clamor in his head, all of them led him here, by nothing but his own recklessness and desperation. Weak as a kitten. More a burden on Alex, quite literally, in his life, taking up his space, invading his home, leaning on him to get from point A to point B.

Fuck.

He was, at least, too tired to wallow in much, in between long jags of ragged sleep, torn apart by vivid dreams of light and letters and scraps of knowledge just out of reach. But despite the awful aftertaste of near-death those dreams represented, they were almost better than his waking hours, hovered over by a furious Isobel and a Max worried half to death, Valenti inspecting him head to toe the normal way, Maria trying to cheer him up, and Alex .

They hadn’t spoken much since Michael awoke. Alex had to work, and when he didn’t, they, well. Cohabitating was a lot to get used to. But no matter how awkward things got, he offered a perfect porcelain protection, and Michael studied him obsessively for flaw, for the true Alex underneath the façade brought on by Michael’s own foolishness.

“Everything going okay?” Max asked, emerging from the guest bedroom, Buffy at his heels. She’d become his shadow in the days since Michael’s near-death; it was almost endearing enough to keep Michael from snapping at him, but only almost.

“Fine,” he snarled, but far from driving Max off, his tone brought Max forward, to sit across the table from him and fold his arms.

If snapping wasn’t gonna keep people away, why had he been working so hard to not be a total asshole for the past few days, through every well-meaning coddle and condescension from any one of their friends, from everyone but Isobel, who wasn’t talking to him.

Max sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, and a twinge of guilt disturbed Michael’s surly mood.

“Go ahead,” he said a little too loudly, before those thoughts could get to him. “Tell me what a hypocrite I am. One of you has to, and it might as well be you. I was fucking stupid after getting on your case constantly, and it almost killed me. Go ahead!”

“You seem to have gotten a head start, so I don’t see the need,” Max said wryly.

Michael scoffed.

Picking up Michael’s abandoned glass, Max ran his finger around the rim as he spoke. “You know, I know what it’s like to lose this. When my heart was still so weak…I pushed myself too hard and almost…well. You know. So I understand. Give yourself time. Let your system settle and see where you are.”

The words were too kind and too logical for Michael to bear, so he let out another bratty huff and didn’t respond.

Max just sighed again. “Well. Anyway. Kyle’s going to be here soon. I know you hate him, but he’s—”

“I don’t.”

“Huh?”

“Hate him. Kinda hard to hate the guy after what he did for you. I don’t like the doctor shit, but…”

That brought out a small smile on Max’s face, and the knot in Michael’s stomach unclenched. “That’s good,” he said.

A knock on the door saved Michael from having to find a dignified answer, and he stood hastily to answer it—a little too hastily, it turned out, because the world tipped and took Michael with it.

“How ‘bout you let me,” Max said as Michael dropped heavy back into his chair before falling. He clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Alex’d kill me anyway if it was trouble and I let you answer it.”

Alex. The too-casual reminder that he might have some kind of stake in Michael’s well-being sent him reeling. What was he supposed to do with that information, that perspective? How did he earn it, how was he worthy of it, and how did he keep it from flying away? All questions that were too much to answer—questions he’d asked his ceiling and his eyelids and his stars every night for a decade and was farther than ever from answers even now that he was coming to accept the core truth of the problem’s existence.

Of course, there was no trouble at the door; it was just Kyle, as expected, and he pet Buffy with one hand while waving at Michael with the other.

“Hey, Guerin. How’s it going?”

Michael marshalled himself to answer.

“How do you think it’s going, Doc? A newborn deer’s got fancier footwork than me right now. But I’m alive, so…”

“Can’t complain,” Kyle finished the sentence with an amused shake of his head. “That’s one way to look at it.”

His exam was quick and efficient, something Michael was grateful enough for that he’d die before he ever let Valenti see it, and when he was done he took a seat across from Michael.

“It’s not exactly a clean bill of health, but your condition seems stable and improving. The condition of your body, at least. It’s hard for me to give any diagnosis about what might be impacting the use of your powers.”

“Yeah, yeah, wouldn’t expect you to. I’ll figure it out. You’ve done enough,” Michael said, scratching idly at his temple where Max’s handprint lay, thankfully hidden by his hair. “Tell me this, Doc.” He glanced around to make sure Max wasn’t in earshot, and when he spied him through a window throwing a ball for Buffy, he continued, “Have you had a chance to check out Max yet? The healing he did, with his heart—”

Kyle smiled, and Michael glanced away from his knowing face, shifting in his seat.

“I did, and you have nothing to worry about. He’s fine. It was a significant strain, but considering the alternative, the outcome could have been much worse.”

“But what about his condition otherwise?” Michael powered through. “He’s been dealing with depression and exhaustion for months since—"

The back door swung open and Buffy bounded in for her water bowl, Max following. “How’s it going?” he asked them both, but mostly Kyle, voice full of false cheer.

“All good,” Kyle said easily, getting to his feet. “It’s going to be fine,” he tacked on the firm reassurance to Michael. “I should get going so I can get ready for work. Catch you later, Max.”

“Thanks again, man.”

“Free drinks at the Pony for life, you know my price.”

As little as Michael cared to socialize with Valenti even now, awkward silence descended when he was gone and it was just the brothers again. What did you say to the guy who saved your life—again—when you had nothing but your own stupidity to blame?

It didn’t help that Max’s ability to make Michael feel small and stupid and guilty as hell without even trying was still unparalleled, or that he was still too weak to pace it out, or that he was hyperaware of how everyone would perceive him if he sampled some of Alex’s liquor cabinet to take the edge off.

“I’m going out to the back to get some light exercise,” he said eventually.

“Okay,” Max said, not arguing or inviting himself along.

“Thanks,” Michael replied, not elaborating on what for as he passed him at the fastest shuffle he could manage.

Outside, under the sun, Michael’s head was no clearer, his muscles no stronger. Alex’s backyard was featureless, incomplete, clearly not somewhere he spent much time, unlike the front patio, which at least had some furniture, some lived-in rested energy. And, Michael thought, of course: Alex would spend his leisure somewhere he could anticipate most attempts to accost him.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Michael ambled from one end of the fence to the other. As he went, Alex’s cameras followed him, and Michael tried not to feel weird about that, weirdly paranoid despite it being Alex, weirdly comforted to know Alex could watch him. The whole thing was weird. Living in Alex’s home was…weird.

So he’d live with it.

His pocket buzzed frantically, and he swore loudly, startled, before he realized it was just his phone ringing.

“Fuckin’ spam calls,” he muttered as he fished it out. “Why the hell does anyone carry this shit around all the—”

But it wasn’t a spam call at all. Ortecho sat dead center on the screen, and, not knowing what ring it was on, Michael answered immediately.

“Mikey!” Liz’s breathless voice shouted before he could say a word.

“Well it’s about damn—”

“Thank god, are you okay, why am I hearing from Maria that you almost died, what the hell?”

“Glad to know that’s what it takes to get a hold of you,” Michael snarked back.

“Listen, I—”

Michael just sighed. “I know. I get it. But we’ve been calling you a damn lot, Ortecho.”

“…I know.”

Despite what he said, he didn’t understand. He’d never understand the running, not as someone so stuck in the ground he’d been planted in that he’d die if he tried to rip himself away. But he couldn’t love Alex after ten years without accepting what he’d never understand and knowing how to survive it.

He hadn’t thought, until now, that maybe he and Max could talk about this shit. But maybe it’d be worth a try. If there was one thing that Michael did know, it was that Liz and Alex wouldn’t talk about how the situations made them similar until they’d exhausted all possible escapes from that conversation.

“Well…” Michael said into the silence. “How’s California been? How’s the Genoryx lab; they better be letting you do all the mad science shit, or else what good’s a shady government drug company…”

“Don’t change the subject! You haven’t even answered me. Are you okay? ”

“I…”

What was the harm in being honest? Liz wasn’t even here, wasn’t even talking to anyone who wasn’t dying, so who would she tell? Maybe Maria, but Maria could read it from him like an open book.

“Gotta tell you, I’ve been better,” he admitted.

Liz let out a soft, sympathetic noise. “What happened? You can…you can talk to me, if you want. I know I haven’t been the most reliable, but we’re friends. We are. Okay?”

Shaking his head, Michael paced the length of the fence again, one hand on it to steady himself. He reached the house and kept walking to the front, leaving the barren back garden behind.

“There’s not that much to say. Maria probably told you already. I made a bad gamble on Hyde, and Jekyll had to haul my ass out of the fire. That’s it.”

That version of the story left out the part Isobel played, but Michael didn’t have the words to describe walking his own head as it melted around him, images flying past bright enough to sear his eyes, snatches of conversation, aphasia in every sense, and how empty and cavernous and bereft he felt now, knowing what Jones had stuffed inside him—the knowledge of his entire people—knowing he wasn’t enough to contain it, weak, corrupted, and now he might never get it back. And knowing Jones did that to him on purpose, gave him more than his body and mind could handle to make him feel this way, didn’t make the feeling it any damn easier.

Liz went silent on the other end. There was a question she wasn’t asking, but Michael let it ride, gave her the space.

But finally, he answered it for her. “Max is okay. His heart held up, and so did the pacemaker. And I’ve got a handprint six inches from my nose, so I can call him on it if he tries to bullshit me.”

“I—okay. Thank you, Mikey.”

“Don’t thank me. Seriously, don’t. I, uh, said a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have in your voicemail, about Max. But it’s up to you if you want him in your life at all, so, uh. Yeah.”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

There was a thunk on the other line like she’d dropped or hit something.

“Look, I should go,” she said.

“Okay,” Michael replied.

“I’m—really glad you’re okay.”

“And, uh, it was nice to hear from you.”

“Okay.” Her final reply was soft and hesitant and awkward as Michael felt making an earnest overture a friend might make. “Bye, Mikey.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

She hung up.

Michael dropped his arm and let his phone dangle at his side for a little while. His legs shook a little, so he held onto the back of one of the patio chairs to steady himself, but he wasn’t ready to sit just yet.

Friends or not, clearly he and Liz had plenty to work on if they were that fucking awkward without a project between them.

Still, this was something. Something unexpected. Michael was too tired to sort through feelings right now.

But he should have—

Before he could second guess himself, he pulled his phone back up and dashed a text off to her.

We all get together on Thursday nights. Open invitation. -G

Then he dropped his phone face-down on the seat and sat down several feet away so he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it if she texted him back.

All the chairs on Alex’s patio were tilted subtly to watch different angles of the approach to the house, so Michael settled in the one that was shadiest. It was too fucking hot to be relaxing outdoors without water or sunscreen, but the air indoors with Max hovering and Alex…everywhere…was just as stifling.

Max hadn’t asked him why, yet, even though the question itched at Michael’s head, even through the careful distance they were keeping from the handprint bond between them. Which was good, because, in the sunlight, on the other side of the storm, his arms wrapped around his own stomach, holding himself, Michael couldn’t have answered it himself.

Eventually, though, people would ask. And what would he tell them—should he admit he thought that the pollen would be enough to keep himself from harm, should he confess that he’d been willing—or thought he was willing—to accept the risks if it meant no one would have to take a blow for him?

The street stretched long and quiet as far as Michael could see. Every now and then, a car would pass from one point on the line to the next, disappearing down some other driveway or just continuing until the heat haze swallowed it whole. The sun hurt his tired eyes, so he blinked slow, and let minutes trickle past, waiting for something to happen.

Maybe his phone would ring again; maybe Max would come looking for him. Maybe Flint Manes would leap out of the bushes and shoot him. Maybe Alex would come home from work and smile when he saw him. Maybe Forrest would come home early and try and fight him for shacking up while he was gone. Maybe Jones did something to him that was lying in wait and would detonate his heart any second.

Thinking of possibilities was an endless sort of entertainment for a man who never knew what to do with having a future and who just nearly lost his lease on it.

As Michael watched the road, a truck appeared on one side of the horizon, moving faster than most would on a residential street like this. It whipped up dust as it went, and Michael rolled his eyes and slouched deeper into the chair. Fucking assholes in their screaming steel overcompensators almost universally considered themselves above getting work done in a junkyard, and that didn’t exactly give Michael a better opinion of them.

And this piece of shit in particular, Michael recognized. What the hell was Wyatt fuckin’ Long doing on this side of town? Michael tensed as he roared by, just waiting for him to slow or stop—did he drive by often, harassing Alex for dating his cousin? Or looking for his cousin to harass somewhere off the farm where a real adult might stop him?

He didn’t do either, though, and in seconds he was gone, cowgirl mudflaps dangling behind him.

Asshole.

What time was it anyway? Narrowing his eyes, Michael focused on his phone where he dropped it in the other chair and, slowly, tried to pull it toward him. It took seconds and enough strain his head hurt before it moved, but move it did, wobbling slowly towards him. Halfway there, it changed velocity and came shooting toward him, and he only barely managed to catch it before it overshot and slammed against the wall behind him.

Still, progress.

It was later than he thought. Shouldn’t Alex be home from work by now? Should he be worried?

He was just hovering his thumb over Alex’s contact, deciding whether or not to call, when another car hissed along the drive and slowed. This one, though, turned into Alex’s driveway, and Michael relaxed.

Alex pulled the car to a stop, and Michael stood up to greet him, stretching as he did. Unexpectedly, Maria was also in the front seat, but her presence answered the question of why Alex was late. If he wasn’t talking to Michael, at least he was talking to someone.

“Hey,” Michael greeted them.

“Hey, Guerin,” Maria replied.

“Is everything alright?” Alex demanded.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Kyle was by earlier. Seems like I’m still on the mend.”

“That’s good to hear,” Maria said, as Alex said nothing.

Michael gave her a smile. “Yeah, it is. So…are you staying for dinner? Maybe I can cook something…”

Side-eying Alex, who stood as stiff and stoic as Michael had ever seen him, shoulders and back soldier-straight, Maria returned Michael’s smile and said, “Oh, Alex just asked me to take Buffy out for her walk for the next few days, so I’m here to see her.”

“I didn’t want to impose on you for that,” Alex added.

Michael rocked on his heels, hands shoved in his pockets, chewing on his tongue to hold back any indication of how desperate he was to be imposed upon. The weakness in his legs kept him from making a real argument; despite her age, Buffy was a hell of a walker.

Was that the reason Alex was asking Maria to step in? Was his leg okay? Michael rocked forward again, swaying toward Alex and tugging himself back, an old, familiar dance.

“You could’ve. You’re puttin’ me up, I oughtta work for room and board,” Michael joked.

It didn’t exactly land. If possible, Alex shut down harder, face cold and hard, though his voice was soft.

“You don’t have to work for me to take care of you when you’re in need,” he said, every syllable clipped and careful.

Michael should have known something was up then and there, seen it, seen Maria’s downcast eyes and crossed arms, the way she hovered close between them and kept to herself; he should have expected it, Alex to pull some kind of bullshit, but his head didn’t go there. Not yet.

“So…you going somewhere?” he asked, licking his lips. The thought might have sent a bolt of panic through him, but now that Alex had a life here, a house and a job and roots, the threat was less immediate.

That didn’t stop Liz, his mind whispered, but he shook it off.

Alex wasn’t answering, so Michael continued, “You heading out to meet Forrest in DC? You should have gone with him in the first place, man, take some time off.”

Maria shot Alex a loaded look, but Alex’s face just hardened.

“And been across the country when you almost died on my doorstep?” he demanded so fervently Michael took a step back, and Alex closed his eyes, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“No, uh, it’s fine. You’re right. I’m glad you were here.”

Somewhere deep in his heart, Michael thought that it wouldn’t have mattered where in the universe Alex was when he lifted his foot and stepped across space to get to his door. His thoughts were inside out, tripled and rearranged with pieces missing, he couldn’t have said what he did or the powers he used or how he could do it again, but he could say this: for a brief moment, he’d possessed the ability to reorder the universe to put himself at Alex’s side, and no technicalities of time or distance would have stopped him.

He didn’t have that power anymore, though, and neither did he have the ability to read Alex’s mind.

“Seriously, though, are you going somewhere?” he asked again.

“…I should get inside. My phone’s dead, I need to charge it,” Alex said.

“ Alex, ” Maria said in a scalded voice.

Michael, though, was cold. Frozen. It barely registered when Maria reached out and squeezed his wrist to reassure him; he wasn’t reassured, though he was pathetically grateful to her for trying. She was a good friend—better now than she was or he was when they were two isolated points on a severed line, ten years as two stars on an unintelligible constellation, half its lights gone out.

But that friendship, as cherished as it was—could it hold him up if the new foundation he’d built for his life was ripped away again? Again, he’d built it up around Alex without expectation or intention. It was reflexive, habitual, migratory. He followed a pattern etched into his bones. He didn’t know any other way to build.

“Alex, I told you,” Maria said.

“I know. But—”

“No! No buts. If you can’t even be honest about what you’re doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“It’s fine,” Michael said. His voice was distant inside his own skull. “I get it. You don’t have to tell—you don’t owe me anything.”

For some reason, Alex turned back around to face them, then, his face so openly wracked with pain and indecision that Michael had to close his eyes.

Even less than he could stand to watch Alex walk away again, he couldn’t stand to watch it hurt so bad and him choose it all the same.

“I’m not leaving you, Guerin. Michael. I’m—not. I’m not!”

He said it again and again, like he was arguing with someone who wasn’t Michael or Maria, both of whom were silent. Maria pressed closer to Michael, leaning her weight against him, wordless but telling him: I’m here.

“I’m not leaving,” Alex said again.

Michael forced himself to open his eyes. A few feet in front of him, Alex took up the same amount of space he always did, posture helplessly perfect, hands helplessly flat at his sides.

Through a tight throat, Michael said, “Okay. Then why…”

Alex struggled for the words. At his side, Michael felt Maria breathe in and release a heavy sigh.

“Talk to us, Alex. Please,” she said.

Dropping his eyes, Alex replied, “I’m just going to be busy and out of the house a lot for the next few days and won’t have time to give Buffy the attention she deserves.”

“Really? That’s it?” her voice was close to tears, and Michael unlocked himself to wrap his arm around her. She continued, “I asked you to talk to us, not just repeat what you told me before. What business, Alex? You’re scaring me.”

“What am I supposed to do?” Alex cried, spreading his arms wide. Then he dropped his arms just as suddenly, head snapping back and forth looking for anyone who might have heard the outburst, then he dragged a hand over his face. He continued, quieter, flatter, “I get so wound up about one threat, and another one starts swinging from my blind side. I’m not waiting for Fields to come calling while Michael is here. And Jones—” That awful blankness crossed his face again. “—What am I supposed to do, let what he did to you go without doing something about it? Wait until he tries again? Absolutely not.”

Every word stung Michael’s senses; he had no response, mouth parted but silent, eyes wide.

Maria let out a frustrated growl. “And would you have told anyone these plans if I hadn’t forced you? Oh my god, of course not, you both suck so bad! What part of this one,” she jerked her thumb at Michael, “getting his gray matter pureed forty-eight hours ago makes you think now is the time to run off with some lone wolf Rambo act? What’s the point of being able to see the future if no one ever asks or listens?”

“Did you? See something?” Michael asked.

“Well. No. But I might have,” Maria replied.

“Wait, nothing at all? It’s been how long now?”

“Too long,” she admitted. “It’s not nothing, I just keep seeing our bearded friend standing in a field. I can’t even tell if it’s now or if it’s from before or even if it’s from the home planet. He doesn’t look at me, just…stands there.” She shivered.

Alex’s eyebrows drew down. “Can he…block your sight? Is that possible?”

Shrugging helplessly, Maria said, “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure we can’t just ask him. What are we going to do?”

We. Part of Michael wanted to protest, in the face of the danger that alliance would pose to two of the people he loved most in the entire world. Standing alone already almost got him killed, left him weaker than he’d ever been, but still part of him would try again, and again, until he was out of second chances, if it meant sparing Alex and Maria anything.

But that wasn’t in question, was it. They’d made their choice. It was time for Michael to learn to live with it.

“Thursday’s coming up,” he said. Maria and Alex turned to look at him, and he lifted and dropped his shoulders, curling in on himself. “If you guys are still available. We can talk about a game plan.”

“ Guerin, ” Maria sighed. But she smiled when she reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. “Of course we’re available.”

Alex didn’t reply. Silence fell between the three of them, until Maria sighed again and headed toward the front door.

“I already came all this way, I might as well spend a little time with Buffy. Since I won’t be walking her after all.”

As she passed Alex, he made a soft noise, and whatever it was, she understood perfectly, because she turned to meet Alex’s raising arms, and the two of them hugged tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You were right. I’m sorry I didn’t--I shouldn’t have made you--”

“Stop with the ‘shouldn’ts’,” Maria replied. “Just...don’t make us watch you destroy yourself alone when we’re here for you, okay?”

Michael flinched. Neither of them looked at him, but her words hit home anyway. He was part of that grief, too.

Alex nodded against her shoulder. “I won’t.”

Then she gave him one last squeeze, he let her go, and she went inside, leaving Michael and Alex alone.

And alone, what was there to say? They hadn’t found it so far.

Michael’s heart still beat uncomfortably fast in his chest, a frantic effort to keep him standing and sane while his brain and body figured out that Alex wasn’t going to disappear from before his eyes, and it only pulsed harder when—he blinked to clear his eyes and—Alex got closer, closing the space between them in a few long, uneven strides.

On instinct, Michael took a step back, but Alex stopped six inches away, just staring at him with his dark eyes. They scanned from his feet to his hair, taking in every minute tremble of his damaged muscles.

Jittery, Michael licked his lips and said, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer--”

Alex took Michael’s shirt in his fist and pulled him in. They hit, chest to chest, Alex’s arm trapped between them until he pulled it away, down and out, clamped it around Michael’s back and held on, held on for dear life. He didn’t need to hold on so tight; Michael froze with the shock of Alex around him and couldn’t have budged for love or money, not until his mind caught up with his body and he slumped in Alex’s safe arms.

“I’m so mad at you,” Alex said in his ear, close enough that his hitching breaths stirred Michael’s ear.

“I know. I know,” Michael spoke back, lips moving against his shoulder. He let his eyes fall shut again. Like this, he didn’t need them, dropped every sense that wasn’t touch, anything that didn’t tell him the only thing he needed to know. Alex was here. Michael was here. They were alive. They were together.

“How could you? What did I do wrong?” His breathing hitched harder, enough for Michael to feel it in Alex’s entire body.

Gripping him tighter, one arm around his lower back, one arm around his broad shoulders, Michael murmured, “Nothing, God, nothing. I was stupid. I just wanted—I just had to—”

“I wanted to protect you. That’s all I wanted—did I push too hard?” Hot, wet heat hit Michael’s neck. “I’m so shit at this, Michael, every time I try, I just make everything worse!”

“No! No, hey, hey.”

They were too tightly entwined for Michael to do much, but he maneuvered them enough to press their foreheads together.

“I just wanted to protect you, ” Michael rasped. If he looked at Alex this second, this close, he wouldn’t be able to stand it, so he squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know how to—be protected. You making that sacrifice for me, I don’t know how to be worth it. It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Ever. I’m so fucking—sorry, for all the times I made you feel like you had to—earn...”

They swayed slightly back and forth, half because Michael had pushed himself too far on his weak legs, half because it was an old self-soothing motion one or both of them fell back on, completely alone in the universe as children. They did it together, now.

“We’ll figure it out,” Michael swore, clasping Alex’s sweaty hand in his own sweaty hand, in the nonspace between their chests, knuckle to sternum, palm to palm, sternum to knuckle. The words tasted like hope on his tongue.

They opened their eyes, Alex first, then Michael, and they stood like that for a long time. Alex’s eyes were red from crying, but beautiful. Always beautiful.

We’ll figure it out. Neither of them believed it fully, but if both of them held a half, maybe they’d manage to make it work.

“We should get back inside,” Michael said eventually, dropping Alex’s hand, stiffening his own to keep the shape of it held to his side as they parted.

“Actually, could we, um.” Alex cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe we could sit out here a while longer. It’s a nice sunset? And maybe we could catch up on normal stuff.”

Michael looked over his shoulder at the sky. It really was stunning, broad beyond comprehension, all alien with pinks and purples and golds.

“Normal stuff sounds great,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

#malex fic #malex #michael guerin #alex manes #my fic #roswell new mexico

17 notes · View notes

countessofravenclaw · 3 years ago

Text

It could never happen... but you can't know about the future

It's my birthday, so I am releasing something special out of my usual schedule!

So this started as a school assignment, where we had to write a fairytale with 1300 characters (like you could write a good engaging story with that lenght), so I wrote one page very summed version of this and after I turned it in I expanded and finished it and this is the result. This is just something fun, kind of an AU, but I would categorize it as a dream sequence. We can't know if it happened, maybe it did or didn't. Here is the original version if anyone is interested

Nina’s phone dinged. She looked at it. It was strange, she usually didn’t get any messages. You see, she didn’t have any friends who would text her. Her parents usually just straight up called when they had something to say, which was usually a lot since her mother was an epiphany of a helicopter mother. It was a record that her mother had not called her today yet. She just had to accept that her daughter was growing up.

Things had changed quite fast for Nina. She now actually had a friend. She used to have friends when she had been a child, but starting school they all had vanished. She had been left alone and she didn’t know what to do about it. She couldn’t just go and talk to people, what if they hated her. But then Luna had just appeared out of Mexico just before school had started. She was colorful, loud and noisy, everything that Nina was not, but they complimented each other.

Luna had gone to get something from the library and to her surprise, Nina had not joined her. She practically lived in the library. Books had been her only friends for so long. Maybe Luna had not found what she was looking for and was now texting Nina for help. Luna was a rare sight at the library so it was no wonder that she had gotten lost. You needed a certain connection with the library before you could navigate it.

It was Nina’s second year at the Blake South College. She had been totally alone all of her first year, so she had used all her time to studying and had quickly become the top student in her class. The Library had been the only good thing about the school until Luna had arrived… that was not exactly true… there was another thing that made Nina happy that she was at Blake.

This reason was something that only her heart knew. She could never say it out loud and never tell it to anyone, not even Luna. Luna would definitely laugh at her if she ever told her. She was being delusional after all. It was her dark secret.

Nina looked at the message again. The message was from an unknown number. Nina hesitated for a moment if she should even open the message. Her mother had always told her to never communicate with anyone online, but she was not a child anymore. Her curiosity got better of her, nobody ever texted her outside of Luna. Nina opened the message and just stared at it for a moment.

“Be happy, with love. Your future is bright. Don’t let it go. From: Felicity” the message read. Nina was confused. What was she supposed to not let go? Who was this Felicity?

Attached to the message was a video. The file had an odd name. It said: “J&R 2017”.

Nina clicked on it and almost fainted on the spot. In the video, she saw herself walking to the locker rooms of Roller, but she looked different. She was older, her hair was longer and she clearly had done something to it. She was wearing much different clothing too. Nina could admit she looked beautiful, but something was off about her. She looked older, more mature, and happier.

Her breath got hitched in her throat. Her legs went weak, and she had to lean on the wall so she wouldn’t fall. There was someone else in the video, who entered the locker room after her. He was holding her hand…

Nina almost forgot how to breathe for a second. Holding her hand in the video was… was… it was Gastón. He looked older too, and if it was possible, even better looking. He already was tall, but he looked even taller and his gorgeous face looked more defined. And she didn’t even dare to look at his arms. It was a good thing that he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. His hair was also lacking the blonde highlights he had. Nina loved those personally, or she loved looking at those from afar.

She had done that for years, ever since she had met him. On the first day of Blake, she had been frantically looking for her classroom and bumped into him and dropped all her books. She had expected to him just walk away as everyone did, but he didn’t. She didn’t know how it had happened, but just one look at those brown eyes made her get lost in them. She always got lost in them. I might have been foolish to fall for someone so fast, but she did not control her heart. Otherwise, she should have never fallen for him. Being madly in love with a person who never could notice her… it was not easy. All she could do was just wait for her feeling to just go away.

He was the most popular guy at the school, he and his friend Matteo. One day, Nina had found out that they were into Roller skating and actually followed them into Roller. She was a bit ashamed to admit that she had been a bit of a stalker, but what else could she have done. Looking at him at school was not enough anymore. To her surprise, she actually got quite fond of the place and started to go there for her own benefits, not just to watch Gastón.

She snapped out of her thoughts and focused on the video again. What she saw made her head spin. She was sure she would pass out. What was this cruel trick that the universe was playing on her? What she saw, had only happened in her dreams. Something that could never be reality.

In the video, she had been saying something, but he interrupted her by pulling her closer and leaning down to kiss her. Nina heard herself saying something about some cameras, but she couldn’t focus on herself. Gastón had a mischievous smile on his face. Nina loved his smile, she loved everything about him, but she wished she didn’t. The feeling she wished could go away, only got stronger every time she saw him. She lost focus on the video for a moment and got lost thinking of Gastón, but she finally focused back on it.

Her legs went weak. He was leaning down to kiss her and pinning her down on a wall behind her. She could never admit it to anyone, not Luna, definitely not to her mother, but she had imagined herself being in that position with him, - multiple times - when she wanted to be extra cruel to herself. But before Nina was able to see his lips touch hers, she fainted. Maybe it was by choice, she could probably never get that image out of her head if she saw it, and it would drive her mad.

Nina woke up leaning against a wall at school. What had happened? Everything started to come back. Images flashed through her mind. She frantically looked at her phone, but all the signs of the message were gone. Of course, it had been just a dream, even if it had felt do real. Typical of her, daydreaming of a future that could never happen.

Nina leaned her back at the wall again. She was smarter than that and she should not need to waste her time for hopeless thoughts. She knew that it was something that was not going to happen, but her mind was devious and the false hope and the imagined scenarios always crept into her mind.

“Nina!” Luna’s voice rang and snapped Nina out of her trance finally.

“Are you alright?” Luna asked. “I am fine,” Nina said while standing up from the wall. She wanted to tell Luna that she had been daydreaming about Gastón, again, but she couldn’t. What would Luna think if she found out, that Nina was pining after a guy who was way out of her league?

“Did you find the book?” Nina asked, trying to distract herself from her thoughts. “No, I ran out of time. That place is a maze. But we need to go to the class now. You can go and find me the book later. I would just get lost again”.

They headed to the class and in an hour Nina had almost forgotten her strange daydream, but one thing had still lingered in her mind. Felicity, there was something about that name that inspired Nina. Even after, when she could not even remember where she had learned the name from, it still was on her mind. Little did she know, Felicity changed everything about her future and things that she thought never would happen… actually happened.

***

Nina shook awake. Her hair was spilled over Gastón’s chest and his arms were still tight around her even when he was dead asleep. That had been a weird dream, it was almost like a memory of something that she had long forgotten about. She usually didn’t remember her dreams, not anymore, since she had all she could ever dream of. She lowered her head back on Gastón’s chest and closed her eyes. Sometimes she wished that she could send a message to her younger self, and tell her that everything would be okay.

#Gastina #Soy Luna #Dream sequence #soy luna fanfiction

4 notes · View notes

concealeddarkness13 · 3 years ago

Text

WHG 15 Post-Games Imposter Syndrome Part 18

The day after part 17! Warning if you don’t want to read about this: there’s kissing. Tagging: @sparkles-and-hens, @knmartinshouldbewriting, @maple-writes, @pen-of-roses (also thanks for Conor!), @thoughts-of-nora, and @ratracechronicler!

I triumphantly sent the video to Indigo as some Peacekeepers installed some cameras in my room. They were trying to intimidate me, but it wasn’t going to work. I’d just have to figure out how to smash them.

As the Peacekeepers left, the District 9 escort, “affectionately” nicknamed Bystander slipped in. This time, he went for fancy but not garish, and he was holding a purple iris. Oh joy. What was he up to now?

I just eyed him, not bothering to get up from my bed, as I set my phone down. He spoke first. “My, you’ve already caused quite the stir here.”

Well, at least he hadn’t openly threatened my crew, and he didn’t seem to want to start with that, so I relaxed a slight bit. I didn’t have to be openly hostile back, at least not yet. I smiled. “Oh? And I was hoping to remain inconspicuous.”

“Forgive me if I don’t quite believe that little thief. I have already found myself applauding your performance though, such a shame they felt the need to put a tighter leash on you.” He glanced over at the cameras. So, what was he even talking about? The incident where I beat up Indigo might have slipped out, but the whole slipping out, stealing from Aurora, getting a video while burning what I stole, and getting caught shouldn’t have. And I hadn’t done anything special other than that. The citizens of the Capitol wouldn’t even know I was alive yet. “I’m sure you’ll find a way around it of course and I, for one, am thrilled to watch as always. Tell me, were you truly thinking it would work?”

What, beating up Indigo or stealing, which both did work? Or did he not know exactly what I had done? I cocked my head. Better to not give him anything. “What would work?”

He grinned and winked. “But of course. Still, for your efforts.” He held out the iris elegantly. “Forgive me, but I find roses to be horribly overdone.”

True. I took it and set it down, ready to crush it if that would actually hurt his feelings. “So, what is Bystander really here for?”

“Ah yes, I suppose you have earned the right to my name. After all it simply wouldn’t do for you not to when we appear together. It’s Conor.” How…normal. But what did he mean by “appear together”? He bowed and walked to the other side of the room. Casually. Nonchalantly. But I could tell he was enjoying drawing this out. “There is no last name to worry about. You’ll forgive if my manners on this are a little out of date, but it’s been a while since I’ve hoped to win someone’s affections. The flower might not be appropriate still, though I did try to find a pomegranate to offer with the news of us becoming a couple in the public’s eyes.” He winked.

What the fuck? That didn’t even make any sense! It wasn’t as if he was a celebrity too. Why would anyone care? Fucking ridiculous. But there was nothing I could do about it. I had already agreed to cooperate on TV. I had to feign a different surprise so he wouldn’t see my real surprise. “Oh, dear me. So fast? We haven’t even shared a life-threatening scene together where you confess your undying love for me even though you’ve only known me for a day.”

“We didn’t?” He pretended like I had stabbed him in the chest. “Though I suppose in your version my life would have to be in danger as well, instead of the tale of seeing you and falling for you before the Games, after all you did wear my signature stars, but then, alas, I worried so much that you would die in the Games and had to profess as soon as we were able to meet up again. Though, if you would like to present another life threatening scene for yourself before the cameras for it to go your way, I’m sure it could be arranged.”

Well, that story was even flimsier than mine. But the citizens of the Capitol might just eat it up, especially if we were both entertaining enough. Oh joy. I laughed. “So, it’s to be a fake relationship? I’m wounded.”

His grin turned sharper, more dangerous. And I felt pinned down by his stare. “Oh I know you better than to fall for someone who could easily be your enemy and clearly has ulterior motives. But imagine the spectacle all of this will cause, the idea that not only have tributes survived, but for the possibility of love afterwards? The Capitol thinks they’re in charge of all, but maybe the people worry that they’ve grown soft? Allowing people to survive the Games after all? What are they covering up?”

Another flimsy story. Why would this be what the Capitol relied on? “They don’t have to use love with a random nobody Bystander to do that. They have a million other ways at their disposal.”

He laughed. “No, if anything the idea of love or even allowing me to do this shows that the precious Capitol isn’t as wise as they hope. But us? We can use it to exploit that foolishness and cause the people more concerns and doubts about all that power and maybe cause some trouble and mischief for added fun, little thief. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy this to some degree?”

If he had come to me with this before I had agreed to cooperate, that manipulation might have worked. However, I had to cooperate on TV, at least, so I wouldn’t be causing any mischief there. Not when it could mean that my crew would be killed. I just decided to ignore that. “Well, I’m afraid I won’t live up to your expectations. Or you won’t live up to mine.” My smile turned into a smirk. Since I wouldn’t gain anything else from this, I might as well have some fun. “Are you a good kisser? If not, I don’t think I’ll be able to pretend to your satisfaction.”

“I have never lived up to an expectation a day in my life, it’s what makes it so exciting. And oh? Here you accused me of going too fast, but well,” he smirked as well. “Practice makes perfect after all.”

As if this would be anything but a distraction. Possibly a dangerous distraction if he was more than he seemed, which was becoming more and more likely. “Who said anything about love in this?” I stood up and crossed my arms, the smirk still playing on my lips. “It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. One that we have to sell as if it was real.” Even if there was nothing for me to gain, really.

He quirked an eyebrow and stepped forward. “You claim that and yet you don’t truly know yet what you’ll gain, still seeing me on the Capitol’s side in all this? You truly are fascinating my little thief. If this is to appear real though, I’ll have to know more of what you like and I can’t wait to learn more of your wit.”

I laughed lightly. I should be able to get a good time out of this, at least. “Isn’t having a good time enough to gain from a relationship like this?” I stepped forward, within arm’s reach of him and placed a hand lightly on his chest. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “So, the Bystander takes his turn on stage.”

“Hard to stand by when the lead is just so interesting, after all, sometimes the best view is right in the center of everything.”

I laughed. So close, his eyes almost looked otherworldly. Kind of like how his eyes had changed color a few days ago. If he was older than he looked, I wouldn’t be able to one-up him, but it would be fun to try. “I’m flattered. Now, let’s see if he can play the lead.”

He closed the distance, and damn. He was actually a good kisser. Held me so that there was no space in between us, buried one hand in my hair, while the other skirted along the edge of my shirt, touching the skin underneath. Kissed with such “passion” and intensity that I barely had time to breathe. My thoughts swam and got all jumbled, which I just blamed on the lack of oxygen. But that was kind of the point, I supposed. When I finally had to pull back to gasp in some breaths, he kissed my neck, holding me tighter, hand slipping under my shirt. Shit. I would gain at least something from this, even if it was just a good time. Once I had regained my breath, he brushed his lips up my neck until he kissed me on the lips again and my thoughts muddled. Still totally because of lack of oxygen. And he backed me up until my legs hit the bed, and I almost lost my balance, and he made me lose my balance, and we were laying on the bed. Shit. He stopped and smiled down at me. “What do you think now little thief?”

He was so close. It was hard to breathe still. I hated how my voice wavered. “6/10.”

“Still need to work on your acting if you want me to believe that. Though, I did already mention practice making perfect didn’t I?” He raised an eyebrow and kissed me on the forehead. Okay, okay 7/10.

I could barely find my voice, so I whispered instead. Trying to pry again. “With that performance, you should be the main character. I’m nothing compared to you.”

“Don’t sell yourself so short, anyone would fall for you, and I know that I wouldn’t be the first. Everyone’s eyes have been on you since you entered the Capitol.”

Huh. Deflecting. Well, there were other ways to figure out more about a person. I slipped one hand under his shirt to distract from my other hand that was slipping into his pockets. “You’ve fallen for me? I’m flattered.”

There was a piece of paper that could be important. “My attention is what flatters you? Not that of the rest of the Capitol, or even those who were your fellow tributes?”

I laughed and snagged the paper, bringing it to my pockets. “You’re certainly the most intriguing. Despite how much you say you’re just a member of the audience, you are possibly the most mysterious one I’ve met.”

“Would you prefer me to call myself the devil on your shoulder?” Huh. That sounded pretty applicable. “Encouraging what are likely ideas that will lead to trouble to watch it all play out but doing nothing more? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone has accused me of such things.”

And I had a way to make a small victory. “I rest my case as to why I focus on your attention over anyone else’s.”

He grinned. “Oh, I like you my little thief. The devil has always been far more interesting to listen to I’ve found. Very well, I will admit getting closer to you is not the only fun I am hoping to have from all of this, though I assure you it is definitely a part of it. I do love unique things after all. But I am hoping to help catch someone’s attention even more than you already have for a bit of personal fun. I do wonder how close you are to figuring out the puzzle from the pieces now.”

My thoughts snapped to Reine. He had been mentioning her too much, especially last time I saw him. Why was he trying to get her attention? And I had to admit, the promise of information was tantalizing. I smirked. “And what’s the prize for piecing the puzzle together?”

He pretended to think. “A favor perhaps, anything short of getting you out of this predicament you’ve found yourself in because then where would my fun go? Maybe a gift, a message…Though I do hope you choose wisely because you would be trusting the devil here.”

Something to think about. “Noted.” I laughed and winked. “I think we should practice more before they think we’re plotting something.” I pointedly glanced at the cameras.

He laughed too. “Very well my dear thief.” I pulled him into the kiss this time, but he kissed with the same intensity, not giving me enough time to breathe. Shit. I had to admit, he was charming and intriguing. I had to be careful around him.

He broke off fairly quickly and stood up. I sat up and smirked at him as he spoke. “Sadly, you are correct in assuming they might think we are plotting something if I stay too long, but I will look forward to seeing you again, I promise.”

I bowed a little and channeled my best sarcasm. “And I’ll be counting the seconds.”

He just laughed and left. I frowned and immediately looked at the paper I had taken from him. It was filled with letters that seemed to be from the same language that Reine had shown me. So, they probably were connected. But the way Reine had talked about him when I had wanted to steal from him made me think they weren’t on the best of terms. So, what did he want to do? Especially because she was captured. She might not even be able to watch the TV. Was there anything I could do with this information? Probably not.

#writeblr hunger games #writeblr #I love Triel and Conor's dynamic!#thanks for collaborating!

4 notes · View notes

krreader · 5 years ago

Text

call me maybe.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x foreign student!reader fandom: bts warnings: language genre: fluff word count: 1.6k+

summary: these things didn’t happen in real life. there was just no way. you wouldn’t let yourself think otherwise.. not even if Jeongguk tried his hardest to convince you that this wasn’t some sort of joke.

a/n: so, because I felt a little weird doing this with a high school student, you’re a college student in this story who does a semester abroad. just to make that clear lol. also, why do I feel like I might make a part 2 for this :’)

You still didn't know how your friend managed to get you into this fan meeting, but now that you were here and staring at the faces of the seven boys that you used to admire from afar, you couldn't care less anymore.

To be in the same room as them was definitely a once in a lifetime experience.

To talk to them, probably even more.

You felt a little odd, because the people in this room all seemed like they were such die-hard fans and you, despite really liking them and their music, couldn’t help but feel like you didn’t deserve to be here..

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” your friend who stood in front of you started bouncing up and down, “They are right there you guys! Right there in front of us!” this is exactly what you meant. Die-hard fans.

“Can you please calm down? We don't want to look like total fangirls. The calmer we are, the better,” another one said and tried to smooth out her hair.

You were a group of four, you were the last one, had decided to watch your friends go first and boy, was that a good decision.

It was so nice to watch them interact with their favorites, it was so.. fulfilling somehow? To see them so utterly happy and while it was also a little cringy at times, you still smiled throughout the whole thing.

In fact, you were so busy watching them that you completely forgot you were waiting in line as well until one of the managers kindly asked you to step forward.

With a quick apology you walked up to the first member.

Your Korean wasn't perfect yet, but it was enough to hold a conversation and it didn't matter who you were talking to, Jin, Tae, Yoongi.. they all understood and encouraged you to at least try. They didn’t laugh when you made a mistake and you were sure that you weren’t always using formal Korean correctly, but they didn’t mind at all, they were just very kind.

You thought you'd be nervous once standing right in front of them, but all of them had a talent of making you understand that you had no reason to be. When they realised your nerves were getting the better of you, they reached out to touch your hand, always kept eye contact with you and never once made you feel like you being here annoyed them.

It was going incredibly well.. until you were standing in front of Jeongguk.

“Hi,” you smiled a little. The beginning was always the most nerve-wrecking.

However, unlike with the others who immediately said hello back and started up a conversation with you, Jeongguk just stared at you, then gulped down hard and shook his head a little.

Did you.. do something wrong?

“Hey,” he cleared his voice after it came out a little shaky, “Your name is.. (Y/N)?”

“Yeah..”

“Where are you from?” it was hard for him to keep eye contact, he quickly started to sign your album and seemed to take his time with it, unlike the other members.

“(Y/H/C). I'm doing one semester here.. maybe two if I really like it.”

“A.. year then, huh?” finally he looked up at you, staring directly into your eyes again. And it seemed like he let out a breath he had been holding.

Was he okay?

“Yeah, I arrived about three weeks ago, so this is a nice start,” you tried to break the ice, “I loved your recent comeback, seriously. You did so great.”

“Ah.. thank you,” finally, he started smiling, “Which school are you going to then? If.. that's not a secret,” Jeongguk chuckled.

“Not at all,” you smiled, “It's Hanyang university.”

“Oh, wow.. you’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

“Wasn't easy to get in, but I'm glad I managed,” you grinned from ear to ear.

Jeongguk was going to say something else, especially now that you two seemed to have a topic to talk about and he was just beginning to really smile and laugh, but Namjoon was already waiting with a smile and the manager were impatient.

So instead he said, “Well then.. see you around, (Y/N).”

You didn't think much of it that day. You were sure that he said that to everyone. Why wouldn't he? This is like their go-to line to make their fans feel good and like they were special, you weren't naive to think you actually were.

But.. well..-

one week later

“(Y/N), wait up!” your friend caught you just before you left the main building, “Are you going to the library?”

“A little later, I need to run home real quick to get something first.”

“Alright, I'll be waiting for you there, then. I'll text you where I'm sitting.”

“Sounds good,” with a smile you left, your book pressed against your chest as you made your way down the stairs and towards the exit of the campus.

But you didn't get very far.

You weren't exactly day dreaming, but you still weren’t prepared when someone suddenly appeared in front of you, making your book fall to the ground.

“Sorry, I didn't see you,” you didn't even look up, you just crouched down to pick up your things and were going to continue walking.

But he also crouched down to help you.

And even though he wore a hat, you could clearly see who it was.

“Oh.. my god?” your eyes widened.

“Please don't freak out, I know this is probably super creepy and weird, but I just had to try..-”

“Try.. what?!” for fuck's sake, this was Jeon Jeongguk and you were just casually meeting him here? “What are you doing here?!”

“Listen, I don't usually do this.. not even with girls that work with me, so I know this is a risk, but I can't stop thinking about you and I think I'm going mad.”

You stared at him with an open mouth, then started to look around, making Jeongguk furrow his eyebrows, “Okay, where's the camera? This is really funny, ha ha, stupid (Y/N), let’s pull a prank on her and post it on YouTube so everyone will see how stupid she is.”

“This.. isn't a joke,” he got back up when you did, “The reason I was so weird at the fan sign was because I.. liked you. And I know that's weird to say when I don't even know you, but I'd like to.”

The more he said, the lower your jaw dropped.

Was he actually serious? Did he really think you were that daft?

“Listen, I don't live in a Cinderella fantasy and I'm not twelve years old anymore. I'm not stupid enough to know that whatever this is, it's not real. Pull that prank on your delusional fans, but I’m not one of them.”

“But that's exactly why I'm here,” Jeongguk gently pulled you along with him, to a spot that was a little less busy, “Usually the people that come to our fan sign are die hard fans. I know that the moment I'd give them my number, screenshots of it would be on social media. I know that the moment I’d compliment them, they’ll twist my words in their heads and make them think I now want to marry them.”

“You don’t know me. You have no idea whether or not I'd do that too,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest.

“Would you?”

You were taken aback, then shook your head, “Of course not.”

“Then I'm right about you. You went there by coincidence, didn't you? You probably got a ticket from a friend? And you like BTS, but you're not obsessed with us? You like our music, but you know that we're just people like the rest?”

Why was it feeling like he was calling you out?

“So what?”

“So go out with me.”

This was the weirdest situation you’ve ever been in. Seriously.

First and foremost, you were still convinced that this was some sort of joke, that the moment you'd say yes, he'd be like: 'Surprise, you got pranked, I'd never go out with you, bye'. But at the same time, you were curious..

“How did you even find me?”

“You told me you studied here.. I just waited and hoped you’d leave through the front exit.”

“How long did you wait?”

Jeongguk shifted his weight from one foot to the other, “A.. while.”

“And.. why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you.. I think I like you. I can't stop thinking about your smile, I can’t stop thinking about your life or your perfume and I know that all sounds so weird. I don't take a lot of chances in my life and I regret it every time I don't. But I want to stop doing that. I want to take a leap of faith this time.”

So, so, so stupid, (Y/N). Don't fall for it. This isn't real. There is no way this is real. It doesn't matter that he's looking at you like this, this is most definitely a prank, it’s way too cheesy to be real.

You just opened your mouth when you could hear a friend from afar yell: “Yah! (Y/N)! You said you were going home, what are you doing?! Are you skipping our tutoring session today?”

Jeongguk instantly started to panic, grabbed the pen and notebook out of your hand and scribbled something inside it, then pushed it back into your hands, “Please don't let me be wrong about you..”

And with that he ran off.

“Who was that?” your friend asked as soon as she was right next to you, both of you staring after the guy.

“A very strange man.”

“Ugh, I hate those,” she rolled her eyes and hooked her arm with yours, “Anyways, let's get lunch.”

You had been staring at his number for days now, over and over again.

You had ripped it out of your book once and thrown it into the trash can, only to pull it back out five minutes later.

You couldn't do it.

Something inside of you told you not to throw it away.

Maybe it was foolish hope? Most definitely.

You had expected a clip of your encounter with him to be online by now, titled with: ‘Jeon Jeongguk tries to get date with fan’ but there was nothing of the sort.

You kept checking, every single day, but there was absolutely nothing.

You sighed deeply and fell back onto your bed, the piece of paper in one hand, your phone in the other.

“Fuck this. What did the kids used to say? You only live once. Might as well make a fool out of myself.”

And so you dialed the number, with each peep your heart sped up, full on thinking that you'd end up with an old lady on the other end yelling at you why you were calling her in the middle of the night and that she had to get up early the next day to watch the newest home shopping episode.

But no old lady answered.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Uh.. hi. This is.. (Y/N)?”

Then it was quiet.

For a long time.

You almost would have ended the call if it weren't for that soft voice, so full of disbelief, yet happiness: “You actually called..”

Oh, fuck.

#bts imagine #bts x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jeongguk x reader #jeon jeongguk x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook imagine #jeongguk imagine #bts #bangtan boys #bangtan sonyeondan #bangtan #reader #requests

641 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 4 years ago

Text

Desert Sands: Part 2

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, John, Alan, Virgil, Gordon, Kayo, EOS

Another little chunk for you guys to chew over while I wrestle with writing the ending (or maybe not-yet-the-ending, it’s being finicky) of this thing.

<<<Part 1

“Kayo?” John called, immediately trying both Thunderbird Shadow and her personal communicator. Both resulted in the red symbol of no signal, just like Scott. “Thunderbird Two, I’ve just lost contact with Thunderbird Shadow.”

“What?” Virgil and Gordon demanded, in tandem. “Where?”

“I’m sending you the co-ordinates now,” he said, fingers flying across the data. Just like Scott, her suit telemetry showed no signs of increased stress or panic before going dark. “It’s approximately five hundred miles south-east from Thunderbird One’s last known position.”

“Five hundred miles?” Virgil asked. “That’s a big area. Are there any signals of anything between them?”

“No, but there’s nowhere there that I’d expect to,” John admitted. “It’s an uninhabited part of the Sahara Desert.”

“We’ll follow Kayo’s flight path and go cautiously once we cross the African coast,” Virgil declared. “We’ll let you know what we find.”

“F.A.B.,” John acknowledged, turning to Thunderbird Three. “Alan, do you copy?”

“Right here, John,” his youngest brother answered immediately. “Over the Sahara now. EOS is beginning scans.”

“Stay in orbit,” he reminded. “I just lost contact with Thunderbird Shadow and Kayo in the exact same way.”

“What’s happening?” Alan asked. “That’s not normal. They fly over the Sahara all the time!”

“I don’t know but we’re going to find out,” John promised. “Let me know what EOS finds.”

“Preliminary scans show nothing,” the AI chipped in, hijacking Alan’s signal. “I do not like this, John. There is no sign of movement at all- John, I believe I have located Thunderbird One.”

“Where?” Thunderbird Five was linking up to her sister before John consciously thought about it, taking in the data streaming from Thunderbird Three’s EOS-enhanced scanners. There was nothing but sand dunes, some impressively high. Wind whipped the sand around, lowering visibility. “EOS, I don’t see her.”

An additional scan appeared, overlaying the satellite imagery.

“Thunderbird Three is not powerful enough for a positive identification but I believe the metal buried beneath a thin layer of blown sand is the right approximate dimensions and construct to match with Thunderbird One,” EOS informed him. The signal was weak, but now that EOS had pointed it out, John could just about make out what she meant.

“That’s eighty miles from where we lost the signals,” Alan piped up, and John could see on his face that he was doing the calculations in his head. He was doing the same ones, and reached a conclusion he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

“From the speed and height Thunderbird One was travelling at, if her engines went offline she’d travel approximately eighty miles before crashing,” he said, and Alan made a noise of agreement. “It’s in the right direction, too.”

“So what do we do now?” Alan asked.

“Keep scanning,” John said. “I want the entire area logged, just to be safe. With Kayo and Thunderbird Shadow also missing, I don’t want Thunderbird Two encountering any unwelcome surprises when they get there.”

“But if that’s Scott he’s buried, John!” Alan protested.

“And if it’s not, we haven’t found him at all,” John pointed out. “Even if it is, we don’t know what happened, and until we know that it’s not safe for Thunderbird Two to approach.” That was what concerned him the most. What was taking down Thunderbirds without any warning? If he didn’t know that Virgil and Gordon would refuse, he’d have told his brothers to stop as soon as Thunderbird Shadow went down.

As it was he was anxiously watching the green icon, silently begging it not to disappear as it reached the African coastline.

“Virgil, you’re coming up on where Thunderbird Shadow vanished,” he warned them. “Be careful.”

“Decelerating and reducing altitude,” Virgil responded. John could see that, but appreciated his brother staying in contact. With Scott and Kayo both gone from his sensors, he really didn’t want to lose another brother, and with Gordon also on board, there were two brothers heading into almost certain danger. “Coming up on- Kayo!”

Thunderbird Two’s green icon came to a rapid stop, banking around sharply before readouts declared the green ship had come into land.

“John, we’ve got eyes on Thunderbird Shadow,” Gordon told him. He was using his personal comm, and his image was clearly running. “She’s down but her cockpit’s shut. Looks like Kayo’s still inside.”

“Kayo!” he heard Virgil call faintly, picked up by Gordon’s communicator rather than using his own.

John could be patient when he wanted to; it was a trait he shared with Virgil. Another trait he shared with Virgil was a lack of that same patience when it came to family wellbeing. In no time at all, Thunderbird Two’s external camera feed was being projected for him to watch.

At a glance, Thunderbird Shadow seemed okay. She was facing the wrong direction, back towards Tracy Island, but there was little visible damage on the fuselage. More concerning was the fact that both the Thunderbird and Kayo’s suit were still offline, despite Thunderbird Two and his brothers still broadcasting strongly.

Virgil, wearing his exosuit, was wrestling with her cockpit, wrenching it open and leaning in to presumably look at Kayo. His bulky frame – enhanced by the gear – completely hid the inside of the cockpit from view, leaving John to wait in frustration for an update.

“I’m okay,” his sister said, and her image appeared alongside Virgil’s as he turned his own communicator on. “I think my leg’s broken, but that’s the worst of it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Virgil muttered, and John had no doubt that a scanner had been deployed.

“What happened?” he asked. “Thunderbird Shadow and your suit are still offline.”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it’s some sort of EMP,” she reported, hissing as Virgil did something off-camera. “Thunderbird Shadow’s engines cut out without warning. I used the manual overrides to get her turned around and out of it, but she didn’t come back online so we still crashed.”

An EMP would explain it. John left Virgil and Gordon to dealing with their injured sister and started running calculations. Thunderbirds One and Shadow had gone down five hundred miles apart – at this point it was foolish to even entertain any idea other than the fact that Thunderbird One must have crashed – which gave John two points of reference for the outer edge of its range. There was no way of knowing if that was a chord or the diameter of the range, however.

“Alan,” he called, turning his attention to Thunderbird Three, who was still feeding Thunderbird Five with aerial scans of the area.

“What’s up, John?” his brother asked. “Any news?”

“We’ve found Kayo,” he told him. “She’s okay, but Thunderbird Shadow crashed. Seems like we’re dealing with an EMP, so can you and EOS search for something that could be causing it?”

“F.A.B.,” Alan confirmed. “But… John? If it’s an EMP… how are we going to get to Scott? Thunderbird Two will crash if she tries, and eighty miles is a long way to walk.”

“Let me worry about that,” John told him. “You just focus on finding the source.”

Once they had it, they could work out how to switch it off.

Leaving Alan and EOS to it, he returned back to the feed showing a resigned Kayo being carried by Virgil back into Thunderbird Two.

“Thunderbird Shadow is completely shot,” Gordon reported, noticing him. “We’re going to have to carry her back. That EMP completely fried all her systems.”

“You might as well do that now,” he said. “Until that EMP is dealt with, Thunderbird Two won’t be able to get to Thunderbird One, and she’ll need carrying back as well.”

“Are you sure Scott didn’t manage to do the same as Kayo and turn her around?” Virgil asked, but it was Kayo shaking her head that answered him.

“I barely got Thunderbird Shadow turned around and she’s designed for those sorts of manoeuvres,” she said. “Thunderbird One can’t turn that fast at the speeds she was going at when the EMP hit her.”

“EOS thinks she’s located Thunderbird One,” John added. “The scans aren’t clear, but the location is plausible.”

“Why don’t we just fly around this thing and walk in?” Gordon asked. “It can’t be that far, right?”

“At the speed Thunderbird One was going, she could be a hundred miles in,” Virgil snapped. “Until that EMP is dealt with, we can’t get there.”

“The plausible site is eighty miles in,” John clarified, mostly to cut off Gordon’s brewing response. Scott was the short-tempered one, but when he was absent and probably in trouble Virgil lost a lot of his calmness. Gordon didn’t always take too well to being on the receiving end of a snappy bear, transforming the usual easiness of Thunderbird Two’s pilot and co-pilot into a potentially volatile mix. “Alan, EOS and I are working on the EMP; get Shadow and Kayo home.”

“F.A.B.,” Virgil said, with clear reluctance. “Kayo, don’t move. Gordon, get Shadow ready for transport.”

John left them to it, content that despite brewing tempers they’d get the job done, and turned his full attention to the scans coming in from Thunderbird Three. The Sahara was huge, and he made a mental note to get a satellite in place to monitor it in the future. Whether that required wheedling the GDF or just making his own remained to be seen. Actually, when EOS got back, he was going to set her to finding all the satellite blind spots so they could all be plugged.

John refused to find himself blind ever again.

“John?” Alan’s voice was small.

“Yes, Alan?” he responded, tearing his eyes away from sand, sand and more sand to look at his youngest brother’s hologram. Alan was biting his lip.

“Do you think Scott’s okay?”

If he crashed at that speed it would have been fatal, the cool voice in the back of his mind reminded him. John ignored it, unable to entertain the idea that his big brother might be dead even though logic dictated as such.

“Thunderbird One is equipped with fail safes and supplies,” he said instead. “Scott will have done everything he could.” It wasn’t his best reassurance – or even one at all – but John had learnt the hard way that saying ‘they’ll be fine’ with no evidence to support him was far worse in the long run. “Besides, it’s Scott. You know what Scott’s like.”

That, at least, got a small smile.

“Yeah, I do,” Alan said. “Scott won’t give up.”

“And nor will we,” John assured him. “Thunderbird Two is taking Thunderbird Shadow and Kayo back home while we find this EMP generator.”

“I believe we have located that,” EOS cut in. “John, I am sending you the scan now.”

Thunderbird One had been difficult to spot, and they still had no guarantee that the buried metal was the missing craft. This… whatever it was, was not difficult to spot. A large blotch on the scan, it was easy to see why EOS suspected it, and with nothing else even remotely suspicious turning up on the scans, John was quite content to assume it was the responsible party.

“Hold your position there, Alan,” he said, stripping off his baldric and heading for his exosuit. “I’m coming to join you.”

“F.A.B.,” came the response and then John was launching, jetting through the sky and following the readout to where the giant red rocket was firing microjets to keep itself in position. The hatch opened and he skidded in, awkwardly catching himself before he crashed into the opposing wall.

Landings were awkward.

“So, now what?” Alan asked, uncharacteristically not commenting on his lack of flying ability. “It’s halfway between where Scott and Kayo got hit, and it’s at least eight miles high, so how do we turn it off?”

“Drop a probe, Alan,” John said, holding one out. “When we lose contact with it, we know that’s the upper limit.”

“That still doesn’t tell us how we can turn it off,” Alan pointed out, and John sighed.

“No, but once we know the extent we can look at our options.”

“We have options?”

John dropped the probe out of the open hatch before closing it and accepting the data stream EOS presented him with.

“Two hundred and fifty miles,” he announced when the data stopped, not bothering to respond to Alan’s dubious question.

“So, what are our options?” Little brother was not so easily deterred, but there was only ever one option.

“Take us down to three hundred miles. I’ll HALO drop from there and disable it.”

Part 3>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #kayo kyrano #eos #desert sands

24 notes · View notes

slippinmickeys · 5 years ago

Text

Release Valve (2/10): Fi Follet

When the moon circles the Earth, it pulls with it the ocean. She used to lie in bed and think about it. How the world can be your compass -- moss growing on one side of a tree, the North Star, sunsets on the horizon. Even if you can’t see it, you know the moon is above you when the tide is high. She felt that with him. When he was near, her blood would sing, rising to meet him whenever he passed. Standing in the doorway of their office, she can feel him even now, her skin prickling and flushing on the high tide of love. “You’re here early,” he said as he walked in. He loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, moving over to the cabinets behind his desk. “We’ve got a case?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t caught her mooning over him. She watched his movements with some trepidation. She hadn’t seen him since Friday and the new agents started today. He turned from the cabinets, unveiling his slide projector with fanfare. She made a show of rolling her eyes. “The kids are going to love this,” he said.

“Are they?” “You did.” “Did I?” Mulder gestured around the office. “The X-Files Headquarters: Where Fun Goes To Die.” He said. “If you’re going to make fun of my slideshow, you can wait in the hallway.” “Sorry, Mulder,” she said, grinning. “I’ll try not to ruin it.” “Thank you,” he said, earnestly.

On that, Stone and Isaacs walked in, chatting.

“Morning,” Stone said, his excitement palpable. He had a doofy grin pasted on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. Isaacs was more subdued. She was tall, taller than Mulder remembered. He had met her last week on a long lunch with Scully where they’d talked about her past cases and what she might expect. There’d been a 15 minute stretch where she’d kept cutting her eyes to Scully, obviously expecting her to tell her they were kidding, an elaborate hazing for rookies at the top of their class. Even now she looked as though she expected people to jump out of the woodwork shouting “Gotcha!” Despite that, there was a quiet confidence about her. She looked at Mulder and nodded to the desk annex. “Anywhere in particular?” she asked. Mulder shook his head. “Anywhere you like.” She put her things down on the desk in the middle and went about unpacking her few belongings. Mulder looked to Stone. “The computer you wanted,” he said, “the requisition got approved. Should be here next week.” Stone pumped a fist in the air and dropped down at the further-most desk, the wheeled chair coasting a few inches before coming to a stop. He looked at Mulder, suddenly pensive. “Can you…” he started to say, then, with more confidence, “have Purchasing bring it down here as soon as it arrives. In the box, sealed. I’ll do the set up myself.” Mulder leaned back against his desk and shot Stone an approving look. “Look at him, Scully,” he said, “not in the basement five minutes and already he’s achieved a level of paranoia it took me 2 years to get to myself.” “You forget he’s read all your files,” she responded. “Our files,” Mulder said, giving her a meaningful look. “Speaking of the files,” Isaacs said from her desk, “I’ve read the Greatest Hits you sent me over the weekend. I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the rest.” “You’ll have some reading time,” Mulder said, turning to the projector and hitting the lights, “you two are flying to Cajun Country this afternoon.” “We’ve got a case?” Stone asked, excitedly. “We’ve got a case,” Mulder said, punching in the first slide. A picture of a small lake took up a wall of the office. It was slightly out of focus and a few degrees off being perfectly horizontal. It was close to either dawn or dusk, the water an inky grey, the trees in the background reaching up toward a new moon. In the far right of the picture a small green glow floated a few feet above the water, its twin reflecting off the lake below it. “This picture was taken about three months ago in Vermilion Parish, Louisiana,” Mulder started. “Anybody know what we’re looking at here?” “Will-o’-the-wisp?” Stone offered. “Two points to the kid,” Mulder said, then turned back to the slide, “Will-o’-the-wisp, also known as a hinkypunk, spook light or ignis fatuus in Latin, meaning ‘foolish fire.’ It’s an atmospheric ghost light, which, according to English folklore is usually seen by travelers at night, especially over bogs, swamps or marshes. It resembles a flickering lamp and is said to recede if approached, drawing travelers from safe paths. “This,” Mulder went on, pointing to the picture, “was published in a local paper around the time it was taken and became quite the sensation. Locals, particularly teens, started going out to the swamp at night, trying to catch a glimpse. It was all fun and games until three weeks ago, when it took its first victim.” Mulder switched the slide and the picture of a teenage girl came up. She was all smiles, looking directly into the camera as if daring it to take the picture. She had sky-high bangs and dangly gold earrings. “Vanessa Glassie, fifteen years old. Disappeared while out with friends on wisp hunt. They’d just seen the ghost light when she told friends she had to pee and that was the last they saw of her. Local authorities have yet to find a trace of her.” He clicked to the next slide. Another young girl, with dark pixie hair and a shy smile. “Then last week, Marcie Vincent, a friend of Vanessa’s, went missing as well, from the same area. Friends said she’d talked about going out and looking for her friend. She told her parents she was going to bed one night, and they found her room empty the next morning. The window open and shoeprints in Marcie’s size heading away from the house. The will-o’-the-wisp was seen in the area the same night. The local PD asked the FBI to investigate.” Mulder cut back to the first picture of the ghost light. “And they think what, the lights took her?” Scully said. “Not exactly,” he said, “there’s a more geographically targeted legend about the lights in that area of the south, called—“ “Fi follet,” Isaacs finished for him. Mulder cut her an impressed look. She shrugged. “My mom was born and bred in Louisiana,” she said. “But the fi follet is said to mostly play harmless pranks.” “And in some cases attacking people for vengeance and sucking the blood of children.” From Mulder, who dramatically flipped to the slide of Vanessa Glassie. The room was silent for a moment but for the hum of the projector. Then Mulder went for the lights. “Your flight leaves in four hours,” he said, dismissing them, “you should pack.” They both stood to leave. “I want updates twice daily,” he said, “even if there’s nothing to report, you call me.” They nodded and left. Scully leveled a look at him, “Will-o’-the-wisp, Mulder?” she asked, incredulous. “You heard Isaacs,” Mulder countered, “it’s called fi follet.” “It’s swamp gas!” “We’ve got two missing kids, Scully,” he said, “and authorities asking for help. Isaacs could do this one in her sleep and Stone needs seasoning.” “So you’re saying you don’t think the lights took those girls,” she asked, looking for clarity. “No,” he said, finally, “I think it’s probably swamp gas.” “I wish I had that on tape,” Scully said to no one in particular. XxXxXxXxX “You should take lead on this,” Stone said, as the wheels touched down on their flight from DC. “You’ve got seniority,” Isaacs replied. “I’ve also got fuck-all for field experience,” he said, “you should take lead.” Isaacs nodded. Same shit, different town. She knew she wasn’t going to get much different as a Fed, but the pay was better, the resources infinitely superior, and this paranormal stuff was the first work-related thing that had piqued her interest in years. You could have knocked her over with a feather when Agent Scully called her into her office her the last week of class and proposed the job. “That’s some crazy intense white people shit,” her boyfriend had said to her when she told him about it.

She’d had a tendency to agree until she’d read the files. For the first time in her adult life, maybe she wouldn’t be bored. XxXxXxXxX It was coming on evening when they followed the sheriff through the woods to the last place Vanessa Glassie had been seen. It was a tiny clearing in the swamp, the damp ground covered with brown pine needles and empty beer bottles. The air was thick with the scent of pitch and the dull whine of insects. The five of them, Stone, Isaacs, the sheriff and two of his deputies barely fit into the open area once they trampled in, and one of the deputies, McLaren, the tall one, nearly toppled into a tree. He kicked a beer bottle into the brush in frustration as he righted himself, his mood dark. “Fucking kids,” he muttered. McLaren hadn’t been very welcoming since their arrival. Whether he was pissed that the Feds had taken over the investigation or the fact that the lead Fed was black, Isaacs wasn’t quite sure. She smacked a mosquito as it landed on her neck and turned toward the sheriff. She really fucking hated the South. The sheriff caught her eye and nodded toward the empty bottles and cans. “The lights are just an excuse,” he said, “the kids mostly just come out here to party.” “Who owns the land?” Isaacs asked. “The State,” he replied. “I don’t really have the resources to stop these kids. They’d just find somewhere else.” He pointed to the brush off to their left. “That’s where she was last seen,” he said. Isaacs took a look, turning on a flashlight and running it over the area. “We swept it good,” the younger deputy, Miller, said, clearly trying to be helpful. Isaacs gave him a small smile. “There’s probably not much to find. I’m sure you guys were thorough.” She turned back to the Sheriff. “You had dogs out?”

He nodded.

“For both girls. They couldn’t find anything here. The dogs at the Vincent girl’s house lost her scent about a quarter of a mile from home. We’ve just come up empty.”

“I’d like to talk to Vanessa Glassie’s parents right away if you don’t mind. Marcie’s too.” “I’ll take you over there in the morning, first thing.” She nodded. Stone spoke up then. “And the lights?” He said, indicating toward the water on their right. “This is where they were seen?” “This is where the picture that ran in the paper was taken,” said the Sheriff in the affirmative. He narrowed his eyes at Stone. “You really think the lights had something to do with this?” Stone shrugged. “You never know.” McLaren huffed out an audible sigh. “And the lights were reportedly seen the night the Vincent girl went missing last week?” Stone went on, ignoring him. “We had a few people call in,” the Sheriff said, pointing East. “Her family’s house is about a mile and a half that way.” “There anything else around here?” Isaacs followed up, “other than the road and the Vincent residence? Any businesses or facilities?” “None,” he said, “this is all State land until it hits the Vincent property and they’ve got about 500 acres.” Isaacs nodded. “Thanks for bringing us out.” XxXxXxXxX The next morning came too soon for Isaacs. After checking in with Agent Mulder, she and Stone had stayed out in the swamp for hours waiting to see lights. They’d bagged out at about 2am, with nothing to show for it but bug bites and pine sap on their ass. “This is my best suit,” Stone said dejectedly as he took another swipe at his backside and unlocked the door to his motel room. He came out of the same door at 7:00am with a pillow crease in his cheek, carrying a small cup of steaming coffee. They were dinky motel rooms, but at least each one had a coffee maker. Isaacs slid into the driver’s seat. “You get any sleep?” she asked him. “A little,” he replied, on a yawn. “And I’ll tell you, my enthusiasm for field work is rapidly waning.” Isaacs smiled at him.

They pulled up to the Glassie residence at the same time as the Sheriff and were quickly ushered inside. Mrs. Glassie was short with frizzy black hair. She was pale and when she asked them to please sit, her smile was hollow. Her clothes hung off her loosely, like she’d lost a lot of weight. Mr. Glassie was of medium height and build, and quiet – he wouldn’t meet their eyes. Isaacs decided to just jump right into the questions. “Had Vanessa been acting strangely before she disappeared? Talking about any new friends or activities?” “We’ve already told the Sheriff everything we can think of,” Mrs. Glassie said. “And tell them too, if you don’t mind, Doris,” the Sheriff said, “they’re here to help.” “Nothing like that,” Mrs. Glassie said to Isaacs. “She’s a good girl.” “Did she have a job?”

“She wanted to, but I told her school was her job now, that she could get one next summer.” “How about a boyfriend?” On that, Mr. and Mrs. Glassie shared a look. “No,” Mr. Glassie said, short. Something about that was off, and Isaacs decided not to reply, to see if they filled in the silence themselves. It only took about ten seconds for Mrs. Glassie to jump in. “She wasn’t supposed to,” she said, “she’s only 15.” “But she did anyway?” “No,” again, from Mr. Glassie. “Bill,” from his wife. “He’s not good enough for her.” Ah. So there was a boyfriend. “What’s his name?” Isaacs asked quietly. “Martin Dubois,” said Mrs. Glassie. “We talked to him,” the Sheriff said then, “he didn’t give us much, but he seems like a good kid.” “He’s a goddamn dropout!” Mr. Glassie practically shouted. Stone cut in then. “Mr. Glassie, did Vanessa have a computer?” The question seemed to shake him out of it. “Yes,” he said, with a touch of pride, “a good one.” “Mind if I take a look?” “We didn’t find anything on it,” the Sheriff said. “Just covering all our bases,” Stone said with a smile. Mr. Glassie led him upstairs. Mrs. Glassie looked to Isaacs. “The neighbors are all saying it was fi follet,” she said, on a sniff, “isn’t that silly?” “Will you show me her room?” Isaacs said, not wanting to answer. Mrs. Glassie led her up the staircase and into a bright green room. It was covered with posters. Boys, soccer, Dave Matthews Band. Stone was sitting at her computer, typing, Mr. Glassie hovering nearby. There was a phone on the bedside table, one of the clear ones that showed the working parts inside. Isaacs pointed to the phone and looked at Mr. Glassie. “Does she have her own line?” “No,” he said, “she kept asking for one though.” Isaacs looked to Stone, then addressed Mrs. Glassie. “Do you mind giving us a few minutes?” Mrs. Glassie turned to leave, then looked to her husband, who didn’t budge. “Bill?” They both slowly shuffled out. Isaacs came up behind Stone. “Anything?” she asked, leaning over his shoulder. “Not yet,” he said, “Nothing on AIM or ICQ. No email or anything like that. But,” he said, continuing to type as he spoke, “her history did get wiped the afternoon before she went missing.” “Think you can recover it?” Stone looked at her. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” he said. She snorted a short laugh. About 90 seconds later, he leaned back and pointed to the screen. “There we go,” he said. “’DuBoy’ to ‘SoccerStar22’ in an unlinked chat room. Check it out.”

Isaacs leaned in. “I’ll be damned.”

#the x-files #fanfic #fanfiction #msr #post FTF #Release Valve #my fic

37 notes · View notes

sharinluna · 5 years ago

Text

MLQC Chapter 16 Translation Part 1

Translation of excerpts from chapter 16.

This is not a full translation, only some parts. It’s more like a abbreviation/summary/paraphrasing of some parts of the story. Do not ask me to translate more or reveal more plots in the story.

The translation is based on KR version text. I’m not a professional translator and get things wrong. So do not regard this as the actual canon story.

I used Yōurán as the name of MC because that is the unofficial default MC’s name in CN version.

DO NOT COPY, QUOTE, REPOST OR REBLOG THIS ANYWHERE. Links are okay but I don’t want this post to spread too much in other communities or websites.

16-1

???: As you all know, Hades’s return-to-zero plan has started.

16-3

It has been 10 days since Gavin was gone. I looked down at my bracelet feeling pain and sorrow. He said he’d come back, I had to believe him.

The news was talking about the latest influenza outbreak. The symptoms were similar to a regular flu, coughing, high fever and lethargy. It couldn’t be cured by any existing antibiotics. No one died yet, but the number of the infected was increasing every day. Every laboratory in the nation was researching about this, but there was no solution yet. The virus spread faster than anything we’ve seen before.

I wore my cotton mask before I went out.

When I went to the office building I heard the security guards talking.

Guard: Did you hear about that guy? He caught the flu this morning. He couldn’t even recognize his wife.

I felt anxiety in my heart growing. He didn’t even recognize his wife… how could this be a symptom of a regular flu? It occurred to me that I could inquire someone about the disease.

As I entered the hospital my suspicion that this was not a regular flu grew more. I met doctor Song(the female doctor from chapter 13), after the Evol rampage was solved, she went back to curing patients.

Yōurán: Dr. Song, I wanted to inquire about the recent flu epidemic…

Dr. Song: I was about to call you. There are some strange things, and I wanted to check that I’m not being paranoid… This flu is unlike anything we’ve seen before.

Yōurán: I thought so too, and I just heard something that might back your claim. Among the infected, there are hardly any children or old people. Usually they get sick first because they have weaker immune systems. But this time, it’s the opposite, the flu only targets healthy, young people.

Dr. Song: Yes, and I found out that there are no evolvers among the sick. I think…. the virus is selecting certain genes.

Yōurán: So you’re saying that the virus is targeting healthy non-evolvers on purpose.

Was this another scheme from Black Swan. They’ve targeted evolvers before, now they’re targeting non-evolvers?

16-6

I was walking home. The usually busy streets were empty and many shops were closed down. I felt dismal. Could I ever look up to the sky with light feelings?

The TV screen in the building lighted up.

News: Professor Lucien’s research lab has announced a press conference about the latest influenza.

I stopped right there. I haven’t thought of Lucien for a long time. Since that day, he disappeared from my life. He moved away from next door and didn’t answer any of my calls.

I asked myself many times whether I despised him, and the answer was “no”. The world was not black and white, and I didn’t want to judge him with just one idea of what was right and wrong.

I just didn’t want to think about him again, but every word from the screen etched to my ears. He is part of the Black Swan, and since this virus is likely related to Black Swan… I can’t deny that he is part of all this.

Yōurán: I could just send Willow… or anyone else to report about this conference…

I don’t know what I was trying to avoid. Was I afraid of the answer that would come from him? Was I afraid to find out that the flu outbreak had something to do with him, because I would get emotional? Or… was I simply afraid to see him again?

I closed my eyes and made up my mind. I had to attend this conference.

Footsteps could be heard and the reporters gathered up front to hear what Lucien had to say. Just then, his eyes met me standing among the reporters. I turned around and lowered my head. My heart was beating like crazy. A few seconds later, I gathered courage to glance at him, he was talking to his assistant like he hadn’t seen me.

I needed to get a grip. I made my decision to come here. I was not going to cower in fear. After taking a few deep breathes I held my camera up to start shooting.

16-7

Lucien: Hello. Thank you all for coming. I would like to announce that we are working on a new remedy that will cure the influenza.

Audience A: Professor, my father has the flu, and he’s trying to volunteer for human experimentation. Please refuse him!

I took out my voicepen to record his words and realized that it was actually Lucien’s silver pen. I shoved that thing back into my pocket. I must have brought it instead in my hurry.

Yōurán: Why now…. this… of all things…

I was too busy feeling sorry about myself to notice that Lucien startled for the shortest second.

Lucien: First of all, I would like to offer condolences for your father, but I’m afraid that I can’t grant your wish. Furthermore, I want more people to offer themselves for this drug testing.

Audience A: But… what if my father dies?

Lucien: All scientific progress is founded on sacrifices, that includes trial-and-error of bodily harms and deaths. All of which I think are necessary.

Audience A: So you’re expecting people to submit themselves to this testing that is potentially fatal?

More people began to voice their complaints. But Lucien faced them without even a blink. I suppose for him, this was a rational solution to the problem. I felt resentment rising slowly in my chest.

I’d heard enough. I got up to leave, but someone grabbed my wrist.

Reporter C: Hey, aren’t you the producer of the Miracle Finder? Professor Lucien is a consultant in that show!

Reporter B: Does that mean that you were already aware of his human subject research?

Yōurán: I was just here for the report. Please focus on the conference.

I tried to get away. I sincerely regretted coming here. But I was surrounded by reporters. Questions flew at me from everywhere.

Reporter C: As a producer and his coworker, what’s your opinion about Professor Lucien’s thoughts?

Reporter D: Does Miracle Finder agree with Professor Lucien’s human experimentation?

I looked at Lucien, unsure what to answer. He was looking at me like he was seeing a very entertaining scuffle. The corner of his mouth was even twitching.

I felt anger boiling inside me. I was angry at him, and I was also angry at myself.

Yōurán: Apologies. But this is not something that I can answer. My relationship with Professor Lucien is purely for business, and Miracle Finder will find a new consultant. I ask that you focus on the conference at hand. Please excuse me.

After I was done talking and made to leave, I heard his familiar voice.

Lucien: Does Producer Yōurán(he’s referring to her very formally, almost like a stranger) not agree with the direction of this experiment?

My heart felt like bursting out. I didn’t think that I could face him. I pictured many times how we would meet each other again, but I hadn’t thought that we would meet like this.

Yōurán: No, I don’t.

Lucien: Then why are you trying to leave when the conference is not even over. If there is something you don’t agree, then say it.

His tone was nonchalant, but I could sense fury that the others couldn’t catch.

I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, then turned around and faced him. This was the first time that I saw him face to face since his reveal as Ares.

Yōurán: I want to ask Professor Lucien a question. Earlier you mentioned that sacrifices are necessary. Specifically what kind of sacrifices are needed?

A smile crossed his eyes. He was silent for a moment, then slowly opened his lips.

Lucien: Death, in the sense of physiological meaning.

Yōurán: So you’re saying that it’s normal to demand people to sacrifice their lives for the advancement of society?

Lucien: Yes. I agree wholly to that statement.

The reporters were shooting their films at us enthusiastically. Apparently, the war of words between us was more interesting than the remedy for the flu.

Lucien: This reminds me of the famous trolley problem. No matter what you choose, you face an ethical dilemma. But the truth is, many people fall behind as society progresses, in the form of death or others. It is the law of the universe that the weak ones fall back and the strong ones survive and reproduce. That is the only way that the human race survives continuously.

He enunciated each world clearly as he met my eye. I felt utterly foolish. What was I thinking, that I could change his views which he held onto no matter what?

Yōurán: In your eyes, is human life so insignificant?

He took a step towards me. It seemed that his eyes held some kind of enmity.

Lucien: Then, what is not insignificant in this world?

I gathered up my courage and stood up straighter and said:

Yōurán: All life forms have a right to be respected. Every one of us are doing their best to survive. You may think that’s nothing, but look at the patients in the hospital. They may be comatose, but their consciousness are fighting to stay alive. The children in the orphanages, beggars in streets, they are trying their best to live on. Their will to keep on living is their right. You have no right to deprive people of this.

Silence could be heard. Lucien looked down at me with inquiry and arrogance.

Lucien: Well said. But you are only voicing the minority. Ever since prehistoric times, the human race have slaughtered and sacrificed the weak. Some of those deaths contributed nothing to the society. “Equality” is not the principle of society. Humans have competed with each other to stay in the higher place of hierarchy for survival. If it’s for progress, we don’t even need consent for such sacrifices.

I thought of that day before when he said the same things coldly like this. That it was all for the better future. Is this really the future he wanted?

I asked him something that I wanted to ask for a long time.

Yōurán: What if… you had to sacrifice yourself? Would you still do it?

He nodded without hesitation, it even seemed like he was smiling.

Lucien: Yes. For the advancement of society as a whole, I will gladly make that sacrifice.

Yōurán: What if you had to sacrifice someone precious to you?

Without thinking, that question came out from my lips. I stared at him. I didn’t know what I was hoping for. I knew the answer already.

He kept staring at me without answering. The subtle movement of the corner of his lips seemed to mock my asinine question. Time passed. He still didn’t answer.

What was I doing here? I knew what his answer would be anyway.

There was a time when I thought, if I ever met him again, I would argue with him and voice all my opinions. But I now realized how futile that was. What was the point? He was not the Lucien that I used to know anymore.

Yōurán: I wish you all luck in your research, Professor. However, I cannot agree with your values. Ever. To me, there are more important things than survival.

I closed my eyes to hide my hurt and disappointment, and turned around and walked away. I could hear the shutters of the cameras. Next day there will be numerous headlines about our verbal match, but I didn’t want to care anything about that now.

16-11

I sat down on the bench trying to calm my wildly beating heart. I looked back at the direction of the conference room, and I realized once again that Lucien and I were on opposing sides.

Yōurán: And you already know that. Why are you still concerned…? Let’s just go home…

I gathered my things and realized that I left my pen behind.

Yōurán: Well.. the owner of the pen is still there… if the staff pick it up they will give it to him…

I tried to convince myself to leave with this logic.

Ten minutes later I put my head inside the conference room.

Yōurán: I guess everyone’s gone now…

After I checked that no one was there, I walked hesitantly in. Soon I found the pen on the floor and picked it up.

Yōurán: Found it!

???: What are you doing there?

I startled and hit my head on the podium. It really hurt and I had to drop the pen to grasp my head. Then pen rolled and stopped at the front of black shoes. Long slender fingers picked it up.

Lucien: You came back for this?

His eyes looking down at me held mischief. I gathered myself before approaching him.

Yōurán: Yes. Is something the matter?

He handed the pen out to me.

Lucien: Don’t ever lose it again.

His voice reminded me of that warm late spring day from such a long time ago, but my heart grew colder and colder. I knew shouldn’t have come back here.

I didn’t take the pen from his hand and retraced my steps.

Yōurán: I don’t need it anymore. Besides, it wasn’t mine from the start. The pen should go back to its owner now.

There was no change in his facial expression, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He took the pen in his pocket.

Lucien: You owe me something else besides the pen.

Yōurán: …what?

Lucien approached me and blocked my way.

Lucien: Today I found out that I was resigned from Miracle Finder without notice. Is it too much to demand an explanation?

Yōurán: I’m sure such things don’t matter to you anymore, Professor.

Lucien: It matters for my reputation.

His tone was light, like he was playing with me. The audacity of him!

Yōurán: This is not fair!

Lucien: I thought you already knew that about me.

He’d already stepped closer to me. I felt pressured.

Lucien: All I want to know is why.

Yōurán: You don’t have to waste your valuable time honoring my humble show with your overbearing presence. (She is sarcastically talking to him as if he’s some royalty. That since he’s so high and mighty he shouldn’t concern himself with the likes of her.)

Lucien: What if I want to continue to be on your show?

Anger raged inside me again. I closed my eyes to contain my emotions and said quickly.

Yōurán: You lost your right because you have different values. My show, Miracle Finder, is about intrinsic values of justice and philanthropy.

Why was he not saying anything? When I opened my eyes he had let me go and was walking away from me.

Lucien: Good thinking. I understand.

Yōurán: Wait! I have something I want to ask you. The recent flu outbreak, did you have anything do to with it?

Please, please tell me that you had nothing to do with it.

Lucien: Yes.

I felt something sinking at my chest.

Yōurán: Y, yes, I see…

Lucien: It seems that you’re disappointed in me. What were you planning to do if you confirmed your suspicions?

He was emitting out a dangerous atmosphere. I stepped away from him until I reached the end of the stage.

Lucien: Did your concept of what is right and just, give you what you wanted? Is this what you think is more important than survival? I want to ask you, will you sacrifice someone precious to you to hold on to your beliefs?

My back reached the cold hard wall. Lucien had already put his hand on the wall beside my face.

Lucien: I see you’re hesitating. Should I take that as a yes?

Before I could answer, a bright light blinded my eyes. In an instant a strong force pulled me forward and I was in his arms. Next moment, a ray of golden beam struck the place where I’ve just been. He hugged me tighter into his chest, his hands shielding my head.

He looked out the window. His eyes held a murderous stare. Was I mistaken when I thought I saw in his eyes fear that he would lose something precious to him…? But that look vanished quickly, as if I had imagined it.

I tried to get away from his arms, but he held on tight.

Yōurán: Lucien…

Lucien: Don’t talk…

It felt like things between us had gone back to the way they were before. When he was still Lucien. Like then, he was protecting me from danger. I felt warm in my heart.

I stepped back and saw a hole that was paved on the wall.

Yōurán: Are you okay? Thanks for saving me…

Lucien: It was only for your safety, nothing more.

Yōurán: You saved me… because you need me alive in your plan?

Lucien: Of course, I never engage in useless actions.

I knew it. Back then, the Black Swan goons said they needed me alive for their scheme. So all this time he must have protected me for the same reasons…

I felt tired. I just wanted to get away from here.

Lucien: You still haven’t answered my question.

I looked at his eyes but couldn’t fathom anything about him. Maybe this was for the best. I laughed dejectedly and looked into his eyes.

Yōurán: I didn’t. And I won’t.

My eyes were getting teary but I kept them wide open.

Yōurán: Even if I were smart enough to know all the secrets and knowledge with my precognition, even if I were powerful enough to move all mountains, without love, those are meaningless to me.

Yōurán: The truth of this world is cruel and painful. But even when the light is gone from people’s lives, I will hold on to my own light. No matter how impossible it is, no matter how dark everything else is, no matter how foolish I may be. I won’t give up.

Yōurán: Someone who used to be very precious to me taught me that. I will never give up.

As I turned around I let the tears flow freely. I will never shed tears in front of him again.

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

Okay, I had to stop here because this was being too long.

I had so much fun translating Lucien and MC in the press conference. What I love about their dynamics is that Lucien and MC both hold on firmly to their beliefs but they still care for each other deep down.

Lucien as an extreme Darwinist won’t bat an eyelash as he sacrifices many “weak” people for the “strong” people to survive, but when asked about whether he would sacrifice MC, he refuses to answer.

MC will continue to defy Lucien and fight against him but when asked whether she would “sacrifice” him, she refuses to answer.

They are fighting each other ferociously and they are both determined to defeat the other, but none of their swords will land a fatal blow to each other.

Who will win in this battle? Well the answer is obvious :)

I’ll come up with part 2 when I feel like it.

#mlqc #love and producer #mlqc translation

33 notes · View notes

searchingwardrobes · 6 years ago

Text

Fortunate Son

Happy Birthday, @superchocovian! I hope your day has been an awesome one! You are a super supportive, wonderful part of this fandom, and I hope you know how much you are appreciated. The lyrics to “Fortunate Son” by Creedence Clearwater Revival have often made me think of Killian Jones, and I have therefore wanted to do a Vietnam-era AU for a very long time. I listened to it on repeat, trying to wake up my muse, and this fic happened. I hope you enjoy these 2,000 words of angst with a happy ending!

When I think about the Vietnam War, I think of the Army, the Marines, maybe the Air Force, but I never think of the Navy. I did a modest bit of research for this fic just to make sure this was half-way realistic, and what I learned blew me away. Yes, the US Navy fought in Vietnam, but it wasn’t in the way we usually think, shooting torpedoes on war ships out at sea. Vietnam really didn’t have those types of ships, so the US Navy had to improvise, creating what became known as the “Brown Navy.” The Vietnam coast is all rice paddies and marshes, and the country is a network of rivers, so the US Navy built these riverboats to patrol the coast, putting Navy seaman up close and personal with the Viet-Cong. These men looked just like we usually think of the US Military in Vietnam, wearing that jungle green, carrying machine guns with bullets strapped across their chests. The thing was, it wasn’t the type of combat they were trained for. Needless to say, Killian would have been messed up just as much as any other Vietnam vet from things he had seen, and Liam most likely would have died a very gruesome death. My mind was honestly blown learning about this, and even though I don’t directly describe these things in this fic, it definitely shaped the tone it’s written in. Can we say angst?

Summary: He was a nobody with nothing. No family, no direction, no future. He didn’t even have a left hand anymore, for God’s sake. And she was the president’s daughter. A Vietnam-era Lieutenant Duckling story.

Rating: M for language, war & drug references, and sexual situations (come on, this is a Vietnam-era fic, what did you expect?)

Also on Ao3

Tagging: @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @winterbaby89 @kday426 @teamhook @bethacaciakay @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @shireness-says @let-it-raines @distant-rose @optomisticgirl @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening @killian-whump @hollyethecurious @ohmakemeahercules @xhookswenchx @gingerchangeling

Some folks are born, silver spoon in hand. Lord, don’t they help themselves, oh. It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son, no.

The first time they met he was a na��ve petty officer who had never seen combat. His brother, who had just made Lieutenant, stood next to him. Elsa had teased them that they were chosen for the photograph because they looked so good in dress uniform. Killian was just cocky enough to know she was probably right, and he hated it. As for Emma, her blond hair was pushed back with a turquoise headband, slightly teased and sprayed like current style dictated. Her sheath dress was a swirl of psychedelic colors and her knee-high leather boots were a bright and shiny white. He could tell by the fake smile plastered on her face that she didn’t want to be there. Neither did he, truth be told. He didn’t want to be a prop in her politician father’s photo-op. He certainly didn’t want to fake charm to a senator’s spoiled daughter, either.

He looked her up and down, unable to deny what a stunning figure she cut in her outfit. She could easily have been an actress or a model. But the slight roll of her eyes irritated him. She was nothing but a spoiled princess being dragged around by her rich and influential daddy. Her mother scowled at her and gave her a subtle jab to the ribs. Killian tried not the laugh, keeping his own mask in place. The serious, intense look of a US Naval Officer.

Senator Nolan posed shaking their hands, then with his arms around them. He seemed like a genuine, caring man, and Liam chatted with him amiably. But didn’t these politicians use their charms to earn votes? Killian had a hard time believing it was genuine.

They gave the family a tour of the base, camera clicking away. Killian’s blood pressure intensified every time he heard the blonde girl’s bored sighs. Right before the Nolans boarded their private plane, the photographer asked for pictures of the Nolan women shaking hands with Lt. and Officer Jones. Liam went first, smiling politely as the camera flashed. Killian was polite as well. To Mrs. Nolan, that is. When he reached for Emma’s hand, however, the rogue in him took over.

Instead of merely shaking Emma Nolan’s hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed it, then winked at her audaciously. She scowled at him and yanked her hand away.

Yet he did note the pink in her cheeks, and he swiped his tongue over his bottom lip at the sight. She narrowed her eyes further and crossed her arms over her chest. Her cheeks however, had now deepened to a delightful shade of red. Served the snooty Daddy’s girl right.

Some folks are born made to wave the flag, ooh, they’re red, white, and blue, and when the band plays, “Hail to the Chief,” ooh, they point the canon at you, Lord. It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no millionaire’s son.

The second time he saw her, he was more bitter and completely broken. Then again, so was she. Gone were the teased hair and go-go boots. In there place was a long, golden waterfall of tangled curls and a billowing hippy dress. Her face was hardened, yet a spark still lit her eyes. How they got her to come, he wasn’t sure, but the light in those jade eyes flashed with intensity as she handed her father each purple heart. Her gaze flickered to the blunted wrist at the end of his left arm, but then quickly rose to meet his eyes. He expected pity, maybe even compassion, but not the look of understanding. Did she recognize him?

“Thank you for your service to your country,” her father said as he pinned the purple heart to the chest of his dress uniform.

They had warned them that the first family likely wouldn’t mingle at the reception, so he was shocked when she was suddenly there at his elbow.

“We met you before, at the base in Norfolk.”

He blinked, not expecting her to remember.

“Um, yes, yes you did.”

“You had a brother.” She was fidgeting, grasping the fabric of her dress in her fist.

“Yes.”

She took one tiny step forward. “What happened to him?”

He swallowed, the plate he held in his one remaining hand trembling slightly. “He didn’t come home, I’m afraid.”

“Neither did Graham,” she whispered. He suddenly realized where he had seen that look in her eyes before: in Elsa’s when Liam’s body came home in a flag-draped coffin.

They both had reasons for the loss of innocence in their eyes, the hardness in the set of their jaws. A lost brother, a lost fiancé. It was a common tale. Frantic, desperate sex for just one night was a common tale lately, too. People broken by this war – this conflict that is – trying to fill the empty spaces with something to feel. But he was a nobody with nothing. No family, no direction, no future. He didn’t even have a left hand anymore, for God’s sake. And she was the president’s daughter. The God-damn secret service probably knew they fucked.

The president’s daughter! What the hell had he been thinking? She was gone the next morning, of course. He had expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the note.

Sorry I left. It’s complicated. - Emma

Ooh, they send you down to war, Lord, and when you ask them, “How much should we give?”, ooh, they only answer “More! More! More!” It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no military son.

The next time he saw her, he was glad five years had gone by. Glad because three of those five he had drowned himself in rum. It could have been worse. He could have been tripping on acid like so many other vets. Could have ended up homeless.

Thank God for Admiral Nemo. He’d come to the squalid apartment he was sharing with Scarlet and Jefferson. Scarlet, who had a worse habit with whiskey than he did with rum. Jefferson, who unfortunately had fallen down the rabbit hole with harder vices. Nemo had practically pried a bottle of rum out of Killian’s hand and dragged him out of there. A year of AA meetings and physical therapy on his arm, and Killian was working alongside Nemo in the private sector. Ships could carry more than troops and weapons, after all.

The day she dropped back into his life, she was dressed professionally, in one of those dresses that looked like a trench coat, and her boots weren’t quite so tall or quite so shiny. Her hair was a bit shorter, the curls softer. Her mouth fell open a little when he walked out of his office, her face turning a shade paler. He smiled at her kindly, gently, trying to assure her that she needn’t be embarrassed. She wasn’t the first grieving woman to tumble into bed with a broken sailor, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Emma had a camera around her neck; she was the photographer Nemo had hired for their new company brochures. Their conversation was brief, polite, and Killian couldn’t help the feeling of loss that washed over him as she began to walk away. Then she paused.

“Killian,” she said, turning around with a smirk on her face, “you look good.”

All he could do was stand there like a complete idiot with a goofy smile on his face.

She found him later, when she was done taking pictures, and he managed to ask her for coffee. Her face went slightly pale again, her eyes going a bit wide, but she said yes. This time, it was her hand that shook as she grasped a mug of hot chocolate. The more he tried to engage her in small talk, the more nervous she seemed.

Finally, he sighed into his own mug of black coffee. “Look, Emma, I think I read this wrong. I was happy to see you again, and was foolish enough I suppose to think fate caused our paths to cross again. But you’re clearly nervous, and I don’t wish to push -”

“No,” she cut him off, “it’s not that.” She took a deep breath, then blurted out, “I had a baby five years ago . . . It’s yours.”

She may as well have punched him in the gut. She babbled on about how she tried to find him, but he’d left the military, so there wasn’t really a way to contact him. Her mother had mentioned pulling some strings with the FBI, but she didn’t want to invade his privacy.

“I hate everything my parents stand for,” she barreled on, “so no way was I letting Big Brother hunt you down.”

She bit her lip as she searched his eyes, and he had a flash of memory. Emma beneath him, long blonde hair splayed out on the pillow, moaning and biting on that full lower lip of hers as she came. He shook his head to clear it.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” she whispered.

“I’ve thought about that night a hundred times.” Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. It was probably completely out of context. He held his breath thinking he’d put his foot in his mouth until a smile slowly spread across her face.

“So have I.”

Some folks inherit star-spangled eyes. It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate son.

He met Henry for the first time on Emma’s front lawn. He was riding a bicycle on the grass, with no training wheels. He kept falling over into the grass, then jumping right back on again. An elderly woman sat on Emma’s front porch swing, watching over him. The babysitter said her goodbyes, and Emma pulled Killian down on the porch steps to meet his son.

They didn’t tell Henry that night who Killian was. They didn’t tell him the next day either when they took Henry to the beach to look for shells. They didn’t tell him the month after when Killian made them pancakes after staying the night. No moment ever seemed right, until the day the three of them sat on a blanket at the park having a picnic lunch. Killian knew if he was going to use the ring in his pocket, he better let his son in on the truth.

His son. His son and Emma’s.

He still had nightmares sometimes; of men cut down all around him, the muddy marshes turning red with their blood. He still could never forget Liam dying in his arms, choking on blood. So much blood. His dreams were often red with it.

Yet Emma was there when he woke in a cold sweat, and he knew in the deepest part of him that she always would be. His son rested against his chest when he was tired, his brown hair wet with sweat, his limbs loose as jello. Despite the death Killian had seen and been a part of, this innocent child slept peacefully in his arms.

Emma’s tender smile and Henry’s wide and trusting eyes made him hope again, made him believe again. That maybe, just maybe, he was the most fortunate man in the world.

#cs ff #cs modern au #lieutenant duckling #cs vietnam-era au #angst #angst with a happy ending #fandom birthday playlist #for superchocovian #on her birthday #fortunate son

79 notes · View notes

theheartofpenelope · 5 years ago

Text

Simple Things : Chapter nine

Excerpt - As she hurried down the hallway her eyes fell onto the sight she’d somewhat feared... A bespectacled man was reading a paperback at the door of her hotel room. There he was; casually leaning against the door case. The man who had comforted her to sleep, the same man who had urged her to Ystad to ease her mind. Was it silly of her to feel tingly all over as she set eyes on him? Tag list: @winterisakiller, @devikafernando, @scorpionchild81, @messy-insomniac-bookgirl, @smutsausage, @hiddlesbitch1 @noplacelikehome77 @wolfsmom1 @meh1217 @dina-bln @lilaeye39 @tinchentitri @fairlightswiftly @nonsensicalobsessions @wolfsmom1 @stmeiou @ink-and-starlight @givemecocoaa @profkmoriarty13 @nikkalia @massivelemon @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @argo-shila @emoietmoi @redfoxwritesstuff @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @raining-litter Author’s Notes/Warnings: tags will follow later on Anyway thank you in advance for feedback - would love to know what you think…Also on AO3 through this link Masterlist available through here Bonus: click here for the pinterest moodboard (always updated)

Chapter Nine Edinburgh, Scotland– day one

1. July turned to August. And just like every other year Edinburgh was transformed to accommodate the Fringe Festival. Scotland’s capital was turned upside down as a wide range of performers of all arts and nationalities touched base in the city. Countless stages were being set up all over the city, ready to present spectacles of all kinds and for every taste.

This year Tom would be partaking as well, albeit for one night only. It was a childhood dream come true. He had decided to turn his stay into some sort of a city break, allowing himself some extra days on site because, well, Fringe. With relatives nearby he’d been wanting to visit and a list of performances to explore he granted himself the gift of time. “A mini-break, Charlotte would be so proud,” he’d laughed to himself.

But first and foremost, true to his words, Tom had made his arrangements to meet up with Charlotte. It had been settled that he would pick her up at her hotel after she concluded her seminar for the day. He wanted to show her the city that held plenty of his childhood memories, he wanted to introduce her to the wonderful world of Fringe - certain in every way that this would be a festival to her taste. He wanted to take her to the Theatre and see her revell in the experience as she did in London. He wanted to talk to her, spend time with her without having to keep an eye on the clock. He wanted every second, as long as it was with her.

She had been on his mind ever since he’d ran into her at the airport that day. On the weirdest moments and in the strangest situations. However when Tom turned down his cousin’s invitation for an event occuring on the night he was to meet Charlotte, he was quick to inform said cousin he was just simply meeting up with someone; a friend. It was most definitely not a date, merely a friendly get-together. The sentence had rolled of his tongue as it had done many, many, times before, in other situations, with other people. This time however the words left him somewhat hollow. Strange.

In the elevator Charlotte glanced at her watch for the umpteenth time, fully realising she was - in fact - still running late. As the steel sliding doors finally opened to her floor, she rushed down the hallway on her white heels, her off white dress flowing casually along, a binder closely held to her chest while her other hand balanced her purse.

As she hurried down the hallway her eyes fell onto the sight she’d somewhat feared... A bespectacled man was reading a paperback at the door of her hotel room. There he was; casually leaning against the door case. The man who had comforted her to sleep, the same man who had urged her to Ystad to ease her mind. Was it silly of her to feel tingly all over as she set eyes on him?

If anything the setback in the seminar’s planning had been a blessing in disguise to Charlotte as it had left her with no time to stress about meeting up with Tom. The afternoon transitioned into early evening without granting her even the slightest second in which she would be able to worry about anything at all. Besides running late of course.

“I’m sò sorry I made you wait,” she apologised. Tom only greeted her with a lopsided smile, urging her not to worry about any of it. They had the rest of the evening, he reasoned before greeting her with a casual peck on the cheek. Her loose hair smelled of citrus and a hint of white musk.

“Do I have time to freshen up just a little bit? Slip into something more appropriate?”

Charlotte rambled on, unaware how he cautiously admired her attire while cautiously reminding himself that this was not a date.

Charlotte inserted her key card and headed into her room, wordlessly inviting him inside. And while she rummaged around in the bathroom, Tom curiously laid eyes on the books that lay scattered on her nightstand. He started flipping pages before coming across a thin hardcover book titled ‘the Amsterdam Canals’.

“See anything you like?” her gentle inquiry startled him and Charlotte quietly laughed at her realisation of it. Tom chuckled slightly and readjusted his glasses before turning his attention from the books back to her as she made her way towards him.

“That one is for you actually,” she picked up the slim book, presenting it to him.

“I spotted it on a flea market; it’s from an Ecuadorian photographer. Thought you might like it better than the crappy shots I sent you.”

Her lips curved into a kindhearted smile as she admiringly pointed out some of her favourite images to him. However his eyes were fixated on her rather than the book.

“Are you serious?” he gave her an incredulous look, “you shouldn’t have....”

“Hmmm, I have this thing,” she shrugged, “with books. I don’t know. An accidental discovery, I couldn’t just leave it there… ”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he nodded while a genuine feeling of happiness snuck up on him, “I appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Well, it’s no Paulo Coelho…” Charlotte felt a blush coming up and swiftly steered away from the subject. Buying that book had seemed an attentive gesture to her at the time, but in retrospect, maybe it had been a strange and foolish thing to do?

“So, what do you think,” she switched her hip in good fun as she fake-modeled a casual short-sleeved sweater dress, “am I good to go now?”

“You’re perfect,” the words rolled of his tongue. And it wasn’t a lie.

Remember Tom, not a date.

2. His long legs climbed the Scottish hillside at a very steady pace; Charlotte suspected this was a regular visit to him. Had to be. She gave herself thumbs up for wearing a pair of sneakers while she marched up the (sometimes not so gentle) slope. She may have lost the benefit of added height, but was ever more grateful for gaining the ability to ease through the brisk climb.

Tom was clearly in his element and this amused her greatly. He explained how Edinburgh was built on seven hills and Charlotte was thankful they would only be climbing up just one that evening. It was clear she had been sitting too much these days. All these seminars were a professional blessing, but a physical curse. This, combined with the heat wave, has created this bizarre yearning in her mind to go swimming, not climbing hills. But she had no say in this tonight. She’d agreed to letting him surprise her with what he reckoned a ‘sightseeing-de-luxe’. He made her promise to not take any notice of the view while climbing up, but to allow herself to get surprised at the summit. And who has she to deny him of this - obviously great - pleasure?

“So this one, is called Arthur’s Seat and they say it’s a sleeping dragon,” Tom elaborated. “An old Celtic story says that a dragon used to fly around the sky, terrorising the region and eating all the livestock. Eventually it ate sò much, that one day it lay down, went to sleep, and never woke up again.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine his inner 10 year old that still awed over the legend.

Charlotte smiled to herself, taking in all the information while playfully addressing him as ‘Tourguide Tom’ for the rest of the hike. It had only spurred him on though; under a thick Scottish accent he directed her attention to St. Anthony’s Chapel, the Royal Mile, etc.

“Ye ken, traditionally oan main day, yoong kimmers woods climb th' hillside an' wash their coopon in th' dew,” he continued with a smirk, “legend has is 'at thes woods keep them lookin' yoothful an' bonnie.” (*)

(*) “You know, traditionally on May Day, young women would climb the hillside and wash their face in the dew. Legend has is that this would keep them looking youthful and beautiful.”

It might as well have been Chinese to Charlotte. While she did have English under her belt, the Scottish dialect was just a bit too far out her reach. Except for maybe some easy basics…

“Ur ye feckin' kiddin' me?!”

If anything, Tom did not see this one coming. His hand flew to his chest, he threw his head back and laughed. Loudly and without reservation.

“Com’n then love,” Tom tittered on, while guiding Charlotte up the hill for those last few feet. Charlotte chuckled along. He seemed so happy, carefree, a bit flirty, probably without trying to be. He was in good spirits and it was quite catchy...

Against all of her expectations, the summit was quite touristy. A lot of vacationers promenaded around, their cameras in hand while they were alternatively in awe of the view and anxious to take that perfect vacation picture so they could relive the moment at home.

But when she herself was standing near the edge of that particular hillside, Charlotte finally understood; the view was nothing short of spectacular. She fell silent at the sight of Edinburgh at her feet, the old city centre was buzzing with activity, with mood lighting everywhere. The people down below were crawling all over the streets like ants, the cars and bicycles seemed almost toy-like.

She heard Tom approaching behind her. It sounded like a gently sigh escaped his lips, mere moments before she heard him quietly murmuring into her ear, “now if I remember this well, you are a sea girl before anything else…,”

In their messages post-Hamburg he had learned about Charlotte’s affinity with water. With the sound of crashing waves, the effect of the surf that could always, always calm her down and relax. Something about childhood memories and Oyster Festival Parades (but she hated oysters. It cracked him up.). Also something with boats, the sounds of the marina. He never told her, but that was exactly why he’d urged her to Ystad. Out of the city. Closer to nature. In a cottage close to the beach; the promise of a deserted shore where you could sit for hours on end just enjoying the silence...

He gently placed his hands over her upper arms and guided her a bit to the right, changing her position so her eyes could catch the entire panoramic view he had in mind.

“You need the full perspective,” he whispered.

WIth a gasp Charlotte noted the ocean coming within view; the dull cry of seagulls in the distance, little boats making their way back to the safe harbour.

“Oh my…”

“Yah,” a proud smile and he nodded. “I couldn’t bare the thought of you visiting Edinburgh and not coming up here.”

“Something tells me you couldn’t bare the thought of not coming up here yourself.”

Tom looked at her out of the corner of his eye and chuckled as he admitted to her speculation with an ambiguous nod.

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.”

Charlotte, however, could only frown at Lord Byron’s beautiful poetry, and declared that she knew melancholy when she saw it. A lazy smile curved among Tom’s lips as he cast his eyes down, “and how are you?”

“Don’t digress Tourguide Tom,”

“Says the evasive lawyer,” he quickly retorted.

“Not evasive,” she defended; a caring sympathy lingering through her voice, “I was just first.”

“Are we five?” he cocked his eyebrow in good fun, which promptly urge a giggle from Charlotte.

She looked upon him gleefully and he wondered what it was that made her feel so… familiar and honest and ‘good’?

“What is wìth you today?” Charlotte chortled, “someone ought to teach you manners again. Am I going to speak with your mysterious blonde over this?”

Tom shook his head with a laugh as he quickly retorted the mystery blonde was simply not for him. It had been a casual answer but it didn’t make Charlotte feel any less mortified for mentioning it. Tom sweetly shrugged Charlotte’s apology off. Because there was nothing here to be sorry about. Not one thing at all…

“But,” he raised his index finger proudly, “you will be happy to know that I’m taking a mini-break. Right now.”

“You’re not!” she exclaimed excitedly, “finally! Is that why you’re so…”

“So? So what?” he curved his brow comically, “oh really, finish that sentence for me now.”

Charlotte cackled and admitted she’d rather not. “Oh my, but you’re really doing it. Slowing down. Zoning out. La dolce far niente…” she teased while rubbing her arms. Strands of her hair circled around, dancing freely on the fickle wind.

“Are you cold darling?” he ran his hand over her back, but Charlotte only shook her head, “nah, only surprised how much cooler it is up here. Brisk breeze here,”

“I should’ve told you, it’s always quite windy up here…” he pondered for a little while, “What do you think - Fish and chips?”

Charlotte threw her head back, in an attempt to shake her long tresses out of her face and dramatically bellowed, “god yes!” After days and days of fancy food and finger sandwiches, fish and chips was just perfect. The ideal amount of grease and calories and she was up for it.

He winked and slanted his head to announce their descent.

“There,” he inched nearer and ran his hand from the top of her head of her to her sides, brushing her hair down as he did, “you look like a rockstar.”

There he was, it was as if the clouds had somehow lifted and she for the first time saw him for who he really was. All pretences stripped away. Nothing but his friendly charm, his familiar support, she felt as if she was coming home to an old friend. She could feel his body radiate as they stood close and noted how a soft frown came over him, his eyes scanning her expression.

Her heart skipped a beat. Actually more than one.

Oh, for Pete’s sake! Pull yourself together Charlotte!

She was acutely aware of their proximity and the crazy things it started doing to her, she was even more aware of individuals that kept on roaming around, closer and closer still.

“I erm,” she croaked, “I think you have been spotted,” she raised an eyebrow.

“You think?” a frown of disbelief came over him. This was Scotland, he was good in Scotland. There were no paparazzi here. Or were there?

“I erm, I spy some hesitation, I think they’re going to come up closer to make sure,” her eyes concernedly flashed back at him. Beautiful dark orbs mirroring nothing but honesty and concern. Tom nodded.

3. And, in fact, the small group did just what Charlotte had carefully predicted. As usual, Tom was polite and charming. He offered the vacationists a kind word but rapidly apologized himself to the group when he’d noticed Charlotte had started the descent on her own. Though he found it really defined her and her headstrong, independent, I’ll-be-just-fine-attitude, in his heart this was just not right.

Unbeknownst to him, Charlotte’s heart had been beating rapidly in her chest. And the overwhelming need to shake the nonsense out of her head demanding her to do something about it. And soon. So she started walking downhill, rubbing her arms along the way and taking deep breaths while repeating her new mantra in her head.

Oh dear, oh my, do not make a fool out of yourself Charlotte!

She was thankful though, when Tom caught up with her again and escorted her further down the hillside where he proceeded to gladly introduce her to one of his favourite fish and chips shops. It took her mind of her recent embarrassment and, truth be told much more than this, it stilled the appetite she’d been nurturing during the hike.

To Tom it was clear the woman had no shame in enjoying her food. At all. He liked that. And promptly ordered them a couple of Brewdog’s brown beer, because ‘if you’re doing this, you have to do this right.’

Charlotte had her eyes lowered and focused on skewering chips onto her fork when she casually slipped that she was grateful for him taking her around town and curiously questioned him about Fringe. He gladly and enthusiastically informed her.

When they finally set foot into the centre of Edinburgh, ready to immerse themselves into the experience of the Fringe Festival, the amount of visitors in the streets dizzied her. Charlotte had jokingly mumbled she’d go wherever he would lead, Tourguide Tom, just as long he wouldn’t lose her in the crowd.

And so - after only a few minutes mingling in the streets, he’d wordlessly grabbed a hold of her hand. Without looking. She was sure his only agenda was to guide her safely through the mass in the streets. His hand was large and warm and held onto hers with a caring confidence. Charlotte was surprised at the gesture, but gladly succumbed to it. How could a gesture so small, result to an effect this grand. Oh god, this would not end well.

Don’t let go.

4. Tom safely led Charlotte through the crowds on the streets, towards venues she would not be able to find on her own given the chance. Charlotte looked around in amazement at the liveliness of the city and its visitors, willingly following Tom wherever he guided her.

He explained there were a few acts he thought she might enjoy and led the way and Charlotte followed curiously. The venue was - she guessed - an old concert building. Obviously no longer in use. Shame though. It was dark and crowded. The audience was quite diverse which left her utterly clueless on what she was to expect. The viewers were elated though and anxious. An intriguing start…

He ushered her further down the parterre and towards the front of the stage, where she would closer to the music and away from the blinking neons that blinded her and left her under his control. Not that he mind doing just that.

He turned to the right as they got closer to the podium and asked her if she would be alright standing there. She noted it would leave them with a close view of the performers, but they also escaped the harsh lighting thanks to the overlooking balcony, which she did not mind at all.

Relatively soon the spotlights died down and the hall was enclosed into shades of blue. Spotlights brought the audience attention up to the ceiling. Tom however could not help but sneak a peek at her, curious towards her experience, just to see if he had made the right choice with this. Would she be enjoying herself?

He could see her look up above the stage with big curious eyes, and how her lips slowly curved themselves into a wondrous smile as a pair of aerial ballet dancers came tumbling down.

Her smile was only getting wider and wider by the second as she watched the performers play and as the amazement of their craft settled in. She was rapt, there was no denying that.

That smile was all he longed to see. An emotion came across his heart. Not the sense of pride he was expecting, this was different.

Tom brought his gaze back onto the scene himself, until he felt her eyes on him mere seconds later and wordlessly drawing him in. They sparkled and it was all the answer he’d ever needed. They exchanged the broad smile she thanked him with.

Her eyes conveyed beauty, wondrous amazement, appreciation and pure delight. It warmed his heart because he felt just the same, just looking at her.

The dancers swept the audience away, moving them from cautious emotion to elation and from grief to hope with such a flexible ease.

When the male dancer came tumbling down, some of the spectators gasped and Charlotte was no exception. Her hand was covering her mouth and Tom instinctively ran his hand over her spine, inching closer to ask her if she was alright. She merely nodded, never taking her eyes of the stage.

When the music swelled, implying the woman would follow the man’s path suit, Tom could swear he felt Charlotte tensing up under his gentle touch.

A closer look indeed revealed her hesitating whether or not to keep looking. She ultimately squeezed her eyes shut and turned around slightly, gratefully clasping her hands over his forearms. The viewers gasped once more and she immediately scanned Tom’s expression for clues.

“What happened?"

But Tom only stood, gawking at the stage in stupor.

"What happened?" she pressed on before eventually turning her head back to see what had the growing whispering and gasping behind her back.

She heard Tom, brought back out of his daze, softly whispering “I thought you didn’t want to see this…?”

Dirty tease.

“I’m curious,” she defended as she looked back up to him again, “also, you were no help at all.”

“I’ve gathered that by now,” his lips gently brushed her ear as he mumbled on.

“It’s a problem, I know,” she sighed, “but I hàve to… else I’ll just imagine the worst.”

“You’ll imagine the worst?” he tilted an eyebrow in good humour.

“My imagination is my worst nightmare, I’m afraid…” her eyes twinkled as she joked.

She could feel his eyes settle on her while he suppressed a laugh. Suddenly she was well aware of the fact that his hand had remained on the small of her back and her hands still clasped over his forearm. She found herself teetering on that fine line between composure and absolute surrender again. How could she not? After spending this perfect night with this charming man...

Glancing back up at him, only to find him looking right back at her, she wondered if she balancing thin border alone or not. It didn’t help that the music was compelling, or the fact that shades of blue enhanced the mystery within his handsome features.

Charlotte’s eyes travelled from his eyes to his lips. Everything about him called her in. Even hours prior, on Arthur’s Seat. Like a moth to a flame. She felt her pulse racing, her heartbeat deafening her ears.

She could vaguely see his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but last-minute decided against it. Did he lean in closer or did she? She failed to remember. All she realised was that at some point she was close enough to feel her nose softly brushing against his cheek while her thumbs softly stroked his arms.

Her lips seemed to search out his but neglected to kiss them, instead they hover over his as if to sense whether they would fit, whether he would consent? Her eyes fluttered shut when she finally did dare to sweep her lips onto his.

It felt as if the world suddenly had stopped turning, as if all sound had left the venue and nothing else existed apart from them. There. Together.

It was silly, impulsive maybe, but there was no way running back from it now. And if all went to hell, well then, let it. At least she would feel no regret. After a while.

When her lips left his, she stood frozen for a moment, eyes closed, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell and afraid of how he might react.

Images of the World Cup Semi Final Party drift back into her mind. Sensations of a satisfying, yet tipsy kiss. Much less chaste than the one they shared now. But just like that night, she pulled back a little. And when she did dare to search his eyes again, she found they simply glistened at her in honesty; radiating warmth and looking at her lovingly.

His thumb grazed her soft lips. His weight shifted closer and she swore she heard him whispering her name while the distance between them was closed once more. He moved his fingers along her jaw, sliding them into the side of her hair when his lips capture hers in return.

Charlotte gladly and unreservedly surrendered to him, to his warmth, his taste, his scent and his touch. She adored how those first few kisses just lingered, although remaining featherlight before their eager lips parted, longing and desperate for so much more.

She easily moulded herself to his rhythm, her fingers drifting over the skin of his neck and proceeding to ghost over his bearded skin.

She adored the fact that his hands gently but firmly enclosed themselves around her waist, so he could hold her firmly against his own body. Cradling her so devotedly moments before they both lost themselves in a very amorous embrace.

She felt as though her heart might burst.

Good lord. Don’t stop.

The sound of an enthusiastic applause in the venue brought them both back to earth quickly, cruelly ending their passionate embrace.

As the outside world started to slowly seep back in, Tom rested his forehead against Charlotte’s, basking in the sensation of her hand that still remained splayed out on his chest. His fingers combed through her hair and he relished in her sweet perfume that enticed him ever so much.

“We seem to have a knack for bad timing,” he chuckled to her amusement.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x ofc #simple-things

39 notes · View notes

babybluebanshee · 5 years ago

Text

Seared With Scars - Chapter 7 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Previous Chapter

“When it comes to controlling human beings, there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by belief. And beliefs can be manipulated.”

- Michael Ende

---

Ivan knew it was almost time.

He rose from his cot, standing to his full height, and stretched a little. No sense in being stiff and achy for what was soon going to happen.

He looked again at the newspaper clipping, still clasped tightly in his fist, as if it were an extension of himself. He supposed, in a way, that’s what it was. It displayed what Ivan truly wanted and strived for, all the reasons he was still alive. True, those reasons could very well spell his death later on, but he’d had plenty of time to come to terms with that.

But for now, all that mattered was the culmination of tonight’s endeavors with Stanford Pines.

The thought of Dr. Pines made his jaw clench involuntarily. Ivan wanted very badly to blame him as the cause of all this. After all, he was the one who summoned that triangular abomination into their world, offered up his hand and mind to forces he couldn’t hope to understand or control. Had a hand in everything Ivan holding dear inching ever closer to destruction.

He wanted to hate Dr. Pines. It would have been so much easier.

He’d tried to force himself to, assailing him with a pipe and fists and kicks, trying to work his body up into a frothing rage, something that had never been hard for him when his plans were stymied by a foolish man who had almost ruined everything.

He’d tried emotional manipulation, which had proven even more effective than attacking him bodily. He’d actually shocked himself a bit with how easy it was to watch devastation slowly inch into a man’s already-weakened frame, the desperate crumbling of his resolve play out on his face like a beautifully choreographed dance.

It was the closest he’d come to truly hating Dr. Pines all night. The rush of satisfaction, the sick glee that came with knowing that he’d finally dealt a blow strong enough to chip away at the other man’s defenses, bring him low enough that he’d do anything Ivan asked.

A part of him delighted in the suffering he’d foisted on another human being, and it almost completely eclipsed the part of him that should be horrified by that.

But this unsettling sadism flared out quickly, no matter what he did. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate Dr. Pines. After all, if he hadn’t summoned that triangular monster, someone else would have. The demon was crafty that way, full of silver-tongued promises and flattery, and it took a strong will to resist him.

It would have been so much easier to just hate Dr. Pines. But Ivan knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t blame Dr. Pines entirely. He was a weak human, the same as all the others. He wasn’t the first idiot to be tricked by the demon. But, if tonight went well, he could be the last.

Tonight would put an end to this distraction. No one - not Dr. Pines, not his brother, not Dr. Bergstrum, and certainly not Fiddleford McGucket - would stand in the way of him and his army any longer. He was going to end this, and then send that demon back to whatever hellish dimension he’d crawled out from.

His hands were far too stained to even think about looking back now.

The sound of rustling paper caught his attention, and he looked back down the clipping. It fluttering in his trembling hand. Ivan took a moment to breathe deeply, willing the tremors to cease.

Anger that a few stupid people could throw everything he’d worked so hard for in jeopardy.

Fear that all this would not be enough in the end.

Exhaustion, for he’d been at this fight for some time indeed.

And, worst of all, guilt. He felt guilty for so many things: the lying, the subterfuge, the torture - for, yes, he admitted to himself that what he’d done to Dr. Pines was torture, plain and simple.

This hurricane of emotion roiled away in his stomach, making him feel sick.

Oh, it would just be so much easier if he just hated Dr. Pines.

He seemed to remember feeling this way many times before.

Fortunately, he also knew how to make it stop.

The memory gun sat on the floor by his cot. He reached down and picked it up. He twisted the dial a few times, not even having to look at the screen to know that the words “PAIN” flickered on the screen in bright green letters.

Ivan took one last glance at the newspaper clipping, one last glance at the sad young boy staring into the camera. For a brief moment, it felt as if the boy was staring directly at Ivan, beseechingly, brokenly. Ivan exhaled slowly, then tucked the clipping into his sleeve.

Then he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

And all that was left was the hate for Dr. Pines. It flowed through him, like an angry, flooded river, ready to swallow everything in its path.

It came so easily.

He felt better.

----

To the outsider observer, their little group looked utterly ridiculous, and Fiddleford knew it.

There was Stan, who just fifteen minutes ago had given Fiddleford a brutally honest and insightful dressing down through a haze of cigarette smoke, covertly slipping a pair of highly illegal, suspiciously-stained brass knuckles into his pocket.

There was Helen, a baseball bat Stan had given her slung over her shoulder as nonchalantly as if it were a trusted walking stick. Like they were all about to go on a Sunday drive, and not on a rescue mission.

There was Ed, still dressed in his Society robes, who’d politely turned down a crossbow when Stan offered it to him. “I’ve never even been target shooting,” he’d told them. “I wouldn’t even know how to hold that thing right.”

And then there was Fiddleford himself, with nothing more than a knapsack slung over his shoulder. True, the knapsack held a very important bargaining chip for him, but he kept that to himself for the time being.

Yes, they were an odd assortment with a frankly deranged quest in mind. If he hadn’t lived through all the events leading up to this moment in time, he would have laughed. But he knew better.

Ivan had to be stopped. The Society needed to be reigned in. Ford needed their help. And they were going to make sure that happened.

Fiddleford began to open the door to the front seat, but Stan suddenly barked, “You’re in the back with Helen. Matthews is up here with me.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow, then looked back to Dr. Matthews. The older man was staring back in confusion, his hand hovering over the handle to open the door behind the passenger seat. Fiddleford saw that Helen had already slid into the seat behind Stan’s, her face stony and serious, gaze so firm on the headrest in front of her, it looked like she was trying to bore a hole in it.

When Dr. Matthews turned his head to look at her, possibly expecting her to say something to Stan about how it wasn’t a big deal if he sat near her, things were fine, nothing was wrong, she didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t utter a single word. She simply lowered her head a little and stared at her feet.

With a sad sigh, Matthews took his hand away from the handle and walked to the front seat. Fiddleford stepped away to let him pass, then ducked back to slide into the backseat. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Stan’s face. Whereas Helen was regarding Matthews like she was trying to pretend he wasn’t there, Stan settled that steely, fiery gaze on the doctor, and didn’t stop watching him until he had ducked into the front seat and was safely buckled in.

Fiddleford supposed that Stan’s distrust was understandable. Not only did Stan have a decade’s worth of experience with people it was incredibly foolish to trust, but there was also Helen to consider. As the car sputtered to life around them and eased forward, Fiddleford stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. He had no idea what she and Stan had talked about after she’d retreated to the porch, but whatever it was had left her quiet and pensive. Even now, her gaze was focused outside, her chin resting on her hand.

For the entire time it took them to gather their supplies and get out the door, Stan had been very unsubtly planting himself between Helen and Dr. Matthews. Every time the older man got too close to her for Stan’s liking, he’d shove himself up next to her, like a protective, bulky wall, until Matthews got the hint and moved away. Stan clearly blamed Matthews for causing Helen’s panic attack, and he seemed determined to keep Matthews at arm’s length from her.

Fiddleford would have found it noble if Stan hadn't insisted on bringing her along.

When he saw Stan handing her the bat before they left the house, he’d almost balked, demanded to know why Stan thought it was a good idea to hand a person who’d just thrown up in the sink and nearly hyperventilated a weapon and invite her along on a potentially dangerous mission.

Then he’d caught a look at Helen’s face - mouth set in a determined line, shoulders squared, fist clenched tight enough around the grip of the bat to make her knuckles turn white. She was a woman with a mission.

Still, he’d tried to open his mouth to say something, anything. After all, he didn’t want her to be hurt anymore than Stan did, and unlike Stan, he knew that an exhausted and vulnerable person tended to be the one who was hurt the most in situations like these.

It was like she’d read his mind. As soon as his mouth was open and a breath of speech had escaped him, Helen’s head snapped in his direction, and Fiddleford had actually taken a step back. Her eyes were full of an angry fire, hot and intense, ready to burn down anything that stood in her way, him included.

He’d quickly snapped his mouth shut, but nothing about Helen being here sat right with him. She should be resting. Even the bat currently resting against her leg didn’t do much to assuage his concerns.

A bump in the road jostled Fiddleford from his thoughts, and he realized that they had left the uneven dirt road of the woods, and onto the paved streets of town. The only light around them was the dusty yellow of the streetlamps. The only sound was the vague road noise around them. Fiddleford looked at the clock set in Stan’s dash. It was five minute to two.

“Take a left at the next stop sign, then keep going straight until you hit Huckabone Street,” Matthews said suddenly, voice tight and quiet, slicing through the silence like an arrow shot by a quivering hand. As they passed under one of the streetlamps, Fiddleford saw his Adam’s apple bob in a nervous gulp.

“You’re not even going to tell us where we’re going?” Helen asked. Fiddleford looked over at her, surprised not only that she’d finally spoken, but at the sheer amount of venom behind the words.

“I figured it would be easier if I just gave directions to the man who’s only lived here for a couple of months,” Matthews replied. There was an odd playfulness in his tone, like he was trying to joke with Helen, ignore the tension between them and just get back to the professional friendship they’d had as colleagues.

From Helen’s face, Fiddleford suspected the effort was in vain. She just let out a derisive sigh through her nose.

Matthews turned quickly in his seat, the leather groaning beneath him. Fiddleford felt Helen start beside him. Stan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as his shoulders tensed up, ready to fight.

“Helen, look,” Matthews said, pleadingly, “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to say it enough.” His eyes were watery and slightly puffy in the weak light. “I’ll never be able to fully fix what I’ve done. I thought I was doing the right thing-”

“You never bothered to see if that’s what I wanted,” Helen replied, more quietly, but still with rage bubbling just below the surface.

“I know that,” Matthews replied. “I thought the Society...at the time, I thought they could help you. Before tonight, I thought that it would do you good. It was so hard, watching you suffer and knowing there was nothing I could do…”

Matthews trailed off, his eyes once again gaining that distant sadness, like he was one million miles away from them in the blink of an eye. After a moment, he gave his head a hard shake, and continued, “If I had known this was what Ivan was planning, I never would have given him that key. What you and your friends have been through is my fault, and I’m going to do as much as I can to make it up to you.”

Helen didn’t answer him right away, but she did finally turn to meet his gaze. Stony silence hung oppressively between them.

Helen’s face was totally unreadable. She seemed to be studying Matthews, searching his face. For what, Fiddleford couldn’t rightly say.

Whatever it was, she seemed to find it. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she finally said, “Damn right you are, Edward Matthews.”

Matthews’ shoulders slumped as he returned the smile.

“You can start,” Helen continued, “by taking my shift on Tuesday. I’m gonna need an extended vacation after all this is over.”

“You say that like I’m not gonna take Tuesday off to recuperate from all this,” Matthews joked back.

“This is a bad week to be Simon,” Helen said, shaking her head.

“Simon?” Fiddleford asked before he could stop himself. Helen and Matthews turned their gazes on him almost like they’d forgotten he was there.

“Simon McBride. He’s the other doctor at the hospital. He’s in Miami for the weekend, at his parents’ condo,” Helen replied. Her brow furrowed in thought before she mumbled, “He’s gonna be so confused when he gets back.”

Matthews chuckled a bit, and even Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile a little. It was nice to see Helen be able to talk like this again to someone she obviously had a great deal of respect for, and who obviously cared about her a lot.

Then his gaze moved up to Stan in the driver’s seat. His grip on the steering wheel had not lessened. The tension had not left his shoulders. His jaw was still set rigidly. Fiddleford wished he could tell what he was thinking. Seeing him looking so on edge made him anxious, and that was not something he needed to deal with, given what they were going to try and do.

Stan finally spoke up and said, “Alright, Doc, we’re coming up on Huckabone. Now what?”

Matthews turned from Helen to look out the windshield, then said, “Kill your headlights and pull up along the curb. We’ll have to walk the last block.”

Stan gave him an incredulous look as he said, “Pardon me?”

“Ed, all that’s down here is the history museum,” Helen said.

The words “history museum” hit Fiddleford like a brick to his face. His nose was suddenly filled with the scent of dust and mildew. Chanting flooded his ears, drowning out whatever the others were saying. And before his eyes…

His footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor, as he drew closer to the trembling young man. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. He reached out a hand, and laced it through ashen fingers. They fluttered against his grip like a baby bird. “I promise, it won’t hurt. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The young man looked up at him, his filmy red right eye focused intently on the bulb of the gun pressed to his forehead. After a moment, the young man gulped and said, “I trust you, sir.”

Fiddleford inhaled sharply as the memory ended and he was flung back into reality. Stan had parked the car, away from any street lamps or overhead lights from stores. The dark and the quiet smothered him like a down quilt drawn tight around his face.

His small gasp for air had drawn the attention of the others, and they watched him cautiously as he took a few deep breaths. His lungs ached, like he’d been underwater and holding in air for hours.

“You okay, Fidds?” Stan asked. He’d unbuckled his seatbelt to twist in his seat, arm slung around the headrest. Fiddleford noticed that, now that he was focused on him, the tension was totally gone from Stan’s body.

Fiddelford merely nodded, taking another deep breath before he began to speak. “Matthews is right,” he finally said. “I remember the history museum. It’s our base.”

“How do you hide a memory-wiping cult in a public museum?” Helen asked.

“The best way to hide something,” Fiddelford responded, “is camouflage.”

Stan and Helen glanced at each other quizzically.

“There’s a false wall in the building,” Fiddleford explained. “Ivan found it, and thought it’d be the perfect place to conduct the Society - perform the ritual, store the memories, that sort of thing.”

“Wow, who could have foreseen that a shady group that wiped people’s memories run by a guy who insisted they do it in secrecy in a musty basement would ever turn into something sinister,” Stan said flatly.

Fiddleford shot him a withering glance before saying, “At the time, I agreed with him simply because I was running out of places to put the memories. At least down there, we had storage. But as time went on and more and more people asked to join us, we decided to hold the meetings there too.”

“It was good to protect our privacy,” Matthews added. “Some of the members preferred to hide behind the hoods and the anonymity. Not many people want to give up their secrets lightly.”

“Yep, not in the slightest bit creepy,” Stan muttered again.

“Do you have a point, by chance?” Fiddleford asked, .

“Two, actually,” Stan replied. “First, if you really looked at all this weirdness and didn’t think it was the most unsettling shit ever, you have even less foresight than I thought.”

“Noted,” Fiddleford grumbled back. “Anything else?”

“Second, because this is the most unsettling shit I’ve ever come across, and because these people have already proven themselves to be desperate and dangerous, I’m starting to think just busting Ford out isn’t going to be enough.”

“What do you mean?” Matthews asked.

“He means,” Helen said, nodding her head in the direction of her baseball bat, “that these will help us get Ford out, but we need a guarantee that they won’t retaliate.”

Fiddleford decided it was time to reveal his ace in the hole. “I might have a way of doing that,” he said, flipping open his knapsack to reveal the memory gun.

Helen, Stan, and Matthews looked down at it like he’d just revealed a loaded pistol to them.

“I brought it with me in case Ivan proved to be troublesome,” Fiddleford continued. “But Stan and Helen have a point - desperate people will do crazy things. I hope it won’t come to that, but if things get out of hand...I will use the memory gun on my followers.”

Matthews’ face fell in devastation. “Sir, are you...are you really prepared to do that?” he asked quietly. “To bring yourself down to Ivan’s level like that?”

The question hurt, but not for the reason that Matthews probably thought it did. The thing about it was, Fiddleford wasn’t bringing himself down to Ivan’s level with what he had planned.

Ivan had already lowered himself to Fiddleford’s level.

What Ivan had perverted the Society into was never what Fiddleford had intended, but his intentions no longer mattered. Fiddleford wasn’t sure if they ever did. After all, what had his intentions been? To keep people ignorant? To give them a place to hide away from their fear, to forever be victim to it?

What, in the end, had the group ever succeeded in doing, under his direction? If tonight was anything to go by, it had only succeeded in creating people who were so afraid of what they didn’t understand, that they didn’t just want to forget it anymore. They wanted to destroy it.

As selfish as Ivan’s motives were, all he’d really done was take the core tenants of the Society to their logical extremes. If he hadn’t done that, someone else would have. Fiddleford had provided all the groundwork needed for the Society to be turned into something dark and dangerous. All it had required was the right demagogue to complete the transformation.

Fiddleford brought his eyes up to meet Matthews’, and said, “There’s this philosphy I learned about in college called the paradox of tolerance. It basically means that, if tolerance doesn’t have its limits, it’s eventually seized and destroyed by the intolerant. So the only way to make sure that doesn’t happen, is by being intolerant of intolerance.”

He looked down at the gun in his lap. Even in the thick blanket of darkness, it glistened like a living thing. Even though he had boasted upon this device’s creation that it was lightweight and sleek, easy to hide in the sleeve of a robe with no trouble, it felt thirty pounds heavier now. It was a testament to all he’d done, everything he’d caused, and to all that he was determined to make right.

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Ivan from hurting anyone else,” he said firmly. “And I will break my own rules to do it.”

He looked into the faces of the three people surrounding him. Matthews’ face was still raw with emotion, like his entire world was crashing down around him.

Helen’s face was unreadable as she studied Fiddleford’s face intently. He fought hard to keep from squirming under that intense gaze.

Stan, however, gave Fiddleford a small smile. It brought a warmth to Fiddleford’s chest that only strengthened his resolve. He hoped Stan realized how much he’d done to finally make Fiddleford see the truth about what needed to be done.

“Alright,” he finally said, his words strong and firm in the dark, quiet car. “Let’s go.”

The others nodded, and slowly began to get out of the car. Fiddleford closed the knapsack, clutched it tightly to his side, and flung open his door into the cold, damp February night.

---

Darryl’s knife glinted in the weak light as it sliced through the last set of ropes, around Ford’s right wrist. He flexed his left hand a bit, forcing blood to start pulsing through it again, ignoring the raw skin where the ropes had bitten into his skin and left angry red marks.

He could worry about the pain later. He focused, picturing a large foot squashing down the pain bubbling up inside him, squashing it down until it was nothing more than a dull blip on his brain’s radar.

Finally, the ropes gave with a satisfying snap. Darryl tucked his knife back into his boot. He began throwing the ropes off and said, “Do you think you can walk?”

Ford didn’t respond, just waited until the ropes had landed on the floor with a dull thud, then grabbed the arms of the chair with his shaking hands. With all the power in his quivering arms, forced himself to stand.

He barely had a moment to realize that that had been a huge mistake, swaying dangerously as soon as his hands left the support of the chair. Darryl dove to catch him, wrapping two strong arms protectively around his chest to keep him from falling.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ford muttered, despite the shrieking warnings from the back of his brain saying no, he was not okay, he couldn’t do this. His vision swam for a moment. His head feeling like it was going to explode. The shaky breath he drew felt like a hot knife being driven into his side.

He shoved it all back into the dark corners of his thoughts where they belonged.

“Here,” Darryl said gently, guiding Ford’s right arm around his shoulders. Using his free hand, he put a firm hand on Ford’s left side, just below his ribs to avoid hitting any broken ones. “Just lean on me, Dr. Pines,” he said. He gave Ford’s right hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Please, after all that’s happened, call me Ford,” Ford replied, smiling a bit despite himself.

“I’ll call you ‘Long, Tall Sally’, if you want,” Darryl replied. “But I’ll do it once we get out of here.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then added, “This is gonna hurt, I won’t lie. I’ll try to go slow, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I’ll be okay,” Ford lied. Even just standing here made him ache in ways he didn’t even think possible. But he wasn’t going to let Darryl know that. He simply gritted his teeth and concentrated on that mental image of a foot stamping down.

Darryl gave a crisp nod and said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Darryl began moving them towards the door, and instantly, Ford felt a shot of pain up his side. He clenched his teeth harder, balling his free hand into a fist by his side, willing the pain to fade, or at least lessen. After about thirty seconds, it did, though not by much. As Darryl reached the door to Ford’s prison, his side still throbbed dully. He ignored it as Darryl eased the door open. It gave one soft creak, but did no more to give away their position.

Fluidly, like a cat, Darryl ducked them both out of the room. Despite everything, Ford took the opportunity to look around, and was frankly amazed at what he saw.

Before them was a short, stone hallway. It was like something out of a medieval castle, lit by torches and lined with tapestries, all in brilliant red with a crossed out eye stitched into them. A few other doors were scattered about. Occasionally, the hallway dipped into an alcove, where stone statues of hooded figures with their arms lovingly outstretched stood, silent and imposing.

How had Fiddleford managed to do all this in the span of a few months?

Pain suddenly exploded in Ford’s side, nearly making him lose his footing and take Darryl down with him. He could practically feel the broken bones somewhere inside him shifting and stabbing at him, tearing soft tissue and threatening to make him bleed. For a brief moment, he was crippled by the imagine of one of his ribs slicing through his lung, and choking slowly on his own blood.

Goddamit, Sixer, stop being so morbid and focus!

The voice echoed from a small, forgotten place in Ford’s mind. In his panicked state, his first thought was that this was Bill, mocking him from his mindscape, but then the voice barked out again. You ain’t dying yet, Sixer. Now get moving!

This wasn’t Bill. It couldn’t be. It was gruffer, but kinder. Encouraging, supportive, and certainly not putting up with his melodramatic bullshit.

Stan.

That voice could only be Stan’s.

As his senses flooded back to him, Ford slapped his hand over his mouth and pressed hard. The shrieks of agony that wanted to erupt from within him came out now as mere strained grunts. He screwed his eyes shut against the pain. He ground his teeth together to have something, anything else to focus on. He begged whatever deity was watching all this that the pain would pass.

It will, Sixer, Stan’s voice said. I promise it will.

Finally, after several agonizing seconds, it did.

Ford took his trembling hand away from his mouth, and only then realized that Darryl had stopped moving and was watching him. He shifted his gaze over to him, and watched Darryl mouth, “Okay?”

Ford nodded, taking in heavy, quick breaths. He still shook, though now it was less from the pain and more from the unrelenting terror of knowing that, no matter what they did, there was always more pain to come. Ford allowed himself only a moment of hopelessness, unsure if he would be able to make it. He’d never known such pain in his life. There was no direction his body could shift where more wasn’t waiting for him. The hallway might as well have been an endless, dark cave, with nothing but a sheer drop waiting for them at the end.

But then he felt that encouraging squeeze from Darryl again, and the black stain was gone. He looked over, and saw that Darryl had set his lips in a determined line. Strangely enough, Ford was once again reminded of his father, and the only concrete memory he had of his father talking about his time during the war.

Whenever he and Stan had come home from school with blackened eyes and bloodied noses and ripped clothes and broken glasses, Stan almost always seemed to have it worse than Ford. His shiner was always worse. His nose always gushed harder. He’d once come home with an entire sleeve of his shirt missing. But one could tell by looking at his busted-up knuckles that, while Stan had gotten the brunt of things, he gave as good as he got.

One day, their mother, her voice harried and exhausted had sat Stan down and asked why. Why did he always get the brunt of this. Why did he act like a common street thug whenever these boys did this?

Stan didn’t looked her in the eye, but he said, “‘Cause they’d just beat up Ford worse if I didn’t.”

And before their mother could even open her mouth to respond, their father had said, “You don’t leave a man behind, Caryn. Leave him be.”

Dad hadn’t even been upset about having to buy Ford another pair of glasses after that.

It was obvious that Darryl subscribed to that same dogma. Even when it’s hopeless, you don’t leave a man behind.

As they worked their way further down the hall, Ford realized that they were heading towards a curtain, hung in an archway ahead of them. It was a dark red, the color of blood. He tried not to think too hard about that as he forced himself to keep taking step after step.

The sound of footsteps echoed around them. Ford realized quickly that they were coming from the direction of the curtain. Someone was coming.

Darryl stopped moving, his eyes darting like a trapped animal, looking for a place to hide. He turned his head towards a statute slightly behind them on the right. He tugged Ford back towards it and stooped down to fit them both behind it. The fit was tight, and Ford fought not to give a gasp of pain as a rib stabbed maliciously inside him, but at least it was dark and well out of the line of sight of anyone coming down the hall.

Not that that helped still the wild pounding of his heart. This close, Ford could feel that Darryl’s heartbeat was very much the same.

The footsteps drew closer, and Ford began to hear voices along with them.

“...just be grateful when this whole thing is over with,” said a gruff, masculine voice. “Having that six-fingered weirdo here gives me the creeps.”

To Ford’s shock, the voice of an older woman answered the man. “At least no one is looking at you like you’re some kind of failure.” He heard her give a frustrated huff. “Still can’t believe that little bitch did this to my face.”

“It’ll heal, Louise.”

Louise? Wait, the grandmotherly secretary from the hospital? That Louise?

“How the hell am I supposed to explain it to my husband, huh? Between Helen and that oaf who was with her, I look like I’ve been in a bar fight.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You are a pretty dern good liar after all.”

Louise let out a small giggle. He’d never have believed that something so small, dainty, and innocent-sounding could ever send an unsettled chill down his spine.

“You’d make a girl blush, Leroy Muggins,” she said, as casually as if they were exchanging pleasant small talk.

Leroy Muggins? As in Sheriff Leroy Muggins? The sheriff was in on this?

“‘Sides,” Muggins continued, “at least you got a few good hits in on the grimy one. When I saw him at Helen’s, he looked pretty rough.”

“Serves him right for hitting a lady. I should have given Helen a few good ones too. Never did like that uppity little tramp much…”

“Well, don’t you fret too much, alright? If everything goes the way Ivan wants tonight, you’ll get plenty of chances to pay them back…”

The voices faded as the two figures walked on, and Ford heard a door close. They must have gone into a different room.

Ford and Darryl stood there for another full minute before either moved a muscle.

This wasn’t just a group of frightened townsfolk anymore. The Society was out for blood, and their reach was deep enough that the medical community and law enforcement were involved.

When Darryl finally seemed to snap back to life, he turned his head and looked Ford directly in the eye. The message in them was clear, for it was the exact same thing that was now screaming in Ford’s brain.

They needed to move faster.

Slowly, Darryl edged them back out into the hall from behind the statue, and eventually reached the curtain at the end of the hall. Darryl lifted it back, less than an inch, checking the room that lay beyond. He let it drop back, then gave Ford’s hand another reassuring squeeze. It must have been all clear on the other side.

In one fluid motion, Darryl parted the curtain and walked them through. They were now in some kind of open, circular chamber. In the middle of the room was a chair, with straps on the arms. Less than a foot away from it was a pedastal, upon which sat an orante box. The bulb of a memory gun, the large one that Ford had seen Ivan weilding earlier, glinted in the weak light.

The sight of it made Ford shudder, and he forced himself to look away, pushing down the roiling nausea that flared up in the pit of his stomach.

“Almost there,” Darryl said in a low whisper. He was taking Ford in the direction of another curtain, at the foot of a small set of stairs, set between two stone pillars.

A sense of inexplicable relief washed over him. He didn’t know how much farther they had to go, but knowing that beyond those curtains was “almost there”, out of this living nightmare he’d spent the last several hours in, away from the pain and the torture, was enough to dull every aching part of him for a moment.

Then the curtain began to rustle.

He felt Darryl’s body tense up against him in fear. Darryl whipped his head around sharply, doubtlessly looking for another place to hide.

There was none.

Ford’s heart began to beat wildly against his broken ribs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. There was no way they could have come this far only for it all to amount to nothing.

The curtain parted, and Darryl took a tentative step back, clutching Ford tighter to him that ever before.

And through the curtain stepped Stan, looking around at the bizarre scene in front of him. Helen followed shortly after, looking just as confused. She was carrying a baseball bat.

Ford didn’t think before he let out a raspy, “Guys?”

Stan’s head whipped in their direction, and the confusion gave way to pure shock, like he was looking at a very familiar ghost.

“Ford?” he said quietly.

“Yeah…” Ford ground out in response.

“Holy shit, Ford!” Before Ford could say anything else, his brother was upon him, pulling him close to him in a tight hug.

Ford’s eyes welled up instantly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been needing this, the strong, loving support of his twin. He thought back to that morning, now seeming like a lifetime ago - Stan’s hand on his back to soothe away his anxiety, his gravelly voice offering soothing platitudes and nonsense to ease his guilt, his warm smile making him feel like everything would be okay.

He’d been genuinely afraid that he’d never get to experience any of that again. He buried his face against into the crook of his brother’s neck and let out a strangled sob.

“Hey, Sixer, hey, it’s okay,” Stan said. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Ford wanted to say something, but Stan shifted his arm, and suddenly his broken ribs were stabbing at him again. Ford pulled his head out of Stan’s shoulder and gave a weak cry of pain. He managed to say, “Stan…” in a strained whisper before it was swallowed up in a desperate gasp for air.

Stan pulled his arm away immediately and began babbling, “Oh god, Ford, I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay, alright? We’re gonna get you outta here. You’ll be okay, pal, you’ll be okay.”

“Oh my god, Ford, what did they do to you?” Helen’s worried voice reached him, and Ford managed to pull his head back up enough to see her practically running to close the distance between her and the brothers. Behind her was Fiddleford and Dr. Matthews, from the hospital. Ford didn’t have time to ask what he was doing there before Stan stepped off to Ford’s unsupported side to let Helen in closer to him.

“How the hell did you guys get here?” Darryl asked incredulously.

Helen and Stan seemed to realize in that moment that Darryl was there, and turned to take him in - his mouth hanging agape, his eyes wide.

“Darryl? The fuck are you doing here?” Stan asked, his voice practically climbing an octave in shock.

“You know what,” Helen finally said, sounding so very tired, “I’m not even surprised.”

A brief look of sheepishness flashed across Darryl’s face. He composed himself quickly, though, and said, “He’s in pretty bad shape, Doc. We need to get him out of here.”

“What’s the damage?” Helen asked, clearly trying to keep her gaze analytical and objective, to force herself into doctor mode. But Ford could see the concern in her eyes, that maternal warmth that had let Ford know, from the moment he met her, that she was someone he could trust. It was clear she wanted to embrace him just as much and as hard as Stan did. Instead, she merely reached out a hand and stroked it quickly, but lovingly, through his hair. She winced a bit when her finger got caught slightly where it was matted with blood.

Ford leaned into her touch, not even caring how silly it made him look. He was past that.

“Blow to the back of the head, broken ribs. ” Darryl replied. “He’s been having trouble breathing, so I’m thinking one of them is getting close to his lungs. We need to get him to the hospital before we got a real mess on our hands.”

Helen nodded, her eyes watery behind her glasses. “Let’s get you out of here,” she said, voice strained.

“I’ll help Darryl support him, Stan,” said Dr. Matthews, coming up to Stan’s side. “We need you at the front.”

Stan didn’t move, and gave Matthews a look that could have frozen molten steel. Ford felt his brother’s grip around his waist tightened protectively.

“Stan, he’s right,” Helen said. “You’re the semi-professional boxer. If we run into any trouble, we’ll need you to do what you do best.”

That finally seemed to get Stan to relent, and he gently helped Doctor Matthews arch Ford’s arm over his shoulders. Ford noticed that, throughout the entire maneuver, Stan never took his steely gaze off Matthews, even for an instant. They began to move toward the steps.

“Let’s hurry and get back up into the museum,” Fiddleford suddenly said from his position at the bottom of the stairs. He was pulling back the curtain, and frantically looking beyond them, clutching a knapsack close to his side.

The museum? They were under the museum? Had Fiddleford been that close to him this entire time and Ford hadn’t even realized it? All he had to do was come into town and come to the museum, and he could have spared his friends this horrible night?

Fiddleford wouldn’t have been targeted by a mad cultist with a mysterious but dangerous agenda.

Stan wouldn’t have a series of angry-looking stitches trailed down his temple.

Helen wouldn’t have had her very sense of peace and privacy violated.

Darryl wouldn’t having to risk his life for someone who’d caused him nothing but misery.

Once again, if he’d just been a better person, none of this would have happened.

A wave of pain that had nothing to do with broken ribs crashed over him as his eyes welled up again.Before he had a chance to think about it, Ford murmured, “I’m so sorry, guys. Th-this is all my fault.”

“Shut up, Ford,” Stan said firmly. “Just shut up. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, you hear me?”

“He’s right,” Helen added gently, “This isn’t anyone’s fault but Ivan’s.”

“If it wasn’t for me, Ivan wouldn’t even be a problem,” Ford countered miserably. “This entire night, i-it’s my fault...I’m sorry…”

His eyes drifted shut as the tears trailed down. He was just so tired, not just physically, but mentally. He was tired of being the one who dragged everyone else through emotional hell because he was too much of a short-sighted ass to see beyond what he wanted, how he was feeling in that moment. Even when he tried to make things right, all he did was fuck it all up worse.

He heard footsteps approach him, soft and tentative, but determined. Then he felt two hands reach out and cup his face. A calloused hand gently wiped the two streaks of tears away. “Aw, hush,” Fiddleford’s kind voice said.

When Ford opened his eyes, he didn’t know what he expected to find in Fiddleford’s expression - distrust, fear, maybe even anger. The way they’d left things at the start of all this, Ford really wouldn’t have been surprised by any of them.

What he was greeted with instead was the soft, sweet smile of his dearest friend in the whole world.

That damn smile. It had always been like concentrated sunshine, something that always made Ford feel better when they were in school together, even at his most frustrated, his most lonely, his most afraid.

The effect hadn’t changed.

“There’s no need for talk like that,” Fiddleford replied. Before Ford could say anything back, Fiddleford had moved his hands from Ford’s face, and wrapped his arms around his neck, in a small hug. “We both made mistakes,” he muttered into Ford’s shoulder. “At least you owned up to yours and tried to fix them. I hope, when we get you out of here, that you’ll let me do the same for you.”

Ford couldn’t find it in himself to respond, so he just nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stan and Helen, watching the two. They both wore relieved smiles.

After holding Ford for a another few seconds, Fiddleford pulled away, and said, “Back up we go.”

That seemed to spur the rest of the group on, and Helen and Stan started down the stairs, Fiddleford following shortly after. Darryl and Dr. Matthews began gently guiding Ford toward them.

“Y’all never did answer my question,” Darryl said. “How the heck did you get here? I wasn’t exactly planning on running into any friendly faces.”

“You can thank Ed for that,” Helen replied. “Without him, we never would have gotten this far.”

A voice from the shadows suddenly boomed, “How fortunate for all of us, indeed.”

Everyone froze, only for an instant. Then in a dizzying flurry of red, almost a dozen hooded figures emerged from the shadows and descended upon them.

One collided with Fiddleford’s back and slammed him into the ground. Stan and Helen were blindsided by two more figures and knocked the rest of the way down the stairs, landing in a tangled heap just inches from the curtain that lead to their freedom. Ford watched as they tried to kick and throw punches, but another pair of figures leapt into the fray and added more weight on them both. One even jerked the bat from Helen’s hands and tossed it away. It landed with a clatter on the stone floor, at least fifty yards away.

The support at Ford’s right was suddenly wrenched away, and Darryl only let out a shout of surprise as a robed figure wrapped an arm around his neck in a chokehold, and began wrestling him to the floor.

Only Ford and Dr. Matthews were left standing, and he knew this old man wouldn’t stand a chance against feral cultists out for blood. He was just about to tell Matthews to run, to do something to protect himself, when suddenly he felt his left arm being wrenched backwards. He gasped as it popped in protest, pulled back further than he ever thought possible. The pain struck him like a bullet to the chest, and all he could do was let out a strangled gasp as he was forced to his knees.

“Be a good boy and stay down, interloper,” he heard Matthews hiss at him, “or I’ll dislocate it right now.”

Through the pain, something clicked in Ford’s mind - the angry words, the voice that sounded minutes from snapping, the hands that gripped him like a vice.

Dr. Matthews was the follower who’d been with him when he first woke up.

Ford heard Helen yell, “Ed, what the hell are you doing?!”

Almost overlapping her, Ford heard Stan practically scream, “Matthews, get your goddamn hands off him, or I swear to God I’ll-”

The voice from the shadows rang out again. “Not to point out the obvious, but there’s not much you can do, Stanley.”

Ford lifted his head, heavy and trembling on his shoulders, towards the source of the voice, and from the shadows emerged Blind Ivan, seamlessly as if he’d melted into reality from the inky blackness. On his face was a satisfied smile. Ford felt his heart fall to his shoes.

This had been Ivan’s plan all along.

He’d used Matthews to lure Stan, Helen, and Fiddleford here.

Matthews had been working against them from the beginning.

And now Ivan had all the pieces he needed.

The realization hadn’t seemed to dawn on Stan, and he spat, “You’re not gonna be looking so smug once I knock back your goons, cueball! When I get my hands on you, you’re gonna wish all I’ll do is kill you!”

Ivan didn’t respond. He just snapped his fingers.

At the sound, Matthews reared back his foot, and brought it down sharply on the back of Ford’s knee. It gave with a sickening crunch, like a piece of rotted wood being split by an axe.

A roar of agony was ripped from Ford’s lungs, and he lost his balance completely. He hit the cold stone roughly on his side, and he let out another, tighter scream of pain as he landed squarely on a broken rib. Matthews brought his foot back down roughly on Ford’s back, applying just enough pressure to make Ford fearful to even breathe, for fear that Matthews would start grinding his heel into more of his broken bones.

Ford let his head fall limply to the floor, and looked to his friends. They all stared, in dumbstruck horror, between him and Matthews.

There was nothing any of them could do to help him.

They’d lost.

“Now then,” Ivan said. “I believe it’s time we got down to business.”

#gravity falls #fanfic #gf #seared with scars #mystery nerds au #stanford pines #ford pines #stanley pines #stan pines #helen bergstrum #fiddleford mcgucket #blind ivan #the society of the blind #tw graphic injuries #tw violence

14 notes · View notes

thequeenofadream · 6 years ago

Text

Sunflower II 🌻(Roger Taylor x Reader)

Summary: You're going to do it. You're going to confess.. or maybe not?

Pairings: Ben Hardy! Roger Taylor x Reader (it works both ways.

Words: 1273

Notes: read part one!! swear words and a pinch of angst

A/N: ohmygod i didn't expect it to kinda blow up if you consider it blown up ohmygod thank you so much i love you all thank you ❤️🙏💞

~~~~~~~~~

“That's the one!” Freddie said as you came out of the dressing room wearing a off shoulder yellow dress and a pair of velvet brown heels. You looked at yourself in the mirror and was satisfied.

You've never really cared about what you looked like since you were literally the one person who wouldn't be in a picture. You usually wore a jumper and some jeans to all their extravagant after-parties, but John and Freddie convinced you to dress up for this one.

“Now you've just gotta hide it.” Deacy replied placing an oversized denim jacket over your shoulder.

“Wait a minute, if I’m going to be out having fun, who'll take pictures of you guys?” You suddenly realized. You picked up your camera from one of the makeup tables.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, give me that.” Freddie waltzed over to you and snatched the camera from your hands.

“Deacy and I will be tonight's photographers, just go have fun with Roger!” He took a picture of you in your get-up and shook the picture, waiting for it to develop. You raised an eyebrow at them, and Freddie gave you the picture he had just took. You took a look and sighed.

“Okay, okay, but please do not hurt my baby.”

“We won't Y/N, pinky promise.” John smiled holding out his pinky finger. You rolled your eyes and intertwined your pinky with his thus confirming this promise. Freddie handed you back your camera.

“Well, we'd better get out there. Find us before you head the after party, darling. Have fun during the show.” He and John left the room leaving you with your thoughts.

The anxiety started seeping in. “Shit.” you mumbled to yourself. You were going to tell your best friend that you loved him, romantically. You started pacing the room back and forth.

Your mind fell into shits, fucks and fucking shits

You went into panic mode and there was absolutely no one there to calm you down. You sat down and took deep breaths.

Were you making a mistake? Should you just back out? Are you about to ruin decades worth of friendship? Were there butterflies in your stomach or were just actually about to throw up? Those were the questions that would race through your mind, up until you got to the party.

During the concert, you decided to stay on high grounds to get a picture of the crowd and the band. It was breathtaking, almost as breathtaking as the man behind the drums. You were quite far from them, but you could still clearly see Roger drumming his heart out. Little did you know that Roger was looking back at you, sitting all by yourself. He wished he could be there beside you.

Once, you were done taking pictures from above, you decided to get some closeups so you made your way down to the stage area. You could see Roger much more clearly now and he was a sight to behold. His half opened button up shirt exposed his chest and sweat was trickling down all over him. Damn.

Meanwhile, he looked at you in awe. He thought you looked heavenly even under the oversized jacket. He didn't understand how a sweet, innocent girl such as yourself could be the best friend to him, an arrogant and stubborn blonde.

You didn't realize he was looking back at you until you snapped a picture of him and realized he was staring straight at you. You blushed lightly and gave a shy wave. He smiled back acknowledging your wave.

When the concert ended, Freddie ran off stage stealing your camera and running off to god knows where. You tried to run after him, but realized it was no use. You were going to have to go to that party.

You stood in front of noisy bar, hesitating whether it not you should go in. You had probably taken an hour deciding. You held the denim jacket closer feeling a tad insecure. You were never really one for crowds; they metaphorically and physically felt suffocating. You'd rather sit down with someone and have proper conversation instead of being drowned out by the voices of a million.

This wasn't your scene at all, but you'd dive in for Roger.

You took a deep breathe as you placed a hand on the handle and pushed it forward. You looked around in amazement. You weren't amazed to see acrobats and magicians or any other type of person because you've been to these parties a million times. You didn't really understand what you were feeling, but you sort of liked it. It felt like some sort of new found confidence.

You placed your jacket on the coat hanger by the door and walked through the crowd. It seemed like this was the first time you truly grasped these parties, despite your job literally having to be capturing each moment. You felt at ease, except for the fact that you were going to approach Roger.

Out of nowhere a wild and slightly drunk Brian appeared and walked right up to you.

“Hey, Y/N! You look good tonight, are you going on a date with Rog?” He asked winking at that last part. You blushed furiously.

“Shut up, Bri. Don't you have some clogs to check out or something.” You stated, raising a brow.

“Ouch, when did you become sassy.” He held his heart, pretending to be hurt. You laughed

“Okay, look I’m sorry, I’m just feeling sorta nervous. Fred and Deacy have my camera-”

“Oh so that's why they've been running about” Brian said thoughtfully. You imagined the two taking pictures of literally everyone, but quickly brushed it off.

“Yup, and I've got to talk to Roger about something important.”

“Oh well, last I saw him, he was by the bar with some brunette on his lap. Good luck.” He said before walking off elsewhere.

You can do this, Y/N.

You marched up to the bar to see exactly what Bri had described. This was it. You walked up to Roger and his new found groupie.

“Hey, Rog excuse me.”

“Yeah sorry, Y/N. Alicia here has been telling me of all the things we're gonna do tonight.” He slurred holding ‘Alicia’ close as she giggled profusely. He was definitely hammered.

“oh okay.” You just replied.

“We’re gonna fuck like super hard.” He continued, his thoughts clouded and drunk on alcohol. “The whole town is gonna hear your name, Alicia.” He chuckled.

He's drunk as fuck, Y/N, it's fine.

‘Alicia’ then took him by the chin and and went in for a deep kiss. “You're mine, lover boy.” she said in between kisses. Things were starting to heat up between the two which would explain the upwards movement of food in your throat. You couldn't take it.

“and this is where I leave.” You said turning away from the horrific scene. You headed straight for the exit after grabbing your jacket. You didn't even dare look back.

You should be used to it at this point, you shouldn't even acknowledge it, but something inside you just crashed and burned.

Once you got outside, you started laughing your ass off as tears trickled down your cheeks. What exactly were you thinking? It was foolish of you to think you could fit in with all of this. It was pitifully hilarious. You couldn't believe you'd had tried to become a part of his life.

You walked back to the hotel, eyes puffy and legs tired. You walked into your room and flopped onto the bed falling into a deep sleep.

You did not want to wake up.

~~~~~~~~~~

💐 taglist: @icanreadbookstoo @itsametaphorbriansblog @tara-jadet1ffen @cosmiclunas @madeinthea-m @rogers-cig

also im really sorry if your @ isn't coloured bc im trying to make it a rainbow but tumblr won't let me and is fucking up for some reason and now i feel bad im sorry.

41 notes · View notes

notgonnarememberthis · 6 years ago

Text

A Dance With Death- Chapter 3

I am back from the void once again. I may or may not have slipped away while watching 10 seasons of Grey’s Anatomy,,,, But I am back just in time for them to announce when season 7 returns. I’ll see y’all there for the end! Until then I’ll be writing my little heart out.

When a brunette knocks on his door he half expected it to be Marcus and Kitty, come to chew him out for skipping out on Detective Cortez. However when he spies the gentle makeup and soft pastel colors he recognizes her as Kitty’s antithesis, Harper. Watson had warned him that she was inviting the young girl to his home as, not only was the girl her old assistant but she seemed to be the only person Watson implicitly trusts in the building. Overloaded with files Harper shuffles into the living room where Watson is seated, reading glasses perched on her nose as she reads through a list on her laptop.

“I grabbed everything I could on who you could’ve pissed off since I started and stopped working for you. Bad news, it’s a lot. Good news, I narrowed it down.” Her tone is light, joking almost. She’s likely dealing with the fact that she could’ve been in that office too. He’s long seen people in denial and he makes a mental note to tell Marcus to get her a recommended therapist. She, however, doesn’t seem to be exhibiting any signs of shock so he let’s her proceed.

While they come over the files he decides to make tea. Pulling a sprig of kale out of the fridge he marches over to Clyde’s terrarium gently placing his lunch in his bowl. He freezes mid-movement as he tunes into the conversation from the other room.

“So…” A gentle tone, likely the young brunette.

“So?” The echoing sentiment confirms that he’s identified the voices correctly. Against the voice echoing in the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Marcus he halts his movements listening in. After all, he won’t get a better opportunity than this to learn about Watson. She’s the one person he’s not been able to read in so long. Microexpressions are controlled, if not they’re at least subdued. Truth be told, it’s remarkable and he finds himself aching to know more, to learn more about her. It’s an urge he hasn’t felt towards an individual in far too long.

“He’s cute.” A moment of silence screams with the image of a quiet stand-off.

“No.”

“But-”

“No.”

“All I’m saying is- Hear me out.” Shifting marks her leaning closer. “You haven’t been seeing anyone since Rick. It’s been a year and a half. He’s cute and he has tattoos. It doesn’t have to be a big thing just a little thing or it could be a big thing if you want it to be-”

“Stop.” From his vantage point he can see Watson’s shadow holding up a hand. “I haven’t seen anyone in a year and a half because I’ve been running the NFL story for a year. I’ve been busy.”

“You said the same thing until Rick came along.”

“Enough.” She barks, a tone he’s only heard her use in the office setting. “You forget why we’re here. Someone is trying to kill me, he’s finding who. That’s it.”

“Mhmm.” She sounds relatively unphased by the forcefulness behind the words.

“Rick cheated on me with his ex-wife. He was using me to get married before she could. Everything I thought we had was made up by you and his assistant. You said so yourself.” A huffed breath. “The only person it worked out for was you and him.”

“Not exactly.” Another standoff. “We went different paths.”

“Different paths.”

“We’re playing for the same team?”

“Do you ever speak out of metaphors?” Annoyance laces through Watson’s tone.

“I’m gay.” A shocked beat falls between them. “It ended well at least. We’re still like… chill? That’s beside the point. Look, I just want you to be happy and I know work makes you happy but I also saw you when you were with Rick. You were giggly and soft!”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying! You liked him… Or the him we made up?” She shifts again. “Just give it some thought? I promise no shenanigans.”

The silence that settles over them is much less tense, he can almost picture the small smile on Watson’s face. “He is cute.”

He nearly jumps when the kettle whistles loudly reminding the women that they’re not alone in the house. He shuffles again making himself busy as he grabs mugs and flipping off the boiler. Seemingly satisfied that he’s not listening to them, the two continue on a different, much less interesting conversation.

Gathering the supplies he returns to the living room to continue their search.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Day fades to night and back again. Watson falls asleep in a spare bedroom after he deemed it was far too late and unsafe for her to go home. Marcus drops off a new set of clothes for Watson around seven but doesn’t stick around for long. She wakes and changes without ceremony as it should be.

Around nine Kitty leaves for the office of Colm McAllister with the consult of Marcus to meet her there. He and Watson are to analyze from home, much to his chagrin. Thanks to their hacker collective Everyone they’ve gained access to the cameras in the room of the interview. Should Colm be their man they’ll be able to know within the hour.

Thus he finds himself set up with Watson watching one of many monitors as Mr. McAllister fervently denies any claim that he is trying to set a hit on Ms. Watson’s life. The aforementioned sits in the chair beside him, legs crossed over another. She’d unbuttoned her suit jacket to get more comfortable as her eyes dart across the screen hanging on every word said.

“Mr. McAllister, were you aware of the fact that Ms. Watson was attacked in her office yesterday?”

“This is getting nowhere.” He huffs. He’d believed the night before that Colm McAllister was their man after some digging. When Watson uncovered that he was using bribery to pull potential athletes to his team he lost everything: his job, his wife, and reputation he spent his entire life to build was vanished and he was shunned in the world of sports. However, from viewing the clips it was all too clear that Mr. McAllister is a coward of a man.

“He’s lying.” His head snaps to Watson whose eyes haven’t moved from the screen. She watches with an intensity he rarely sees in Kitty. It’s interesting.

“Why’s that?” He could see the signs for himself but he finds himself compelled by her. By what she knows.

“His body is turned towards the door so he clearly wants them to leave, which would be normal except his arms are crossed. He’s also looked at the clock on his desk five times in the past two minutes.” She stands hands fixing the wrinkles in her clothes absentmindedly. “He knows something but he isn’t saying what.”

“He’s not your attempted killer.”

“God no.” She scoffs. “His hands are shaking, sign of early onset Parkinson’s if I had to guess. There’s no way he would’ve been able to fire that gun and hit my window accurately.”

“Remarkable.” He nods. These were signs and behaviors it took him months to get Kitty to pick up on and she just named them all off the top of her head. He looks to her with a deep sort of fascination. Her eyes catch his and he can see the shock register in her features. Briefly he wonders when the last time she received a compliment on her work. “You’re remarkable.” He emphasizes, despite his best judgement.

“You don’t need to do that.” His eyebrows furrow at her tone. She sounds almost annoyed by his comment. “Don’t flatter me.”

“I assure you Watson, I only state facts. I think you’re extraordinary.”

Her lips part, eyes darting across his features searching for any answer to the questions that lie beneath her throat. He’s more prepared this time, when she crosses the distance of the room to him. When two perfectly manicured hands take his face into their touch. When her lips crash against his sending every nerve in his body into hyperdrive.

Together they stumble across the room, hands excitedly exploring. He needs to know so much about her. He needs to know how her hair feels between his fingers, the sounds he can tempt from her throat, the feel of her skin against his. Her fingers tug at his shirt pulling it from the tuck as her back collides with the wall. Their feet jarr at the sudden stop but their movements do not cease. His fingers move from her back to her hips feeling the tantalizing flesh barely brushing his fingertips. In a desperate need for air his lips move to her jaw, huffing against her skin. High pitched sighs escape her throat, the interview long forgotten in the heat of passion.

He pulls from her suddenly, the gears in his mind turning all over again. Her fingers are undoing his buttons quickly. “I don’t want to stop.” He groans against her skin. She laughs, a seductive noise against the shell of his ear. “I don’t want to stop.” It’s a plea this time, begging her to be the sane one. God he needs her to stop him before he acts foolish. He knows she won’t when her teeth nip at the spot beneath his jaw, threatening to pull him into the abyss. Her skin is so soft, like velvet but her lips burn him. He catches her hands halting the movement. His eyes meet hers once again as he rests her forehead against his.

In the end it’s him who breaks the connection. Against every fiber of his being he steps away from her. “Are you serious?” She scoffs. He can’t face her now. Not with the rejection he saw in her eyes, the hurt of being denied again. He crossed a line and all he can think about is how he wishes to touch her again. Guilt laces around his throat and pulls tightly.

“I need to focus.” His words come out cold, detached.

“You’re right. We need to figure out what Mr. McAllister knows and-”

“We don’t need to do anything.” He snaps. ��No offense Ms. Watson but right now I need peace and quiet, or did you forget that it’s your life that is at stake?” He pushes her away because he can’t risk getting too close. He can’t become attached. Not now. He needs to focus so that he can find her attempted killer.

“No. No I didn’t.” Her heels echo clearly off the Brownstone floor as she grabs her coat. The slam of the door pierces him to the core but he must remain unphased.

He takes a deep breath delving back into his work.

#joanlock #sherlock holmes x joan watson #sherlock x joan #joan watson #Sherlock Holmes #elementary #elementary cbs #elementary AU #set it up au #A Dance with Death #fanfic

8 notes · View notes

theinquisitivej · 6 years ago

Text

A Trio of Reviews – Catching up on Bumblebots, Peppy Maries, and the (Oscar) Favourite

I don’t go out to the cinema much in late December. I don’t drive, and I always visit family in a part of the country where a cinema isn’t exactly in walking distance. This hasn’t been much of a problem over the last few years, as there’s usually only one film out that I’m aching to see, and that’s often the one movie we all go out to see together. This most recent December though? It was nuts! All four of the big blockbusters that were playing were films I was interested in and excited to check out. Once the holidays were over, I had a lot of catching up to do. I’ve since seen all but one of the December releases (ironically enough the one I didn’t see was the one that, judging from its box office, everyone else went to go see – Aquaman), plus one other film that was weird, fascinating, and has been well received as a critical darling. So, here’s this week’s trio of reviews for The Favourite, Mary Poppins Returns, and Bumblebee, in the order I saw them in.

The Favourite

Artistically impressive but deliberately unpleasant.

The Favourite caught my attention when I first saw the trailer because it was a period drama that revelled in the fashion, the art, and the general finery of the early 18th Century, and yet the camera angles were strikingly different from what I’ve seen in other period dramas. The genre can be hit-of-miss for me, but every shot I saw in that trailer was doing something that interested me.

There’s a lot to chew on when it comes to the visual presentation of the film. Characters are often shot from low angles, and while this can make some characters seem confident and of noble stature, it also creates an uneasy feeling when we see people showing their vulnerability and flaws. Shooting people from this angle frames them as if they’re towering over the camera, and when you combine this with the magnificent attire on display, the visuals should, in theory, present the subject in their best light. But Queen Anne, played by the immeasurably skilled Olivia Colman, is often shown to be feeble and susceptible to manipulation from such angles, and we see many others be vulgar, cruel, and inhuman in ugly ways. The film shows a familiarity with the beautiful elegance of the film’s setting and other examples of the period drama, and it subverts your expectations time and time again by gradually turning your sympathies around on the characters you expect to like and expect to hate. It points the camera directly at the most horrible aspects of this world and its people, and there’s a strangely captivating quality to that. It’s ugly, but it’s magnetic as well.

The three performances at the heart of the film are what sustain your interest throughout The Favourite, because all three of the actresses are on top form. Emma Stone plays Abigail in a way that has her act very differently depending on who she’s talking with, showing just how hard she’s working to stay afloat in this world of politics where she’s at a disadvantage, giving a performance that keeps you guessing what her true nature is for much of the runtime. Rachel Weisz evokes such commanding authority and confidence as Lady Sarah, wearing each of her impressive outfits better than anyone else in the film because you believe that she deserves the station she’s acquired for herself, even if she is ruthless. Olivia Colman has taken a lot of the focus as Queen Anne, being the one to snag the ‘Best Actress in a Leading Role’ category while Stone and Weisz have been relegated to ‘Supporting Role’ nominations. All three of them equally deserve to be called leads, and to tell the truth, I’m pretty sure Queen Anne has less screen time than either of the other two protagonists. Nevertheless, all three of these actresses deserve praise for their performances in these leading roles, and Colman is no different; she expresses a wide range of emotions with sharp sincerity, always making her scenes uncomfortable to watch because you really feel like you’re in the room with someone having an emotional breakdown and you have no idea how to help them. These actresses are excellent and make The Favourite worth watching even without all the other impressive features the film has to offer on top of this.

The flipside of The Favourite doing so much to emphasise the rotten nature of this world and its characters is that, while the visuals and all the formal features of the film are praiseworthy, the final shape of the narrative has so little warmth to it that it leaves me feeling a little cold towards it. The film is a hundred percent committed to its vision of unflinchingly showing you the harsh ugliness underneath the elegant surface of this point in history, but because of this I felt disengaged with many of the character’s journeys because they would do awful things to other people for selfish reasons, and they did so with such little humanity that I simply didn’t want to see them succeed, nor were any of them appealing enough to make seeing them succeed feel satisfying. The only character I had any sympathy for by the end was Queen Anne, as she’s a woman in desperate need of help surrounded by people who’re only interested in her as a means of furthering themselves. There is some dramatic meat to that, and the bleakness of it is presented with enough purpose to make me think about the film for a long time after I was finished watching it. After all, history isn’t always satisfying, and it’s filled with people who did terrible things to get ahead, so this film would probably be compromised in its vision if it did try to make this unflinching look at this particular point in history and then deliver a narrative where good people are rewarded and bad people are punished. But there’s only so far that a film with as little compassion in it as this can go before my spirit gets tired of seeing mistreatment and hopelessness. The Favourite’s technical qualities are a treat for the mind, but its general outlook is draining on my soul.

Final Ranking: Silver.

The Favourite is coarse, and the emphasis of selfish people being terrible does wear on me and get in the way of me engaging with the motivations of several characters. But the technical skill on display in the cinematography, the lighting and colour coordination, and the three central performances come together to make an impressive piece that, even with my reservations about the story, results in a fascinating and distinct film.

Mary Poppins Returns

Mary Poppins Returns is a sequel to a classic film that follows the framework of its predecessor so closely it’s almost beat-for-beat. And yet even with this deliberate mimicking of Mary Poppins, it also somehow tells a different story and doesn’t come across as if it’s resting on its laurels. At the point in the film where the original would be playing ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’, Returns has a song about putting an imaginative and fun spin on everyday activities. When you’re thinking that it’s time for a trip to an idyllic 2D animated landscape, Returns obliges. If you’re realising that we’re scheduled for a ‘Step in Time’ music number, Returns gives you one with lamp-lighters instead of chimney sweeps.

But if you think that reprises of ‘Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious’ or ‘Feed the Birds’ would be an easy slam-dunk of nostalgic ecstasy that the film would be foolish not to go for, you’d be surprised. Apart from the odd line of music here or there that’s snuck in at just the right moment to make you remember the original film, none of the original songs are to be found, and that works immensely well in Returns favour. The movie is already lifting the structure of the original film wholesale; if it took anything else from it we’d be approaching live-action remake levels of similarity. Instead, the new songs are there to stand on their own, and they mimic the sound of the Sherman Brothers’ music closely enough that you feel elated when the film wants you to be having a good time, and deeply moved when it wants you to sob your eyes out. But they’re also different enough and of unique enough subject matter that the new songs by Scott Wittman and Marc Shaiman (whose previous song writing work includes the Hairspray musical) feel totally distinct, even if they do have a familiar sound to them. Some of my favourites include Emily Blunt’s playful performance of ‘Can You Imagine That’, the amazing choreography of ‘Trip a Little Light Fantastic’, and of course the tender bittersweetness of ‘The Place Where Lost Things Go’.

The casting also holds up across the board. Pixie Davies, Nathanael Saleh, and Joel Dawson play Annabel, John, and Georgie, the three children of the now adult Michael Banks. They strike the right tone for the central child characters in a Mary Poppins story, demonstrating a decent balance between being impossibly sweet-natured but also strong-headed enough to say what they feel as they feel it and sometimes cause trouble because of that. It’s difficult for me to think of many distinguishing characteristics which mark each of them out, but in all honesty I could say the same about the original Banks children, even after all those viewings. Plus, having three children rather than two does shift the dynamic enough to make the experience feel different. Ben Whishaw plays the adult Michael Banks, who grew up to be an artist who’s struggling to make end’s meet through his work at the bank, so while he did pursue a creative life that marks him out as a different man to his father, he also resembles him in many ways, and clearly risks making the same mistakes that he did. But the thing that resonates the most about his character is the set-up that his wife passed away not too long ago, and the whole family is still coming to terms with the hole this has left in their lives. Whishaw’s performance stabs at your heart, conveying how helpless Michael feels without her, but also how hard he’s trying to not show this to the rest of the family. His resolve to soldier on reminds me of the long walk Mr. Banks takes at the end of the original, knowing he is most likely going to be fired, but moving on anyway. The connection between the two characters is well thought out, and Whishaw impresses immensely. There’s not as much time dedicated to the grown-up Jane Banks played by Emily Mortimer, which is a shame, but it does feel right to see her be inspired by her mother’s activism as a suffragette and campaign for worker’s rights. Lin-Manuel Miranda fills in the Bert role of the lovable guide who’s savvy to Mary’s unknowable nature as Jack, an apprentice that Bert seems to have more-or-less raised himself. Miranda sings his songs with such cheery charm that they instantly transport you back to the world of Mary Poppins, demonstrating his golden touch when it comes to musicals, surprising none of the fans of his previous work, including Hamilton and the songs from Moana. Finally, Emily Blunt is another transcendent Mary Poppins. Yes, we now have two cinematic portrayals of the same character which are different, but both stunning. She accentuates some of the aspects I most enjoy about the character, namely the prim, immaculate composure that oozes authoritative control, but can instantly, effortlessly transform into cheeky playfulness before your eyes. She nails it, and as far as I’m concerned, we now have two Mary Poppins performances that are practically perfect in every way.

This review is already running long, so I’ll get through this quickly, but… my God, did seeing traditional 2D animation in the style of Disney’s original hand-drawn pictures on the big screen again in 2019 move me beyond words. There’s plenty of quality 2D, non-CGI animation out there in different forms, whether its in television, short films, the labour of love that animators are putting out there on the internet, or anime, but we really do need more of this mode of animation out there. There have been some truly beautiful 2D animated films over the last decade, but I want to see more of this kind of genuine effort from Disney, the company that put this cinematic hand-drawn animation on the map for western audiences. This beautiful artform needs to be preserved and cultivated, and I hope this is a step towards Disney doing more to help with that.

I will admit that Returns following Mary Poppins’ structure so closely did take me out of the film to a degree, as it makes me more aware that I’m watching a sequel that’s very deliberately aping the film that came before it, which makes it feel less organic than it could have been. To be fair, I’m not sure what else you could have done to make it have as strong a connection as it does to the first film. There’s also an unnecessary sequence here or there which are intended to be thrilling but I never felt like there was much tension to them, such as the race against the clock at the end. It doesn’t reach the heights of the original, but wasn’t that always going to be the case? In every other respect, this film is a delight and a satisfying emotional journey.

Final Ranking: Silver.

You can’t watch Mary Poppins for the first time again. But this film nevertheless gives you a taste of what you felt, whether it’s that joyous exuberance of having a jolly holiday with Mary, or the bittersweet reflection of an adult acknowledging that time keeps pressing on, the seasons change, but you can still find the magic in today.

Bumblebee

The director of Kubo and the Two Strings directed a Transformers movie.

I’m currently doing academic research into the history of American stop-motion animation. I plan for one of my chapters to be on Laika and their four (five by the time I finish, though I hope there’ll be even more than that) excellently crafted films, including Kubo. Watching Bumblebee, I noted a few similarities between it and Kubo, such as a young main character going on an emotional journey as they struggle to come to terms with the death of one or more of their parents, and a celebration of the emotive powers of music that enable us to express our inner feelings, as well as Travis Knight’s general appreciation for certain specific older songs in general. So yes, watching Bumblebee did make me reflect on the approach to filmmaking of a director I’m deeply invested in for my work at the moment. What I’m saying is that watching a Transformers movie was a productive part of my ongoing academic research, and that is a bizarre place to find myself in.

But what’s even weirder than that is that one of these Transformers movies turned out to be a legitimately great film that I kinda love.

Everything that muddied the waters of past Transformers films that Michael Bay was involved in has been stripped away, and the simple narrative framework that exists underneath all of that has been strengthened by a script and style of presentation that knows how to make the most with very little. The majority of the film can be summarised as “a girl and her pet car”, and while the sceptical might call that inane, the people involved in making Bumblebee work hard enough with that premise to make it work for a full film.

Charlie, a teenage girl and the human protagonist of the film, has lost her father and is upset that the rest of her family has moved on (her mother remarried). Her dad was very supportive of her, and now that he’s no longer around, Charlie is deeply dissatisfied with the person she’s become since her father died, and she doesn’t believe she can complete certain tasks that mean a great deal to her without her father being there to help. Charlie feels she hasn’t turned out to be the amazing person her dad believed she could become, and it’s possible that she’s afraid that she’s letting not only herself down, but the memory of her father as well. Meanwhile, Bumblebee is a Transformer that was tasked with going ahead of the rest of the Autobots to safeguard Earth and be ready for when the rest of his comrades arrive on the planet to continue the fight against the Decepticons. But soon after he lands, he gets involved in a fight to the death that he almost loses. Gravely wounded, he uses the last of his strength to disguise himself as a yellow 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. Some time later, Charlie finds him, and what she thinks is a broken-down abandoned car comes into her possession. Charlie fixes him up in the hopes of having a working car that she can use to get away from things, but in the process, Bumblebee instinctively transforms and reveals himself. Bumblebee’s injuries have destroyed his capacity to speak and have left him with no memories of his past. After cementing the connection between these two individuals who each need help in order to heal from the trauma they’ve gone through, the rest of the film takes its time to reinforce this bond, resulting in a touching family sci-fi film with a friendship that I believe will be just as enduring as its various sources of inspiration, from E.T. to The Iron Giant.

Without being overstuffed, the film’s pacing benefits immeasurably, putting all its energy into making this friendship as sweet and fun to watch as possible. Hailee Steinfeld is fully engaged as Charlie, putting 110% into her interactions with the digital creation of Bumblebee. The emotions she displays at the different points of her relationship with the adorable Autobot are charmingly heartfelt. Whether she’s anxious about Bumblebee being discovered, jubilant at this chance of newfound freedom and a friend to experience it with, or angry and defensive when parts of her past with her father get unearthed, Steinfeld is always putting everything into this, even when her main acting partner isn’t there on the set alongside her. Which brings us to why having a director with a history in animation can do wonders for a film centring on a digital creation, because the Bumblebee in this movie is precious, lovable, and so captivating to watch. The design is streamlined so that every moving part serves a purpose, and that purpose is always to convey the inner thoughts and feelings of this robot. His expressions are dripping with soulful looks of his timidness, compassion, or mischievous side that never veers too far away from his well-meaning nature. He may be made of metal, but this CGI creature is so full of life. Both the arcs and the performances of these characters are relatively simple, but they’re executed with such consideration that they hit home in a remarkable way for me.

I could go on about how much I enjoyed the measured action that’s presented through restrained camera movements that clearly frame the subjects of the shot, or how I engaged with the action as much as I did because it consistently featured characters I was invested in or interested by, or how the actions characters took within these sequences offer insight into their general outlook, but I’ll leave it at that barely veiled summary. Bumblebee draws inspiration from several well received family sci-fi films with a lot of heart to them, and some of the positive parts of the action and general aesthetic of this live-action Transformers world are owed to the groundwork provided by Michael Bay’s films. But even if Bumblebee owes some credit to other films that have preceded it, it understands the deeper reasons for why the aspects that worked in these other properties were as successful as they were, and it weaves that informed technical prowess of storytelling and filmmaking with genuine love. Love for the idea of Transformers, love for coming of age classics with a fun twist to them, and a beautiful friendship between two characters who each heal from the love they show each other.

Final Ranking: Gold.

The film is a delight for its simplicity and earnestness, but that doesn’t mean there’s a lot of technical skill on display in the performances, the animation, or its use of colour and camerawork. It warms the soul, and my mind comes back to it more often than I’d ever expected. It’s got the touch.

#The Inquisitive J #reviews #film reviews #movie reviews #films #movies #film discussion #film critic #film criticism #critic #the favourite #the favourite review #mary poppins returns #mary poppins returns review #bumblebee #bumblebee review #the inquisitive j reviews

5 notes · View notes

fireflyquill · 6 years ago

Text

AUgust Day 13: Fake Dating

Genji has to be a little shit in at least one out of every five of my stories. Sorry, I don't make the rules.

They discuss some salacious topics, but nothing is graphic!

Fake dating AU where…um…Lucio’s favourite colour is blue instead of green. Yeah. AU… >.>

Fake dating AU scenario where McCree, Hanzo, Genji and Lucio have gone undercover at a fancy dinner. And it’s okay to be a Shimada in public. And Genji is a little shit. Background Gencio.

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 11 | Day 13 | Day 15 | Day 20 | Prompt Post

If there was one thing that Jesse McCree knew he could count on, it was that some cosmic force definitely found his suffering amusing. If there were two things that Jesse McCree could count on, the second was that Shimada brothers, when put in competition, didn’t know when to stop.

It was just his luck that both of these things decided to coincide in the worst possible way (likely because of the first).

Overwatch had sent out an undercover team consisting of himself, Hanzo, Genji and Lucio. With Lucio’s connections, they were able to put their names on the list of an exclusive dinner that was said to be patronized by Talon council members.

It was *already* bad enough that they were pretending to be double-dating. Half an hour into the evening, Genji witnessed Jesse’s discomfort at being so close to a man that he had admired for so long from afar, and decided to make it much, much worse.

It started with a small touch on Lucio’s arm. Lucio jumped with surprise, but his features softened when his smile met Genji’s. He threw an arm around Genji’s waist and they continued their conversation.

Hanzo’s eyebrow visibly twitched.

Later, Genji went looking for a drink, and returned with exactly the drink that Jesse had seen Lucio order dozens of times for himself.

“Just the way you like it,” Genji purred. Lucio blushed. Cameras flashed. Hanzo grit his teeth.

“Brother, where is your date’s drink?” Genji mentioned in a way that was too casual to be casual.

“What are you doing?” Jesse pulled Genji aside to hiss after Hanzo had stormed off.

“Helping,” Genji shrugged.

“This is not. Helpful.”

“How long have you been mooning over my brother? Don’t even bother lying McCree, I know all of your tells.”

“That ain’t important,” Jesse growled back. “I’m not about to jeopardize our friendship over—”

“You know who you sound like right now?” Genji rolled his eyes and huffed an impatient sigh. “Someone who promised to kill me a second time if I ever told you how he felt about you.”

“Don’t tease me ‘bout this,” Jesse warned. “Some jokes cross the line.”

“You two are absolutely hopeless,” Genji waved him off, and returned to Lucio’s side with a wide smile.

Jesse was about to chase after him when he felt an arm slide over his shoulder and wrap itself seductively over his chest.

McCree felt Hanzo’s words at his ear before he heard them.

“Thirsty, my darling?” Hanzo murmured.

It took all of his Blackwatch training not to jump right out of his skin. He turned to find Hanzo standing far too close, peering at him with affection.

“As fuck,” he answered before he could stop himself.

Hanzo chuckled. “I am sorry to keep you waiting then.”

Hanzo’s other hand was in front of him, holding a glass of bourbon, no ice.

Just how he liked it.

“Thank you kindly,” Jesse managed with a small smile, knowing that Hanzo could likely feel how he heart was threatening to beat out of his chest.

Hanzo hummed, and gestured for him to follow. They made their way back to Genji and Lucio. Genji was looking all too pleased with himself. He laced his fingers with Lucio’s as they kept walking and shot his brother a look. Hanzo took Jesse’s hand without skipping a beat, although Jesse’s heart definitely skipped one.

This was going to be a long night.

---

An hour later, Jesse wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

The Shimadas had started an all-out war of affection, and while Lucio seemed to be enjoying the attention, Jesse felt like he was moments away from losing his mind (or at least, of losing control of *other* bodily functions).

Luckily, the two of them had disappeared, giving Jesse some reprieve.

“You okay, man?” Lucio leaned into ask.

“Far from it,” Jesse snorted. He decided to change the subject instead. “So how long you been goin’ out with the ninja?”

Genji may have been a trained operative, but Lucio was not. His affection was definitely not feigned. Lucio was unfazed, however. He grinned.

“Couple weeks. Figured this was as good an occasion as any to try it out in public.”

Jesse nodded.

“Hanzo seems to really enjoy spendin’ time with you.”

McCree could tell that Lucio was being cautious, but didn’t like where this was going all the same.

“Naw, it ain’t like that.”

“Why not?”

The earnesty of the question caught Jesse off guard. He turned to face Lucio, expecting to find that Genji had taught his new boyfriend his shit-eating grin, but only found genuine curiosity.

“You two get along real well. He seems to like you best out of everyone.”

“That’s still a far walk from wantin’ to date me,” Jesse pointed out.

“Is that something you know for sure? And if not, what’s the harm in trying to find out?”

Once again, Jesse didn’t detect any humour in Lucio’s words—only a candid kindness. That was something that McCree wasn’t used to.

Luckily, Genji chose that moment to return, saving Jesse from having to answer.

“Got you some food,” Genji purred, leaning into Lucio’s space. “Open.”

Lucio obliged, tilting his head back slightly so that Genji could carefully slide a mini cake into his mouth.

Lucio hummed, pleased.

Jesse paled, seeing that Hanzo was marching back towards them, a plate in his own hand. Hanzo sauntered into Jesse’s space. “Such an oversight on my part,” he whispered, lifting an hors d’oeuvre and pressing it towards McCree.

“Naw, thanks sweetpea, but I don’—armph!” Jesse had always been told he had a big mouth. Never had it served him so badly, so literally.

---

As the evening continued, and as the liquor continued to flow, even the elite began to let their hair down. This was the opportunity that the team was waiting for: they positioned themselves in a key conversation with several couples that were once removed from the Talon council members, hoping that the alcohol would be enough to loosen their tongues.

It had worked spectacularly, and they already had more than enough intel to report. Which was why they were currently engaged in a conversation about public sex.

“I cannot say for certain whether we have or not,” Genji replied to the question from a stranger. Lucio was seated across his lap on their sofa, arms wrapped happily around his shoulders. “Lu has a reputation to maintain, after all.”

Hanzo snorted. He was sitting on a separate chaise, regal as a lord, and Jesse was admiring him while seated on the armrest, one arm slung casually over his shoulder and hanging over his chest. “The stories I could tell from your youth.”

Genji’s grin turned wicked. “Back at you, brother.”

“What now?” Jesse couldn’t stop himself from gaping.

“I wasn’t the only Shimada brother who knew how to enjoy himself,” Genji smirked.

“Yes, but you were the only one foolish enough to get caught,” Hanzo sniped back.

Jesse laughed. “My darlin’s got you there.”

All the air vacuumed out of the room for just a split second, and only the four Overwatch agents felt it. Now Lucio was *also* giving a knowing grin. Jesse could not see Hanzo’s expression, but could feel him stiffen ever so slightly under his touch.

“Yes, your darling certainly does,” Genji agreed all too readily, shooting his brother a wink. Hanzo twitched, clearly on edge. Being a little too drunk for his own good, Jesse tried to calm Hanzo by rubbing circles on his chest, and he felt the muscles tighten immediately under his fingers.

While Jesse didn’t quite understand the look that Hanzo shot him, his body certainly did. He wondered whether it was getting hotter in the room or whether it was just him.

“So when was the last time you engaged in public sex, brother?” Genji asked nonchalantly.

“I do not remember,” Hanzo growled, keeping eye contact with Jesse. “But I can tell you the next time will be approximately five minutes from now.”

Genji’s mouth fell open and Lucio spat out his drink. The rest of their group whistled as Hanzo stood, lifting Jesse clear off the ground bridal style as he whisked him towards the nearest hallway.

Inwardly, despite being even *more* aroused than before, Jesse was relieved that Hanzo had found such an elegant solution out of the predicament.

“That was smart thinkin’ there, darlin’,” Jesse managed once Hanzo let him down in a small private room and slammed the door behind him. “Didn’t think I could stand that conv—armph!”

He was cut off as Hanzo lunged at him with a snarl, pressing their lips together roughly. Jesse let out an uncontrolled moan, which allowed Hanzo to thrust his tongue into his mouth and explore it thoroughly.

“Sweet Jesus,” Jesse managed once they parted for air.

“I have wanted to do that the entire evening,” Hanzo answered the unasked question, his lips stained bright red from their kiss. He seemed to be waiting for something. A shoe to drop, perhaps, Jesse realized. He smiled and leaned forward.

“And I’ve been waitin’ all night for you to,” he said before capturing Hanzo’s lips again.

#au august #firefly writes #my writing #mchanzo #fake dating

44 notes · View notes