#and frying bacon so that when you hold it in one edge it stands straight out

[ofsluts]

Top/bottom and top/verse and verse/bottom are all good m/m ship dynamics but nothing beats the superior top/top dynamics. It adds that nice crunch.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 2

A/N I am breaking probably the only rule I gave myself when I started writing fanfic, which was Don’t Ever Post a WIP.  But lord knows I’m not immune to peer pressure and the narcotic that is reader feedback, so here it is, the second chapter of what is now an open-ended modern AU story about Jamie the Chef and Claire the Kitchen Disaster.  Still a first person Claire POV, so I apologize in advance for any stray pronouns.

For the first chapter, I recommend reading it on Ao3, since I’ve made some minor edits since I first posted it on Tumblr.  See above re. not planning on posting a WIP.

Oh, and funny story.  When I decided to check the location of the real Ginger Snap catering company in Edinburgh, it was squished between “FrazersOnline” and “McKenzie Flooring”.  If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.  The location I describe below, however, is based on a catering venue here in Ottawa called Urban Element, where I’ve attended a few team-building events.  I have yet to set anything on fire, though.

I checked my phone for the third time, confirming I wasn’t lost.  

Frank and I moved to Edinburgh over the summer, just in time for him to start his position as Associate Professor of History at the University of Edinburgh. Despite our years spent in America, neither of us cared overmuch for driving, so we chose a flat (or rather, Frank chose a flat and I concurred) not far from campus.  Therefore, this was the first time I’d ventured as far afield as Leith, a maritime enclave just to the north of the capital that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be grittily working class or artistically hip. 

When I finally reached the address, I had to smile.  No main street pretensions or non-descript commercial frontage for Ginger Snap Catering.  Before me stood a two-story red brick fire station, still emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Services.  The two massive truck bays were now enclosed by see-through doors that could be drawn back on a sunny day.  Through these a warm yellow light could be seen, spilling onto the grey, damp pavement.

A petite woman with dark hair manned the small reception area, a red-haired toddler clinging to her like a marsupial.  She held a phone to one ear while simultaneously pacing the polished concrete floor.  I stood as unobtrusively as possible near the door, but in such an open space it was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation.

“... they willna take ‘im back until ‘is fever goes down...  aye, an hour ago when I picked him up but it hasn’t... nay, i dinna think it’s... tis jus’ terrible timing with two weddings t’morrow... Could ye?  Och, I owe ye Mrs. Fitz, a million times o’er... Anytime, we’ll be here.  Alright, soon.”

The speaker turned to me, the harried look of a working mother sharpening her already honed features.

“I apologize fer keeping ye waiting.  What can I do fer ye t’day?”

Before I could respond, the young boy, probably no older than two, began to fuss, rubbing his flushed cheek against his mother’s shoulder.

“Och, mo ghille, Mam kens ye’re poorly.  Mrs. Fitz is coming as fast as she may.”

Unable to quell my instinct to diagnose and then cure, I spoke up.  

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.  Based on his age and the way he’s holding his head, it may be an ear infection.”  At the woman’s penetrating look, I hastened to explain: “I’m a doctor.  Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

Permission granted, I carefully palpated the boy under the jaw and peered as best I could without an otoscope into the offending ear canal.  Confident in my diagnosis, I recommended treatment with a warm compress, an over-the-counter analgesic ear drop, and children’s paracetamol to control his fever.  If, after twenty-four hours the symptoms had not improved, they could consider seeing his pediatrician for antibiotics, but these were only truly necessary for a persistent infection.

“Och, ye ‘ave no idea what a relief it is tae hear ye say so, lass.  He’s my first bairn, ye ken, an’ I can ne’er tell if I’m over-reacting or being negligent.   Can ye say thank ye tae the nice doctor, Wee Jamie?”

My stomach jumped.  “Wee Jamie?  Is he related by chance to Jamie Fraser?”

“Aye, tis his nephew.  I’m Jamie’s sister, Jenny.  Ye ken my brother, then?”

The pieces fell into place, and my insides settled.

“We’ve spoken before,” I explained.  “I’m Claire Beauchamp.  You and your brother helped me with a dinner party emergency last Tuesday.  I came to return your market bags, and to thank you again for coming to my aid during my hour of need.”

Jenny and I spoke for another ten minutes, sharing the superficial narratives of two strangers brought together by circumstance.  She was warm and thistly by turns, and I felt a longing for the honesty of female friendship that I’d given up when we left Boston.  Eventually a matronly woman arrived to collect Wee Jamie.  I carefully wrote down the exact names and dosages of my prescribed remedy.

After Mrs. Fitz and Wee Jamie had left, it occurred to me that Jenny needed to get back to work.  I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do, even if I hadn’t thanked Jamie himself.   As I began to make my goodbyes, however, Jenny interjected. “If ye’re no’ in a rush, why dinna ye join our afternoon cooking class?  My brother will be demonstrating how tae make quiche.  Tis the least we can do, after ye helped Wee Jamie.”

Which was how I found myself standing behind one of six cooking stations arranged across the fire station’s main area, a bright red apron covering my black slacks and saffron turtleneck.  My impetuous curls were slowly breaking ranks from where I’d slicked them into a bun that morning.  I worried I looked like a human Pez dispenser.

I glanced at the workstation immediately to my left.  A slight woman who I guessed to be roughly my own age was engrossed in her phone, a cheeky smirk playing on her berried lips.  Her strawberry blond hair was swept into an effortless chignon that made me twitch with envy.  She looked up from her screen and caught me looking her way.

“Geillis Duncan,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand.

“Claire Beauchamp.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Is it yer first time taking a class, Claire?”  At my nod, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ye’re in for a treat.”

Before I could enquire what she meant, a murmur amongst the other students (all women, save one) was accompanied by the heavy tread of work boots on polished concrete and a familiar Scottish burr.

“Good afternoon, everyone.  Thank ye fer joining me on this dreich Scottish day.  I ken a few of ye are new, so let’s start with a brief overview of yer stations and some basic safety reminders, before we tackle the quiche.”

Today Jamie was wearing a pair of olive pants that tapered down his endless legs and a technical shirt that clung valiantly to his upper body.  He looked like he’d just stepped off the nearest rock climbing pitch.  I wondered if he owned anything that answered to the name of a professional wardrobe, but I couldn’t deny that he looked impressive, in an athleisure sort of way.

“See what I mean?” Geillis hissed at me as Jamie made his way to the front of the hall, speaking now about optimal burner temperatures.  “That man is a dozen kinds of yes.”

I concentrated on each step of the ostensibly simple recipe.  Pie crust had been the previous week’s assignment, so I had only to blind bake the prepared dough already at my workstation.  Once I had the crust centered exactly in the pie pan, pierced with a fork in orderly rows and placed in the oven, I rushed to catch up with the others.  I’d missed Jamie’s instructions regarding pan frying the bacon, so I increased the flame, thinking I could make up a little time.  The fatty meat crackled pleasingly as I set it in the lightly greased pan.  I was inordinately proud of myself.

Things went very badly, very fast.  First, my eyes wouldn’t stop watering as I meticulously peeled then dissected the onion into near-transparent crescents. Tears obscured my vision and I tried to wipe them away without contaminating my hands.  To my left I could make out Geillis skillfully cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her pie crust already elegantly filled with crispy morsels of bacon and caramelized onion bits.  

A vague sense of having forgotten something important tickled my mind.  My pie crust!  Grabbing a silicone glove (I wasn’t making that mistake twice) I rushed to the wall oven and extracted the pan.  Giddy with relief, I saw the dough was only a little dark around the edges.  

Before I could return victorious to my station, Jamie uttered a Scottish noise of alarm from his vantage at the front of the class.   We both rushed across the room to where my rashers of bacon now resembled blackened shoe laces obscured by a heavy veil of smoke.  With practiced ease, Jamie lifted the entire skillet into the adjacent sink and turned on the cold water.  A cloud of steam enveloped his head, highlighting his auburn curls.  I bit my lip as he looked my way in amusement.

“I hope ye werena planning on serving quiche to yer faculty guests t’night, Ms. Beauchamp?”

I stood meekly next to Geillis for the remainder of the class, no longer trusted around open flame without adult supervision.   She graciously allowed me to extract her quiche when it was done baking.  It looked like a magazine cover.  Meanwhile, my workstation looked like the scene of an industrial accident.

While we were waiting for her quiche to cook, Geillis and I got to know each other a little better.  She was a Highland lass from up near Inverness.  Married to a wealthy older man, her life sounded like an endless quest for diversion.  Despite this, or because of it, she had a sharp-witted frankness that I appreciated.  She was also a hard-core gossip.

“Wee besom,” she remarked with a nod towards a blond girl who was currently monopolizing Jamie’s attention with endless questions punctuated by manufactured giggles and flicks of her pin-straight hair.  “Tha’s Laoghaire Mackenzie of the Mackenzie brewing dynasty.  They’ve a live-in cook, so there’s only one reason she attends these classes, and it isna for the quiche.”

I watched Jamie laugh over something the girl said, mineral eyes alight and his perfect white teeth on display.  I suppose I couldn’t blame her.  I wasn’t here for the quiche either.

The interminable ninety minute lesson finally ended.  I thanked Geillis profusely and we exchanged numbers before she rushed off for her reiki treatment.  Gathering my trench coat and purse, I tried to slink away without calling any further attention to myself.

“Ms. Beauchamp!”

I cursed under my breath, then turned to face him.

“Please, call me Claire.  After I nearly burned down your place of business, we should probably be on a first name basis.”

Jamie chuckled. It sounded more natural and lived-in than his earlier response to Laoghaire, but I was likely fooling myself.

“Och, wha’s a cooking demonstration wi’out a wee bit of drama.  Will ye be joining us next week?  We’ll be making ceviche, sae I willna need tae put the fire brigade on stand-by.”

“Bastard,” I replied to his cheeky smirk.  “Alas, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cook.  It appears to be the one science I can’t master.”

“Cooking isna a science, Claire,” he explained with sincere intensity.  “Tis an art.  Perhaps tha’s the root of yer struggle.”

“Perhaps it is.  But in that case, I may as well give up now.  I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.”

His languorous perusal of said body lit a different kind of flame in my belly.  Geillis was right; he really was a dozen kinds of yes.

“I canna say as I agree.  Come back any time if ye’d like tae try again.”

I blushed, thoroughly discomfited by his blatant flirting.  He knew about Frank.  He’d fled from him onto my fire escape, for Christ’s sake!  Maybe when you looked like James Fraser, every interaction with a woman was merely a chance to hone your craft.  Or maybe he was truly ignorant of his effect.

“I’ll take that under advisement.  Thank you again, Jamie.”

“Until the next time, Arsonist.”

[secret-rendezvous1d]

“you’re so beautiful.”

hello, hi.

here’s some long-awaited spencer fluff that got requested to me. it’s loosely based on this idea that someone sent in to me; you should write something fluffy about spence or the reader being sick or having an off day (something along those lines), and the other just being very attentive to them. like checking in on them before the roundtable meetings or in between briefings and maybe they go out to catch an unsub and they're holding hands in the car and just being super sweet and caring :'))))) brb gonna go explode with feels.

explode with feels is how i hope you’ll feel after reading this. it did make me go all mushy inside because having spencer take care of me whilst i’m sick would be a dream come true- but it won’t because he’s a fictional character and that sucks.

this could the last story that gets posted for a while; some things are happening and i just want to take a bit of a break from posting stories on here until i’m feeling comfortable again. i’m still going to be writing behind the scenes so don’t think i won’t be; there’s so much spencer stuff to work from that plenty of stories will be coming. i just want to say that i am incredibly thankful to each and every one of you who has supported this new venture of writing and has enjoyed it so far. 

like, reblog and send in some feedback, please. it’s greatly appreciated and it helps me work out what you want to see and what you are after. if you want something specific then do let me know! i’d love to try and write something for you.

thank you. enjoy.

-

“you’re so beautiful” spencer reid x female reader (reader insert imagine) word count; 4.6k.

* TRIGGER WARNING; very brief mentions of rape, abduction, torture. if you are uncomfortable with that, i advise not to read or read with caution. *

summary; yn falls sick and spencer likes to take good care of her when they’re working on a case.

-

YN woke up feeling like shit.

There was no need for her to beat around the bush and deny herself the truth on how her body was making her feel. Her head ached whenever she moved her vision from side to side and her temples throbbed close to her ears and she could feel her heartbeat from behind her eyes, pumping more vigorously, almost like it could have been heard throughout the entire building. Like the heartbeat effect in a movie when things got tense. Her breathing was shallow, her throat felt constantly dry and in need of hydration and her nasal passages felt like wet cotton-wool had been shoved up each nostril and had been strictly put there to restrict a clear intake and outtake of breath when she needed one. Her chest felt heavy, like she was drowning and had no way of coming back to the surface, and her eyes felt sensitive to the bright light of the pure sunshine streaming through the open curtains, which she assumed Spencer had opened when he woke up.

Despite feeling poorly and her head feeling like it wanted to involuntarily dip downward toward her chest, her eyes begging to have a few more minutes of sleep, she felt physically fine and there was no aching in her joints and no soreness around her neck and her legs felt strong enough to hold her weight and so she felt she could live the natural working day like normal. She could still hear so she could attend the briefing that morning, she could still see clearly so she could see the images of what they were dealing with when Garcia showed them on the screen in the roundtable room, she could still manoeuvre herself around and walk without getting dizzy or wandering from a straight line so she could easily be used in a chase to catch an unsub. She was fine to work and nothing but a couple of cold and flu capsules taken with her breakfast and some regular four-hour intakes of paracetamol through the day would keep her strong and feeling better throughout the day.

She left their bedroom freshly showered and spritzed with perfume and deodorant and dressed in an outfit that seemed like it was fitting attire to how she was feeling; a baggy sweatshirt, that hung loose down her upper body and covered her hands, and a pair of worn-out and black-denim skinny jeans that she kept in the back of her closet for days when work trousers just didn’t cut it for her. When she wanted something a little more comfortable and fitting. The material at the kneecaps almost worn out and torn from the non-stop crawling on her knees during cases that had them in tight spaces, the hems cut up from walking through thorns and shrubbery when cases took them into the wilderness, dried out stains of god-knows what sunk deep into the material which she struggled to get rid of when laundry day came around, and the denim around the inner thigh was wearing thin from the constant running around they had to do and with the amount of time she paced interrogation rooms and paced negotiation rooms when she felt on edge about something in particular. The jumper, she hoped, would keep her warm enough to not get worse symptoms over the next few days that passed so she wasn’t sent home for being ill - Hotch being more careful than strict because he couldn’t have her working excessively when her body couldn’t take the pressure.

What she expected to see, after closing the bedroom door behind her exit, was an empty living room that was void of anything related to Spencer. His house keys taken from the hooks by the front door, his tattered Converse trainers gone from the space beside her chunky black boots, his shoulder bag picked up from the floor by the coat-rack that was also missing his coat. Except, when she looked around and took a note of anything that had gone, everything seemed to have been left in the same place as where they had been left the previous evening when they arrived home; her boots were to the left of his trainers, his bag was hung up instead of left of the floor and his coat was taking up a hook on the rack beside her patterned macintosh. 

He was still home and it took her a moment to realise.

There was a delicious smell of bacon and fried eggs filling the entire apartment, the delectable sound of something sizzling in a pan taking her from the entryway and into the kitchenette, where she found Spencer stood amongst the smells and the sounds and the spitting oil and the steam coming from the cooker. Stood with his back facing her and dressed in the typical waistcoat and patterned shirt, one hand holding a ceramic bowl in a tight grip and the other using a fork to mash two halves of an avocado up, head darting from the pan frying the eggs to the bacon cooking in the grill to make sure there was no burning of any of the breakfast foods he was prepping for a masterpiece. 

“What’s going on here this morning? Are you burning food for an experiment or something?” She questioned, startling him in his spot, a tinkle of metal cutlery colliding with ceramic as he dropped the fork upon your sudden arrival. His body turned so gracefully in his place, the bowl of avocado being left behind on the counter, taking in the standing stature of his girlfriend as she stood in the archway of the kitchen entryway. Her hair damp from the shower but dried enough not to leave wet patches on her clothes, fresh-faced and make-up free, looking so small as she stood with a grin on her face- god, he really loved her., “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Good morning to you,” he smiled warmly, stepping across the expanse between them and reaching for her hands, curling his fingertips into hers and holding them gently in his sweetened hold. He smelt like his musky and sandalwood-scented aftershave, something that always lingered in whatever room he entered, and she loved that it made her feel so safe and secure. The smell of home when they/he were away from home. “You were tossing and turning in bed all night and I heard you sniffling this morning so I knew you were going to wake up a little ill so I thought I’d make you breakfast to cheer you up. Egg and mashed avocado on toast with some bacon to get you going since it’s your favourite at the moment.”

She smiled appreciatively. He was attentive, no matter what the subject was, and his eidetic memory came in hand sometimes when she found a new obsession or found something that she enjoyed because he always seemed to remember and never let it slip his mind. Egg and avocado on toast just so happened to be her favourite meal for the first meal of the day, which she knew would change by next week, and to see him cooking it made her heart race for him a little more than normal. She laced her fingers through his, bringing one of his hands to her lips and pressing a kiss to his skin because there was no way she was going to kiss him on the lips because she knew whatever she had could pass as quickly as it could spread. Much to her dismay, of course, because she liked to sneak the occasional and sneaky kiss whenever they could in between meetings or briefings or orders being thrown about from Hotch. 

“A little ill?” She frowned, head dipping down to her chest before looking back up at him, his eyes full of concern and worry, “I feel fine. Just a little bunged up. A head cold, I would say, Spence.”

He left the space in front of her to tend to the sizzling in the pan that was becoming a little more vicious as it held the cooking eggs, spitting oil as an indication that they were ready to be taken out and placed on a plate and ready to sit upon a bed of toasted bloomer bread that had a spread of avocado along the toasted top. Turning off the hob and sliding to the toaster, slipping two slices of bread into their toaster and allowing it to toast whilst the bacon finished grilling under the heat. And, by this point, YN took it upon herself to sit at the dining table and pour herself a cup of coffee from the cafetiere perched in the middle of the table, steaming with black coffee that had been freshly made before she left the bedroom.

“You look beautiful today, by the way,” Spencer broke the silence of the quiet apartment with a huff and a puff surrounding his words, setting a plate down in front of her and swiping his brow with the back of his hand, “you’re so beautiful.”

“I don’t feel beautiful right now, Spence,” she informed him, eyes focused on the bright yellow yolk of her egg, as he went back to grab his plate and walked back to the table to sit opposite her. She was impressed with his attempt. She liked her eggs cooked in a very specific way when it came to frying them, sunny-side up and with a runny yolk that covered everything when it broke, and he managed to get it perfectly to her expectations. “I’m all bunged up and snotting and leaking from every hole today. I don’t feel so pretty.”

“Every hole?” 

“Every facial hole, you pervert,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes, trying to hide the smirk that would have shown if she wasn’t trying to be a tiny bit serious. However, deep down, she was a little surprised that the innocent face that had sat opposite her at the dining table could even think of euphemisms so youthful and degenerative so quickly and so on subject when sex wasn’t exactly something he was confident in, “get your dirty mind out of the gutter.”

“I still think you look beautiful. Snot all around your nostrils or not,” he said, “absolutely gorgeous.”

“Shut up, don’t flatter me,” she kicked his shin underneath the table and grinned at the contact she felt with her toes, a wince leaving his mouth and a dribble of yolk trickling down his chin, the impact jerking his body and therefore jolting his arm and smearing avocado across his cheek, much to her amusement.  “serves you right, genius.”

“Hurry up and eat, we’re needed in the roundtable room in half an hour,” he shovelled a forkful of toast into his mouth, the crust catching his mouth and swiping a mix of avocado and egg whites across his upper lip.“Try not to sniffle and cough so much otherwise Hotch won’t allow you on the jet.”

“Don’t sabotage my job, Spencer. The team needs me just as much as they need you.” 

“I want you as close to me as possible so I can keep an eye on you. I’m a doctor, after all. I can look after you, carry any meds you need, be your something warm on the jet,” his sentence was halted by the ringing from the phone in his trouser pocket, the fork in his hand being placed on the plate so he could dig around and pull it out, no hesitation in his thumb to answer until he heard YN sniffle and he caught himself before he pressed the green call button. “You’re still alert to everything, yeah? Still good to come into work?”

“Do you mean, am I alert that Hotch is ringing your phone right now to get confirmation that we’ll be in on time?” She wondered, a hint of a smirk on her face when he looked up from his screen and nodded, “then yeah, I’m still good to go to work and treat the any like any normal day, Spence.”

+

“Are you feeling okay?” 

Spencer’s question was full of concern, and she worried that those overhearing their conversation because of the silence inside the confinement of the plane had their ears pricking up at any noise made by any one of the team, his long legs striding across the alley of the plane and crouching down beside the chair YN had made herself comfortable in for the duration of the flight to Texas. Away from everyone else, away from where chat would have been occupied because her head couldn’t take the jokes and the laughter that came from the gentle banter shared, away from being seated next to anyone in close proximity because she feared that she would definitely give something to someone in the tight space they were spending the next few hours. Although, when she looked around the plane for any eyes on her or anyone who had stopped mid-task to focus on what she and Spencer were talking about, she saw everyone off in their own worlds and in their own quiet conversations as the plane coursed its path. 

“I’m a bit tired but I’m okay. The pills before the flight are kicking in,” she smiled and tilted her head to the side and looked at him through red-rimmed eyes and hooded eyelids hanging above her coloured orbs, his arms folded on the arm of the chair she was curled up in. Her legs felt a little achy, in the bent up position they were in, and she remembered to move them and stretch them for a little to make sure her circulation was still running well. “I think I might take a nap right now. How long till we land?”

“Another couple of hours,” Spencer looked at his watch and then looked back to YN, his hand resting upon hers reassuringly, “I’ll brief you on everything when we land, if you want. To refresh your memory. I’ll get Hotch to get me and you to check the abduction site.”

“That’ll be good.”

“YN, get as much rest as you need,” Rossi said, standing behind Spencer and placing a soothing hand on his shoulder, squeezing it to tell him he was there and to not stand bolt upright in surprise. Partly to silently reassure him that she’d be fine if he left her to sleep through the flight to pass the time and partly to keep him stable as the plane hit a bout of soft turbulence from the gusts of high winds. “We’re thankful you chose to come with us but don’t forget to put yourself first sometimes. If you’re feeling rough then tell us. We can work around that.”

She really adored David.

He was like the father of the team; much more to YN because she had joined the team a short amount of time before he had taken over from Gideon. Even though he had common ground with almost every one of the agents in the unit, the two of them still kept a lookout for one another and checked in during intense cases because Rossi knew some of the information was enough to have someone second guess their career paths. He was the one who always pulled them aside when a situation got a little hated, he was the one who always pulled together team functions outside of work, he cooked for them and taught them Italian and he always knew how to shock and surprise them to a point where they weren’t surprised that Rossi had such an emotional and bumpy road in life.

He was the good cop to Hotch's bad cop - but that usually switched from time to time.

“Rossi, I’m fine. Honestly. I feel fine, just a little bunged up in the chest and the nose area. I struggled to sleep last night so I’m just going to try and grab an hour's shuteye,” YN spoke softly, wiping a tissue underneath her nose and balling it up in her fist, “I’ll be fine after a sleep, I’m sure. My grandma always told me that sleep was the best medicine.”

“If you’re sure,” he hummed, taking a step to the left and hiding in the alcove to make himself a cup of coffee, “absolutely sure?”

“This may not be my grandma’s couch but,” she grinned tiredly and nodded, “I’m absolutely sure.”

He smiled and held his coffee cup tightly in his hands, walking back to where he had been situated opposite JJ and Hotch, taking a glance at Morgan who had found himself comfortable on the sofa of the plane, the case file spread out on either side of him as he prepped to take control of the quick brief they always made so they were ready for when they touched down at their destination and split off into pairs to gain better understanding of who they were dealing with this time around.

“Warm enough?” Before his question was over, he was already shrugging off his jacket and opening it up, “here, some extra warmth,” he draped the material over her body and watched as she snuggled deeply beneath the garment. It smelt like him, it felt like him but it wasn’t him and she wished she could be snuggled on his lap and sleeping under his arm because that's where she slept the best- “better?”

“I was fine before,” she rolled her eyes and tilted her head to the touch of his lips, a kiss being placed against her forehead “but this feels nice.”

“Get comfy, I’ll go grab you some water.”

“You don’t need to baby me, Spencer. I’m honestly fine,” she grabbed his arm and stopped him from standing up and moving into the alcove behind her, not that he was going far but she just wanted to enjoy the moment they had going right now. They rarely got the chance to have their own conversation, in their own world, without any interruption from someone who wanted to tease them for something silly, “just stay here. I don’t need any water, not thirsty.”

“You can’t finish a sentence with the letter ‘d’ finding its way to the end of a word,” he said teasingly, a grin on his face because when she rolled her eyes, her head went the movement, like she went to ignore him because he couldn’t say anything seriously when she wanted him to be serious. Except, she wasn’t doing it to ignore him and to silently tell him that she was displeased with what he had said- she was doing it because if he let her eyes move on their own, her head would have been aching for moments afterwards, “let me grab you some water.”

“Spencer, stop,” she whined, “if I want water then I can get it myself. I’m not an invalid.”

“Never said you were but let me take care of you this time,” he was practically begging. She was independent when it came to being sick and she never liked to show a vulnerable side in front of Spencer, even when he tried his best to wear her down to the point where she gave in to his relentlessness, “please?”

She sighed heavily and pulled his jacket further up her body, tucking it beneath her chin and cosying a little deeper into the seat; she supposed she could use him and his willingness to obey orders to her advantage.

“Okay, fine.”

+

Two days had passed since they had landed in Texas, the longest amount of time that they’d ever spent on a case across the borders, and they were closer to the arrest of the predator who had abducted, raped and killed multiple women over the course of thirteen months than they were when they first arrived. Just a few more hours until they solved the case, had it come to an end with an arrest, so they could be on the jet and back in Virginia come nightfall.

She was ill, granted, and that was one reason as to why she couldn’t wait to get home. In the last forty-eight hours since they’d been there, YN’s head cold had turned into a full body cold and she had taken a turn for the worst but refused to work from the hotel room she shared with Spencer and kept her symptoms more secret. Partly because she was selfish - she knew Hotch would want her working away from the case because the chances of her zoning out where pretty high and she wanted in on the arrest of this unsub, she wanted to be the one who got him in cuffs and put him away for the murders of so many innocent women. 

She wanted her own bed and she wanted to cuddle with Spencer and she wanted to sleep beneath her own covers and sleep in a mattress that Spencer wouldn’t check and inform her on all the facts about bed-bugs and larva that could linger within the spring beneath them, in a bed that wasn’t a tiny hotel bed that was put to shame by their comfortable bed at home. she wanted a decent shower to freshen up in because she always woke up feeling gross and no matter how many showers she took, she still couldn’t rid herself of the sweaty feeling that covered her skin. and she wanted 

But she couldn’t wait to get home and try to rid herself of the information and the images she had been looking at and reciting and listening to over the last 48 hours or so. The stab wounds and the lacerations and the markings on the body of a woman who couldn’t defend herself, the brutal depiction of the well-thought out scenario that made YN shudder in her boots, the toture equipment that had been used on them when they were bound and tied up and screaming for their lives, the pictures showing the faces of the women who no longer had a life to live due to someone’s sadistic behaviour. That was the biggest reason as to why she couldn’t wait to go home.

And it was her arrest.

And she felt proud, a sense of accomplishment, that she was the one to handcuff him and walk him out from his tomb in the basement, beneath the house he had stayed in all his life, and pass him off to a police official who sat him in a police car waiting to take him to the station to be put away for the rest of his sorry life. Of course, they prevented any more attacks that this man would have prepared for but it never brought her a full sense of happiness- how could it when they couldn’t save the girls he had tortured?

“Even when you’re ill, you’re still a badass,” JJ claimed, squeezing YN’s hand and feeling the adrenaline shaking through her body. Something that they had all been through and always experienced no matter how many times they brought a criminal to justice for the horrific things they had done. “You did good, YN.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m a badass just-” she coughed into her free hand and Spencer was close by with a tissue from his jacket pocket, passing it to her so she could blow her nose and wipe the residue from her hand that came from clearing her throat, “just trying to be good at my job and trying to do it well to get these sons of bitches behind bars.”

JJ smiled at the two of them and jogged down the steps of the house, running toward Hotch as she filled him in and told him what had happened in the house and who made the arrest and who was their support and back-up in case things went wrong so he could write the report as best and as true to the story as he could. His eyes darted to YN and then back to JJ a few times as she explained in detail, a small smile on his face that was full of appreciation when he looked at YN and made eye contact which enticed a smile back in his direction, deep in conversation before clambering into the drivers side of the car. 

“I’d agree with JJ,” Spencer smiled, laying his arm over her shoulder and pulling YN into his side, pressing a kiss to her hairline, “full of a cold and you still put the job first. That’s badass behaviour to me.”

“Badass,” YN scoffed and rolled her eyes, looking up at him and squinting from the sunlight that seemed to be beaming directly down upon them, “I don’t think so, Spence.” 

They descended the steps outside the front of the house, his arm still holding her close, the soft feeling of grass and soil from the front lawn making a difference to the concrete they had walked upon as they exited the house. YN could feel the heat radiating all around, making her feel a little hotter than usual and she had the  big jumper covering her upper body to thank for that, and she couldn't wait to be back in Virginia in the air-conditioned office that stayed at a calm and cooling temperature, no matter the weather.

“For a genius, I’d take his word for it,” Rossi said from behind them, overtaking them in a haste to grab the passenger seat in the car with Hotch, “he knows what he’s talking about, YN.”

She didn’t need to see his face to see and hear the smirk in his voice, her arm sneaking around Spencer’s waist, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as she received a well-done from the rest of the team who had watched from behind the scenes.

“Come on,” he leant away from her and looked down at her, “you did so good today. I’m proud of you.”

“I just want to go home now. Although, I’m not looking forward to the flight with these ears. They ache like mad,” she admitted. Her earshad only just started aching that morning, something she thought would pass if she kept clearing out her nasal passages and 

“We could drive home,” “I can make Morgan take us back. He won’t mind.”

“I will mind. It’s three hours by jet, five by car,” Morgan teased, elbowing Spencer in the arm with hopes he took it as a piece of banter and nothing more than that, “no, I can do. Of course. We can grab a bite to eat on the way home, too.”

“No, flying is much quicker and I want to be home and in bed by nightfall,” YN assured, climbing into the car and scooting over to the far seat behind the front passenger chair, situating herself comfortably and clipping her seatbelt around her upper body, “I’ll just take some meds in a second and sleep it off as soon as we get on the jet.”

“Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent, Spence,” she nodded and gave the seat beside her a pat with her finger tips, “let’s get home.”

[atc74]

Soul to Souls - One

Square(s) Filled: None for this chapter

Warnings: Mentions of death, wolf hunt, Sassy OC, Guilt Ridden!Dean, so many more to come

Summary: Since she was four years old, Annaleigh has seen the same boy in her dreams. For twenty-five years, she grows to love the boy that has now turned into a man. Dean Winchester just lost the only family he has ever known. The guilt drives him to work harder than ever before. He works to forget the pain, until he meets Annaleigh and she turns his world upside down. What she learns changes both of their lives forever, but what will he do when he discovers the truth? Will he accept it or run back to the only life he has ever known?

Pairing: Dean x  OC Annaleigh (evenutally)

Word Count: 1974

Beta’d by: @amanda-teaches​, @katehuntington, thank you both for being my guides! Dividers by the amazingly talented @talesmaniac89​.

A/N: This was my very first series I ever wrote four years ago in September 2016 and I am so happy and proud to bring this back home. 

Like Dean’s scent? Buy it here from @scentsfromthebunker!

There are things that go bump in the night. Monsters, demons and the like. This isn’t about human monsters or the fact that we all have our demons. No, this is about real monsters. Vampires, werewolves, black-eyed bastards; things you have nightmares about. If your kid says there is something in his closet, don’t go look. Grab your family and run.

Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam, hunt the non-human monsters of the world. They were raised to be hunters. Their mother was killed by a demon when Dean was only four. Sammy was still a baby, six months old at the time. That night, their dad packed up and moved the family from town to town, doing his best to eradicate the evils that plague our planet. Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, God and Lucifer; it’s all real. 

Since the age of four, the constant moving and fighting evil was the only life Dean can remember and the only life Sammy has ever known. This isn’t just what they do, it is who they are. 

Their dad was killed by a demon about four years ago, when he made a deal to save his eldest son's life. That was the turning point for Dean; he finally understood his father’s need for vengeance, for justice. It had just been Sam and Dean ever since. The only family they had left was Bobby Singer - hunter, lore expert and surrogate father - to keep them on the not so straight and narrow path through this life. 

It had been just the two of them, until Sam inadvertently started the Apocalypse and ended up in Hell, in the cage with the Devil himself. Now, Dean was flying solo, feeling like he was losing his way. Dean chastised himself for not doing more; not being able to save his brother. Everything was written in the Heavens many millennia ago. Dean didn’t know that there was nothing he could have done to save his brother. 

Dean spent days, nights, weeks on the road; for months he drove. He followed one hunt after another, never stopping. Wherever Bobby needed him or whatever he could find on his own, he went there to keep busy. It didn’t matter how big or small the threat; Dean took it without question. He needed it. He needed the action, the danger, the adrenaline. Anything to keep his mind off Sammy. Anything.  

Ever since Sammy was taken from him, Dean had felt empty inside. The adrenaline of the hunt felt good for a moment, until he finished and remembered he was all alone once more. He wished he couldn’t feel anything, well, most of the time anyway. Until he met her. That was three months ago.

Bobby had asked Dean to look into a possible werewolf case on his way back from another hunt, so there he was in a sleepy little podunk town in Idaho. The view wasn’t bad, but he really wanted out of there as quickly as the hunt would allow. He checked into a run-down motel and quickly went in search of food, beer, whiskey, and pie, not necessarily in that order. He could already smell the rain permeating the mountain air. He just hoped it held out long enough. 

Not far from the motel, he found a bar with only a few cars in the lot. Walking through the front door, he noticed three guys shoulder to shoulder watching something mindless on the bar television. One bartender, one waitress. Easy, Dean thought to himself, as he slid into the corner booth where he could keep an eye on both entrances.  

The waitress approached his table. She was short, cute, and curvy. She had a nice smile, the bluest eyes he had ever seen, and straight red hair, up to her chin. Dean looked away quickly before her eyes met his. 

“What can I get you?” she asked, not too sweetly, just a little bit of an edge to her voice, like she had had enough tonight.

“Whiskey, neat. Beer, bacon cheeseburger, fries,” he replied without looking up.

Without a word, she walked away. She returned soon enough with the whiskey and a bottle of beer, setting them down sharply on the table. “Sorry,” she mumbled and turned to walk back to the bar. 

Dean sat in the booth, scrolling through his phone while he waited for his meal, looking at pictures he had of his little brother. He didn’t need this down time, thinking about Sammy rotting in Hell. It was a new form of torture, one he was a little too intimately familiar with. 

A chuckle escaped Dean’s lips when he saw the picture he had snapped of the drool hanging out of Sam’s mouth during a case in Utah. Dean kept scrolling through the pictures, landing on one he didn’t remember. He was standing next to Baby, his pride and joy, a 1967 jet black Chevrolet Impala, with Sam by his side, both of them with a cold beer in their hands. Sam was laughing at something without a doubt hilarious that Dean had said. When was this taken? He thought. Then it hit him: this was after Dean was cured of the ghost sickness and they all thought he was a goner. Bobby, that sneaky bastard, must have snapped that photo, Dean thought to himself. He kept looking at Sam in the picture, how happy he looked, how happy they both looked. Was it because he said something funny or was Sam just glad that he was able to save Dean for once? Dammit! I was the big brother. I was supposed to look out for Sammy. And I let him down. Again, Dean thought to himself.

A soft hand on his cheek startled him, bringing him back to the dingy bar. Slowly and gently, the waitress with the piercing blue eyes wiped away a tear he didn’t even know he had shed before she sat down across from Dean. “Why so sad, Handsome?” It was just one simple question but he couldn’t even answer her. Where did he even start?

“Oh, nothing you need to worry your pretty little head with, Red.” Dean took the plate she offered and went to pick up his burger. She continued to peer into his soul as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, that he was a failure. 

“You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and you don’t have to. I can help you, Dean, but only if you let me,” she said quietly, as she looked around the bar as if someone would overhear her words.

He dropped the burger and reached into the back of his pants, his hand on the pistol he had concealed there, finger already on the trigger. 

“Who the fu--” was all he got out before she reached a hand across the table and gripped his wrist lightly, interrupting his anger. 

“Bobby called me last night and told me you were on your way. I was just about to give up and leave.” She continued to gaze at him. “My name is Annaleigh Newmiller. I am a friend of Bobby’s. And, I know what you are going to ask. No, I am not a hunter, I’m just his eyes and ears out here in the boonies.” She let go of his hand, but he could still feel her touch lingering on his skin. 

Dean was more handsome than Annaleigh remembered; a little more rugged and much sadder. But, the same devastating smile and green eyes were there, with just a few more crinkles around them. The same, yet so different. 

Dean collected his thoughts as she looked at him, her gaze never wavering. He did not put the gun away but kept it next to him in the booth. One glance towards the bar indicated the three stooges didn’t even know they were in the back and wouldn’t be interrupting anytime soon. 

He had to get answers from her right now, he didn’t want to walk away to call the old man and risk her skipping out. “Bobby didn’t tell me he had someone out here in the mountains. He didn’t tell me someone would be waiting for me. How do I know you are who you say you are?” 

Slowly, she took an iron knife and a flask out of her apron. She took a sip from the small silver bottle then handed it to him; he checked to make sure it was holy water. Next, she wrapped her small hand around the handle of the knife and slid the blade through the soft flesh on her left forearm, letting a bit of blood bead up on the surface. Not once did she take her eyes off of Dean’s. She removed the purple bandana from its home around her neck and wrapped it around the fresh wound on her arm. 

When she was done, Annaleigh reached over with her right hand, grabbed a french fry off his plate and popped it in her mouth. “Field to fryer... good, aren’t they?”

Dean continued to watch her, slack jawed, while she ate more of his fries. Finally, Dean picked one up and brought it to his lips, taking a bite. She was right, they were good. Hold on, what the hell? Fries!? She’s distracting me from who she really is. He leaned forward in the booth grabbing her wrist with his free hand as she reached for another french fry.  

“Why don’t you start by telling me who the hell you are and what you know!” He didn’t exactly yell it, but it was loud enough that it brought an unwelcome glance from the bartender, who looked at Annaleigh, sternly, but she just nodded to let him know she was okay, and he turned back to the TV on the wall.

“Like I said before; my name is Annaleigh. Bobby was a friend of my brother’s. My brother... Well, he’s dead now, but every now and then Bobby calls, asks me to look into something for him. I have lived here in the mountains most of my life and I work here at the bar for extra cash. I’m a massage therapist full time and I work from home.” She was giving Dean the whole nine yards. He asked for it, so he just sat there, listening. And, boy, she had a lot more to say. 

“I am 29, I’m a Leo, my middle name is Grace. I enjoy strong men and stronger coffee. I like country music and classic rock. Yeah, an odd combination, I know. I do not and will not put up with other people’s bullshit. Anyway, a couple days ago, a body turned up in the woods behind my house. The heart was missing. I called the sheriff, and he said it was an animal attack. Animal, my ass. So, I called Bobby. I already figured it was a werewolf from all the research I have done in the past for my brother, but I needed him to send someone, because, while I know about the life and the lore, I don’t hunt. He said you were on your way back to his place from Oregon. How did you like the drive through the mountains? Can I get you another round?” 

He mulled over everything she had said. She didn’t seem like she was bullshitting him, but maybe just a little reluctant to get into the thick of it. He finally let go of her wrist and put his gun away. Dean picked up his burger and took a bite before speaking, ignoring the questions she had asked him. “Well, Red... looks like I have a wolf that needs putting down. Why don’t I finish up here and you show me where this body was found?”

Did you like it? The nicest thing you can do for a writer is reblog their work and tell them, and others, how much you like it! 

Soul to Souls tags: @emoryhemsworth​ @flamencodiva​ @iwantthedean​ @jensengirl83​ @deanwanddamons​ @smol-and-grumpy​ @waywardbeanie​ @whatareyousearchingfordean​ @princessmisery666​ @spnbaby-67​ @shy-violet-soul​ @lastcallatrockysbar​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​

[artificialqueens]

Mateo's Eight, chapter three (Branjie)--athena2

Summary: Previously: Brooke agreed to work with Vanessa Now: Vanessa goes through the plan of the heist as her team meets for the first time

A/N: Thank you so much for your feedback on this so far! I would really appreciate it if you could comment on this chapter. Your support means so much to me and helps encourage me. A thousand thank you’s to Writ for being the best beta!

Vanessa is up at the crack of dawn her first full day as a free woman, hoping she’ll return to her old ways of sleeping until 10 soon, especially now that she no longer has her job at the makeup store. Going to prison doesn’t help in the job department, and it makes her feel even worse that her mom is working a double shift today. Sometimes she would be so exhausted she’d fall asleep still in her nursing scrubs, and Vanessa wants more than ever to make things easier for her.

Her bed is too soft to leave, like a giant marshmallow beneath her. She’s buried under so many blankets it makes her sweat, but she’s too cozy under their fluffy softness to kick them off.

She eats her cereal with an eye on the clock as her mom rushes to get ready, each minute dragging like time itself is stuck in quicksand.

The second her mom leaves for work, with more kisses heaped on Vanessa’s cheek, she shoots up from the table and gets the place ready. It’s like how she used to wait for her parents to go out for the night so she could have friends over, right down to the soda and chips and pretzels she sets out for Yvie, only this time they’re discussing a million-dollar heist instead of post-prom plans. Hopefully the apartment won’t be trashed after, but you never know with Silky.

A’keria and Silky arrive first, lugging boxes and bags of Vanessa’s stuff that they had taken from her and Brooke’s apartment. Vanessa tears through them, grabbing her fuzzy slippers and running her hands over the smooth jewelry box, like she’s regaining part of herself in the clothes and jewelry and dog mug.

She digs up a gray sweatshirt much too big for her, because of course one of Brooke’s things got mixed in. Vanessa used to steal the sweatshirt from Brooke’s dresser and wear it to bed in the winter, the thing so warm and oversized it was like being wrapped in a giant blanket. She’d tuck her arms inside the sleeves and bury her nose in the soft fabric, breathing in the smell of Brooke’s lavender body wash and another calming, cozy scent that was just Brooke, no way to describe it or how safe it made her feel. Vanessa wonders what it smells like now–

A knock on the door tears her away. Yvie and Scarlet try to hide grins as they stand together, mumbling that getting here at the same time is a coincidence, but Scarlet has purple lipstick in the corner of her lip when no one wears purple lipstick but Yvie.

Nina teeters in with a box of donuts that she passes out to everyone like a white, suburban Oprah, refusing to sit until she makes sure everyone has been fed.

“Is anyone else coming?” Yvie asks. “These are good chips, by the way,” she mumbles, pulling the bowl from Silky’s lap into her own.

Vanessa meets A’keria’s eyes. “Just one more,” Vanessa says, pacing around the living room. Brooke said she was coming. Vanessa’s careful combination of money and threats had gotten her, like she knew they would. If not for the money so Brooke could take care of those bills just as big as Vanessa’s, then to cover her own ass.

“Hi.” Brooke appears out of nowhere, still graceful as ever, her steps silent on the creaky apartment floor.

Vanessa digs her nails into her palms to stamp out the rage. Brooke is here. She’s in Vanessa’s apartment, standing there, and it’s all she can do not to punch her in the face.

“What the hell?” Silky asks.

“Sorry I’m late.” Brooke squeaks.

Vanessa scoffs. It was impossible for Brooke Lynn Hytes to be late. She had probably been born on her exact due date clutching a watch in her little fist, motioning for the doctors to hurry up. It was why, as much as a pain in the ass she was about it, their cons always worked, Brooke timing everything with perfection.

“You weren’t late,” Vanessa shoots back. “You were the first one here, but you went around the block a million times ‘cause you’re a coward and didn’t want to show up first.”

A’keria chokes on her soda and Scarlet whacks her on the back.

“Donut?” Nina offers Brooke.

“I’ll take another,” Yvie says.

Out of the corner of Vanessa’s eye, Silky tries to casually sweep up the chocolate donut crumbs she got all over the couch.

Vanessa just sighs, because this is her team, for better or worse.

“I’m here now,” Brooke says cautiously, cheeks tinged pink.

“Yeah, you are.” Vanessa allows herself one look at the person who betrayed her.

She looks good, as much as Vanessa doesn’t want to admit it. Brooke still manages to make skinny jeans and a black sweater look like they came straight off the runway, making Vanessa’s heart lift as she forces it down. Brooke’s tired, though. Vanessa can see it, knows to look in her eyes, where she couldn’t hide the exhaustion that makeup and her perfect posture concealed. Her long fingers play with her sweater cuff and her lip is chewed-up, both signs of nerves. Good. If Vanessa’s caused Brooke sleepless nights and fidgety fingers and burning lips, it’s only what she deserves.

Brooke sits on the couch and pulls out her notebook. That damn notebook. It’s covered in little cartoon cats, because Brooke loves cats, had wanted to adopt one eventually. Who cares what she loves, Vanessa reminds herself. She certainly didn’t love you. But that doesn’t matter. Brooke is in her debt now, and Vanessa is in control.

“So,” Vanessa begins, feeling like a teacher in front of the class, especially as she turns on the TV connected to her laptop, “I have a plan.

“In three weeks, the Met is hosting a ball for their new historical costume and jewelry exhibit. Place is gonna be crawling with money. And I want to steal. Not the Met, but one necklace.”

“A necklace?” Yvie asks in confusion. “What are we, ten-year-old’s in Claire’s?”

“Hold all questions for the end, please,” Vanessa snaps.

She brandishes her arm for dramatic effect and clicks the next slide on her laptop. “The actress Plastique Tiara will be at the event, in a dress designed by Scarlet–” Scarlet waves to the room like a Disney princess on parade, “–who will convince Plastique to wear this 112 million dollar diamond necklace.”

Everyone blinks in confusion as Vanessa brings up a slide featuring the necklace, but she plows on. “Using our combined skills, we will get in the ball, take the necklace, replace it with a worthless copy, and leave with 16 million dollars each.”

Vanessa grins smugly in the chorus of gasps that ring out and fade into awestruck silence. She can see everyone’s heads spinning, comprehending a number they–and most people–have never seen, taking in the freedom that number will give them, freedom they’ve never had. The freedom to live where they want and do what they want, to never have to worry about medical bills or loans or home repairs or emergencies.

The only sound is the scratching of Brooke’s pen. The glide of her pen used to be like music to Vanessa’s ears, and she could trace the gentle curves of Brooke’s neat handwriting for hours. Now, it just sets her teeth on edge, makes her burn with aggravation.

Nina is the first to speak. “Pardon my French, everyone,” she says, “but holy fuck.”

—

It only takes Vanessa about ten minutes into her date with Brooke to see that beneath her cool, calm exterior, she’s really just an adorable dork.

That easy grace Brooke had moved with in the department store flies out the window as she nearly trips over her own giraffe legs to open the door for Vanessa, and she gasps in excitement when she finds out the diner serves breakfast all day.

“You a breakfast for dinner person?” Vanessa asks.

Brooke nods eagerly. “Why, are you a dinner-foods-for-dinner person?”

“Nah. I’m all for eating whatever I want at any time of day.”

“Exactly!” Brooke’s eyes sparkle and it makes Vanessa’s heart soar. “Like, what makes bacon and eggs only breakfast food?”

“Yeah! If I want pancakes for dinner and pizza for breakfast, who’s gonna stop me?” Vanessa claps eagerly as their plates arrive, French toast and bacon for Brooke and grilled cheese with fries for Vanessa.

Vanessa grabs the ketchup and drenches her fries.

“You put ketchup over the fries?” Brooke asks in horror.

“Yeah, why?”

“You have to dip them! There’s no control over how much ketchup you get per fry when you put it on top!”

“I just want to put it all on at once, Mary!”

Brooke shakes her head. “Unbelievable. Next you’ll be telling me you put the milk in before the cereal.” But she grins around her mouthful of bacon.

“Of course I don’t put the milk first. I’m not an animal.” Vanessa laughs and holds a ketchup-soaked fry out to Brooke, which she pulls from Vanessa’s fingers with her teeth. Vanessa can’t even breathe at having Brooke this close to her, close enough to see tiny flecks of gray in her green eyes, which only popped out in certain lighting.

“So, um, where do you work?” Brooke asks.

“I do makeup at one of the beauty stores,” Vanessa answers. “Most people tip pretty good, but it ain’t enough to pay the bills we got, y’know?”

“Is that why you started conning? If it’s okay for me to ask that?” Brooke says.

“It’s okay. And yeah. My dad, he was…he was sick. Insurance barely covered anything, and the medical bills just kept piling up. He died a few months ago, and we still got the medical bills, and the funeral bills, and…it’s a lot.” Vanessa just shakes her head. She and her mother both work full-time and hardly make a dent in the bills after rent and utilities. She doesn’t understand how her father getting sick, through no fault of his own, could result in almost $100,000 worth of debt. It’s like trying to bring down a mountain one pebble at a time, with the mountain growing each day, too big to see the top.

“I’m really sorry,” Brooke says. Her hand hesitantly slides across the table, and Vanessa doesn’t even think of whether she should, whether they’re at that point yet, before she grabs it. It’s cool and solid and soft, helping her focus on something besides bills and dead fathers.

“It’s okay,” Vanessa says. She and her mother have helped each get through his illness and his passing, and she feels awful for thinking it, but it’s made them closer, united in the memories of the man they both lost.

“It makes me mad, you know?” Brooke’s eyes flicker with intensity. “That we still work and have to do this just to get by. I have medical bills too, and the heat broke in my apartment last week and I had to do a scam just to pay for the repair, even though I teach full-time at a dance studio. Some people don’t have to worry about that. Some people–”

“Some people buy freaking yachts ‘cause they’re outta shit to buy,” Vanessa says.

“Yes!” Brooke exclaims. “You really get it. Get me.” Her eyes shine in surprise, like she can’t believe what she just said, but Vanessa has already thought it.

“Yeah,” Vanessa agrees, reaching over to snatch a piece of Brooke’s bacon. “And if you ever have heating problems again, my place is really warm. Maybe you could even show me some dance moves.” She bats her eyelashes.

It’s a risk to throw something like out there, especially on a first date, but Brooke’s smile is all the reward Vanessa needs.

—

Vanessa stands tall in her living room, everyone on the couches still recovering from her announcement, hisses of 16 million slipping into Vanessa’s ears.

“Can I talk to you?”

Vanessa sighs. Leave it to Brooke to interrupt her moment of blissful triumph for questions. Vanessa leads her down the hall, grumbling about buzzkills under her breath.

She crosses her arms and stands expectantly in front of Brooke, raising an eyebrow to show that she’s not giving an inch in this, that Brooke better stop raking a hand through her hair and speak.

“So, do they know?” Brooke begins.

“Know what?”

“What the real mark is,” Brooke says. “I know you. I can see the bigger target here.”

I know you.

Vanessa can’t help but feel that rush of warmth at Brooke knowing her so well, remembering that connection she and Brooke once had, when they could look at each other and have entire conversations with eyebrow-raises and smirks. Brooke always knew her plans, always got what she was trying to do like no one else. It had been a relief back then, to have someone she could trust, who just knew her, knew her coffee order and favorite movies and how to cheer her up when she was upset. A comfort to know she wasn’t alone, that she had someone.

But now, it’s infuriating. That she had given all those parts of her to Brooke, and now Brooke would always have them even when Vanessa wants to take them back. Like no matter how clever she thinks she is, Brooke can see right through her. Vanessa can never free herself from that connection they had, a connection Brooke severed clean in a police station six months ago.

“They don’t,” Vanessa admits, “And I’m not gonna tell them. It’s safer that way. Less chance of someone giving me up.” She spits the last three words at Brooke with the strongest death glare she’s ever managed. If looks could kill, the whole street would be dead. Brooke at least has the decency to look embarrassed, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows.

“Vanessa, I never meant–”

Vanessa raises her hand to shush Brooke. “Don’t. Just don’t. Go over your notes, tell me if it’ll work. You do your job, I pay you, and I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“Okay.”

Now it’s Brooke’s turn to stand, still as a statue, notebook outstretched in a gloat. Her face is impassive even though Vanessa knows how much she needs this money, and steam nearly comes out of her ears. Brooke can stand here all day, with those stupid dancer legs of hers, and Vanessa needs to move this along and get back to her group before Silky and A’keria have a repeat of last year’s pillow fight.

“So, tell me. Is this gonna work?” Vanessa finally cracks, ignoring how Brooke’s smile makes her own lips twitch up, a muscle memory.

“It can work, yes. But…”

“But what?”

“This is risky. It’s risky, and intricate, and if I’m sticking my neck out like this, I want to be involved, so I can make sure this is done properly.”

The words slam into Vanessa, filling her with rage. Brooke didn’t trust her to do this, when Vanessa had planned the entire thing herself, foresaw every possible conclusion and solved every possible problem while behind the bars Brooke put her in. Brooke didn’t trust her, when they had once trusted each other with everything.

“Pretty rich of you to not trust me when you’re the one who ratted me out,” Vanessa says.

Brooke sighs. “Vanessa–”

“Whatever. You want to be involved how? You’re gonna be there the night of the ball, what else do you want?” Vanessa demands, certain she doesn’t like where this is going.

“I want to be there when you make most of the moves,” Brooke says.

“Hell no! I’m not lettin’ you breathe down my neck the whole time!”

“You have a lot to do,” Brooke argues. “You need to schedule a meeting with Scarlet and Plastique to make sure Plastique wears the necklace. Vogue has already starting hiring ball assistants and I’m assuming you’re gonna send Nina inside, so you need to get her an interview–”

“I know what I have to do!” Vanessa snaps, reluctantly impressed at how fast Brooke’s mind works, how quickly she put the pieces together. Brooke saw cons as puzzles, each step an interlocking piece to build the picture Vanessa dreamed, her focus more on the goal and how her charm could get them there.

“Then you also know you need me,” Brooke states. No emotion, no hint of desire, just pure, hard fact. “The organization this is gonna take, the scheduling…you need me.”

Vanessa clenches her fists. She had tried to downplay her desperation on the phone, but obviously Brooke picked up on it. Vanessa might be able to do this without Brooke, but can she take that chance on something this big, this important, this life-changing?

“Fine.” Vanessa sighs. “Meet me at the Met Friday at 10. Yvie’s working on a blindspot in their security cameras and I’m gonna test it. Can you get Nina that interview?”

Brooke nods. She looks at her shoes before pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, the familiar motion making Vanessa dizzy. “This is my new number. Just thought you might need it.”

Vanessa shoves the paper in her pocket and heads back into the living room without waiting to see if Brooke is behind her. She used to walk without checking because she knew Brooke would always be there, would always have her back. Now she does it because she just doesn’t care.

Vanessa stands in front of them, forgetting her annoyance of having to work with Brooke in favor of the pride and riches she would earn after this.

“Okay, everyone,” Vanessa says, “welcome to Mateo’s Eight.”

“There’s only seven of us.”

Vanessa huffs in exasperation. “Damn it, Yvie, c’mon, this was my big moment!”

“Well, there is.”

Vanessa bites her lip and makes a quick head count. Math never was her strong suit. But Mateo’s Seven just doesn’t have the same ring, so she scoops up Riley from where he’s latched on to Brooke’s ankle–the traitor; he always jumped on Brooke when she walked in the apartment, even if she had only been gone an hour–and hoists him into the air.

“Riley’s number eight. I don’t want to hear arguing.” She straightens her posture, trying to get back her earlier confidence, wishing there was some heroic music in the background.

“Welcome to Mateo’s Eight.”

[flyingblackhawk]

Pasta Clintasha fic 1,977 words - After the debrief, Clint drives home. He troops into his apartment, strips off his clothes, and tries to shower off the last week. It’s been punishing, and he falls into his bed without much of a thought for anything but his soft pillow. When he wakes, he goes about his day as he normally does when he gets a day off. He eats, watches movies, and naps. He sends Natasha a checkin text. She’s fine. Good. It’s two days before he notices anything is off. The mission was bad - worse than a lot of their previous exploits, and he’s considering going to see the SHIELD shrink. Natasha seems okay, but when he sees her at a meeting at HQ, she looks pale and tired. Clint shakes it off. She’s probably not sleeping well. He knows the feeling. 

It’s not until he drops by her place to check on her that he realises something is actually wrong. Her kitchen is spotless, and there is no food to be found. He chalks it up to post-mission takeout, but there are no containers anywhere. Natasha is in the living room, curled up on the couch. She wakes from her doze when he enters.

“Hey,” she mumbles.

“Hey,” he returns. “You okay?”

Dumb question. She nods, like she always does, but he’s not convinced. She’s still pale, and his mind is starting to connect the dots between the lack of supplies in her kitchen and the way her fingers are trembling as she brushes her hair off her face.

“Nat,” he says, his voice gentle, “when did you last eat?”

“Earlier,” she says, waving him off. She knows he’s onto her, and gives him a sharp look that has no real edge to it.

“When? What did you have?”

“I had a coffee a couple of hours ago.”

“Coffee doesn’t count. When did you last eat a meal?”

She huffs. “I don’t know. Bosnia.”

“What?”

“Clint-”

“That was three days ago, Nat.”

She looks at him, as if thinking of something to say. She clearly draws a blank, and Clint sighs, his hand landing on her leg. “You’ve got to eat,” he says, lamely. It’s not convincing. Natasha curls up tighter, and rests her pale cheek on the cushions.

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. It’s an outrageous lie. Clint has been struggling too, but at least he had some goddam cheerios for breakfast.

“I’m going to bring you some groceries,” he says.

“Whatever.”

He leaves her to her wallowing, and makes a determined trip to the nearest bodega, where he stocks up on essentials and a few non-essential treats. Arms laden with bags, he makes his way back to her building, and up to her apartment. She is dozing on the couch again, so he unpacks the bags and slings some bread in the toaster, then shuffles around in the cupboard for the peanut butter he just put in there.

Natasha rolls off the couch and comes to watch him, arms folded, a bemused look on her face.

“Why do you care if I eat?” she asks.

“Because humans do this weird thing where if they don’t eat, they die.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Don’t give me that look,” he says, brandishing the peanut butter he’s just located at her. “Humans need to eat. That’s science.”

She watches him like someone at the zoo. He takes the toast when it’s done and spreads peanut butter on it. He bites into one slice, holding it between his teeth, and hands her the other slice. She looks at it with overt distaste, and sets it down beside her on the bench. Clint takes a measured bite of his own toast, and watches her in silence. She rolls her eyes again and Clint is surprised she’s not dizzy from the amount of times she’s done that. She picks up her toast slice, and takes a small bite. He watches her as she chews it, and swallows. She waits for him to leave her alone. She should definitely know by now that he won’t, not until she’s eaten the damn toast.

“You’re very irritating,” she says, through a mouthful of peanut butter.

“Takes one to know one,” he mutters, as he puts the peanut butter away.

-

She doesn’t eat anything for dinner, and Clint puts the leftover stir-fry in a container in the fridge, just in case she wants to wait until he’s gone. He doesn’t have high hopes though, so he leaves her in the late evening, still pale, still tired, curled up on the couch with a book.

Clint forms a plan, and sleeps. When he wakes, he goes straight back to Natasha’s place, via the bodega. He knows he’s the only one who has a key to her place, so hopefully she won’t shoot him in the head.

He enters her apartment, and all the lights are off. She’s still asleep, which is unusual for seven in the morning. Clint chalks it up to her eating almost nothing for four days, and gets to work on breakfast. By the time Natasha emerges from her room, he’s laid out a spread of waffles, bacon, syrup and various fruit all over the table.

“Do you like it?” he asks, gesturing to the feast. “The waffles are only heart shaped because the bodega only had heart shaped ones in the freezer.”

“You made me frozen waffles?” she asks. He passes her a coffee, which she takes with what nearly looks like a smile.

“Hey,” he protests. “I’m working with what the bodega has to offer. Besides, you don’t have a waffle iron.”

“Third cupboard from the left on the top.”

He huffs. “Okay, I didn’t think to check.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound Clint’s heard all week. Natasha nibbles on the corner of a waffle, eats a strawberry, and spends the rest of the meal focused on her coffee. Clint jokes, keeping it light, but he is aching for the woman in front of him, and at the same time, he’s frustrated.

“Medical won’t clear you,” he says, when they have both reached the bottom of their coffees. “Not if you’re not eating.”

She sits back in her chair and looks at him. “You’ll tell them?”

He shrugs, a little helplessly. “What am I supposed to do? Stand by and let you go back into the field before you’re ready?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

She rolls her eyes. As she gets up to leave, Clint wonders if they do eye-rolling in the Olympics. Natasha could eye-roll for America. Or Russia, he supposes.

Her bedroom door slams, and Clint clears away the breakfast. The leftovers go into the fridge beside the untouched stir-fry from the night before. He heads out, but not for long. Just after midday, he’s back in her kitchen.

“Seriously?” she asks. She comes into the kitchen, where Clint is pressing paninis. “You’re still doing this?”

“I’m doing this until you eat,” he says, sliding one sandwich onto a plate and cutting it diagonally. “This one’s prosciutto, provolone and pesto. It’s amazing.”

“No thanks.”

He clenches his teeth. “The other one is chicken, brie and rocket. Also good.”

“Clint.”

“What?” he asks. He swings around with two plates in hand to find her leaning against the door frame. She looks unsteady, and as he watches, she slips and grabs the frame. He sets the plates down and hurries over to her.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “It’s alright. Here, lean on me.”

She does, and he helps her over to her seat.

“You’re killing me, Romanoff,” he sighs, his hand still on her shoulder. “I know it was a bad mission. We’re both messed up. But starving yourself to death isn’t going to help you, and it certainly isn’t going to help me.”

She nods, and then shakes her head. Clint watches his partner struggle for words, something he’s only seen her do a handful of times.

“I just need…”

“Tell me,” he murmurs, after she trails off. “Tell me what you need, so I can help you.”

“I need to be in control,” she says. She looks up at him, and all traces of the Black Widow are gone. All Clint sees is a vulnerable, tired Natasha, looking at him with a pleading face he knows she never shows to anyone else.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll figure it out. Come on.”

He helps her over to the couch, where she curls up under a blanket. She dozes off almost instantly, and Clint leaves for yet another trip to the bodega. The guy behind the counter gives him a welcoming, if puzzled smile. He collects everything he needs, pays, and goes back up to Natasha’s apartment. He sets it all up in the kitchen, then goes to wake Natasha.

“What’s this?” she asks, when he shows her his setup.

“Pasta,” he says. “Come on.”

He ushers her over to the bench.

“Remember the first time we made pasta?” he asks. She nods, and a little smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

“I’d never made it before,” she recalls. Her hands move to the stove dials and she lights the flame on the hob. Clint has already filled a pot with salted water, and she moves it onto the flame.

“You threw pasta at the wall.”

He chuckles at the memory. “That’s the best way to check if it’s ready.”

“You could just taste it.”

“Less fun.”

She laughs, and opens the packet of pasta. When the water boils, she slides the pasta into the pot.

“Remember the sauce we made that night?”

She nods again. “Carbonara.”

Clint gestures to island bench, where the ingredients are waiting for her. Natasha looks more relaxed now, so he takes her by the waist and steers her over to where he’s laid out a chopping board.

“Garlic,” he prompts her. She chops the cloves finely. Unprompted, she takes the pancetta and chops that too. When she pauses, Clint hands her a small frying pan.

As he watches, she fries the pancetta and the garlic. When it’s done, she moves on to the next step without instruction, mixing eggs, cream and cheese in a bowl.

“The pasta,” he reminds her. Natasha drains the pasta, and she gracefully folds the mixture through the steaming pasta. Clint watches, and she stirs it until it’s ready and then ladles it into two bowls.

“There’s cheese for topping,” he says, pointing. She grabs it, and sprinkles a little on each serve.

Natasha takes the two bowls to the table and sits. Clint grabs them each a beer from one of the bodega bags, and passes her one.

“Well cooked,” he says, leaning over to inhale the fragrance of the food. It brings back memories of that night in a dingy apartment, long before they had money or coworkers or anything much to worry about except keeping each other alive. He remembers a young woman, so proud of the simple meal she’d cooked, and eating that meal out of plastic takeout containers, sitting on a windowsill while rain fell outside.

Clint is so taken in by this vision of the past that he doesn’t notice Natasha eating her pasta. She is enjoying every mouthful, lost in the same memory he’s drifting in.

“Seconds?” she asks. He blinks. She’s already moving over to the pot to scoop more pasta onto her plate. He lets the warm, accomplished feeling roll through him until there’s nothing he can do but smile.

“Please,” he says, holding out his plate.

-

Later, when they’ve abandoned their plates and finished their drinks, Natasha reaches across the couch for his hand. Clint laces their fingers together, and brings her hand to his lips for a rare moment of closeness.

“Thanks,” she murmurs. He doesn’t have to say anything. He just squeezes her hand.

[let-me-love-you-loki]

Waking Up in Vegas--Ch. 13

Chapter 13: Information Overload

That Weekend

Mera, Late Morning, 10:47 AM

           I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this exhausted. There had been the drive from Southern California back to Las Vegas to drop Dean’s car at the house. Then, there was the struggle of getting a straight shot flight from Vegas to Orlando on short notice. The last twelve hours had been a rush of movement and travel with hardly a moment of down time. And I hadn’t had a comfortable moment of sleep either.

           My entire body ached as I pulled my suitcase from the luggage carousel. Dean grabbed his bags and started piling them together like Tetris blocks. I stood nearby, nearly dead on my feet, trying desperately to stay upright.

           He glanced at me, something flickering in his cornflower eyes. “C’mon, Mera,” he said softly, reaching out to take my hand. “Let’s get you home. You look like you could use a nap.”

           I let him lead me through the terminal toward the taxis lined up outside. Silence settled between us making me feel guilty. I was grumpy and tired. Traveling so much was so out of the norm for me that it made me want to scream to think about doing all this again in two days.

           Dean packed our luggage into the trunk of the taxi as I climbed inside. I gave the driver my address and leaned against the window, wishing desperately for my own shower and my own bed. When he climbed into the seat beside me, Dean pulled me gently into his arms, settling me against his chest. As we left the airport, he pressed a kiss against my hair. “Go to sleep, darlin’. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

 Dean, Late Morning, 11:18 AM

           Mera looked so miserable that it broke my heart. She’d gotten a few hours’ sleep in the car on the drive back to Las Vegas, but that was it. By the time we’d gotten our laundry taken care of, luggage packed, and flights booked, she was on edge and unable to relax. The trip hadn’t been easy on her, and I felt guilty for begging her to fill in for the road AT. I’d wanted to keep her with me, to enjoy a few more days of the bliss that I felt when she was nearby, but I hadn’t thought of how unaccustomed to the road schedule she might be.

           She curled against my side, head lolling against my shoulder as we drove. It didn’t take long for me to recognize where we were headed. Most of the people who worked at the Performance Center lived in the outlying areas. Some of the medical staff lived in nicer areas closer to the building, while most of the talent lived in cheaper places with one or two other people. Mera lived in the Ballencia Apartment complex. One of the nicer areas. Better than the rathole I lived in when I first came to Florida.

           When we pulled up at the address, I was loathe to rouse her from the first sleep she’d had in nearly a day. I half thought that I might get the driver to bring in the bags while I carried her into the apartment, but I didn’t know which one was hers and had no clue where she’d packed her keys.

           “Mera, we’re here,” I whispered, shaking her gently. “Help me get you inside and you can go to bed.”

           She grunted angrily but sat up, thrusting her wallet at me. Her finger jabbed at me, then at the driver. I took it to mean she wanted me to pay him with her card or the cash she had inside. Instead, I stuffed it in my pocket and dug my own wallet out of my pocket. I handed over some cash—ten bucks over the price on the meter—then got out to grab the bags.

           “You get the keys and go inside. I’ll bring the stuff.” I brushed my fingers against her cheek and smiled. “Just tell me which one it is.”

           She dug a set of keys from the front pocket of her suitcase and pointed to the bottom left apartment. As she trotted off, I hauled the luggage from the trunk. I swore, the sticky heat reminding me why I preferred Vegas to Orlando. The temperature I could handle. The humidity killed me.

 Mera, Midday, 12:04 PM

           Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

           I tossed my keys on the coffee table, shed my jacket and threw it over the back of the chair, kicked off my shoes somewhere by the door. All I wanted was my bed. I didn’t care that I felt sweaty and gritty from the plane. Sleep was all that mattered.

           Once in the bedroom, I tugged off my jeans and bra. I flipped back the covers and crawled beneath in nothing but my t-shirt and panties. The air conditioning buzzed lightly in the background, the white noise and cool air lulling me quickly into sleep.

 Dean, Midday, 12:04 PM

           I pushed the door closed behind me, made sure that it was locked. Her apartment was small, beige painted walls and wood laminate floors. There were accents of Mera everywhere I looked. I wondered how long she’d been there, how much of this place was somewhere for her to hide from the things that had happened to her.

           I left the bags by the kitchen counter and rounded in to get to the fridge. I tugged it open, grabbed a bottle of water and chugged it down, enjoying the cool air that poured out from the AC.

           Only then did I go in search of my wife.

           There weren’t many places to look. I found her in the bedroom, curled up in a cocoon of blankets. She looked so blissful, finally in some comfort with the ability to rest for a few well-earned hours. I smiled as I tossed off my jacket and kicked off my jeans before crawling in beside her.

           She shifted toward me, burrowed against my chest and tucking an arm over my stomach. I closed my eyes, letting my lips linger against her forehead, promising deep in my soul that I would never give her cause to cry.

 Mera, Afternoon, 2:26 PM

           Jet lag found me as I roused from sleep. It took me a few moments to realize that I was at home in my own bed. Sitting up, I stretched, caught sight of the jacket hanging off the doorknob. Noise filtered in from the living room. It was the sound of the television and someone talking over it. When Dean’s voice registered, I couldn’t help but smile.

           I rolled out of bed and padded out into the living room. Dean was standing at the stove in just his jeans, a towel thrown over one shoulder, a skillet on one burner sizzling with bacon and another frying eggs. There were cartoons on the television—something about a panda, a polar bear, and a brown bear.

           “Are you watching cartoons, Dean?”

           He turned toward me, a sideways smile on his face as he waved a spatula in my face. “Hey, don’t trash We Bare Bears. Ice Bear gives some good advice.”

           I slid into place beside him, my fingers brushing the small of his back. He wrapped one arm around my head, pulled me in and gave me a kiss on the hair.

           “There wasn’t a whole lot in the fridge, but I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up. And I didn’t know where your take-out menus were.”

           “This looks perfect,” I murmured, leaning against his side.

           A shadow passed over his face, something that made his easy-going smile turn sad and melancholy. I frowned, fingers reaching up to touch his cheek. “What’s wrong, Dean?”

           With a sigh, he sat the spatula on the counter and turned toward me. His hands wrapped around mine, thumbs skimming over my knuckles. “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

           “What’re you talking about?”

           He pulled me close, holding me with tender care. “You were crying in your sleep.”

 Dean, Afternoon, 2:27 PM

           Mera watched me as if I’d discovered some horrible secret. I felt the tremor go through her body, an ache that seemed to shatter her ability to stay on her feet.

           “You’re exhausted, darlin’,” I soothed, drawing her against my chest, trailing my fingers through her tangled hair, separating the soft curls from their knots. “You’ve had a wild week.”

           A soft smile crossed her face. It was heartbreaking in its beauty and its sadness. I let myself sink into the promise I’d made her—the oath that I would do everything I possibly could to help her find happiness and peace, to be by her side through every step of her life. My lips ghosted along the top of her head, her brow, along her cheeks.

           “I can hold it together pretty well most of the time,” she mumbled. “But sometimes…”

           I rocked her gently, trying to find the right words. There was so much that I didn’t know, so many quiet fears and specters that I couldn’t anticipate. I wanted to protect her from every pain or terror that might seep into her world. She was the beat of my heart, the breath in my lungs, the very thing in my soul that kept my body in motion. What more could I do to the goddess of my life than to protect her with every ounce of strength I possessed?

           “Whenever you’re ready,” I breathed against her hair, “whenever you decide you want to talk, I’ll listen. It’s us together now, remember? Whatever burdens you carry, whatever pain you have, I want to carry it with you. However you want me to.”

Tag List

@bethany99stuff-blog @xbutterflius-effectusx @houndsofjxstice @mother-forker

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 5 paragraph xii

Before Boris, I had borne my solitude stoically enough, without realizing quite how alone I was. And I suppose if either of us had lived in an even halfway normal household, with curfews and chores and adult supervision, we wouldn’t have become quite so inseparable, so fast, but almost from that day we were together all the time, scrounging our meals and sharing what money we had. In New York, I had grown up around a lot of worldly kids—kids who’d lived abroad and spoke three or four languages, who did summer programs at Heidelberg and spent their holidays in places like Rio or Innsbruck or Cap d’Antibes. But Boris—like an old sea captain—put them all to shame. He had ridden a camel; he had eaten witchetty grubs, played cricket, caught malaria, lived on the street in Ukraine (“but for two weeks only”), set off a stick of dynamite by himself, swum in Australian rivers infested with crocodiles. He had read Chekhov in Russian, and authors I’d never heard of in Ukrainian and Polish. He had endured midwinter darkness in Russia where the temperature dropped to forty below: endless blizzards, snow and black ice, the only cheer the green neon palm tree that burned twenty-four hours a day outside the provincial bar where his father liked to drink. Though he was only a year older than me—fifteen—he’d had actual sex with a girl, in Alaska, someone he’d bummed a cigarette off in the parking lot of a convenience store. She’d asked him if he wanted to sit in her car with her, and that was that. (“But you know what?” he said, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think she liked it very much.” “Did you?” “God, yes. Although, I’m telling you, I know I wasn’t doing it right. I think was too cramped in the car.”) Every day, we rode home on the bus together. At the half-finished Community Center on the edge of Desatoya Estates, where the doors were padlocked and the palm trees stood dead and brown in the planters, there was an abandoned playground where we bought sodas and melted candy bars from the dwindling stock in the vending machines, sat around outside on the swings, smoking and talking. His bad tempers and black moods, which were frequent, alternated with unsound bursts of hilarity; he was wild and gloomy, he could make me laugh sometimes until my sides ached, and we always had so much to say that we often lost track of time and stayed outside talking until well past dark. In Ukraine, he had seen an elected official shot in the stomach walking to his car—just happened to witness it, not the shooter, just the broad-shouldered man in a too-small overcoat falling to his knees in darkness and snow. He told me about his tiny tin-roof school near the Chippewa reservation in Alberta, sang nursery songs in Polish for me (“For homework, in Poland, we are usually learning a poem or song by heart, a prayer maybe, something like that”) and taught me to swear in Russian (“This is the true mat —from the gulags”). He told me too how, in Indonesia, he had been converted to Islam by his friend Bami the cook: giving up pork, fasting during Ramadan, praying to Mecca five times a day. “But I’m not Muslim any more,” he explained, dragging his toe in the dust. We were lying on our backs on the merry-go-round, dizzy from spinning. “I gave it up a while back.” “Why?” “Because I drink.” (This was the understatement of the year; Boris drank beer the way other kids drank Pepsi, starting pretty much the instant we came home from school.) “But who cares?” I said. “Why does anybody have to know?” He made an impatient noise. “Because is wrong to profess faith if I don’t observe properly. Disrespectful to Islam.” “Still. ‘Boris of Arabia.’ It has a ring.” “Fuck you.”

“No, seriously,” I said, laughing, raising up on my elbows. “Did you really believe in all that?” “All what?” “You know. Allah and Muhammad. ‘There is no God but God’—?” “No,” he said, a bit angrily, “my Islam was a political thing.” “What, you mean like the shoe bomber?” He snorted with laughter. “Fuck, no. Besides, Islam doesn’t teach violence.” “Then what?” He came up off the merry-go-round, alert gaze: “What do you mean, what? What are you trying to say?” “Back off! I’m asking a question.” “Which is—?” “If you converted to it and all, then what did you believe?” He fell back and chortled as if I’d let him off the hook. “Believe? Ha! I don’t believe in anything.” “What? You mean now?” “I mean never. Well—the Virgin Mary, a little. But Allah and God…? not so much.” “Then why the hell did you want to be Muslim?” “Because—” he held out his hands, as he did sometimes when he was at a loss—“such wonderful people, they were all so friendly to me!” “That’s a start.” “Well, it was, really. They gave me an Arabic name—Badr al-Dine. Badr is moon, it means something like moon of faithfulness, but they said, ‘Boris, you are badr because you light everywhere, being Muslim now, lighting the world with your religion, you shine wherever you go.’ I loved it, being Badr. Also, the mosque was brilliant. Falling-down palace—stars shining through at night—birds in the roof. An old Javanese man taught us the Koran. And they fed me too, and were kind, and made sure I was clean and had clean clothes. Sometimes I fell asleep on my prayer rug. And at salah, near dawn, when the birds woke up, always the sound of wings beating!” Though his Australo-Ukrainian accent was certainly very odd, he was almost as fluent in English as I was; and considering what a short time he’d lived in America he was reasonably conversant in amerikanskii ways. He was always poring through his torn-up pocket dictionary (his name scrawled in Cyrillic on the front, with the English carefully lettered beneath: BORYS VOLODYMYROVYCH PAVLIKOVSKY) and I was always finding old 7-Eleven napkins and bits of scratch paper with lists of words and terms he’d made: bridle and domesticate celerity trattoria wise guy = кpymoŭ пaцaн propinquity Dereliction of duty. When his dictionary failed him, he consulted me. “What is Sophomore?” he asked me, scanning the bulletin board in the halls at school. “Home Ec? Poly Sci?” (pronounced, by him, as “politzei”). He had never heard of most of the food in the cafeteria lunch: fajitas, falafel, turkey tetrazzini. Though he knew a lot about movies and music, he was decades behind the times; he didn’t have a clue about sports or games or television, and—apart from a few big European brands like Mercedes and BMW—couldn’t tell one car from another. American money confused him, and sometimes too American geography: in what province was California located? Could I tell him which city was the capital of New England?

But he was used to being on his own. Cheerfully he got himself up for school, hitched his own rides, signed his own report cards, shoplifted his own food and school supplies. Once every week or so we walked miles out of our way in the suffocating heat, shaded beneath umbrellas like Indonesian tribesmen, to catch the poky local bus called the CAT, which as far as I could tell no one rode out our way except drunks, people too poor to have a car, and kids. It ran infrequently, and if we missed it we had to stand around for a while waiting for the next bus, but among its stops was a shopping plaza with a chilly, gleaming, understaffed supermarket where Boris stole steaks for us, butter, boxes of tea, cucumbers (a great delicacy for him), packages of bacon —even cough syrup once, when I had a cold—slipping them in the cutaway lining of his ugly gray raincoat (a man’s coat, much too big for him, with drooping shoulders and a grim Eastern Bloc look about it, a suggestion of food rationing and Soviet-era factories, industrial complexes in Lviv or Odessa). As he wandered around I stood lookout at the head of the aisle, so shaky with nerves I sometimes worried I would black out—but soon I was filling my own pockets with apples and chocolate (other favored food items of Boris’s) before walking up brazenly to the counter to buy bread and milk and other items too big to steal.

Back in New York, when I was eleven or so, my mother had signed me up for a Kids in the Kitchen class at my day camp, where I’d learned to cook a few simple meals: hamburgers, grilled cheese (which I’d sometimes made for my mother on nights she worked late), and what Boris called “egg and toasts.” Boris, who sat on the countertop kicking the cabinets with his heels and talking to me while I cooked, did the washing-up. In the Ukraine, he told me, he’d sometimes picked pockets for money to eat. “Got chased, once or twice,” he said. “Never caught, though.” “Maybe we should go down to the Strip sometime,” I said. We were standing at the kitchen counter at my house with knives and forks, eating our steaks straight from the frying pan. “If we were going to do it, that’d be the place. I never saw so many drunk people and they’re all from out of town.” He stopped chewing; he looked shocked. “And why should we? When so easy to steal here, from so big stores!” “Just saying.” My money from the doormen—which Boris and I spent a few dollars at a time, in vending machines and at the 7-Eleven near school that Boris called “the magazine”—would hold out a while, but not forever. “Ha! And what will I do if you are arrested, Potter?” he said, dropping a fat piece of steak down to the dog, whom he had taught to dance on his hind legs. “Who will cook the dinner? And who will look after Snaps here?” Xandra’s dog Popper he’d taken to calling ‘Amyl’ and ‘Nitrate’ and ‘Popchik’ and ‘Snaps’—anything but his real name. I’d started bringing him in even though I wasn’t supposed to because I was so tired of him always straining at the end of his chain trying to look in at the glass door and yapping his head off. But inside he was surprisingly quiet; starved for attention, he stuck close to us wherever we went, trotting anxiously at our heels, upstairs and down, curling up to sleep on the rug while Boris and I read and quarrelled and listened to music up in my room. “Seriously, Boris,” I said, pushing the hair from my eyes (I was badly in need of a haircut, but didn’t want to spend the money), “I don’t see much difference in stealing wallets and stealing steaks.” “Big difference, Potter.” He held his hands apart to show me just how big. “Stealing from working person? And stealing from big rich company that robs the people?” “Costco doesn’t rob the people. It’s a discount supermarket.” “Fine then. Steal essentials of life from private citizen. This is your so-smart plan. Hush,” he said to the dog, who’d barked sharply for more steak. “I wouldn’t steal from some poor working person,” I said, tossing Popper a piece of steak myself. “There are plenty of sleazy people walking around Vegas with wads of cash.” “Sleazy?” “Dodgy. Dishonest.” “Ah.” The pointed dark eyebrow went up. “Fair enough. But if you steal money from sleazy person, like gangster, they are likely to hurt you, nie?” “You weren’t scared of getting hurt in Ukraine?” He shrugged. “Beaten up, maybe. Not shot.” “Shot?” “Yes, shot. Don’t look surprised. This cowboy country, who knows? Everyone has guns.” “I’m not saying a cop. I’m saying drunk tourists. The place is crawling with them Saturday night.” “Ha!” He put the pan down on the floor for the dog to finish off. “Likely you will end up in jail, Potter. Loose morals, slave to the economy. Very bad citizen, you.”

[missbrightsky]

Velaris National Park

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Chapter 2

The next day dawned clear and crisp. Birdsong twirled through the air, weaving through the leaves that blew in the breeze.

I stretched, groaning softly from the night on the sleeping pad. My bag kept me warm enough throughout the night, but the thin pad did little to cushion against the dirt.

Elain was sprawled, taking up half the tent forcing Nesta and me to the sides. Her mouth was slightly ajar, small, whistling snores escaping her. Nesta was already awake and scrolling through her phone.

I groped above my head for mine, the screen flashing just past 7:30. Only a few notifications from my uni friends congratulating me on graduation and a good morning Snapchat from Alis. After firing off a few responses, I pulled my bag towards me to sort out clothes for the day.

I settled on hiking shorts, an old painting shirt, and my worn Prythian U sweatshirt to keep out the morning chill.

“Want me to get breakfast started?” I asked Nesta. She only grunted a confirmation; it was useless to try to get a word out of her before coffee.

I unzipped the tent, the slight amount of dew that had collected on it slid down in a few drops. The prejudiced neighbors that refused to socialize with the rest of us seemed determined to finish their breakfast in record time.

“Good morning!” Ray greeted, raising his cup to me. “Kevin is still asleep but I’m sure I’ll be able to rack his ass out of bed soon.”

I chuckled, “I’m sure you will. I’m going to grab our breakfast stuff, mind if I join you?”

“Of course! I’ve got a grill warmed up already.”

Smiling, I turned to our car, which thankfully survived any curious animals, and grabbed our cooler.

Ray gestured for me to use the pan that was already hot and in no time, the smell of frying bacon filled the air. I got a pot started to boil water for coffee.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, his eyes twinkled over the edge of his mug as if he knew that the ground was more unforgiving than it looked.

I groaned and twisted my torso, popping my spine, “I’d say my back is forever ruined but years of hunching over easels and desks already did that.”

“Very true, I remember my days of late nights spent in the library and not being able to stand up straight the next day.”

I grinned at Ray, “Now that is one thing that all majors can agree on.”

The water was finally boiling so I poured some in a mug and dropping in a bag of coffee to start steeping. I walked over and tapped on the tent frame, “Nesta, Elain, coffee, and bacon is ready.”

Elain burst of the tent, stumbling and blinking in the early morning light. She was still in her PJs but had managed to add a hoodie and her hair up in a messy bun.

“Bacon?” she mumbled. I pointed over to the picnic benches where Ray was barely holding in a laugh at her disarrayed sister. Nesta followed more gracefully, already dressed for the day and her hair in a tight ponytail.

“I have a cup of coffee ready for you on the table,” I added to her. Her only response was to beeline to the cup and wrap her hands around it, inhaling the fragrant fumes.

I followed and poured more hot water into mugs, setting tea bags in for Elain and me. The rest of the water got a healthy dumping of oats, brown sugar and dried berries to complete our hot breakfast.

We made small talk with Ray as we all woke up and Kevin eventually joined us. He gave Ray a peck on the lips in greeting and plopped down beside him to start inhaling his own coffee and food.

“What’s on the agenda today girls?” Kevin asked once all of us were thoroughly alert. The cold-shouldered neighbors had already left and packed up their car. It looked like we wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore.

Elain spoke up first, “We’re going to hike to see the Starfalls! Mor from the front office already pointed out the best field.”

“I’ll be taking my sketchbook and watercolor pencils with me to draw them,” I chimed in before Kevin and Elain could go off on a botany tangent.

“I saw a nice stream with some fallen logs on the banks on our hike yesterday. I think I’m going to head there and do some writing,” Nesta finished off.

“And for you guys?” I asked.

“I’d like to join Elain if that’s okay?” Kevin said, looking to her for permission. Those two would keep each other busy for hours with flower and plant discussion.

Elain currently had a mouthful of bacon but nodded vigorously, excited to be able to share her passion with another enthusiast.

Ray contemplated the question, “I think I’m going to go to the head office and chat with Mor about designing a new dam for one of the streams. I think I may be able to convince her to make a natural swimming hole.”

Ever the engineer it seemed, we all thought with shared smiles.

Breakfast was over too soon and cleaned up quickly after. We all parted ways to start our adventures in the park. We agreed to meet for dinner later to share our days.

I let Elain and Kevin lead the way to the field, the two going back and forth over the merits of some root plant. I preferred to catalog the surrounding forest, wondering how I could pattern the shadow of the leaves on the carpeted floor.

And maybe look for a certain ranger hidden in the foliage.

I shook my head to clear it, trying to refocus on my surroundings. Every shade of green seemed to exist in this place. The leaves, the moss, the ferns. Trees were covered with vines and flowers, algae-covered stones surrounded the creek beds. Birds flitted through the canopy on their daily tasks of living free.

After an hour of hiking, the world began to brighten with pure sunlight, we had come to the end of the trail and to the edge of the meadow.

Elain and Kevin had already gotten down on their hands and knees, babblings almost incoherently about the elusive flower they had come so far for that now stretched far and wide.

I let out a gasp. The Starfall was the purest white I had ever seen in nature; veins of almost metallic purple ran through the petals with spots of gold weaving between them. It was like a star had gone supernova and a god had captured it in this flower.

My fingers fumbled with the latches on my bag in the rush to bring out my pad. The world was forgotten as my pencils flew across the pages, capturing every curve and color.

Elain and Kevin wandered further into the field, which stretched out up and over a hill. I wasn’t able to follow them until I had filled at least five pages with sketches of the flowers.

When I was able to tear myself away from the beauty before me, I started to climb the hill. The view at the top took away what was left of my breath.

Blue-gray mountains climbed towards the sky where clouds had to bow to them to make their way across the sky. More green forests flowed towards them before thinning out on their slopes. A river cut through the scene, throwing off rainbows so it looked like the whole surfaces was more colorful than any pallet I could ever mix.

The other two had made their way partly down the hill, stopping here and there to make more observations. Elain turned around and waved, gesturing for me to rejoin them.

“I’ll stay up here! You two go on!” I shouted down to them. The scene in front of me demanded my immediate attention.

About twenty yards to my right there was an outcropping of boulders that would give me the perfect vantage point of the valley.

The rocks were already warming in the late morning sun and curved perfectly to fit my body. My sketchpad was once again in my hands, fervently bringing the day to life on the paper.

Hours or minutes could have passed by and I wouldn’t have known if not for the sun making its way across the sky.

The only thing that was able to break me out of my trance was the solid thumping of hooves on the ground behind me. The reverberations of them made their way through the boulders and into my body.

I paused; the butterflies that were flitting through the flowers suddenly found a new home in my stomach. A low, bracing breath was all that could comfort me as a smooth voice cut through the day.

“Gorgeous, is it?” Rhys asked.

I peered up at him. He was wearing the same uniform as last night, only with his hat now completing the ensemble. His horse was barely out of breath despite the fast stride it just came out of.

“Yes,” I finally managed to answer. Hopefully, he took my pause as admiration of the scene.

Rhys slid off of his mount and hooked a stirrup through the reins. He patted the horse and walked over to me.

“Is it okay if I take a seat?”

“Of course,” I moved my bag to the ground so that he could join me. I managed to find my thoughts again and asked, “Will your ride not leave you here?”

“I think if she did, I would be in good enough company that I would not mind,” he said with a smile in my direction.

A harsh blush betrayed me, and I turned my eyes back to my drawing.

“Mona knows better than to wander too far,” he amended, “She likes sugar cubes too much to leave me.”

I released a chuckle, some of the butterflies went with it. We sat in silence for a few minutes, the day too perfect to interrupt with meaningless chatter.

I continued to outline the curve of the river, erasing the lines a few times because my hand was still shaky with the nerves her caused me. If Rhys noticed, he gracefully didn’t comment.

“Did you like seeing the Starfalls?” he broke the silence but didn’t take his eyes away from the valley.

“They are…. beyond words for me. I’m an artist, not a poet. Anything I say couldn’t do them justice.”

“I felt the same way when I first saw them. I can’t draw or write, but I can sit and appreciate them,” he agreed, his deep voice rumbling and somehow perfectly complementing her thoughts.

My hand finally steadied enough to capture the river and I moved on to try to convey all of its colors.

“That drawing is already perfect, and you’re not even done yet, it’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” I nearly stammered, caught off guard by his praise. I need to get a hold of myself before I become a complete fool in front of him. “I can’t seem to stop drawing here.” I flipped through the pages, showing him my other sketches of the flowers and forest.

As fate would seem to hate me, I accidentally stopped on the page that had a rendering of him on his horse when I first entered the park. It was borderline messy and almost abstract but there was no mistaking the violet-blue eyes that pierced through green leaves.

“Ah,” he let slip out, “I bet I can guess who that is.” I refused to meet his gaze and quickly flipped back to my current drawing, hoping that he would let it go.

“I just realized I never got your name,” he commented, “I’m Rhysand, but my friends all call me Rhys.” He offered his hand across what little space separated us.

I tucked my pencil behind my ear and clasped his hand. It was warm and rough with calluses.

“Feyre,” I replied, meeting his eyes with my own. Up close and in the daylight, I could see that they were a dark blue-black around the rims that lightened into a purple near the pupil. There were what looked to be silver flecks in them, making them glow like a night sky.

Too late I realized I was staring, and a new blush stained my cheeks. My gaze returned to the page and I fiddled with the pencil behind my ear.

“Feyre,” he said, his slight accent gently rolling the ‘r’, making my name sound much sexier than it is. “I like it.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. It seemed like the gods were determined to stop all rational thought when I was around this man. At least he had the good grace to be polite and ignore my idiocracy.

We continued to enjoy the warm sun that played hide-and-seek behind the clouds. I started up my sketch again, trading out pencils constantly to color the drawing. He seemed content to just watch the river go by. I guess as a park ranger, you have to be able to entertain yourself with your surroundings. It honestly didn’t sound too bad to me.

“Feyre, can I ask you a question?”

I hummed yes in response, the gray of the mountain currently absorbing my attention. Had I not been so caught up in my drawing, I would have seen the uncertain expression that crossed Rhys’s face.

“I was wondering if you—,” a rumble of thunder interrupted his sentence.

I whipped my head up and around, looking for the source of the disturbance. Clouds had begun to gather behind us, out of sight where they were able to sneak up.

Great big masses of grey that quickly overtook the sun and dimmed the day. Lightning flickered not too far in the distance, followed by more thunder that echoed in my chest.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I cursed and began to throw all my supplies into my backpack. The wind picked up and nearly threatened to tear the paper out of my book.

I managed to shove it into my bag and latch it closed. Rhys looked alarmed at my actions.

“Feyre? Are you afraid of thunderstorms?”

“No, I love them actually, but my bag isn’t waterproof and I can’t lose all my work.”

His eyes widened at the information and set his mouth in a grim line.

“Come on,” he grasped my hand in his and pulled me towards Mona who had returned to her master at the sign of rain.

“I’ll take you to the front office so you can save it.”

“What? Me? On a horse? I’m not sure—.”

“It’ll be okay, I won’t let you fall.”

I scanned the incoming cloud and looked down at my backpack. I couldn’t bear to lose all my work but the thought of being on the massive creature had me hesitating.

“What about Elain and Kevin? Will they be alright?”

Rhys’s face softened at my worry. “I’ll radio Az and see if he can get them under cover. If they stick to the trail, they should be safe. Storms out here don’t last too long and just dump a bunch of rain on us.”

His reassurance dashed away my last excuse. “Okay, how do we do this.”

He smiled, “I’ll have you ride behind me, it will be a tight fit but I think you can fit on the back of the saddle. You’ll have to hold on tight,” he instructed with a humorous glint in his eyes.

My stomach did interesting flips in response and I had to remind myself that this was not the time to be thinking about anything but saving my sketchpad.

I slung my bag across my back and secured it best I could.

Rhys hopped into the saddle first and left the stirrup closest to me open.

“Grab my hand and use the boulder as a stepping stool. Put your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg over.”

I did as he instructed and soon I was situated behind him. It was a tight fit, but I was mostly able to squeeze onto the saddle. Rhys inserted his foot back into the stirrup.

“Hook your legs around mine the best you can and wrap your arms around me tight. We’re going to canter back to the office.”

I gulped and tried to tamp down my fears. The last time I had ridden a horse was at a petting zoo when I was 7 and the pony had barely wanted to move.

“Mona has a very smooth stride so it will be okay. Just try to move with my body,” he said, the tips of his ears turning red at this insinuation. At least I wasn’t the only one who could make a fool of themselves.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I breathed into his ear, sending a small shiver down his spine. I could get used to this.

“Let’s go, Mona.”

The thunder was barely audible through the pounding of her hooves. Rhys was right that her gait was very smooth, once I fell into a rhythm, it was easy to relax a bit and enjoy the ride. The smell of the green forest wrapped around us, wind brushed our cheeks. We followed the wide trail, which only had gentle curves and no roots to slow us down.

Thunder sounded again; this time easily audible over the din of hooves. A drop of water splashed my nose, breaking through the canopy.

“We’re almost there!” Rhys shouted over his shoulder. I pressed against him harder.

We burst through the growth into the front parking lot as the sky began to open up.

What had taken me an hour to hike had only taken Mona 10 minutes to cover. I hoped Rhys would give her extra sugar cubes for saving my sketchpad.

I slung my leg over and dropped to the ground, my knees slightly giving out from the stiff position they had to hold. Just as the downpour began, I got myself under the cover of the awning, saving my backpack and its contents.

Rhys had dismounted too and tied Mona to the front railing. Water dripped off his hat as he came to stand before me. He removed it and ran a hand through his hair, further messing up the wild blown locks.

“Mission accomplished?” he asked.

“Yes,” I showed him my bag that had only a few spatters of water on it.

“Good.”

We stayed there, breathing a bit heavily through the rush of adrenaline that was fading from our systems.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say that enough for saving my art.”

A grin split his mouth, the dark spark lighting up his eyes again. “It was my pleasure, Feyre darling,” he nearly purred, his eyes resting on my lips before returning to mine.

For the millionth time that day, a blush spread across my cheeks. I was starting to get tired of my body betraying me to a man I had just met and had no reason to believe he would think the same as me.

“And I know just the way you could say thank you.”

My breath caught in my throat, thoughts spinning through my mind, each dirtier than the rest. My tongue flicked out to wet my lips, his attention caught on it and stay there until he was able to refocus.

He broke his stare, looking out into the rain, an almost embarrassed expression rested on his face, a blush of his own highlighting his cheekbones.

“Would you like to go stargazing with me tonight? The rain and clouds will clear up for a perfect night and you’ll get to ride Mona again and I know the best spot in the park,” he started to ramble. “You don’t have to stay yes, I mean we just met but I thought—.”

“Yes, I would love to,” I saved him from his train of thought, holding back a giggle at his cute display.

A look of surprise followed by excitement flashed across his features. “Wonderful, I’ll pick you up after dinner?”

“Perfect.”

“Well, I’ll see you then, Feyre darling.”

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