#andrew wants kevin to bleed him dry about it

[nanatsuyu]

I know vampires probably wouldn't care or be able to taste most of what you ingested or consumed that day but I like to think that perhaps because of ✨ supernatural ✨ shenanigans they would be super sensitive to it. So when I say that vampire!Kevin gets a tummy ache over synthetic blood after years of having to drink it, he's also very sensitive to anything readily filling someone's veins. ie: drugs, alcohol, etc.

Now I'm imagining a Very surly Kevin drinking from his lil fresh squeezed blood capri sun, face screwed up like that kid who kept eating a raw onion cus he was convinced it was an apple, because Andrew smoked just before coming over.

[foxy-exy]

You don’t have to say you love me (I just wanna tell you somethin’) - Kevaaron

Aaron could have predicted that pretending to date Kevin Day to get back at Andrew would backfire. He just didn't think it would backfire like this.

Another present fic for @starsandgutters !!

It started off as irritation. A prickle of annoyance. After all, Aaron thought, why was his brother allowed to have his stupid little boyfriend who gave him sappy little looks and brushed his fingers when they thought no one was looking? When Andrew spent so much energy and time driving off each and every girl Aaron had ever even smiled at?

When he woke up to Josten curled up in Andrew’s bed, he felt the anger begin to simmer in his chest.

And when he finally walked in on them kissing, Aaron Minyard knew something had to be done.

***

“I’m sick of this.”

Kevin looked up at the slam of Aaron’s hands on the kitchen counter, a ghost of a wince startling him out of his intent perusal of a book — one that looked suspiciously like some kind of soapy dollar store romance. Aaron raised an eyebrow at the chiselled man with an Exy racquet slung across his shoulders plastered across the cover, and Kevin cleared his throat and flipped the book over.

“Sick of, uh, sick of what?”

“Them. Josten being all over Andrew.”

Kevin looked mildly disturbed. “You didn’t… they weren’t…”

Aaron mimed vomiting. Imagine walking in on that. “Oh god, no. They were just making out. But it’s pissing me off. At this point, I feel like they need a taste of their own fucking medicine.”

Kevin lifted a dark eyebrow, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

Aaron considered him over the top of his laced fingers.

It wasn’t Kevin’s fault that Aaron and Katelyn had tearfully decided several months ago that the sneaking around just wasn’t worth the effort — attempting to keep their relationship up at a distance wasn’t working, so they’d parted ways. And it also wasn’t Kevin’s fault that he was now the only one who wasn’t related to Aaron that he actually exchanged more than two regular words with.

But the plan that had been quietly brewing in the very back corner of Aaron’s head for several weeks now was, admittedly, immensely helped by Kevin being Kevin. The fact that it was Kevin — of anyone Aaron could hatch this particular plot with — would piss Andrew off like no other.

And ultimately, that was the utmost goal.

“Kevin, what if I were to tell you…”

***

“What.”

“Look, I’ll help you with studying. Or — or something. I don’t know, what do you want? I’ll get you merch for your favorite team. Something for Knox, or whatever? You can put it on your little shrine.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kevin said, but he suddenly looked a little pinker than he was before. “I don’t have a…a shrine.”

Aaron opened his mouth to make a comment about how he didn’t know what else the entire inside of Kevin’s wardrobe was supposed to be, but now was the time to let things like that go. “I know Andrew and Josten piss you off too. If they figured out they needed to chill out with each other, maybe they’d do more practice with you.”

Kevin looked to be considering the proposition, finally, narrowing his far-away eyes thoughtfully down at the shirtless Exy player, only slightly concealed on the counter by one hand. At last, he said haltingly, “Couldn’t you…ask someone else?”

The uncertainty was Aaron’s in. He pushed forward, throwing another Kevin bait into the mix. “If you do it, I’ll practice extra with you too.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed again, snapping up to sharpen on Aaron’s face. He had him. “I don’t know if you could keep up.”

“Oh my god, you asshole, that’s the point. I’ll put in more effort, you can show me how.”

“You’ll join night practices?” Kevin tilted his head.

A twinge of nervous anxiety in Aaron’s stomach. “I mean, I can’t do it all the time, I have to study, because unlike the rest of you all, my classes actually matter outside of a minimum GPA. But sure, whatever. Sometimes I’ll let you drag me along. If you do this.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kevin sighed again, as he stuck out his hand for Aaron to shake.

“So is your book,” deadpanned Aaron.

(Though if he had to chew his lip nearly to bleed to bite back a smile when Kevin dove to escape with his smut novel with a sputter and a glare, it was no one’s business but his own.)

***

“Greek salad and the turkey sandwich, here you two are. Enjoy.”

Kevin was sporting a sour scowl strong enough to wilt the salad the cafe waiter had placed in front of him — like getting treated to lunch was the lowest part of his week.

Maybe it was, he’d probably prefer to carry out this plan on the court. After all, Kevin preferred to do most things on the court.

Now that Aaron thought about it, Josten preferred the same. Perhaps the next part of this plan could happen on the court. At least Kevin would look less like he wanted to be five miles away from him, which really ruined the entire point of this exercise.

“They usually get coffee here around this time, so we just need to be a little convincing when they show up,” Aaron muttered, once more glancing furtively over his shoulder for Andrew and his annoying redheaded shadow. “But before they get here, Kevin, you did agree to at least pretend to fake date me. Maybe drop the murder glare, it’s not very romantic.”

“What am I even supposed to do?” Kevin hissed, but his glare dropped in favor of the same flavor of embarrassment Aaron recognized from his Knox shrine, eyes darting to Aaron’s face and back away, on repeat.

Aaron scoffed. “You’ve dated before. You were dating — what’s her name, Thea, weren’t you?”

“Not like this,” Kevin mumbled, beginning to shred his napkin.

Aaron watched him shower paper confetti across the tabletop, biting back his own surprise. Granted, Aaron had only seen Thea once or twice before Kevin had ended things with her, and their relationship had never seemed anything like Aaron’s often short lived but whirlwind style romances. Kevin and Thea had read aloof power couple at best, and… dangerously close to toxic old Raven headspace for Kevin at worst.

But still… Kevin Day, unsure of dating. Unsure of himself. A strange sight indeed.

“Well. We’ll figure it out. First, here.” Aaron slid an open palm across the table, and Kevin stared down at it like it was a foreign object.

“Hold my hand. It’s not going to bite you.” No movement, but Aaron knew how to play to his audience. “Or are you not up to the challenge?”

Kevin huffed and slapped his hand down, clamping his fingers around Aaron’s wrist. His hand was very large, and enveloped most of Aaron’s, but the death grip was anything but amorous.

“Prime boyfriend hand holding, Day,” Aaron said dryly.

“Prime plan, Minyard,” Kevin parroted back, as he picked his fork back up, raising his eyebrow. “Have fun eating that sandwich with one hand.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not on the first date, honey,” Kevin smiled around his forkful.

“Oh, of course. I’ll wait til the second to jump you, I’m not a slut, sweetheart.”

The slight choke brought a wave of triumph, as Aaron also managed to pick up half of his slightly soggy sandwich and bit into it.

Kevin was giving him A Look, and Aaron flipped him off with his sandwich hand, smirking.

Even if he’d had another option for this plan, Kevin was fun to poke at. It had been a long time since they’d last properly talked. They rarely spent time alone — Andrew was the Minyard Kevin was most interested in. Aaron’s preoccupation with Katelyn and with his schoolwork had meant he’d rarely spent much time speaking to him, anyway, let alone trading snarky insults.

Kevin speared an olive and stared at it. “So… aside from… holding hands. What are we planning on doing?”

Aaron tried to cough down dry turkey. “We just need to fool Andrew into thinking we’re an item, it’s not that hard.”

“But what kind of terms, Aaron? How far are you expecting…oh shit.”

(Read more on AO3 here!)

[nekojitachan]

Hmm. So... the last week or two (two?) have been... interesting. Work go kablewy (that a word?) because of... things... (nothing bad for me, just... things... life is strange), head has been very owwiie, and have had some not very good days, to be honest.

But getting a lot of writing done! Including this - another part of the Raven!Andrew soulmate story that doesn’t exist.

Uhm, past sexual abuse is referenced, Nathaniel/Neil’s past is vaguely referenced/hinted at, Andrew’s past is vaguely referenced. Think that’s it for the warnings. Oh, and Andrew’s violent thoughts.

I should come up with a title for this at some point.

Oh, and rest of the story can be found here.

*******

Andrew stared at the visage on his laptop’s screen; the smile on Nathan Wesninski’s face was slightly smug as if he knew a secret that he wasn’t willing to share, his glacier blue eyes devoid of emotion. According to various internet searches, Nathan was a self-made man who owned several businesses in and around Baltimore, who gave regularly to charity, and had a wife and a son.

He also had persistent rumors of being connected to some unsavory individuals, but nothing that could be substantiated. Most people put it down to simple jealously – Wesninski was a man who’d built his own fortune, married his soulmate and had a talented son. People loved to find something wrong with a man so ‘blessed’.

Except he was somehow tied to the Moriyamas, whom Andrew was slowly learning weren’t entirely on the up and up, his lovely soulmate had a dead look in her eyes which Andrew knew all too well, and his son bore multiple scars, had a strong distrust of soulmates and was being treated as chattel.

‘Blessed’ wasn’t the first word which came to Andrew’s mind when he thought of Nathan Wesninski.

He closed the browser and forced himself to work on his class assignments; university wasn’t much of a challenge, but one of Tetsuji’s assistants checked to make sure he (and the rest of the Ravens) turned in their work and that they weren’t failing any classes.

There was almost half an hour of ‘study time’ left when he finished with assignments for the day (for the rest of the week, actually); he got up from his desk, which made Ben look at him. “You done already?” his partner asked, tone a bit envious.

Andrew nodded as he headed toward the door; Ben appeared surprised that he’d received some sort of answer and turned back to his statistics book with a slight smile.

There weren’t many people wandering about the Nest at that time since the players usually took advantage of any break they were given, so Andrew wasn’t surprised to not run into anyone along the way to the Black Hall nor to find Riko and Kevin all snug in their room. Kevin opened the door when he banged on it, expression confused when he saw Andrew smiling out in the hallway.

“Uhm, is everything all right?”

“I came to chat,” Andrew said as he shoved his way inside. “Not with you, #2.” He ignored Kevin calling him an asshole and strode toward Riko, who was reading an economics textbook. “With the man who can make things happen.” Or so the prick liked to think.

“Hmm, now that sounds interesting,” Riko drawled as he set the book aside and sat up straight. “What does white trash like you want? An early taste of Nathaniel?” He tsk’ed while waving his right index finger about as if chastising a naughty child. “Not until you live up to your end of the bargain on Friday.”

Andrew had to focus on Aaron, on keeping his brother safe, to prevent himself from bashing the bastard’s head in with the book on the bed. “It’s about the game on Friday,” he said as his grin widened, as he thought about using his racquet to eviscerate Riko and a good bit of his own team. “I want you to turn a blind eye to something for me during it.”

It was Riko’s turn to appear confused as he studied Andrew. “What? The refs can’t ignore you pulling something stupid out on court.”

“Not them.” Andrew reached into the right pocket of his track pants to pull out the bottle of his detested pills. “I’m going to play unmedicated,” he said as he gave the bottle a shake.

“That doesn’t sound like a good-“

“Why?” Riko asked as he cut off Kevin’s protest, his gaze intent on Andrew.

Andrew’s lips twitched even wider as he rattled the bottle some more. “Because it’ll make me play better, make me fight harder to win.” Because he wanted a few hours where he could feel his own emotions without the manic taint of the damn drugs, could be free of them, even if it was on an Exy court.

An Exy court with his soulmate nearby.

Riko studied him for a few seconds then grinned. “I’ll be disappointed if Rutgers scores a single point in the second half on Friday,” he said before he laid back down on his bed.

And Andrew would be disappointed if the prick didn’t get his throat crushed by a racquet to the neck during the game, but one couldn’t have everything, could they?

Taking that as a sign of both approval and dismissal, Andrew turned around to leave without saying another word. While he was in the Black Hall, he stopped by the break room there and snagged the good granola bars (chocolate chips) and a few energy drinks.

Moreau was back to full practice that day, but Andrew didn’t get a chance to talk to him; the backliner was never far from Nathaniel’s side, lately. Andrew suspected that last Friday night had something to do with it, especially when he was given virulent looks by the French bastard. He’d be offended by the obvious dislike, but he didn’t give a damn what Jean Moreau thought about him.

He didn’t give a damn about much, and wished he could include a certain redheaded backliner in that statement as well.

Still, while he spent too much effort studying the Scarlet Knights’ statistics and past games (any effort was too much), he noticed that the bruises on Nathaniel’s too pretty face were fading and that the rest of the Ravens (except Moreau) were giving the young backliner adequate space.

Hmm, it seemed that no one wanted to end up like Lev Federov.

Andrew also noticed the narrow looks Nathaniel cast his way from time to time, as if his soulmate was trying to figure him out. Every now and then he would grin widely at Nathaniel, which would make the redhead mutter something in French and stomp away with his dour shadow trailing along. There would be a pain, sharp and deep, inside of Andrew’s chest as he watched them leave together, until he reminded himself that Nathaniel was his soulmate, not Moreau’s.

Then he’d be so disgusted with himself he’d stalk off to the exercise room so he could hit a punching bag until the urge to destroy something finally eased.

Friday arrived, and Andrew made a game out of thinking up a different ways to kill everyone he saw wearing a #1 Ravens jersey as he went to his classes; he considered it a worthwhile mental exercise. He was distracted from imaging the guy in front of him two rows down in Biology class being slowly whittled away by razor sharp vegetable peelers when Aaron interrupted him by dropping into the seat next to him.

“Hey, real quick, hope you win tonight and Nicky sent this along for you in the monthly care package. Give him a call, okay?” He dropped a plain box in front of Andrew then left, headed to where his friends were seated.

Andrew frowned at the ‘care package’ since Nicky sent one to each of them (and why did he have to talk to the pest?), ready to throw it at his negligent brother until he picked it up and sensed the contents sloshing about inside. Finally, Aaron had come through for him; he slid the box into his backpack then proceeded to ignore the lecture.

He made sure to stash the two bottles of whiskey (cheap, but beggars weren’t about to complain) in his closet when he got back to his room and Ben was distracted, then joined the rest of the team for ‘game-prep’ (going over stats yet again, Tetsuji’s wonderful ‘win or be known forever as scum’ speech, endless warm-up and drills, and then the damn game).

He was half-tempted to drain one of the bottles dry first.

Instead, he clenched a hand around his bottle of pills before he took half a one, just enough to get him through the next couple hours, for the manic buzz in his veins to fade before the start of the game. He wished that he could flush all of them down the toilet, but he’d already tried in those first few months to go without them and failed miserably.

There was no coming off them while locked up in a bathroom for a few days, like he’d done with Aaron.

He didn’t feel the insidious, awful artificial euphoria begin to bleed away until well into the first quarter of the game, as he sat on the bench and watched the Ravens run the Scarlet Knights ragged out on the court. Rutgers might be one of the better ranked universities, but they were late in putting together an Exy team; they had a few good players, but not enough yet to be a serious contender.

Ivanova was able to keep the score low, especially when she had Hebig and Moreau helping her with defense. As much as it annoyed Andrew that the tall Frenchman was Nathaniel’s partner, the man was a good backliner and meshed well with the others, and was near perfect when Nathaniel was out on court with him.

Andrew had hoped that as the drug burned out, he’d be less fascinated with his soulmate, would realize how foolish he’d been to be drawn to him, to think that he could- to think anything about Nathaniel. Yet as he sat there, slightly numb but no longer filled with false emotions, he couldn’t help but be conscious of the lean figure dressed in black and red a few seats way on the bench… conscious of his presence and how the young man made him feel.

It was something so powerful yet fragile at the same time, such a protective, overwhelming urge, and it was all for Nathaniel.

Andrew was so fucked.

He sat off by himself during the halftime break, mentally reviewing how Rutgers had played during the first half, while Tetsuji berated players for their mistakes on court and reviewed plays for the last two quarters. Feeling the sensation of being watched, he glanced up to find Nathaniel gazing at him; his soulmate turned his head when Andrew met his eyes.

Riko clapped him on the shoulder before he stepped out on court and nearly got a racquet smashed down on his head. “Remember, shut the goal and he’s all yours.”

Andrew bit back on a retort that his memory was fine, mostly because he couldn’t help but add ‘unlike yours, you useless prick’.

Rutgers must have spent their break being yelled at, too, since they came back on court determined to redeem themselves, not that it did them any good. Andrew thought of Nathaniel bruised and held down, about him being a ‘reward’, then let his world narrow down to the ball and who had control of it. As that person approached his end of the court, his memory, usually a curse, pulled up their stats and playing style to help him prepare to defend the goal.

That was, if he needed to defend it; Loiseau and Bautista did a decent job of driving away the Rutgers players in the third quarter, then Moreau and Hebig took over for the last one. As always, Moreau put his size and strength to good use to block the opposing players from reaching the goal, and coordinated the defense with Hebig. Andrew didn’t exactly relax for the last part of the game, but he allowed himself a deep breath and the thought that his deal with Riko might not have been so insane after all.

That he could actually keep Nathaniel safe.

He was exhausted by the end of the game - exhausted, sore, covered in sweat and beginning to feel the first twinges of withdrawal, but he’d held up his end of the bargain: Rutgers hadn’t scored a single point in the second half. The crowd roared in victory as the final buzzer rang, and all he wanted was to go shower then find someplace quiet to curl up.

First he had to suffer through the stupid post-game handshake (touching all those people) then the locker room; at least Tetsuji saved the game review for the next day and everyone already knew that Riko and Kevin would do the post-game interviews. All he cared about was washing off the stink and some of the soreness with a bunch of hot water, and was one of the first in the large wash room.

When he came out, it was to find Riko talking to an upset Moreau (with no Nathaniel in sight); Riko flashed him a ‘thumbs up’ gesture before the prick sauntered away. Intent on reaching his locker so he could change, Andrew figured he’d deal with the backliner later and went to walk past him, only to lash out when Moreau grabbed his shoulder.

“Listen, if you touch him I’ll-“

Andrew spun around and fisted his hands into Moreau’s sweaty jersey then slammed him into the nearest wall; he had to yank on the material to pull the tall bastard down to somewhat face level. “Did I touch him last time?” he gritted out in a low voice so none of the Ravens gathering around them would overhear. “Did I?” When Moreau gave a reluctant shake of his head, Andrew tugged some more on the damp, black material. “I’m doing this so no one else gets him.”

Moreau appeared stunned by that claim, then quickly resumed scowling. “I will gut you if you hurt him.”

There was a slight bit less venom in the words that time, so Andrew took that to be a general warning for show.  He clicked his tongue as he pushed away from the backliner. “You’re spending the night in my room,” he called out as he walked over to his locker to get dressed, aware of the other Ravens staring at them.

For once ‘glad’ of the attention, he figured let them find out that Nathaniel was ‘his’ so he wouldn’t put up with anyone disagreeing on that front.

He was given a lot of sideway glances while he changed then walked out of the locker room, but no one said a word. He pushed aside the growing sense of nausea from withdrawal as his body clamored for another pill, for a hit of artificial mania, determined to face Nathaniel as himself.

When he reached Nathaniel’s room, he knocked twice then entered; Nathaniel sat on the bed in a defensive huddle, his arms wrapped around his long legs, dressed in one of Moreau’s jerseys and an impressive scowl on his face.

“And you said you’re not like the others. Liar.”

Andrew arched an eyebrow at the amount of scorn and hatred directed his way right then, impressed despite himself. “All I did was walk through the door.”

“You made a fucking deal with Riko for me!” Nathaniel shouted as he unfurled enough to snatch up a book from his nightstand and throw it at Andrew; of course he had good aim, Andrew barely managed to bat it aside in time. “For every week!”

“Every week I manage to nearly shut down the goal,” Andrew confessed.

Nathaniel produced a ragged laugh as he tucked himself into the corner of his bed. “Yeah, now you take playing seriously, when it gets you something, huh? When you get to act like the mark on your arm means you own someone when it doesn’t, it doesn’t mean anything other than you’re an asshole and the Fates hate me and I wish I could just burn it off and have everyone leave me alone!” He’d started out yelling at Andrew but ended up practically tucked into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head, his tone one of misery.

A misery which Andrew understood, considering all the times he’d wished much the same about his soulmate mark, after all the grief Drake had caused him over it, after believing no one would want him because of Drake and the others. Then what did he find? A lovely young man bearing terrible scars on his body and soul who was so much like him that it hurt.

Andrew had hoped he wouldn’t feel anything as he stood before Nathaniel with the drug (temporarily) out of his system, but he’d been deluding himself on that front. The protective urge he’d experienced earlier returned so strongly that he moved before he became aware of it, was kneeling on the bed before he could tell himself to stop.

Nathaniel reacted to his presence immediately; he began to sit up, to move his arms (to lash out), but stilled when Andrew cupped the back of his neck, his blue eyes wide with a mix of panic and fear.

“Nothing but this,” Andrew assured him, angry at himself for causing that fear. “I swear. Okay? Yes or no?” He just wanted to calm Nathaniel down.

His soulmate was quiet for a couple seconds, enough to make him begin to pull away. “Yes,” Nathaniel breathed out, his expression now wary as if he waited to see what Andrew would do next. Despite the strain on his tired muscles from leaning forward, despite the urge to sink his fingers in Nathaniel’s thick hair, despite the growing sense of nausea and dizziness, Andrew remained still and focused on the slowing pulse beneath his thumb.

“Why are you here?” Nathaniel eventually asked as he continued to gaze up at Andrew. “What do you want?”

He ignored the second (dangerous) question. “If I’m here, the others aren’t.”

“Are you serious?” Nathaniel scoffed, then frowned when Andrew remained quiet. “You’re really going to try to shut down the goal every game then come here and only sleep, just to keep Riko from handing me off to the others?”

He didn’t need to sound so doubtful about everything; if Andrew was the sensitive type, he’d be offended right then.

“You don’t snore like Ben does,” Andrew drawled as he forced himself to let go of Nathaniel and move. As he walked away from his incredulous soulmate, he motioned toward Moreau’s bed. “Tell your partner to get a spare set of clean sheets for me so I don’t have to sleep in his smelly bed.”

It took some effort, but he managed to make it into the bathroom without walking into the door or tripping over his feet; once inside with the door closed, he fumbled for his pills and choked one down, then slumped against the sink with the water running until the nausea was under control. He hated having to take the damn medication again, but Nathaniel might object if he spent the night puking his guts out.

When he finally left the bathroom, it was to find Nathaniel beneath the covers and facing the wall, and what appeared to be a set of clean sheets folded on top of Moreau’s bed. Andrew only spent a moment regarding what he hoped was a peace offering of sorts before he worked quickly to strip and remake the bed, tired and more than willing to fall asleep.

Maybe it was from working so hard during the game, maybe it was because his soulmate was nearby, but Andrew slept without any nightmares that night. He woke up when Nathaniel rose early and left the room, then got half an hour more sleep before he had to get up for another ‘fun’ day at the Nest.

Moreau caught up to him later in the day, when he was fixing a coffee to take back to his room after their morning practice; the other Ravens in the break room (including Ben) were quick to leave, obviously expecting some sort of fight between the two of them.

Andrew gave him a grin as he hopped onto the counter to sit. “Got any croissants on ya, Valjean?”

Moreau sighed as he fetched two mugs from a cabinet. “Do you try to be so annoying or is it natural?”

Andrew gasped and clutched his free hand to his chest. “Me? Annoying? I guess I’ll have to really lay on the charm now.”

“God forbid,” Moreau muttered as he glanced toward the door as if to ensure they were alone. He was quiet as he made two cups of tea (hmm, who might the other be for?), then approached Andrew with due caution. “You’re protecting Nathaniel,” he said, his deep voice quiet and expression serious.

“Why would I do a thing like that?” Andrew asked as he kicked his feet back and forth, uncaring about the heels of his sneakers hitting the lower cabinets.

Moreau frowned then set the mugs down so he could tug on the left sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal the fleur de lis and wave pattern of his own soul mark – the mark which was only revealed when he showered. “Because it’s what we do, we protect them.” His black eyebrows drew together as his frown deepened. “Well, most of us.”

Hmm, not people like Nathaniel’s father, maybe? But one thing at a time. “You know your soulmate,” Andrew accused as he held his mug of coffee beneath his chin, curious to see if Moreau would tell him the truth.

The backliner was quiet for a moment then nodded. “He plays Exy,” Moreau whispered with a gleam of fear in his eyes. “I can’t let Riko know.”

No, or Riko would use Moreau against the man, much like he’d used Nathaniel against Andrew (had he suspected they might be tied together because of their pasts?). “What does Riko have against you?” Andrew asked as he leaned forward. “You and Nathaniel? Who’s Nathan Wesninski, really?”

Moreau shook his head as he tugged down the sleeve of his shirt. “Not here,” he hissed out as he once again glanced toward the door. “That’s… not here.” He picked up the mugs and stared at Andrew as if searching for something, then nodded. “But if you’re serious about Nathaniel….”

“I want answers, so tell me where ‘not here’ is,” Andrew commanded as he poured his lousy coffee onto the floor while he held Moreau’s gaze.

Moreau nodded again as if answering an internal question. “Later. Riko and Kevin will be gone to play for their professional team, and Nathaniel to work on translations. I’ll let you know when to stop by.”

“Ooh, it’s a date,” Andrew drawled as he jumped to the floor and splashed coffee everywhere. “Just so you know, I don’t put out, I’m not that kind of guy.” He sauntered out of the break room to the sound of Moreau muttering in French.

They were going to be besties, he just knew it.

*******

Oh boy is Jean in for it now.

So... I’ve being going back and forth on this, but I’ve set up a discord channel (have had it for a while, actually). Don’t know if people would be interested in it as a place to get a look at fics, stuff in progress and things like that?

[shesdangerace]

The Long Winter

Happy Holidays! This is the full piece I wrote for the @aftgholidayzine which I still URGE you to check out and buy for Lost-N-Found Youth. So many wonderful contributions were made, and everyone involved made me feel so welcome. So please please support the zine, and I hope you enjoy the tale of Andrew Minyards’ first winter post-NeilPalmetto

(also available on AO3) 

He’s standing in Boston Logan International Airport at some terminal or another. There’s snow outside the windows and Christmas everywhere else. Andrew has his noise cancelling headphones on again, and the silence is as effective as usual.

It’s December, obviously, and he feels it in his bones where the cold leaks through the glass surfaces of window and skin. His eyes feel it too, held open and vulnerable by the winter. Standing inside the airport doesn’t help much. His body always did have trouble letting go.

Someone a few feet away starts to scream, a child. Shrill enough to break through the noiselessness and Andrew wonders not for the first time if he wasted his money, then if he wasted his time making his money, then why he’s wasting his quiet thinking about it at all.

The child is still screaming but it’s a dull sound in the background of Andrews' own dullness, staring out the window with his hands in his black coat pockets.

He’s preparing himself for feeling. For fear. He doesn’t have time to scream. Never has.

In the corner of his eye he sees a woman, with a bag full of Christmas presents at her feet as she sits speaking into her phone. She looks like the past. She reminds him. So he keeps her hidden in the corner of his eye. Before him is the airplane he will soon be boarding, and there’s a man in a flight attendants’ uniform and a Santa hat. He reminds Andrew too.

So instead he stares at the snow, at the white white white and the footprints and the bare dark ground where it’s been shoved away. He stares at the window itself, where the winter has crept along the glass like spectral fingertips, pleading.

He remembers why he’s here.

He’s not quite prepared yet, but the fear is nearing anyway, and the woman and her presents are gone. The dim reflections in the glass are melting together as they move. Andrew lets the noise back in, follows the mass.

He keeps his eyes firmly closed, his fists tightly clenched, and his memories auburn and orange. By the time Andrews' feet touch dry South Carolina ground, he’s ready to face the fear.

-

Neils' eyes when he opens the store wrapped camera box are cliff edges over an open ocean.

---

It’s just turned January, there are Foxes yelling, and it’s all rather excessive. There’s silver and gold confetti in the air and booze spilled onto the pavement outside Fox Tower. On Neil’s face are a giant pair of metallic pink glasses, a quiet grin, and lipstick stains the colour of Allison and Dans’ laughs. Andrew is relatively sure he has glitter in his hair.

It’s something like a reunion, new Foxes not included because frankly who cares. Robin would have been the only exception if it weren’t for the flu she’s currently bedridden with. Kevin is neck deep in a bottle of something, Nicky is attempting to lift Aaron and spin him, and Matt is running around the group in circles hollering. Renee stands quietly next to Andrew, watching him watching Neil being crushed by the dual embrace of Allison and Dan.

It’s almost like going back in time.

Andrew lasts another half an hour with his bottle of whiskey. Someone brought speakers with them, and the noise makes it easy to hide. He’s thinking about his flight today, about Aarons' right before his, about Germany and Exy stadiums and distance. He’s thinking about how much he doesn’t want to think. For once, Andrew would rather feel.

All it takes is one finger linked through another and through those stupid glasses Neil looks at him and smiles. They leave those glasses behind.

Andrews' new year starts at 1:00am on the rooftop, when Andrews' hands smear with lipstick and Neils' sigh bleeds into Andrews choked breath, and Andrew feels feels feels.

---

‘I miss you.’

It’s still January, and Andrew is knee deep in bitter snow outside his building.

‘I’ve never had to miss someone before.’

He watches his exhale hit the air, watches it spread like a cloud of smoke.

‘At least not like this.’

Andrew reaches his hand in front of his face to watch his gloveless fingers turn red.

‘I think I hate it.’

His eyes close with the heaviness of his lashes, and he lets the snowflakes fall from them as they please.

‘It’s just…not the same.’

Maybe he should have worn a coat.

‘I think I’m lonely Andrew.’

He definitely should have worn a coat. Boston winter is so unforgiving.

---

The snow is falling into Andrews' hair and it’s early February. His team issued practice bag swings at his side, reminding him with every nudge against his body that this day has been long enough already. He catches his reflection in the glass of a bookstore and sighs.

He doesn’t particularly feel like doing this.

There’s a balloon drifting past him, lost by a slender young hand as its owner wraps her arms around her new fiancée. He finds himself caught by that balloon, watching it fade into the open night sky, forgotten.

The air is biting at his skin and there are no stars out tonight.

He really doesn’t feel like doing this.

He listens to the crunch of his boots in a fresh snow bank as he passes, stares ahead of him at the patches of dusty white on the sidewalk. Everything in the winter is so bare.

A gust of wind parts around him, leaving tiny icicles in Andrews' lungs. He can see the sign up ahead.

When he opens the door the ice on the ground blows in with him, and when he sits down opposite a steaming hot chocolate he looks up into his own reflection.

-

It’s not like Andrew doesn’t already know, it was obvious from the phone call, Aaron’s voice saying ‘I need to tell you something. I think it should be in person’. He still feels though.

‘She said yes.’

And he looks happy and scared and defensive all at once, but Andrew can only say:

‘I’ll be there.’

The silence that follows is as fragile as the look on Aarons' face.

It’s been a while since the last time they did this, just the two of them. Since the last time they looked each other in their hazel eyes. There’s still snow in Andrews lashes. The ice in Aarons' has already melted.

‘Do you miss him?’

Andrew’s not sure why Aaron even bothers asking when he doesn’t seem to want to. He has that sharp turn to his lips. He must be looking for something. Andrew doesn’t deign to answer, and the next words that come seem to be more resented than the last. More fearful. More longing.

‘Do you miss me?’

What an interesting, stupid, pointless question. Andrews' reply comes with a slow blink of his eyes and a twitch in his right hand under the table.

‘Do you miss me?’

‘No.’

There’s something to be said about being twins. Because for two brothers raised apart, they have remarkably similar tells when they lie.

---

Mid-February finds two young men, one blonde one burned, buried in the snow. They’re not making snow angels because they don’t believe in them.

It’s a Saturday morning, and Andrew spent the day before watching Neils' face change. Sometimes his smile would match the bright glare of the snow. Sometimes his eyes would match the frost. Sometimes the turn of his lips would match the dark winter sky.

Today, nothing about Neil matches the world. His presences disrupts the stillness of the cold like a blazing sun.

‘Shouldn’t you have practice this weekend Captain?’ Andrews' voice is muffled by the snow, but they’re so close underneath it all that it doesn’t matter.

‘Not exactly.’ Neils' voice says the words while the set of his sharp jaw says a little bit more.

‘Why?’ escapes Andrew like a breeze.

Neil doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Andrew with something terrible in his eyes that looks an awful lot like a feeling echoing somewhere in Andrew.

The winter is awfully long in Boston. At least compared to South Carolina.

There are thick black gloves on Neils' hands, a gift from Nicky himself this time. Andrew was the one to throw them at Neils' head this morning though before they left. Now, he studies the thread of a fingertip.

He must have fought to be here, fought those young Foxes and Wymack. Even then, it’s not for much longer.

‘Neil.’

It’s almost a whisper, it’s almost angry, and they push that slightest bit closer through the snow till their noses brush together.

When Andrew closes his eyes he feels their lashes tangle.

---

March arrives and the winter is refusing to die. There’s glass in the air of Boston Common.

Andrew is sat on a bench covered in frost, feeling it seep into his coat, watching the brave skate on Frog Pond. The wind is missing, the sky is blindingly blue and bare, and there’s a voice in his ear.

‘So yeah that was my week. Oh except that I forgot to tell you that um, Erik says hi. And um, how was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘Andrew come on, how was practice?’

‘It was practice.’

‘Andrew seriously. Last time we talked remember, you promised? You promised me you would actually talk more.’

Some bird is valiantly trying to sing through the cold, nestled in the branches of a leafless tree overhead.

‘I promised nothing of the sort.’

‘Okay well I took your silence as agreement.’

When will birds learn when to stop singing.

‘That’s not how promises work Nicky.’

‘I know Andrew. I know.’

Maybe there is a little winter wind left, Andrew thinks he saw some branches move. A dead leaf stirring on the ground.

‘Hey Andrew, have you talked to Kevin recently? Neil said he wasn’t sure when you guys last talked.’

No, it’s just a dead leaf.

‘We’ve spoken.’

‘Okay well, maybe speak again? Soon? I just think it’d be nice. For both of you. Also has Neil gotten taller? Or maybe he’s just gotten cuter. It’s hard to tell over Skype. You saw him recently right?'

‘In February.’

‘Oh. I miss that kid.’

-

By the time Andrew leaves Boston Common the sun is already setting on the frozen surface of Frog Pond.

Now, he’s sat with his bag rattling along on the number 7 to City Point, almost there. The wind is still absent but the chill batters the bus anyway, and by the time it jolts to a stop Andrews' bones are sore.

As soon his feet hit the icy ground he begins to walk, slowly, through the ache. He watches South Boston pass by in shades of grey and black and white, the grey of his demeanour, the black of his coat, the white of his skin passing through it all silently. It takes six minutes and he’s there.

For a building full of semi-wealthy inhabitants, its’ elevator still feels like a slow death, so Andrew takes the stairs all the way to the top. The snow breaks off his boots a little more with every step, and the last remains get left to melt on the mat inside his door.

His coat he hangs up next to the side table where he throws his keys, and as he crosses briefly to the open living space for the remote, the TV begins to play.

‘Tonight’s game is one we’ve all been waiting for…’

His boots come off next, replaced by charcoal slippers because Neil knows better then to give him orange. The kitchen light floods the counter-tops as Andrew reaches up to the cupboard. The cocoa, cinnamon, and vanilla all meet quietly on the granite.

‘Do you think the crowd is ready…’

From the fridge Andrew grabs the milk, and he measures it out in a mug with Nickys' face on it.

‘…He’s the greatest striker the sports ever seen!...’

It heats on the stove, and Andrew leaves it to close the curtains and turn up the thermostat.

‘…I’m just excited, I don’t know what to tell you. I get chills every time...’

Andrews stands there and stirs. The room starts to warm, the ingredients start to mix.

‘…Okay here we go, the teams are about to step onto the court…’

Andrew grabs a handfuls of marshmallows and drops them in until the mug near overflows. The steam rises up past the white, and Andrew allows the heat to burn his hand as he settles on the couch. His body always wants to hoard the cold.

‘Are you ready to see Kevin Day in action?’

---

The winter in Boston is long. The cold of it reaches where cold never should, and it sets white fire to the hollows of Andrews' chest.

Everything is ice and snow, wind and hail, chill and white white white. Andrew could disappear in the snow if he wanted to.

It lasts until early April. That’s when the ice starts to thaw, when the snow starts to shy away. A few leaves start to appear on the trees of Boston Common and no one is skating anymore.

When winter ends, Andrew has learned to survive it.

---

He’s standing in Boston Logan International Airport. There’s snow outside the windows and Christmas everywhere else.

It’s December, obviously.

There’s still snow on Andrews' boots that hasn’t melted off yet. It’s dusting his black woollen hat too, drifting down from it into his eyes just a little bit. He’s still cold, hands still shoved in his black coat pockets, but it’s ebbing away ever so slightly.

He waits.

He stares at the busyness surrounding him.

The snow that clung to him before melts away.

And Neil is here.

He’s just staring at Andrew, because of course he is. And he’s so present, so blue and grey and auburn, one bag slung over his shoulder and one hand reaching out from his side. Andrew moves because of course he does.

Their fingertips meet, then their fingers, then their palms, then their eyes. Andrew tugs and Neil follows and they’re both caught.

---

‘They’re still not Foxes.’

‘They don’t need to be.’

‘I know.’

There are three blankets and a Neil keeping Andrew warm. The blankets rest around his shoulders, and Neil rests his hand on Andrews' ankle. Neils' camera has taken four pictures already, and it rests on the arm of the couch.

‘Have you ever considered a Christmas tree in here?’

‘I have one. Several actually.’

‘Those marshmallows Nicky sent you don’t count.’

‘I don’t care.’

Neil is smiling, quietly. He doesn’t seem to notice. Andrew knows that Neil has missed him.

He rests his head against Neils', watches those bright eyes blink slowly closed. He feels Neils' sigh against his skin, places a kiss over the subtle parting of his lips. When Neil opens his eyes again, he looks proud and happy and stunned like he always does these days.

‘Neil.'

It’s almost a whisper.

Neil just looks at him, body held still. Those bright winter eyes.

‘I missed you.’

This is Andrews' second Boston winter, and he knows how to survive it better this time.

[huntertales]

Part Two: Men of Letters. (As Time Goes By S08E12)

pisode Summary: Sam, Dean and the reader are surprised when a man who claims to be Henry Winchester, the boys’ grandfather, suddenly appears in their motel room closet demanding to know where he can find John. Henry has time traveled to the future to stop a demon named Abbadon. Through their grandfather, the brothers and the reader learn more about their bloodline and legacy. The reader even learns about her father, Andrew, and his own past that turned him into a demon. Word Count: 7,085.  Warning: Mentions of miscarriage symptoms. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

This morning when you woke up and got ready for the day you weren't sure what was going to be on the agenda. Maybe keep your breakfast down long enough so it would digeste. Relax for a little while and do some research to find a case to keep yourselves busy. Check up on Kevin to see how he was doing and if he might have made any sort of progress with translating the tablet. But all in your jumbled thoughts and endless list of things to do never once did it cross your mind you were going to meet Henry Winchester, the boys' grandfather on their father's side of the family, who happened to time travel five and a half decades in the future to see his son again—who had been dead for seven years. 

You weren't a stranger to time traveling and meeting relatives decades into the past before you weren't even born. Or, in a case that happened a few years ago who went back in time to make sure you and Sam never existed, you met Mary when she was pregnant with Dean. Which was an odd situation that you thought would never be able to be topped. Until today. The crazy was coming to you this time. Along with a demon who couldn't be killed, not even slowed down, by a knife who had took down what felt to be hundred of her own kind. But the weirdest part of this all was that you were about to sit down and have lunch with Henry. 

You excused yourself to the bathroom when you felt the urge to pee calling for your attention once you got to the diner, along with other matters that had been creeping in the back of your mind since being thrown against the wall. You rushed into the stall and pulled down your pants, half thanking your past self for wearing a light colored pair of underwear. You hadn't gotten your period in two and a half months, but you knew bleeding wasn’t a good sign other than a droplet here and there. But you hadn’t had any spotting since you found out. Luckily you saw nothing on the fabric and your back was still a little bit sore, yet nothing to be too concerned about from all the symptoms you read up online to prepare yourself for the worst. 

There was no severe backaches or cramping since you left the motel. Your symptoms were still persistent from your nausea, along with your mood that was jumping all over the place as usual. The symptoms you were complaining about just a few hours ago made you let out a sigh of relief from how they were sticking around. It was like a sign from the goddess of fertility to shut up and be happy for being able to get pregnant in the first place. You knew there were women out there who would do anything to be in your position. And you would do anything to make sure this baby was okay. Even if it meant you had to feel a little sick while you ate lunch. 

You finished your business in the bathroom with a clear head now that you were reassured there was no warning signs you needed to worry about at the moment. When you headed out to the diner, you spotted Henry at the table next to the window, engrossed with his own thoughts. As you started to make your way through the crowded place and towards the boys, Sam noticed you approaching him and his brother. He waved his hand in the air slightly to stop you so he could leave his brother alone for a moment as he was ordering lunch for all of you. You moved over to an empty spot in the restaurant as Sam approached you, having a feeling you knew what he wanted to talk about before he even asked. 

"Hey." Sam said. "How are you feeling?"

“A little sore from being thrown around by Raggedy Ann.��� You admitted to the younger man as you rubbed the lower part of your back when you felt a twitch in the muscle. Sam’s expression faltered slightly at what you mentioned, making him panic like you had earlier before. You gave him a smile of reassurance that it was nothing to be of concern. “Don’t worry. I still feel sick and my boobs hurt. There’s no spotting. No cramping. The baby is still in place.” 

“Good. That’s good.” Sam mumbled. He let out a sigh of relief at the news that helped settle his own restless mind when he knew you and the baby were okay. He wiped his mouth with his hand and rested them on his hips. "Still, I think you should go to the doctors just to be safe." 

"Right. Let's slip away to leave your brother alone with your grandfather and while there's a demon out there who didn't even slow down when Dean stabbed her with the knife." You said, making sure to drop your voice to a whisper so nobody in the diner could overhear you. "I know it's not ideal to ignore this. But it's not my first time I've...you know. Took a tumble." 

"And you're fine?" Sam asked you.

"So far. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm thinking Lady Luck is on my side. Or, God is paying me back for all the crap his son put he through." You said, posing a few theories that explained how you were able to do your job as a hunter while still in the first trimester. You looked around the diner to see that Dean was looking over in your direction, looking rather invested in what you were trying to say. You gave the man a smile from across the way. "Your brother is staring our way. I think we should head back before he starts to read my lips and come up with some sort of crazy ideas.” 

Sam agreed. The both of you made your way back to the counter where Dean had been waiting for the past few minutes by himself. He tried his hardest not to poke his nose where it didn't belong. It could have been nothing of what you and his brother were talking about. But when you made your way over to him, the question slipped out of his mouth in a causal tone. "What were you guys talking about back there?"

“Oh. Sam was showing me Henry’s I.D. to take a look at. Just wanted a second opinion.”  You lied to the man. You looked over your shoulder to take a quick glance at the man before turning your attention back to his grandchildren. “I’m pretty convinced he’s telling the truth.” 

“Driver’s license says he’s Henry Winchester from Normal, Illinois. He knows Dad’s birthday, the exact place where he was born.” Sam added more reason to believe this was too good not to be true. “Dude, that’s our grandfather.” 

“I’m just saying before we break out the warm and toasties, let’s not forget that H.G. Wells over there left Dad high and dry when he was a kid.” Dean reminded his brother. 

“I don’t like to insert myself in family drama, but,” You spoke up. Dean gave you a look that read along the lines of him not believing such a thing. All you ever did was place yourself in these kind of situations, not that you weren't apart of this family. “Maybe he didn’t run out on your dad—I mean, not on purpose. Maybe he time-traveled here and, I don’t know, got stuck.” 

“Yeah, well, either way, Dad hated the son of a bitch.” Dean muttered. 

“And Dad made up for that how?” Sam asked his brother. “By being Father of the Year?”

Dean fell silent when he saw the worker who took his order come back with two trays of food and placed them on the counter. You gave her a smile and thanked her before she walked away to attend her other customers. "Look, Dad had his issues, okay, but he was always there for us." Dean said. You wouldn't agree to the full extent of that, but you kept your mouth shut and stole a fry off Dean's food before making your way over to the table. "I freaking hate time travel, man." 

You made your way over to the table and sat down on one of the stools, across from the boys' grandfather—something that you were still trying to wrap your head around saying. Even though it felt odd. Samuel Campbell, Mary's father, looked about the part of being the boys' grandfather. He was old and bald. But Henry was someone you met two and a half years back after he was brought back from the dead. He looked the part of being the boys' grandfather. He was old and bald. But Henry was young, and reminded you so much of his son from his looks. You gave the man a warm smile when he happened to look up from the table and to your direction. 

“How are you doing?” You asked him, wondering how he was handling the situation you sure he wasn’t expecting to find after traveling so far into the future. 

“I’ll be fine. After all, despite everything, I’ve just met my grandsons, haven’t I?” Henry wondered himself. He decided to use his manners that he was taught from his parents and stretched his arm across the table to formally introduce himself. “Henry Winchester. It’s a pleasure.”  

“Sam.” introduced himself, shaking his grandfather’s hand. 

"Hello, Sam." Henry said. The man attempted to keep the formal introductions when he moved his attention over to the older brother. Dean made no attempt at being cordial with the man. He stared at his grandfather with a blank expression. Not wanting to leave Henry feeling awkward with his hand floating in the air, you outstretched your arm for him to shake it. 

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You introduced yourself to the man. You gave him another smile before you pulled your hand away and placed it on the shoulder of the brother who refused to be the slightest bit nice to his own flesh and blood. “And this ill-mannered one is Dean. Your oldest grandson.” 

“Right. Well, this has been touching.” Dean said. He showed no trace of hope for you that he was going to try and be the slightest bit nice to his grandfather when he jumped straight into business. “How about we figure out how to clean your mess, huh?”

“Abbadon. Yes.” Henry agreed. “She must be stopped.” 

“And how come she didn’t die when I stabbed her?” Dean wondered. 

"Because demons can't be killed by run-of-the-mill cutlery. At the very least, you'd need an ancient demon-killing knife of the Kurds." Henry explained. You found the way he was speaking to you a little patronizing. Dean stopped eating for a moment to show his grandfather the knife he had tucked in his pocket that he attacked Abbadon with. Henry’s expression changed slightly when he saw the exact weapon he was talking about. “Where’d you get that?”

"Demon gave it to me." Dean answered his grandfather. You casually looked around the diner to see anyone noticed what you were doing, everyone was too caught up in their own conversation to pay attention to the four of you. He shoved the knife back into the inside pocket of his jacket. "We've been around this block so many times." 

“Now, that portal—or whatever it was you came through—is it still open?” Sam asked. 

“I highly doubt it.” Henry answered. “Why?”

"I'm just thinking if we can't kill this Abbadon, maybe we can shove her back where she came from." You proposed a possible idea to solve this problem if the knife wasn’t going to work like how it normally does. You’d just have to get creative. "We're no stranger to time travel. But we always had some extra help. How did you manage to do it on your own?"

“It’s a blood sigil. Blood leads to blood. Or their next of kin.” Henry said, correcting himself when the spell lead him to family too far into the future he wasn’t expecting to ever meet. You placed a hand on your stomach when the table hid your actions, having a feeling the baby might had to do something with it as well. 

"But Abbadon came through also, right?" Sam asked. "So can you create the blood sigil again?"

"My blood, an angel feather, tears of a dragon, a pinch of the sands of time—I would need those..." Henry said. He listed off the ingredients he would need to collect in order for this to work properly. "At least a week for my soul to recharge, but, yes, it's possible." 

"You tapped the power of your soul to do that?" Sam asked his grandfather, sounding rather surprised at how a simple human could do such a thing. "I thought only angels could do that."

"You should know this. What the level are you three?" Henry's question made a confused look cross your face. You furrowed your brow slightly as you repeated after the man, wondering what he was talking about. "Level of knowledge. You're Men of Letters, correct?”

Your face scrunched up tighter from the way the man was talking, as if it was a language you’ve never heard of before. You looked over at Sam to see that he was just as confused as you were. Dean dropped his food that he had been chewing back to his plate and wiped his hands. I’m a little rusty on my boy bands.��� The older Winchester said. “Men of what?”

“Men of Letters. Like your fathers, who taught you our ways.” Henry said. Neither one of his grandchildren seemed to understand what the three words meant, or take pride in the title they should have known about. “Y/N, your grandfather, Andrew was one as well. Surely his children followed in his footsteps and kept the tradition going with you as well."

"Grandfather?" You repeated back the man's words in a slightly confused tone. It seemed Henry thought the man you knew had a very different family title than you expected, thinking it was closer than his. He thought Andrew had another child. Your lips stretched into a small smile as you corrected him. “You mean my father? The one who knew nothing about the supernatural. He...well, it’s sort of a complicated story about him. But there’s no way he was a Men of Letters. Whatever that is.”

"That's impossible." Henry said. It was his turn to smile ever so slightly as he started to let out a quiet chuckle, as if you had told him a joke. Your ever slowly hardening expression told him a different story. His smile fell quick as it came. Soon yourself growing a bit uncomfortable when the man, who claimed to have known your father, stared at you for a long moment. As if he was pointing out the features that matched perfectly with the same man he claimed to have personally known. "We knew Andrew was always heavily invested into his studies. But surely, he didn't get himself too caught up and settled down at an unreasonably old age..."

Henry looked to be about in his early thirties from the looks of it, and from what you could remember about the fifties, it was still common for people to marry young and start on their families. You took away from 1958 to 1981 when you were born and there was a twenty three years of time gone. Either Henry presumed your father settled down at an old age, he didn't realize Andrew found a secret to staying young. Or he was thinking of someone very different. 

You knew how to solve this misunderstanding once and for all. You took off the locket that was once your mother’s that you wore almost every day since you were given it as a gift from Dean. You opened up the clasp to open up the locket and showed the man a picture of someone he claimed to have known over fifty years ago. Dangling the locket by the silver chain, you nodded for him to take ahold of it so he could look at the pictures.

"Is that the Andrew Y/L/N you're talking about?" You asked him. 

Henry peered close at the photographs meticulously cut in the shape of the locket to fit them in a photograph of you as a small child, another was of you and your father, the very last one ever taken. The man's brow furrowed as he stared at the photograph for a few seconds before looking back up to you. "Yes. Yes, that's exactly him." 

"Well, that's kind of a mighty weird coincidence. Let's just say my father wasn't exactly human. He was a lot like Abbadon. You see," You leaned forward slightly as you explained your very strange family history to the man. "the Andrew Y/L/N you claim to know was a demon up until the seventies. I'm guessing. Somehow got changed back into a human being. How? I don't really questions those kinds of things. He met my mother in 1971, got married and a handful of years later they had me. Their only child." 

Henry listened to every word you said about the person he claimed to have known. You didn’t leave any details out of your story that made somewhat sense to the man he knew, and the last time he saw him before traveling to this time period. “If he survived and found the way...then it means he could have continued on. But it doesn’t make any sense. Why wouldn’t Andrew tell you about the Men of Letters?”

“Because he didn’t have the chance. He died when I was two. My mother sold his soul to a demon—after she sold her own to have me. Come to find out an ex hunter and a demon can't make a baby without a little extra help." You told him. “Trust me, I’m not what you think I am. You have to have me someone mixed up with someone else.”

You felt like this situation was being stripped into different levels of strange that you couldn't comprehend. Not only were you learning about things that seemed like it was too good to be true, it had to do with your father. A man you always thought was a riddle you would never be able to solve. Someone you thought Lucifer wanted to be your father only for his history of being a monster before cleansing himself of the darkness. But come to find out...he was a human at one point in his life that was sooner than you realized. A man who had a life you never knew. 

“I knew Andrew very well. Him and I worked together closely. His father—your grandfather—was the finest historian and researcher. He taught us everything we knew about the supernatural and the techniques to stop them. As you should have been by Andrew." Henry said. You felt yourself growing a bit lightheaded as you looked away from him to inhale a deep breath from all of what was going on. "You three were meant to be raised in this lifestyle." 

"Our father taught us how to be hunters." Sam said. “Y/N’s mother was one herself.” 

Henry’s response was something that caused a bit of personal offense. He laughed at the idea of his grandchildren being something below what they were meant to be. And the thought of his own fellow friend falling in love with one of them only added humor to the situation. He thought his grandson was joking, but the angered expression on your face made him realize you were telling the truth. 

“You’re not. Andrew would never marry someone of that lifestyle. It’s beneath him.” He said. You  felt your face scrunch up into an angered expression at how he was talking about your mother, as if he knew her. She was a lot of things, but you knew she was proud of what she did. “Are you? Hunters? Hunters? Well, hunters are...hunters are apes. You’re legacies.” 

“Legacies of what?” Dean asked his grandfather. “You’re not making a whole lot of sense. From where I’m standing all of what you told us feels like it’s something straight out of ‘Twilight Zone’ episode. So if you want us to believe you, you better start making sense.” 

+ + +

Henry thought in order for you and the boys to understand the roots from where you came from and meant to continue on, he requested for Dean to drive to a location that was at least four and a half hours away. Which meant you were subjected to sitting in the backseat with the man and think about how he knew your father. It made you want to question him about everything that he remembered about him. What was he like? Did he know your grandfather ike he said? Maybe Henry even knew about how he was turned into a demon. But you didn’t say a single word. He told you that any and all questions you had would be answered once you got to the location that he needed to get to. His great grandchild wasn’t making that an easy possibility from your mood swings. 

You managed to find some self control and kept to yourself while Dean drove to some run down looking building Henry pointed out after you got into town. When the Impala parked not too far away, Henry was the first one out, you and the boys following close behind the man. You noticed the building that Henry wanted to go to was a comic book store. Which you found rather odd, not sure what it had to do with this Men of Letters. You had a feeling the two things didn't add up together. His reaction matched your confusion when he approached the rundown and graffiti door. The outside of the building wasn’t as what he remembered fifty years ago. 

“What’s going on here?” Henry asked himself. He stared up at the business sign hanging above the door that wasn’t there before. It almost looked different than he last saw of it. But there was one thing that remained the same. He reached up a hand and traced a familiar symbol with his fingers. However the years faded away the very thing that corresponded to the Men of Letters, there was nothing more than a withering away mark in the door nobody had bothered to try and maintain. “No.”  

“All right, well, this was enlightening.” Dean said. He took his hands out of his pocket and slapped them together, wanting to get out of here quick as possible. “Let’s hit the road, huh?”

"Give him a minute, Dean." Sam told his brother. He wanted to give his grandfather more time than just a few seconds to remember details that might be important for the four of you. 

"We just spent four hours driving, okay? All he did was stare out the window and request Pat Boone on the radio." Dean grumbled. You rolled our eyes from how his attitude was starting to bleed into his lack of patience. "He had his time." 

"It's just a facade, to rook our enemies into believing we are housed somewhere else." Henry said. You furrowed your brow slightly from the way he was speaking. He sounded like someone straight out from one of those mystery novels popular back in his day. A stranger from the future claims to be family in need of help to stop a dangerous femme fatale. Along the way you learn all sorts of knowledge you weren't sure if it was the truth.

"Okay, enough with the decoder talk. How about you tell us about this whole 'Men of Letters' business." Dean said, giving his grandfather an ultimatum. "Or you're on your own."

"It's none of your concern." Henry replied.

"Why, because we're hunters?" Dean asked the man, almost in an amused tone. He knew his grandfather reacted poorly at hearing what you and the boys were. But he hadn’t given a proper explanation to redeem himself for the judgement. "What do you have against us?"

"Aside from the unthinking, unwashed, shoot-first-and-don't-bother-asking-questions-later part," Henry cooly slipped his personal opinion out in a cynical way that made you stare at him with a rather offended look on your face at how poorly he thought of you. "not much, really."

"You know what? I've had enough of you sticking your nose up at us. These are John's children you're speaking to. And I'm still Andrew's daughter. Because we decided to become hunters doesn't make us less than. We've done our part to help people." You told the man, sticking up for yourself and his judgement of hunters. "We're proud of what we do. Thanks to your son, he helped me learn everything there is about the supernatural before I decided I wanted to put my life on the line to help others. I'm sorry if you don't think that's good enough."

“Your work was intended to help more than just a few common folk. You’re more than a hunter. My father and his father before him were both Men of Letters, as the way John should have been. And they would have carried the legacy onto you three.” Henry said. The more he talked, the more you began to realize there was more to this fancy title. “We're preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that which man does not understand. We share our findings with a few trusted hunters—the very elite. They do the rest.”

“So you're like Yoda's to our Jedis.” Dean mentioned a pop culture reference that made the tiniest of a smile spread across your face. Henry stared at the man, unable to comprehend what the joke was supposed to mean. “Never mind. You’ll get there.”

“Okay, but if you guys were such a big deal, how come we—or anyone for that matter, ever heard of you? And if Y/N’a father survived after all those years to start over, why didn’t he try to make contact with anyone?" Sam asked, wanting to get to the bottom of this mystery that only left him digging further down without getting any real answers. "Was he possessed by a demon? Or something along those lines?”

Henry fell silent as he began to remember the night that lead him here. While the man had fallen silent, the pieces began to slowly come together. It all made sense. "Abbadon."

"What? You mean she had something to do with him turning into one of her?" You asked him in a almost rushed voice. You felt yourself inhale a deep breath from everything you were hearing, all of it felt like it was coming out too fast for you to process. Before the man could fall silent and brush off the conversation, you kept persistent with your questions. "Henry. Are you saying Abbadon was the one who turned my father into a demon? Why? Why would she do that?"

“Andrew was initiated into the Men of Letters in 1957, a year before my due. During that time he was working closely with a few and trusted priests on a special assignment he was forbidden to speak much about. He didn’t say anything about what he was doing, only that it had to do with demons...and how it would change the fate of them forever.” Henry recalled of a memory that was only a few weeks old to him. You raised your brow slightly as he began to think back to your father and their conversations they had. "He told things were looking promising. But he admitted that he was getting a bit nervous for his own safety. The 'subject matter' he was working with was getting rowdy. They talked about how there was going to be consequences for what he was doing."

Your expression shifted at the mention of consequences from demons and how it might have to do with Abbadon, the redhead you had the displeasure of meeting and gave the least flattering first impression on. It seemed your father had made the same mistake to her and demons alike. He was poking at the beast. You realized your father and this little legacy must have been doing something they shouldn't have. Using demons as lab rats to conduct experiments. Maybe along those lines. But word got out about what your father was doing. So they got pissed. And decided to seek a little punishment that fit the crime. 

While you had information about your father and what happened to him, there was still more to this story you needed to learn for all of this to make sense. Abbadon might have went after your father, but she also went after all of the Men of Letters, and not just to slaughter them and bury their name. There was another reason why, there had to be. Henry pushed open the door to the comic book store and began to step his way inside, you and the boys following right behind his heels before he could stray too far away from you. 

"That doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't Abbadon just kill Andrew like the rest of the Men of Letters?" Sam asked. "What was so important that she wanted to keep him around?"

Henry stopped in his tracks once more when he began to remember more things about the night and the disaster that came of it and the object that took three very good men and their lives. He was given it to guard it with his life from Abbadon. And away from your father when he asked for it. Before he flashed those inky black eyes. Henry pulled out a small box from his suit pocket. You furrowed your brow slightly at the strange symbol carved into the wood. "I think for this."

"Are you serious? All of this started because of a freaking box?" You muttered underneath your breath. "Do you know what it does, at least?"

"I wish I knew." Henry admitted. You let out a sigh as he placed the box back into his pocket for safekeeping. "Andrew fell radio silent for a few days and resurfaced at my final initiation. All secrets were to be revealed by the help of him. But that’s also when Abbadon attacked us.” 

"Let me get this straight. Y/N's father was turned into a demon by Abbadon to try and get closer to a box. But you traveled through time to protect something that does you don't know what from a demon that you know nothing about?" Dean asked his grandfather, trying to get some sort of clarification to help make sense what was going on. Henry looked the three of you over before walking away, brushing off your questions and concerns. Dean scoffed as he spread out his arms. "Good. This is totally normal." 

Henry made his way farther down the hallway and into the  comic book shop advertised outside. Over fifty years ago this place was something more; a special place for the Men of Letters to meet in secrecy. Now it remained as a place for people to enjoy the lasting tradition of comic books that were popular even in Henry's time. You and the boys caught up with the man a few short moments later and approached him, taking a look around the shop. There was only one customer looking at comic books in the back and a punker chick behind the counter. 

“Hand me your...walkie-talkie.” Henry asked the younger Winchester. You furrowed your brow slightly from what he meant by that. Sam guessed that he meant his phone. Something that was very much different from his grandfather remembered. You had a feeling this was going to be a bad idea. Cell phones weren’t created until the early seventies. And touchscreens that you were used to in this day in age didn’t get popular until just a handful of years ago. "Operator, I need Delta 457."

“Who are you not calling?” Dean asked the man, finding what he just witnessed a little painfully awkward..

“Our emergency number.” Henry explained. 

Dean reached out to grab the phone from his grandfather and handed it back to his brother so he could put it back in his pocket. “Yeah. Not anymore.”

Henry let out a sigh of frustration at how all of this was going, and the lack of any leads he was finding to help fix this problem before it could grow any worse. “They can’t all be gone. There must be another elder out there who can help us figure out how to stop Abbadon and what to do with the box.” 

"All right, gramps. I'll show you how us 21st century hunters do it." You whispered to him before walking past him and straight to the counter. You gave the girl a smile when you approached her, making her break her concentration away from the laptop she was using. "Hey, uh, hi. Can I hijack your computer for a hot second?"

Henry let out a laugh at the mention of a technological advancement that you surely would not know a single thing about. And wouldn’t be of use to the public, not even a hunter. "Like you could fit a computer in this room." 

The girl gave you a slightly confused look, you smiled and shrugged your shoulders. Dean ignored his grandfather and grabbed a hold of the computer, turning it in your direction so you could get started on what you did best. "All right, give me a name—anybody who might have been there that night—one of those elders."

Henry started to list off a few names that he could memorize off the top of his head, each one you typed into the search bar and hit the enter button, instantly getting an old news article that told you everything you needed to know. "August 12, 1958. A tragic fire at a gentlemen's club. Uh, 242 Gaines Street."

"This is 242 Gaines Street...but that was no fire." Henry remarked. 

"And the plot thickens." You mumbled. You directed your attention back to the news article as you skimmed it before coming across the names of the victims. None of the names in which were your father's. Which made you wonder where he ended up after all of this. "Larry Ganem, David Ackers, Ted Bowen, and Albert Magnus—all deceased."

“Albert Magnus.” Henry repeated the last name you spoke. 

“He a friend of yours?” 

“Even better.”

+ + +

You might have found the first possible lead in figuring out how the little box inside Henry's suit jacket was so important Abbadon murdered three men to get closer to it. What lingered in the back of your mind of your mind during the long car ride to yet another location Henry requested, was why she turned your father into a demon. It had to be more than just to get closer to the box and for his knowledge. She could have kept one of the men alive and tortured the answer out of then It was an awful lot of trouble to go through to turn them into a demon the old fashioned way of forcing them to drink demon blood. You went through it once, and the process still gave you nightmares to this very day. 

Maybe the reason why Abbadon was here, and why the knife didn't work on her, was because she was stronger than any demon you've faced before. Beside Azazel and Lilith. The both of them worked together in making you Lucifer's perfect little pet. The anti-human to say "screw you" to God. Maybe Abbadon was a part of the bigger picture. Perhaps she turned your father because that's what Lucifer wanted. But it didn't explain why she was so interested in the box. And how your father eventually turned back into a human...maybe it had to do with what Henry said, about the experiments your father was working on. And the revenge the demons said they were going to get. The one Abbadon made sure she to seek out. 

Through all of today's antics and stress, you found yourself accidentally drifting off to sleep, only to be woken up from a dreamless sleep to see that darkness had fallen and Henry wanted to visit a cemetery from the looks of it. You weren't exactly sure how visiting the dead had to do with anything. But you and the boys followed behind the man, traveling through the grounds until you stumbled upon a handful of tombstones with names you recognized from the news article. 

“These were my friends, my mentors,” Henry mumbled, overlooking the gravestones of the fine men he once knew many years ago. “our last defense against the Abbadons of the world.” 

“Here’s your buddy Albert Magnus.” Dean said, his flashlight spotting a familiar name. 

“Albertus Magnus. And he was hardly a buddy.” Henry corrected the man. “He was the greatest alchemist of the middle ages.” 

“Okay,” Sam said. “So why is he buried here?”

“He’s not. His was the alias we’d use when going incognito.” Henry said. “I believe someone planted his name in that article...so that if a Man of Letters came looking for answers, he’d know something was amiss.” 

“So someone wanted you to come to this grave.” You said. 

“The question is why.” Henry muttered to himself. 

You agreed with the man there was too many things and new information floating to the surface that was starting to ask yourself why. None of it made sense. And much as you had questions of your own that you wanted answer, you had a feeling Henry couldn’t provide. You looked around the cemetery and the headstones to read off the names of the deceased, and upon doing so, you found something rather odd carved into the stone. You approached and ran your fingertips across symbol, feeling the marks into the cold headstone. It looked something of a hexagram symbol you've never seen before. “What is this?”

“Our crest.” Henry explained. He walked over to the headstone you were observing to take a look himself. It was the exact same symbol on the pin placed on his tie. “The Aquarian star, representing great magic and power. They said it stood at the gates of Atlantis itself.” 

"Hmm. It's on all of the tombstones except for this one," Sam pointed out as he flashed his light over a name that you saw in the article. One of the victims from that supposed fire that took his life. "Larry Ganem." 

Henry approached the tombstone of his fallen friend and crouched down on the ground so he was at level with the stone to get a better viewing. The symbol was of a cross along with four little ones on each side. It seemed it wasn’t put there for religious purposes. “The Haitian symbol for speaking to the dead. This is the message.” You looked over at the brothers from what was going on here from all of what was happening and the way Henry was speaking. It seemed the both of them were starting to wonder how deep and mysterious this Men of Letters business kept going. "You boys ever exhume a body?"

Now there was something you and the boys were familiar with. The boys headed back to the Impala to fetch a couple of shovels and lanterns to make digging a little easier. You offered to help digging for them a little easier by switching with one of them halfway through to give them a break. Sam scoffed at your suggestion, taking away the shovel and replacing it with a flashlight. It took a little over an hour for the boys to find the coffin, Henry offered nothing but his silence as he waited for them to do all the grunt work. When the boys found the coffin and threw the top above ground, you cautiously leaned over the edge to peek inside of the grave to see skeletal remains you were expecting to find. But the clothing of choice for the person buried in the coffin seemed a bit of a strange one. 

“Hey, was Larry a World War One yet?” Dean asked. Henry shook his head one. You furrowed your brow slightly from his choice of clothing that made no sense. Larry was born in 1926, eight  years after the first world war ended. There was no way this was the same man written on the tombstone. “Well, then, who’s the stiff?”

Henry shrugged, “No idea.” 

Sam crouched down and took a look inside the coffin to see if he might be able to find some dog tags that could help identify the body. He found a circular metal pendant on a piece of string, a name was etched into it. “Captain Thomas J. Carey the third. That mean anything to you?”

Henry once again shook his head no. "Well, somebody wanted you to see this," Dean said. "So maybe that somebody is Larry." 

"So, what,” You said, deciding to take a wild guess at what all of this meant. “maybe he survives the attack and hides out with this guy's identity?"

"Okay." Henry agreed. He pushed himself back up to his feet and stared down at his grandsons. Not once had he offered to help or say thank you for everything that you had done for him. All he had done since meeting you was request things. "What are we waiting for, then? Cover this up. Let's be on our way." 

You gave him a dirty glare when he went on his way back to the Impala. The more you were around him, the more he was starting to get under your nerves. From the way he spoke down to you because of being a hunter. The things he said that made no sense. Lack of any help doing anything that might dirty his hands. The man walked around thinking he was something great. Maybe he was. But you weren't getting anything from him except annoyance and questions. You needed to get to the bottom of it before it drove you to the brink of insanity 

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[ravenvsfox]

I love your writing. You one of my favorite blogs! If you're still taking prompts, what if, instead of Mary being killed, Neil gets separated from her and thinks Lola got to her and then the events of the book happen. But Mary is alive and track Neil down. Thank you so much

(like a literal year later, hello! here you are!)

Sunrise is the tender red of rare meat, and there’s smoke all over it, like someone touched the stovetop sky long enough for the flesh to smoulder. Gunpowder is tangy on his lips, and there’s sweat in the corners of his eyes, burning when he tries to blink it away. Nathaniel puts a damp hand to his forehead and barely feels it.

The burner phone is still in his free hand, and when he realizes it, he lets it drop to the dirt. He can feel the strain of injury keeping him where he is, planted in the gravel and weeds in front of a gas station, freshly conscious from an hours-old blow to the head.

His mother is dead.

He waits for a minute. The sun cranks up the horizon when he’s aware enough to track it, sealing him into the first day he’s ever lived without his mother. He tries to flex the hand on his forehead and feels a brittle ache in his bones, his joints swaddled in plush bruises. He waits for the tug on his hand. Can’t slow down Abram. We don’t have time to hurt. Get your bag. Get your ID. Get your bearings. Get down.

He knows he should be moving but no one’s tugging. He can hear fire bells, feel the heat on the soles of his feet, taste the smoke, but he feels like his mom’s still inside. His mom.

He wrenches over, legs unsteady as matchsticks, and throws up in the dust. He whirls to keep his balance, a wicked tornado of grief and failure and terror, and the dirt kicks up under his skidding sneakers.

“What do I do,” he whispers.

The desert looks at him with pity in its single, scalding eye, the blood leaches from the sky, but Nathaniel’s stays drying on his face and curdling in his arteries.

He falls to his knees and his bruised bones scream, his head turns over, sick with concussion. He grabs for the phone and looks at the screen again.

Finders keepers, the screen says. Lola, with her cruelty like thunder to his father’s lightning, had sent him two messages, within 17 minutes of each other:

A picture of his mother, one of her eyes nicked out of it’s socket, her mouth lax and streaming blood. And finders keepers.

They’d tousled, Nathaniel and four of his father’s men, his legs blurring as he fought to escape, throwing whatever he could find and levelling gunfire inaccurately behind him. They’d tracked him to the rest stop in the middle of Nevada desert and started shooting as soon as he’d started running.

Earlier, in the slow third day of their having been in one place at once, his mother had hot-wired a car and driven to the nearest town for supplies, left him for forty minutes at most.

Nathaniel managed to incapacitate three of the men before he’d been knocked out on the curb. He can’t figure out why the last guy left him scraped into the parking lot, blood bubbling out on sun-baked gravel. He can’t understand why he’s alive or how he’s supposed to stay that way.

His mother’s dead.

He presses the screen of the phone down into a rock until it cracks and goes black. He gets up on his hands and knees, sweaty dark hair in his face, elbows trembling with effort. He looks at the dark shape of a truck rumbling down the road, and he’s scared enough that his adrenaline carries him to his feet.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and limps until he can fake an even gait. He feels his pockets for the cash his mother gave him and comes up empty. He remembers the way she’d gripped his head by both ears and forced their foreheads together, less than twenty-four hours ago. He grieves so suddenly and violently that he stumbles.

He’s completely alone, and his mother never told him what to do, never thought that he’d be far enough away for one of them to be choked off from the other. The nearest store of money and documentation is one state over. The clothes on his back are soaked through with grimy blood, and the slash of a skidding bullet over his side is burning with early infection.

Nathaniel walks calmly to the door of the gas station, shrugs his panicked tears off twice over, and leans heavily into the door.

“You’ve gotta help me,” he cries, stumbling lightly into a display of postcards, not hard enough to damage. “I’m so sorry, I’m— he took my wallet, my keys, I don’t know. Please help me, I just wanted some gas, I’ve been driving all night, and now—“ he sobs, and the man behind the counter skirts around it, nervous, hands raised.

“You got mugged, son?”

“He-he hurt me, I think I might be bleeding out—“ Not even close, not even a litre. “My phone— I didn’t know what to do, so I just, I just handed it all over, all of it.”

“Probably the right thing. He get your ID an’ all?”

“Everything,” Nathaniel says miserably. “Everything, and I can’t go to the hospital, oh god, I don’t even know how to get there, or if there is one, or how I’d pay, I don’t, I don’t—“

“Hey, hey, calm down, how about you clean yourself up and we’ll see?”

Nathaniel nods, eyes full of tears, cradling his own side where the blood is mostly dry. “God bless you. Thank you so much. Thank you.”

The man’s head bobs, clearly proud of himself, but he can’t seem to bring himself to get any closer.

“Bathroom to the left.”

Nathaniel nods gratefully and stumbles a little bit for effect, feeling his way heavily along the aisles and swiping supplies as he goes. He can see booze behind the counter but he’s not risking it, so sterilization will have to wait.

He pushes his way into the bathroom and stalls out in the middle of the room, aware of the ways in which lies can run out and people can be uncharitable when they’re being fooled. He lifts his shirt painfully to his elbows and has to stop, panting closely into the off-white stretch of wall next to the mirror. He can see the side of an angry wound, streaking from his ribs to the small of his back.

He cleans the wound quickly, painfully, biting down on his belt for some of it. He can sense the shop-owner outside the door.

He fishes out the emergency twenty rolled in his shoe and pockets it. He splashes his face over and over again until he feels numb enough that the tears stop coming. He presses stolen gauze into the hollow heart of his wound and packs it in until his nose burns with the pain.

He asks sweetly, haltingly, through a crack in the door if there’s anything he can wear, and the guy digs up a flannel from the lost and found, something that Nathaniel has to roll the sleeves on three times. He looks in the mirror and sees mottled bruising and hair dye, but he can’t look himself in the eye. His mother is nowhere in his face.

He leaves the gas station feeling like nothing has changed as long as people can still die and the sun can still rise, and everything is waiting to be taken and gutted for your own use.

He also feels, when he hoists himself up into the stream of traffic headed for Spring Valley, and finds his way into stolen goods and borrowed survival, that it’s his responsibility to keep them together now, he and his mother, and that as long as he keeps his head down, it’ll be like she’s still dragging him through whatever life he’s got left.

He gets to their storage locker five nights later, and his fists ball when he sees the paperwork and identification for the both of them tucked into a box alongside a few guns and wads of money. His mother’s face stares up at him, docile and smiling for the camera. Her eyes are bear traps.

Norah Josten and her son, Neil Josten.

Nathaniel closes his eyes. He feels like he’s swimming laps over and over again, turning over and disorienting himself, propelling away from his latest impact. This identity is just another lap, another turn, another day with his head underwater.

Neil opens his eyes.

2 years later

“Hey Neil, do you have any good team pictures on your phone?” Dan asks, dropping into the seat across from him. “We’re updating the wall.”

“I dunno, do glamour shots of his boyfriend count?” Nicky asks sweetly.

“Well he’s on the team, isn’t he,” Dan replies, eyes bright.

“Unfortunately,” Andrew says. He’s eating skor pieces straight from the bag, and the crunching is louder than the exy tapes they’re watching on Kevin’s laptop, the tinny ruckus.

“I don’t have any pictures on my phone,” Neil says, not looking up from the game. “I use it to contact people.”

“Man, I say this with love, but there’s a fine line between practical and fucking boring and you’re walking it,” Matt says, putting his hand on the laptop to close it and getting pinched hard for his troubles.

Neil smiles privately, still watching the jumbled action of the game, undeterred. He never thought he’d get the chance to be boring.

“I can’t believe Jean’s on the bench right now,” Kevin says, ignoring them all, his eyes tracking a striker approaching goal, pushing and pulling through the defence. “They’re under-utilizing him.”

“Letting him heal,” Neil corrects. He can sense Kevin rolling his eyes beside him.

“It’s been months, his scars are all healing fine.”

“I’m not talking about his scars,” Neil says. He waits for Kevin to look at him, chastened and queasy. “You should understand that.”

“Okay, that’s interesting,” Matt says, glancing meaningfully at Dan then back to the two of them.

“I love a bitch fight in the morning,” Allison agrees, teeth flashing. “Insult his form next.”

“I’m just reminding him that some players are better left out.”

“Close enough,” Allison replies, waving her hand.

“You’ve never cared about healing before,” Kevin grumbles.

“Behave, please,” Wymack calls from the desk where he’s flipping idly through papers, pretending to get work done. “More watching, less gossiping, or you’ll all be taking notes.”

Andrew salutes sarcastically at the same time that Dan cheerfully says, “yes coach!”

The noise simmers down for a minute, and then Nicky leans in over the coffee table and says, “they’re just pissed that they have to use their brains instead of their racquets.” He points two fingers at Neil and Kevin and then mimes a headache.

“Traditionally you use both,” Aaron says, disgusted.

“Apparently not if you’re an athlete you don’t,” Wymack thunders. “Get your fuckin’ notebooks out, I want lists of plays and I want commentary.”

“Nice,” Nicky says snidely to Aaron, who gawks back at him.

“You’re the one who—“

“Excuse me.”

Neil looks up and finds Renee looking drawn near the doorway, bunching herself up in the crack between the door and the frame like she’s plugging a leak.

“There’s a woman here to see Neil,” she says tightly, and it’s all she can get out before Mary Wesninski slips past Renee, slippery as silk.

“His mother,” she corrects, voice even but clotted. If you were listening, if you knew it better than anyone else’s, you could hear the strain.

She finds his face and her mouth spasms.

He doesn’t know who to protect from who. He wants to throw out hands in between his mother and his family. He feels something loose wind back inside of him, like all of the filling in his tape had been spilling spilling spilling. It hurts, to swallow it back up, to feel his honesty sealed back inside of him.

His mother has a glass eye, a shade darker than the right. Her hair is honey blonde and damaged near the ends, bleached into petrification. Her whole body is tilted, and he knows that she is carrying herself through chronic pain, held just so for casual alleviation of constant agony.

She is his mother, and his eyes flood with tears, stinging hard like he’s been exposed to something pungent. Every time he’d ever looked at her face it had been with fear of something.

“Mom,” he says thickly. Andrew shifts closer to him, defensive.

“Time to go,” she says immediately, smiling quick, a squeeze of an expression. “I’m so sorry,” she tells the room, “but we’ve had a family emergency. I’m taking him home.”

“He is home,” Andrew says simply.

“Like hell you’re taking him,” Wymack says.

Mary looks at Neil, a lick of flame. He recoils. She knows that he’s laid roots in this soil now, that he ignored her only rules. Everything that he ever did in reckless grief and rage and set on his mother’s grave is within her reach now.

“Neil,” she says. Her tongue folds the word into the lie that it is. “We have to go. Car’s waiting.”

A stolen car with fake plates. A thief mother with a fake face. Stepping back into that life would kill him for sure. Ichirou would find them so much faster than Nathan, and his unpaid debt would beg and cry for blood.

“Dad’s dead,” Neil whispers.

“Neil Abram,” she says warningly. She crosses the room, bursting it open, gutting it with her sturdy heeled shoes and the lines around her mouth and the gun he knows is in a shoulder holster beneath her blazer.

Andrew stands up. “You touch him you lose the other eye,” he says calmly.

Mary stops short. Her mouth twitches again. “Come,” she says. Neil does, staggering to his feet, finally feeling the tug he’d been waiting for outside that gas station two years ago.

“Neil, what the hell,” Nicky says, appalled.

“I’m sorry,” Neil says, feeling all of his victories topple like he always expected they would, watching his home burn with everything inside. He looks at Andrew and tries to memorize him, fast, the sweetness in his bitter frown and his ashy hair, the tense set of his hands. He closes his eyes and sees him relaxed, rosy with sunrise, eyes low and calculating.

“I thought your mom was— you know—“ Matt starts, and Mary gathers Neil’s wrist into her grip, twisting until the seam of his armband faces the front.

“You’ve been telling stories?” she asks, face already done up to look apologetic. Neil can feel himself floating back over to her, she’s unhooked his boat from the dock. “I’m sorry for you all, for you, Mr. Wymack, he can be a bit of a problem, a pathological liar, but—“

Andrew tries to step between them, and Mary yanks Neil behind her by the arm, struggling to shield him from a perceived threat. He lets himself be moved, seeing everything at a remove, his lives before and after the foxes like lenses laid one on top of the other.

“No,” Andrew says, maybe by accident, and he produces a knife so quickly that Neil can’t decide whether or not he wants to warn his mother or let Andrew save him, like always.

Mary dodges the first swipe by nothing, by a breath, and her eye is pristinely clear when she bobs back into Neil’s line of sight.

“This is the company you’re keeping now?” she asks.

“This is the mom you ditched?” Dan retorts. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“You can’t trust them,” Mary says, leaning savagely into Neil’s ear. “You never trust. You take what you need and—“

“And run, I know.” In his head, she is pressing vodka into his wounds and putting her sweaty forehead to his. Don’t stay or you’ll get shot again. Don’t look away from me for long enough to mess up like this.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Mary says, nodding towards where Andrew’s body is an uncoiled whip and the air is singing with anticipation.

“Neil,” Andrew says, and it’s oceans away from his mother’s cattle prod voice.

“Andrew,” Neil says. “I can’t think.“

“Don’t go,” he says simply. “She does not own your life. She cannot resurface only after you’ve wiped out every threat.” He’s holding a knife the same way he holds a cigarette, loose, propped between two fingers and a thumb. Neil puts his head down.

“No reason for you to run anymore,” Wymack tells him, an arms length away now, hands spread. “Mom or not, lying your way into the room isn’t your style anymore, am I right?”

“What have you told them, hm?” Mary asks, and wrenches Neil further towards the door like she’s saving a drowning victim, so suddenly that his breath stutters.

Andrew moves fast, twisting her hand out of the way and tripping her away from Neil, taking advantage of the cocked hip from her chronic pain, probably a spinal injury. He takes her to the wall hard enough for the door to judder closed. Neil registers relief and panic in the keen glint of light from Andrew’s knife as he sinks it into Mary’s hand, pinning her palm to the wall.

There’s a commotion as Wymack rushes forward to destabilize Andrew, but he isn’t even fighting, his muscles are corded with tension but he’s waiting for Neil’s go ahead. He’s incapacitated the threat and now he’s just circling, restless.

Mary bites her pain in half, not even crying out, her body shaking hard and then stabilizing. Neil watches her blood leak down to the laminate floors and thinks about the way that she’s tracking mud through the home that he only found once he’d let her go.

Her straining eye finds Neil’s face, as exposing as when she walked into the room. “You let them put you in a zoo. You let them clip your wings.”

“I wanted it,” Neil admits, feeling revulsion in his throat but bravery at his back. “I signed up for it. Over and over. It’s the reason he’s dead. It’s the reason we’re safe.”

“Don’t be naïve,” she snaps. “We’re not safe. Everyone knows you, Abram, your blood is worth even more now. I’ve been following your tracks for months, and you have both a legacy and publicity to contend with; you’re attached to your father and the Moriyamas and this team. I can’t undo what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t run anywhere in months,” Neil argues. “I cut a deal and I’m living with it.”

“If you’re making deals with those people then you’re not living.”

“I don’t think you remember what living is,” Neil snaps. She makes a frustrated noise, and twists her hand against the pain. Andrew sneers, and Neil realizes all at once that he is furious.

His face is showing all the fingerprints of emotion that Neil left on him, and the violence was more of an instinct than a calculation.

“I can’t protect you from this,” Mary warns. “You’re too close.”

“You never protected him at all,” Andrew says. She eyes him, teeth halfway to bared, the rabid smile that is the only family resemblance that they truly all share.

“You couldn’t possibly understand, and I don’t know why Neil let you think you could.”

“He didn’t let him,” Aaron hisses unexpectedly, arms crossed tightly and knees locked together where he’s still on the couch. “You’re not the only one in the world who something bad has happened to.”

“Not by a long shot, not in this room,” Dan agrees, stepping forward. “I know this is a high stress situation for you, but Neil is here for a reason. We’ve all done drastic things to survive.”

“Difference is, these kids don’t let that be the only thing about them,” Wymack says, “and if you try to cut Neil’s losses for him and run, it’s gonna be a lot messier than you remember. Unless he wants it,” he finishes, looking at Neil.

He catches Andrew’s eyes on him too, and shakes his head quickly. “I’m not going back to that life.”

Mary’s face crumples, and the gravity of what he’s done is crushing. “But I found you. I came back for you, Nathaniel.“

His name jars him, as she had intended it to, but not in the direction she wants. “You left me, first,” Neil says. “You knew where I was all this time and you—“ he swallows, feeling like he’s fourteen again, his hands slipping over picking a pocket, his mother staring at him, furious, branding him for life with a different strain of anger from his father’s.

Andrew steps close, facing Neil and eclipsing Mary. Neil fists a weak hand in Andrew’s collar, needing the support.

“Oh, no,” Mary says, breathless and horrified, “I can’t believe you would be stupid enough to do that. Loving someone who loves knives more than you? I guess you followed my lead after all.”

Neil’s hand drops. The implication itches and burns in him like a bad reaction, and he pushes past Andrew too quickly to be caught, hot and fast as a bullet, feverish and untouchable. He pulls the knife from his mother’s hand and holds it against her throat instead. She gasps painfully and his chest is battered in, broken into, looted.

“He’s nothing like him.” He spies the narrow peachy line of a scar at the corner of her mouth and feels tears at his eyes again, remembering the way she’d smiled around the cut for him, so he wouldn’t be afraid.

Mary smiles at him now, a shadow of pride moving over her face. “Good.”

“Look, not to tell you how to manage your family reunion, but maybe there could be less stabbing?” Nicky says, a little hysterical.

Neil drops the knife, grateful for the excuse to do so, shoulders sagging. He can feel hands dragging him back from his mother, her blood sticking his shoes to the floor, and he puts his face in his hands.

“I think you’d better go,” Wymack says gravely.

He can hear her hesitate. He knows she’s never willingly walked away from him in his life, and how it must feel like failure, like the death that she was so afraid of that she slept with a gun in one hand and Neil’s fingers clenched in the other.

When he looks up again, she’s gone.

He remembers the way he felt with his knees soldered into the sand and finders keepers clanging in his head. It’s how his mother must feel now, with her son found, and kept, and unreachable.

He looks around at the faces of his teammates, hollowed out by worry and secondhand trauma. He aches with shame.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” Renee asks carefully, and he’s startled by her voice, like he thought he was looking at a photograph until it started moving. She’s holding herself in such a way that suggests that she would track his mother down if he wished it. Andrew is staggered apart from the others, but there’s an identical look in his eye.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “I just— it used to be a relief that she wasn’t here to see what I’d done.” He blinks. “And now she’s seen it all.”

“Seen what, that you’ve outgrown her? That’s a real shame,” Allison says sarcastically. Neil flinches.

“I’m still confused about the whole she’s alive thing,” Nicky says, trying to catch Neil’s eye, trying to connect.

“We are not talking about it,” Andrew says. He pulls Neil away from the group by the back of his jersey, and no one moves to stop them.

“Neil,” Wymack says, raising his chin at him. “Later, okay?”

He nods. Andrew tugs more insistently, and Neil falls into step with him, letting his weight ease just a little into his side.

He’s ushered into the hallway, and his vision swings wildly for a glimpse of his mother for a moment before he understands that he’s lost her again, on purpose this time. He knows now that every decision he’s made for two years has been in violent reaction to a lie he believed and a secret his mother kept.

He also knows, because he felt it, expected it, that his mother had slipped a cell phone into his pocket when he’d held a knife to her neck. It was all that he could feel, looking at the thatch of new and old scars, the dark eyes that he used to find in the dark when he had a nightmare. It’s all he can feel now.

Bars of overhead lights slip by as Andrew gets him physically away from the site of his panic, putting doors between Neil and his past, the tidal wave that would destroy the town, carry away the survivors until they swim themselves to death.

He found land, and he doesn’t need a lifeboat anymore. He doesn’t miss the weight on his clothes and the salt in his lungs. His mother’s life preserver is a noose.

He finds his vision blurring, and every time he tries to apologize Andrew’s hand gets tighter in his shirt.

Somehow, they’re at centre court. Andrew’s holding him, and the court is holding them both. The smells, rubber and cigarettes, brings him stuttering out of his panic attack, and Andrew clutches him through it, tight hands at his jaw, at his waist, a mouth so flat that Neil could balance his whole world on it.

“She is not worth this,” Andrew tells him, teeth gritted.

Neil shakes his head. “They barely needed to show me anything and I believed it. I hitched a ride out of the state while my mom was still with them, bleeding out. How am I supposed to— how do I deal with that kind of mistake?”

“If she was in Lola’s hands then she was as good as dead. You were sixteen. How would getting yourself killed help her?”

“I could’ve—“

“Nothing. You are both alive now, and that is only your doing.”

“Andrew,” Neil says, screwing his eyes shut.

“I would kill her,” he says, voice going runny, getting away from him, dripping all over their joined hands. “I can tell that you’re still afraid of her.”

“I don’t want to lose this.” Neil puts their foreheads together, and breathes around his fear. “I feel like— she would take it, all, if she thought that it would save my life.”

“I will not let her. Neil.” He slits his eyes open, and Andrew is still so furious, eyes and mouth dark and wet, and it steadies Neil’s pulse to see his fear feeding into anger, coal into fire. “Blood is not family.”

Family and blood were always swirling in the same drain, people hacking each other into whatever pieces were easiest to move, or track down, or swallow.

The foxes only ever wanted him whole.

“Yeah,” Neil says, nearly frantic, bringing Andrew’s hand up to his chest. “Yeah. This is.”

[fuzzballsheltiepants]

Back to the Start, part 1

Post-canon All for the Game story. 

Neil sighed as he sank onto the couch in the stadium lounge, surrounded by his team.  He’d had a whole semester to get used to being the oldest player on the team, to his family being gone.  He thought he had been doing okay with it, surviving with texts and Skype and phone calls, until he spent the past two weeks of Christmas break with Andrew in Boston.  The whole flight today had been spent remembering the feel of Andrew’s hands hot on his skin, of their shared breaths, of Andrew shivering under his mouth.  

The other players were talking excitedly about the game that was beginning on the large TV.  Andrew’s team was hosting Kevin’s, only the second time the two had faced off as pros, and the game had been hyped all week.  Andrew and Neil had watched Kevin’s interview the night before on Exy Night in America from Andrew’s apartment.  Neil had spent the ten minutes grinning at Kevin’s well-practiced persona while Andrew drily commented what they both knew Kevin was really thinking.  

Neil smiled at the memory as the ball was served and the teams crashed into each other.  Andrew was comfortable in his goal, while Kevin was battling with an enormous backliner named Jasper Scott that Andrew mocked mercilessly. Neil had watched the games enough to see how Scott’s extreme aggression masked sloppy technique.  Kevin had clearly picked up on the same thing, passing to himself off the wall to fire on Andrew.  Naturally Andrew teed off and slammed the ball all the way up the court, one of his strikers leaping to snag the ball out of the air.  The game continued, Neil barely able to hear the commentary due to the excited yelling of his teammates.  When Andrew was subbed out, Kevin finally scored before being ushered off the court himself.  

The second half started on a 3-3 tie.  Andrew’s sub allowed in another two goals before Andrew came back on and shut the goal down completely.  Kevin took his frustration out on the backliner, he and Scott both getting yellow carded before the final whistle.  Meanwhile, Boston’s strikers finally woke up and managed to get a few shots past Houston’s goalkeeper.  Neil was cheering with his team as the final score flashed up on the screen.  

He almost missed it.  He’d actually started to turn away, to reach for his phone to text Andrew his unwanted congratulations, when the flash of movement on the screen caught his eye.  Kevin’s fellow striker, in a fit of anger, had slammed the ball off the wall.  It wasn’t intended to be anything other than a vent of feelings, but the ball ricocheted hard off the wall and towards the pack of Boston players.  

If it had hit anyone else, it would’ve caused a severe bruise to the back or shoulder and maybe a lost week of playing time.  But when Neil saw the shortest player drop in a flash of blond hair, he was running for Wymack’s office before the announcers even began their stunned announcement that Andrew Minyard had just been hit in the head and was now unconscious on the court.

*****

Andrew startled awake, immobilized, surrounded by people he didn’t recognize with bright lights overhead instead of the dark night outside of the club.  He began thrashing, trying to turn over, needing to see if Nicky was all right.  Three people in strange uniforms surrounded him, talking to him, calling his name.

“Nicky,” he finally gasped, then began to retch.  The board he was strapped to was turned onto it side while he vomited, cool hands pressing against his pounding head to stabilize him.  

He heard people around him muttering, Nicky’s name repeated, and some other names too.  One kept being said over and over but he couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t focus on anything when the light was so bright it hurt his eyes even through his closed lids.

“We need to get him to the hospital for a scan ASAP,” a woman said, and he began struggling harder.

“Nicky!” he yelled, and he didn’t know why his eyes were burning.  

“Who’s Nicky?” came a quiet voice.  

“His cousin,” said another, and that one almost sounded familiar.  He tried to open his eyes to see who it was but the brightness made him vomit again.  Fury surged.  He’d failed, he must’ve failed, those bastards must’ve gotten him.

“Andrew,” came the almost-familiar voice again.  “Nicky’s fine.  He’s fine.  I can get him on the phone for you if you want.”

“We need to move him,” the woman said, and the board he was on began to roll.  He tried to figure out what the man meant, why would he get Nicky on the phone when he had just been right here?  But before he could ask the motion of the board caused the pain in his head to flare, and the blackness swept him under again.

*****

Neil was pacing at the airport, barely able to hear Kevin over the roaring in his ears.  “He just got admitted into the neurology unit at Mass General,” Kevin was saying, but all Neil kept hearing on a replay in his mind was skull fracture, concussion, possible brain bleed.  

“Look, Kevin, they’re calling my flight.  Just…just stay with him.”  Don’t let him die.

“I won’t leave him, I promise,” Kevin swore, and Neil ended the call and boarded.  He waited until the last second to put the phone in airplane mode, checking the flood of texts reflexively.  He kept reopening the thread from Andrew.  Talk after the game junkie.  Some part of him kept expecting the little dots to appear, another text to come through with some smartass comment, but though the phone vibrated again and again not once did Andrew’s screen move.

*****

Andrew resurfaced in a dim, quiet room.  There were two people with him, and it didn’t hurt so much to open his eyes.  The man; he should have recognized him; that tattoo on his face used to be the number two, but he couldn’t dredge up his name.  Somehow he knew that this man hadn’t been one of the ones who had hurt him.  So he kept still, trying to figure out where he was and where Nicky had gone.

The woman noticed he was awake first and set down the chart she was holding.  “Andrew, I’m Doctor Kupra.  You’re in the hospital.  Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Where’s Nicky?” he asked, or tried to.  His throat was so dry nothing came out.  The doctor seemed to understand and she looked up over his head.  A third person Andrew hadn’t seen appeared over his shoulder, setting his heart racing as he struggled to keep his face as impassive as possible.  The woman held a glass with a straw up to him and he allowed himself to suck down some of the water.  He repeated the question.

The doctor looked at the not-stranger and he answered, “Nicky’s in Germany with Erik.”  

But that didn’t make sense, it couldn’t, because Nicky had come home for him, for them.  He wouldn’t have left, not when they had one more year in high school.  “Did they kill him?” he asked dully.  The three people exchanged looks.

“Did who kill him?” the doctor asked.  She moved to touch his leg over the blanket but he flinched away and she didn’t push it.

“Those men at the club.  I tried to help, I tried to get there in time…” He didn’t know why he was talking, he was revealing too much, he needed to stop but not as much as he needed to know.

“No,” the man said, “Nicky is fine.  You got there, you stopped them.”  But the man’s eyes were too bright and his voice was too thick and he was lying, he was lying, everybody always lied.

“Mr. Day, may I speak with you out in the hall?”  The doctor’s voice was smooth, professional, but when the man followed her out with a searching look at Andrew, he knew Nicky must be gone.  He had failed.

*****

“You have got to be kidding me,” Neil snapped at the stone-faced woman behind the desk.

“Family only,” she repeated.

“I am his fucking family.”  But she remained unmoved as she turned back to her paperwork.  Neil turned away and dialed Kevin.

“Where the hell are you?” Kevin answered.

“Downstairs, the gorgon at the desk won’t let me up because I’m not family.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.  Hold on.”  Neil could hear Kevin talking to someone, but not the words.  “The doctor’s calling down to the desk.”  The line went dead and Neil was left staring at the screen.

A few minutes later he followed a harried nurse out of the elevator on the sixth floor to see Kevin standing with a woman in a lab coat in front of a closed door. The woman introduced herself as Doctor Kupra; Kevin must have explained who Neil was because she didn’t ask, just began explaining.  It was hard to focus, with Andrew hidden behind that door, with words like “fracture” and “subdural hematoma” floating in the air.  “In some ways, Andrew is fortunate in that the nature of the skull fracture prevented the hematoma from putting excessive pressure on his brain.  We were able to drain it nonsurgically.  At this point, we will be monitoring him closely.  We may still need to go in there to provide decompression.”

Neil nodded like he understood.  “And how is he?”

“So far, he seems to be neurologically intact.  He retains normal movement and sensation in all his limbs and he can speak.”  

“Neil,” Kevin said, then hesitated.  “I don’t think he recognizes me.  He keeps asking about Nicky, he thinks Nicky’s dead.”

“What, like from the club?”  Kevin nodded.  “So does he have amnesia or something?”  He almost laughed, it was such a ridiculous idea that Andrew’s perfect memory could be compromised, but Dr. Kupra’s face was serious.

“That’s a possibility,” she said.  “Mr. Day here was just giving me some information about Mr. Minyard’s history, and it does seem that he may be dealing with some memory loss.  He’s certainly disoriented and gets distressed easily.”

Neil pulled out his phone.  “Did you try face-timing Nicky?” he asked.

“Not yet,” Kevin said.  “It’s really early in Germany.”

Neil shot him a look.  “Are you kidding?  You really think Nicky’s going to care if you wake him up?”  Shaking his head he began texting quickly.  It took only a few seconds to get Nicky’s response.  “He’s up.  We can do this whenever.”

The doctor nodded.  “Let’s see if he’s awake,” she said.  “Mr. Josten…He may not recognize you.”

“I understand.”

“He’s been agitated by anybody touching him.”

“I can imagine.  Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.  I know him.”

With that, Dr. Kupra opened the door.

*****

Andrew didn’t remember falling asleep, but the quiet click of the door jolted him awake.  The resulting stab of pain in his head had him sinking back into the pillows, squeezing his eyes closed as nausea surged.

“Why is he in restraints?”  That voice…it tickled something in his chest.  He dared to open his eyes again, squinting cautiously.  The nausea did not return.  The man and the women from before were in the room.  With them was another man, and he must have been the one who had spoken.  

“He kept trying to get out of bed,” the woman in the white coat said.  The man flicked her an irritated look and turned back to Andrew.

“Drew,” he said, coming closer.  “If we free your arms, will you try to get up?”

Andrew looked down in surprise; he hadn’t even realized that there were velcro straps tying him to the bed’s rails.  His armbands were gone, his scars exposed. They looked strangely faded.  He looked back at the man, at the piercing blue of his eyes, vibrant even in the dim light.  “Nicky,” he said.  “Will you tell me what happened to Nicky?”

The man gave him a soft smile and looked down at his phone, pressing the screen before holding it to his ear.  Andrew didn’t understand his expression, it looked…fond.  Nobody ever looked at him like that.  His chest itched, but he couldn’t move his hands to scratch it.

“Nicky,” the man said into the phone, “Andrew needs to talk to you.”  He pulled the phone down, pressed the screen again, then held it out to Andrew.  And there Nicky was, and he was crying but he seemed okay, he seemed whole.  

“Andrew,” Nicky said.

“Did they hurt you?” Andrew demanded, or tried to, but his voice was still so weak.

“I’m fine, Andrew.  I’m fine.  You stopped those bastards.”  Nicky hiccoughed.  

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Germany,” Nicky said.  

“How the hell did you get to Germany?”  It didn’t make sense, it didn’t add up.

Nicky hesitated.  “Neil?” he asked.  The man holding the phone turned it away from Andrew, touched the screen and held it back to his ear.  

“I know.  I know.  Nicky, it’s going to be all right.  I’ll call you later, okay?”

He put the phone in his pocket and faced Andrew again, holding his hand over Andrew’s wrist.  “I want to undo your restraints.  Yes or no?”

Andrew nodded despite the pain in his head, but the man didn’t move.  “Yes.”

Slowly, the man - Neil, he assumed - reached down to pull apart the velcro, carefully not touching his skin.  As soon as his right hand was free, Andrew moved to undo his left but the man, Neil, said, “Let me do it, you shouldn’t move so much.”  

He walked around the bed rather than lean over, and waited until Andrew said, “Yes,” again before undoing the other strap.  “Are you one of Nicky’s friends?” Andrew asked; even as the words were leaving his mouth he wondered why he cared.

There was a flash of something that might have been pain across the man’s face. “Yes, Andrew,” he said, and his voice broke, just a little. “I’m one of Nicky’s friends.” The other man, the taller, darker one, gave the stranger’s shoulder a squeeze.

Andrew closed his eyes as the tempo of the pounding in his head increased. He started to drift, and recognized that feeling though he couldn’t recall ever feeling it before. A tiny part of him was panicking at the idea of being drugged, of being at the mercy of these strangers, but before he could protest he was swept under.

*****

Neil sat on the window ledge, leaning against the closed blinds while machines silently monitored Andrew’s vital signs. Kevin had finally headed back to his hotel once it was clear Andrew was going to sleep for a while. His team was due to fly out in a few hours, but he was going to try to stay an extra day or two.

The doctor had told Neil not to worry; that transient amnesia in the hours after a head injury was common; that it would likely resolve over the next couple of weeks. But Neil had googled it after everyone had left, and the transient amnesia usually only affected a couple of weeks before and after the injury. Andrew had lost almost seven years.

Seven years, five of them with Neil. Five years of shared keys and cigarettes; of bared scars, and slow acceptance, and mapping each other’s minds and bodies. All gone in the strike of a ball. And now, in the quiet and the dark, Neil could only wonder what if.

[folklore-musings]

If I Can’t Have You (part 2)

Summary: Very AU. Archie Andrews is dead. The only leading suspect is one of his oldest and dearest friends, Jughead Jones. Betty Cooper is forced on a mission to find Jughead and bring him in, getting herself kidnapped throughout the process. Everything is a lie and nothing is the truth in this twisted tale of love and death.

Read on AO3 here

Read Part One here on tumblr

A/N:  Sorry this took so long to update I’ve been so busy with my other fic Camera Shy, my apologies. In this chapter we finally get to meet Betty! Thank you so much for the comments and kudos before, don’t be afraid to leave more if you like this! Thank you @jandjsalmon for the inspiration and @riverdalelovee for the read over. You ladies are wonderful.

Betty was sitting at her desk when the wanted poster landed in her inbox. “Do you know where we might be able to find him?”

She picked up the paper, hot off the press and scrutinized the face of the man staring back at her. Suddenly the walls were caving in and her throat felt like sand paper. Betty couldn’t believe it. Those eyes that same crooked smirk, the unruly curls falling into his face, and that stupid hat. He was 25 years old, in her opinion he really needed to let that thing go.

“No.” Betty said, face showing no emotion. “Why, what did he do?”

Kevin Keller pulled out the empty chair across from Betty and sat down. He reached over her desk and placed his hand over hers, a sympathetic gesture that Betty found welcoming. “We think he had something to do with Archie’s death.”

Betty swallowed the dry lump in her throat at the sound of her fiancé’s name. She told herself she wouldn’t cry anymore over him, at least not in public. It had been a little over a month since the murder and she’d been trying her best to move on with her life. It was a lot harder than she thought it would be.

“I think that assumption is a little far-fetched, don’t you think Kevin?” She grabbed the water bottle next to her laptop and took a sip. Wow, it was hot in her little office. She stared at the drawing some more, captivated by those haunting, pencil drawn eyes she knew so well.

“It’s Jughead, he’s capable of anything.” Kevin sighed heavily and dropped his gaze. “I need you to do me a favor Betty…”

Betty paced circles around the island in her kitchen, practically burrowing a path in the hardwood floor. She’d bitten her nails to the point where they were bleeding. How could Kevin do this to her? Wasn’t there a conflict of interest here, having Betty investigate the murder of her fiancé?

She hung her head in her hands, ripping the ponytail from hair and flexing it between her thumbs. The ponytail slipped and she watched it fly across the room, landing silently on the floor near the table. She curled her fingers into her fists like she used to when she was younger. Thankfully, she had no nails left to reopen the scars that littered her palms.

During her next lap around her island, Betty stopped just short of the fridge and opened the cabinet above and to the left. She peered inside, reaching up and grabbing the familiar orange pill bottle. Her hands were shaking as she opened it up, popping two little orange tablets into her mouth. They hit the back of her throat and Betty swallowed them dry. She gripped the countertop, hating herself for having to succumb to the prescription drugs she hadn’t taken in months. She despised feeling powerless.

Betty was about to place the pill bottle back in the cabinet before having second thoughts and pocketing them instead. If she was going to have to force herself to search out Jughead and ultimately solve the murder of her beloved Archie, she was going to need all the drugs she could lay her hands on.

She grabbed herself a glass of water, sipping slowly as she waited for the drugs to settle in. Glancing around her little two bedroom home her heart ached. Ever since Archie’s murder she no longer was capable of being alone in the dark. Every light was turned on in the kitchen and the living room beyond. The brightness was harsh to her sleep deprived eyes but Betty couldn’t handle turning them off. She was afraid Archie’s ghost would return just to haunt her; to ruin her life in the wake of his death, just as he did when he was alive.

Archie and Betty were the perfect All-American couple. They’d grown up as next door neighbors, forced into each other lives at the mere age of two. Betty had loved Archie since she was seven, and he brought her a princess Band-Aid to cover her scraped knee when she’d fallen off her bike, trying to keep up with him and Jughead. He’d kissed her knee, telling her it was all better and Betty was crushed.

Throughout high school he serial dated every girl in their grade, even the hot young teacher that came to town. Everyone had gotten a taste besides Betty and it drove her to the brink of insanity. No matter how hard she tried to be perfect, Archie refused to see her as the girl she could be for him. It wasn’t until after she dated and broke up with his best friend Jughead that Archie fell under her charming spell.

But Betty was never enough for Archie.

They dated for five years, long distance as they went their separate ways for college. As soon as they returned to their hometown Archie popped the question and Betty, without hesitation accepted the princess cut ring he forced upon her finger.

It wasn’t long until they moved in together, getting used to the pre-married life when Betty started to notice Archie’s web of lies. He’d come home in the wee hours of the morning, reeking of scotch and cheap perfume. Betty swallowed the pain the first time she saw the smeared red lipstick on his collar.

Red was never her color.

When she tried to confront him about it she’d be met with the slap of his hand across her cheek. He’d call her a jealous bitch and a child. “This is what you wanted Betty!” He’d scream in her face.

But without Betty, Archie was nothing. His parents were divorced and his father had nothing left to his name when an old business venture went south back in high school. Betty was his key to a solid a future, the perfect cookie-cutter American dream family that everyone wanted but no one ever got.

Four months before their wedding Betty threatened to leave him if he didn’t quit the drinking and the sleeping around behind her back. Despite his abuse she still loved him something awful. But Archie never stopped and thought about what Betty asked of him. And the night she tried to leave he pulled her by her golden ponytail and shoved her against the wall. “If you leave me, I’ll kill you.”

Betty fell to the floor in her kitchen, clutching the glass of water in her hand afraid it may spill. She tried and failed to hold back the tears as they fell. This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. She’d wanted so much more out of life but all she’d gotten was the bad end of Lifetime movie drama.

Archie’s icy tone still woke her up at night, shaking in a cold sweat. It wasn’t until that moment that she realized she wasn’t safe, that she’d never be safe.

She walked on eggshells around Archie after he’d threatened her life, afraid to set him off again. She knew what he was capable of, but she never imagined he’d be capable of murder.

Weeks went by into months as their wedding loomed closer. Betty forced herself to focus on the details of the caterers, the dress and the cake, spending all the time she could away from home, away from him. She dropped fifteen pounds in a month without trying, and when she looked in the mirror, nothing but hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes stared back.

Everyone blamed the stress of the wedding, but Archie knew. And Archie thrived off her fear.

Just two weeks before the wedding Betty received a call at 3 a.m, waking her from troubled sleep. She felt the sheets beside her and they were cold.

She answered the phone with a yawn. In the background of the call she heard sirens and her heart dropped like a bomb to her stomach.

“Betty? Betty it’s me. It’s Kevin. I don’t know how to tell you this but Archie-“ The phone line filled with static and she missed the last of what he said.

“Kevin what? I’m sorry my signal is terrible. What’s wrong?” She stepped out of bed and paced down the hallway, flicking on every light as fled her way into the kitchen.

A groan sounded through the receiver. “Betty, Archie’s dead.”

Betty placed a hand over her eyes and cried as she sat on the cold kitchen floor, the memories flooding her mind like a hurricane. She didn’t cry for Archie, no. She cried for herself. She was finally free.

She grabbed hold of the counter for support as she brought herself back up to her feet. Her hands trembled as she finished the glass of water, setting in the sink. With shaky knees she walked down the hall and turned the corner into her room.

There at the foot of her bed was a suitcase full of clothes. She eyed the floral bag with remorse and reached down to the clutch the handle. It was time to go find Jughead.

[fxyeahriverdale-blog]

What Happened To Us? Chapter 3: What went down at Southside High

Read on AO3

A/N: I edited this myself, so be nice haha

                                Southside High: April 29th

Betty ran as fast as she could. She cursed herself for skipping out on runs for the past couple of weeks. She moved her long legs as quickly as she could. The cold air was not the only thing making her body feel numb in her cheerleadering uniform. She bolted from the spring pep rally before the River Vixens routine when she saw the boys leaving. She knew exactly where they were headed. She needs to stop this!

She reaches the front entrance to Southside High. She runs through the metal detectors."Hey!" The security guard yells as Betty runs through the hallway towards the cafeteria. She stops as soon as she sees the scene unfolding in the cafeteria.

The letterman jackets and the serpent jackets facing each other ready to square off. Her eyes search desperately for Jughead's. Chuck is the first to lunge at one of the Serpents. Chaos breaks out. People rush to watch the fight. Betty rushes towards the fight as well.

"Stop!" She yells, but nobody can hear her over the chaos that is going on in the cafeteria. "Stop It!" She can barely see any faces past the fists that are flying in the air. For all she knows Jughead could be in the library, but she needs to make sure that he is safe.

"Betty?" Jughead turns to his girlfriend stunned. Betty follows his voice to see that he is only a few feet away from her.

"Juggie come here please!" She pleads. She feels a strong arm grabbing her.

"Betty go home! Go home now!" Jughead warns her. He should know better. There is no way in hell Betty would leave.

Suddenly, a knife goes right through Jughead. Everything feels silent to Betty except for the noise of the knife being pulled out her boyfriend's abdomen. She clenches her side feeling excruciating pain as if the knife went through herself. She follows the hand that pulls out the knife seeing none other than her arch enemy Chuck Clayton.

Jughead's hand clutches the wound. He looks over at Betty in shock. Betty screams out in horror. Two boys grab Betty keeping her from going to him.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Betty attempts to fight off the hold they have on her.

"You are only going to get hurt Cheerleader."

"I don't care. Get off of me!" Betty struggles as she sees her boyfriend clutching at his stomach. Nobody running over to help him.

"Let her go. It is her death wish." The serpents debate letting go of Betty.

"Chuck I will kill you!"Betty tries her best to fight her way out of the hold. Dark Betty getting ready to burst out of her cage. Chuck looks down at his bloody knife stunned.

"Chuck what have you done?" Archie asks in a panic. Betty's eyes dart to her best friend's. Her ex best friend now. Archie knew he messed up. He avoided Betty's begging and now they are here. He cannot believe the scene that has unfolded in front of him.

"We were just supposed to just confront them!" One of Chuck's minions says panicked. "We gotta go." The boys rush off. One of the letterman jackets pushes Jughead full force. He falls back and slams his head onto the hard concrete floor.

"Jughead!" The serpents release Betty and she runs over to him. There is blood pouring out of his head and his stomach. So much blood! Betty puts her hand in both places to try and stop the bleeding.

"Help!" Betty yells. Archie stands in front of them frozen. Betty looks up at him with hatred in her eyes. She is ready to go off when a noise escapes Jughead's mouth. Suddenly her darkness vanishes.

"What's that Juggie?" She says softly.

"Betts."

"I am right here. Just hold on. Help is coming."

"I'm sorry."

"No don't be sorry. Just stay with me okay. Please stay with me?"

"Always." He smiles. His eyes begin to flutter.

"Juggie keep your eyes open. Please keep them open." Betty is overwhelmed trying to keep both wounds from bleeding out and trying to keep Jughead awake.

"I- I can-", He is struggling with his words,"look at those green eyes forever." Betty laughs through the tears.

“You are so cheesy Jug."

"You love it." Jughead says as his eyes continue to flutter.

"I love you Juggie, please don't leave! Please don't leave me!" Jughead's eyes fully close and Betty gasps."Come back! Come back Jug!"

She looks up and paramedics are rushing through the cafeteria. Archie has now disappeared along with the other Northside boys. Coward.

"Miss we are going to need to take over." Betty reluctantly lets the paramedics begin working on her boyfriend.

“Can you identify the male that stabbed Jughead Jones out the males you identified in the cafeteria at Southside High?” Sheriff Keller asks pulling Betty back to the present. Betty hated having to relive that moment in exact detail. She needed to do it, for Jughead.

“Chuck Clayton.” She says in disgust.

“Betty other witnesses named a red hair boy being there. A very similar description to that of Archie Andrews. You did not list him in the group of boys.” Betty flinches just at the mention of his name.

“Archie was not there.” Betty lies.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She knew he would drop it. Sheriff Keller’s clear preference for the North Side was obvious. He also knew that she would not lie when it came to bringing her boyfriend’s attacker to justice.

Protecting Archie on the other hand, Betty did not know why she is doing it. She wants to say that she is doing it for Veronica, but that is not it. Despite the messed up thing he did, he is still her best friend. And Jughead was his best friend. He has to live with his mistake forever. That alone is torture enough.

“Thank you Betty for your time!”

“Sheriff Keller, I know it’s not visiting hours right now, but I would like to see FP.” Sheriff Keller sighs.”Has anyone even told him?”

“Not yet.”

“He has a right to know. Jughead is his son."

"I am sorry Betty, but he is not allowed to have visitors right now."

"Please Sheriff Keller! God forbid if this were to happen to Kevin you would expect the same respect. Please?”

“I can make an exception. You have been extremely helpful. Thanks Betty!”

“Thanks Sheriff Keller.”

Sheriff Keller led her back to the cell block. Since FP could not afford bail he is shacked up in the Riverdale Police Department until his upcoming trial.

“Betty. I was half expecting you to be my son. My son who missed our weekly appointment yesterday. Did he send you on his behalf?” Betty takes a deep breath.

”FP, something happened yesterday. Jughead was stabbed by Chuck Clayton at Southside High.” Her hands are shaking as she speaks.”Another boy pushed him so hard afterwards that he hit his head on the concrete.”She is scared as she studies FP’s face.”He is conscious now.” Betty says quickly realizing that she should of started with the fact that he is okay now.

“Oh thank god.” FP let’s out a long breath.

“I haven’t been back to the hospital since he woke up. I had to come here and give my statement, but his head injury is pretty bad, He doesn’t remember anything before July of last summer. They are running tests to officially determine how long the memory loss will last.” She can tell FP is holding in his anger.”I am so sorry. I am sorry I couldn’t protect him.” Tears begin streaming down Betty’s face. She turns away from FP to dry her eyes.

“This is not your fault Betty. If this is anyone’s it is mine. I was the one who got involved with the Serpents. I should have known it would catch up to my children.”

“Sheriff Keller gave me his phone to bring back to him. There isn’t any evidence that they need on it. The police are keeping his beanie and clothes as evidence. I was wondering if I should call his mom?”

“I don’t know if she’ll come, but I think it is worth a try. Thank you Betty.” Betty felt sick at the idea of Jughead’s mother refusing to see her son. She hopes that Mrs. Jones can put aside their issues and see her son. He needs her right now.

“He knows that you love him.” Betty assures him.”He loves you too.”

“The recent good memories we made are all gone.” FP says sadly. Betty completely understood his pain.”All he has are the memories of me ruining our family. Me being his dead beat alcoholic dad. Is the memory loss really bad?”

“When he woke up he looked completely confused to see me there.” Betty admits.

“He loves you Betty. He needs you.”

“He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even remember us.” Betty mumbles to herself.

“Oh Betty Cooper that boy loves you whether he has brain damage or not. My boy has never even looked twice another girl besides you. You know what you want and Jughead will come around soon.” Betty smiles at FP’s attempt to comfort her.

”I am sorry you had to find out like this.”

“Thank you for letting me know Betty. Will you just-” FP stops himself.

“I’ll let him know.” Betty smiles understanding.

_______________________________________________________________________

“Betty.” She is greeted by Linda, Jughead’s foster mother. Betty has met her a few times.” I was just on my way out. My work just called me in. Jughead will be happy to have the company.” Betty notices Linda carrying a stack of paperwork. Legal paperwork about adoption.

“Linda has there been any updates?” Right now her priority is Jughead's health.

“They ran some tests. Doctor Francis says that the head injury is serious, but it is not life threatening.” Betty lets out a huge breath she did not realize she was holding in. Finally some good news.”There is brain damage resulting in his memory loss. He does not remember anything from this school year. The Doctor’s said the results on how long the memory loss will last are inconclusive. He could have permanent memory loss or temporary. There is a chance he can get his memory back almost anytime or never.” Betty's heart drops at the thought of Jughead never regaining his memory.

“Thank you Linda.”

“He will be very happy to see you.” Betty forces a smile. She doesn’t know if he will be happy. They are back to square one, when they barely even talked.

She was devastated when she lost their close friendship. She was jealous when he and Archie reignited their friendship. This year was one of the worst years. First Jason’s murder, Polly being sent away, Archie rejecting her after the welcome back dance, her anxiety disorder had grown more powerful, the Chuck hot tub incident, her mother kicking her father out, her best friends and mother going behind her back to hurt Jughead, FP’s arrest, watching the recording of Jason’s murder, the suicide of Clifford Blossom, and the beginning of the civil war. So many lows this year, but Betty cannot help but smile when thinking about the past year. The year that she fell in love.

She takes a deep breath before entering his hospital room.

She lightly knocks on the door before entering. She stress baked Jughead’s personal favorite strawberry cake cookies this morning.

“Hey.” Betty says nervously as she opens the door.

“Betty?” Jughead says surprised.

“How are you feeling?”

“Besides the needles sticking into me, the stab wound, and the throbbing head ache never felt better.” Betty laughs. At least he did not lose his sardonic humor.

“Maybe some strawberry cake cookies will cheer you up.”

“Did Archie send you here?” Betty's heart drops for what feels like the millionth. She does not want to be the one to fill him in on what happened this year. She definitely does not want to be the one to let him know about Archie's part in putting him in this hospital bed.

“No, I just wanted to come by and check on you.”

“Have you seen him at all? Or Fred? Or my dad?” Oh no. She has no idea what to say.”What’s wrong?” He asks in a gentle tone.

“Nothing- I saw your dad this morning. He is in jail.” Betty panics as soon as the words leave her mouth. She is unsure of her decision to reveal to him that news. He is so fragile right now, the last thing she wants to do is break him.

“In jail. Why?”

“It’s a long story, but he is really relieved to hear that you are okay.”

“I am sure he is so upset.” Jughead says sarcastically.

“He really is Jug. He is devastated. He loves you.”

“Everything may be all sunshines and rainbows for you Betty Cooper, but you do not know my life or my father.” Betty cannot help how much his words sting. She has to keep reminding herself that he does not remember. He does not remember FP quitting drinking and cleaning up his act. He does not remember Betty’s insecurities and struggles with people referring to her and her life as perfect. He does not remember that she knows all about his life. They had shared everything.

“I am sorry. I just wanted to see that you are doing okay that is all. I have to meet Polly for her ultra-sound.”

“Polly is pregnant?”

“Ya. She is way past her due date.”

“It’s like I woke up in an alternate universe. How much shit happened this year?” ‘Oh you have no idea Jughead Jones’, Betty thought.

She reached into her pocket feeling Jughead’s phone. She can give him his phone which would tell him a lot.

“Betty please tell me what’s going on? Since when do I have foster parents and I go to Southside High? Archie has been MIA. What’s happened?” She is conflicted. Betty takes her hands off of his phone, deciding against giving it back to him. They had promised each other no secrets, no lies. This is different. It has to be. He doesn’t even know that she is his girlfriend. There are so many painful memories this year, maybe it is for the best if Jughead does not have to re live some of them.

“Like I said your dad was arrested. After Mary left for Chicago, Fred got a DUI so he was disqualified as a legal guardian for you. Your foster parents are from the southside, so you had to transfer to Southside High a few months ago.” Betty says honestly. That is the only information that she is willing to disclose for now.

“Why won’t you want to tell me what happened with my dad?“

“Jughead.” Betty and Jughead both turn their attention to a distraught Gladys Jones. She is nervously fidgeting with her hands.

“Mom?” Betty smiles. She knows how badly he has missed his mom and sister. If this horrible incident has any positives it is that Jughead gets to see his mom.

“Thank you for calling.” Gladys says to Betty.

“Thanks for coming. I should go see my sister. Bye Jughead.”

“Betty.” Betty stops at the doorway looking back at him with hope.”Thanks for the cookies.” He smiles at her and she melts inside. No matter how many times she has seen his smile, it never gets old.

She walks down the corridor before she bursts into tears. She was desperate to have him back. He is alive, that is all that matters.

Jughead sat in his room confused. Confused about his visit with Betty Cooper and the visit from his estranged mother.

“Mom.” Jughead mumbles.

“Oh Forsythe what trouble have you gotten yourself into?” Jughead rolls his eyes. Even though he despises his birth name, he did miss hearing his mother call him Forsythe.

“Where is Jelly Bean?”

“She is in Toledo still. I am going back tonight. I wanted to make sure that you are okay and that it is safe to bring her here.”

“Well I am okay.”

“Why are you getting involved with the serpents in the first place?” Involved with the serpents? Jughead had no idea what is coming out of his mother’s mouth. He knows his father’s association, but he stays clear of them. He spends most of his time at Pop’s or the bleacher’s at Riverdale High where he is not disturbed. He is too busy reading books and attempting to write a novel the majority of the time, to think about being a Southside Serpent. The only person he even hangs out with is Archie.

”We put you in school on the Northside for a reason. You were so interested in films and your writing. What happened?” Jughead is confused. He was all ready overwhelmed with all of the information that he has learned today. He cannot believe how much has happened in the time period that has been erased from his mind. He found out his dad is in jail, that he has a foster family, and transferred schools. Jughead gets the sinking feeling that is only a small part of the last 9-10 months of his life.

“You are actually giving me a lecture on my life choices right now? It is a little late to start caring Mom.”

“I just see so much potential in you Forsythe. You can actually do something with your life.”

“You saw so much potential in me when you left me to live in a trailer with my alcoholic father.” Gladys turns her head away from her son.

“In case the doctors did not update you I have fucking brain damage. I do not remember. I do not know why dad is in jail. I have no idea what is going on. I have no idea why Fred Andrews cannot be my legal guardian, but living with dad was completely fine? I have no idea where my best friend is. I also found out hours ago that I no longer attend Riverdale High.” Jughead did not know it was possible for his head to be throbbing even more than before his mom entered the room.

“I am sorry. I just needed to see for myself that you are all right.”

“I am fine. If you decide to re enter my life again for a few minutes in the future, at least bring my sister.”

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have come.”

“Why did you?”

“Alice Cooper’s daughter called me. She was really worried and said that you needed me. I believed her, but I see that your dad has done a great job with you.”

“Don’t make this about you and dad. You left us. You are just as much to blame. Even if you moved to China, I am still your responsibility, whether you like it or not. You had your chance to get rid of me and you didn’t, so deal my existence mom.” Jughead had heard the many arguments between his parents growing up. A very reoccurring argument where Gladys would bring up how FP would not let her get an abortion when she was pregnant with Jughead. The two had a shot gun wedding and had Jughead. He knew his mother favored Jelly Bean. That was no secret. At least she was all ready married when Jelly Bean was born.

Gladys Jones disappeared from the room. Jughead was not surprised. At least this time he is expecting it. It still does not hurt any less.

He wants to think about anything else besides his mother first appearance in his life in several years. Unless she had a guest starring role during the mysterious past nine months. How would he know, he can’t remember anything that has happened this past school year.

He reached over on his bed side table to grab the delicious looking cookies that were perfectly made by Betty Cooper. Betty’s visit had been a pleasant surprise. Jughead could not understand why she was being so nice to him. She is the only person he has seen in the past twenty four hours that has been sincere. He feels bad for being rude to her.

He felt bad burdening the perfect girl next door with his trailer trash problems. He never wanted to bring her down, but he can’t lie, it does feel good to see those dreamy green eyes up close again. He appreciated her honesty and sincerity. He feels like she is the only person he can trust. She got his mother to come see him for the first time in apparently almost two years. She can tell him where Archie is and what happened this year. If Jughead did not completely scare her away with his rudeness.

So many things are not adding up. What the hell happened this year?

A/N: So Jughead is in the hospital at the hands of Chuck Clayton and also Archie Andrews. Jughead is still unaware of all of the chaos that took part this year in Riverdale. His reunion with Archie is coming up soon, how will it go if Jughead cannot remember his best friend turning against him?Thank you to everyone who has been following the story and commenting on Tumblr & AO3. I love this fandom so much! Please let me know what you think!

[badacts]

recovery

noun

1) a return to normal state of health, mind or strength. “He made a full recovery from cancer.”

2) the action or process of regaining possession or control of something stolen or lost. “A specialised team were sent to ensure the recovery of the body.”

It becomes hard for Andrew to justify putting himself back together at all when he keeps hitting the wall hard enough to break again.

He’d said years ago now to Jean Moreau you can’t cut down someone who’s already in the gutter. Andrew was born there and it took a long, long time for him to crawl his way out, tasting someone else’s blood mixed with his own, like a rebirth. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered. He’s not sure if it’s worth the effort to try it again. Plenty of people have told him he belongs in the gutter, in the grave. Perhaps they’re right.

He would give himself over to it entirely, except he’s spent too much time with people intent on throwing themselves towards the stars these last few years. Renee, Kevin, Neil, his brother - continually reaching upwards, and dragging Andrew up alongside them.

Farther to fall, for all of them. But it’s only Andrew falling, and that’s such a pretty, pretty metaphor for a gore-ugly feeling. Like broken limbs, like bruises, like pain and fear he could never bleed out with the rest. Something people kept teaching him, not taking from him like they did everything else.

Well. Not quite everyone. 

He flips his phone open and shut. He isn’t sure how many times he’s done that, isn’t even entirely sure what time it is, but the motion feels smooth as muscle memory in his hand. He opens it, dials, presses the skin-warm plastic to his face.

The ringing is bright and painful to his ears, but it doesn’t ring long before the line clicks live.

“Hey,” Neil says. Andrew’s senses aren’t discerning - his calm and familiar voice is irritating, too. 

Once upon a time, Neil rang him just like this from outside the Foxhole Court, using Andrew like an immovable object against his ultimately-stoppable force. And he had been a force of nature, drawn to shattering point under the weight of things Andrew understood even without the real specifics. He’d bound Neil in place, with a promise and himself. That’s why they are to each other, by turns.

Andrew’s hands haven’t stopped shaking in days. He can’t remember the last time he slept. Last night he poured himself too much whiskey and thought about dying again, and it’s a force inside himself he doesn’t think he can stop alone. 

He says, “Come and get me.”

Neil flies out, but they drive back to South Carolina. Neil drives, anyway - Andrew wouldn’t drive off the road on purpose with him familiar in the passenger seat, but he might do it by accident.

Without the distraction of driving, Andrew can’t sit still, jittery and grinding his teeth and irritable over the waves of bone deep exhaustion. Dull like this on the inside, every external stimulus is an assault on him. It’s a long drive - Neil can’t do anything for him except keep going, with brief pauses for him to rest while Andrew paces and fumes and occasionally breaks things.

He knows what this is. It’s still a relief to sit in Betsy’s office and hear her say the phrase mixed affective state and finally have it all slot into place in his jumbled mind for a second, switch the labels from this will be the thing that kills me to treatable.

Neil shifts at Andrew’s side. Right now Andrew can’t bear the thought of Neil touching him - even his own clothes against his skin feel too harsh - but he can’t let him out of his sight either. It’s not the first time Neil’s sat through a session with him anyway.

“The way I see it, we have two options,” Betsy says, her stare level, measuring. “The first is that you keep going on the way you have been.”

She doesn’t say until you can’t anymore, but it’s implied so clearly that she might as well. It’s not like he doesn’t see her point - that’s why he’s here again, more than six months after he first told her he was spiralling. 

“The second is that you try medication,” she continues. She doesn’t need to go on. They’ve had this conversation before, more than once. Every time before this he’s said no, because he can’t forget the constant fight for control against court-mandated hypomania, can’t stop remembering what that grin felt like.

Except that months and years later, still struggling, still tasting gutter water and afraid to look at the sky, he has started to think; I won’t wait forever. And I can do better than this - which sometimes sounds too much like I can’t do this.

Neil, who has always dedicated too much of his life trying to defend Andrew, says, “Is that really necessary?” He remembers, too. 

“Whether it’s necessary isn’t really the question,” Betsy replies. “It’s more of a suggestion, and a question of consent. Anyone capable of asking for help is capable of consenting their treatment. That just means it’s a yes or no to the option of it.”

“So what if he doesn’t? Take anything, I mean. If he says no,” Neil says. He must be able to guess, but then again, maybe he can’t - he hasn’t been here before, for the grittiest dirt of it all. Perhaps he just wants to hear it out loud.

“I can’t say for sure. No one can,” Betsy says. “Andrew’s disorder is by nature unpredictable. He could spontaneously improve. He could decline further, which is common in untreated patients. There’s a high rate of compulsory hospitalisation of people with unmanaged bipolar disorder too. As well as the major depressive and mixed episodes he’s already shown, there’s a risk of full-blown mania and psychosis.”

“He’s not psychotic,” Neil says, through force of habit in the face of that old accusation.

“Not yet,” Andrew says. It hurts to talk - he’s bitten the inside of his mouth bloody at some point, though he doesn’t remember when. Eidetic memory is great up until you start losing your grip on reality. His voice comes out rough but unmistakably dry.

“We can wait, of course. But Andrew has already waited a long time," Betsy says, though gently for Neil’s sake. “I wouldn’t suggest it unless I thought it was a worthwhile plan of action. Finding the correct medications can take some trial and error, but it also saves people’s lives.”

Neil looks like he’s about to keep going, scraping the bottom of the barrel for ideas like he thinks Andrew needs to be protected from Betsy and all her nasty ways of trying to help him. It’s less irritating than it should be to have him speak around Andrew, and Andrew knows exactly why that is.

When he was sentenced after everything with Nicky, everyone - his lawyer, his court-appointed psychiatrist, Nicky himself - said the medication was his way out, his freedom, his saviour. Even when it became obvious that it was twisting him, that he was a hair’s breath from losing the control they didn’t think him capable of anyway, no one said anything. Andrew wasn’t considered able to speak for himself, but he had no one to speak for him either. At least, no one who said the words that were cramming in his throat, caught up in the teeth he showed in his smile.

Prison wasn’t a great alternative to the drugs, and he couldn’t keep his promises from there, but from the edge of having his sanity stripped from him entirely it looked pretty fucking great by comparison.

Neil Josten might not people’s idea of an advocate, but they probably haven’t met every big-mouthed and protective inch of him. Those people also likely haven’t seen the way he quiets at Andrew’s look, mouth closing as he looks back with his concern written large across his face for Andrew to read.

Andrew hates that expression. He hates that he believed Neil saying I’m here to help months ago, and hates that he was right. I’m right here - that was what he said, and the second Andrew had asked for Neil to come for him, he’d done it, everything else be damned.

“I’ll do it,” Andrew says. When he looks back to Betsy, there’s no surprise on her face - just mild approval in the softness about her eyes. 

“If you’re sure,” she says, offering him an escape exit like she always does. He’s never bothered to answer her before, and he doesn’t now - he wouldn’t have said yes if he had uncertainties.

He leaves Betsy’s office with a prescription that he passes to Neil, unable to stand the crinkle of paper against his palms. Their fingers don’t brush. The light looks strange outside, mostly because he doesn’t know what time it is. It burnishes the reddish parts of Neil’s hair to fire and gold, makes Andrew blink. I’m right here.

“Columbia?” Neil asks. His eyes catch the sun when he looks at Andrew over the roof of the car, turning them nearly translucent. “We can go to a drugstore on the way.”

Andrew gets into the passenger seat. Maybe he’s not immune to looking at stars after all.

Andrew Minyard Receives Martin-Carr Award for Goalkeeper of the Year

Gillian Stokes

In just his second year in the professional leagues, controversial goalkeeper Minyard, 25, has won the top prize at last night’s National Association of Exy Awards Ceremony. Minyard also confronted rumours that the reason for the early end of his first season was due to a stint in rehab by openly mentioning his battle with mental illness is his acceptance speech...read more

Andrew Minyard’s College Thesis is Making the Rounds Online: Why You Should Read It

Alex Aoki

It’s entitled ‘Mental Illness in Juveniles in the Justice System’, and it’s a confronting read. While you couldn’t call Minyard ‘outspoken’, he has become something of a figurehead for mentally ill athletes in Exy since admitting to suffering from Bipolar Disorder at...read more

Playing in the Dark: Professional Athletes Talk Mental Illness and Suicide

Laurel Davies speaks to athletes at the top of their respective sports about mental illness, medication, the risk of suicide, and the silence that many of them are forced to endure in the course of pursuing their careers. Angus Fletcher (Football), Deeva Patel (Tennis), Andrew Minyard (Exy) and Madeleine Chen (Swimming) are all...read more

[c-valentino]

Lighter Next To Your Coffee Mug IX

The door fell shut and Andrew didn't move for a long moment. This was getting out of hand. Not the part where he had hit Neil. Andrew was no stranger to violence by any means. He knew both sides of it intimately. He had a strangely detached relationship to violence in general. It didn't faze him like it should –except when it did just now. Feeling guilty was something Andrew despised. How many times had he attacked some of the closest people in his life –his family, Kevin, his other teammates –intentionally or by accident without regret? And now, even after spelling it out for the guy, even after telling him ‘I might hurt you’ like some kind of insurance, he felt guilty for nearly breaking his nose. That idiot hadn't even touched him. He had tried to, true, but he hadn’t. He could have stopped. He could have realized at the last second. Could have, would have… didn't matter. He hadn't given him the chance this time, hadn't waited.

  ‘Do I really have to tell you that I’ve had worse?’  –No, but thanks for the reminder that you compare me to whoever left those scars on your skin. That had hit home. Nice. Look at you, getting in touch with those feelings. Maybe he had been a little shaky after thinking of Drake. Maybe he still was. Andrew took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. Still there. Fuck him. Getting haunted by the memory of a dead guy.

  Drake, his foster brother, who had raped him as a child and once more when Andrew had been twenty, had been killed during his last deployment as a marine. Andrew would have liked to congratulate the man who had finally offed the bastard on a job well done.

  Andrew tried to force those memories down once again, but they had already festered in his brain, corrupting his thoughts. He had two options for nights like this. Andrew chose the more unlikely one, because he felt like being unpredictable for a change. He took his phone and called Kevin. The striker picked up on the second ring.

  “Andrew?” Noise in the background, somewhere public.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m meeting Thea for dinner. Why?” Too bad.

  “Nevermind.” He was sure Kevin could hear nothing in his voice. Andrew, on the other hand, could hear in the way Kevin hesitated that his teammate had seen through him though.

  “…Should I come home?” It was their unspoken agreement. It had started when they came here to join the US Court. Suddenly, everything had changed; their teammates, the city they lived in, the university dorms they had traded for apartments… everything except themselves. They had dragged their demons along and moved in with them. After sharing a room for so long, it had been strange. Kevin had turned back to alcohol for a while and Andrew had started to self-medicate. One night, they had met at a bar. Kevin had already been drunk and Andrew had dragged him outside and into his car. It had been Kevin who had asked him to stay that night because he couldn't stand the empty apartment.

  Andrew had stayed. He had done so three more times during the next two months, and Kevin stopped drinking again. He stayed over twice more since then, but it hadn't solved his drug problem. It just took the edge off sometimes; knowing that he could make the ten-minute drive and have his old roommate under the same roof again. Not tonight though.

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “You sure?” Kevin was many things –arrogant, single-minded, obsessed with the game they played, a sadist on the court –but Kevin wasn’t cruel. Not intentionally, at least. It had been beaten out of him at Castle Evermore. He was loyal, if not always reliable. He would send Thea home tonight if Andrew asked him to, if he so much as hinted at it.

  “I’m sure.” Andrew hung up. Option two then. If anyone asked him, Andrew would not admit to having a drug problem. The thought would amuse him though, after years of supervised medication. ‘Chemically imbalanced brain,’ someone had once said to him. Too bad no one knew what a chemically balanced brain in his case looked like. So they had meddled.

  It was an open secret that a large percentage of the nation was overmedicated. Popping pills had become the answer to almost every problem. The list of long-term side effects of psychiatric drugs was endless, but while some people were busy adding their findings to the bottom of that list, others were just as busy erasing them at the top. Either way, the damage was done, and Andrew didn't much care about the consequences.

  The wooden box standing on the sideboard under his big flatscreen was never empty. Neither was the medicine cabinet in his bathroom. He kept both well stocked. The box didn't look like much. It had once been a gift, part of some kind of advertisement deal, containing a bottle of overpriced scotch. The bottle was long gone but he had kept the box. Grabbing his cigarettes first, Andrew opened the window and leaned against the wall next to it. He gave Drake time to fuck off, until he’d throw the cigarette butt out the window. After that, he’d make him.

       Neil lowered his head and sniffed. The bleeding had stopped. He angrily hurried on his way home. People kept looking at him. Well, of course they did. There was blood on his shirt and on his face, and he wore the fitting, dark expression that told of a fight.

  He’d just left the station closest to his apartment when his phone buzzed. He pulled it out immediately, looking for the name on the screen that wouldn't leave his thoughts. Andrew, Andrew… The text wasn't from Andrew.

  ‘Sehen wir uns morgen Abend?’*

  The German. He was back already? Neil didn't want to reply but he had to.

  ‘Ich kann morgen nicht. Sorry.’  He didn't feel sorry at all; not for declining, not for lying about it. He just couldn't face the man right now.

  He jogged the last two minutes to his apartment, and fumbled with the keys at the door. He shrugged his jacket off and pulled the dirty shirt over his head as soon as the door closed behind him. The blood on it was already almost dry. Neil went into the bathroom and inspected the damage on his face. His nose looked fine but there was a bruise beneath his left eye. Shit. He washed the blood off his face, left the shirt in the sink to soak in cold water for a while, and stepped into the shower.

  His mind returned to the scene at Andrew’s apartment. He had royally fucked that one up. He should have left after the blowjob like Andrew had wanted him to. He should have given the man the satisfaction of getting one step closer to his goal –whatever that might be –and leave everything else for another time. The sound Andrew had made when he had been on top of him… he could still hear it, that half-sob. He could still remember him shuddering. It made something in his gut clench in sympathy.

  After cooling his head on his way home, Neil didn't mind the hit he had taken. The fact that Andrew had minded was enough for him to let it go. What remained was the question: would Andrew want to see him again. ‘This whole thing is disgusting.’ He had meant it. The revulsion at that moment had been palpable. Neil closed his eyes and let the water hit his face. Disgusting. Really? All of it? Part of it? Which part? The part where Andrew was paying for a prostitute? The fact that he had issues he couldn't talk about? ‘This whole thing…’ Liar. Liar, liar, liar… Takes one to know one, and Neil was the king among liars. –Or was he?

  He had offered Andrew more of the truth than he had given to anyone in years. He kept his lies with the man to a bare minimum. Normally, he would have constructed a fake persona for the goalkeeper after their first meeting, would have given him a false name, a bunch of lies that made up enough of a background story to keep Andrew at a distance and Neil at ease. It was his safety net. The clients didn't find out about him and he kept himself removed. It worked both ways. But he had given Andrew Neil. While Neil was only part of Nathaniel Wesninski, it was the part Neil had chosen to keep. He had tried to outrun the rest of him. What had he been thinking to give Andrew that name?

  Because Andrew Minyard was special to him. His Andrew Minyard was special, he reminded himself. The goalkeeper of the US Court, the face showing up in magazines, the prodigy standing in the goal, the man who had been at Kevin Day’s side since the day those two met in Palmetto. The man he envied, the guy who had everything.

  This Andrew Minyard was nothing like him. Then why did he get attached to this version of him too? It should have been the opposite. It should have shattered his dreams. Expectations were a silly thing. All they ever did was disappoint.

  Maybe it was all over now. If Andrew didn't contact him again, this would be the end of it. The thought alone woke something in him that had the familiar taste of panic to it. Actual fucking fear, dreadful and promising emotional pain. Why? Because he had gone too far and now he was trapped.

  Neil shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. He left the shirt where it was; he would wash it later. He grabbed a towel and dried himself off half-heartedly, then flung the towel onto the bed. He got dressed in sweatpants and a hoody and went over to his fridge to make himself something to eat. The sandwich was gone before he even realized it. He couldn't appreciate his food tonight. His thoughts where a mile away. He felt restless and tired at the same time. Eyeing his racquet over his shoulder, he gave in to the familiar pull of his obsession. Better than drugs, better than sex, Exy would always be his way out of his own head. The day his body wouldn’t let him play anymore would be the day he wanted to die. Neil turned around, grabbed his keys, tied his shoes, and took a ball and his racquet with him on his way out, letting the door fall shut behind him.

  Two hours and what felt like a never-ending repetition of drills later, he opened the same door again. He closed it none too gently and kicked off his shoes. He left the ball there but couldn't let go of his racquet. He was still thinking of him. He had gone through every drill he knew, had run suicide sprints and had taken shots at an empty goal until his arms screamed in protest at him. What made things worse was that he now was actually worrying about Andrew. How fucking stupid. He had thought about the phone he had left at his apartment, wondering if he would miss a text from the goalkeeper, while all his thoughts should have been on his practice. Of course there was nothing. Why would there be? Because he wanted it to be there.

  He twirled the racquet in his right hand, made it spin, and grabbed it again. Go to bed, he told himself. Sleep it off. He took another quick shower to get rid of the sweat he had worked up. The moment his head touched his pillow he already knew that sleep wouldn't come easily tonight. By the time he gave up, it was almost midnight.

  Very well aware of the fact that he might be about to make the biggest mistake in his life, Neil got up and dressed again and left his apartment.

  Forty five minutes later he was standing across the street from Andrews place. He made sure he was standing on the illuminated sidewalk visible from Andrew’s living room when he texted the man.

  ‘Can I come up?’ He waited. Andrew was home and still awake. He could see the lights burning in those windows and it didn’t even take a minute for Andrew to show up behind one of them. Neil had one hand in his pocket, a plastic bag dangling from his wrist. He cocked his head and looked up at the goalkeeper.

  Andrew kept watching him but didn’t write back. Neil shrugged exaggeratedly at him. It was Andrew’s call. He saw the goalkeeper nodding at his door over his shoulder before he turned around and vanished from Neil’s sight. Hurrying inside, Neil took the waiting elevator up and found Andrew leaning against his half open door, waiting. He still wore the same clothes, had the same messy hair, and Neil was sure he hadn’t left this place since they had seen each other earlier.

  “Hey,” he offered in way of greeting and studied the man in front of him. You are a mess, aren’t you? Even in the dark hallway, Andrew’s pinpoint pupils spoke volumes. Those hazel eyes just stared at him in their unnerving way. Neil smiled a little and lifted the bag he was carrying. “I brought bribes.” Sadly they didn’t have Andrew’s favorite flavor, but cookie dough caramel ice cream still sounded a lot like a child’s sugar overload dream to him. Andrew didn’t move and remained silent. Neil sighed a little.

  “Look, I came to apologize. What happened tonight has been my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that. I was out of line. I’m sorry.” He hated the thought that Andrew was alone at night getting high because of something he had done. “Just…” He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. That’s it I guess. I thought you might not call again, so I came here to tell you. I’m sorry, Andrew.” That was all he had to offer and maybe it was not enough. I wish I could read your mind right now. He lowered his head a little and put his hands back into his pockets, as he took a step back. At the same time, Andrew backed off too and opened the door wider. Neil hesitated, waited for either an invitation or a dismissal, but Andrew simply turned around and went back inside, leaving the door open. Neil followed him, saw the whiskey glass in the goalkeeper’s hand that had be hidden behind the door. Andrew emptied it and left it on the breakfast bar.

  Neil took a look around, found the open wooden box on the coffee table, and saw the little plastic bags and pill bottles inside. Andrew saw him looking and smirked. He reached out a hand and Neil handed the bag over. Inspecting its contents, Andrew went into the kitchen and grabbed two spoons. He came back and climbed onto the sofa, grabbing one of the two pints and opened it. Neil watched him eat the ice cream, looked again at the bottle of painkillers next to the half empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table. Geez, Andrew… His dismay must have been visible on his face because the goalkeeper tapped the spoon against his lips while he studied Neil. He extended one of his legs and closed the wooden chest with his bare foot. The sound of it snapping shut was unpleasantly loud in the too quiet apartment. Neil slowly made his way over to the sofa.

  “Tongue-tied?” he asked, because Andrew always kept too much to himself and that was fine when they were doing business, because that was Andrew’s choice after all. But this was a social call and so Neil could be a little selfish.

  “Black-eyed?” Andrew answered and Neil touched the bruise over his left cheekbone.

  “It’s fine,” he replied. Well, maybe it wasn’t fine. Bruises on his face couldn't be hidden. People noticed, meaning people paid him more attention. But it would fade. He shrugged, ran his fingers through his hair, and thought carefully about his next words. He sat down at the other end of the sofa, watching out for pieces of broken glass but they were gone.

  “I won’t do anything with you tonight, even if you wanted to,” he said slowly. Andrew had returned his gaze back to his ice cream as soon as fine had come from Neil’s lips. “But I’m going to tell you something, because I think you might actually need to hear this.” He waited and said nothing, until Andrew finally looked at him again and he had his undivided attention.

  “There is nothing you need to hide from me. You can tell me about anything you want to do or have done to you. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks about it. It doesn't matter if it will turn out the way you thought it would. If I agree to do something with you and I do it wrong, that’s on me. You can tell me and I’ll try to make it right. But you never have to justify anything you think you did wrong in front of me. As long as we both respect our limits, I’ll never judge you.”

  And when Andrew started to say something, he didn't let him. “Andrew. Just listen, okay? You pay me for this. I’m not a thing but you can use me to do anything we agree on. And if that means making mistakes, then that’s okay too. Because this,” he motioned between the two of them, “is just between us. It’s our business and I’m the last person you need to feel ashamed in front of.” He could already see that Andrew didn't want to hear any of this. But maybe he needed to, and Neil would give it time to let it actually sink in. Andrew could glare at him all he wanted. He just couldn't stand the man looking like this. Even hate was better than this.

  “You say you hate me. Admit it, that’s what you are thinking right now.”

  “There is nothing to admit. I do hate you.” Neil smiled at him and it made Andrew even angrier.

  “That’s fine. Hate me all you want. I’ll still do this with you. Just tell me to back off or take a break, tell me to go and sit in the corner or wait in the next room or whatever. Tell me to wait outside for all I care. Just don’t feel like you need to run from me. Okay?”

  “Are you done now?” He really didn't want to hear this right now. But Neil knew he would think about it.

  “Yes, I’m done. You can throw me out now.”

  “And if I don’t?” he asked after a moment.

  “I guess, then we’ll have to find out if that thing works and if you are any good at it,” Neil said and nodded at Andrew’s gaming console below the flatscreen. Andrew followed his gaze and took another spoonful of ice cream. He sucked on it before he answered.

  “Go ahead. I’ll pass. My reflexes are a little …inhibited at the moment.” Neil glared at the box. He usually didn't care what people did to themselves, but Andrew was an athlete he admired and it pissed him off to see him like this.

  “You should be careful with those. The long term–“

  “Geez, thanks Kevin. The last thing I ever wanted were two of you,” Andrew sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Shut up, I think I know enough about side effects.” Neil glared at him. “Go ahead,” Andrew said again and made a gesture at the general direction of the console.

  “We can do something else, if you like. We don’t have to play,” Neil offered. It had just been a suggestion to lighten the mood. Andrew leaned back and put both feet on the table, pressing back against the cushions until he found a comfortable position. 

  “I thought you came here on your own time.”

  “I did.” Neil watched him.

  “Then, for god’s sake, just do whatever you want,” Andrew sighed. “Don’t look at me for directions.” Neil hummed in response and started the console to have a look at Andrew’s game collection. He had played before but never bought anything himself. After he found something he liked, Neil leaned back and watched the opening video before he let the intro teach him a few skills. Andrew seemed content with just watching for now. It came rather unexpected, when he broke the silence between them suddenly.

  “Do you really get off on pain?” Neil blinked but didn’t face him. He kept playing, asking himself what had brought this on.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You don’t seem to have any problem when you are doing it with me.” Andrew licked on his spoon again. Neil raised his eyebrows and smirked a little.

  “Yeah, well, that’s because it’s you, Minyard.” Andrew glared at him.

  “Gross. So what? You want me in my gear to fulfill your obsessive fantasies?”

  “Damn, that would be so hot,” Neil joked. Andrew looked unimpressed. “I’m kidding,” the dark haired man chuckled. “Can I see your racquet though? The US court gets theirs custom made, right? That must be awesome!”

  “Is that all?” Andrew asked in a bored tone.

  They fell silent again, as Neil got swamped with zombies during a boss fight. His character nearly died.

  “Zombie guard to your right,” Andrew told him.

  “Got him,” Neil whooped. “Is what all,” he asked then.

  “Is that all it takes to make you happy?” Neil thought about it.

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “How would I know?” Andrew finished his ice cream.

  Neil’s voice was lower when he asked, “Is it true? They say your apathy is part of a mental disorder.”

  “They say,” Andrew repeated. He eyed Neil’s untouched pint on the table. “Are you going to eat that? It’s melting.” Neil shook his head.

  “Go ahead,” he offered. “–You never smile, you never laugh…” Neil felt a little uneasy talking about this. Of course he wanted to know but it seemed awfully private and was probably nothing Andrew wanted to share.

  “Maybe you are not funny.”

  “Maybe,” Neil agreed. He watched Andrew from the corners of his eyes as he opened the second pint of ice cream, and wondered how someone could eat so much sugar at once. “You…” He fended off another wave of zombies, distracted for a second. “…were different when you played for the Foxes. Because of your meds?”

  “Different,” Andrew echoed again and a shadow crossed his face.

  “Like… ‘fake’. –Sorry, that was… uhm. No, sorry, that was out of line,” Neil winced, his thumb rapidly hitting the buttons.

  “That’s something coming from a liar,” Andrew said unfazed.

  “–I guess,” Neil admitted. He finished the level and turned the game off. Turning sideways on the sofa, he faced Andrew and watched him eat. “Hey. About tonight? It wasn’t all bad, was it?” ‘This whole thing is disgusting…’ Andrew didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. “That couldn’t have been your first blowjob. You’re too good at it,” he pressed on, trying to remind Andrew of the good parts.

  “Never said it was,” Andrew answered emotionlessly. His mind clearly was on what had followed afterwards. Neil sighed. He still felt like he would lose Andrew here.

  “Geez, Andrew. Do you think I never have trouble getting it up? And it’s my job.”

  Andrew looked pained when he turned to Neil and asked, “Did you just compare doing this with me to getting beaten up? I feel so much better now.” Neil blinked.

  “No,” he replied horrified. “That’s not what I meant. - Jesus, Andrew, and seriously, would you just stop thinking that all my clients beat me? In fact, none of them do. You miss the point in all of this.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s about control. Some people like the feeling of being in control of the situation; others want to be rid of it. Some say it’s about trust, but you can’t force that. If you could, I wouldn't be there, willing to take the risk. It’s my job to pretend to trust them in that situation. –Truth be told, I don’t. I trust none of them. We hide behind rules and agreements and the risk is still there and they pay me for it. The fact that you think that I get paid to get beaten is seriously insulting.”

  “You are still saying I’m one of them.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Because I hit you–“

  “No! Because you pay me Andrew,” Neil said and waited for Andrew to look at him. The goalkeeper was stubbornly eating his ice cream. Because touching Andrew was not an option right now, Neil reached over and took his spoon away. The Exy player shot him an annoyed look.

  “It was my fault, okay?”

  “I told you, it was not,” Andrew growled.

  “Yes, it was. I could repeat it right now and it would still be my fault. I triggered you–“

  “Don’t call it that,” Andrew interjected, disgusted. “We are not playing your games here. This is not a scene, we don’t have safe words,” he hissed.

  “Yes, we do. ‘No’, ‘Stop’, ‘Don’t’ –all of these are your safe words. You don’t have to spell it out for me. You told me in the beginning that I would need your consent every single step of the way.”

  “This,” Andrew pointed between the two of them, “is just plain sex, understand? You are my hooker and I pay you for this. You said I shouldn't twist this, but it’s you who turns it into something else,” Andrew accused him angrily. Neil looked at him and said nothing. He couldn’t say anything because he had come here tonight as something Andrew didn't want him to be. It was a dead end. It felt like a slap in the face, because he had made the mistake of trying to turn this into something else tonight, something more. He had been wrong and he should have – had – known better.

  He lowered his gaze and handed the spoon back to Andrew. “Sorry.” He felt ashamed all of the sudden. He knew it would turn into anger soon enough. Neil got up. “You are right. I made a mistake.” Andrew just looked at him.

   This had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Andrew looked up at the man in front of him, who had suddenly lost all of his confidence. His drugged brain told him that Neil was ashamed and he couldn't figure out why in time. Damn, he was out of it. There was a reason he only did this when he was alone. One thing was certain though; Neil was going to run. Fight was no longer an option, and everything about the guy screamed flight right now. Why? He blinked.

  “Sorry,” Neil said once more, then turned and left. Andrew stared after him, trying to figure it out. The spoon lay forgotten in his hand. He was still angry, but that couldn't have been it. Neil was pretty used to his moods by now. It was quite impressive actually. The guy just didn't get intimidated. Then what? His usually perfect memory wouldn't let him replay the scene in detail like he wanted. The drugs made everything foggy.

  Andrew felt something snap in him and flung the spoon across the room. It clattered against the wall next to the door and then fell to the floor.

  “Fuck,” he said. Andrew stood up and went to the window. He looked down, and as usual, the height as he looked straight down at the street below gave him that stomach-twisting feeling. He ignored it and kept looking. A moment later, Neil crossed the street, head lowered, hands in his pockets, feet speeding up to a jog –running away. From him, Andrew realized. 

  translation notes: *’See you tomorrow night?’
 ‘Can’t make it tomorrow. Sorry.’ thanks for reading!

<<Chapter 8                                                                                                   Chapter 10>>

[fredheads]

do a good turn daily (reg/archie)

This started off as a couple of lines of dialogue while I was drying my hair that I spent the morning fleshing out into a really rough drabble because we deserve more redchie in our lives. Basically, it’s Archie confronting Reggie in the locker room after the events of 1x03. Riverdale has been doing him real dirty screen-time wise and I need more mischievous, good and unapologetically bi Reggie for the rest of my life and forever.  AO3 LINK

“Ronnie told me your name was in that book.”

“So what?” Reggie tosses a towel into his bag and hefts it over his shoulder, turning to go. Archie blocks his exit. 

“I never figured you were that kind of guy, Reggie.”

Reggie scoffs, not stepping back, even though Archie’s chest is only inches from his. “What do you want from me, Andrews? A fight?” With a derisive laugh, he turns back to his unlocked locker and hooks the combination lock through his finger. “Your girlfriends already took care of this team. With Clayton and Jason out, we don’t have a chance at the Nationals. Not to mention everyone else who got kicked.” He slams his locker door. “If I went around apologizing for things I can’t control; I’d be an idiot.”

 His nonchalant demeanour makes a pit of annoyance burn in Archie’s stomach. “And how’d you keep your spot? Your dad buy it for you?”

 Reggie’s face is suddenly deadly serious. “Don’t joke about things you don’t know shit about, okay?”

 “Sorry.” Archie finds himself apologizing, eyes flickering to the floor without knowing why as Reggie turns the numbers on his combination lock. “But none of you guys had the right to-“

 “To let them score me? To put my name in a stupid notebook? Excuse me for existing.” Reggie tries once more to push past him, but Archie steps sideways to block his way. Reggie scoffs loudly, throwing up his hands in annoyance.

 “Seriously, what do you want me to tell you? I know it was a shit thing to do. Guys are fucked up, everyone knows that.”

 Archie folds his arms. “You’re acting like you weren’t complacent in this.”

 “Yeah, and you’re acting like you think it’s easy to be the only guy on this team who isn’t strictly into pussy.”

 “What?”

 Reggie keeps his stare evenly, but Archie sees the other boy trying to relegate his breathing, the way Archie does when he knows his heart’s beating too fast. When Reggie speaks, his hands are shaking, though his voice stays steady and cool. “I know you heard what I said, Arch, so let me the fuck out. I don’t have time for your games.”

 “Reg-”

 “Fuck you.”

 Reggie turns away from him, and Archie has the horrible thought that he might be crying. He takes a tiny step toward him. “I didn’t know-”

 “That was kind of the point.”

 “Does anyone else know-?”

 Reggie turns back to look at him, eyes blazing but dry. His voice is light, even. “They were starting to figure it out. And we share a locker room.”

 “It’s nothing to be ashamed of –“

 “Ashamed of? Hell, no, I’m not ashamed of it! But I don’t have friends like you do, okay Arch?” He folds his arms over his chest. “If they decide I’m gonna be a certain way, that’s what I am. Or I’m a nobody.”

 “So…” Archie begins, with dawning realization, “You go along with it-“

 “So they don’t ditch me? Yeah. Sure.”

 “But the things you wrote-“

 “I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like.”

 “Meaning what, exactly?”

 “Meaning you’d stand up to them and get away with it, because that’s who you are. You’d have abolished the book and have us all singing kumbaya and being blood brothers by sundown. But we can’t all be Archie Andrews.”

 “I don’t get it.”

 Reggie heaves a long sigh and sets his bag down on the wooden bench with a thud. “You don’t get it because you don’t understand that you’re the exception, not the rule. You’re Riverdale’s golden boy. You can be who you are and say what you want and no one gives a shit.”

 Archie scoffs, thinking of his guitar. “Wanna bet?”

 “Come on. You could crawl through the plumbing here after Moose took a dump and come out clean. Girls love you. You have real friends. You don’t know it, Arch, but I’ve always envied you for having friends who would stick their neck out for you.”

 Archie blinks, trying to wrap his head around this. “But you’re so popular, Reg-“

 “Like that counts. I’m talking Betty, Kevin, Jughead. You have people who like you. Who’d stick by you.”

 “You’re my friend.”

 Reggie shrugs. “Before they had to replace Jason, you and I hadn’t talked since grade school. We would have gone on not talking for the rest of our lives.”

 He sounds so confident that Archie has to stop for a moment and consider it. Reggie sighs and shakes his hair out of his face.

 “Can I go?”

 “So what was your plan?” Archie asks, quieter now. “Just keep doing shit like this, acting like an asshole just to get along with these guys? Hiding who you are? They’re jerks!”

 “That’s what high school’s about, Arch. It’s not all rah-rah-rah and football games. You do what you have to do until you make it out into the real world. That’s the game.”

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 Reggie swings his bag back over his shoulder, where it bounces with a hard sound off his shoulderblade. “Ask Jughead. He’ll know what I’m talking about.”

 Archie just stares at him, feeling a blind anger starting in his chest for a reason he can’t explain. “You’re the one who gives Jughead so much grief around here.”

 “So tell Moose to cut it out. You can get away with it. I can’t.”

 “I’m not talking about Moose, I’m talking about you bumping into him on purpose.”

 “Jughead and I used to be friends, you know.”

 “What?” Reggie is facing him down, expression unreadable. “When?” asks Archie, mystified. He can’t remember the last time Jughead had looked at Reggie with anything but derision.

 “In first grade. Before you turned up.”

 Archie takes a long moment to digest this. Tries to recall a time he and Jughead weren’t attached at the hip, tries to remember his second grade classroom. Wonders how long Reggie’s been sitting on this.

 “Look, Jug and I are friends, but –“

 “I’m not jealous of Jughead.” Reggie’s lips flare and turn downward at the corner of the J’s. “I guess I just wish I had someone who cared about more than my ball control.”

 Archie could only stare at him. Reggie, admitting he was lonely?

 Reggie must have sensed his surprise and automatically closes himself up, standing up straighter, his lips a thin line. “Look, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” He lifts his chin, admirably confident despite it all. “Tell Veronica I’m sorry if it makes you feel better.”

 “Reggie-“ He feels an ache in his chest, a need to do something, anything, and it bleeds out into his voice until the syllables hurt. Reggie just grins.

 “You’re such a boy scout, sometimes. It is what it is, Arch.”

 “It’s not-“

 Reggie silences him with a look. “Yeah. It is.”

 Archie stares at him for a long time, wondering what else he’s hiding, wishing he was Betty, who would know what to say, what to do, what to offer. At last, just to keep him there, he blurts out:

 “I didn’t realize you and Jug were friends.”

 Reggie shrugs, a graceful lift of both shoulders. “It was just grade one. I wouldn’t even call it that.” He scuffs his shoe against the floor. “I’m not going to pretend I was better for him. Archie and Jughead. That was the way it’s always supposed to be.”

 “There’s room for a third.”

 “I don’t need your pity, Arch.”

 “It’s not pity.” Archie tucks his hands in his pockets, nervous, already calculating what he’s going to tell Jughead when he turns up with Reggie at the chok’lit shop. “Come out with us tonight.”

 “You and Dolores Claiborne?” A grin tugs at the corners of Reggie’s lips, but Archie can see the refusal coming in his eyes. “And do what?”

 “Get a sundae. Get a milkshake.”

 “I’m lactose intolerant.”

 “Since when?”

 Reggie laughs. “Since the second grade.”

 There’s something in his laugh that means the conversation is closed, but there’s a sadness in it too, something wishful that makes Archie press onward. “You could get fries.”

 “Nah.” The old Reggie is back again, running a hand through his hair and kicking an old plastic water bottle on the ground out of his way. This time, Archie lets him go. “See you around Arch.”

“Will you think about it, though?”

Reggie acknowledges this with only a wave of his hand, his over-stuffed duffel bag blocking the back of his head from view as he leaves the locker room.

Archie lowers himself onto the bench, the anger and righteousness he’d started with suddenly gone. Reggie envies me. Reggie’s scared of losing his friends. Reggie likes guys. He stares at the far wall, trying to understand it.

Why and how did Reggie cultivate such a high opinion of him? Why couldn’t Reggie have said yes to his invitation? Why does he feel suddenly, miserably, like he’s let Reggie down?

He feels a guilt he can’t explain, and a strange sense of insecurity, like the person he thought he was has been shaken. He takes his time packing his bag, half hoping that Reggie will appear in the doorway and take him up on the offer. Or that he’ll wake up from what has become a strange, surreal dream.  

It’s not until he’s halfway home that he realizes the trust that Reggie has put in him by leaving without a backward glance, the secrets he owns now, the buried parts of Reggie that are suddenly privy to him and him alone.

You’re a good man, Reggie Mantle, he thinks, and wishes he could say it. Or text it, or anything.

[month9books]

Riverdale Recap and Review - Season 1 - Chapter 8 - The Outsiders by Andrew Buckley

There quite literally is not one happy marriage happening in Riverdale. Maybe it’s the water, maybe it’s the maple syrup, maybe it’s the disturbing amount of redheads . . . but relationships are not meant to survive in that town. Tensions ran high in this episode with double crosses and back alley deals happening all over the place. Riverdale is a dangerous place to live. But they do have Skeet Ulrich, so there’s that. Let’s get to it . . .

How many times can you reference abortion without actually saying the word ‘abortion’? I counted five times, but I may have missed one. I’m assuming it’s a CW censorship thing, but I was surprised they had to avoid the word as it’s absence made it all the more obvious, but I suppose that was the point. This week, Mr. Cooper became oh so much darker than just some guy who breaks into the Sheriff’s house to steal his murder wall. He’s harboring such a hatred for the Blossoms that he actually wanted his daughter to abort the baby. The guy is certainly carrying enough hate to push him over to the darkside, but his banishment from the Cooper household says a lot more about Alice Cooper (the blonde chick, not the guy who used to bite heads off chickens on stage) than it does about him. Mrs. Cooper has always seemed so controlled in her insanity, however we certainly saw some cracks as she tries to deal with the Blossom family now trying to steal her daughter, while also revealing her own shadowy past, also at the hands of her husband. There goes another Riverdale marriage.

Polly herself is still severely lacking as a character and I think it’s partly due to us not really knowing her. The reason we care so much about who killed Jason, and not about Jason himself is because we never got a chance to know him. All we really know is he had terribly fake-looking red hair and apparently he was a mute. The same almost goes for Polly. We met her at the mental asylum where she was hysterical and she hasn’t really calmed down since. Okay, so the father of her child was murdered, her dad tried to have her abort her baby, the father’s family want to keep the baby, her parents sent her to a mental asylum, and now she’s back, there’s a power struggle over this child who will undoubtedly have fake-looking red hair. Okay, fine. She has every right to be hysterical. Unfortunately, her lack of grounding as a character is making it really hard to sympathize with her. Maybe that’ll change now she’s a member of the Blossom household. By making the choice to join the Blossoms, she’s effectively shunning her own family. And who can blame her?

Speaking of the Blossoms, let’s take a moment to appreciate just how awesome Granny Blossom is. Come on, that crazy old lady is great. Part horror story cliche, part gypsy, part crypt keeper. She keeps getting better and better.

Fred Andrews and his business woes seeped throughout most of the story this episode. With the Blossoms wanting to buy the old movie theatre land, and Mr. Lodge being the secret buyer, and Hermione knowing this but not telling Fred, we can clearly see another relationship is about to go down the toilet. It all makes for interesting TV though, so who cares? Fred confronting Clifford Blossom was a nice scene but it felt a little empty with Fred not really having a good threat to come back with. Too bad he doesn’t have a biker gang working for him . . . oh wait.

It was a touching moment when Archie and his pals came out to work for his dad, even more so when Fred and Archie have their heart to heart in the kitchen later. While I didn’t love this episode as much as past ones, I did love this scene. And it wasn’t just Luke Perry’s sincere delivery, it was the balancing out of Fred and Archie’s relationship. While Archie’s legacy speech was a bit on the flawed side, the messaging was still solid and the Andrews boys still represent a united front that doesn’t appear to exist anywhere else in town. This is of course after Fred tries to solve the problems he’s experiencing himself, and Archie walks into a biker bar. We’ve yet to see Mary Andrews but we know she’s coming (bring it on Molly Ringwald), so we’ll likely see that balanced father/son relationship shaken again very soon.

Skeet freakin Ulrich as Jughead’s dad is fast becoming one of my favourite characters. After we saw all his misgivings in the last episode, it was nice to see him find a bit of redemption here. His volunteering information to Jughead and Betty regarding Jason and then rounding up a crew to help out Fred proves that Mr. Jones isn’t all that bad of a guy. Well, except for him having Jason’s jacket, and that he uses teenagers to sell drugs, oh and he’s the leader of a violent biker gang, and that he has Joaquin (who I’m still saying is Jason’s murderer) cozy up to the delightful Kevin . . . so yeah, never mind, he’s a bad guy.

STORY FLAW ALERT! - Mr. Jones tells Hermione that it was likely Mr. Lodge who had people disrupt the construction site and beat up Moose. He blames it on Hermione getting frisky with Fred and someone ratted her out (Veronica, clearly Veronica) and that the incident was part of a jealous attack? On property he owns? Disrupting the building of his weird hipster community housing? Where he stands to make a lot of money? And didn’t Clifford Blossom all but admit to being the culprit in order to bleed the owner of the land dry? Something isn’t adding up there but maybe it’s all a bunch of red herrings. Or trout. Or whatever fish happens to be native to Riverdale.

This was a setup episode, inserted so we can get from here to there. The Jason story got moved along with Mr. Jones and Joaquin (the murderer) hiding the jacket. Polly moving in with the Addams family effectively destroys the ‘Stepford Family’ archetype that the Coopers had been trying to project. Fred and Mr. Jones getting the band back together means it’s being setup to be broken apart again later. And the looming threat of Mr. Lodge stretched its shadowy tendrils a little bit further.

Next week sees the return of Ethel (finally!), though it doesn’t look like we’ll be getting an answer to the burning question on everyone’s mind: Where is Hotdog?

Until next week . . .

STRAY THOUGHTS OF AWESOMENESS . . .

- Valerie was there, but . . . not really there? True, there wasn’t much room for development of Varchie? Valerchie? Archerie? (we’ll need to work on that) Hopefully we’ll be able to see more of that relationship over the coming weeks.

- Same goes for Bughead. Not the best way to start a relationship, amid a murder investigation and a crazy pregnant sister, though we’d still like to see some development happening here. And more than just ‘yeah, my Dad’s a biker’.

- Sheriff Keller - Absolutely terrible at his job. Fortunately for him, he appears to be the only law enforcement agent in all of Riverdale so he’s got great job security.

- Was anyone else hoping that Moose would lay some smack down on those two guys? I mean, c’mon, he’s Moose!

- Archie and Jughead’s ‘bro moment’ was underwhelmed by the lack of conflict. Archie got a little angry, Jughead got a little sad, and then all was well again.

- I kinda love how much Kevin loves the Lodges. From his awe over Veronica’s party invites to complementing Hermione’s shoes. Yeah he’s a walking gay stereotype, but he’s adorable.

About Andrew: 

Andrew Buckley attended the Vancouver Film School’s Writing for Film and Television program. After pitching and developing several screenplay projects for film and television, he worked in marketing and public relations, before becoming a professional copy and content writer. During this time Andrew began writing his first adult novel, DEATH, THE DEVIL AND THE GOLDFISH, followed closely by his second novel, STILTSKIN. He works as an editor for Curiosity Quills Press.

Andrew also co-hosts a geek movie podcast, is working on his next novel, and has a stunning amount of other ideas. He now lives happily in the Okanagan Valley, BC with three kids, one cat, one needy dog, one beautiful wife, and a multitude of characters that live comfortably inside of his mind.

Andrew is represented by Mark Gottlieb at the Trident Media Group.

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