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seabreeze2022 · 2 years ago

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Grand Banks Columbus to Sturgeon Bay (Part 3)

“For want of a nail, the war was lost” as the old adage goes.”

I delivered the 42’ Grand Banks trawler, “Susan Lee”, from Columbus MS. starting Sept. 27, 2022 to Sturgeon Bay, WI. The trip lasted 25 days with final delivery on Oct. 21, 2022.

On day 21 of the trip, Sunday Oct. 16, 2022, I sought safe harbor from an impending gale at South Shore Yacht Club, Milwaukee, WI. I docked the “Susan Lee” port side to, facing away from shore in the middle of the yacht club basin. There were two boats tied to the same dock between myself and shore. This was as deep in the pocket that I could dock. About 130 yards off my bow was the jetty protecting the yacht club. I was directed here by the Dock Master. This turned out to be about the best place to weather the gale, given what docks were available. See the photo above: we were in the horse shoe docked on the top side half way down the dock.

Sept. 16 Sunday. National Weather Service:

HAZARDOUS WEATHER OUTLOOK.

FREEZE WARNING IN EFFECT, until 0700am.

Initially, I plugged into shore power to a power pedestal close by on the dock. I secured the vessel with multiple lines to as many cleats on the dock as I could. Using spring lines both fore and aft, plus multiple bow and stern lines. I conferred with several local Captains, who each had decades at this yacht club, on what I should expect from the storm. Three of the Captains had their boats tied to the docks and would end up doing multiple checks during the gale. We checked with each other on multiple occasions and I provided an over watch while they checked on their boats. Since even being in the open on the dock was dangerous.

Winds were coming from my port beam, holding me off of the dock. The fetch was about 1,700’ during the majority of the gale. This caused a constant surge washing me away from the dock, then a pull slamming the boat back into the dock. This sawing back and forth went on for 36 hours, constantly. A sway to starboard, followed by a sudden jerk as we stopped at the maximum stretch of the lines. Then during the lull of the winds or the bottom of the swells we would slam back to the dock. As winds increased, I decided to unplug shore power, fearing that if my lines broke. I would rip the power pedestal off the dock and electrocute someone.

One of the local Captains agreed it was the prudent thing to do. He unplugged his boat as well.

I was able to ease some of the slamming back into the dock, by lengthening the bow lines. Realizing the severity of the gale, I pulled the secondary anchor and rode out of the bilge. Cutting the spliced line to remove the anchor. I then added that 3 stand line to the starboard aft cleat.

Photo shows the snow flurries.

As the storm grew in intensity, while evaluating anything I could do to mitigate windage. I determined that opening up the side clear vinyl panels on the fly bridge would reduce windage. Temperatures were so cold that we actually had snow at one point. Clear vinyl, cold temperatures and high winds do not mix at all. Several of the clear vinyl panels cracked; due to their inflexibility, as cold and gusty as it was.

The gale lasted about 36 hours. I instituted a rule initially, that after dark when outside of the boat and even walking on the dock. My crew and I would wear inflatable PFDs. We were bundled up for 30 degree temperatures, plus wearing foul wx gear. While walking down the dock which was positioned 90 degrees to the wind. We could easily be blown off the dock by the sudden gusts. I extended the rule to both day or night, when outside the cabin; we would wear PFDs. As the winds increased, we would stay on the boat and not even try and get on the dock.

Before nightfall the second night, I had secured the boat by 22 different lines through 6 hawse pipes to 5 different cleats on the boat. If I could have used any other cleats on the boat or dock, I would have! Luckily the cleats on the dock were extremely strong and large. But I was restricted on how many hawse pipes and cleats I could access on the vessel.

I was constantly evaluating the lines for chaff, both at the dock and through the hawse pipes. Adding anything I could get my hands on, to protect the lines from chaffing. Including several of my T-shirts and towels from “Susan Lee”. I used every single fender of the 13 fenders on board, to buffer it against the constant surge slamming us back against the dock. Four of the fenders would end up getting shredded by a single piece of angle iron on the dock, where a ladder was usually attached.

“For want of a Hawse pipe….”

During the first 24 hours three different hawse pipes came lose from the outer hull of the boat.

I had at least 12 more hours of gale force winds to go. First, the port mid-cleat hawse pipe came lose and slid down the lines. I increased the chaffing gear where the lines were now chaffing against the raw fiberglass of the outer hull. I had to time the surges to slide the chaff gear in place. It would be easy to lose a finger or two if not diligent while doing this. I was completely surprised when the first hawse pipe came lose, but dealt with it as best I could. Being proactive, I doubled down, inspecting the other hawse pipes. Sure enough, several others showed signs of imminent failure. Eventually the aft port, port mid cleat and bow port hawse pipes had all separated from the hull and slid down the dock lines. As each hawse pipe pulled loose from the hull. I would add chaffing gear between the lines and the raw edge of the hull.

Tuesday Sept. 18, National Weather Service:

GALE WARNING IN EFFECT UNTIL 7am WEDNESDAY

NW gales to 40 knots with gust to 45 knots.

Waves nearshore 6-9 feet and 18-23 ft. off shore.

(Windchill charts: 40 knot winds with 30 degrees temps is equal to 13 F.

Waves are impressively breaking over the rip rap sea wall just head of us and shooting 20-30 ft. into the sky.

“For want of a hawse pipe, the line was chaffed…”

Tuesday Sept. 18 0922 am, National Weather Service:

STORM WARNING IN EFFECT TILL 7 pm. Wednesday

North winds 30 to 35 kts. with gust up to 50 kts. waves 14 to 19 feet.

The worst of the gale came at night. By this point, both of us traded one hour shifts. Checking lines and weather conditions. I feared enough, that I slept in the main cabin during my off duty time. Fully clothed for 30 degree temperatures, in foul weather gear, wearing shoes and my PFD. Headlight in place and hand light ready. I prepared an emergency “go bag” with wallet, cash, and passport in case our lines parted. I knew we would be blown across the basin to the leeward dock within seconds. The “Susan Lee” would be bashed to pieces in a short time due to the surge and wind.

During the night, 6 different lines chaffed through. That is close to 1/4 of the lines attaching us to the dock. This dramatically increased the strain on the remaining 16 lines, of which several also showed signs of chaffing through.

“Even though 3 hawse pipes pulled out, and the lines chaffed through. The ship was not lost!

We eventually outlasted the storm. Damage incurred was 2 clear vinyl windows cracked, 4 fenders shredded, 3 hawse pipes pulled lose from the vessel, at least 6 lines chaffed through. With an estimate of $18,000 in repairs. Actually, being proactive we were pretty lucky to save the vessel!

I would love to exaggerate this story, but there is no need. I truly feared that the “Susan Lee”, that I had spent almost 3 weeks on, was about to be lost. And that I would be lucky to scamper on to dry land and not die of hypothermia in the water with winter clothes on, or be crushed between the dock and the boat.

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 3 years ago

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Crisis Redo Pt 8

"So, why does the Autumn Festival need a medical tent?" Kara asks Elizabeth as she helps carry three pie totes to the bakery truck. "Is there that big a risk of someone gorging themselves on caramel apples?"

"Goodness, no!" Elizabeth chuckles. This morning the older woman has her graying hair pulled back into a braid, looking more like Lena than ever. "I mean, there was that one time little Tommy McCrae gave himself a concussion bobbing for apples and nearly drowned, but those were just normal apples."

Kara stops in her tracks. "Wait-- are you serious?"

"Oh, yes! Folks get real competitive around here, especially with the kind of prizes the winners get."

"What on earth kind of prizes could be worth a concussion?"

Elizabeth smirks as she unlocks the truck. "You're holding them, dear."

Kara stares at the pies in her arms. "Do they have cocaine in them??"

"Oh, no. Just a little bit of something special. I only make these particular pies for the autumn festival winners. Secret seasonal recipe," Elizabeth winks.

Blinking, Kara carefully delivers the pies to Elizabeth's hands, watching as she tucks them into a spare cupboard inside the truck. Maybe she hadn't given the fair folk of Willow Creek their due.

"Don't worry," Elizabeth whispers conspiratorially, "I always hold one back for Lena and I, so as our guest you're on the inside track."

Kara beams. "I look forward to tasting it. ...do you need any help setting up?"

"No, no," Elizabeth waves off, "the only thing I need to do is set things out and get the percolator going. You should go on and find Lena."

Kara nods. "Right... and where would the medical tent be?"

"Next to the chainsaw carving station, I would think."

"Chainsaw carving?"

"And if she's not there, you should check the axe throwing lanes."

"The need for a medical tent now makes sense."

"You're in Willow Creek, now," Elizabeth reminds her with a cheeky grin. "We do autumn right."

Elizabeth is right about Lena being called out to the axe throwing lanes. But instead of tending to an impromptu amputation like Kara would have guessed, she finds Lena carefully pulling a splinter out of a young boy's finger. She watches as Lena gives him an offer of two band aids-- trucks or spaceships-- and deftly wraps his choice-- trucks-- around the offended digit.

"All right!" Lena says brightly, giving the boy's hair a ruffle. "Go have fun, okay? Just be careful on the wooden rails."

The boy runs off, his dad trailing behind with a wave towards Lena. Kara leans back against one of the wooden rails, and grins.

"Personally, I would have gone with the spaceships."

If Lena is surprised to see her, she doesn't look it. Still, her features are somewhat less than enthusiastic when she stands and zips up her hip pack.

"Well, cartoon spaceships don't get a lot of traction when you know that your best friend came to earth in an nth-class trawler with about 500 other refugees."

Kara's smile fades a little. "What?"

Lena lifts an arch brow. "You haven't really taken a look at Willow Creek, have you?"

Called out, Kara quickly scans the crowds around them, and is shocked to find that several of the faces she sees are alien. All are humanoid, but their alien-ness is clearly visible, and yet they seem to be totally integrated.

"I... didn't realize," Kara says quietly. She falls into step with Lena as she makes her way back towards the medical tent. "So... they... they're safe here?"

"I won't claim there aren't some outspoken small minds in Willow Creek," Lena allows, "but the people here have big hearts. Anyone who wants to make a peaceful home here are welcome."

Kara gazes out at the festivities, and something in her chest twinges at the sight of humans and aliens mingling so easily. It's what she's always wanted for National City, but has yet to fully achieve.

"It's one of the reasons we came here," Lena continues. "The aliens here never had a human doctor who could help them."

Kara looks at her. "But you do."

Lena shrugs. "My second undergraduate is in xenobiology. And I have a network of contacts from my research days I can reach out to when I need to. I'm still learning, but I do as much as I can."

"Then Willow Creek is lucky to have you." Kara hesitates, then clears her throat. "You know, you can always reach out to my mom for help if you have questions."

Lena's brow furrows. "Alura?"

"I mean, my adoptive mom. Eliza. She's worked in the field for years-- it's one of the reasons why my cousin left me with the Danvers in the first place."

Lena hums. "I see. Well, I might just take you up on that."

Before either of them can say anything further, the radio on Lena's hip squawks, requesting medical assistance at the sack races. Lena grins, and confirms receipt of the message before turning to Kara.

"You should investigate the rest of the festival," she offers. "At least that way there's one person walking around I know I won't have to treat by the end of the day."

Kara nods. "Maybe I'll have a go at winning one of your mom's pies."

Lena rolls her eyes. "You know there's still one at home, right?"

"Yeah, but it's the culture of it all! I want a real taste of Willow Creek autumn."

"In that case... the pumpkin pie eating contest is at two."

With that, Lena heads off, leaving Kara to stare after her. It's the easiest conversation they've had so far, and in the process Kara's learned just a little bit more about this new Lena. A Lena who studied alien medicine and tried to give those in her community a better life regardless of their planet of origin. It was such a little thing, yet said so much.

As Kara peruses the festival, she finds herself talking with many of the locals, introducing herself and discussing what brought her into town. At first she simply says that she's there for the festival, but she inevitably spills that she's staying with Lena and her mother, and before she knows it, people she hasn't met yet are asking her questions about her stay.

"Dr. Lena hasn't ever had a visitor," Linda says at the fall wreath craft table. "Especially not from the city. Tell me, what do you do again?"

"Where are you going to take her as a thank you?" Danielle asks at the cider stall. Kara stares, flummoxed-- she hadn't considered a thank you would be needed. Not like that anyway. "Oh! You should take her to Alfredo's, it's perfect for a date--"

"Oh, hush, Dani, the girl never said they were dating," snaps Gloria, swatting her friend with a fly swatter. She turns to a grateful Kara with a roll of her eyes. "Do forgive her, Danielle's a terrible gossip."

"Right, um. Thanks. Yeah, no. We're not, uhm--"

"Not what?" Lena says, coming up from behind Kara to join them. Kara nearly chokes on her tongue, even as Lena hands over a dollar bill in exchange for a plastic cup of cider. She eyes Kara expectantly over the rim as she takes a long drink.

Kara swallows thickly. "Uhm... dating. We're not dating. Like, at all."

If Kara didn't know any better, she'd swear that Lena's lips quirk upwards. Ever so slightly, just at the corners.

"That's exactly right, darling."

She downs the rest of her cup and tosses it into the trash.

"Excellent cider, ladies, as ever. Save me a jug, will you?"

"Of course, Dr. Walsh!" comes the swift response. Kara stares as Danielle's eyes grow round as saucers, the woman barely waiting for Lena to leave before nudging the woman in the next booth over.

Kara quickly took her leave, weaving through the crowd to catch up with Lena. "Ummm.... you know those ladies now think we're exes right?"

Lena barely glances at her. "Better that than active lovers, wouldn't you say?"

Kara trips on air, only barely catching herself before faceplanting into the woodchip mulch. "Buh--"

"Besides, it's just a little gossip," Lena continues. "In a few days you won't be around for it to bother you."

The reminder smacks Kara between the eyes. It hurts, to think that Lena is simply counting the days until she leaves. But Kara swallows against the burning in her eyes and shrugs.

"Yeah, I guess."

Lena's radio squawks again, calling her to yet another scene. Kara waves her on. "Go ahead. I've still got plenty of festival to-- see." Lena is already gone.

Kara loses herself in the festival. She watches the log-chopping competition from the sidelines, incorrectly guessing which contestant would win-- it's her own fault, opting for the burly guy with a beard instead of the long haired woman who eventually wins.

She watches the egg race and a round of log running, watching until three consecutive losers end up splashing into the lake. The only competition she enters is the pumpkin carving contest-- in which she proudly wins a third place ribbon for her cheery pumpkin face.

Elizabeth joins her as the afternoon bleeds into evening, enlisting her help handing out sticks and materials for smores over the fire pits the local volunteer fire station set up. By this point, the only activities going on are the sunset (then haunted, once the sun dips below the horizon) hayrides and the music pavilion and the fire pits, which means that Lena inevitably finds their way over to them.

"What's the tally?" Elizabeth asks.

"Thirteen band-aids, two stitches, and a sprain." Lena's teeth gleam in the dark as she smiles. "No broken bones this year."

"Oh, Dr. Walsh!" a voice calls. Kara can just make out an unfamiliar shape in the shadows, but Lena recognizes them immediately.

"Hi Rosemary. What's the matter?"

"Herb's cankers are acting up again. I was hoping you'd be able to whip up some more of that special tea..."

"Not a problem," Lena replies warmly. "Swing by the house tomorrow, and we'll get you set up."

"Oh, thank you, Dr. Walsh. Bless you."

"Have a good night, Rosemary. Stay safe getting home!"

The woman ambles off, and Lena looks back at Kara. "What?" she demands.

"Tea?"

"Not everything in life requires a pill. I help when and how I can," Lena informs her. "Especially when Medicaid doesn't cover more long term treatments."

Kara backs off a step. "Not judging. Just curious."

Lena gives a quiet hmph, which her mother ignores by shoving a marshmallow stick into each of their hands. "You want a taste of Willow Creek, Kara? Well, Lena roasts the best marshmallows. She can teach you a thing or two."

With a not so subtle shove towards the campfire, Elizabeth banishes them from the booth. As they near the fire, Kara can see the gleam in Lena's eyes, dour and defensive.

"I really didn't mean anything by it," Kara says quietly. "I was just... surprised. I guess I'm still getting used to... everything."

Everything being magic. Everything being Lena's open mind towards non-pharmaceutical treatments. Everything being this gaping chasm between them.

"I'm sorry," she finishes softly.

Lena sighs. "I'm sorry too. For earlier."

Kara offers a tentative smile. "It's okay." We're okay. "But you will have to show me your magic marshmallow tricks, because otherwise I'm just going to scorch it..."

Somewhere between Lena's scoff and the touch of her fingers on Kara's as they gently rotate the stick for a perfect, golden roast, Kara can almost believe that they really will be okay.

#supercorp #crisis redo #autumn festival #gossip begins #kara gets noticed #things get rocky #then they get better

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straight-to-the-pain · 2 years ago

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Lady Luck Will Choose Her Side - 1

This was originally written as a gift for @quirkykayleetam in an exchange, with technical advice from @pythagoreanwhump on explosions, guns, and being a 16 year old (which you are no longer). I also watched some videos of some soldiers pretending to blow up a bridge in Kent for this, which was entertaining as some of the residents seemed to truly believe they were about to destroy local infrastructure. This is a series with more to follow!

Contains: blowing up a bridge, whump of a teenage character and referenced harm and death of children, fictional politics (there’s an unspecified civil war), military whump, guns and gunshot wounds, references to mass murder, including that of children, and more torture to come.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Charlie sighs, picking his way through the scratchy undergrowth of brambles. Owen follows him, grateful for the path that Charlie is carving out for him.

“Well you’re the one who planned this,” he points out, wincing slightly as a particularly sharp branch catches on his sleeve.

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” Charlie knows he sounds angry, but behind the anger is a deep-seated worry that he can’t seem to dislodge. “I don’t know how you managed to talk me into letting you come with me.” He shakes his head.

“You know you can’t say no to me when I ask nicely,” Owen says, and Charlie can’t help but laugh, though it’s short and bitter.

He’s about to argue with that statement, though everyone in the camp knows it’s true, including him, but when he moves the last prickly tendril out of the way, he knows they’ve reached their destination. It’s far past curfew, and the banks of the river are silent and empty. The water shimmers like crumpled black silk, illuminated by the light of the moon. It’s breathtaking.

Charlie thinks he could spend all night staring out at the river, but there’s no time to get distracted if they want to get back under the cover of darkness. Pressing a finger to his lips, he quietly creeps out from the foliage.

A part of him hopes that Owen won’t follow, that he will decide not to do this after all, but then he always raised the kid to be brave. Maybe he did too well a job, because Owen trails after him with a smile.

The bridge across the river is old, with mossy stone and faded metal girders. It will almost be a shame to destroy it, but it’s the only way to halt the army’s progress. Before the civil war, fishermen would go out in their trawlers early in the morning to bring a haul back for market.

Now the only noise that can be heard is the sound of distant gunshots coming from the other bank. And they’re about to make the lives of those shooting a lot more complicated.

“Here, this will be a good place to set the charges,” Charlie whispers when they reach the middle of the bridge. He’s looking over the railing, at the criss-crossing beams above its columns.

“One under here and one under the next one, that should do the trick.” He checks his watch. “We have three hours until the guards are due to patrol the area, so let’s get going. Hold the torch so I can see what I’m doing.”

Carefully, Charlie climbs over the side of the bridge, hands grasping onto stone and metal. He’s glad that he wore his favourite gloves, or his fingers would have been too stiff with cold to get a good grip. He knows better than to look down. Each exhale leaves a trail of mist in the cold night air, and the river is deathly cold this time of year.

“Alright, start handing me the goods.” The kid just stares blankly at him for a moment, still holding the torch, eyes wide.

“Open the pack,” Charlie repeats, “and give me the explosives, Owen.” His voice is firm but calm. He knows that some of the others are scared of him, that they whisper about his temper when they think he can’t hear, but he has always welcomed such a reputation.

It’s better that way. Better to not get attached, to be ruthless and calculating. But somehow Owen has burrowed his way into his heart, and he can’t bear the thought of losing him on their first mission together.

Owen blinks and nods. “Yes, Charlie,” he says quickly, passing him the cylinders from his pack. “Sorry, Charlie.” He holds them gingerly, like they might explode in his hands, unlit fuse and all.

“Pay attention, Owen,” Charlie tells him. “You stop paying attention, that’s when things start to go wrong.”

He works quickly, tying the explosives to the bridge supports with coarse rope, then repeats the process for the next column. Owen watches him closely, and he knows he should be explaining the process, teaching him to follow in his footsteps the way everyone has always expected, but he can’t quite bring himself to do so.

He tells himself that he is quiet out of necessity, but there’s a traitorous part of him that hopes that Owen never learns, that he will never have to put himself in danger the way Charlie has.

“You done?” Owen asks, as Charlie gathers up the fuses, twisting them together.

He nods, about to start trailing them along the bridge so they can light them from the safety of the undergrowth, but then Owen’s breath hitches, and Charlie looks up to find panic in his eyes.

In the pale moonlight, Owen’s face looks like a white sheet. He’s pointing wordlessly into the distance, and when Charlie turns, he sees the unmistakable silhouettes of an army patrol.

Did their informant betray them, or are the soldiers just early? There isn’t time to consider that now. Suddenly, he remembers that Owen is still holding the lit torch. He grabs it from the boy’s hands, praying that the soldiers haven’t yet noticed the suspicious light.

“Let’s go before they see us,” Charlie whispers. “This isn’t worth our lives, let’s just run.”

This isn’t worth your life, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say it. What would the fighters back at camp say if they heard him now? Accuse him of cowardice most likely.

“We could still do it,” Owen argues. He still looks terrified but there’s a breathless determination in his voice. “I want to do it. I want to do something important with my life.” There’s an intensity in his eyes that catches Charlie off guard, even now.

Owen draws out a matchbook from his pocket. “Let’s light it and run.”

There’s no time to argue. “Let’s give ourselves a little more distance,” Charlie says, glancing back at the approaching soldiers. The figures are growing larger by the minute but Charlie knows that they can’t see them yet, not at their position on the bridge.

“I’ll let you do the honours,” Charlie tells the kid, and Owen smiles despite everything. They’ll have some time to get away while the fuse burns, but once they start running they’ll be out in the open, no longer hidden in the shadows of the bridge. Once they reach the forest, the foliage will provide them with some cover but first they’ll have to dash across the riverside promenade.

Owen strikes the match. He holds it in his hand for just a moment, and his ginger hair looks almost copper in the light of the flame. Then he brings it up to the fuse and there’s only time for a quick glance and a mutual nod before they both break into a sprint.

Charlie runs and keeps running until he can feel the brambles scratching at his clothes and the nettles stinging his hands. He doesn’t look back, not even when he hears the bang of the

explosion, the crash of metal and stone hitting the water. He doesn’t look back, even as the sky is set alight around him.

He wants to know that Owen is behind him, that Owen is safe, but he can’t make anything out in the din of the explosion and the thicket of foliage. He refuses to think about Owen being killed, to think that it might be all his fault if he never returns from this. He just runs.

Charlie runs until he hears the gunshots. They pierce the chaos around him, bringing him out of his daze and focusing his mind. There’s a burst of muzzle flash among the trees, one, two, then three shots followed by a distant groan of pain and the thud of a body against the ground.

Instinct tells Charlie to breathe, to keep running, but the air is frozen in his lungs. His heart hammers against his chest. Dropping to his knees, he quietly parts the foliage, praying that whoever is lying on the ground isn’t Owen.

It’s not. Owen is standing in a clearing, hands trembling as he points his pistol at a gathered group of soldiers. There’s more than just the patrol now. Charlie guesses the explosion alerted a nearby unit and now dozens of them are hunting them down. Hunting him down.

His mind screams at him to do something, to either fight or to run, but he’s stuck, frozen in his hiding place. The fact that Owen is still standing brings him a sliver of comfort. Surely if the soldiers had wanted him dead, he would be by now, especially after hitting one of their own?

But he’s proud too. Proud that despite the panic, despite his shaking hands gripping the gun for dear life, Owen still managed to put up a fight.

“Drop your weapon and get on your knees,” one of the soldiers commands, and there’s a slight moment of hesitation before the gun slips out of Owen’s hands, and he sinks down into the dirt. Charlie watches the way his chest rises and falls in quick, short breaths.

“Hands on your head,” her colleague yells. “Don’t you dare fucking move, or we’ll shoot.” As though to prove his point, he gestures at him with his gun.

If he’s going to do anything, Charlie knows he should do it now. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he forces himself to stay quiet, even as some part of him wants to cry out and tell Owen that he’s sorry for dragging him into this.

Even if he emptied all his bullets into the soldiers, it wouldn’t be enough. He’d get them both captured at best or killed at worst. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe the merciful thing to do would be to shoot Owen and then himself. He stops that thought in its tracks before it can properly take root.

“Do your people have no fucking shame, sending a kid to do their dirty work?” the first soldier asks, jabbing Owen with his rifle. The irony in that statement isn’t lost on Charlie. If it weren’t for those damn soldiers, Owen would still be with his family. If it weren’t for them, he would never have had to learn how to shoot a gun or light a fuse, to live with the fear that the people he loves won’t be there when he wakes up.

“I’m not a kid,” Owen retorts quietly but firmly. “I’m almost seventeen, you know.”

The soldier laughs properly at that, then kicks the boy without warning. To his credit, Owen grunts softly, his hands never leaving their required positions, though his fingers tighten slightly against his curls.

But Charlie isn’t really looking at Owen anymore. He’s hiding behind a barn, watching those same soldiers as they drag his family out into the main square.

No, he tells himself. Those were different soldiers, different faces. But what difference does it really make when their guns and uniforms are the same? He’s watching, helpless, hand pressed against his mouth. His husband moaning in pain as the soldiers beat him with their batons. His daughter screaming for him while he can only stare, motionless. The gunshots, followed by silence.

They’re gone, his mind tells him. You can’t save them anymore. He realises that he’s clutching their photo in his hand. When he looks up, the soldiers are already dragging Owen up with a hood over his head, tugging him in the opposite direction out of the thicket. He stumbles after them, tripping over his own feet as they roughly tug him after them, away from Charlie.

“You think he really did it alone?” one of the soldiers asks another.

“I don’t buy it,” his colleague replies, with an authority that tells Charlie she’s the one in charge. “Greyson, get your squad. Search the area.”

Charlie doesn’t stick around to hear the rest. He takes off in the opposite direction. Even in the darkness, surrounded by branches, he still knows the way home, but he doesn’t go back to camp. He can’t bear the thought of leading the soldiers right back into their hideout.

As he falls asleep that night, cold and alone in an abandoned cottage, praying the soldiers don’t find him, there’s only one clear thought in his mind. Get Owen back, whatever it takes.

#whump #military whump #captivity #past trauma #death #minor whump #tumblr was giving me sich grief with formatting this and posting it #this is a series there is more to come #oc: Charlie #oc: Owen #my stuff #my writing

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gumnut-logic · 3 years ago

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Virgil yawned.

The rock was hard under his butt and the damn wind was cold, but he was determined to sit it out.

“Go to bed, Virgil.”

“No.”

Scott sat beside him, leg propped up, yawning just as much as he. Both of them were rugged up in ways they had almost forgotten how to since moving to a tropical island.

“You haven’t had a decent sleep in two nights. You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m fine.” That statement was ruined by another yawn, but Virgil chose to ignore it.

“Your health is important.”

Virgil snorted at the hypocrisy. Scott had come down on crutches for crying out loud. “I’m staying.”

“Until we have to lug your sleeping butt back into the cabin.”

“I’m awake.”

“I give you ten minutes.”

“Shut up, Scott.”

His brother grunted at him, but Virgil didn’t miss the concerned frown Scott shot in his direction.

Every muscle wanted to relax, wanted to curl up on the sand. But it was cold. The tiny flicker of the campfire had been minimised to cut down on light pollution. On the other side of their campsite, John and Alan were huddled over one of the elder astronaut’s prize telescopes. The contented mutter had numbers and calculations embedded in it. Alan was literally bouncing beside his brother.

This was important to them all.

Virgil was just exhausted.

Gordon, who had been out with him on every single rescue had already succumbed and was curled up not far from the fire, a rug wrapped around him. The younger operative had dragged sixteen crew members off a trawler earlier in the day. Virgil had tried to convince him to stay in the cabin, but he was as stubborn as any of them.

Sleep over took him after dinner and shut him down.

Virgil yawned again.

“Please, Virg.”

“‘M fine.”

“Gordon said the same thing.”

“Gordon did more work.”

“Bullshit.”

Virgil blinked, glanced at his big brother and decided to ignore that.

The beach was a wide one and the gentle surf was lost in the darkness beyond the pitiful light of the fire. The wind was strong enough to reach through his clothes and suck the heat from him, but if he was honest, it was the only thing keeping him awake.

Letting his shoulders drop, he tightened his grip on the coat he had pulled around him.

They could have done this on Five. It was warm up there. But it wouldn’t have been the same.

It had been thirty-four years since that comet had been spotted on this very beach by their parents and they were not going to miss the opportunity to see it for the first time since then.

It was named after their mother, after all.

The fact it had been Alan who had flown them out here this evening because their two senior pilots were pretty much incapacitated was annoying, but necessary.

The cabin was theirs. Dad had purchased it the moment it came on the market. Hell, Virgil was pretty sure their Dad waved cash in front of the owners until they agreed to put it up for sale.

It was a special spot.

The campfire flickered hypnotically.

“We’ve found it.” John’s voice was quiet in deference to Gordon’s snoring slumber, but his face was lit up with excitement.

Virgil pushed himself to his feet, leaning over to help his big brother stand up on the sand, one arm under his elbow as Scott glared at him in the dark.

It was only a broken ankle from jumping off a height that was just a little too high, but the sight of his big brother landing on his ‘bird at an awkward angle and nearly falling off had been heart stopping.

Fishing him off Thunderbird One had not been fun and Scott had not been happy.

But he was safe. Grounded and grumpy as all hell, but safe.

Virgil held him a touch tighter and Scott frowned at him again.

“Lean on me.”

“I have crutches.”

“Not on the sand and not in the dark.”

That earned him a grunt, but Scott didn’t pull away and Virgil took that as permission to manhandle his brother over to the telescope.

Alan was bouncing even more, his expression almost a light source in its enthusiasm. “We found it and it’s beautiful.”

Virgil blinked as that simple statement unexpectedly stirred long ignored emotion in his tired brain. His mother had always been important to him and despite the fact Alan was referring to a ball of rock and ice hurtling through the cosmos, it also meant more.

So much more.

John was fiddling with the telescope, muttering to Eos unconsciously. Virgil vaguely wondered how much talking occurred when his brother was up on Five. Eos was obviously a comfort to an isolated John.

And god, Virgil’s heart lurched at that as well.

So goddamned tired he was tearing up at the drop of a hat.

Maybe he should go to bed before he made an embarrassment of himself.

“Virg?” Alan was staring at him.

Of course, that prompted the grumpy pilot in his hands to stare at him as well.

For the love of-!

“John?” Distraction was the key.

“One moment, Virgil.”

Hmm, distracted was also a description of his space brother.

But John only fiddled for that moment longer and suddenly a beam shot out of the telescope and a hologram materialised in front of them.

Stars. Bright little pin points of light flickered into existence. They surrounded a single streak of light.

Virgil let out a breath that was more a sigh than anything else.

“Comet Lucy 2029.” John’s voice was somber. “Discovered by Jeff Tracy, amateur astronomer on this beach in August 2029.” A pause. “Thirty-four years ago today.”

Virgil swallowed. They all knew the story, but the only one of them who had been alive at the time was Scott and he had been a baby.

There was silence for a moment as they all stared at the smudge of light projected at them from the heavens.

Gordon snorted in his sleep.

Space was far too silent.

“Thank you, John.” Scott’s voice was quiet, reverent.

Virgil let his head drop to his big brother’s shoulder. So goddamned tired the hologram blurred.

A blink and he found himself wrapped in Scott’s arms. “Virgil, you are going to bed.” There was no arguing with that tone. “You’ve seen it. Now bed.”

Virgil grunted, closing his eyes for just a second.

They were so, so hard to open again.

Scott said something and there were more hands grabbing at him. “‘M fine.”

“Yeah, sure, bro.” Alan’s voice was mocking as he dragged one of Virgil’s arms over his shoulder and pulled him away from Scott.

“Hey, gotta help Scott.”

But Alan’s grip was surprisingly strong. “John has Scott under control. You need bed, bro.”

“Wanted to see Mom.” His brain to mouth filter was obviously shot because he hadn’t wanted to admit that.

“You’ve seen her. Now rest.” And suddenly they were inside and the lack of the biting wind was such a relief, he nearly melted on the spot.

“Sorry.”

He was rolled onto a soft bed with a grunt from Alan and a mutter involving Virgil eating less food. He had no energy to care and curled up into a ball as a blanket was thrown over him.

But...“Need to help Scott.”

“Scott is fine. You go to sleep or I’ll sic Grandma on you.”

“G’dma not here.” The bed was so, so soft and warm.

“Since when would that stop her?”

A brief flicker of fear, but Virgil was too tired to care.

“Go to sleep, bro.” Fingers touched his hair.

But Virgil was already gone.

-o-o-o-

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Alan Tracy #sleepy Virg #nuttyfic reblog

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swordandquill · 3 years ago

Text

Leverage Writing Prompt #31

Title: Future Tides

Fandom: Leverage

Summary: Nate has been keeping a secret from the team, but an inopportune explosion forces him to reveal it.

This is a prompt fill for @leverage-writing-prompts. I actually submitted this prompt back in July, but only got around to finishing it now.

In honor of the beautiful (and also occasionally creepy) mer-May art I still have circulating on my dash: Parker (or Nate) is secretly a merperson. When a job goes wrong, they’re forced to reveal their secret.

@rinahale did a really fun fill for it already with Mer-Parker.

You can go here to read this on AO3 instead.

Author’s notes: The merrow are Irish merfolk who require a magical cap to move between land and sea.

Bone and Sickle podcast by Al Ridenour did a really great episode on the Kraken (Ep 65: The Kraken & Other Marvels of the Northern Sea). In its earliest renditions, the Kraken was a sea serpent. It was only later that it became associated with first giant octopi, then the giant squid.

*************

Nate knew as soon as the explosion knocked Eliot over the railing of the pier that he only had one option. Eliot was strong swimmer, but not stronger than the turbulent currents under the pier, particularly if he was unconscious. Nate hadn’t been able to tell in the split second it had taken to register him going over.

Even as he was yelling for the rest of the team to get off the burning structure, he was shucking off his shoes and jumping over the railings. He hoped they listened. The rickety structure was going to collapse, with or without another explosion. Getting to Eliot before he got bashed into the pylons was going to be enough of a challenge without having to worry about the rest of the team ending up in the water.

By the time Nate hit the water, his fingernails had hardened into claws, and he used them to tear the rest of his clothes off so he could finish the change. There was something euphoric about settling into his other form. He hadn’t changed since before Sam was born, and it was like finally allowing himself to scratch an itch that had been burning its way through his skin.

There wasn’t time to think about that though. Nate blinked his second eyelid closed, and the murky water sharpened into black and white, the fire above reflecting through the water in bright, washed-out streaks. He had to fight the chaotic currents rushing under the pier to stay still long enough to spot Eliot.

He had already been swept under the pier, probably already been driven into the pylons at least once, and was limp in the water. Nate flicked his tail and pushed into the current, using it to reach Eliot before he could be driven into the pylons again, but he wasn’t able to get them clear of the pier before the next surge. The best he could do was curl around Eliot and turn them so his back hit the pylon instead of Eliot. He was going to be bruised, but it was better than Eliot hitting again.

He pushed hard across the current and surfaced a good four meters from the pier. Eliot started coughing as soon as they broke the surface. The shear relief of it left Nate drifting for a moment, Eliot’s head tipped back against his shoulder and the rip tide pulling them out. There was blood fanning across Eliot’s face from a cut at his temple, and he wasn’t quite conscious, but he was breathing, and for now, that was enough.

Nate cut across the rip to escape it, then brought them into shore, doing his best to keep Eliot’s head above water, although there was no doubt he had breathed in more water by the time they reached the shore.

Changing back was not as easy or simple as the change to had been, but Nate had known it wouldn’t be, known he couldn’t deny his body something it had been craving for so long, then expect it to just let go of it so quickly again. It meant he had to drag Eliot up onto the beach with a tail, which was less than ideal and required more arm strength than he was used to using in either form, but he managed it.

He turned Eliot on his side in the sand as he continued to cough up water. Part of him wanted to leave him here for the team to find and make a break for it before they saw. Eliot was unlikely to remember anything, and Nate was sure he could make something up that would appease them. Then nothing would have to change.

Eliot’s eyes fluttered open, and he shifted fitfully, his whole body shaking with cold and shock.

“Just lie still,” Nate brushed the wet hair from his face with a webbed hand, “you’re alright.”

Eliot blinked up at him, and Nate waited for the reaction, but Eliot just gave an unsurprised “oh” before another coughing fit had him curling back into himself.

Nate let out a sigh and rubbed his back. He couldn’t wait to hear what “distinctive” thing about him had tipped Eliot off to what he was.

Someone yelled his name, and he looked up to see three silhouettes, framed against the light of the burning pier and racing towards them. It was a relief to see them, but Nate couldn’t help the unease as they got closer.

Parker reached them first, too focused on Eliot to pay much attention to Nate. She dropped down in the sand next to them, grabbing Eliot’s shoulder and shaking him in the Parker version of gentleness. Eliot batted at her weakly, but curled closer to her none-the-less. It wasn’t until Nate brushed her hand away when she tried to poke Eliot that she finally looked up at him.

Nate braced himself for fear, or disgust, or any number of negative reactions, but her face lit up like she’d just received a bag of non-sequentially numbered bills.

“You have cool teeth!” she told him brightly.

Nate’s world snapped back into place and all the unease drained out of him.

“Thank you, Parker,” he said drolly, just managing to not run his tongue over the points of his teeth.

“Oh my,” Sophie stopped short as she reached them, and Hardison almost ran into her.

“What is it?” the hacker demanded anxiously, “is Eliot…”

Hardison trailed off, mouth open and eyes wide at the sight of Nate’s tail.

“Nate’s a mermaid,” Parker announced gleefully.

“Do I look like a maid to you?” Nate groused.

“Maybe if you had a feather duster,” Sophie was giving him a look that said they would be having a long, unpleasant conversation later, “and a frilly little French smock.”

“Mermaids are real?” Hardison sputtered.

“Merrow,” Eliot corrected hazily, then curled into another coughing fit.

Nate was never going to hear the end of this from any of them. The fast-approaching sirens were almost a relief.

“Get him out of here,” Nate helped Parker to sit Eliot up, “don’t let him tell you he doesn’t need a hospital. He’s got water in his lungs.”

Hardison ducked down and helped Parker get Eliot to his feet. He swayed unsteadily, and the two were quick to get his arms around their shoulders and take his weight.

“What about you?” Sophie gestured towards his tail.

“Changing back takes longer,” Nate made a shooing motion, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

“You promise?” Parker demanded, refusing to be dragged in the direction Hardison was trying to usher both her and Eliot, “not like the little mermaid; you won’t turn into sea foam for loving humans?”

“No, not like that,” Nate assured her with an eyeroll, “hurry up and get out of here so I can too.”

“But you promise,” Parker refused to budge, “you’ll catch up later. You won’t disappear.”

“I promise,” Nate snapped, “go already.”

Parker grinned and turned back to help Hardison with Eliot.

“Don’t think I won’t send a trawler after you if I have to,” Sophie threatened, then turned to follow the rest of the team in the direction of the waiting van.

Nate didn’t doubt she would, and that they would find him, but he didn’t have any intention of making them do that. For now though, he pushed back into the water and let the waves carry him back out towards the open sea.

**********

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you were a mermaid,” Hardison hissed, voice low in a futile attempt to not wake Eliot.

“Merrow,” Eliot mumbled groggily.

Futile because Eliot wasn’t sleeping. Exhausted, still feeling chilly if the truly ridiculous number of blankets piled on him were any indication, and a bit out of it from a not insignificant head injury, but not asleep, at least not at the moment.

“You know, I googled that,” Hardison groused, “just because Nate wears stupid hats all the time doesn’t mean he’s some kind of Irish shape-shifting sea creature.”

Sophie snorted indelicately.

“That’s not…” Eliot started to protest, only to be cut off by Parker, which was probably for the best given how soar his throat sounded.

“You can’t have your hat back,” Parker pulled Nate’s hat down farther on her head; she must have picked it up after he dropped it at the pier, “just in case.”

Eliot moved restlessly in his hospital bed, and Nate, sitting on the edge of it, dropped his hand down to pat the hitter’s wrist. He left his hand there, fingers resting lightly against Eliot’s pulse point.

“You can keep the hat, Parker,” Nate said easily, “it looks good on you.”

Parker beamed at him from the foot of Eliot’s bed.

“It’s a con anyway,” Nate continued dismissively, “someone made it up centuries ago to trick fishermen and it stuck.”

“You really are a merrow,” Hardison deflated, as if the reality of it had finally sunk in.

“Yes, Nate,” Sophie sat back in the uncomfortable hospital chair regally, looking for all the world like a queen reigning over her court, “do tell us about being a mythical sea creature.”

Parker leaned forward like a child eager for a bedtime story.

“Well…”

Nate was interrupted by Eliot reaching up with his free hand to try to pull his oxygen cannulas off. Again. Nate caught his hand and lowered it back down to rest on his chest.

“Leave that be for now,” Nate gave his hand a pat.

“I don’t want it,” Eliot shifted, movements agitated and unsure, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to do, “we should get out of here. It isn’t safe.”

“I’ve got it all taken care of, man,” Hardison reassured him patiently, “we’re safe.”

“Security’s not…” Eliot started to protest.

“We’re security,” Nate let his hand fall back to Eliot’s wrist and left it there, “we’ll check in with the doctor this afternoon and reassess, alright?”

Eliot grumbled, but settled down again.

There was very little chance of Eliot being released before tomorrow. He was responding well to oxygen, and the CT had looked good, but he had been unconscious underwater, and that wasn’t something any of them wanted to take lightly. He was having trouble focusing and keeping track of what was going on around him, and it wasn’t because of the relatively mild pain meds he had been given.

Better to keep him where he could get the care he needed, at least while they could. Nate wasn’t kidding about reassessing. If the situation changed, and they needed to go to ground, they had other resources they could tap into to make sure Eliot still got taken care of. For now, though, this was best.

“Nate,” Parker was looking at him intently, “Sophie said I should pick something besides money that I want for my birthday.”

Nate turned to face her, resigned to whatever was coming.

“I like gold and gems too,” Parker grinned, “shipwrecks have lots of gold and gems.”

Nate gave a long-suffering sigh, and pointedly ignored Sophie suppressing a snicker.

“It wouldn’t even be like stealing,” Parker pressed, “it’s not like anyone really owns it anymore.”

“There are plenty of countries that would disagree with you on that,” Nate said dryly.

“Only if they know we have it,” Parker shrugged, “so can we go diving for treasure for my birthday?”

“You have to commit to a date for your birthday first, sweetheart,” Sophie pointed out, “also, if we’re diving for treasure, there is the platinum reserves Spain dumped into the ocean in the 16th century. Probably not enough to make the expense of an actual expedition worth it, but if you could just swim to it…”

“No,” Nate said firmly, “absolutely not. We are not treasure hunters.”

“But we could be,” Hardison smiled impishly, “we do need alternative revenues streams after all.”

“Not Spain,” Eliot murmured sleepily, “’s guarded.”

“By what? A kraken?” Hardison scoffed, then paused, “wait, there isn’t a kraken, is there?”

“No,” Nate said firmly at the same time that Eliot said “yes.”

He glared at the hitter, who gave him a tired, shit-eating grin.

“It’s not a cephalopod,” Eliot looked far too pleased with the way Hardison started to sputter.

Nate pinched the bridge of his nose. At this rate, they were never going to get Hardison near the water again.

“You’re making that up,” Hardison balked, “there aren’t sea monsters.”

“How would you know?” Eliot countered, “you don’t even swim.”

Hardison opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but Nate interrupted him.

“What I want to know, is how you knew what I was,” he gave Eliot a curious look.

It would be good for him to know what had tipped Eliot off so he could fix it. The fewer people that could tell what he was, the better. Maggie had known, had seen him change once before they were married, but he hadn’t wanted to split his life between two worlds. He had chosen the land, still chose the land. That remained where the things that mattered to him were.

“You bled all over me when you were shot,” Eliot said, “your blood is different than human blood. It’s distinctive.”

Not something he could do anything about then, although it was interesting to him that Eliot hadn’t bothered to say anything about it sooner. As with all the random and far-reaching knowledge Eliot had, Nate was caught between wanting to know how he knew and feeling it was probably best not to ask.

“That’s just nasty,” Hardison grumbled.

“So we’ll go to South American, and Hardison and I will track down the shipwreck sites,” Parker continued as if she had never been interrupted, “you can search the shipwrecks, and Eliot can help me update my dive certification.”

“Whatever you want, darling,” Eliot yawned.

“Do I get a say in this?” Nate asked.

“Probably not,” Sophie looked thoroughly amused.

“It will be like a family vacation,” Parker grinned, clearly excited by the idea, “you and Sophie keep saying I’m supposed to try normal people things that I haven’t done before.”

Nate knew a lost cause when he heard one. He sat back and listened to Hardison and Parker plan, keeping half an eye on Eliot as he finally drifted off to sleep. Sophie alternated between encouraging the pair with much too much enthusiasm and giving Nate thoughtful side glances. He was grateful she didn’t push for more information. Not yet anyway.

He had told Maggie before he had proposed to her. It had seemed unfair not to. And Sam… Sam had been so young. Nate was never sure he really believed it was more than a fairy story. Maybe if he had lived longer… gotten to be older… who knew what could have happened, what potential had never been unlocked. It hurt to think about, made him want to reach for a bottle and try to forget all the things his son should have been, should have had.

Eliot reached for the cannulas in his sleep, and Nate caught his hand, bringing it back down to his side and holding onto it.

Nate had a future here. Different from the one he had so badly wanted, shaped by different tides, full of unexplored depths and currents, but still good. He was learning to live with that, slow though the process was. It wasn’t the catastrophe he had always thought it would be, having them find out.

If the trade-off for this new future was the occasional treasure hunt, Nate could live with that.

*********

Parker continued to be non-committal about choosing a birthday, but there was a lovely 16th century gold and ruby pendent necklace tucked under the tree for her at Christmas.

#Leverage #Nathan Ford #Eliot Spencer #Parker #Alec Hardison #Sophie Devereaux #Isabeau's writing

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artist-edward-hopper · 3 years ago

Photo

Deck of a Beam Trawler, Gloucester, 1923, Edward Hopper

Medium: watercolor

#newrealism #edwardhopper #americanart #hopper

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predicti0n · 4 years ago

Photo

expaulore | More

The Vigilance of Brixham is a 78ft Gaff-Rigged Ketch and is a heritage vessel of national importance. She is part of the UK’s Historic Fleet.Although she is no longer fishing, she is still classed as a Brixham Sailing Trawler. She was the last of a long line of beam trawlers built in Upham’s Shipyard in 1926.

#photography #photooftheday #photo of the day #uploaded #Landscape #landscape photography #stunning shots #earthfocus #Ketch #sailing trawler #heritage #boat #sailing #uk #england #Devon

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searchingwardrobes · 4 years ago

Text

The Convenient Groom: 9/14

Here we are - the double date on Liam’s boat! Will Emma pass Liam's "test"? I know, the chapter count went up. I was originally going to put more in this chapter, but then I surpassed 3,000 words. Plus, I just felt like I hit the perfect sweet spot of a chapter ending. I also promised some green eyed jealousy a couple of chapters ago, but I ended up moving that to a different place in my outline. It felt like Emma and Killian needed to get closer before that could be believable. So let's commence with some hurt/comfort in this chapter, shall we?

Summary: Killian Jones just happens to be there when Emma Swan gets the phone call that changes everything: her fiance is leaving her at the altar. The thing is, it could also mean the end of her career. Convenient that Killian has nothing better to do that day. Convenient that he’s secretly in love with her. Not that Emma has to know that. Written for @spartanguard .

Rating: M

Words: 3,500 and some change

Also on Ao3

Tagging:@snowbellewells @whimsicallyenchantedrose @kmomof4 @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @xhookswenchx @tiganasummertree @shireness-says @stahlop @scientificapricot @welllpthisishappening @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @kday426 @ekr032-blog-blog @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @nikkiemms @distant-rose @optomisticgirl @profdanglaisstuff @carpedzem @ohmakemeahercules @branlovestowrite @superchocovian @sherlockianwhovian @vvbooklady1256 @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615 @snidgetsafan

“Ask me another one,” Emma called out from the bathroom, her words garbled by the toothpaste in her mouth. The words were followed by the sound of her spitting into the sink, and Killian winced. Emma Swan was a mess - literally. She left dirty clothes all over her bedroom floor, left wet towels in a heap in the bathroom, had a bad habit of kicking off her shoes wherever she happened to sit down, and at this very moment he knew there was toothpaste flying all over the sink and the mirror above it.

And God help him, he loved her more now than he had when he first agreed to this charade.

“Okay,” he called back, clearing the emotion from his throat with a short cough, “port and starboard.”

Killian grabbed a bag of pretzels from the pantry and tossed them into the waterproof tote with the rest of their food. He could hear Emma gargling down the hall, then spitting again. He shook his head thinking of all the little splashes he’d soon have to scrub from the mirror.

“Um . . . okay, port is the . . . left side of the boat. Right - I mean, correct?”

“When facing which way?” He turned to the fridge as he spoke, gathering up a six pack of sodas and another of beer.

“Facing . . . the bow. Which is the front of the boat?” Her face was scrunched up in a hesitant expression as she walked into the kitchen, her arms above her head as she twisted her hair up into a messy bun.

An adorable hesitant expression.

“Good job, love!”

Emma beamed even as she gave him a nonchalant shrug. “So that means starboard is the right side of the boat when you’re facing the bow.”

“You got it!”

“I don’t know . . . “ she trailed off hesitantly. “Ask me another one?”

Killian closed the lid on the cooler and stepped close to her, resting both hands on her shoulders. “You’ll be fine. Liam isn’t going to be giving you a pop quiz.”

Emma arched both brows. “You sure about that?”

He couldn’t stop his jaw from clenching, but he forced a smile upon his face nevertheless. “It’ll be fine.”

“You sound so convincing,” Emma muttered as she slipped into a pair of flip flops that she had kicked off underneath the coffee table.

“I wouldn’t wear those.”

“Why not?”

“They aren’t safe for the boat, plus you could easily lose them in the water.”

Emma sighed like a teenager. “Fine, I’ll wear my BOBS.”

She shuffled down the hall, and Killian shook his head. Her voice floated back to him with a muffled sound, and he could hear a clunking sound as shoes hit the floor.

“Ummm, Killian! Have you seen my BOBS? The navy ones?”

“The back porch, love!”

Emma scurried past him as he hoisted up the tote and the cooler. He followed her out the back door, and Emma grabbed his bicep as she hopped into one shoe and then the other.

“How did I ever find my shoes without you?” she asked him with an innocent smile.

She turned away from him to snap Smee’s leash onto his collar and then grab the second tote filled with their towels and sunscreen. Killian felt frozen in place at her words, though he knew she meant nothing by them. He watched her jog down the back steps, the sea breeze tugging at her hair, and smiles for the dog whose tail wagged in adoration at the newest member of the household. The only thing he could think was that he would gladly spend the rest of his life helping Emma Swan find her shoes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emma felt slightly dizzy, her stomach churned a bit, and she wasn’t even on the boat yet. She was tough and adaptable, so she wasn’t really worried about not having sea legs. The nerves in her stomach were all about the captain of this vessel - a very overprotective and suspicious big brother named Liam Jones.

She would feel a lot better if she and Killian had been able to take the Jolly Roger out a few times before today. But between work and several July thunderstorms, it had never happened. Oh, and there was the one Sunday that her menstrual cramps had her in the fetal position with a heating pad. Oh well, there wasn’t anything she could do about it now but hope that sailing101.com was sufficient to pass Liam’s test because despite what Killian claimed, that’s what this was - a test.

The August sun was so hot and bright that Emma squinted even behind her sunglasses. She looked over at Killian’s boat which was sleeker and smaller. It was also a sailboat as opposed to the trawler motor boat that Liam owned. Emma would have called it a yacht before sailing101.com, a mistake Killian assured her would not have gone over well with his brother.

It sure looked like a yacht to her.

“Ready to come aboard?”

Emma tilted her head up. Liam stood at the boat’s edge with his hand out to help her up. She chewed on her lower lip as she eyed the edge of the dock nervously. She’d sort of been expecting a ramp or something, and that looked like a pretty big gap she had to cross. Thankfully, Killian appeared at her side and put one hand firmly at her waist and the other at her elbow. She tried not to wobble as the brothers helped her onto the boat. Smee jumped up without preamble after her, and she had to grasp the railing as the dog almost knocked her off her feet.

“We’re so excited you’re here!” Elsa exclaimed as she hurried down from the boat’s upper level. Emma felt herself relax slightly as the other woman embraced her. “Here, let me take that,” she continued, reaching for the bag looped around Emma’s shoulder.

Elsa took Emma to the bow off the ship where there were comfortable padded benches for sunbathing. She lifted one to reveal a storage area and tucked their swimming gear inside. Smee came bounding up, sniffing at the opposite bench.

“Oh no you don’t,” Elsa laughed, “that’s not for you.”

She pulled Smee away by the back of his doggie life vest, which Emma couldn’t deny was adorable in a funny sort of way.

“I’m guessing there are treats in there?” Emma asked. “Of the human variety?”

Elsa nodded. “There’s a cooler in there with drinks and a tote with munchies. There’s a kitchen in the cabin, and all the lunch stuff is in there, but it’s nice to have snacks up here.”

“Where are Anna and Kristoff?”

“Oh, Anna hasn’t exactly been a fan of the boat since she got pregnant. I don’t know if it’s physical or psychological, though. The day she put two and two together was on the boat. She never gets seasick or motion sick of any kind, but that day she spent most of her time bent over the railing.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t sound fun.”

Elsa laughed. “Agreed.” She plopped down on the padded seat and patted the spot next to her. “Relax, Emma, and enjoy the sun.”

Emma glanced nervously over her shoulder. Killian was untying the ropes from the dock while Liam steered the boat and shouted instructions.

“Should we be helping?”

Elsa shook her head. “Those two enjoy pretending they’re sailing the seven seas. I only help Liam when it’s just the two of us.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s the only time I want to strangle the man. He takes being captain way too seriously.”

Emma sank down onto the seat next to her. “Then I’m glad we could come along.”

“You have no idea!” She glanced up at her husband, then leaned closer to Emma and lowered her voice. “And don’t take Liam’s gruffness too seriously. He’ll figure out how good you are for Killian sooner rather than later. Admitting it, however, may take a bit longer. If you haven’t noticed, stubbornness runs in the family.”

Emma shrugged her shoulders. “That’s okay, I’m pretty stubborn myself.”

Elsa grinned as she reached over and fished two beers out of the cooler. “So am I, Emma. Liam needed someone stubborn to put him in his place.” She handed one of the beers to Emma. “So here’s to stubborn Jones wives.”

Emma grinned back as she clinked her bottle with Elsa’s.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emma reached into the mini fridge in the boat’s small kitchen and pulled out a bottle of water. She then pressed the cold plastic first to her forehead, then both cheeks. Her hand trembled slightly, and she took several deep, slow breaths. Everything had been fine at first. She’d enjoyed drinks at the bow with Elsa, talking and laughing together. The sea breeze in their hair and the sun on their faces had been exhilarating. The men had stayed by the controls talking about whatever boat lovers talked about as they skimmed over the waves.

After laying anchor, the four of them had jumped into the water. Emma had tired out more quickly than was normal for her, but she still had a great time. The ocean water was a pleasant and refreshing change after all of the sun. She’d gotten out and toweled off before anyone else, and she had braced herself for criticism from Liam. Surprisingly, it never came.

It wasn’t until lunch that Emma felt that churning in her stomach again. She thought at first she just needed air and had convinced everyone to take lunch up on the bow. It had helped, even though her stomach had still protested a bit at the food. She’d ended up nibbling at her sandwich and only grabbing three or four grapes. Luckily, everyone was so busy talking, no one really noticed her lack of appetite.

Emma leaned over the sink to steady herself as the boat swayed a bit more than it had been a moment ago. She unfortunately didn’t hear Killian making his way below until it was too late.

“Are you okay, love?” he asked with concern as he came up behind her. He placed his hand on the middle of her back and started to rub gently.

“I’m fine.”

“You look pale, Swan, maybe we should head back to shore a bit early.”

“You know we can’t do that,” she hissed under her breath.

“If you’re not feeling well, I really don’t give a shit about what my brother thinks.”

Emma straightened and pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Well I do. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Besides, I’ll be fine. I took some Dramamine with my lunch when no one was looking.”

Killian’s face was still lined with concern but he nodded. “Okay, but if you don’t get any better, let me know.”

Emma fanned her face. “I think I need some air.”

She rushed for the ladder to get back up above, her stomach lurching and heat flaming along her cheeks. Things didn’t improve once the cool ocean breeze hit her face. If anything, her equilibrium was even worse on deck, and she knew immediately that what little she’d eaten at lunch was about to come back up. She ignored Elsa’s concerned inquiries and raced to the railing. She leaned as far over as she could, retching violently. She moaned, her arms shaking as she continued to vomit.

“Killian, get up here,” Elsa shouted below. She rushed over to Emma’s side and rubbed her back much like Killian had done. Emma moaned again, this time in embarrassment. At least she’d worn her hair up so she wasn’t vomiting in her hair.

Killian was at her side quickly, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. She pushed him away, not because she wasn’t touched by his kindness, but because she was retching again. God, she hadn’t eaten that much today. How could she still be puking?

“Motion sickness,” Liam said flatly, “well, that’s strange. I thought you said you two were out on the water all the time?”

“Shut your trap, Liam before I shut it for you,” Killian growled, “and this seems way too severe to be motion sickness.”

“Maybe you’re pregnant,” Elsa teased.

That only made Emma dry heave until she remembered her period from two weeks ago. God, that would suck if she was knocked up by Walsh. Emma reached out a shaky hand for the cool cloth Killian had brought her and used it to wipe her mouth.

“I think it’s passed,” she whispered, her strength completely drained. If Elsa and Killian hadn’t been there, she would have collapsed to the deck. Blessedly, Liam had already moved to pull up the anchor. She couldn’t help a whimper escaping when she thought about how long they had sailed before stopping. All she wanted was her bed.

“Would you feel better up here or down below?” Killian asked her.

“Up here I think. The breeze helps.”

Elsa helped her to the benches on the bow while Killian assisted his brother in preparing the boat for the return trip. Emma laid out on the bench with the damp cloth over her eyes. She must have fallen asleep at some point because the next thing she knew, Killian was gently shaking her.

“Emma,” he said softly. He pressed a hand to her forehead, then gasped. “Darling, you’re burning up!”

The next thing Emma knew, Killian had scooped her up into his arms. The sun made her head pound, so she closed her eyes and pressed her face into Killian’s collarbone. She could hear Smee’s excited breathing and the tinkling of his tags as he bounded around Killian’s legs. Despite the dog and the unsteadiness of the boat, Killian carried her smoothly to the deck. He didn’t seem winded in the least as he headed across the sandy path to their house, nor did his arms shake beneath her weight. She wasn’t really surprised at his strength and stamina considering he spent all day doing physical labor. What surprised her was how much she liked it. She let herself relax against his warm chest, telling herself it was just because she was sick.

Sooner than she had expected, she heard the screen door squeak open.

“We’re home,” she whispered thankfully.

“I should have done this sooner,” Killian told her as he shifted her weight so he could open the kitchen door.

“Do what?” she asked, looking up into his face.

He grinned down at her. “Carry you over the threshold.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she turned her face into the crook of his neck. He smelled like a mixture of sea salt, sunscreen, and sweat. It was a great smell. Yankee Candle Company would make a fortune if they made that into a candle. The sexy sailor candle. Emma chuckled into Killian’s skin.

“What’s so funny, love?”

“Nothing.” He started to carry her to the bedroom. “No, the couch.”

“I can’t let you do that, Swan, you’re sick.”

“But the tv will take my mind off feeling like shit.”

Her logic seemed to satisfy him, and he turned around and deposited her gently onto the couch. He covered her with a blanket and handed her the remote. Emma leaned back on the pillows, thankful to be off the boat, even though her stomach still rolled like the waves.

Killian returned with a thermometer in his hand and a pot under his arm. He set the pot in Emma’s lap. “This is for if you get sick and don’t think you can make it to the bathroom.”

Emma looked first at the pot, then back up at him. “Please tell me you don’t cook with this.”

He chuckled and palmed the back of his neck. “Um, no, it’s the puke pot.”

“Puke pot?”

“I know, it sounds disgusting. When Liam and I were kids, our mom bought a dirt cheap soup pot at a discount store for when we got sick. It got dubbed the puke pot.”

Emma wrinkled her nose and looked down into the empty pot. “You don’t keep this in the kitchen, do you? Like, I don’t want to accidentally make pasta in the puke pot.”

“Of course not, love, I keep it under the sink in the bathroom.”

“Thank God,” she muttered.

Over the next forty-eight hours, Emma would come to understand the beauty of the puke pot. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever been so violently sick in all her life, and not having to leave the couch when the nausea hit was a blessing. There was also something about being able to grasp the handles as she hugged it to her chest. She just felt awful for Killian, who had to clean it. Awful and humiliated.

She kept telling him how sorry she was. She apologized when he held her hair back while she retched. She apologized when he pressed cool cloths to her forehead. She apologized every time he helped her sit up and sip Gatorade. He kept telling her she had no reason to be sorry, but she kept saying it anyway.

Killian never left the house once in forty-eight hours. He was always there when she needed him. She’d never had anyone take care of her like that before, and on the second evening, as he pressed yet another cool cloth to her forehead, she suddenly began to cry.

“Are you alright?” he asked in alarm, pressing the back of his hand to each of her cheeks to check for a fever.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re married.”

“Not really.”

“Emma, listen to me,” he said, his voice serious, “regardless of what our relationship is

or isn’t, I care about you. I won’t stand by and watch you suffer alone.”

Emma nodded, unsure how to respond to his sincerity. As she so often did, Emma deflected by changing the subject.

“So, um . . . I’ve been wondering. You and Liam have British accents, but you said mom and you called it a puke pot. Aren’t those American words?”

Killian gave a soft laugh and nodded his head. “Aye, they are. My mother was American. Dad hated some of the American words we picked up from her. Puke being the worst, in his opinion.”

“Well, puke pot does have nice alliteration.”

He laughed even harder at that. “Yes, it does.”

She searched his eyes, and realized how much she wanted to ask him about his childhood. He spoke of his mother with affection in the rare moments he mentioned her. His father, on the other hand, rarely came up. Yet asking him about that opened the door to questions on her beginnings, and she wasn’t sure she was ready.

“Thank you,” she finally said, “for taking care of me.”

He brushed a strand of hair gently away from her damp forehead. “I’ll accept a thank you, but no more of this I’m sorry business, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered softly. She buried herself in the blanket he had brought her earlier, her stomach settling just enough so that she hopefully could sleep. Killian took the pot off her lap and set it within reach on the coffee table. Then he tucked the blanket under her chin before flipping off the lights. As she drifted off, her last thought was that a girl could get used to this.

Whatever virus Emma had caught was evidently a 48 hour bug, because the next morning she woke up with an appetite for the first time since before the trip on the Jewel. Killian shooed her out of the kitchen, however, reminding her that she was still weak. When he brought her breakfast, it was plain toast and more Gatorade. She pouted up at him.

“Dry toast? Can I at least have a bagel?”

He frowned down at her, his arms crossed at his chest. “You need to ease slowly back into eating, Swan. Just see if you keep that down okay, and we’ll go from there.”

“Fine,” she grumbled, reaching for the remote. She had rescheduled all of her sessions for the rest of the week, wanting to be sure she wasn’t contagious. She was relieved since her short walk to the kitchen and back to the couch had left her surprisingly winded.

Killian came back in with a mug of coffee in his hands. The smell of it made her crave some, but she doubted Killian would go for that. “So,” he said after taking a sip, “would you be alright on your own here today?”

“Absolutely,” Emma said as she nibbled on her toast, “I feel so much better - you have no idea. And I know you’ve got to be behind on work at the shop.”

“Good,” he told her with a genuine smile, but then he narrowed his eyes at her. “Can I trust you to take it easy and not to eat anything heavy?”

“Yes, Dad,” she assured him with a roll of her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m off then.”

He bent and brushed a kiss to her cheek before heading out the door. It wasn’t until he was already gone that Emma dropped her toast, paused the episode of Gilmore Girls, and cried out, “What the hell was that?”

#cs ff #cs modern au #marriage of convenience #slow burn #humor #and some angst #for spartanguard

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slash-em-up · 5 years ago

Text

Wanderer’s Wilderness: An Iceman Fic

All credit for Niko being such a god damn delicious Friday night fish fry goes to @dashinslashin. I hope you enjoy this little slice-of-life for your boy!

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The morning air was blessedly brisk as Nikolas strode along the wooden beams of the dock. Late June on the Alaskan waterfront rarely exceeded temperatures of 65 degrees; but the Finnish-native was still of the opinion that this was far too warm and was begrudgingly waiting for the sun to force him out of his sweater and jacket.

He shuffled his ever-present cigarette away from his lips in order to take a deep pull from his thermos.

Thank god for coffee.

He’d always been an early riser; but this morning he’d left the sanctuary of his small home even earlier than usual.

Today was what most local fishermen considered the beginning of ‘peak season’ for the coveted King salmon, and if Niko didn’t want to get fished out of business he needed to get a head-start on his competition.

“Hey Nicky!” came a yell from a group of men sorting out their own tackle on the dock.

“I don’t think your crew’s gonna be much help pulling the nets in!”

Niko ignored them, listening instead to the soft tapping of clawed feet traveling at his side.

Unlike most other commercial fishermen in the area, Niko didn’t care to employ others to help on his boat. He preferred to work the reels or nets alone - sure, this made the catches he pulled in less voluminous than some; but he would take the solitude over the extra cash any day.

He just needed enough to keep his boat on the water and him and the dog fed.

Arriving beside his humble dragger, Niko made short work of loading the tools he’d need onto the vessel - breaking a light sweat in exertion and huffing in annoyance as he removed his coat.

Whistling to his furry companion, they climbed up the gangplank and efficiently checked that all was ready to launch. A breeze off the water ruffled Niko’s pale hair and he watched with interest as it carried the smoke from his cigarette away to parts unknown.

Alaska was called ‘The Great Land’ by some, and as the edges of the shoreline faded when the modest trawler exited the bay - opening to the vast expanse of water that made up the Gulf of Alaska, the Bering Sea, and the Pacific Ocean - Niko could understand why.

The blue-green waters parted smoothly as the boat churned through - making its way to its captains preferred fishing haunt off of Kodiak Island. Niko had found that by anchoring off of a small inlet on the less-populated side of the island, he could come away with a decent haul, and the only company he’d find was the occasional bear.

These brown-furred giants fascinated Niko, and whenever he saw one off the shore, he’d always take a moment to appreciate the powerful beasts as they hunted for their own feast - easily pulling and devouring the spawning Chinook salmon that could regularly reach upwards of 40 lbs. each.

His boat was older, and not particularly speedy, so the voyage still took longer than one might have liked; but Niko was in no hurry - he’d left his competition behind in the harbor, and he wasn’t one to be bothered by the slow movement of time. He was patient. That’s what made him such a good fisherman… among other things.

Niko flexed his hand against the boats wheel, feeling the healing indents from the teeth his last victim had sunk into his skin while trying to escape.

They hadn’t, of course, Niko was nothing if not thorough - but he was left with an annoying reminder that it would have perhaps been wiser to wear his thick leather gloves. Something to keep in mind for next time.

‘Sloppy work, Nikolas. Sloppy.’ a voice echoed in his head.

He huffed and exited the small cabin, letting the ship glide on its own through the waters while he prepared the nets.

His canine companions’ ears perked up at his approach, waiting for a command or any indication that he should move from his sprawl across the deck.

Niko gave a glancing ruffle to the dogs’ head before continuing on - repetition making short work of the preparatory steps as he pulled on the ropes that would hoist the heavy nylon into the water.

The splash of the anchor was satisfying as the ship settled in its mooring at the entrance of the Uganik Bay. Despite the seasonally warm weather on the mainland, Saddle Mountain still had snow at its peak.

The mountains always reminded Niko of Finland - which was at times not a good thing, and those were the nights that anyone walking alone on the docks might just find themselves on the business end of his ice-picks - but on the good days Niko appreciated the steady power that these monoliths held. Standing tall for millions of years.

Though Niko wasn’t much for inland travel, he could still remember the rare feeling of awe he experienced as the plane taking him to what would become his future residence passed by Denali - rising higher than he thought anything could - higher than the clouds -higher than the soaring eagles that this country chose as one of its symbols.

As the nets began to drag, Niko set about cranking the lever that would bring them to the surface. It was hard and tiring work, and he knew his body would ache at the end of the day; but pain was a familiar companion, and he’d long come to the conclusion that the feeling of your palms bleeding and your muscles pulling was far preferable to the hazy fog of nothingness.

Shimmering scales and writhing bodies rose from the water, dripping in the mid-day sun like diamonds.

Niko smirked at his furry companion, who was bounding back and forth along the railing, trying to jump up and latch onto one of the large salmon with his jaws.

A good catch.

Pulling a small flask from the pocket of his overalls, he poured a small amount of the alcohol into the water - thanking whoever was listening for the fish and the fair weather.

A good day.

#Nikolas Teravainen #NIKO!!!!!#the iceman #slasher oc #jessica writes #slasher fiction #we are soft for one homicidal fish daddy

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