#and she said its okay to drop the bomb about the pills now too

[persephone-plasmids]

The Storm

Danse and Nora fic

[Read on AO3]

[Part 1] [Part 2]

The abandoned house at Coastal Cottage wasn’t much to look at. The second floor was almost completely destroyed and a large Mirelurk nest had been hiding under the floorboards before Nora and Danse made quick work of them. Danse had to admit though, as far as prospective settlements went, this one actually had potential.

The two companions had spent the day clearing out debris to make the rebuild easier for the Minutemen who would eventually move in, but as the sun began its descent in the sky, Danse looked out over the water in the distance.

“It’s pretty, isn't it?” Nora asked, suddenly beside Danse with a handful of branches she’d cleared from the second story.

“It is,” Danse agreed, still feeling uneasy around the vault dweller.

Since their kiss, he didn’t know how to act around her. He felt equal parts guilt, humiliation, and desire, and none of those emotions put him at ease.

“I wish you could have seen it before the bombs,” Nora went on, dropping her pile of brush on the ground just outside of the house.

“You’d been here before?” Danse asked, confused.

“Not here specifically,” Nora answered, her voice distant. “I just wish you could have seen all of it. It was so… green.”

Danse looked over at Nora for a moment, studying the way her eyes softened at the corners as she spoke of her former life. She pursed her lips, still looking out over the water.

“I miss the trees. And the seasons. I know it’s such a small thing when you think of everything else I should miss… but you never realize what a big difference a full green tree makes,” she said, now looking up at Danse with a sad smile. “I loved sitting out in the backyard under our tree in the spring and reading a book.”

The mental image this conjured up in Danse’s mind brought a soft smile to his own lips. “I would have liked that.”

“I know you would have,” Nora said, her features holding less sadness now. “You would have liked a lot about the old world.”

As she spoke, a crack sounded above the pair, causing Nora to jump.

“Seriously?” she asked in exasperation. “Is that another rad storm?”

“Looks like it,” Danse said, frowning at the clouds that were slowly taking on a green glow. “We won’t make it back to Sanctuary in time”

Nora’s brow furrowed as she looked around the ruined home they stood in. Nora hated the rad storms. Of course, Danse didn’t think anyone but a Ghoul could really love them, but there was something more to it for her. Danse suspected that the thunder reminded her of the bombs dropping.

“This house won’t help us much, but that red barn over there should provide adequate shelter,” Danse said, taking Nora’s hand and leading her over to the structure.

He told himself that he had to take her hand to shake her from her quickly growing anxiety. He’d never been a very good liar. Not even to himself.

Closing the doors to the barn, Nora ignited the green light on her PipBoy, taking the device off and propping it up against the wall to provide the pair with at least some illumination.

“I have some RadX if you need it,” Nora said, popping her own pill before handing one to Danse.

He gratefully accepted it before stepping out of his power armor. They were going to be there for a while and his power armor wasn’t exactly comfortable.

Nora sat on the ground with her back up against the wall but Danse continued to stand awkwardly beside his now-empty power armor, unsure of what he should do.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see the signs that a rad storm was coming,” Nora said, closing her eyes as another round of thunder made the walls rumble. “That was stupid. I should have been paying better attention.”

She was trying to sound logical about the whole thing, but Danse could hear the fear in her voice. It was that same anxiety that always plagued her when she heard some deep booming sound. He’d first seen it during a fire fight where one of the raiders had gotten their hands on a Broadsider and loaded it with cannonballs. Then again during their first rad storm together. And yet again when the Institute had finally gone up in smoke.

Nora always tried to hide her PTSD from the day the bombs fell, but Danse could easily see through it.

“We’re going to be okay in here,” Danse said, his voice softening now as he took a seat beside her.

He wanted to comfort her without letting her know that he could see how distressed she was. Nora didn’t like to be perceived as weak in any aspect of her life.

“What else would I have liked about the old world?” Danse asked, desperately looking for something to distract her.

Though her breathing was shallow, Danse could see the way Nora’s lips curled as she thought.

“Museums,” Nora said, now  looking over at Danse in the soft green glow of the PipBoy. “You would have loved seeing all of the displays laid out so neatly without a single smashed relic in sight.”

Now it was Danse’s turn to smile. He tried to push away an image of Nora and himself walking hand in hand through a pristine museum. He needed to let go of those feelings for her. His little fantasies would only make that harder.

“Oh and you would have loved the whole ‘American Dream’ thing,” Nora said, her grin now wide and unbothered by the thunder outside.

“What do you mean?” Danse asked, his brown eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiled at her.

“Having a wife and kids,” she began. “White picket fence. Baseball with your son while you grilled. Your wife making an apple pie. The whole thing. You would have loved it. You were made for that life.”

Nora’s words once again conjured up an image in Danse’s mind. An image so different from the barren wasteland they were currently in that it actually made him homesick for something he’d never even experienced.

Nothing about the Commonwealth looked like this fantasy. There was no time for leisure or pleasure when you were just trying to survive.

“That sounds amazing,” Danse said, and he was surprised by just how sad his voice sounded. “I’m sorry all of that was ripped away from you.”

Nora nodded as she watched him closely. “I’m sorry you never even got to see it. It was really something.”

“Waking up to all of this death and destruction must have been like a living nightmare,” Danse said.

Nora nodded slowly, looking thoughtful before she spoke. “You would think so… but the one thing I didn’t really account for, is the fact that you can find good people anywhere. Even in the worst situations. I’ve met so many good people since I came out of the vault.”

“And a lot of bad ones,” Danse said.

“Dealing with the bad ones is still worth it to get to know the good ones,” Nora said, the smile back in place.

“I love that about you,” Danse said, before catching just how familiar he was being and shutting his mouth.

This made Nora grin. “Love what?”

Danse wanted to clear his throat and change the subject, but he didn’t. Instead, he opted for uncharacteristic honesty. “Your optimism. The fact that you can see good in everything. I love that about you… there’s… there’s a lot to love about you.”

He couldn’t be sure in the low light of the PipBoy, but it almost looked like Nora blushed at his words.

“There’s a lot to love about you too, Danse,” Nora replied, instantly making the Paladin tense up with that familiar pull he felt towards Nora. The pull he had to try to ignore.

“I’m good in a fight,” he said with an uncomfortable laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

Nora nodded in agreement. “But you’re also kinder than you give yourself credit for. I know it hasn’t been easy for you to change your mind about Synths and Ghouls, but you’ve already made a lot of progress. And the fact that you’re willing to try says a lot about you.”

Danse looked down at the ground, unsure of what to do with Nora’s praise. He loved it, even though he wished he didn’t. “I’ve still got a long way to go… but thank you.”

Nora leaned her shoulder against his as she went on, her voice closer than he had anticipated. “There’s a lot more to love too.”

Danse looked over at Nora. Her eyes held something he couldn’t quite place, but it made that pull towards her even harder to resist. Like a string attached to his chest that she just kept tugging on.

“You make me feel safe,” she began, leaning closer to him. Her eyes darted to his lips for a brief second. “And you make me feel… something I didn’t think I’d feel again after I lost Nate.”

Danse swallowed hard, unable to keep his eyes away from her lips now. He wasn’t good with reading people’s emotions, but he wasn’t sure how he could possibly be misreading this situation.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

“Want,” she said simply, before leaning closer and pressing her lips against his.

This wasn’t like the previous night. Nora wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t emotionally distraught. She was kissing him without any reason that he could see.

His mind raced to analyze what was happening, but his logic couldn’t compete with the overwhelming desire he felt to pull her closer to him.

Her lips started out hesitant and soft, but as soon as Danse kissed her back, it was like a switch flipped. Nora’s kisses became hungry. Persistent. She moved her lips against his in a desperate way that he eagerly matched.

Everything about Nora was soft. Her lips, her skin, her hair, but when she began kissing him, she wasn’t soft. She pushed her lips against his forcefully before repositioning her legs on either side of him, straddling him as he sat against the wall.

Nora moaned into Danse’s mouth when he pulled her against him, his hands finding her hips and holding them tightly.

To say he was inexperienced would be an understatement, but somehow Danse’s instincts easily kicked in as he parted Nora’s lips with his tongue.

She breathed him in as they kissed, their bodies moving together naturally. Danse felt like every inch of him that she touched was ignited by an unseen fire and all he knew was that he wanted more and more of her.

Her hands roamed across his chest before circling around to the back of his neck where she grabbed his hair to pull his lips even harder against hers. Pushing her hips against him, he could hear her breath hitch.

He wanted to taste every moment of this kiss. The way her tongue moved over his. The way her body moved against him so deliciously.

Danse’s chest felt like it might explode from the incredible feeling of kissing Nora and he slowly moved his hands from her hips up her back, reveling in the feeling of her. But as their lips moved together, the barn was suddenly illuminated by the green rad storm outside.

Danse and Nora broke away from the kiss to see that the barn door had blown open in the storm. The event wasn’t exactly life-threatening, but it seemed to be enough to break the moment between them.

Nora didn’t pull away from Danse right away like he thought she might. Her anxiety over the storm didn’t seem nearly as powerful as it had been only a moment before.

Instead, she kept her fingers tangled in his hair as she looked back at him.

The pair were breathless and looking at each other with wide eyes.

Had this really just happened? And what did it mean? Danse’s instincts had taken over when he’d first started kissing Nora, but his mind was quickly working to overanalyze the situation now.

Should he move her off of him? Should he apologize?

She must have seen his brain working overtime, because Nora smiled at him.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long, Danse,” Nora said quietly, her voice still breathless. “You have no idea”

“You have?” he asked, unable to comprehend her words. “I… I assumed that because of… what I am…” His words trailed off. He wasn’t sure he wanted to come right out and remind Nora of what he was. Especially because he was half convinced that she only kissed him because she’d temporarily forgotten.

Nora leaned forward and gave Danse a long, slow kiss; taking her time as she moved her lips softly over his.

The Paladin was embarrassed by the goosebumps that sprang up all over his body at this gesture.

“You’re a good man,” she said softly after she pulled away from him. He could feel her breath brush across his lips as she spoke. “That’s all that matters to me.”

Danse furrowed his brow, his brown eyes staring at her in earnest. He wasn’t sure what to make of this.

“I don’t understand how you could feel that way about me.”

Nora smiled now. “I know you don’t. And that’s part of the reason I do.”

She lightly brushed her hand against his stubbly cheek, cupping his face as he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. He didn’t realize just how starved he’d been for physical contact until this very moment. Kissing Nora had been incredible and intense, but this soft touch filled something inside of him that he didn’t know was missing.

“Danse, I want to be with you,” she said quietly, still cupping his face as he brought his hand up to cover hers.

“I want that too,” he finally said, after a moment of quieting the voice inside of his head that told him he wasn’t good enough for her. That he was an abomination. That he was unworthy of her affection. “You just might have to be patient with me as I try to understand why on earth you'd want that.”

Nora placed another soft kiss against his lips; this one brief. “I can be patient.”

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Oh damn. Your drabble "Drowning" has given me IDEAS....

I can just see hero managing to stop villain from killing Supervillain, but Supervillain still being injured/ getting pneumonia from the water in his lungs... and how awkward it would be for hero to take care of someone who'd just tried to drown her.

This idea is fantastic! I hope that this was an ask to do it. If not, I apologize, but this was just such a great idea!

May get a little sad at the end (spoiler alert)

Drowning Part 2

Part 1

Warnings: concussion, CPR, death/killing mentions, descriptions of how someone was going to kill another (never acted upon), classic sick and delirious whumpee, sedatives mention, descriptions of medical setting and practices, mentions of loved ones death, pills (tylenol), hallucinations

~

Villain grabbed the knife, his fingers clutching the hilt until they glowed white. Supervillain was breathing heavily, yet he was still unconscious- lips parted and blue.

Hero also moved forward, her legs tensed and ready to pounce. The scene registered in her mind very quickly. The knife, the villain, and the heaving supervillain... blood and then the inevitable stop of breath.

It didn't have to be inevitable.

Hero rushed forward, grabbing a metal rod, and landed the blow directly to Villain's temple. He faltered, letting go of the knife and collapsing into Hero's awaiting arms.

"M Hhh," he breathed, bleeding head lolling in the crease of Hero's elbow. His eyes shifted from focused to unfocused in a matter of seconds, only to fluctuate back. Here flipped out her phone and called her medic.

"Hero! You alright?"

"Yeah I'm fine. Get to Supervillain's base. It's empty. Villain has a bad concussion, he's not entirely lucid right now..."

"Oh uh, um... I'm on my way." The line clicked.

Hero laid Villain against the wall, cupping his heavy head for a moment before tending to the unmoving supervillain. He wasn't breathing.

Hero quickly felt for a pulse and upon finding a soft thump-thump, she tilted his head to the side. Water immediately gushed out of his nose and mouth. He sputtered a little bit, but never woke.

Hero pressed her lips against Supervillain's after rolling his head back to the center. She breathed into his mouth four times, checked to see if he began to breathe. No.

She continued this. Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, check... until the supervillain gasped for breath, choking and coughing out water and mucus.

Supervillain jerked himself forward, glancing at Hero to Villain and then back at Hero.

"H-" another coughing fit with more water. He started to gag, dry-heaving until tears spiked his eyes and nausea rose in his throat. When he was done, he scrambled to his feet and tumbled towards the open door to his base.

Hero returned to Villain's side and scooped her friend up. Medic wasn't there, so she decided to take him herself. Caressing his head, gently, she followed Supervillain outside and to her base.

The next day, Hero was walking along a sidewalk on her way home from visiting Villain in the hospital. It was a nice day, a great change from her near-death experience with Supervillain the day prior... Hero shuddered, trying not to think of the agonizingly cold water, the darkness lapping at her vision, knocking Villain out... the whole ordeal.

Knocking Villain out... Hero replayed the conversation she just had with her very ungrateful ex-frenenemy (apparently?). The half-dazed cusses and just plain rudeness from the bedridden patient were more than enough to make her feel annoyed. She saved Villain from committing an act that would have surely land him in jail- if not a mental facility. Especially the way the concussed villain talked about killing Supervillain. Apparently, Villain was going to slowly kill him with the knife, decorating major body parts with cuts and blood.

Hero sighed. That sadistic little turd that couldn't just walk away-

A groan.

Hero looked up to find herself walking in front of an alleyway. It was dark, if that's not a little too cliche, and eerily quite. Not even a stray cat knocked over a garbage can like in every classical alleyway scene.

Hero entered the alley stealthily, opening her holster and lying her hand over her gun. She looked behind every dumpster and every cardboard box. Finding nothing, she proceeded to leave, but two hands grabbed her mouth and throat.

Being yanked backwards sent a spark of adrenaline through Hero's veins. She turned and thrashed, but her attacker was unrelenting.

"Let me go!" Hero yelled when a large hand slipped away from her mouth. The other hand went away too. Pulling her gun out, Hero spun around, only to have a fist meet her face.

The impact startled her, but not as much as the body leaning heavily against her's.

The body heaved and gasped, heat radiating off its skin. Hero looked down and took in the features. She couldn't see a face, but it was obviously a guy. Hero dragged the man over to the only bare spot against the brick wall and leaned him aaginst it. She began to step away, only to realize that his head was resting against her shoulder.

"Hey," Hero mumured and grabbed the man's cheeks, holding him up, examining his face...

Hero nearly dropped the pale face.

It was Supervillain.

Also known as the man who tried to kill her.

Hero, for a brief second of primitive logic, contemplated leaving the feverish man to deal with himself. But guilt, and maybe a twinge of annoyance, drove her the complete opposite direction.

After all, she didn't just save him and give Villain a concussion only for him to die, right?

Yet as she scooped her attacker up, two portions of her brain- her sensible part and her empathetic part- played tug-of-war with each other. Drop him, bring him home, drop him, bring him home...

Of course the empathetic clump of cells won and she bridal-carried the shivering supervillain to her apartment.

She set Supervillain on her beige couch with a blanket strewn over his lap. He just had a cold right? She brought him some tylenol and a glass of water.

"Hey," she said softly, almost a whisper. Supervillain seemed so disconnected that she was afraid that she would startle him. His eyes were glassy and had an abnormal, faraway look.

Supervillain didn't reply, or look at Hero. His gaze was fixated on a corner of the living room.

Then, like a bomb suddenly going off, he started to cough.

He coughed until blood, water and mucus gushed from his mouth. He hacked it up like a waterfall. Hero stood up, linked her hands under his shoulders and hauled him into a better sitting position.

He coughed until he was sobbing, screaming. He fell back against the cushions, sputtering and crying, with tears streaming down his face. Each breath seemed to be a workout- shaky and shallow. He never made eye contact with Hero. Just stared ahead, coughing and crying.

"Are you okay?" Hero asked, loudly, but she still doubted the sick supervillain heard her. She placed a hand against his back, rubbing circles. It was just a cold- she was certain.

But he was so hot.

So unnaturally hot.

Hero frowned and went to grab a thermometer. She placed it against Supervillain's lips, but he didn't open them.

"Come on now," she coaxed gingerly and rubbed his flushed cheeks. She sighed. She didn't even need to know the temperature to know that the sick man infront of her had a fever.

Supervillain parted his mouth open and allowed the pointed metal edge to find a home under his tongue. He tried to move it around, but his resolve was too weak. Hero held it there until it beeped. 102.9

102.9 degrees fahrenheit. Nearly 103 degrees...

"Oh gosh," Hero exclaimed and dumped a couple tablets out of the tylenol bottle. She coaxed them onto Supervillain's bacteria-lidden tongue and pressed the glass of water against his bottom lip.

"Drink," she whispered. Supervillain obeyed and took a sip just big enough to force the pills down.

"Good job," she praised and lowered Supervillain down. Only for him to start coughing again.

"Take it easy, honey," she murmured. Honey? Where did that come from? Come on Hero, she scolded herself. The guy just tried to drown you the other day; you don't have to make this even more awkward or embarrassing.

Supervillain leaned into her. His firey body nearly made Hero begin to sweat. His eyelids drooped, breaths slowed, and soon he was alseep in her arms.

Hero knelt there by the armrest, alone with her intense thoughts. She rubbed his moist hair, allowing her nails to scratch at his scalp. Even alseep, she hoped it gave some comfort.

Not that he exactly deserved comfort. Villain was in a hospital bed, sleeping off sedatives and painkillers greedily and dealing with a major concussion. She thought of the grim night the doctors and her shared. Restraining a delirious villain, the MRI, all the tests... and then finally given the clear to inject a moderate sedative dose to help him sleep.

But Hero still gave the undeserved comfort. Maybe she was too empathetic, too caring and generous for her own good, but that matter could be taken care of another day.

Supervillain awoke a few hours later to Hero'd strawberry smelling hair resting against the top of his head. Her arms dangled across his chest as if she was giving him a hug from behind. She fell alseep mid-hug.

Of course, the supervillain did not register this interaction as that. He imagined it more as encompassing tendrils of ivy tying him down to a foreign object. He squirmed, trying to break free of Mother Nature's restraints, but he was too sick, too weak, and too helpless to do much more than move around.

Hero then woke up also, pulling her arms- the so-called vines- off the terrified supervillain's body.

"Good morning," she yawned and pressed a hand against her ward's forehead. Supervillain didn't seem to know what to do. He wavered between pushing forward into the hand- or the frustratingly threatening boulder to him- or pulling away. He chose the later, jerking away only to send a rush of mind reeling dizziness through his head.

He swayed, or he thought he did for he was still lying against the couch as if a magnetic force attached him to it. Reaching out weakly to grab Hero's hands, he closed his eyes.

"You are so sick," Hero cooed, her voice a mixture of both anxiety and tranquility. Supervillain gripped her tighter and tried to pull himself up to her.

"Shh, shh," Hero whispered. "Sleep."

Supervillain seemed like he nodded. Or was it due to him loosening up as he fell asleep again? Hero didn't know, nor cared.

She stood up and laid a blanket over Supervillain before heading into the kitchen to make a bland chicken soup and a small bowl of rice.

After the meal was done, about thirty minutes later, Hero returned to Supervillain on the couch with a portable plastic table and the food. She propped the still sleeping man into a sitting position before awakening him.

Supervillain blearily opened his eyes, blinked, and settled his gaze on Hero's eyes. He twitched his head upwards, but that was all. Hero didn't even think he noticed the steaming food on the table beside him.

"Want to eat?" She asked, more to herself than anyone. Supervillain looked at her with those wide, brown eyes like he did right before he attempted to drown her.

"Mnh," Supervillain groaned. "M chest hurts."

"Your chest hurts?"

"Mhm."

Hero tentatively lifted his shirt, but the feverish man didn't seem to care, or realize the possible intimate gesture.

"Let's take this off, shall we?"

Supervillain nodded, which made Hero nervous. Why was he being so compliant?

Nevertheless, she striped his shirt off and examined his ribcage. She had him take a couple deep breaths, but the movement seemed to exhaust him further. His ribs seemed a bit swollen, but nothing was broken.

Then a horrid realization dawned on her.

He had pneumonia. Most likely due to the water still festering in his lungs.

"Ooookay," Hero breathed. She would deal with that later, maybe call Medic- no, no one could know that she was housing the Man of Terrors- but first she had to get some food into Supervillain's stomach.

So she spooned, mouthful by mouthful into Supervillain's parched mouth slowly. She cleaned any broth dripping down his chin with a washcloth.

After he finished eating, Supervillain was so exhausted that he nearly fell alseep with his neck bent awkwardly. Hero readjusted him to a laying position, but elevated him slightly to ease his ragged breathing.

Pneumonia.

That would explain the harsh breathing and the daunting fever. Gosh, was he sick and so sudden too. Hero sat next to Supervillain, rubbing his hair back from his sweaty forehead like a caretaker.

Even though it was awkward, given the circumstances and past events, Hero stayed with him all night. Easing his pain, feeding him small bits of rice and soup, taking off blankets and putting them back on, wet washcloths and fans. Sometimes she would doze off on his chest, but never for long.

Whatever connection and trust built up between the two that night was unbelievable. Extraordinary, even. But still, nothing, not even with the newfound relationship, prepared Hero for the one simple and innocent yet insanely heartbreaking word that sickly Supervillain uttered.

"Mother?" He squeaked, looking up at Hero with eyes so full of love and relief that they looked about to burst. Hero felt her heart break, shattered to a million pieces as her guest extended his hand to her face.

"Am I in heaven?" He asked in such a childish manner. He looked around, but frowned at his surroundings. "Mother? You're dead right? Am I dead too?" The previous chirpy voice lowered to Supervillain's desolate montone.

Hero didn't know what to say, for Supervillain gazed at her with all the intent he could physically muster.

She could give into the hallucination and play along, but guilt would eat her alive. But, she thought it rude to just blatantly say, "No. You're mother is dead. It's me, Hero."

Supervillain whimpered, chin trembling as he began to cry. Hero winced, but then realized:

She said those words outloud and now she had a grieving, delirious, and sick supervillain to tend to. Great, just great.

[lilmissmousey]

Hi there.

It’s been awhile.

Denial Chapter 7 is live 💖 love you all

Denial Chapter 7

Vegeta stared with disdain at the flight of stairs in front of him. Hip throbbing, head aching, temper boiling, he attempted to rise from the front passengers seat of Bulma’s black SUV only to be engulfed in a blinding fire of pain.

“What’re you doing?!” Bulma’s hand gripped Vegetas shoulder, “You goon! You can’t be walking right now! Your hip is broken!”

“Watch. Me.” He growled, brushing her fingers off.

Bulma massaged her temples, “For the love of God. Let me get the crutches out of the back at least!”

“I will NOT be caught dead with crutches! I will snap them in half! I can do it my-“

“Hi ya buddy!”

Oh. Oh no. Vegeta knew that obnoxious, chipper voice.

Beaming down at him with a huge smile from the open car door, arm up and casually leaning on the roof was Goku, “Ya missed our match this morning! Just wanted to see...hey, what happened to you?!”

“It...” Vegeta mumbled, “it was nothing. Just a little run in with a car.”

Goku’s dark eyes grew large, “A car?”

“Nothing?!” Bulma’s head popped into view from beside Vegeta, “You got HIT by a car!”

Goku blinked, “Who’re you?”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Vegeta could feel his cheeks starting to burn hot.

“Not that bad?!” Bulma shrieked, “you were unconscious for hours! You have a concussion! And a fractured hip!”

“A minor inconvenience.”

“You almost died!”

“Says who?”

The man outside the SUV watched with great confusion. Vegeta got hit by a car? There had been a blurb on the news the other night about it, but they hadn’t released a name. Only the vehicle description. Goku felt terrible he hadn’t known sooner. Vegeta was his buddy. He also could have sworn he recognized the blue haired woman in the drivers seat from somewhere...

“Aha!” Goku proclaimed, snapping his fingers loudly.

Both Vegeta and Bulma’s mouth snapped shut, their eyes both now focused on Goku.

“You’re the girl from Vegeta’s phone!” Goku grinned, “The girl on the wallpaper! It’s nice to meet ya! I’m Goku. Vegetas ju jitsu partner!” His large hand shoved itself past Vegetas nose to shake Bulma’s hand which she offered, “man, he sure talks about ya a whole lot! And with how much he doesn’t talk that’s sure saying something!”

“Kakarot...” Vegeta hissed, ignoring Bulma’s smug smile.

“Well, I think you and I are going to get a long just fine!” Bulma laughed, giving Gokus hand a last squeeze before Vegeta batted it away from in front of his face.

“Man, I’m sorry to hear about the accident!” Goku scratched his chin, “I tried callin’ ya yesterday to make sure of the plans, but ya never answered. Makes sense now.”

Vegeta inhaled sharply, “Ah shit.” His phone. He never even realized it was gone.

“Oh no,” Bulma sighed, “Vegeta, you lost your phone? I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just a phone,” he mumbled, “I’ll buy another.”

“Already done.” Bulma finished typing something on her phone screen and shoved it back in her purse, “I ordered you another, I’ll have someone drop it off this afternoon.”

Suddenly, as if a wave came over him, Vegeta felt to tired to argue. The world shifted on its axis, causing a rippling wave of nausea. He winced, adjusting his hip as the pain radiated, “Thanks.” He muttered.

“Hey, you okay buddy?” Goku crouched down, eyes full of worry, “What can I do?”

From inside Bulma’s heart, a warmth began to tug. This Goku guy was very kind, “We need to get him inside,” she said gently, blue eyes meeting Goku’s black, “But he’s not supposed to walk very much. He has crutches, but is refusing to use them.”

Goku’s brows furrowed, “Aw man. I just came from ‘Geets apartment. The elevators broken.”

Heaving a sigh, Vegeta cracked one eye open, willing the world to stop spinning as he met the worried gaze of his best friend. Hades be damned if he ever admitted it, but in his own heart he knew it to be true. He was well aware Goku felt that way about him as he expressed his feelings openly and without abandon, and never once forced Vegeta to say it in return. It was unwritten, but wholly understood between them, “Kakarot, I’m going to ask you the most embarrassing question of my life.” He winced.

That look of determination Goku got before every match suddenly spread across his face “What’s that?”

~~~

“Okay bud, only about ten steps left.” Goku carefully readjusted his arm beneath Vegetas left armpit, gripping the right hand a little tighter that was slung over his shoulder. Every step the took, Goku would lift Vegetas entire body off the ground, gently placing him right foot down on the next step. It had taken over a half hour and a lot of swear words from Vegeta, but they finally reached the apartment. Bulma unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for both men to fit through. As they finally crested the threshold Vegeta grunted, and quickly tightened his grip meaningfully on Gokus hand, being careful to not meet the larger mans eyes. He could feel the gentle stare though, see the sincere smile out of the corner of his eye. Goku squeezed back and said warmly, “Anytime.”

“Mph.” Vegeta looked away. Goku chuckled.

Bulma’s head popped out from Vegetas bedroom, “Let’s get him laying down in here.”

“Got it!” Goku grinned, then turned his head “Hey,” he whispered in Vegetas ear, “at least ya got a cute nurse outta the deal.”

“Shut. Up.” Vegeta hissed.

“Hey,” Goku shrugged, “it’s better than a picture, ain’t it?”

Vegeta clenched his jaw. A picture; his picture. It was gone. In all honesty, he was more upset about that than the phone. Hopefully it had been saved somehow.

After another round of swear words, Vegetas leg was propped up with pillows, at least relieving some of the pain. Bulma flitted around, gathering water and snacks as well as sorting out Vegetas pain pills in the kitchen as Goku sat on the edge of Vegetas bed and asked questions about the accident.

“I’m telling you, it was intentional.” Vegeta muttered, sipping at the glass of ice water Bulma had already placed on the side of the bed, “just a gut feeling.”

Face propped in his hand, dark brows pulled together, Goku drummed his fingers on his cheek, “Who though? And why her? She seems awful nice.”

Vegetas eyes darted to the door to make sure Bulma wasn’t eavesdropping, “Not sure. It could be anyone. She has a position of power in her company, and the smarts and money to go with it. There are a few nasty lawsuits floating around. I’ll have to take a look when I get the chance.”

“Hm.” Goku stood, stretching his back, “Well, I still have a few contacts out there. Old friends,” he shot an uncharacteristically dark smirk at Vegeta, “I’ll see what I can find.”

Vegetas eyes narrowed, “Don’t go digging to much Kakarot. You don’t need to get involved. We’ve both been out a long time. You’ve got a clean record. You’ve got the wife and kid to worry about.”

“Eh, Chichi won’t mind.” Goku shrugged, “She can’t mind if she doesn’t know anyways. I was never really a part of them in the first place. No one, and I mean no one, hurts my friends.” There was a sharp edge on the end of that sentence that made Vegetas fist clench into the blanket, a small and familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through him.

Goku’s normally chipper facade seemed to falter for a minute, a glint in his eyes, “Just like the old days. I got you. And you got me.” Just as quickly as the tense air in the room was there, it was immediately sucked out again, and Goku’s grin returned, “Anyways, fell better buddy! Call me when you get your new phone!” With a roll of his neck, and with his signature wave, Goku was out the door.

Vegeta let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He knew that look. He knew that Goku. That was the Goku most people had never met. He hadn’t see that look in a long, long time.

I got you. And you got me. The words repeated in Vegetas head, memories of them as young teens racing through back alleys, those same words being laughed as Goku and he managed to get away from whatever trouble they were involved in. “What have I done.” Vegeta muttered, eyes pinching closed as another wave of nausea ran through him.

“You alright?”

“Just...a headache still,” He grumbled, Bulma’s cool fingers dancing across his forehead.

“I’ll get you your medicine.” She whispered, “I’ll shut the blind too. The light may be hurting your eyes.”

Vegeta grunted, “I don’t need the pills. I just need some sleep.”

Bulma sighed, the sounds of the blind hitting the window sill echoing like a bomb in his ears, “Stop trying to be tough, it’s alright. You got hit by a car. You’re allowed some pain relief.” He could hear her shuffling around the room. Everything was so overwhelming. He wished this would stop.

Another wave of head pain, “I just need you.” The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his eyes still sensitive from the concussion pain snapped open to see if she’d heard.

But she wasn’t there.

“Did you say something?” Bulma’s called from the kitchen, “sorry, I was grabbing you some more water and the pain pills. I really think you should take them.”

Vegeta sighed, half relieved, half disappointed, “Whatever.”

[jjdoggies-fanfics]

Day 5: Guilt

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396187

@fivevanya

Title: Little Do You Know, I’m Still Haunted By The Memories

She’d done it again. 

For a third time. 

Caused the apocalypse, or nearly did.

She was the reason Five spent nearly his entire life in the Apocalypse. She was the reason they had to flee to fucking Dallas, in the 60’s. She is the reason Ben died, and is replaced with this Other Ben. And she was the reason they came back, only to be kicked out of their own house.

Vanya honestly wished sometimes, that she could go back. To that blissfully oblivious month. When she believed she could live a normal life with Sissy and Harlan. Back when she didn’t have to deal with her family, or memories, or powers.

After they’d returned to 2019, being kicked out of their (former apparently) childhood home soon after, they splintered apart, again.

Allison made her way to Los Angeles, hoping Claire was still waiting for her; bringing Luther with her.

Diego similarly left, mentioning something about a friend of his and finding Lila. Klaus solemnly following behind him, wallowing in the loss of Ben. Their Ben. Because of Her.

While Five had stayed back, discussing something with their father, likely about not screwing up this timeline. About Her not ruining another timeline.

After everyone else splintered off, going their separate ways, again, Vanya alone, again. And somehow it hurt more being alone, being abandoned, forgotten, ignored, isolated, again. 

Perhaps, it is because, this time, it made sense. 

Because this time, she had done several things that likely caused her siblings to leave her. Namely, causing the apocalypse, for a second and third time, almost killing Allison, and actually killing Ben. Just to name a few.

Vanya silently wished she could return to The Academy, if only to use the basement. The bunker. The cell. Her prison. To lock herself away, like their father had, like Luther had, because, they were right. She was, is a monster. A bomb. A ticking time clock. The apocalypse.

She deserved to be locked up. Locked away. Kept away from everyone. From Allison. From Ben. Klaus. Diego. Luther. From Five.

She is a monster, and always will be.

She was destined to either end the world. Or, be killed, like a wild animal, by the people she grew up with.

She was never meant to be ordinary. She was never meant to be extraordinary. She never should have been born. Never been given the chance to live. To hurt. To kill. 

An itch had spread, from her wrist, up her arms, across her chest, around her neck, and down her back. Spreading all around. Infecting everywhere. Ruining everything.

Like she did.

Everything felt wrong.

It felt like Vanya didn’t belong in her own skin. In this body, despite it being her own. Or, at least she thought so. There was another thing. Another being. Personality. Alter ego. Living, residing inside her. One that had a thirst for blood, pain, revenge, murder. A constant voice in the back of her mind, telling her, pleading with her, begging her, to be freed. To hurt. To kill.

And for a while, Vanya had been able to silence the voice. For a month. In Dallas. She, It, was gone. And Vanya hadn’t noticed, until It came back. Bringing memories she’d rather have forgotten forever with It. Haunting her. Taunting her. Torturing her.

From the moment they touched down back in 2019, It was stronger than Vanya could ever remember. 

Whispering to her all the reasons that Diego hated her, wishing she was dead. Every secret moment they’d shared forever tainted by the blood she’d ever spilt, the invisible wounds she tore open and sold to the world, for a second of no longer being a nobody.

Taunting her with the memory of Luther rightfully squeezing the air from her lungs, when he should have waited for her heart to stop. As much as it burned, and hurt, at the moment, feeling as if the life was draining from her body, there had never been as much bliss that Vanya felt in her entire life than when she thought that the pain would stop. For good.

Reminding her as she looked at Other Ben, that it was her fault. It was always her fault. Every time. Because she wasn’t enough. She was never enough.

Ceaselessly filling her mind with images of accidentally slashing Allison’s throat, watching her sister bleed out on the floor, every time she glanced at her sister. Memories of hearing Allison and Klaus talking, and laughing, without her, as they did each other’s hair and nails. Bonding. Not needing, or wanting, their stupid ordinary sister hanging around. Never wanting her to be around. And still don’t.

Reliving every single time she had thought about how lucky Klaus was to have powers, ignoring all his complaints about the terrors that filled every waking moment and that clawed their ways into his dreams, because he had powers. He should be grateful to not be ordinary like she’d been. But, he didn’t end the world twice. Or kill his siblings.

Telling her that she was the reason Five was still in a teenage body. The reason that he suffered, for 45 years. Alone. Forced to join Them. Because of Her.

Hissing for her to stop Reginald’s heart again. To finally get revenge. For the imprisonment. The pills. The lies. The loneliness. The exile. The pain. The suffering. The hatred. The self-hatred.

But she couldn’t and never would.

For she was too much of a coward. Of a weakling. Too desperate for the attention. Or affection. The acknowledgment. To do anything to ruin it. But she already had.

She always did.

Always ruining everything. Because she never fit in. Never belonged. Not with Hargreeves. Not with her mother. Not with Leon- Harold, or with Sissy. Nowhere, with no one. Never had. Once had. Never will. Not again. As she was never meant to exist.

There was rain. Practically pouring around her.

She hadn’t noticed.

Too wrapped up in her own shit again to realize there was a world outside of her mind. Being selfish and self-centered again. Typical Vanya. Typical Number Seven. She hadn’t noticed the sky’s shift from partly sunny to being dark, cold rain pouring down. There was a reason she’d been given the lowest number. And it was very simple, she was the worst, at everything. 

She should probably move, stop sitting on the bench she hadn’t felt herself sit at in the first place, move somewhere dry, and safe. She didn’t deserve to be safe, not after what she’s done. What she could do. Maybe, if she sits in the freezing rain for long enough, sitting in her thoroughly soaked and now cold clothes, she will simply, die. As she’s meant to. Or, perhaps God, the little girl in the sky, will strike her down where she sits. Putting everyone out of their misery by removing her from existence.

She’s too much of a coward to do it herself.

She’s tried.

She’s tired. Too tired.

“Vanya?” Who was that? She felt like she’s supposed to remember this voice. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you an idiot?” The voice, attached to a boy. Five. Except, he wasn’t a boy. He looked older. Older than she could ever remember. He was pulling her from the bench, and in a flash, a flash of blue, she, they, were out of the rain. In some building. There was no one with them, only boxes. It was kind of dark. There were fingers in front of her face. Snapping. They were Five’s. “Vanya? You with me?”

Vanya nodded.

“What’s going on with you? I looked for you everywhere.” Five, he didn’t sound upset, or angry, like Vanya expected. He just sounded, “Are you okay?” concerned.

Vanya nodded. Again. Adding, “I’m fine. Sorry.”

He gave her a look. It wasn’t one she liked. But, it wasn’t a mean one either. Not like the one Five from the Brain Dinner had. “What are you sorry for? Just don’t wander off without me next time.”

“I’m sorry.” Vanya said, head dropping, eyes trained on the floor, feeling like she did every time she disappointed anyone, but especially their father, filled with shame, “Sorry for everything.”

There was silence. Vanya hated the silence, more that she hated It. The silence, left her alone with It.

“Vanya?” Five. There was a hand on her wrist, rain wasn’t hitting the metal roof anymore. “It’s okay.”

“How can it be okay? I did, horrible things.” Vanya asked, wishing she had the strength to pulled her wrist from Five’s grasp. But she simply didn’t.

Five took a hold of her other wrist. “If it makes anything better, I forgive you.” Her eyes met his. “I never blamed you, but I still forgive you.” Vanya gave him a weak smile, his forgiveness easing the weight on her chest and quieted Its voice for a bit. Five’s hands slid from her wrists to her shoulders, “Vanya.”

“Five.”

“There’s something very important that I need to tell you Vanya.” Five said, waiting for some confirmation from her, and when Vanya gave him a shy nod, Five told her. “I love you Vanya Hargreeves.”

Vanya knew that her face was completely flushed, feeling the heat spreading across her skin. Needless to say, that hadn’t been what she’d expected him to say. But, regardless, she told him that, “I love you too, Five Hargreeves.”

And just like that. Everything clicked. She fit. Vanya was home.

[avengerscompound]

Her Home

Her Home:  A Scarlet Witch Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Wanda Maximoff x F!Reader Square: @ladiesofmarvelbingo​​ - N1

Word Count:  962

Rating: G

Warnings:  Canon typical violence

Synopsis:  When HYDRA tries to take Wanda and her children in the middle of the night, she shows them exactly what happens when you threaten her home.

Her Home

It was the sound that woke Wanda first.  She slept lightly these days.  It was hard to get into a deep sleep since the bombing that had killed her parents and left her trapped with their decaying bodies under a pile of rubble for a week.  Even if she didn't dream about it, she was prone to startle at any loud noise.  Being in the Avengers had really only nurtured that in her.  She had learned to be ready to fight at the drop of a hat and what sounds were just sounds and what were things to worry about.

The low thrumming sound that was barely audible but more something she could feel right in the base of her skull was definitely one of those danger-sounds.  She slipped out of bed carefully.  The sound hadn’t woken you yet.  You hadn’t had the same experiences in life as she had, and you weren’t as keyed into those small changes in the environment.  She didn’t want to wake you.  Besides, she knew who she was.  She could handle this without any help.

She slipped on a robe and padded down the hall, her eyes glowing brightly as she scanned the area.  The twins were sleeping soundly.  Thankfully whatever it was hadn’t woken them.  Though really she knew she didn’t have to worry about that.  Like most babies, once you got them down, they slept like the dead until their own hunger woke them up.

The cat was awake.  It stood at the door with its fur prickling.  “It’s okay, fuzz-butt,” she said gently, pushing him out of the way.  “I’ve got this.”

She stepped outside.  Right away she could feel the group of ten people surrounding her house.  She knew exactly where each one was.  And she also knew why they were here.  They were HYDRA agents sent to collect what they saw as their property and to grab her children too.

They had some kind of machine.  It was supposed to suppress her telepathy.  It did not.  It just gave her that niggling feeling and irritated her.  She closed the door and looked around, narrowing in where the sound was coming from.

“Wanda Maximoff,” a voice said coming from all sides.  It was loud and authoritative and the owner of the voice seemed to think she was under some kind of trance that would compel her to follow his instructions.  “We’ve come to take you home.”

Wanda threw up her hands and the pink light from her energy projection flared out. She flung it out, aiming towards the people who were threatening both her and her family.  “This is my home!”  She shouted.  She reached out with her telekinesis, pink light swirling through the area.  It wrapped around the device and raised it into the air.  “You come to my home!”  She twisted her wrist and the device exploded showering the people below.  “You try to hurt me!”  She swung her arm out flipping over the cars that belonged to her attackers.  “Hurt my family?!”  The group made a grave mistake and rather than scattering, closed ranks.  They opened fire on her.  She spun her hands, catching every single bullet they let go as she sent a soothing wave back into the house, keeping you and the twins asleep.  “You do not own me!”  She screamed and slammed everyone into the cars piled behind them.  She strode up to them, her eyes burning red.  She stood over her attackers as sirens sounded in the street.  “Tell your friends, if they attack me in my home again, they’ll wish they’d taken their cyanide pills before they left their houses.”  She flicked her wrist, tearing their false teeth out of the back of their jaws and letting them fall onto the pavement.

The police pulled up and got out of the cars with their guns raised.  “Ms. Maximoff?  What’s happening?”  A female officer asked, recognizing her immediately.

Not far behind them was Tony in his Iron Suit and finally, a Quin hovered over ahead and Steve jumped out of the open hatch, landing in front of her.

“Wanda?  What happened?”  Steve asked.

“HYDRA,” Wanda said.  “Thought they had something to suppress my powers.  They were going to take me and the twins.”

Steve looked over at the group, who were now being cuffed by the police under the supervision of Tony.  “That doesn’t sound good.  Maybe you should move the family into the compound again for a while.”

Wanda shook her head.  “I’m not going to let them drive me out.  I worked really hard for this.”

Steve rubbed her back.  “Alright.  Maybe we put a little more security on the building though.”

Wanda nodded.  “That sounds reasonable.”

Steve looked back at the house.  “Where’s your family?”

“Sleeping,” she said with a sly smile.  “Safe.”

“Go back to them,” Steve said.  “We’ll clean up here.”

“Thank you, Steve,” Wanda said and kissed his cheek.  “I’m glad that you have my back.”

She went back inside and stopped pushing the need to sleep.  The twins stirred almost immediately and she went to them, changing their diapers and feeding them before singing them back off to sleep.

She used the bathroom and climbed back into bed.  You stirred and rolled over wrapping your arms back around her.  She snuggled into your embrace, nuzzling into your neck.  “Did the babies wake?”  You mumbled.

“Mm… it’s okay.  You can get the next one.”  She said, closing her eyes and listening to the sound of your heart.

You hummed and pressed your lips to the top of her head.  “I love you so much.”  You mumbled.

“I love you too.”  She whispered.  You were already asleep again by the time she finished speaking.  “Sleep soundly.  I’ll make sure nothing will ever happen to you.”

[snarkybluechristian]

Hazbin Hotel: Yandere Alastor x Vaggie Chapter 47

After a long day of therapy with only breaks to use the bathroom or eat and a break before lunch to work out on a cycling machine, Angel finally was allowed to go to bed.

Angel had spent the whole day pretending to watch porn.  Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been considered a good day, but since Angel had spent the whole day thinking, he was relieved to finally get to rest his brain.

Of course, Doctor Red was there to make sure Angel complied to all his rules, including what he had to wear to bed.

Just as before, Angel complied to all the rules.  Once he had brushed his teeth, dressed in his white undershirt and gray boxers, taken a sleeping pill, and used the bathroom a final time, Angel let the gargoyle demon to strap him to his bed, cover him with heavy blankets to keep him warm in the cold room, and pull up a stool next to his bed so that he could brainwash him with a final bedtime story.

Angel felt exhausted and beyond humiliated.  All day and all evening, Doctor Red had been infantilizing him in every way imaginable as a “way to make up for the attention his father never gave him.”

The spider demon had complied the best he could, but the effort it took for him to hold his tongue and keep a straight face while he planned was draining, even with the medicine inside him to keep him calm.

It was Angel could do to keep a straight face while Doctor Red read him his disturbing anti-gay propaganda.

“And the gay witch burned at the stake and all her victims lived happily ever after,” Dr. Red read, before dramatically closing his book.  “The End!”

Angel let out pretend moan of pain to gain the doctor’s sympathy.

“Oh, Anthony, what’s the matter?  Why so blue?” Dr. Red said, gently rubbing his stony fingers through Angel’s hair.  “You won’t be burned at the stake.  You’re going to be straight in no time.  You’ll see.”

Angel merely replied with another fake moan.

“Just have faith, my good boy,” Dr. Red replied just as he looked down at his watch.  “Oh, it’s getting late.  It’s almost 8:30.  It’s time for me to eat dinner with your father and time for you to go to sleep.”

The gargoyle smiled, ruffling Angel’s hair a final time before picking up his stool and carrying it out of the room.

Angel remained still and expertly maintained his catatonic expression.

“Alright, Anthony,” Dr. Red said as he pulled the blankets more evenly over Angel’s restrained body.  “Your sleeping pill should take effect in an hour.  Sleep tight.  I’ll be back for you in the morning…”

Kiss.

Dr. Red kissed Angel on his forehead.  It felt like he was a toddler getting tucked into bed.

Angel was so surprised he almost lost his composure, but the gargoyle made his way back to the door and turned out the light without missing a beat.

“Goodnight, Anthony,” Dr. Red said softly with his ruby eyes sparkling to reflect the light outside the room.  “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Goodnight, doctor,” Angel replied as emotionlessly as he could muster.

The good doctor shut the bedroom door, made his way up the stone stairs, and exited the basement.

No sooner had Dr. Red left the basement than did Angel unleash his third pair of arms and vigorously wipe the kiss away.

Angel sighed and laid back on the bed, basking in the irony.  He was rejecting kisses from men.  Maybe he was becoming straight after all.

Angel breathed another deep sigh and settled back under his covers to enjoy a long night of sleep.

He relaxed that way for a few minutes until the air conditioner shut off.

Then Angel heard a familiar voice echoing through the vent, “You call this shit food?!  Why don’t ya let me outta here so I can really give ya something to feast on…Oh, yeah?!  If ya fuckin’ hurt Angel, I’m gonna come after ya after I finish off Sir Pentious tomorrow!”

Angel knew that sassy voice anywhere.

“Cherri!” Angel practically screamed.

In less than a minute, Angel loosened all his straps and ran over to the vent grating.

“Cherri!” Angel called through the vent with a smile of relief.  “Cherri, are you there?!”

“Angie?!” Cherri asked from the other side of the vent.  “Angie, is that you?!”

“Yeah,” Angel said with a sigh of relief.  “Thank God!  I thought they would have sent ya back to Sir Pentious already.”

“That ain’t happenin’ till tomorrow,” Cherri replied.  “I’ve been here since last night.  But never mind me, how are you?!  Are you okay?!  I thought I heard ya screamin’ earlier.  What have they done to ya?”

“They gave me electroshock therapy earlier when I was putting up a fight, but besides that, not too much,” Angel said with a slight chuckle.  “They gave me drugs and made me watch porn after that.  Then, after he strapped me into bed, Doctor Red read me a bizarre homophobic bedtime story.  They’re doing everything they can to turn me straight.

“Holy fuck, Angel,” Cherri replied anxiously.  “How can you be so calm about this?  They’re really tryin’ to mess you up.”

“Blame the anti-anxiety medication Doctor Red made me take,” Angel replied.  “What has been happening with you?  My Dad and brother told me what happened between you guys, Charlie, Alastor, and them, but they wouldn’t tell me what happened after that.”  

“After your Dad dropped off Alastor and Vaggie at his mansion, he drove to Molly’s apartment and forced her out of the car.  She was furious.  The poor thing tried to chase down the car, but your Dad drove like a bat out of hell and lost her pretty easily,” Cherri explained.  “I would have helped, but I was restrained with a straitjacket and your unconscious body…”

“Sorry about that,” Angel interrupted.

“No problem,” Cherri replied before continuing.  “Your family brought me here, removed the straitjacket, and shoved me in this stupid room with its stupid bombproof doors, windows, and walls.  They’ve kept me here all day and have only entered the room to give me plates of food and water bottles at gunpoint.  Apparently, Sir Pentious isn’t going to be ready for me until tomorrow.”

“Goddammit, Cherri,” Angel said with angry tears at the corner of his eyes.  “I’m so sorry.”

“It ain’t your fault, Angie,” Cherri said sarcastically.  “Besides keeping me locked in an empty guest room with only a mattress on the floor and giving me plates of food and water bottles at gunpoint, they’ve been pretty nice to me.  Except for your brother.  He offered me freedom in exchange for certain favors.”

Angel busted out laughing and replied, “My libido-less brother tried to get you to sleep with him?!”

“I swear to God.  I’m being completely serious, Angie,” Cherri said with a chuckle.  “After they tossed me in here, your brother showed up around an hour later wearing heavy cologne and holding a bottle of champagne and asked me if I’d like to spend some time with him in exchange for freedom…”

“And?” Angel asked curiously.

“I threw a smoke bomb in his face,” Cherri said with a proud smirk in her voice.  “That got him out of my hair really quick.”

Angel chuckled out loud and said, “That little shit.  I’m so sorry, Cher.”

“Don’t be, dude,” Cherri said reassuringly.  “This room ain’t all bad.  It has a bathroom with magazines in it.  I got to have a bath and wash my underwear and sock.  Your Dad said this was a guest room they had renovated and hadn’t moved the furniture into yet, but that is bullshit.  What kind of guestroom has bombproof walls, windows, and doors?”

“You’d be surprised with our line of work,” Angel replied.  “But besides that, they’ve been treating you well?”

“Yeah, but never mind about me, Angie,” Cherri said, her tone shifting back to serious.  “What about you?  They’ve been trying to brainwash you all day to turn you straight!  Jesus, man, that is really fucked up!”

“Yep, my therapist Doctor Red is a real piece of work, too,” Angel said.  “God sent him to Hell for for doing this shit to other people and he thinks it was because he failed to convert anyone.  He's gullible as hell though.”

“What do ya mean by that?” Cherri asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Angel explained.  “Doctor Red thinks he can fix me, and I’m just playing him into my hands.”

“I gotcha,” Cherri replied.

“The plan was to have a meal with my father and brother before they went to Alastor’s wedding if I behave for the week,” Angel explained.  “Then, when the end of the week comes, I take the opportunity to bust outta here and run to the wedding to save Vaggie.  That was the plan anyway.  Now, I gotta help you.”

“Aw, you don’t need to worry about me, Angie,” Cherri said.  “I can break out of Edgelord’s place easily.”

“Cherri, I ain’t leaving you with Sir Pentious,” Angel protested.

“Angie, you don’t need to worry about…” Cherri tried to protest back.

Angel quickly cut her off, “Cherri, listen to me!  Sir Pentious is an over-ambitious, incompetent simp, but you and I both know he is still strong enough, smart enough, and dangerous enough to be a threat to you and most other demons.  If Sir Pentious didn’t take you right away, that means he is setting up something special to deal with ya.  You couldn’t take him on alone before and I doubt you’d be able to this time.  I am not letting that happen and that’s final.”

Cherri sighed loudly and said, “I know there’s no changing your mind, ya overprotective nut, but what are we gonna do?  Sir Pentious will be here to take me tomorrow, you’re gonna be tortured in the basement, and I’ll have to fight a legion of your family members alone.  I don’t even have a hope of breaking out of here before then with this fucking bombproof room.  God, I should have just said yes to your brother.  If your Dad thought we were a couple, I would have been allowed to stay.”

A lightbulb went off in Angel’s head.

“That’s it,” Angel said.

“What?” Cherri asked.  “What’s your plan, Angie?”

Angel sighed deeply and said, “I know you ain’t gonna like this, but how about we get married?”

“What?!” Cherri asked incredulously.

“Hear me out,” Angel explained.  “If I pretend that I’m madly in love with ya, Dr. Red and my family will be inclined to keep you around to spend time with me to aid in turning me straight.  Then when I’m finally let outta here to spend time with my family, they’ll let you out, too.  Understand?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Cherri said with a smile in her voice.

“All you gotta do is pretend to like me back,” Angel added.  “Do you think you can do that?”

“Ugh,” Cherri groaned.  “You’re like my older brother.  This is gonna be so weird.”

“Cherri…” Angel pleaded.

“Alright,” Cherri agreed with another groan.  “I ain’t no actor like you are, but I’ll try my best.”

“Just follow my lead, baby girl…” Angel said just as a sudden noise got his attention.

It was the sound of the cellar door opening.

“Shit,” Angel muttered to himself.

“Angie, what’s the matter?” Cherri asked in concern.

“The doc’s back, gotta go!” Angel replied in a rush.

Without waiting for a reply, Angel quickly hopped back into his bed and reshackled himself.  He then made his third pair of arms disappear and shut his eyes.

Thankfully, the doctor reached the bottom of the stairs without taking any notice of any noise.

As soon as Dr. Red walked past his door, Angel tossed and turned as loudly as he could while keeping his eyes shut and began calling Cherri’s name.

“Cherri!” Angel called out while dramatically tossing himself to one side of the bed and then the other.  “Cherri!”

Angel heard Doctor Red opening the door to his room and asking himself, “What in the world is this?”

Angel smiled internally and kept up his performance.

“Cherri!  Cherri!  Cherri!  Cherri!  Cherri!”

Angel kept his eyes shut and continued calling Cherri’s name repeatedly while Doctor Red took notes on his note pad.

“Interesting,” Doctor Red muttered in a pleased tone.

Suddenly, another voice called out from the top of the stairs.

“Hey, doc!” Arackniss’s voice called.  “Have you found your notes yet?  The Don’s waiting for ya!  What’s goin’ on?”

“An interesting development,” Dr. Red said gleefully.  “You must come and see!”

Angel didn’t hear a response over his own cries, but he heard his brother walk down the stone stairs.

“What’s going on?” Arackniss asked.  “What’s Anthony doing?”

“He’s calling a woman’s name in his sleep,” Dr. Red said excitedly.  “Please observe.”

The pair were silent while Angel continued pretending to sleep and call Cherri’s name.

Arackniss scoffed and said, “Oh, he’s calling for his gal pal, Cherri Bomb.”

“Cherri Bomb?” Dr. Red asked.  “Oh, right!  The kingpin who tried to help Anthony and Alastor’s fiancée run away.”

At this point, Angel ceased yelling Cherri’s name and pretended to settle back down so that he could listen to the conversation.

“The very one,” Arackniss replied.  “She’s locked in the guest room on the first floor.  We’re selling her to her rival Sir Pentious tomorrow in exchange for weapons.  Anthony hasn’t seen her since that night, so he’s probably just worried about her.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Red said writing more notes in his notebook.  “Have they known each other long?”

“Anthony’s helped her with her turf wars for about 40 years from what I’ve gathered,” Arackniss said.  “From what I’ve heard, they’re pretty close.”

“Interesting,” Dr. Red said.  “40 years is more than long enough to develop a romantic attraction.  It seems that the treatment is working faster than we thought.  My scientific opinion is that Anthony is developing a longing for this demoness.”

Arackniss snickered under his breath and said, “After only a day of therapy?  There’s no way.  She and Anthony are only friends.”

“Don’t be so sure, Arackniss,” Dr. Red said confidently.  “Perhaps your brother and Cherri were only friends, but I’ve found that often in pursuing homosexual relations a patient might be suppressing desire for a heterosexual partner.  Now that we’re pushing away the homosexual attractions, the suppressed attraction to his female friend.  Oh, this is so exciting.  I must get this demoness involved in the therapy.”

“How do ya plan on doing that?” Arackniss asked.

“Gradually, of course,” Dr. Red replied.  “We mustn’t throw Anthony into it.  We must ease him into the heterosexual relationship like a glove.”

“I still don’t know about your theory but easing Anthony into a heterosexual doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Arackniss said, making a puffing noise that let Angel know that he was puffing on a cigarette.  “So, what do we do first?”

“First, we must discuss this with your father,” Dr. Red replied.

Arackniss and Dr. Red then shut the door and headed upstairs.  Angel waited until the moment he heard them both shut the door to the basement before he unstrapped himself and dashed back to the vent.

Angel reached the vent and said, “Cherri?!”

“Angie?!  What happened?!” Cherri replied concernedly.

“Dr. Red came down to retrieve his notes, so I started crying out your name,” Angel said with a smirk.  “He came in to watch me, called my brother down, and now, they’re going to talk to my Dad to get you integrated into my therapy.”

“Hot damn, Angel Dust,” Cherri Bomb said with a proud scoff.  “How’d you pull it off?”

“Thank my 50 years of acting, sugar tits,” Angel bragged.  “Dr. Red is now convinced that you’re my repressed crush.  My brother ain’t convinced, but it doesn’t matter.  Either way, you ain’t going nowhere.”

“Holy shit,” Cherri said.  “You never cease to amaze me, Angel.  I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it, Cher,” Angel said.  “Now, we just gotta act our way out of here.”

“Oh, God,” Cherri said in a sudden panic.

“What’s the matter?” Angel asked.

“Do you think they’ll make us have sex while they watch?” Cherri asked.

Angel paused for a moment and said, “Oh, God.  I didn’t think of that.”

Just then, Cherri heard some hands fiddling with the locks outside her door.

“Angie, they’re here, talk to ya later,” Cherri muttered out in a hurry before she zipped back to her mattress and curled up into a fetal position, pretending to be asleep.

Arackniss pushed open the door, and Dr. Red flicked on the lights and entered the room.

“Doc, what are you doing?  You’re gonna wake her up,” Arackniss protested in a whisper.  “We put her in the bombproof room for a reason, you know.”

Dr. Red ignored Arackniss and continued to look around the room and grimace at the conditions.

“Doc,” Arackniss whispered again.

“I heard you the first time, Arackniss,” Dr. Red said.  “I know very well what Miss Cherri Bomb is capable of.  I do not intend to wake her.  I only intend to make observations...”

Dr. Red took a moment to look at Cherri and continued, “Cherri Bomb is a scrawny little thing, but she is pretty.  She looks cold and hungry though.  You must improve these conditions.  A man who falls in love must be comfortable.”

Arackniss sighed out his cigarette smoke and said, “I suppose we can add some blankets in here.”

“That’s not enough, Arackniss,” Dr. Red chided.  “You need to furnish the room, give her proper beauty products, give her books to read, and clothes to change into.  You need to feed her better as well.  Women are delicate creatures, Arackniss.  You need to take care of them.”

“If you’re sure,” Arackniss replied skeptically.

“Of course, I’m sure,” Dr. Red retorted.  “I used to give courting advice, you know.  Now, we must go speak to your father, but for tonight, fetch Miss Cherri Bomb some blankets to put her in a more pleased mood.”

Arackniss grumbled, “Very well.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Dr. Red asked.  “Hop to it.”

“Hey,” Arackniss protested.  “Watch your tone, doc.  We’re employing you.”

“And your father told you to do whatever I asked,” Dr. Red quipped.  “Now, go.”

Arackniss silently stewed for a moment before he rolled his eyes and left the room to find the blankets.

While Arackniss was looking for the blankets, Dr. Red sat down on the mattress next to Cherri’s sleeping form.  Cherri felt him sit down next to her, but she managed to maintain her relaxed composure.

That was until Dr. Red started stroking her hip.

Cherri made a yelp of dislike and twitched her leg away.

“Oh, dear,” Dr. Red said apologetically taking his hand away.  “I’m so sorry, love.  I didn’t mean to wake you.  Go back to sleep.”

Cherri turned over to the side of the mattress facing away from the doctor and pretended to try to go back to sleep.

Fortunately, just then, Arackniss entered the room with a stack of blankets and a pillow.

“I’m back,” Arackniss announced.

“Good,” Dr. Red replied taking the pillow out of his hands.  “Now, let’s get her more comfortable.”

Dr. Red gently lifted Cherri’s head and placed a pillow under it while Arackniss covered her body with the blankets.

Once the blankets covered her form, Cherri pretended to relax in her pretend sleep.

As Dr. Red shut out the lights and left the room, he said, “She’s a good one.  I can tell.  Miss Cherri Bomb is extremely sensitive to the touch of a man.”

Arackniss groaned jealously as he left the room and shut and locked the door behind him.

Once she was sure they had gone, Cherri zipped back to the vent to explain what had happened to an anxiously waiting Angel.

The pair shared a few laughs and discussed some more details of their plan before they finally parted for the night and went to sleep.

[cloudbattrolls]

The Tithe

TW: bugs, worms, mild body horror (nothing heavily described).

Wasps buzzed along the winding rock path.

A solitary figure trudged along it, surrounded on both sides by thick clouds of yellow and black. The insects darted among the yarrow and monkshood, the bluebells and sego lilies, antennae and eyes alert as a stranger to their land passed by.

Nestled in a valley between two peaks, the path led to a town so old it was almost part of the land itself. All its signs were weathered and worn with sun and rain, replaced only when they began to crumble.

The traveler paid the fluttering wasps no mind. They didn’t see the few white ones hidden among the yellow, black, and gold. The white ones saw them instead, faceted gazes following them without pause. These few creatures waited, buzzing among the flowers that braved the growing alpine chill.

The traveler looked over the town before they walked down into it - even the buildings were shaped like wasp nests, roundish wooden structures with hexagonal windows. 

Someone certainly had picked a theme and run with it. Maybe the place belonged to some wacky entomologist. 

People in the town spoke with accents the traveler hadn’t ever heard, and they had traveled quite a while. The townsfolk said it was because few of them ever left. They never felt the need; they were well taken care of, anything they could want brought to them.

By who? The traveler asked.

The people only smiled. Stay, and you’ll meet her, they assured them.

Golden wasps adorned the doors, gleaming under the light of old-fashioned street lamps. The traveler didn’t ask, hoping to figure it out themself. It was more fun that way. Perhaps this caretaker kept the living ones to defend the place from the rest of the world.

Everyone in town always seemed to have as much food and comforts as they wanted, lacking for very little. Everyone seemed to have someone for company, and as much as they needed without excess. No trash blew in the wind, no houses were abandoned. 

Everyone wouldn’t answer any further questions about their caretaker. It was waved away with a smile, with an indifferent shrug. She’d come eventually. End of the month at the latest. No rush.

The traveler was pretty sure something really weird was going on by this point, because they weren’t a complete idiot. 

They also felt bad after discreetly drinking blood from a lot of these people (it wasn’t like there was anyone else for miles, and they preferred that to going feral from hunger, thanks). It would be nice to maybe see if there was anything they could do in return for using them as snacks (assuming they weren’t all in some kind of evil bug cult).

If everyone turned out to be too cuckoo to bother with, well, they could always leave.

So, what do you folks most enjoy?

They’d asked one night, feet up on the table. They leaned back in their chair, arms bent and hands cupped behind their head.

Getting piss drunk, one man had said. Another person elbowed him, and a few people laughed. Then a young woman piped up, fingers running over a beautiful amber necklace she wore.

It’s always nice after the tithe. We celebrate, and she brings us presents. It’s a little festival.

A few older townsfolk sighed at that.

It’s not about presents! One scolded. Yes, she’s very kind about it, but it’s our most important duty. 

Yeah, yeah, grumbled the young woman good-naturedly. You see how righteous you are when she brings your new stuff.

Their ears pricked, the traveler said nothing, hoping to hear more about the tithe. But no one spoke of it further, the conversation turning to other things.

Well, that didn’t bode well, yet they were morbidly curious to see how this would all play out. 

There was a big fountain in the center of town (guess what lived there? More wasps) that they liked to sit on the benches near and work on repairing or designing clothing at. They’d mended some things for the people who kindly let them stay, baffling in of itself that they were so trusting. How did they survive, honestly.

When a fleet recruiter came to town trying to drum up soldiers and did not even get to open his mouth a second time before wasps ate him alive, shedding a bit of light on that particular question.

The bones were picked clean so white there wasn’t a scrap of meat left, collected by townspeople who acted as if they were merely picking up some trash blown in the wind. Townspeople who merely shrugged and rolled their eyes as if it was all quite routine. 

Which left the traveler with a fairly obvious question: why hadn’t they been attacked?

Not that they could bleed, of course, their skin and outer appearance a facade for their parasitic insides. Did the predatory wasps recognize something they couldn’t eat, and thus let them pass? Were they intelligent enough to be security guards? They certainly didn’t seem to harm the locals.

Though they certainly followed them everywhere. No one walked without a wasp or two trailing them, and they’d seen them crawling in the buildings. No one ever commented on this. Flowers grew in abundance, treated reverently, and people polished their little door wasps as reverently as if they were being paid to do it. 

Okay, so the town was there to serve the wasps, probably. But why? Who put them here, what were they protecting? Was there something worse than them around, demanding some sort of tribute for their services in the form of this ‘tithe’? That’d be depressing. On the upside, the ensuing fight would be fun and guilt-free.

It was a cool, brisk night with the starlight sparkling off the fountain stone when the whole town gathered around it.

Only the stone. The water had been drained.

The traveler was really not looking forward to what that meant or why everyone was holding a small knife engraved with a wasp in their hands, looking eager.

Hey, so, what happens for the tithe? They said, trying to sound casual and like they didn’t have a loaded gun, smoke bombs, and explosives hidden in case they needed them.

You’ll see. It’s such a small thing, really, our way to give back to her.

Her. Doesn’t she have a name?

She’ll introduce herself when she comes. She’s very nice. 

The traveler was placing their bets on just who and what she was when people started slitting their arms and bleeding into the fountain, blithely lining up and walking away when done, chattering about nothing in the meantime.

One by one by one.

One by one by one.

Even as a parasitic blood drinker, the traveler was alarmed as the fountain filled with drops from obediently slit veins, bandaged up afterward by those who had already gone, or were waiting. 

Why did they do this willingly? What could possibly make this worth it?

It had to be another vampire; they hissed in anger at the thought. Definitely worth fighting, at least. If they could kill them, even better - one less was better for everyone, and this one was clearly far worse than they were.

This tempting smell was almost overwhelming despite their own feeds -

Oh god. Had they weakened their victims too much to bear the cost of the tithe? Out to lunch as these people might be, the traveler didn’t want them dead. They’d probably been brainwashed their whole lives.

One fell over and was caught by their fellows. Another fell as well. A third.

The traveler felt a tug of guilt at their writhing insides, no matter how useless and contradictory that feeling was. There was no changing what they were, and they’d had no idea this was coming.

The blood in the fountain steadily rose, lapping and staining the fountain’s edges, and a hot wind cut through the cold air.

A low buzzing surrounded the gathering as the last local made their cut.

Everyone fell silent, and every person that could turned and bowed.

The traveler crossed their arms, annoyed.

A woman stepped up to the edge of the crowd, who parted for her like water, moving back from the stranger in their midst so that they stood alone. She wore an old scuffed hat in the style of a cowherd. Her long legs were half-covered by boots with silver spurs, a poncho over her shoulders and dust on her worn jeans. 

Her eyes were covered by a faded tan bandanna, but she seemed to stare straight at them as she put her hands on her hips.

“I see you’ve been swipin’ at my supply, sugar cube. That’s just plum rude. How would you feel if I did that to you?”

They threw a smoke bomb at her and went for her throat. If they could just -

Wasps covered them mid-leap, stingers poised around every inch of their body, a great buzzing prison surrounding everything but their face.

The woman waved her hand, and more wasps came to fan the smoke away with their wings.

“I don’t need to see you, honey. I can feel you. I’ve felt you since you rolled in here, and I know something ain’t right. Something’s different about you, even for your kind.”

The traveler snarled, as they'd about had it with all this idiocy.

“Face me like an adult and stop hiding behind your pets.”

The smoke fully cleared, and the woman stood with hands on her hips, smiling.

She opened her mouth and white wasps poured out.

The traveler stared.

“No.” They whispered. “No. It can’t be.”

All throughout the shell of their body, their own white worms shuddered. They had always thought - always hoped - they were the only one of their particular type of blood drinker. The only thing of such wretchedness in the entire world. 

Bugger to that, apparently. 

They watched, immobilized, as the woman’s swarm flew to the blood-filled fountain, drinking much of it, but not all. After they went back into the woman, townspeople came and collected the rest, reverently placing it in refrigerated coolers.

The traveler looked at their fellow monster.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Rhyssa. Now who are you?”

“Tuuya.”

“Well, Tuuya, how’re you gonna pay me back for that blood you nabbed? Don’t be a pill, we can still settle this proper like gentlefolk. Hell, I’ll even let you stay for the festival! It don’t gotta be like this.”

The vampire stared, still suspended by the buzzing swarm. 

“How are you going to pay these people back for deceiving them into being your willing smoothies for their entire lives? I don’t owe you anything.”

Her face twisted into a scowl.

“Y’don’t get it. I take care of them. They’re my people, I protect them, Protect them from the likes of you.”

They rolled their eyes.

“Oh, how absolutely genial of you to - ”

All their limbs were ripped from their body at once and they screamed, worms flailing as they were exposed to the air without warning and stung by the pitiless insects. The squirming white invertebrates died by the dozens, helpless against the scourge. 

Then it stopped.

Nearly blind from pain, they looked up blearily to see Rhyssa putting her hands over her mouth, rigid in what they could only assume was shock.

“I’m - I’m so sorry - no, no, how can this - no, you’ve gotta be a fake - ”

Tuuya wasn’t in a state to do much more than groan.

The wasp drinker pulled on her long hair in agitation, walking up to them and kneeling down on the grass.

She whispered a word, a name they barely heard as their worms struggled to repair themselves from the onslaught. Hlayos. Who or what was that? It probably didn’t matter. They were going to die here, to some obnoxious wasp woman who didn’t have the right.

Then...they felt themself healing. The wasps crawled over their body, somehow mending the worms they’d stung, helping them regrow or fuse back together.

They saw more wasps healing those townsfolk who’d fallen from blood loss and injured themselves, but that didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be. They had to be hallucinating from pain. Parasites couldn’t mend. Theirs couldn’t.

The townsfolk retreated, taking the coolers of blood with them. The yellow and black wasps departed as well, none left buzzing around the fountain. 

Its water began to flow again, washing away the stains. In the deep quiet broken only by the trickle of liquid, it was as if nothing had happened at all. 

The worm drinker couldn’t see the woman’s eyes behind the bandanna, but her shoulders shook as she held herself, rocking gently.

“It’s you. It’s really you...except...no. You died.”

Her words were empty nonsense. Tuuya waited until they healed further, their limbs re-attached as worms knitted together, and they pushed themself up.

They couldn’t fight her. They knew they had been spared for some reason beyond their comprehension, and didn’t feel like pushing it. Something about being ripped apart and stung repeatedly made a person a little tender. 

Rhyssa’s head tilted, seeming to look up at the other vampire.

“Don’t go.”

A quiet, desperate plea. Tuuya turned, ignoring it, walking away quickly before breaking into a run.

“Don’t go!”

A desperate cry, followed by a word they fled from, a word that spurred their strides into leaps, scrambling away in such desperation they nearly fell on the rocky path leading out of town and back down, as far away as they could get.

A single, terrifying word that couldn’t be true, but settled in their head and wouldn’t leave. It sunk into their every thought, dragging them down, tearing apart the truth of their life. 

A word that must have been what saved them, yet damned them in the same breath.

Sibling.

[ma-sulevin]

We’re finally done! It’s officially the last chapter! 

I want to thank everyone for supporting me through my first attempt at writing in the FC5 fandom. I don’t know why I decided to start with a novel-length AU idea, but I did, and it’s done, and I’m so happy I did it. 

I want to extend an extra-special thanks to @chyrstis​ who has commented on and shared every single chapter. Your comments gave me LIFE through this whole process.

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw/Female Deputy Rating: E Warnings: Canon-typical violence, but nothing particularly explicit I don’t think Word Count: 4338, chapter sixteen of sixteen!

Read it on AO3 instead and say nice things.

---

The official diagnosis, six weeks later, after the National Guard and the feds and the EPA and the fuckin’ news crews have come and gone, is mass drug-induced hallucination. 

That’s it.

That’s the whole reason.

Mattie knows there’s more to it, knows there was something special behind it all. She’s the only one who remembers so much, the only one who can clearly describe how it feels to drown or be strangled to death, the only one who spent so much time listening to the black white black and the Voice.

She’s the only one who heard the voice except for Joseph, and he never fucking shuts up about it, even from the relative safety of his prison cell in Missoula, and so she’s never ever ever going to fucking bring it up.

Not to Staci, who smiles and teases her with just a little less energy than before, acting like he doesn’t remember the details of what happened to him in Jacob’s compound, but affected by it all the same.

Not to Joey, who smiles less often, who still curses every time someone brings up a Seed, who says it’s a damn good thing the National Guard showed up when they did or she would’ve hunted John down herself.

Not to Whitehorse, who is the quietest of them, whose sole moment of lost temper was immediately on returning to the station when he grabbed Nancy by the arm and threw her out into the parking lot, who has started offering Mattie hugs and pats on the back when it looks like she needs them (basically all the time).

Certainly not to Burke, who left without sleeping the next day, who she hasn’t seen since.

And absolutely not to the state therapist who brought two big suitcases and moved into the Hot Springs Hotel, only to have to drive into Falls End every day because no one would go into the Henbane yet.

She’s not trying to get involuntarily committed.

If she’s going to be committed, it’ll be on her own terms, and only when she needs it.

And she doesn’t need it, not yet.

She’s seen as something of a hero around the county, receiving free drinks from Mary May and free food from everyone else. People stop her to say thank you, and Boomer always runs up to jump on her if he happens to be nearby with Rae Rae.

That slows down too, as the days pass and things go back to normal, and only the people most involved in her fight against the Seeds look like they’re thinking about her bleeding for them when they look at her.

She starts looking at property listings online.

It’s not like she’s ever going to get fired now.

It takes the full six weeks — two weeks of paid leave, four weeks of being back on the job — for Jude to show up at the station. He has coffees for everyone and a look of grim determination on his face.

Staci sends a furtive look at Whitehorse, who feigns disinterest, and then accepts the coffees with a quick peck on the lips, and then Mattie hands Joey five dollars because she thought it would take longer.

(Mattie wins the five dollars back from Staci later when he owes her for Mary Mary bringing Joey lunch.)

She takes to visiting Jerome after services on Sundays, not quite ready to start going to church again, but craving the kind of spiritual guidance he gives so easily without making her feel like she’s going to hell no matter what.

She visits the Ryes, takes them baby gifts, receives hugs from them both, listens to Kim complain about how she was technically pregnant an extra two months until the memories start to fade and then are erased by Carmina’s abrupt appearance into the world.

She visits Grace, visits Jess, drives up to look at the abandoned Veteran’s Center, with its inhabitants arrested and its weapons cache seized, and thinks if she burned it to the ground, no one would turn her in for it.

Every night she goes back to her apartment, every night she goes home and puts a little food out for the stray cat and thinks about taking one of the sleeping pills her therapist recommended and gets in bed without opening the bottle, every night she curls around her pillow and she cries.

If the bombs had fallen that night she was with Sharky, before she snuck out without saying goodbye, if they had fallen first thing that morning before the sun came up… she would still be with him. They’d be together, in his bunker, alone but together, probably high as fuck and burning through their condom supply.

The world would be over, but they would be happy.

It’s selfish.

It’s so selfish.

But she misses it.

She misses him.

The therapist makes it eight weeks in Hope County before she packs up and goes back to Missoula. She leaves a recommendation for a virtual office, and Mattie puts the card next to her unused pills, but she thinks she overhears Staci telling Jude he’s going to set up regular appointments.

She gets Joey’s tattoo artist’s information from her and starts to look at phoenix tattoos on Pinterest, the blank space of her left forearm mocking her without its tally marks.

Mattie makes it nine weeks before she breaks under the strain. She makes it through nine weeks of emptiness, of loneliness, of the crushing feeling of how any moment could be her last.

Is this how she lived before? Was she ever so aware of her own mortality, or did she go through life acting like she was fucking invincible until the fact of it was actually shoved in her face?

She wakes up with the sun on her day off. She showers. She shaves. She conditions and blow dries and styles. She puts on a dress and grabs a sweater.

And she drives to the Henbane, up the hill, and to Sharky’s trailer.

He’s standing outside when she parks her car, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and a bucket in one hand. He looks over at her from under the brim of his hat and dumps another handful of… something… on the ground, then holds the bucket in front of him with both arms wrapped around it.

“You said you wasn’t gonna arrest me for any of that shit I did!”

Mattie freezes in place, halfway across to him, and just stares.

He stares back.

“Does it look like I’m on duty?” Her voice come out higher-pitched than she means it, incredulous and not sure if she should start laughing or not. “Does Joey ever show up like this to drag you to the station?” She kicks one foot out to the side to emphasize the skirt she’s wearing, and his gaze immediately drops to the bare expanse of legs he can see.

“Uhh--”

“What are you even doing right now? What is that?”

“Uhh.” He looks down into the bucket, movements a little slow like he doesn’t want to look away from her skin, then he stares like he forgot the question. When he looks back up, she can tell his eyebrows are drawn tight together. “Sawdust.”

“Sawdust?”

“For the gasoline spills? I’m tryna… clean the place up a bit?”

They stare at each other as silence falls again. It stretches until it’s uncomfortable, and then it snaps.

Mattie bursts into tears. Not little ones, not anything cute or delicate, but big, ugly sobs that wrack her whole body and make her start to curl in on herself as she starts to shake. Her voice rises in an involuntary wail that she tries to muffle with her hands, but she can’t quiet it any more than she can stop it.

The tears overwhelm her, and so does Sharky.

There’s a dull thump of the bucket hitting the ground and then he’s in her space a half second later, his arms around her and one hand cupping the back of her head to pull her close. She presses into him, head tucked under his chin, and grabs the soft material of his hoodie for dear life.

The sharp smell of kerosene lingering deep in the fabric makes her cry harder at first as half-foggy memories burst into full clarity in her mind.

Climbing into his lap to sleep in John’s ranch, high and bruised and happy.

Kissing him for the first time behind the Spread Eagle after he arranged a private place for her to relax after rescuing Joey.

Drinking with him up at the PIN-K0 radar station and resting against him as he joked with Hurk.

Falling into his arms after she escaped from Jacob, shoulder dislocated, starving and sick. Healing and growing stronger, tucked safe against him, under him.

Feeling happy and safe and loved and protected with him.

Feeling home. 

She doesn’t realize Sharky’s murmuring to her until her sobs have calmed into tiny gasping breaths and her tears have dried on the faded words of his hoodie, she doesn’t realize he’s whispering that it’s okay and he has her and she’s safe until after her body has already realized it.

She’s safe.

“You’re okay, shorty, I got you,” he says, voice barely audible with his face buried like it is in her hair. “Fuck, I missed you. Please stop crying.”

She lifts her chin so her nose is pressed against his throat. “I’m sorry.”

He draws in a shaky breath and holds her tighter until he exhales. “What for?”

“Waiting so long to come back home.”

His hands are shaking harder than she’s ever seen them as he pulls away enough to cup her face. He stares down at her, studying her, and she lets him just hold her like that even as he blinks his own tears out of his eyes.

“Dep, do you… are you saying you still… love me?” His voice is shaky and wet, those beautiful blue eyes red around the rims. It sounds like he’s forcing the question out, like part of him is trying to keep it inside where the answer can’t hurt him, but the bigger part of him is too goddamn hopeful to not ask.

She squeezes him tighter as she speaks, the words somehow hard to get out even after everything they’ve been through together, even after finding him in her arms once again. “Yeah, baby. I still love you.”

He squeezes her tighter, almost tight enough to hurt even though this time she doesn’t have any lingering injuries to make the pain sharp, but he doesn’t pull away to kiss her or to look down at her.

He’s not ready to let her go.

“Okay, but, like--” he pauses to take a deep breath, and Mattie braces herself for an emotional stream of consciousness from Sharky. “I know you know, ‘cause I told you before, and also ‘cause you’re a cop, but, like, I’m on probation, and I got this rap sheet that’s a mile long, and not all of it should be on there but I can’t really help that now, and I know the sheriff don’t like me, and I don’t want you to get in trouble at your job--”

She’s heard enough. She wiggles out of his grasp and grabs his face in both her hands. He cuts off mid-sentence and stares at her with his mouth still open like the rest of his thoughts will come out the second she takes her hands off his skin. 

“Sharky, babe, you don’t -- I don’t care about that. I knew all that, and I love you, and I’m here, and we’ll figure out how to work it out, okay?” He nods. His mouth closes. “I want to at least try. I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t try.”

“Really?” His voice cracks, and Mattie’s self-restraint does too.

She pulls his face down to hers, and he goes willingly, leaning so far into her space that she finds herself leaning backwards, resting her weight in his arms. She throws her arms around his neck and holds on for dear life as his lips press to hers and his heart beats against her chest.

It feels just the same as she remembered. It’s warm and comforting, safe, and she can’t help but smile as his goatee scratches her chin. He still shivers when she tangles her fingers in his hair, and he still licks her lower lip after he nips it, and he still holds her as tight as he can.

Some things are new, different now that their circumstances have changed so much. He smells like his cheap shampoo instead of gasoline, and he tastes like cinnamon toothpaste instead of cigarettes or beer or coffee, and there’s no stench of bliss or lingering injuries or far-off gunfighting to ruin the moment.

It’s just like it was, but somehow… it’s better.

They break apart when their kisses begin to taste like salt, and Sharky wipes the tears from her cheeks, then he kisses her forehead.

“Oh, my god,” she breathes, eyes still squeezed shut. “I love you.”

He moves like he’s going to wrap her up in another hug, but he scoops her into his arms instead. She shrieks, considers lashing out, and then bursts into laughter instead.

He’s beaming at her when she wraps her arms around his neck for stability, then he starts carrying her up to his home.

“I love you, too, shorty. I’m glad you came back.”

He has to put her down on his porch to get the door to his trailer open, and she grabs his free hand as he does. It’s just like their first time together, when she held his hand to keep him from losing his nerve as they walked to the house he’d gotten ready for her, but this time, she’s just tugging him through to his bedroom as fast as possible.

He follows her, of course he does, laughing a little at her eagerness, and she winks at him over her shoulder.

He grabs for her as soon as they’re near the bed, wrapping his arms around her waist and letting one hand dip down to her ass to squeeze through the fabric. She smiles as she lets him pull her close, lifting up onto her toes so she can reach him better to accept his next kiss, this one a little harder than the one they shared outside, a little hungrier now that they’re definitely not going to be seen.

Why did she wait so long to come out here?

What was she trying to prove to herself?

Guilt creeps up on her, distracting her from the feel of his beard on her face and his tongue against hers, and then his hands pull her attention right back to him as they start to pull her skirt up so he can get his hands on her skin, still on her ass.

Sharky swallows the little noise of surprise she makes, moaning back at her as he squeezes and lifts and encourages her to lift one of her legs to wrap around his thigh.

“Oh, fuck, I missed you.” Sharky breaks their kiss because he can’t bear to be silent for another moment, and Mattie takes advantage of it by leaning closer and kissing the base of his throat. “Oh, my god. Do you know how many times I fuckin’ jerked it thinkin’ about you showing up here like you just did?”

She wiggles herself free of his grasp and pushes his chest so he sits down hard on his mattress. “That all you missed?”

She waits for his answer, trying to hide her smile, hands on her hips.

He blinks once, then grabs for her again, trying to pull her down into his lap. “No, fuck no, I missed everything about you.”

She kicks off her shoes and climbs onto him, hovering a little over his lap on her knees so she can tug at his hoodie to make him take it off.

“Like what?”

He pulls his hoodie off, and she rewards him by resting her weight on him. He bites his lower lip and groans; he’s already hard.

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, and speaks against her skin. “I missed you bossin’ me around all the time,” he says, and then leaves an open-mouthed kiss against her throat. “And how you always actually listened to me.” Another kiss, this time on the underside of her jaw. “And how you were always putting your cold fuckin’ hands in my shirt.”

She laughs and does just that, sliding her hands under the collar of his tank top to rest on the warm skin of his back. He shivers good-naturedly and noses her sweater to the side so he can find a good patch of skin under her collarbone to latch onto.

“I kinda missed always having hickeys,” she says, rocking just a little in his lap to tease them both, telling the truth even though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone else. She liked having the little reminders of Sharky when they were apart, the little bruises that showed she had someone who cared about her as much as she cared about him.

Sharky makes a little grumbling sound that sounds like he wants to talk, but he doesn’t release her skin as he focuses on sucking a mark that will last, and she laughs again, delighted. 

He finally releases her and admires his handwork before looking up to meet her gaze. “You always laughed a lot when we were foolin’ around, but not like, at me, you know? Just ‘cause you were havin’ fun. I missed that too.”

She moves her hands to cup his jaw, holding him still so she can memorize the expression in his warm blue eyes. “I love you so much.”

He beams at her. “I love you more.”

She kisses him again because she doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know how else to show him how she feels. 

The relationship they built while fighting the cult together was too strong to fade away like the physical pains and sharp-edged memories of the horrors. It feels now, wrapped up in each other, that they’ve never been apart and will never be apart again.

She drops her sweater to the floor and yanks off Sharky’s top, desperate to feel his skin against hers. He only lets her move enough to remove clothing and then grabs for her again, not willing to let her get very far away at all. 

He flips them, finally, when she starts trying to get at his belt, turning so that she’s flat on his mattress and he’s kneeling over her. He ignores her reaching hands and slides his hands up her legs, smooth for the first time he’s touched them, then back down, then up again all the way to where her panties rest on her hips.

“That’s ni— oh, fuck.” He pauses with her panties half down her thighs, exposing how she’s shaved herself completely for him. She didn’t know if he’d prefer it or not, knows he absolutely doesn’t care if she’s completely hairy, but it felt good to take the time to follow her old routines. “Fuck, yeah, okay.”

He flips her skirt all the way up and leans down without any other words leaving his lips to cover her slit with his mouth.

He’s just as enthusiastic as she remembers, and she shrieks as his tongue presses into her. It’s wet and messy and eager and so Sharky that she can’t do anything but hold on with her fingers tangled in his hair and her heels digging into his back. He groans against her, feasting on her, eyebrows drawn together as he focuses all his energy on giving her the most pleasure he can.

His beard burns her sensitive skin, wetness drips down the curve of her ass and onto the back of her dress, and Sharky’s fingers press little bruises into the flesh of her thighs as he holds her still. 

It’s so good, it’s too good, and it’s wonderful, and if this is how it’s going to be the rest of her life she might just die for good with his head between her legs.

What a fuckin’ way to go.

She wails as she comes, pulls Sharky’s hair and kicks his back by accident, and then she laughs a little hysterically when he tries to keep going like he did their first morning together.

“Stop, fuckin’ Christ, Sharky. Holy shit.” He stops right when she says, sits back on his knees and beams down at her, proud of himself, face flushed and beard wet, stupid gold chain still around his neck because he never takes it off. “I love that you love that so much, but if you want me to ride you again, you’re going to have to quit it.”

His mouth drops open a little as he sucks in a deep breath, the flush on his cheeks darkening dangerously, and then he’s twisting around in obedience to flop on the mattress next to her. He opens his belt and wiggles his jeans down over his hips as Mattie pushes herself to her feet so she can drop her dress with her sweater and grab a condom from the pile she remembers, and then she turns around to see him watching her with one hand tucked behind his head and the other slowly pumping his cock.

She watches him right back for a minute, taking in the red and orange ink on his forearm, the twisting of the muscles there making the flames look like they’re dancing, the burned skin on his shoulder and chest, the hair across his pecs and stomach, the little bit of tummy he sucks in when he sees her looking.

“This what you did waiting for me to come back?”

He nods at her, pumping himself a little harder as he keeps waiting. He doesn’t look back up at her face, apparently unable to drag his eyes away from her breasts, her stomach, her bare thighs still glistening when she takes a step forward.

“Here.” She tosses him the condom and climbs on the bed as he rolls it on, then crawls over him on all fours as he watches her with wide, fond eyes. “Ready, baby?”

“Fuck yeah,” Sharky says, voice a little too rough to be as bright as it usually is. He puts one hand on her ribs and holds himself steady with the other so she can sink down on to him, and he moans aloud as she does. He doesn’t look away from the sight, and she doesn’t look away from his face, and as soon as he’s hilted inside of her she’s leaning down to kiss him.

He tastes like her, and she licks it from his mouth as she starts to move on still-shaky legs, fucking him nice and slow so she can drag it out. He can’t stop touching her, running his hands over her thighs and hips, ribs and breasts, into her hair that’s so much softer than it was in the bliss for her access to proper conditioning treatments, across her neck and down her back to start the process over again.

The drag and slide inside of her is exquisite, beautiful, a feeling she’s missed these long weeks, and she can’t stop kissing him even when her face starts to burn. She fucks him a little harder when his groans grow louder, feels sweat beading along her hairline and dripping down her temple before Sharky kisses it away.

“Sharky, baby, you feel so good,” she says, cheek pressed against his, trembling as his fingers tighten on her hips and he thrusts up into her like he can’t help it anymore. “Gonna make me come again.”

His groan is deep in his chest, his next thrust a little harder into her, knocking off her balance so she falls against his chest with a high, breathy giggle. 

He wraps his arms around her and holds her against him, using his leverage to start really fucking into her. She giggles again and holds onto his shoulders, nuzzling against his cheek as she just relaxes her body and lets the pleasure grow inside her, listening to his deep groans.

She loves how loud he is when they’re in bed together, how willing he is to let her know how good she’s making him feel.

“Yeah, just like that, I love it, I love you, c’mon, baby…”

His hands tighten and she revels in it, in the bright spots of pain under the pleasure, and she presses her face against the scar on his shoulder and cries out, long and low, as she comes on his cock. 

He follows her over the edge immediately, like he was just waiting for her permission, his moan half muffled in her hair as he curls into her. She shivers and clenches around him, tight, pulling another low moan out of him, and she sits up a little and laughs because otherwise she might cry at just how goddamn happy she feels, finally, finally, after everything.

Sharky beams up at her, eyes half-closed and sleepy looking, and tucks a loose curl behind her ear.

She kisses him, soft and slow, still smiling, and then moves to stretch out on her side next to him. She waits as he gets up to throw out the condom, then he comes back and gathers her into his arms.

He kisses her forehead. “Now what?”

She shrugs and nuzzles at the underside of his jaw. “We just take it one day at a time, I guess.”

He makes a sleepy, grumbly noise deep in his throat. “Mkay.” Trusting, loving, beautiful Sharky. “I love you.”

She presses herself as close to him as she can. “I love you too.”

[sextonsharpwinhalstead]

Chicago Med Review 5x01 “Never Going Back To Normal”

So, I guess I’m back on my bullsh*t. I can’t help it. These last two episodes are worthy of a review.

So, after a summer hiatus we got the answers to our burning questions: did Ava have something to do with Cornelius’s death?

What is the fate of Natalie and Will after that car crash on the roof?

Does Maggie have cancer?

and

Is April pregnant?

Let’s start from the bottom up.

April and Ethan slowly made their way back to each other during season 4. After she declared that she was with the shits, they smashed on the couch, and 24 hrs later she was “late.” I think we all knew it would be negative, but I do think it’s odd that they wrote her saying “I’m never late.” I’m not sure if this was just chatter or a false negative but since the subject was broached it had Ethan wondering “what if?” I think it’s fair to say that not only are these two back together but are also getting serious. They walked away with THE most uplifting story for themselves and the child they were treating. Anyway up to this point I’d always pegged April as the type who’d want to have kids and marriage considering the importance of family and how soft she is with everyone but I’m not so sure anymore. Her hesitation and remark about wanting kids much farther in the future reminded me that it took April weeks if not months to say yes to Tate’s proposal, and her shock at being pregnant lasted a lot longer than comfortable. I think April holds these things dear, but not necessarily for herself. We’ll see.

Onto Maggie’s story. Another easy guess. I think we all knew she had cancer, the question was what kind and how bad? Sadly, so many of us have been touched by cancer; it’s affected our friends, loved ones, co-workers, and there are probably some survivors in this fandom. So when I heard metastatic immediately I was like; damn. I, for one, am all for keeping your business your own, but Maggie’s decision is borderline delusional. I know we all know it’s about to get a LOT worse.

The Manstead car wreck. Okay, I have been in several car wrecks; shitty luck, bad tires, dangerous weather, I’ve had it happen; trees, fences, the HIGHWAY, I’ve been in it. So this wreck was a bit...much. My sister FLEW through the windshield of a vehicle and not only lived but had no issues with memory, and her cut wasn’t gushing like a Squeeze-It. I hated this story from the moment it began. It had massive plot holes and has been melodramatic AF. But I think what I hate the most is the inability to let the story be about Will. It continues to center Natalie when she’s just been adjacent. This show has a super weird way of writing life-changing events which happen to male characters but then somehow manages to leave the women holding the bag. Like damn, how’d we get here?

Ethan’s family drama left April caring for a newborn and his sister.

Daniel’s shooting left Sarah with major PTSD.

Will’s traumatic involvement with the mafia left Natalie in a mini-coma.

I’m not saying the men never have consequences but the lasting effects are transferred to the women closest to them.

Anyway, Will carries Natalie like Captain-Save-a-hoe to the ED and even tries to work on her before the night-shift Dr. Marcel hello daddy has to push him aside. I almost died when he said “You’re her boyfriend or whatever” it’s like Dominic Rains knows our pain. Anyway, med student Elsa tries to help Will but is barked at several times. I was happy to see her again but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t see the 180 in her personality. Elsa can seem mouesy but let’s be real; that is a boss bitch, who all last season was on top of her shit and not giving a good gotdamn about anybody’s emotional state; only the job at hand. She knew what she wanted and was balancing dual majors and nailing it too. But something shifted and now she’s giving a damn about Will and being one of the only three people in this entire show that recognizes his trauma. I was quietly whispering...please god no, too. Please Med don’t ruin this character and make her lose her gotdamn mind over some dick.

Sleeping Beauty finally awakes but has some short-term memory problems. Something her skeevy boyfriend Phillip is ready to exploit when he shimmies a ring on her finger. Okay, I’m going to need you give me your nuanced ears and eyes when I begin this next part because I don’t want it to sound too victim-blamey...but...Natalie brought this situation on herself. I don’t think it was wrong of her to try and be supportive of Phillip but how the hell didn’t the warning flags go flying when he began being intimate with her so soon after his wife died? The alarms should be blaring now with a ring on her finger considering she hasn’t forgotten the long timeline...it’s just. I don’t care. It makes her look trife AF. But mostly it makes her look naive.

I do think the knowledge Dr. Marcel has about the ring only being on her finger AFTER her initial examination is a little bomb they’ll wait to drop later in the season. I just hope it’s Natalie who finds out and not Will. Natalie needs to save herself.

Finally, let’s talk about that story!

The direction this story took was one I played around with in a fic. The idea of Ava being an obsessive, manipulative, dangerous psycho has always seem fitting to me. I know a lot of people are upset and horrified but I think it made perfect sense. My only critique was the empty feeling of not getting a background check on her. Did Latham call her next of kin? Who were they? Who was she? The mystery of Ava will always be the most bitter pill for me swallow. 

Med was manipulating the viewers and the subjects of the story so we were all left with a sense of confusion. None of it made sense if you only view Ava through one lens, if you could see her through both it was executed in a way that Med has never had the audacity to try and do, and I got to give it to them cause damn it was good. They really had us questioning everything up to her final moments. Was Connor losing it like his mother or was Ava as scheming as he thought? I think that her death was a good reason to leave Med. 

He left Chicago as quickly as he could as kid to get away from his mother’s tragic suicide only to return and have another tragic suicide be the reason for his departure. And damn, it was abrupt. Like maybe one more episode where Connor finishes his last surgery cause anyone scheduled with him got left hanging! He said goodbye to the two people who gave him a job and that was the last we ever saw of him. I’m not nearly as broken up about this as a big chunk of the fandom seems to be. I really feel like Connor’s story was told. Being the most developed one; can be suicide for a character, especially in a show that has Entmoot syndrome when it comes to personal information about  its characters.

Personally I’m hoping the show becomes like the rest of One Chicago, who had other polarizing characters leave. It allowed the quality to spread and viewers finally got more from the others.

Either way, after this episode, nothing is going to be “normal” again.

[hamlets-ghost-zaddy]

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 4/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

Summary: Bombs aren’t discerning, they aren’t sentimental, and they kill without discretion. It’s the truth that got you through Bastogne, when men came to you in tatters and their life blood flooded past the stoppage of your hands. It’s the harsh reality that whispers through your mind as you wonder why Renee and Anna died, and not you–why you were sent on a scavenging run at that precise moment. Then, when the church was shelled.

Moved to an evacuation hospital to tend to soldiers with ghosts in their eyes, you meet Buck Compton and his loyal sergeant, a man with a weight on his shoulders unknown to even Atlas. His name means bullshit, and somehow you find that appropriate: what he’s seen, what he’s gone through? It’s complete bullshit.

The evacuation hospital is set five miles back from the line, out of the sight-lines of German artillery but within range for ambulances or jeeps or whatever makeshift vehicle that has been commandeered for the wounded to come squealing up, loaded with groaning and bloodied men. It also means you have a clear view of the fireworks display, raining hellfire down on the frontlines, tonight.

Mortar blasts illuminate trees in great streaking paintbrush strokes of blue at their hearts, before flaring high into the pitch sky in tongues of orange and red. Two inhales and exhales—you number them, equal parts to count the explosions and to regulate your own too-short, too-high breath—separate the mortar hits, and flare ups, from the great booms of sound carrying through the snow-blanketed forest to you and Constance. Both of you squint against the flares of fiery light, both thinking of men being hit and wondering how many would be brought in before morning—wondering how much of them would be brought in, and if it was enough to save.

A breath catches, ragged, in your throat. Those men, those distant soldiers with featureless faces, who you hoped never to see (‘hoped’ because it meant they didn’t need you), suddenly all look like Malarkey in your imagination. Malarkeys scramble from foxhole to foxhole, dodging death and checking in with comrades, friends, soldiers who have become brothers. The tightness coiling in your chest jerks violently and for the first time since Malarkey entered your life and demanded a corner of your thoughts always be reserved for him, you desperately wish you never met.  

Fire falls like rain and, for the first time, you have someone to lose and you are completely powerless to cheat Fate’s hand.

Buck Compton has stayed too long. The evacuation hospital is a midway point between aid stations and proper hospitals, meant as a prepping station for men to continue on to better, cleaner facilities or to take a handful of days to sleep, recover, and return to the lines. You know it, have been expecting Dr. Schroder’s orders to come through for days now, but you still feel a dagger plunge and twist when you receive the written orders, making you stop short as you cross the short distance between Schroder’s tent-office and the ward.

The all-American boy is to be loaded on the next medical transport truck and sent off to recover, to collect his senses and fight off his demons—a battle you’re not equipped to help him wage in an evacuation hospital. “It’s for the best,” you mutter as you read the orders.

Constance, at your side, gives you a grim, close-lipped smile and touches your shoulder. “It’ll be alright, sweetness,” she says. You’ve heard her call the patients ‘sweetness’ in her molasses-thick accent, but never you. Suddenly, you understand why the men always warm under that endearment. “You can visit him soon. Don’t you have a weekend pass coming up?”

Technically, you have about five weekend passes owed to you since the beginning of the war, when taking time away of the hospital seemed unthinkable with the amount of wounded coming through. You don’t mind; you fear what being in the civilian world would do to you—if it would expose all the memories you try to hide from, if you would be staring into some mirror in some hotel room and not recognize yourself. Still, it’s kind of Constance to say, so you reply, “Yeah, I do.”

She nods, as if that settles matters, and gives your shoulder one last squeeze before striding ahead and ducking into the hospital tent. You can’t take your eyes off the order for a minute and when you finally rip your focus away, the tent flap has fluttered closed behind her. Taking one breath, then another, letting the winter air bathe your lungs, you’ve just convinced your feet to move when the rumble of a Jeep engine makes you turn instead. A hand held your brow allows you to see—

“Sergeant Malarkey!” is out of your mouth before you can consider how you embarrass yourself, how insane you sound. Yet, you can’t really find it in yourself to care, instead waving and grinning because he’s waving back, and smiling, and laughing—and fuck, it is just like how I thought it’d sound.

“Y/n!” he calls, jumping out of the Jeep before the orderly fully stops. He jogs to you, smile stretching impossibly wider, and grabs your hands. “Y/n, it’s so damn good to see you!”

A blush is rising in your cheeks against your will, and you smile eagerly into his face only for your breath to catch. It takes focus to keep the smile stretched on your lips: the darkness, the ghosts, have grayed his face entirely and though he smiles now, there’s something hot and feverish about it. He’s seen things, done things. He’s not as whole as when you saw him last. Oh, my dear Malarkey, whispers through your thoughts. What horrors did you see last night? You force out a reply: “You, too, Sergeant. It’s been quiet without you.” You’re proud of how even your voice is.

Some of the wild shine in his eyes dulls, and he seems to realize he’s holding your hands, that you are close. He doesn’t move away. “I’ve been thinking about how you…and, and Buck are doing. How are you? How’s he?”

Your thoughts, a freight train of worrying over the pieces of him lost on the frontlines—of the darkness—of the ghosts—grind to a halt because of course that’s why he’s here. Of course. Still, it hits you and leaves you gasping for air. “Oh, uh,” you fill into the silence. Suddenly, there’s an expanse between you. “Um, Buck’s…Buck’s okay, err, he will be. Once he gets back farther from the line. Getting away from hearing the mortars will do him a lot of good.”

Selfishly, though, you know Buck’s leaving will do you very little good. Without Lieutenant Compton, why would Malarkey visit the hospital?

Malarkey nods, tension you hadn’t noticed before easing from his shoulders. He still hasn’t released your hands, and instead he squeezes them. “You still haven’t said how you are,” he says. You shrug, and he reads exactly what you mean.

(I knew he’d understand, whispers through your mind before you can deride yourself for how fucking ridiculous that is).

“Come on, Buck will be anxious to see you,” you suggest, regretfully dropping his hands after one last, brief squeeze and you lead him into the hospital tent. It takes a moment, it always does, to blink against the dimness and allow your eyes to adjust. And, when it does, you meet Constance’s steady expression and the questioning quirk of her lips. Her eyes dart from you, to Malarkey at your back, to Buck sitting on his cot, packing his rucksack. A single, manicured eyebrow rises in a magnificent arch. You know Constance will corner you later, but for now you scuttle under her attention, waving Malarkey to Buck unnecessarily. “Take your time. I’ll come let you know when the truck for him arrives.”

Malarkey nods, gratitude in his eyes. You’re relieved to see that heat from his eyes is gone, whatever flurried craze he arrived in scrubbed from and leaving him just a little more shattered, just a little fissured with cracks. He moves from your side and, it may have been your imagination, but you thought you felt the briefest grazing of his hot skin against your wrist.

(How heat thrills up your muscles could be your imagination, too.)

Constance stations herself on one side of Buck, you on the other, and Malarkey leads the way, hefting the rucksack (apparently heavy with bricks from how Malarkey ribbed Buck over its weight). It takes all three of you acting as support to boost Buck into the back of the transport truck, Constance clambering up to instruct him for the umpteenth time on his medicinal regime. Buck, in good humor, grunts and rolls his eyes. Assuring her he’ll remember to take the little pill in an hour, the slightly larger pill in three hours, and yes he has water to wash them down. He rattles his canteen to emphasize this point.

Malarkey takes Constance’s place when she jumps down from the truck, pale blue skirts pluming, and you lead her a few yards away to give the men an allusion of privacy. Constance checks over her shoulder, never one for subtly, before whipping her face close to yours and whispering, “So, the Sergeant.”

You roll your eyes. “You always start off gossiping that way,” you point out, no bite in your voice. A grin twitches your lips.

Ignoring you, Constance insists, “I’m right though, aren’t I?” When you only shrug coyly, she squeals, clapping her hands. “Oh, you minx, giving me that red herring with the Lieutenant when it really was the Sergeant the whole time.” She puts her hands into her apron’s pockets, head-tilt consideringly as she angles herself to get a better look at Malarkey while pretending she really wasn’t looking. “There’s something solid about him. Something good.”

You blink at Constance, at how her voice dips in consideration, and you know you’re properly blushing now. You can feel the heat radiating off of you, even as you smile in delight, before bumping her shoulder with yours. “You say the most ridiculous things.”

Constance’s eyebrow arches, but she doesn’t reply beyond a smile. She turns her face to the morning sun sending white glares of light off the snow, breathing in until her chest swells wide. Measuredly, she exhales, a puff of condensation rising from her mouth, and her words are on a breath: “You deserve something good, some happiness.” Her eyes wander to yours. You never realized they have a hint of green in them. “I haven’t been here long, so what do I know, but it seems to me that happiness is a rare thing in this war.” Her smile never falters, but now, accompanied by the pinch of her brows. Her grin no longer makes her look naïve. She’s different, changed; in the hospital for less than two months, and already the war shows itself on her face.

You want to reply, say something profound to accompany her insight, but she squeezes your shoulder and moves away, returning to the hospital tent. The faintest hint of lavender perfume and rubbing alcohol trails her, distracting you from Malarkey jumping down from the truck and crunching across the frozen, dead grass to stand at your side. He gives you a crooked smile—an expression less meant to convey happiness and more solidarity—as he turns. The truck’s engine turns over, roaring to life. Buck raises a hand of farewell in the murkiness of the truck’s back, you and Malarkey waving back.

Your hands hang suspended until the truck rumbles out of the hospital’s field, swallowed by the road and the Ardennes. It takes a concentrated effort to warm your muscles and coax them into moving, lowering your hand only for your fingers to drift to your icon of St. Jude. The metal is cold under your fingertips, chilled by the winter freeze, and you stare at nothing at all as you trace its familiar ridges.

With the truck gone, you are faced with the habitual emptiness that always shells out your chest after one of your patients leave. It’s for the best, you know: he can’t receive the care he needs here or from you—not with the meager resources of the evac hospital—but the fledgling friendship forged over dog-eared books and oatmeal is over before it began. Despite yourself, despite the months of experience, you still allow yourself to care for the men who came into your care like your friends, like your brothers. Buck’s love letters, his blue eyes wide and seeing beyond the physical world are now details of yet another soldier to be added to your collection. And, as you say goodbye to Buck, in the same breath you must say goodbye to Malarkey.

Not allowing yourself to doubt your decision, you unclasp the necklace from around your neck, and cradle one of Malarkey’s hands in your own. The chain, cool and coiling like liquid, slithers into the basin of his palm. “Here.”

Malarkey blinks down at the necklace and you can feel his eyes swivel to you, warming your cheeks with their confusion, but you refuse to look at him just then. “I can’t take this,” he says.

“You have to,” you reply, more forceful than you realize. You didn’t mean to voice it—that this would be the last time you saw him—but the implication is a heavy lead in your tone and Malarkey hears it plainly. You swallow around the dryness in your throat, folding Malarkey’s fingers over the necklace. “I don’t really need it anymore and I…” After losing Anna and Renee, you doubt St. Jude is really listening much, but maybe he’d watch over Malarkey.

Silence. Then, Malarkey rumbles a low, “Huh.”

“What?”

“Well,” he says, scrubbing his free hand briefly through his hair. You can’t help peek up at his curls, standing on end and in disarray. “I just realized I’ve been praying to your saint over the past few days. I…I didn’t really do it consciously.”

“Then you have to take it,” you reply, eyes drifting to his. It’s only because you’re watching him intently, attempting to decode the shift in those brown eyes just as you know he’s trying to puzzle you out, that you see a spark of decision—realization—ignite in his eyes. A shade of the grayness recedes from his face.

“Alright.” He nods. “I will, but you’re going to have to help me, my fingers aren’t really meant for these tiny clasps.” He displays his squarish hands as proof. A sudden surge seizes you to cradle his hands, to kiss his callouses, and heat floods your face. Malarkey politely doesn’t notice, continuing: “My mom would always ask me to help with her necklaces, and it’d take me minutes on end to get it.”

A bubble of laughter escapes you at the mental image of a boyish, flustered Malarkey trying and failing to battle a necklace. “I wouldn’t force you to fend for yourself. Turn around, I’ll help,” you order, and he complies and your suddenly faced with broad, strong shoulders; with the flyway curls mussed by his helmet and his nervous fingers, and an expanse of neck that is the perfect height for you to stand on tiptoe and press a kiss against.

You reach around his shoulders to bring the chain around his neck, clasping it quickly and with as little physical contact as possible. “There.”

He turns back to you slowly (or maybe that’s your imagination again), looking strange wearing two necklaces. Yet, the thought of double holiness—the double blessing—settles you. St. Jude’s icon is in his hand, but his eyes are seeking yours. “I feel like I should give you something, too,” he offers, the words rattling in his chest, like he debated heatedly with himself if he should say them.

But, you think as that something in your chest connected to him feels less like pain and more like relief, thank God he did. “No,” you insist, shaking your head. “Please, don’t worry about. You don’t have to give me anything.”

Malarkey looks like he wants to protest, has something building in his chest to rebuke your insistence—something that will shake the very earth, the very foundations of reality—but an orderly barks then: “Sergeant, you headed back to the line? Shake a leg, or you’ll miss your chance!”

He drags his eyes from you to look at the orderly, nodding, before turning to blink back at you. Whatever he was going to say, whatever precious notion of your reality he was preparing to shatter, had been ripped from his mouth before it could be voiced. As you watch him go—you’ll never get used to watching him drive away from you, you know it—you wish every word secreted in his thoughts and secreted in words could be voiced and you could talk for ever and ever. You wished you could talk until you talked about nothing at all, and still then, you talked.

You wished there was time for talking, and the war and the dying and the ghosts didn’t cram the words back in your mouths and silence you.

[journeysintowebcomics]

Worm Liveblog #85

UPDATE 85: Miasma is a Good Word

Last time the heroes made their bomb attack, courtesy of everything they confiscated from Bakuda, and apparently they got rid of Crawler and Mannequin! That’s a feat! Since there are like three Slaughterhouse Nine members left, Jack may be upset, so they’re all bracing for retaliation. Let’s continue.

I set Atlas down on the ground and hopped off.  “Whatever the fuck they just dropped on the city, it apparently took out Crawler and Mannequin.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Tattletale said.

Pretty good philosophy in a world where some people have powers. I have hopes Mannequin and Crawler were defeated and died in a blast of Bakuda’s bombs, but I sure won’t take it for granted until they’re described. It won’t be a guarantee, but it sure will go a long way when it’s about ascertaining someone’s life or death status in a story like this one!

What Skitter did may have weakened the Siberian’s true body, and maybe even killed him, if Bonesaw wasn’t able to counter the poison in time. It’s a small chance, admittedly, but it exists. Not going to place any high hopes on that, though. Bonesaw works quickly, and she also has all those mechanical spiders. Maybe she could do something.

Skitter informs everyone of everything that happened, including telling them Legend told her to scram so she wouldn’t get in the way, good intentions or not.

“And this threat?  Do we know what it is?  Some zombie apocalypse?”  Regent asked.

“No.” Tattletale shook her head.  “She sees herself as an artist.  She’s going to want to do something that catches us off guard, something that scares us in a way that simple horror movie monsters don’t.”

Pretty hard to say. A parahuman of the caliber of Bonesaw could do pretty much anything she wanted. There are countless possibilities. I would be surprised if it’s not fatal, though. Artist or not, she’s a mass murderer by definition, and they threatened the entirety of Brockton Bay. Anything they have planned must be able to kill everyone, or at the very least cause widespread sickness that can’t be cured.

Much to Regent’s...subdued amusement, I guess? – I sure bet he’s amused – Sundancer admits Bonesaw scares her. Pretty natural reaction, yeah.

“You two do raise a point, though,” Tattletale cut in.  “Capes are powerful.  If she wanted to scare the locals, she’s done that.  I’d be willing to bet the ace she has up her sleeve is going to be more aimed at scaring people like us, like Legend.  She wants to terrorize the strongest, target people who everyone looks up to and fears.”

I don’t know, the obliteration and/or extermination of an entire city’s pretty scary even for the strongest people. There are heroes, and then there’s people like Skitter who are empathic even though they’re a villain, and if Bonesaw plays her cards right, then she’ll strike fear into the hearts of villains, making them feel like she’s on a different tier than them. I’m expecting things to get real ugly around here.

In the distance I think Legend is still fighting the Siberian or something. Over here, they hope they won’t have to worry about Bonesaw’s plot, but I think it’s guaranteed it’ll happen. It has been hyped so much so far it’d be rather disappointing if it didn’t. Mr. Wildbow wouldn’t let the readers down!

I’m pretty sure everyone who fights tinkers hates them too, Skitter. I bet even tinkers hate other tinkers.

Oh, right, it was supposed to be something that’d spread through water, right? If so, then I suppose there must be a reason for it to have to be through water instead of, say, air. I was about to consider this further, but then Grue stopped my train of thought when he wants Tattletale about the dangers of tunnel vision and, well, he’s right. I’m supposing too many things, yes? And basing too much on Tattletale’s assumptions. I should sit down and keep reading, see where things go from here. Besides, it’s not like they can counter whatever will happen. Even if they find Panacea and she agrees to help them for the greater good, she’s one person. By the time she’s able to do something, whatever Bonesaw made may have caused too much damage around already.

There it comes. That was fast!

The water was turning crimson.  Where it was only one or two inches deep above the pavement, it turned a dark red that resembled blood.  That alone might have been spooky enough, but it was spreading over hundreds of feet in a matter of seconds, and there was a thin red mist rising in its wake.

She earns points for style. That’s a chilling image, and it’s unmistakably her work. Way to go, Bonesaw! And if it’s spreading that fast, then it’s pretty much unstoppable. The effects of whatever this is must be already felt by the general population. Is it even possible to get away from it? If a mist is rising from it, then there’s an airborne component, and that’s going to be harder to get away from.

The theory as to why it’s spreading so fast is that Bonesaw prepared things beforehand, my bet is that it was right when the rules of the game were established. Just to have it ready in case it was necessary, and now here it is in action.

Everyone’s reactions it to seek high ground and run away. Skitter gets on her beetle and flies, the others get on dogs, and Sundancer evaporates the water – something Bonesaw was prepared for, because the steam from the evaporated water takes the same qualities than the water itself. It’s matter of time before someone in the group is afflicted by whatever this is.

There we go, it almost happens. They’re barely saved on the way up thanks to Skitter forming a barrier with her insects. It’s interesting that there’s nothing saying the insects were affected. I’m sure if they were, Skitter would have noticed immediately, and they’d know what’s going on. It’s not some sort of poison or disorienting substance, I guess...either that or this has to be carried through water and the mist isn’t as effective. Who knows.

To get themselves on a higher spot, Tattletale indicates a taller building and Skitter flies over there, Trickster proceeds to swap her with someone, and this process is repeated a few times until Trickster and one of the dogs are left behind. The mist is creeping near him.

He’s safe, lucky guy. All around them, the miasma – that’s a good word – floats all over the buildings around. It’s pervasive, it’s covering everything, and is only matter of time before it rises up to the building they’re in right now. As I see it, the only hope anyone has is to get in an airtight place. Not many of those lying around, I bet.

“Probably something else.  Or it’s poison, but it’s designed to do something besides kill us.  How are the others doing?”

It’s a bit hard to know what other effect it could have besides killing – supposing it is designed to kill, I mean. My mind is blank. My thought is that it’d be some sort of control thing, but...is that the Slaughterhouse Nine’s style? I don’t know, it seemed to me they like to do things by themselves. They wouldn’t control others to make them kill each other, that’s what I think.

Looks like we’ll find out the effects sooner or later. Grue, Heckpuppy, Ballistic and one of the dogs are inside a glass dome they got into, and it’s matter of time before the miasma gets in there. Uh-oh, they’re doomed. Bad pun intended.

Since Grue and Heckpuppy are inevitably going to be affected pretty soon, Skitter wants to at least save Tattletale, even though Tattletale tells her to go and leave her behind, because in the end Skitter is much more versatile in action than Tattletale. She has bugs and also a gun, she’ll be able to fight Jack, Bonesaw and the Siberian’s real body. Well, yeah, that’s true. Whether she’ll be able to win is an entirely different matter. With a lot of luck and skill maybe, but still, pretty doubtful she will.

Once Skitter gets to the top of a taller building, she waits for Trickster to swap the cluster of bugs she’s forming in the shape of a person. They’re running out of time, the miasma is climbing up the sides of the building they’re on. The bugs are swapped, but instead of Tattletale, it’s Sundancer. Oh, Skitter isn’t going to like that at all.

At least she’s not blaming Sundancer for what undoubtedly was Trickster and Tattletale’s decision. In fact...

She shook her head, “They didn’t say anything.  They were both really quiet while you flew off, and then Tattletale said ‘It doesn’t look like her plan will work out.  Tell her I’m sorry.’  Trickster teleported me here before I could say anything or ask what she meant.”

If she says that then it must be for a reason. Tough pill to swallow, but yeah...maybe it’s for the better? Besides, Sundancer hits hard. When it’s about having a way to fight the Slaughterhouse Nine, she can pack quite a punch. I don’t think even them have anything to counter a miniature sun being launched at them, unless the Siberian’s projection protects them.

While they sit around, Sundancer takes the moment to develop some characterization. Neat!

“I hate being alone,” Sundancer said.  She settled into a sitting position.  “It’s like, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually been on my own. When I was little, I was always with my mom, or always in school, always in afterschool activities.  Ballet, violin, lyrical dance, voice lessons, acting lessons… never a moment to think for myself.  Even after I stopped all that, I was with my friends.  Always in a group.”

So she’s not comfortable being by herself...I don’t think it’s dependence, I think it’s more like she feels comfortable with people around her. Doesn’t seem to me like he particularly regards the other Travelers as lifelong friends or anything like that, but they’re a group and therefore she feels kind of okay with them. Not that much, though. Just like Skitter points out now, she has said she feels lonely, even among the Travelers. What brought all of them together in a team, again? I don’t think that has been explained so far, I hope it’ll be said at some point.

In a while Skitter will go fight the Slaughterhouse Nine, and Sundancer will be left behind, alone and with nothing to do other than wait for stuff to happen – the most likely possibility being the miasma reaching her, I’d say. Guess that means Skitter’s going alone. Oh well. Best of luck to her, I hope she won’t get grievous injuries this time.

The miasma reaches Tattletale and Trickster, but there’s no immediate reaction. Hm. Maybe it’s delayed? Or it’s something that cannot be seen. The second one seems more likely, I think.

To encourage herself and Sundancer, Skitter says humans are much stronger than you’d think, both physically and mentally. Everyone has the capacity to keep going despite mental or physical punishment, if their willpower is strong enough. That’s what the capes have done, that’s what the Slaughterhouse Nine has done. Sundancer doesn’t like what she’s hearing, so Skitter salvages her speech by saying it’s an almost pessimistic outlook. Hah! Well, maybe it is, but I believe her intention was to give herself and Sundancer encouragement, so she may have meant everything as something positive.

The conversation is cut short when Sundancer tells Skitter to go already, and after Skitter goes she gets underneath a tiny sun. I hope that keeps her kind of safe. Skitter flies towards where he had left Legend last update, and also takes a look at Tattletale and Trickster, who aren’t reacting at all. They don’t signal her to come back. Why would they do such a thing? Even if they’re okay, they sure wouldn’t risk putting their teammates at risk! Could be dangerous.

Another thought as to what the miasma could be: what if it’s a way for the Slaughterhose Nine to go unnoticed even in plain sight? Like what Imp does. That’d give them free reign to kill whoever they want around, and not even the parahumans would be able to stop them or know exactly where they are – well, most of them, I figure, but the Slaughterhouse Nine would think measures to get away with as much as they can. Could be that, yeah?

Skitter directs herself to the catalyst of the miasma, and evaluates the situation. She hopes the civilians got to higher ground, where there’s not that much flooding and therefore are a little safer from the miasma. It’s matter of time before it reaches that too, I bet.

Legend is still around! And he’s still firing lasers around, even though he’s in middle of the red fog. I take that as he hasn’t been affected by it yet – or it doesn’t impede someone from fighting. Skitter gets her bugs into the miasma to have an idea of what’s going on.

He wasn’t fighting the Nine. Legend was shooting at teammates.  He shouted something, but neither my ears nor my bugs were able to pick out the words.

Ah, of course he’s fighting his teammates. Effect of the miasma, I figure. It’s not a berserk state or rage brought by the fog – demonstrated by Trickster and Tattletale being civil around each other instead of tearing their throats off at the first chance, and also because Legend is pulling his punches. He’s not the only one affected, Weld’s keeping everybody away, and Vista gets herself in an unreachable spot.

Paranoia?

I don’t think it’s hallucinations...so paranoia seems like the right answer to me. Maybe they think their teammates are not to be trusted anymore. Does that mean if someone from the Slaughterhouse Nine stepped forth, they’d trust them? I wondeeeer...

Since Vista is the one least likely to kill her whether it’s on accident or on purpose, Skitter approaches her, and immediately gets a reaction.

She whirled on the spot to look at me, then swiftly began backing away.

I raised my hands to show her I meant no harm, “Hold on!  I’m safe!”

“That’s just what they would say!”  She retorted.

They as in the Slaughterhouse Nine, it seems. So even though the miasma, they know the Slaughterhouse Nine is a menace. These effects are limited only to paranoia, it seems...

Vista doesn’t listen, so Skitter moves to leave after Vista threatens her very clearly. She makes a bad move, though, movement Vista takes as a threat, and tries to hit her with asphalt, which in turn gets Legend’s attention. Legend’s lasers stun her, throwing her off the beetle, and she crashes against a rooftop in what surely would injure gravely anyone without armor or resilience like Skitter.

Not enough, Vista surrounds Skitter with a section of rooftop, entrapping her. Also, Skitter is right in middle of the miasma. Ah, time to find out about its effects firsthand!

Nothing in particular yet. Worth noting Vista is full of anger, but it doesn’t seem to be the effect of the miasma, because Skitter doesn’t feel anything like that despite, you know, actually being in danger, relatively.

I tried to think back to my prior experiences with her and found nothing.

What was her name?

Oh, she can’t remember Vista! I seeee...I think.

Skitter makes a few mental exercises to find out just how badly her brain is malfunctioning right now. She doesn’t seem to be suffering of brain damage or concussions. She can remember herself. She can remember her parents.

I tried to picture her expression.

Again, that gap, the chasm.  Nothing.

There it is! So this is the effect of the miasma. Looks like it makes everyone forget about other people, including the experiences they have lived with them. They know those people exist, they know who they are, but they can’t remember how they look, or their personalities, or anything else that makes a person a person. Rather insidious, hm! And also original. Not sure about the practical use of it, though.

I mean, the Slaughterhouse Nine undoubtedly have a reason for this, but I wonder what it could be. This is meant to be the penalty for breaking the rules and having such a sizable advantage. I’m not sure what use they’ll have from this...because everyone’s so paranoid even if someone from the Slaughterhouse Nine approached them, they’d still be attacked. In fact, it could be worse because of the paranoia.

There must be something I haven’t considered yet...but what could it be?

The miasma makes her unable to recognize Legend and Vista even though she was fighting them not too long ago. Legend knocks out Vista – ouch – and Skitter, not having any other option, asks for help.

If I didn’t have the benefit of being able to remember my actions over the past few minutes, it would have been impossible to say whether the two people here were allies or enemies.

That explains why Tattletale and Trickster weren’t fighting. They could still remember what was happening a few moments before the miasma affected them. That’s unfortunate, even if Skitter remembered them and went to seek their help, they won’t remember her anymore.

Sundancer’s worries about being alone struck me.  We were all alone, now.  Every single one of us.  From teams to individuals, everyone was fending for themselves because they couldn’t afford to trust the others.

And it would ruin us.

It would be impossible to mount any kind of defense against the Nine if we were fighting them as individuals.

Ah, there it is! That’s what I had missed! I see the logic, now I can see how this is dangerous and plays right into the Slaughterhouse Nine’s plans. Okay, I see how things are supposed to go, and I like this. Nice. Keep going! How are you going to counter this, Skitter? She’ll have to both overcome her amnesia and the fear she’ll feel towards other people.

Pleading for help to Legend actually makes him hesitate. He’s a hero, after all. He can’t just turn his back on someone asking for help, even if this could be a trap or something. He has to at least try to help.

Nevermind, he doesn’t. He just tell her to stay there, fights around for like ten minutes more, and then flies away. Thanks for nothing, Legend. Hah! But yeah, in all seriousness, Skitter thinks maybe the miasma’s making him less rational.

This wasn’t rational for him, it didn’t jibe with my knowledge of him.  That could mean there was something about the miasma that was making him irrational.

We’ll know for sure, if Skitter does something irrational too. It’s a possibility some component of it clouds people’s judgment and decisions, I guess, but we’ll know for sure only when it happens to Skitter.

Since Legend is gone and he sure won’t help her, Skitter has to help herself, wriggling out of the asphalt the best she can. It’s actually a long ordeal, there are several paragraphs about it. It’s all because of the armor she’s wearing underneath her costume. Oh well. There’s...well, there’s no immediate hurry. Even if she finds the Slaughterhouse Nine, she won’t know it’s them.

Several people have been knocked out, Skitter helps a couple so they don’t suffer ridiculous deaths such as drowning in a puddle. Along the way she finds a creature that may be one of Heckpuppy’s dogs, or could be Crawler. Thorny exterior...I don’t think I have ever read the dogs being described as having ‘a thorny exterior’. Skitter’s decision of not approaching may have been the right decision.

“Skitter!” a voice called out.

I stopped.

A blond girl, waving at me.

I drew my gun and leveled it at her.

The smile dropped from her face.  She brought both hands to her mouth as she shouted, “It’s me!  Tattletale!”

Aaaaah...hm. Doubts. I have many. I find a bit hard to believe Bonesaw wouldn’t take into account Tattletale’s power and make it so she can’t use that to identify the people she encounters. I’m not ruling out this could be Tattletale, but...I sure won’t think right from the start it’s her.

Tattletale informs everyone else is currently hiding, and Grue and her are walking around, presumably looking for her. Skitter feels at ease and actually talks with her, asking what this miasma is about. It’s not amnesia, it’s agnosia. They didn’t lose their memories; they just can’t use it. That’s different, because everything is still there.

What Bonesaw did may be incurable and terminal, and although Panacea could help, I doubt she will. She was already jumpy and didn’t want to cooperate, the miasma’s going to make her even worse. The next fifteen or so arcs will happen during the next few hours, can you believe that? Worm’s timeline and pacing are going to slow down like never before!

Maybe it’s because I’m suspicious of this all, but Tattletale sure sounds...hopeful. And cheerful. I still don’t like this at all.

Tattletale brings up the mad cow disease to compare to Bonesaw’s punishment, and it makes some sense. I can see how this miasma is fatal. I don’t think the mad cow disease had a cure – can’t check right now if I’m correct -- but since I doubt everyone in Brockton Bay, Skitter included, will die during the next few hours, there must be a cure for this.

“If we’re going to save everyone, we need Amy.  For that, we need to ask Cherish.”

Supposing this isn’t Tattletale and instead is, let’s say, Bonesaw, I’m not sure if the objective is to find Panacea or Cherish. I can imagine pretty good reasons to find any of them. Pretty doubtful Cherish would say anything without a deal, though. Looks like a pretty obvious roadblock to me.

Speaking of Cherish, I remembered Regent is with Shatterbird. I hope the miasma didn’t break his concentration, and that he still has her under control. Things are going to get rather messy if he doesn’t have her as a puppet right now.

Grue is here! And Skitter welcomes him with suspicion. Tired of having a gun pointed at them, Tattletale asks what’ll be necessary for her to trust them, so Skitter asks them a question.

“The fight with Empire Eighty-Eight’s mooks.  When I made the human-shaped tower of bugs for the first time, and they shot into it while I crouched inside…”

That was when they went to invade Heckpuppy’s shelter, wasn’t it? She was with Heckpuppy, not with these two. Tattletale avoids answering, arguing she was orientating herself thanks to her power, but it seems she’s not able to answer this. Skitter can’t think of any other way to find out it’s them. Oh boy. This is a standstill.

Since proving it’s them didn’t work, Tattletale appeals to Skitter’s heart, she begs her to listen to it and react accordingly. That’d work if her heart was telling her anything! Hah! If Tattletale and Grue are fake, this must be getting really frustrating for them! And if they’re the real deal...well it’s going to get frustrating anyway. The agnosia miasma is seriously inconvenient.

Tired of having to appeal to Skitter, Grue suggests they continue alone. That elicits a reaction, because being alone in middle of this miasma is something Skitter would like to avoid. Grue then continues insisting, telling her they know how she feels and that he feels the same, even if he trusts Tattletale, and that she should trust her heart.

I wanted so desperately for it to be like in the movies, where people could trust your heart.  Where you were holding the gun and you had to choose between shooting the evil clone and shooting your friend, and you just knew.

It’s never that simple, and especially not when you have agnosia. Seeing this is leading nowhere, Grue takes action and approaches to give Skitter an awkward hug. Not the time, Grue – if that’s your real name, bucko.

Okay, so far I was thinking I was jumping to conclusions with all of their actions, but something’s just off about all this. Tattletale, can you stop grinning? Not the time for that either. Boy am I going to be so embarrassed if it turns out they’re the real deal.

“Priority number one, we get in contact with Cherish,” Tattletale said, grinning. “From there, we can decide whether we want to track down Panacea or go after the Slaughterhouse Nine.”

Honestly that’s a hard decision. Do you try to cure the possibly fatal miasma, or do you hunt the culprits before you die? Going for any of these options and failing for one reason or another will waste time, and most likely lead to failure – and that’s supposing Cherish is cooperative. I sure don’t think she’ll be willing to be a good trooper and lend a hand in a selfless manner.

Still, that’s the current plan, so it’ll be done. Skitter doesn’t let go of her gun, even if she feels uneasy about it, because she feels uneasy about everything right now. Reminds her of her school. Wow, talk about an awful school atmosphere. Not that I’m surprised about it.

I muttered, “Sooner we’re fucking cured of this miasma, the better.”

“Hey!”  Tattletale paused, pointing at me with a stern expression on her face.  “Don’t swear!”

Oooookay, now I’m certain it isn’t her. She sure didn’t protest at all about their language in the past. I doubt the miasma will also give her agnosia as to how little she cares about swears. Then that means Skitter is currently in the grasp of two of her enemies – supposing these are the Slaughterhouse Nine. Also, she got hugged by one of them. Icky. But yeah, the point is, she’s in trouble and she doesn’t realize that to the full extent yet. For her sake I hope she realizes it before she digs too deep of a hole.

That’s the end of the chapter. Good one! And the arc still isn’t over. This will be a long arc.

Next time: in three updates

[captainsimagines]

RENT- PART 2

In which eight old friends in dire need move in together for one year.

Warnings: angst; war flashbacks; divorce; language; mentions of ptsd/disability; mentions of suicide

PART TWO

(1) (3)

BUCKY - “RENT”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bucky yelled, shielding his head from the gunfire. He glanced around his whole team, seeing half of them lying motionless on the ground.

“I’m saving our asses!” the soldier screamed, running into the storm of bullets and shooting at the enemy. Bucky tried to control his rapid breathing. Hyperventilating wasn’t exactly useful in the middle of a war.

“God save us,” Bucky whispered before he followed his partner, spraying bullets everywhere wherever his eyesight went. His own yells were louder than any bomb but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stay hidden and let his friends fight this war alone.

“Tony!” Bucky called, ducking into a bush as a blast went off. A sudden smack to his shoulder startled him but he quickly caught his breath once he saw Tony next to him.

”We’re going to split up, okay? Hey, Barnes!” Tony yelled, shaking Bucky when he noticed his eyes staring at nothing in particular. “Barnes, snap out of it!”

Bucky shook his head and swallowed, studying Tony’s face before he finally spoke. “Yeah, I’m here.”

”I know you’re here, buddy. I just need you to stay with me.”

Bucky registered the meaning of his words, grabbing Tony’s hand and helping him up. “Ready?”

“Can’t exactly stay here,” Tony said, raising his gun and walking in front of Bucky. With each step, Bucky felt there was a large possibility he was going to make it out alive. With each step, he thought about his wife and getting home to her. Each step was a distraction, however, from the danger around each corner.

”When I say,” Tony stated, looking back at Bucky. “We split up and attack on both sides.”

Bucky nodded, guarding Tony’s back as they inched closer to the target.

“One, two-” Tony didn’t finish counting. Instead, he leapt backwards and threw himself over Bucky.

Dirt and smoke clouded Bucky’s vision as he coughed violently. He tried to push the weight off of his body, confusion drowning his senses. But it wasn’t until the smoke cleared and the screaming silenced that Bucky let his mouth fall open. He lay in shock but managed to lay Tony on his side with small shakes from his shoulders.

Looking around him, Bucky took a second and proceeded to throw up. He was fighting the urge to pass out. The moment he realized Tony wasn’t breathing and his left side felt exponentially lighter, did he finally shut his eyes in defeat.

3 YEARS LATER

“I can’t do this anymore,” Bucky’s wife gasped, grabbing as many suitcases as she could. Bucky groaned but remained seated at the kitchen table, stabbing his metal arm with a screwdriver until it whirred its natural hum.

“Babe, what are you going on about now?” Bucky called.

“I can’t stand it anymore. The nightmares, the panic attacks, the guilt you can’t seem to escape!”

Bucky dropped the screwdriver and marched to the bedroom. Bucky gaped at his wife.

“What are you saying?”

She stopped pushing clothes into a suitcase and dropped her head into her hands, “I just can’t do it anymore. I tried. For three years, I tried.”

“You’re leaving me?” Bucky whimpered, stepping into the room. She took a step back and stopped him with her hand. The gesture clawed at Bucky��s heart.

“Our relationship wasn’t working even before you went off to war,” she mumbled. Bucky’s mouth fell open in shock. “I want a divorce.”

_______

Bucky threw the screwdriver at the wall, yelling into his now vacant house. Clenching his teeth together and squeezing his eyes shut, Bucky begged to wake up. The longer his arm whirred and the stinging in his heart grew, Bucky was closer to relapsing. Shutting his arm off completely would result in personal chaos. Smoking three packs of cigarettes in under two hours wasn’t going to solve anything. And skipping his daily yoga routine would result in an upset stomach all day. 

“What am I supposed to do without you?”

She let a few tears slip before she responded. “Live.”

It took an hour for Bucky to finally sign the papers and when he did he felt lonelier than before. Bucky looked at the wall and tried to find a solution to all of this. He could swallow all the pills his therapist prescribed. They had been sitting in the back of the cabinet for months. He could also sell the house and move back in with his parents. He quickly threw that idea out of his head. 

That’s how he ended up packing a few bags for himself and staying at a motel. Being in that house was enough torment.

As he was hanging some of his shirts in the small closet, a crumbled piece of post-it paper fell from an old shirt. The last time he had worn it was high school- high school graduation to be exact. Bucky had no idea why he kept it considering his body bulked up and it was a hideous shirt, but the ten-year old piece of paper seemed to be the reason.

He typed in the number and prayed it was still in service.

”Hello?”

“Hey, man.”

_____

“Welcome to my humble abode!” Steve chanted, extending his arms out as he showed Bucky around his apartment.

“You weren’t kidding when you said it was crappy,” Bucky chuckled. Steve smacked his shoulder but laughed as well.

“Just because I said it doesn’t mean you can.”

Bucky smiled widely, setting his bags down near the couch. “Anyone else live here?”

Steve shook his head, “Nope. Just me.”

“Don’t you get lonely? Where’s Natasha?”

Steve rolled his eyes and ignored the second question. “Yeah, well. What else is new? We broke up when I was 23. I’m 28 now, Buck.”

Bucky didn’t push for an explanation. Steve went into the kitchen to grab two coffee cups.

“I haven’t seen you since-”

Bucky walked up to the counter and interrupted him. “Three years ago, I know.”

Steve nodded, “Why didn’t you want to see me or anyone else after you came back? Janet said you were going through some shit.”

Bucky winced slightly at the mentions of his now ex-wife’s name but he brushed it off. Instead, he gathered enough courage to rip off his jacket and expose his short-sleeve shirt. His metal arm was now on full display- the prototype only known by those who made it and close family. Steve momentarily choked on his spit, looking from Bucky’s arm to the coffee machine. With wide and confused eyes, Steve finally uttered a few words.

“Did you-um- did you lose it in the war?”

Bucky nodded and placed his arm on the counter to allow Steve to study it closely. Steve did just that, gawking at its spectacular detail. “It’s very futuristic.”

Bucky laughed at the comment and continued to flex it. “It’s high maintenance, though.”

“I’d assume. I won’t ask,” Steve thinly smiled.

“Thanks.”

Steve handed Bucky his cup of coffee and proceeded to explain the small details of the apartment- how he would have to use the laundry mat, how the electricity gets shut off at least once a day, and how the neighbors have a son who’s practicing the drums.

“Why are you still squatting here?” Bucky joked, his first genuine smile in the last three years showcasing.

“I am not squatting!” Steve argued, throwing a piece of fruit at Bucky. Bucky quickly caught it, throwing it back and hitting Steve in the middle of his chest.

“So, what’s new with you?” That was the question Bucky had been dreading. Still, he wanted to answer truthfully to start a clean slate with his new living conditions and roommate.

“Got divorced, man,” Bucky casually admitted. For the second time in under five minutes, Steve choked on his coffee.

Steve cleared his throat and put his cup down. “Buck, I’m so sorry. You and Janet seemed happy.”

Bucky scoffed, “No, she was right. The spark blew out when my arm blew off.”

Bucky’s words were harsh and to the point which clearly made Steve uncomfortable. However, the sudden admittance of his crumbling life was somewhat relatable. Steve decided to nod along and not respond to gruesome comment.

“And you?” Bucky asked. Steve thought for a second before he matched Bucky’s pessimistic attitude.

“Had a heart attack about the same time you got your arm blown off. Got a heart problem now,” he casually stated. Bucky’s eyes widened exponentially and for once in a long time, he found someone he could relate to. After three years of not communicating with his best friend from childhood he had realized the true magnitude of the negative side effects.

“Steve, oh my god,” Bucky choked out. Steve chuckled lightly, passing Bucky his assorted fruit bowl. Lunch.

“Hey, we all have problems. I can die at any second and you’re the real-life metal man.”

Bucky threw another piece of fruit at his best friend, happy that the atmosphere in the room went from awkward to childish.

Steve’s eyes bulged as he remembered who he needed to visit. “Buck, do you remember the girl you were in love with all throughout high school?”

“It’s been ten years, Rogers,” Bucky rolled his eyes. He wouldn’t admit it, but Bucky’s stomach flipped at the mention of the one that got away.

“You don’t remember Y/N? You had her name written all over your notebooks,” Steve teased, once again enduring another smack by fruit.

“Yeah, I remember. What about her?”

“She’s the one that saved my life three years ago.”

Bucky almost died right then and there. “Seriously?”

Steve smiled and sipped his coffee, “Seriously.”

Bucky rubbed his bottom lip and tried to keep his cool composure. “How’d she do it?”

“Shocked me back to life. I was dead already and she went against orders and shocked me one more time.”

“That’s amazing.” Bucky wanted to say so many things about Y/N. I miss her. I should have taken her out on just one date. I let her go. I should have married her.

“Bucky,” Steve gave a sympathetic look. “She really liked you, too. I’m sure she’ll like you more now.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “She’s probably too busy to even see me.”

Steve huffed awkwardly and stood there with a thin smile.

“What?” Bucky questioned, scrunching his eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m actually going to visit her later tomorrow. You’re welcome to come if you’d like,” Steve offered, dodging the last piece of fruit Bucky threw.

“You set this up!” Bucky screamed, unable to control the wide smile that spread across his face.

“I promise you, I didn’t! I was actually visiting her but then you called and well, I didn’t,” Steve uttered, wincing slightly when his chuckles rattled his chest a little too hard.

“But, yeah. I’d- I’d like to see her again,” Bucky shrugged, the blush on his cheeks giving away his excited behavior. “How long has it been?”

“For you?” Steve thought long and hard, rubbing his chin before the answer popped into his head. “Remember our last day of choir?”

Bucky groaned loudly, “Don’t remind me! Choir was absolute shit!”

Steve’s mouth fell open, “That was the only class we had our little group in! You remember, no? You, me, Y/N, Natasha, and Sam!”

“I couldn’t sing for shit.”

Steve scoffed, “You were the best! What was the song Mr. Fury always made you perform? Razzle Dazzle, from CHICAGO?”

Correction: Now, that was the last piece of fruit Bucky threw at Steve.

_____

“I’m freezing!” Bucky whined, jogging over to the thermostat with a heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Steve came stumbling out of his own room, apologizing repeatedly.

“I swear I paid the electricity bill this month,” Steve groaned, tapping the shutdown device. “I have more blankets.”

Bucky was unamused but he took the extra blankets Steve offered. Instead of going back to bed, Steve dragged the large trash bin over to the middle of the room and handed Bucky the piles of paper he had collected. Bucky gave a confused stare.

“Throw them in,” Steve stated while flicking on a lighter. “I’m not about to freeze.”

Bucky marveled at the flames. The feeling was strange but calming. Bucky hadn’t felt this way since he had met Janet or last saw Y/N. Staring at the scene in front of him only reminded him of how lonely he was. However, whenever Bucky looked over at Steve and caught him rubbing his hands together, the cancerous feeling of loneliness would disappear almost immediately.

“Rhodes,” Steve muttered into his phone. “Turn the electricity on, man. It’s fucking winter.”

Bucky stayed silent so he could hear the man’s reply over the cackling of the fire. “Pay your rent.”

That was all that was exchanged before Steve groaned into the phone and set it on the table. “Sorry, Buck. You don’t deserve this.”

“Hey,” Bucky went to stand beside him. He draped his blanket over Steve’s shoulder with him still wrapped inside as well. “Eating is more important, anyway.”

“We’re turning blue,” Steve retorted, snuggling closer to Bucky.

“How much do you owe?”

Steve grinned into the fire, “I haven’t paid this year’s rent, last year’s, and I’m probably gonna be short on next year’s as well.”

Bucky’s eyes bulged out of his head but he didn’t allow Steve to see his startled expression. “You need more roommates if you’re going to keep this apartment.”

“I have you.”

“I mean, like... Five more people,” Bucky laughed.

Steve picked up another pile of loose paper and threw it into the bin. “Tell me when you find them.”

_____

Bucky stirred awake, rustling the sheets silently. The mumbling in the living room seemed to get louder after Bucky cleaned the sides of his eyes. Sitting up in his new bed, he strained his ears to hear what Steve was saying. 

“T’Challa, you can’t do this to me!”

A heavy sigh was all the response Steve received. 

“How could you possibly think this is a good idea? How could the city be okay with this?”

“Rogers, I have allowed Rhodes to excuse your lack of rent for far too long-” T’Challa spoke, but Steve interrupted. 

“What about everyone else in this building? It’s not fair!”

T’Challa made a “shushing” sound before he responded. “Steve... this building is fifty years old and hasn’t had renovations since it was constructed. It’s a hazard.”

“I’d be homeless. Most of the people in the building would be homeless!” Steve begged. 

“My plan is to knock it down and build a new complex. If the vote doesn’t go my way-”

“Then we’re shit out of luck,” Steve finished T’Challa’s sentence. 

T’Challa could only nod. 

“I will do my best to help you and everyone facing the same fate. You’ll see.”

“Wow, don’t make it sound so serious,” Steve rolled his eyes and led T’Challa to the front door. Bucky shuffled along the cold floor with a blanket draped over his shoulders. Peeking out from his bedroom door, he caught Steve shutting the door and sighing heavily.

“Should I be worried?” Bucky mumbled, startling Steve. 

Steve cleared his throat, “We got a year to win over the city or else they’re knocking this place down and replacing it with an office of some sort, I don’t know. But we barely pay rent, most of us are drug addicts, and we live in a bad neighborhood. I wonder what they’ll vote to do.”

Bucky opened and closed his mouth, internally thanking the sudden knock at the door for stealing his breath. The sight of a young woman at Steve’s door had him smirking like a high school senior, waiting to see what the response was to a prom invitation. 

“Is Rhodes threatening you again?” Peggy stated, holding her robe closed. The scowl painted across her face wiped Bucky’s face clean. 

“No, T’Challa was just warning me of the vote happening on Christmas,” Steve replied, extending his arms over his head and stretching. Bucky almost laughed out loud, the sight of Steve showing off his stature to a woman not at all concerned laughable by all counts. 

“Merry fucking Christmas to us all, and to all a goodnight,” Peggy groaned, turning to walk away before her eyes landed on Bucky. “Is this the plus one to my dance recital?”

Steve smiled so widely that Bucky’s own jaw hurt. “Yeah! Uh- Peggy, Bucky. Bucky, Peggy. She’s my neighbor.”

“More like ‘lover’,” Peggy joked, smirking at the floor when she heard Steve’s breath hitch. Bucky shook her hand, pinching Steve on the cheek with his glove-covered metal hand at the same time. 

“Steve wishes,” Bucky chuckled, winking at Peggy. Steve slapped Bucky across the chest, the small picks here and there continuing for the next minute. Peggy watched them brawl for a while before she turned to leave, the sound of her door clicking snapping the boys out from their own little world. 

Steve groaned about ‘missing another chance’, but Bucky smiled out into the hallway. He realized that for the first time in a long time, he was enjoying the small moments in life without having to try so damn hard.

TAG LIST: 

@4theluvofall @ihavemymomentsstill @sumafamouxx 

[aliceslantern]

Nocturnal Memory, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 21

[Summary:  Dying takes a lot out of you, it's true, but when Demyx wakes up for the first time since his fight with Sora nothing's right. His memories are fragmented and he's missing his true name. And he's not the only one. An incomprehensible mystery and an inevitable war make him question what, exactly, he would do to become whole, and reclaim the music lost to him.

on FF.net/on AO3]

Demyx woke up on Yuffie and Aerith's couch with another hideous hangover. Someone—evidently, Aerith—had been kind enough to leave two little pills and a glass of water, which he waited to take until after he threw up the first time.

"Fucking no powers," he said into the toilet. "Fuck me." At least the semidarkness of the bathroom was soothing, unlike the vicious sunlight which poured through the living room windows. Undone completely by a handful of shots of some stupid stuff. Of course, he'd been the idiot who hadn't eaten all day, but that was beside the point.

Despite the physical misery, he could remember fairly well what had happened the night before. Some things were vague—he knew he'd rambled at some point, but about what he had no idea—but others were distinct. The kiss. The vague—yet terrifying—anticipation he'd felt. He sat very still on the bathroom floor. This was not good. This was very not good. The idea of being attracted to her was not what upset him, but rather, the fear of what this meant now, especially because they still had to work together on a semi-regular basis. He wondered if he'd just ruined one of the only friendships he really had.

He heaved again, but nothing came up. "Shit," he said.

When he was feeling less like trash and more like merely hell, he went back and took the two little pills. He should go back to the castle. As awful as he felt, he also wanted fresh air before it got too warm.

"Good morning," Aerith said from the kitchen, starting him. In a careworn robe, her hair was pulled back loosely from her face.

"Hey, sorry," he said hoarsely.

"What for?"

He shook his head. "I guess you don't exactly have any other medicine for a hangover."

"Strangely, I don't."

"Of course."

She smiled. She put up the kettle and gave him a glass of water. "Not that I would, you know, necessarily give it to either of you right now anyway. I'm afraid drinking too much isn't a life-threatening emergency."

"No fun allowed," he said.

"Oh relax, I'm not Leon." She fixed her tea.

"How do you even know what we did?" He asked, and a paranoia closed around his throat.

"I heard Yuffie throwing up a few hours ago. Not that she was exactly subtle."

"Maybe we should have invited you."

"Drinking never did anything for me," she said. "So you're right, I am no fun."

"Thanks for letting me stay," Demyx said. "But I better go. Before… before the others get worried. I sort of have a track record, you know."

"You sure? It's very early."

He stood, somewhat tremblingly. "Yeah, I should go. See you soon."

When he got back he slid into his bed, not caring about the hardness of the mattress for the first time. He pulled the sheet up over his head and lay, trembling, trying to convince himself that the shaking came from the hangover.

They didn't talk about it.

At first he thought it was because she didn't remember, but after a while he could tell she did, in the set of her eyes whenever they were in the same room. She wasn't unfriendly—at least no more than usual—but there was a tension that hadn't been there before. The unnecessary layer of drama made him stressed, as did the private question of whether or not it might happen again under better circumstances.

For a few weeks, as June neared its end, life continued quietly. Lea was missing; Demyx worried about him. He knew that Lea was more than capable, but usually he at least turned up to make reports. In the meantime, he trained with Aeleus, who was still struggling to get the strength back into his injured arm. Despite having an able-bodied advantage, Aeleus was kicking his ass. At least one thing was constant.

Soon after Leon assigned him to a construction project with Cid to begin fixing up some of the houses in one of the residential districts. It seemed like he had gone from being the water boy to being the fix-it boy, which felt like both a demotion and a promotion at the same time.

After the day was over, he hung around the Bailey, resting his sore body against the cool stone and looking out at Villain's Vale, which was rotting by the day. There had been talks to just tear it down, but nobody dared to go close, not with all the dark energy that had been near it.

He lit up one of the few cigarettes he still had. It felt nice to have something to do with his hands, and it helped unwind the knot of anxiety in his stomach. These construction projects, despite the physical exhaustion, let him avoid thinking for a few hours, which was probably why he was so willing to do them now. When it wasn't Xehanort, it was something else. Or someone else.

He should drop the whole thing. Pretend it never happened. Move on. He'd already done that so many times with other things, so what would one more be?

Against the sunlight, the smoke was thick and acrid. He settled on the ledge, smoking slowly as to savor it. Cid seemed to be monopolizing the limited tobacco imports they got, and besides, he didn't have the money to upkeep this habit anyway. Best just to keep it to the rest of the mostly-empty pack he had. Still, he saw the appeal.

"I didn't know you smoked," someone said, startling him out of the spiral. He looked around wildly and saw Yuffie, some fifty feet away, shuriken at her side. He froze. He felt like he'd been caught doing something wrong. He'd forgotten that her patrol brought her through here; without the careful elimination, the Heartless bred out of control in this area.

"Not really," he said. "I won some from Cid. Just kind of anxious, is all." He could feel his face burning and took a longer drag off the cigarette.

"Any reason why?" She attempted indifference, but he could see awkwardness in her eyes.

"Oh, you know," he said vaguely.

She came closer to him and paused. "It's kind of awfully beautiful, isn't it," she said. "The castle. I kind of want to drop a bomb on it. See it smashed to smithereens."

The violence didn't surprise him, but the harshness in her voice did. "…Because of the darkness?"

"Because Maleficent lived there." Yuffie spat her name. "She brought darkness to this world when it was still whole. She's the reason so many people died. Can I bum a drag?" She held out her hand; he wasn't sure he could say no, so he handed it to her. She inhaled and coughed. "Fucking disgusting. How do you guys do it?"

"Was that your first time?"

She shook her head adamantly.

He laughed. "You're a terrible liar. You have to puff, not inhale."

"Fine." She smacked her lips and flinched. "Ick."

"To be fair, this is possibly the worst thing I've ever smoked."

She sat up on the ledge next to him. "We need to talk," she said. "Right?"

He took a final, long drag and ground out the butt. The nicotine was making him shaky now, instead of calmer. "About?"

"Oh, come on, you know, I know you remember," she said sharply, but didn't meet his eyes.

Demyx paused. He took a deep breath.

"I don't want things to be weird between us," she said. "Okay?"

Any stranger than they normally were?

Her attempt to hide her expression was almost comical. Her cheeks were flushed pink. "I shouldn't have done it. I was drunk and it made things weird. I'm sorry."

He tried to take another breath and found he couldn't. He felt like he was slightly outside his body.

"Can you say something? Please?" She asked.

"I don't know what it means now," he said. "I didn't even… think—"

"It's fine. Let's just consider it forgotten."

"I don't think I want to," Demyx said.

Silence. His heart raced. "…What?" she said after a long moment.

"Oh, fuck," he said.

She turned to face him. "What? What do you mean?"

"Look, I'm just really confused, okay? Don't you have patrol or something?"

"It can wait," she said.

He felt panicked tears in his eyes and looked away. She edged towards him but looked unsure of what to do.

"It's okay," Yuffie said. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I'm sorry." The softness in her voice made it worse. Before the shattering overtook him completely he leaned over and kissed her. For a moment she tensed. "I thought you didn't want—" She dropped her thought and kissed him back more deeply.

He hugged her to him tightly, wondering if he'd just made an even bigger mistake. Her hand slid up against his chest and the other tangled through his hair. The terror was back, stronger and clearer, and a few tears slid out. This was what he thought might happen; that he would want this.

"Why are you crying," she asked. Somehow, she'd ended up sitting on his lap.

"I don't know," he said.

"I didn't think I was that bad of a kisser," she said.

He laughed weakly. He touched his wet face. "I think I'm scared," he said, and wanted to hit himself for saying that.

"You should be," she said, with a smile, but then the smile fell. "Oh—you weren't flirting—you mean that."

"I'm kind of sort of maybe having a panic attack," he said.

"Oh, shit. Why?" A pause, then simply: "You told me that night. You're a virgin. Oh my god. You're a virgin."

"No—" He couldn't stop crying. "That's not why—Go. Go back on patrol. This is a weird me thing."

Yuffie hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine." He wasn't sure about that; it felt like all of him was ripping.

"I'll be done later," she said. "Meet me at my house at sundown. Okay?" She patted his hand awkwardly and all but ran off.

It took almost that long to calm down.

The crying had stopped, and he could almost breathe normally. Another feeling twisted in him more tightly—anticipation. He choked it down. It didn't matter what he might physically want; if he couldn't stop crying at a kiss, he didn't know what might happen to him if—

"You're here," she said. He hadn't even had to knock at the door. "You actually came."

"Hey," he said weakly.

"Come in," Yuffie said, voice oddly formal. Without boots she looked even smaller than normal. "Aerith's out helping with an injury case. She might be gone a while."

An awkward pause. He felt like he had to say something. "That's too bad."

"I feel bad for them. She'll do her best, though. She always does." She looked away, and scratched one calf with the opposite foot. "You can come inside, if you want."

"I'm already inside," he said stupidly, before realizing.

She was in the hallway by the bathroom door. He'd never seen her bedroom before; it was a tiny space, barely large enough for a double bed and dresser, and dark. It had no windows, and a lamp struggled to permeate the gloom. Trinkets and clutter were everywhere, and he tried to focus on these items to quell the tide of emotions inside of him. Potion bottles, arranged by color and size; yellow feathers; a few stuffed toys, half-hidden but obviously well-loved; and some small, glowing marbles he knew had to be magical.

She sat on the bed and pulled one leg up under her. Her gloves were off, too, he noticed, and without them her hands were oddly delicate, though the nails were torn up. He sat, gingerly, next to her. "Can I ask you something blunt," she said. Her questions were sounding less like questions and more like statements.

"Okay."

"Are you really a virgin? Because you kind of panicked when I asked."

"I don't think so." He tried to steady his breathing. "It's very weird. Everything's really weird. I've slept with people but never as a real person? I'm not used to feeling anything." He spoke quickly. "Why?"

"I just want to know what you're okay with," she said.

A glittery sort of panic shot through him. "This is kind of fast," he said.

"We can just talk," she said. She took his hand.

He wasn't sure what that would entail.

"Without feeling," she said, as if repeating him. "Like… no love, or…?"

Definitely not love. Looking back at those nights was like looking through a veil, and he wasn't sure he wanted to go there. There had been nothing more than a clinical brand of lust, a curiosity as to what would come next. He tried to describe it to her.

"That's so weird," she said. "I just got excited, I guess. I haven't had anybody to kiss in a long time."

He shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Her hand felt so nice in his—her skin was dry and cool and callused and more importantly steady.

"Wait." She had gone red. "Hold on a second. Back the fuck up. Does that mean—does that mean I turn you on?" She spoke quickly, with pride.

If possible, he got redder. "I guess?"

"My god," she said. She flopped back. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"Okay. Close enough. I'm eighteen. I figured you were older if anything. One of those weirdly young-looking older people. Isn't Even, like, forty?"

He took a deep breath. "Something like that. I don't really remember." He lay down too, mostly because all of his bones had turned to jelly. He turned on his side to face her.

"This is still weird," she said. "Doesn't it feel weird to you?"

It was weird, in a million different ways. Their enmity. Now this. To him, it was night and day, especially how kind she was being now.

She rested her hand on his waist. "Is this okay?"

"It's fine." The warmth through the fabric was making him dizzy. "I want—" He began, and stopped. He had meant something like, "I want to know why you picked me," but it died in his throat.

"What do you want?" She asked in a low voice that was as casual as he wished he were.

He couldn't get himself to speak.

"Can I kiss you?" She asked.

For a while they did, in the semidarkness. It was easier when he didn't see, he realized, though still overwhelming. She slipped her leg back around his waist. Her skin was so warm. He clung to her, because her weight was reassuring and comforting and it felt so nice to be held like this. She was strong, and wiry, and if anything the utter lack of tenderness only helped. She pressed her lips against his neck and he felt faint. He listened for her breathing—soft and a little more controlled than his—and felt very, very strange.

[mdarwin]

I Was Here - Spring 2018

I Was Here

With lyrics copyright Bob Dylan, 1962; Loggins & Messina, 1971; Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, 1970

You lost your mind. You lost twenty dollars one time when you needed it most; you lost your favorite dress the next year; you lost your glasses the night you lost your virginity, that winter when the world was gaining on you. You lost the home you lived in. You lost your shit every summer. You lost your first love and you lost, the second time, as well. You lost a Prada bag, and then you found it in the trash. You lost hope; you lost teeth. I saw you lose your teeth. And don’t forget you lost control, track of time, and once or twice you lost sight. You lost your mind; I was there.

You were a genetic victor who lost everything she had the spring the virus spread in North America. Your country was first to fall, and in six days there were no countries left; in seven, no survivors left to tell you. There were busses; there were boats. There were emergency procedures; there were bombs, panic, everyone weak. The illness was in the water but became airborne, at which point the world held its breath, or maybe it was just winded. The walking bodies bled from their pores, dropped limbs from the rot, and when the angry organism of the end times reached the brains of the walking bodies, the howling began. You listened to a wailing world from indoors, and you hugged your knees and wailed yourself. But you, you did not bleed. I was there; you did not bleed.

By the time the TV went silent, the anchors you knew had been replaced, then even newer faces were itemizing what they knew about the Banshee Plague and saying it’d taken half the planet’s people, but never admitting the curtain was falling on the final act of man. You were not told but rather shown, that week, that mortality reached a statistical one hundred percent. You were alone; I was there, but you were alone.

The week the world ended, there were fires and fucking in the streets. The grid went down: no maintenance. You saw a body drop to the ground from a window, cradling two smaller, swaddled bodies. You had seen a fearful vengeance in the eyes of presidents and neighbors; with no hope left, it turned out man never did default to love. You saw disease; you saw hope estranged, you saw power collapse, you saw futures erased. When a species goes extinct on a planet passing through, does it make a sound? It did; you were there. Man wailed through the space of that week when the world of man fell. I was there; I heard you hear it fall.

Your heart beating out of your chest, you checked your mother’s home. She was gone. You stood up from her bedside where her body lay and your muscles did not fail you; strong, you stood up from the chair by her bedside. You walked the Queensboro bridge to check on your girl; your laughing, loyal girl. Along the way you checked faces, but by the time you saw the half of hers that was left, you said ‘no more faces.’ No one was left; you didn’t need to see it. Nothing was coming back. You walked home; through the quiet streets, I walked you home.

It had been torrential fear, but for only a week, and then such a sudden silence that no one could have ever known. Did you hear me in the stillness when you packed pills, bandages, combat boots for your fated trek north in this, the apocalypse of the Anthropocene? Had anyone heard me in the stillness after the Cretaceous? And when Pangea fell, in all that noise, do you think anyone heard me? You hear it now, in your sleep sometimes, noise as dense as wet velvet, meters thick. You hear me now. You hear me, child.

The odor of death was as solid as a wall, on the streets outside after the plague, as you raided pharmacies until you got to the open road. From the bookstore in midtown you added to the pack you carried the Physician’s Desk Reference; the Boy Scout Handbook; Gödel, Escher, Bach; A Brief History of Time. You ate the fruits that Whole Foods left in the extinction; you ate bulk nuts. You packed dark chocolate and vitamins. You gathered hydrogen peroxide, Dr Bronner’s, a water purifier. On the outskirts of the city you collected a can opener and packs of AAs. From the hip of what was once an officer, you took a gun.

When you found a map and readied yourself for the north, you stayed the night in a liquor store where someone, once, had stationed a battery-operated CD player, and you put yourself to sleep with rum and Bob Dylan and the tears he brought, bitter for the world and sweet for the silence that became your company. I lived in that silence, and also in the sounds that pierced it. “Look out your window and I’ll be gone / You’re the reason I’m travelin’ on / Don’t think twice, it’s alright.” It was me; I was there. We lived there together.

With your boots and your bullets and a belly full of pancakes you made on a dead man’s gas range, you were the face of fortitude, and you marched west listing north. Cars lined the roads, surely half-tanked, but they weren’t an A train and you didn’t know how to make them move. And so we walked; I moved my feet in yours. You found your antipsychotics in pharmacy after pharmacy, and you spared some room in your pack for vicodin, xanax, and penicillin. You twisted your ankle going after that pack when it slid down a bramble-covered hill, and when you took the pills that disappeared your father, the ones that killed him in darkness and broke your mother’s heart, you looked up at the sky and willed me to take you. You gorged like nonsense that night on canned peaches roasted in tin foil on a fire ignited with a barbecue tool, dopey from the drugs and eager for the sugar. You were thankful for the excesses of society that were keeping a city girl alive in a dead, still world. Then you walked on, willing that ankle to stop you, to keep your body in the south, the stinkingest land in a hot country on an empty continent in a festering world. You willed it all and me to take your body, to keep it, to leave you unencumbered by it. I was there when you cried all night, shouting at stars, and I was there when you woke up in the morning, unburdened by the volume of the tears.

I was there when the first puppy ran up. A well-fed shepherd mix, she’d been bred to trust what was now the waste of this land, but you were all that was left, walking north. She looked to you for the Alpo and the warmth that you gave her each night, in beds you passed through off the highway. You didn’t give her a name, because you didn’t know any that weren’t in memoriam, but when the second dog ran up, you began numbering them. “One!” you called, and she came. “Two” got his attention when he got too close to infected meat. Then Three, a husky like Two, and Four, a pit. Five was a retriever, and he liked to bring you ducks, greasy and satisfying over flames by the rivers you kept along. Six was the smartest of the pack, another shepherd, and when you started filling notebooks in hours of rest, you drew him, and what looked like sorrow in his eyes. You left the notebooks on tables and in microwaves; in nightstands; under pillows; one ziplocked under a rock in Appalachia. “I was here,” you wrote on the last page of each. I saw you sign each one but you weren’t leaving them for me; they weren’t for me, because I was already there.

You had gotten all the way to Minnesota by January and you’d by then lost fifty pounds and you were starting to remember me and you knew how to stay warm and you knew how to live and you knew not to die when you heard a man.

“Unnhhh… Yeah… there it is. Unh. Yeah. Okay.”

He was strangling a chicken in the backyard behind a farmhouse painted white and blue. You had approached the house for its protein offerings and bedding and maybe some fermented goods; an early evening’s ease for the body and mind. From behind a bush bordering the coop, you watched this six-foot creature toss the dead bird with a thump onto a stump with weathered axe welts in its surface. He was brolic, in a luxury flannel unknown in Brooklyn but revered on campsites, and his dark beard and curly hair showed signs of good health. And he was alive.

Silent behind the bush, you watched him lean into a low-seated wooden lawn chair with his back to you and the moist musk of indica started twisting from his face. A rifle was propped against the chair. One through Seven had been hunting by a lake a quarter mile from the house, and you could expect one or more dogs to follow your scent, and rush towards his, any minute. You were paralyzed by the potential of a living man; you were living in indecision, without a clear motive to avoid his discovery, living ability to use a firearm, or, you began realizing as his broad shoulders and what was sure to be the scent of human testosterone testified against your fear, his desire. The sun was setting. He got up and went inside the house. You stayed put, the zipper of your parka pulled back behind your pistol, its metal warm from your hand on it as you watched the candlelit house and heard him, pans, consternated shouts and a bit of unhinged laughter from the kitchen inside, and you did not hear me. I was there, but in these sounds, you did not hear me.

You stayed crouching there for another half hour, and Four found you. The noise was unignorable; the man emerged. He walked towards the cautious dog with outstretched hand and tonal promises of safety. “Hey, girl, you wanna come sleep inside tonight?” Her guttural whimpering let loose a bark, and you stood.

Your now-long hair blew in sunset wind and you regarded the man, your back so straight it spoke for you; a firm and stoic spine, clear resolve against his charms, his living human charms. He stood, still, too, and the red and purple sky watched you there for six full minutes. I watched you watch each other there for six full minutes.

He spoke first, angling himself towards you, disbelieving. “You… you seen anybody else?” Your hand on your hip did not betray your weapon beneath it, but still, you were undecided. Another minute. “Please, tell me you…” He looked at his feet, gathered himself with a quick deep breath, and raised his gaze to you again. “Please, speak English,” his face crinkling to beg.

Your hand fell to your side and he saw what it had been gripping. “Just you,” you finally gave him. You both stayed standing still as the chickens made ambient feathery sounds beside you, and Four sat panting at your heel.

He began to walk towards you, but two steps in, the sweet pit raised her hips to stand and settled her voice into a low, steady note. “Shh,” you whispered, lowering yourself to put your hand to her head, your eyes fixed on him from three feet down. Again, she sat. Again, you stood, and from behind your glasses, your eyes worked in reverse to the rest of you, to stay right on him.

“That -- that’s a good dog you got there. I got a few myself, but… they come and go. She your only one?”

“Six more coming.”

“From where?”

“Nearby. Last saw ’em by the lake down there past town.”

“And… and you? Where you comin’ from?”

“Far.”

Another silence settled. The house behind him, so big and he, too, so big, so well-rested. No bruises showing, no limp. No scratches on his face like the ones on yours that tended to leave and come back only angrier, and the worse ones on your back. That one deep gash on your ass, on the left, that took three weeks to scab. The sky was turning navy, and the white house began to look grey, the blue shutters black. Small yellow flames inside lit up the walls, with framed pictures, a mirror. He watched you watch the home, the life inside it. “Why don’t you come on in? I… I got tea in there, I do it over the fireplace. There -- uh, there’s breads. I made ’em this week. Looks like you maybe haven’t had bread in a while. And I -- I got whiskey. Some… uh, some water I can heat up, for the bath, too.”

You looked down at the ground for a few moments, felt yourself almost lose your balance at the thought of the inside of that house and at the thought of the man who lived there. You glanced at Four, then you leaned back into the night, pitched your your call to the dogs, and aimed yourself at the house. Walking past him, you said, “I’ll take some whiskey in the tea.” Then, barely beckoning back to him where he stood watching you glide over the lawn, you confirmed his suspicion. “I don’t even remember what bread tastes like.”

*

He was domestic, donning an apron to feed you when you’d finished your soak, and he prayed. Seemed more for show or maybe courtesy, but as he thanked me, you were already halfway through that first lump of baked flour, egg, and yeast that he’d plated for you. With it he’d served pickle chips, a scoop of strawberry preserves that took up half the plate, a bowl of greens you were wary of, a single Saltine, and chicken thigh and leg. The pickles you planned to leave ignored but the cracker, you knew, was a treasure, so you saved it for last. While you ate he told you how far the river was, how often he went for water, what supplies were closest, and the livestock on the surrounding farms he kept on top of. Some of the animals, he said, he’d just opened the gates -- too big to get through after slaughtering -- but the smaller ones he managed to make the most of. Sheep, goats, the chickens here and down the road, breeding, and plenty of eggs. One horse that’d died on her own lasted a while and didn’t make him sick, and he checked in once a week on the five others fenced in on that ranch. The stores, he said, were plenty good on canned stuff and he’d done what he could with the produce before taking what had rotted and burning it in the parking lots so the pests wouldn’t come, or some absurd bacteria from the old world. He’d salvaged seeds from the nursery and some dead friend had had some danker ones. When he went into town for anything, he switched out cars, checking around about which ones had the most gas in them, and keeping a list of where he left the best-running ones. Surprised you weren’t driving at all, he asked what you’d seen as you crossed the country so slowly.

The dogs had all come and were sniffing around his -- a spaniel and a lab in the house, Roxy and Al, and one beagle, Frank, was running around outside with Seven, your boxer -- as you sat with him on the couch with a tealess mug of the amber stuff, legs tucked under you with your tent-like flannel to your knees. You told him about how hard it’d been to learn as you went, no survivalist: How to start a fire without a lighter, how to keep a moving foot bandaged. The months it’d been since you saw a human face -- since either of you had seen a human face -- you’d found laughter when the dogs had, and you’d entertained yourself with stories from the old world, in libraries and bookstores. There were things you kept your eye out for -- pills, glasses close to your prescription, animals that needed help. You spent whole days in lakes, over the summer, and all day long you’d smelled the life that remained around you.

“Well, you’re here now. I’ll teach you how to drive… Maybe we could find more…” he choked. He teared up. He grasped his palms to his knees in suppressive weepy desperation, as men once did, then he looked to you. “Maybe we’re not the only ones.”

But you were never going to stay. That night, you did not let the dogs take him when he fucked you as if it were the first time of the rest of your life. He would be the last to touch you, and so for the first time since you started your way north, you shut the dogs outside the bedroom door. Inside you, he let out a song that rang through the night. He collapsed to your side, holding you, while you looked out the window at the stars and asked them how you were going to get away.

*

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said as he gave you a push up into the cab of a red pickup truck. “It’s as easy as riding a bike, I promise.” You felt the hugeness of the machine all around you, dwarfing you in size and in threat. “There’s nothing safer than an empty road. There’s no way to crash. And look -- the CD players in ’em still work.” He opened the glove box. “Looks like we got… John Denver, Decembrists, the Dead, Faces, uh… Chris Isaak, and… Fleetwood Mac.”

“Stevie, definitely.”

“Huh?”

“Rumors,” you said, pointing to it, and he loaded the disc. “I’m not afraid of crashing.” You gripped the wheel and stared it down, the first enemy to defeat here. “I’m afraid of being in control. This thing is huge -- I don’t even like making decisions for myself. I’ve never wanted to make decisions for this… giant robot creature.”

“Ha! ‘Robot creature.’ I like that. Did you ever watch Transformers?” You shook your head. “Man, I loved Transformers when I was a kid. I remember my… my mom got me a lunchbox with them on it and it was my favorite thing for like two years.”

“I never watched it, but one time this guy I dated for a little while was telling me the arc about the one -- Optimus Prime -- because when he put the soundtrack on I didn’t know what it was. He really got me invested in why this guy was so important, and then he’s telling me the story of that one big fight, with the big bad --”

“Megatron.”

“Right. Megatron. And this guy’s got me near tears with how much I care about Optimus Prime, and that’s when the music comes on, the track from the movie --”

“‘The Death of Optimus Prime.’ Man. I’da cried, too. That guy had moves.” He laughed, then the two of you sat silent for a minute while Second Hand News played maniacally from the car’s speakers, the key resting in the ignition, and he fiddled with a pocketknife in his dirty, calloused hands. “Do you ever feel guilty?” he asked, without looking up.

“About surviving?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think about it. It just is. I… I don’t negotiate with reality.”

“I… I wish I could have saved my mom. I don’t know how I would have done it, but I just wish I could have taken her place. But then I think… what if there’s a reason I’m here, and she’s not? It’s felt this whole time like it was the rapture, and all I know is that I’m still here. Everyone’s in god’s kingdom but me. Then… then you come, and you’re perfect. But if we haven’t done anything wrong, why couldn’t we have gone, too?”

“But we… we are there.  I don’t think your mom is in heaven. I think she’s in the ground where you buried her.” He looked to you with a confused ‘fuck you’ in his eyes. “Just... look at this,” you gestured to the trees through the windshield, bare and grey and resilient and actual against the modest, generous grey sky. “It all is. It all really is.” 

You sang along with me. “Thunder only happens when it’s raining…” You felt me in the wind, tickling your arm through the open window, saying ‘I am here.’ 

*

On the third day of baked goods and kissing in a cornfield, he spoke to your womb, and the future. You’d been washing the tableware of his old world in two metal buckets of river water with a small flame under one, and he leaned over the railing of the porch towards where you knelt below. “What are those pills you take, anyway? The blue ones you got so many bottles of?”

Underwater, your hands shook. You scrubbed a moment longer, then leaned back on your ankles to face him. Speaking in your vaguenesses, you said, “They keep me here.”

“Do you have, like, a disease? Oh god, I’m not gonna lose you to some bullshit like cancer, am I? Please tell me you’re not sick, baby girl.”

“I’m not sick.” You stood, wiping your brow and leaving the dishes, then walking up to the house. Leaning back on a pillar of the veranda, you stared at your feet and chewed your words inside your lips before spitting them out. “I’m ill.”

“What’s the difference?”

“I have an illness… I’ll always have it. It… it made me hear a voice, when I was younger. Inside my head. I was sick. I take the pills, and now the voice doesn’t come around.”

Like those in the world before this one always did, he apologized for your disability, for his ignorance, for stigma and for knowing he’d never understand. “We’re all a little bit crazy, anyway,” he concluded. It was a pleasantry no longer valid, offered after a series of other platitudes you’d heard ten thousand times had fallen from his lips, fumbled and contentless. It would be the last time you heard them.

“Maybe,” you said, “but I don’t know of anyone who’d ever had it as good as I had it with him.”

“‘Him’?”

“Yeah, it was this entity, and he was male.”

“And it wasn’t, like, really scary?”

“He loved me.” You tried to bridge a gap here. “If you can believe it, I loved him. There were aspects that were overwhelming, but only because it was hard to process such beauty. It was a matter of connectivity… it was like the world came alive all at once, in the same way, for a purpose -- for the purpose of the feeling of being there -- and did a choreographed dance with me in the center, and every note of the music the world was dancing to was in sync with my heart beats.” You avoided his eyes, keeping the precious memories of imbalance guarded, even in divulgence.

“Why… why take the pills, then?” This new world knew no doctors; no courts; no norms. This new world was yours, and you both knew it.

You thought a moment. You knew you needed the pills to get you to Alaska in one piece. Is there ever a right time to break a heart? “I get a little spooked when I don’t take them every day,” you finally answered, which was true. “They’re comfort. They’re the home I know.”

“C’mere,” he smothered. His arms around you, he kissed the top of your head. “I’ll drive to hell and back to get ’em for you. You’re home.” Then he stepped back, regarded you. “They won’t stop us from… You know… Starting a family, will they?”

You fucked him in the yard under the stars that night, and I saw you tell him with your hips that it would be the last time. I was out here, waiting for you.

*

Four days out from the night you drank three gallons of water while he was blowing out the candles, waking up at what was probably two and absconding into the night with the dogs, you were a county away, in the thickets and hills of North Dakota, veering into off-road Manitoba. You’d left him a note:

I’m sorry. I will always be sorry. I hope you can endure. I need you to. If you have so far, surely you can continue to. You will be fine without me

-maybe not alone.

But... it’s not me. It never was.

Love from me and mine, for all the time there is

X

Staying off the highways and away from cities now, it took some doing to find the pharmacies and the canned stuff, but you ate well enough, teaching yourself how to use a rifle by Winnipeg, and when you counted your pills, you found the number satisfactory. You counted the days of the moon, too, and it was in Saskatchewan that you bled. You reached your hand inside yourself when you saw the first sign of it and you pulled your hand out red, and your relief spilled out, spreading sideways across your face, a joyous winter squall streaking down from shameless eyes. You were done. I was there when you were finished; we closed the book. It went thud; we both heard it go thud. Inside you, thud.

**

But somewhere near Vancouver, when coastal storms that had you shivering had cleared and it was probably April again, you were wandering, fresh from a chill that had cleansed you from the bones out, and the book opened again. What was once a commune looked like a good few days of kitchen, reading, and maybe someone had once here had paint and you’d make your mark. But from the vantage of a cabin on the outer skirts of the estate, you saw the light of a fire that wasn’t yours. Unafraid this second time, you shut the dogs inside and closed the door before whispering your feet over wet and mossy ground, through the alleys lined by sequoias that made this a forest and a small city at once. Gaining on the flame, its masters showed themselves to be a man, a woman, and a girl-child, fair of hair and swaying slightly as they sat around the fire. Acoustically from the man’s lap and throat, Danny’s Song slid through the night between branches. “People smile and tell me I’m the lucky one / And we’ve just begun…”

You padded back, gave your signal of silence to the dogs, and you slept in a two-story colonial a mile away from the survivors; you closed the book and I said thud. Inside us, thud.

**

All the way north through British Columbia, you took a pill only every other day. You had calculated just enough to get you there, then release. The glacial bite you hosted in decreasing temperatures as you made your way past the border into Juneau was a background to the shiver of withdrawal you knew from moments here and there in the old world. You lost your balance for a moment… You started to see me in the stars; in the brightness of your dogs’ eyes; in the leaves that made up the ground beneath your feet and in the beetles that made their friendly way through the ground beneath your feet. You heard me in the wind; you heard me in your pulse. You knew me to be there. And I was there; I always had been, in the sparks of neurons firing as much as in objects; the world; the people I had once constituted. But it was different than before, we knew this to be true. You were quiet and slow. You harbored your sober reverence, but now you were unexpecting and undemanding. We had the world ahead of us; you never reached for a volume knob to turn me up. You had made it on your feet I walked you in to Alaska, where we once shared icy meditations, and it was a homecoming that, for years, you hadn’t dared to hope for.

A white expanse; the frozen tundra. Ahead, the frost that cleans you, makes you solid, pure; grinning child of man, among the last to make mistakes and among the first to love with no limitations. To the back of you, the stink forgotten and the faces too far to break your heart any more. I held you in the air and swum around you in winding circles of sunlight and the filling deep dark of night as you breathed, breathed, breathed. You trekked and fished and ate maple syrup on snow and you lay on your back for whole afternoons looking up at me. My infinite eyes added sight to yours, which grew clearer every day. You did not crumble; you did not quake. Every day, you made yourself warm, you made yourself fed, you were mother to nine dogs and all the while you were lover to the spaces that man left in his wake. I had been there in man; in the private parts of him and in the ways men looked to each other. Men had looked to each other when they fell; I was there. I watched you watch them fall, and I fell from their hands to the ground you stood on. I watched you stand up after man and meet my gaze.

Now, it’s a more modest home I live in, just us and a few others here to notice me in worms and in wind. I lived in those worms you watched for hours and I lived in the dirt that passed through them. I lived in your full belly after you ate arctic char; I lived in the arctic char; I lived in the arctic char where he couldn’t hear me; I lived in the hook that got him. I lived in you. You were there; I felt you you feel me live inside you.

We were here in chills and in the warmth of fires; we were here in the songs you remembered me singing to you all those years ago, back when you were sick and couldn’t stand up straight; when you knew me to be defined, holy, property. In the solid truth of Alaska, you sung to yourself, “our house is a very, very, very fine house” and in your trust you asked me no questions; in my voluminous silence, I told you no lies. When I had taken you by the hand, laid you flat and still, drooling, sobbing glitter tears and force-fed neurochemical nuclear war, we made this house. Its foundation held steady, and in the bright white of the north, you were grounded upon it when you looked out at our backyard. The white expanse looked back at you, the frozen tundra of our love. You felt me in all things, meeting me where I stood.

I was here; I watched you come to join me.

***

[seenashwrite]

Nash’s 200th Follower Celebration Challenge!

Get your spy gear ready. 

We’re gonna take inspiration from Archer, y’all. 

I haven’t personally seen this used in a challenge [at least in my circle]. It is so full of potential, from snark to sexy times to knock-your-socks-off shock. Even if you aren’t familiar with the source, the prompts are so very tasty, I can’t imagine each & every writer won’t find at least ONE to gobble up.

*** 120 Prompts!  So just one writer apiece ***     ---> YOU KNOW WHAT?? SCREW IT!  Send me THREE!!!!

But! There’s a challenging bonus at the bottom [#121] with NO LIMIT TO THE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE WHO WANT TO TRY IT! 

I’d recommend just a “scene” versus an entire fic, or tack it on to your actual entry in a weird prologue or epilogue, something of that ilk. It’s nuts. I’m not overselling the nuttiness, here. Weave some magic. EXAMPLE

Full guidelines at the bottom.

THE ONES THAT TOTALLY COULDA BEEN IN AN SPN EPISODE:

1. "Team Live Badass"? That's the best you could come up with?

2. Oh, I thought we were laughing at the dead people we set on fire. @wrenwritesometimes

3. AHHHH! The dust! It's like being shot in the eyes by a glitter gun!

4. Oh, you don't look like a whore... an idiot, maybe? Or both! Yes!      A whore-diot!  @jalove-wecallhimdean

5. --- What is this herpes business?     --- Bad joke... and a false alarm. @itswitchcraft-not-googlemaps

6. Wanna try yanking on the pipe?

7. You ass, for the love of all that's green, take me and the rabbit to the lettuce store!   @wrenwritesometimes

8. Eat a buffet of dicks.  @hannahindie 

9. --- And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go kill some evil clowns.     --- [long awkward pause]      --- Do you have an erection?

10. You're just gonna leave him with a grenade stuck up his ass? 

11. It would be rude not to eat her pie, which I assume is not only hot, but also moist... although hopefully not flaky. 

12. Nothing can make up for almost killing me over a briefcase of what I can only assume is either plutonium or a human soul.

13. Oh don't worry. He may be a vain, selfish, lying, and quite possibly alcoholic man-whore, but gambling is one vice he doesn't have.  @fanforfanatic

14. I want it on record that I think this is a terrible plan.  

15. They say the devil's in the details... and silk pajamas.

SNARK-A-PALOOZA:

16. All I've had today is, like, six gummy bears and some scotch.  @wrenwritesometimes

17. For I am a sinner in the hands of an angry God. Bloody Mary, full of vodka, blessed are you among cocktails. Pray for me now and at the hour of my death, which I hope is soon. Amen. @butiaintgonnaloveem

18. --- Every single time we come here, we have to help you get rid of a dead body.       --- Well, you've only been here twice.  @senselesssamii 

19. Swear to god, you people make me want to pump nerve gas through the vents.  @impalaimagining

20. Why is your instinctive response to run toward explosions?  @impandagrl

21. On second thought, I very much prefer to be taken alive. Just let me clear the ol' browser history aaaand...

22. Is it murder if they were my own clones? I'm seriously asking.  @littlegreenplasticsoldier

23. I've always wanted to fight on top of a moving train. @amanda-teaches

24. I've never seen an ocelot! You guys, look at its little spots! Look at its tufted ears!

25. If this doesn't work, we just paid a hundred bucks for liquid fart.

26. Oh my god - I'm gonna die in a toilet stall, just like the gypsy woman said!

27. I swear, if you throw that computer on the floor one more time, you’ll wake up in a mental ward with total amnesia under someone else’s name!  @idreamofhazel

28. You just killed, like, ten pirates.

29. -- Grilled cheese.       -- What?       -- Grill me a cheese.       -- I'm not grilling you a cheese.   ME!

30. The Russians turned me into the unholy abomination of metal fused with flesh that now stands before you.

31. --- I swear, if anyone saw me in this awful van...       --- How could they, with this illegal-ass window tint? Dude, this van is like, rolling probable cause.

32. Not really the explosive climax I thought it was gonna be.

33. There's a zoo here?

34. What in the name of pre-paid venereal disease do you think you're doing?!

35. Are you not rampaging? I thought you were rampaging.  ---> AVAILABLE AGAIN!!!!

36. Hundred people surveyed, number one answer's still on the board: Name the douchebag who's in charge!  @roxy-davenport

37. Why would you think it's okay to share that?

38. You do realize there's a finite supply of Vaseline in the universe.

39. --- So then it's settled. We're a-go on Operation... what should we call it?       --- Dick Sledge.

40.  I saved her life! Go ask that dick I set on fire!

41. You want me to take a baby to a murder?  @impalaimagining

42. You do realize you're in huge trouble - and now I have to spend my first Friday off in forever devising some bizarre punishment for you?  ---> AVAILABLE AGAIN!

43. Have you no sense of decency? That bathroom’s like a… a war crime.

44. Hey, you awake? ‘Cause this is about to get weird. @klaineaholic

45. That's disgusting - if I wanted to look at your bare feet, I'd sneak in and do it while you were asleep.

46. Better pill up - you're assisting with the surgery.

47. --- Frickin' head's poundin', I'm sweatin' booze and my mouth's killin' me!       --- You're the one who stuffed four pool balls in it. 

48. Holy shit, you geeks are badass.   @uselessace

49. You're ruining your life, you idiot! And making it hard to drop a deuce.

50. Right, because you walked into Strippers’ Discount Warehouse and said, “Help me showcase my intellect".   @butiaintgonnaloveem

51. I've had good results with Ether.

52. Hey, will you choke me a little bit?  @littlegreenplasticsoldier

53. That stolen lemur bit one of your prostitutes right in the face and she says she can't go to the hospital because she's, quote, "tripping balls”.

54. --- Jeez, you're still taping bum fights?!       --- No, now I'm into something... darker.

55. That is my foot in your face - smell the embarrassment.

56. Oh! And, uh, by the way, try not to be unconscious for too long - it's super bad for you.  @withstarryeyes

57. Both of you imagine shutting up!   @uselessace

58. Idiots doing idiot things, because they’re idiots.

59.  --- Please tell me that's a smoke grenade.        --- Okay... it's not, though.  ----> AVAILABLE AGAIN!!!!!  :)

60. Sorry - I was picturing Whore Island.  @kayteonline

61. Somebody smells like they ate the ass-end out of a northbound cow.

62. I don't know... sometimes I think I'd like to adopt a little baby... so I could abandon it at a mall.

63. Well, he died doing what he loved - getting shot. @withstarryeyes 

64. Baby, I was emotionally shattered - which turns out to be kind of a panty-dropper.  @hannahindie

65. Now what am I going to spread on my toast? Your tears?

66. Sorry, that’s just a, uh, sympathy boner. @pinknerdpanda

67. Holy shit! Yogurt is amazing! Why have I never tried yogurt?!   @littlegreenplasticsoldier

68. Seriously, call Kenny Loggins - 'cause you're in the DANGER ZONE.  @kayteonline

69. I’m afraid the lemur got into the pudding cups.

70. I'm sorry, are you addressing me? Because your authority is not recognized in Fort Kickass.  @kittenofdoomage

71. Does internet porn know you're cheating on it?  @klaineaholic

72. No, it's too dirty - it's full of whatever alligators shit out, which I can only assume is people.

73. Oh my god! What shade is that? Crack whore red?!

74. Man, if I don't get some spaghetti and meatballs, I may literally die.

75. You used-panty vending sons of bitches!

76. Thank you both for all that you did do which, again, was nothing. @pinknerdpanda

77.  Damn, dog! That’s inappropes! 

78. If a single one of these has left the building, I will personally sew you into a canvas bag full of rats and throw that bag into the river.  @littlegreenplasticsoldier

79. Who do I have to murder around here to get this damn thing to make some ice?  ----> AVAILABLE AGAIN!!!!  :)

80. I'm sorry, what's that? I can't hear you over the sound of my deafening awesomeness.  @amanda-teaches

81. Don’t try to body-shame me, dog tits.

82. Is it just me, or does it smell like finger?

83. Ahahaha, man, you never rent a mule - ya lease that surly bastard.

84. When we first started going out, I may have... injected a tracking device into your body.  @fanforfanatic

85. And I don't want another one of your sullen whores using my medicine cabinet like a Pez dispenser.

86. Because I've been lying in scorpion piss for two hours in the sun-blasted shit-hole which is Texas, waiting for a stupid truck.

87. If I cared about what you do on the weekend, I'd stick a shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger with my toes.  ME!

88. Punk-ass bitches!  ----> AVAILABLE AGAIN!!!! :)

89. And instead of doing my job, I was here - half-drunk and having amazing sex.

90. Well, no wonder this all went tits-up.

91. Right? And I know it sounds crazy, but I like them as much as cocaine!

92. Next time, remind me to get shot in the head.  ME!

93. You were the one yapping your head off about my damn teacup pig!

94. Who wants their ass beat first? And before you decide, keep in mind that I'm gradually going to get more tired, but also gradually more Berserker.

95. So you're not planning to blindfold me and hide me in a bomb shelter with limited oxygen and send my family cryptic notes about how to find me in a race against time for my life?

DEFINITELY CLASSY:

96. Who are you supposed to be, Topper Bottoms? Stern yet sensual skipper of the U.S.S. Rough Service?

97. You better pray to god it wasn't you who hit me. Because whoever it was hits like a little bitch of a girl, who was born with some kind of bitch of a birth defect, so that instead of a fist, she just has this tiny bitch of a nubbin.

98. I don't care! Having said that, would you please come into this dirty toilet stall and have sex with me?

99. Because you - prolapsed rectum that you are - are infatuated with her, whose cobwebby old snooch, by the way, I can smell from here!   @butiaintgonnaloveem

100. --- The thought of me dying gives you an erection?         --- Just half of one - the other half would have missed you. @kayteonline

101. I swear to god, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now. ME!

102. Stop - my penis can only get so erect. ME!

103. Can you not rub your dick in my mother's pantyhose, please?

104. --- Oh my god! You killed a hooker!          --- Call girl! She was a----          --- No, when they're dead, they're just hookers!

105. Vincent Van Go-fuck-yourself. 

106. Okay, we're off to get our scrotums waxed!  

107. --- Well, maybe you're lame!         --- Maybe you should shut your dick holster.

108. You’re a large-diameter dickhole.

109. First, see if he wants a beej...

110.  Water? Oh, never touched the stuff. Fish fuck in it. @kayteonline

111. --- Oh god, it tastes worse than it smells!         --- Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a guy say that. 

112. Who, me?! No! No, I've been up here the whole time, having some phone sex! Just jackin' it, on the telephone.  @fandommaniacx

113. I am literally wet with jealousy. @klaineaholic

114. Why does this chair have no seat... and WHAT IS IN HIS ASS?!  And unless it was the creepy-old-people-bondage-sex police, why would anyone break in here and shoot him?!

115. Because I have sex with actual women! My girlfriend's not equal parts the internet, a tube of Kentucky jelly, self-loathing, and a sock.  @hannahindie

116. And what part of your job, exactly, is groping my ass?  @wideawakeandwriting

117. --- Maybe you should've thought about that before you blew it!         --- I blew jack shit!         --- Name-dropper.

118. After this, I am going to go home, watch NCIS, and masturbate until my fingers bleed.   @itswitchcraft-not-googlemaps

119. --- Was that before or after you got caught fondling a teenager?        --- Well, obviously before - after, it was all French Armed Forces and dick stitches.

120. You can't put a price on good pussy.   @wideawakeandwriting

AND IF YOU ARE UP TO THE CHALLENGE:

121.   No no no no - Like, a big, sweaty fireman carries you out of a burning building, lays you on the sidewalk and you think – Yeah, okay, he's gonna give me mouth-to-mouth – but instead he just starts choking the shit out of you, and the last sensation that you feel before you die is he’s squeezing your throat so hard that a big wet blob of drool drips off his teeth, and just –  flurp – falls right onto your popped-out eyeball.

Bravery incarnate(s):  @kittenofdoomage  @fanforfanatic   @uselessace   @butiaintgonnaloveem

1. Supernatural only, please-and-thank-you [adjacent is fine, too - such as having O.C.s carry the bulk of the dialogue weight because we’re seeing the story through their eyes while, say, being hunters working with S & D or Jody & Donna or whatever your heart desires]

2. Pick your faves & any back-ups [and if you’re gonna take a run at #121] ---> shoot ‘em to me at DEAR NASH & I’ll hit you back with a confirmation 

3. Write & post your thing ---> don’t forget to tag me somewhere & use this in your first handful of tags: #Nash200

4. Have it in between June 11th - June 17th [about 6 weeks from original posting]  ---> TAKE TIL JULY!  SOUND GOOD????  ;)

5. Definitely Do: the “theme” you are most comfortable with / feel you write the best / have the most fun on - these prompts lend themselves to snark and/or sexy times, but lord knows y’all angst-devotees will find a way [that’s fine, too!]

6. Hard Pass: dom/sub; “kinks”; alpha/beta/omega; Wincest/any incest; real person fic [no Jensen/Jared/Misha/etc.]

7. Length can be anywhere from haiku to vignette to... well, keep it around the max length that you’d want to read if it were your challenge, ‘k? And don’t you dare spend more than a weekend on it - if it becomes laborious for you, holler at me, we’ll find you another prompt or you can drop out, no worries.

PS:  If you wanna stick Archer characters into the mix? Bring. It. On.

PPS: Walls of text & bulk of text not behind “read more” = An Unhappy Nash + An Unhappy Dash

P3S: And because it’s my party, if Dean is in your story and he calls someone “Sweetheart” ? If it isn’t in a jerk-face, patronizing manner, I’m gonna foam at the mouth

THANK YOU for coming along with me on this ever-evolving funtastic SPN fandom ride! -Nash.

[lyndsaybones]

In Dreams 14

Chapter 1...Chapter 2…Chapter 3…Chapter 4…Chapter 5 …Chapter 6…Chapter 7…Chapter 8 …Chapter 9...Chapter10… Chapter 11…Chapter 12...Chapter 13

GEORGETOWN, WASHINGTON DC

3:42 AM

It’s not that he expected something to happen immediately. There’s still a chalky aftertaste in his mouth and he swears he can feel the pill land in his stomach. He looks around Scully’s bathroom as if he might find some kind of sudden clarity in the ancient tiles. But there is nothing. No revelation, no sudden onslaught of memory. And the logical part of his brain reminds him not to be disappointed. It’s funny, he notes, that the logical voice in his head sounds a lot like Scully’s.

He flips the light switch and ambles back to the bedroom. She stirs as he slides between the sheets and mumbles something sleepily.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers.

“Are you okay?” she sighs.

“I’m okay,” he tells her reaching out to smooth her hair down.

TWO DAYS LATER 2:20 AM

He swallows the pill dry and again, looks around the bathroom. She’s got all kinds of odd little things in there. He notices a glass ashtray on one of the tables near the tub. Upon closer inspection, he sees that it is emblazoned with the seal of the US Navy. He knows it must have been her father’s, because he now remembers that her father was a Captain. But he also has an image of her, perched on the edge of her clawfoot tub, her hair short and curled at the ends the way it was when they were first partnered together. He can see her, rear balanced on the edge of the bath and the arches of her feet against the table on the opposite wall. The glass ashtray balances precariously on her bent knees as she takes a long drag from a cigarette.

“You okay?” he’d asked her.

“Coping mechanism,” she said as she held up the cigarette.

“Maybe you should have a drink to celebrate keeping your liver,” he teased.

“One vice at a time,” she said as she flicked the ash into the thick glass.

He takes a deep breath and can smell the smoke, rich and familiar. He opens his eyes and it’s gone, the image, anyway. As he turns off the light, he swears he can still smell the smoke.

FOUR DAYS LATER 4:14 AM

He’s returned the pill bottle to its hiding place in one of the many assorted baskets in her bathroom. He was surprised to find that most of them are actually empty and serve only a decorative purpose. He turns off the light before opening the door that adjoins to her bedroom, ready to tip toe quietly and avoid the squeaky spots in her hardwood flooring.

But as he opens the door, he sees that there is no reason to worry about waking her. She is sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed.

“Did I wake you?” he asks.

“Only every night for the last week, Mulder,” she says softly, the hurt evident in her voice. “Were you ever going to tell me?” she asks.

He doesn’t want to answer. And she can see it. She draws her lower lip between her teeth and nods. She swipes at her cheek and sniffles as she looks away, quickly laying down and disappearing under the covers. He does not return to bed and instead, stretches out on the couch and waits for sunrise.

In the morning, he approaches her slowly as she is setting about making tea and oatmeal.

“Scully,” he begins.

“You know, Mulder, things have settled down here. You don’t have to keep hanging around.”

He feels like he’s been swallowing bricks instead on little white pills.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“I think it’s time we start getting back to our own lives,” she says simply, as simply as reminding him to pick up a gallon of milk or to turn in an expense report.

“Our own lives?” he echoes.

“Yes. I’ve already put in my request to return to work. Maybe you should consider doing the same.”

She shuffles by him, mug in one hand, breakfast bowl in the other and takes a seat at the table.

“Back in the field?” he asks. He glances at her burgeoning belly, the gentle curve of it so subtle that no one would notice if they didn’t know what they were looking for.

“Of course back in the field,” she says as she blows on her mug and takes a sip of tea.

“Scully I…” he pauses. Lecturing her about her health or protecting the baby will get him nowhere. And her icy disposition has nothing to do with wanting her space and everything to do with the fact that he’s been doing something foolish behind her back. She prefers that he do those kinds of things in plain view so she’s not surprised when there’s a mess to clean up.

“How did you know what I was doing?” he asks as he sits down across from her.

“I can always tell when you’re lying, Mulder,” she says softly. “Besides, you started calling me ‘Scully’ again.”

His mind flashes on the night that she tried to leave and it is suddenly as vivid as if it is happening right in front of him. He can feel her struggling in his arms, fighting and clawing at him.

“I’m not going to go,” he says simply.

“I was trying to be polite, Mulder,” she says. “But let me be clear: You need to go.”

Another flash, this time of her unconscious on the her bathroom floor, her skin so pale and her body so weak.

“I can’t, Scully.”

She eyes him, that stern look reserved for sexist local detectives and obnoxious suspects.

“My temporary assignment still stands, so I’ll probably be on a plane by the end of the week anyway,” she says as she stands and dumps the last of her tea in the sink.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, feeling suddenly desperate.

She whirls around, eyes wide, mouth open.

“I don’t need you to protect me, Mulder. I can take care of myself.”

“What if you try to walk out in the middle of the night again? What then?” he says as he gets up and closes the distance between them.

“It was a fluke, a combination of hormones and exhaustion.”

“And the 47 people who burned to death? Was that a fluke too?”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, setting her jaw tightly.

He takes a deep breath. “There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” he says, unable to meet her eyes.

Her shoulders drop and she is searching his face the same way she would a dark corridor.

“What?” she asks. He is silent. “Mulder, what?” she asks, more urgently.

Everyone who died therel had implants, just like yours.”

“Who told you that?”

“Skinner pulled the reports for me.”

Her chin quivers and a tear slips free. She draws in a long, rattling breath and walks away.

“Scully, wait,” he calls.

“Go home, Mulder,” she replies, her voice flat and tired.

HEGEL PLACE WASHINGTON, DC The fish are all dead, which he expected. He can’t help but notice that his entire apartment looks dead as well. His things are utilitarian, basic. They exist to serve a purpose, nothing decorative here. He remembers that he’s often thought of his home as a cold, calculating mind. Scully’s place feels like a beating heart with its warm colors and rich textiles. It looks like someone lives, really lives in her home. His looks like someone simply lands there on occasion.

He drops his bag on the floor and sinks into the creaky leather couch. It’s never been very comfortable. Freezing cold in the winter, sticky and hot in the summer. He picks up the remote and turns on the TV, flipping through the news channels which are all showing the same, terrifying image. He sets the remote down and leans forward to get a better look. The crawl at the bottom of the screen reports a bombing in Dallas, Texas, unknown numbers dead and injured.

GEORGETOWN WASHINGTON, DC

“Hello?” she answers her trilling phone.

“Agent Scully, it’s AD Skinner,” his stern, paternal voice greets.

“Hello sir. What can I do for you?”

“Have you turned on your television today?”

“No, sir,” she answers.

She fumbles through the stacks of paper and files Mulder has left on her coffee table until she finds the remote and turns on the television. There’s a short lag between pushing the button and the screen coming to life, which is just enough time to set her heart racing.

“Oh my god,” she breathes upon taking in the scene before her. The front of the Dallas building has essentially been sheared off, smoke drifts throughout and the omnipresent flashing lights are simply everywhere.

“The Dallas field office is asking for every available pathologist down there as soon as possible,” Skinner says. “There are going to be a lot of bodies to identify.”

“Of course, I’ll be on the first flight,” she says as she stands, perhaps a little too fast, as she sways from a slight head rush.

“That’s not why I called, Agent,” he says.

“It’s not?” she asks, sitting back down again.

“I called because someone from Forensics will be reaching out to you and asking you to go to Dallas and I didn’t want you to feel obligated to accept the request.”

“I’m sorry?” she says.

“With everything that’s happened in the last few weeks, if you don’t want to go, I’ll have your back.”

“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I’m happy to go where I’m needed,” she answers, feeling infinitely stronger than she did just a few moments prior.

“If you’re sure, Agent,” he says cautiously.

“I am, sir,” she replies firmly. “I appreciate the call.”

3 DAYS LATER

She’d called to tell him where she was headed, which was better than he expected. He had hoped that she wouldn’t go anywhere at all, that she would let him come back so they could talk.

“It'll be two weeks at most,” she’d said, her voice already sounding tired.  

“Call me when you get there?” he asked

“I'll try, it's going to be busy,” she said, a warning tone in her voice.

He hasn’t heard from her since. Out of respect, he hasn’t tried to call her. But he wants to, badly. He did take her advice and file all the necessary paperwork to return to work. Which is why he is now tapping his foot as the elevator sinks into the bowels of the Hoover building.

As he crosses the threshold into their office, he gets a vivid flash of their last conversation there, how angry and hurt she was. The way her face crumbled and her shoulders dropped. He closes his eyes and fights the intense headache that follows the photo negative image of her face.

“I heard you were back,” a feminine voice says. He whirls around and finds Diana standing in his doorway, a pleased little smile on her face. “Are they working?” she asks, an eagerness written in her posture.

“Are what working?” he asks, although playing dumb has never once worked on her.

“Are your memories coming back?” she asks.

He can almost feel her poking around in his head, watching his body language, getting a read on him before he’ll even have a chance to open his mouth.

“They are, aren’t they?” she says, smile growing broad.

“Diana, if you were to make a list of things that are none of your concern, I should be at the very top,” he says as he walks around the desk and drops into his chair.

Her smile fades and she draws in a breath that is clearly suppressing tears.

“You still don’t trust me,” she says with a shuddering sigh.

“Nothing gets past you, does it?”

She nods, ever so slightly and tugs at her severe black jacket, adjusting her armor in much the same way Scully does.

“I assume you’ve heard about the bombing in Dallas?” she asks.

“I’ve been recovering, not living under a rock.”

“There’s more there than you know, Fox,” she says.

“I don’t know anything,” he says with a shrug.

“Start asking questions.”

“What questions?”

“Follow your gut. It’s served you well.”

“That all?” he asks.

“For now,” she says with a curt nod. “See you around, Fox.”

“Hope not!” he calls as she leaves.

The sound of her high heels clicking a staccato retreat echoes the heavy thud of his pulse in his ears. It’s so loud that he almost misses the shrill tone of his phone ringing. He fumbles for a moment, the ache building between his temples like a growing thunderhead.

“Mulder,” he mumbles, eyes closed.

“Mulder, it’s me. I need you here as soon as possible.”

His eyes fly open and he lurches up from the desk.

“Hold on, I’m coming.”