#because your fucking INTEREST winds up being NEARLY THE COST OF THE HOUSE AGAIN.

[four-for-fidelity]

sometimes I forget just how predatory loans are until I look at the breakdown of interest on something and I have the sudden urge to set everything around me on fire

[ppersonna]

the landlord - myg | m

↳ summary- your air conditioner breaks right at the height of a recordbreaking heat wave.  good thing your hot landlord, yoongi, knows how to attend to any needs you may have.

↳ rating- explicit / 18+

↳ word count- 4.3k

↳ pairing- yoongi x reader

↳ genre- smut, light crack, PWP

↳ warnings- basically the plot of a porn, theres no plot, the plot doesn’t make sense, seduction, oral sex (m/f receiving), penetrative sex, dirty talk, fun laughing giggly time during sex, honestly yoongi is great and i love him, maybe exhibitionism if u squint ???, cum sharing, finger sucking, motorboating

↳ a/n- did i just write basically the plotline of a bad porno? yes.  did i love it? also yes.  this was lowkey inspired by my own landlord coming over to my place (that i DIDNT SLEEP WITH) and i answered the door in a state of undress :/ i hate myself lol.  anywwayyss! enjoy yoongi the landlord!  pls feel free to interact with me because i need constant attention uwu

The inside of your apartment feels hotter than the blazing sun outside.  Your air conditioner chose the worst week to fritz on you. A record-breaking heat wave.

Nothing helps.  You open windows, blow fans, sit in front of your fridge, take cold showers. All just momentary bliss that ends too soon.

It finally breaks you and you muster up the courage to text your landlord, Yoongi.  

You inhale a deep breath as you click on the name. Min Yoongi, landlord.  Your eyes flutter shut for a moment without realizing.

Your landlord who lives in the same building as you is likely the hottest and most attractive man you’ve ever met. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have a crush on the man. Every month, paying rent was torture. You wanted to fling your legs open to him and request he takes his payment another way.

But you never did. He always remained cool and expressionless and it was hard to get a read on the man, let alone see if he’s interested.

Your fingers slide across the keys, nibbling at your lip as you decide what to say.

[to: yoongi] hi! sorry to bother you but my ac appears to have died and im afraid ill be next at the rate of his heat wave 😩 no rush but id appreciate help!

Perfect. Simple, slightly cutesy. Emoji to express how chill you are.

Your phone vibrates almost instantly and a smile curves on your face.

[to: me] oh no, we can’t have that. haunted apartments are hard to rent out 😉 im out until late tonight but i can stop by first thing in the morning if that’s cool?

A flirty line? Is this… working?

[to: yoongi] tomorrow is great! and don’t worry, if i die i won’t haunt this apartment, i’ll haunt yours 😌

[to: me] see you tomorrow, poltergeist 👻

You’re leaping through the air at the idea of the hot landlord semi-flirting with you over text when you notice your apartment. It’s disgusting. Your face burns red and you instantly work on the space before Yoongi comes over. He can't see you like this.

Sleep is out of the question. After your ravage cleaning and polishing and organizing, you’ve worked up more than a sweat.  A cold shower helps for a moment but you end up lying in bed feeling slightly wet and very, very hot. The humidity is draining.

You change into an outfit of a crop top and g-string panties. You aim the 3 fans in your room to point around your bed for direct wind contact. It helps, somewhat.

Sleep finally comes as dawn breaks. It’s cooled off enough that the ambient air around you is finally tolerable.  Exhaustion overwhelms you, and you pass out, hard. Finally.

You’re broken from your exquisite dream of being nailed by your landlord when a loud knock wakes you up. It’s disorienting. You’re so tired you’re not even sure where you are at the moment, let alone who is at the door.  The knock sounds again and you scurry to turn off the loud fans and book it to the door.

The door swings open and reveals your landlord, Yoongi.

“Oh, hi!” You’re excited to see him, for reasons beyond fixing your air conditioning.

Yoongi steps in and looks like he’s about to speak but opens his mouth and remains silent. His cheeks tingle a light shade of pink and he’s staring at your body.  Did you drool all over yourself all night or something? What was he staring—

Oh god.

You glance down at your body.  The crop top you hastily changed into in the middle of the night hits you a little lower than where your breasts end. The G string is non-existent. It covers almost nothing, which is why you opted for it last night in your desire to get cooled off.

You take a step back from the sexy landlord still gaping at you and shyly cross your arms over your chest.

“I’m sorry, I—it was hot,” you mutter. “I’ll go change.”

Yoongi licks his lips, then snaps his eyes up to you and finds his voice. “It’s fine. It’s your home,” he swallows. “It’s hot in here, so stay comfortable. Don’t want to overheat you.”

His eyes stare down yours intensely. It feels like your veins sizzle, and it’s not related to the scorching temperature of your studio apartment.

He breaks the contact first and heads towards the panel in the wall where the inner workings of the air conditioner hide.

You wait in your kitchen, enjoying the natural shadow and shade from no windows and a spot to hide from Yoongi.

What if he thought badly about you?  What if he doesn’t find you attractive and thinks of this as a ploy to get him to lower your rent or something?  How could you recover from this?  Would it ever go back to being the same?

You’re anxiously tapping your fingers on the kitchen countertop, listening intently as the landlord fiddles with pipes and belts and mutters under his breath every so often.  Eventually, you hear a soft ‘aha’ and your air con kicks right on.   You think it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.   Instantly you feel the machine push out air. It’s lukewarm now from disuse, but soon it will be frigid cold.  You stand in front of the breeze and bask, arms open to let the wind blow through you.

Yoongi clears his throat, and it startles you, making you realize you’re standing in your house nearly naked, ass cheeks out on display, under-boob surely peeking out to say hi. Your face burns and it makes him chuckle as you jump and attempt to cover yourself somehow.

“How long was I standing there?” You ask quietly.

Yoongi can’t wipe the amused smirk on his face. “A few minutes,” he shrugs. “Glad it’s working now for you.”

The air rapidly cools as the machine continuously pumps out colder and colder air.

“Thank god. I owe you,” you sigh.

“Nah, that’s what rent pays for,” he smiles.

He makes his move to leave you alone, and you recognize this is it. This is your chance. You can ask him to fuck the shit out of you now. If he declines, well, the first of the month would start being more awkward. But if he accepts… it’s too blissful to imagine.

You grab at his arm as he walks past you.  He stops in his tracks, and his eyes travel to where your hands meet his skin.

“I’m serious,” you attempt to sound as confident as you can. “I owe you.”

He arches a brow at you and turns completely to face you. Your hands hover at the hem of your tiny shirt, lifting a sliver to give him a glance of the bottom of a rounded globe.

“Let me repay you somehow?” you ask.

A smirk lifts at one side of his lips. “You think that will cover the cost?”

Your cheeks heat and you pull the shirt up higher, determined to get him in your bed or die trying.

“I’m hoping.”

Yoongi’s eyes zero in on your tits. Rounded and full, nipples prickling in the fresh and rapidly cooling air.  He contemplates for a moment as he lets his eyes get their nice, long drink of you.

“Yeah, now that I think of it, that should be exact change.” He drops his bag of tools and approaches you quickly, hands cupping your head as he kisses you intensely.

He kisses you with all the fire of the heatwave outside, melting you from the inside out. You’re sure to be sweaty and clammy after you’re finished with him. He swipes his tongue over your lips, and there’s no hesitation to let him in. Your hands grip at his sides, pulling his shirt up as much as you can while trying to focus on making out with the hottest guy you’ve ever met.

He chuckles against your lips at your weak attempt to disrobe him and he reluctantly pulls a step away from you to take the shirt off. He stands there and allows you a quick look before he’s back on to you. His skin presses against your chilled nipples and the fire and ice sensation makes you shiver.

Yoongi kisses you passionately, you notice. Like a lover. It’s laced with deeper intention and you hope you’re not overthinking it. You will your brain to just shut up and enjoy. Emotions can come later.

Now, you’re the one to remove your lips from his and he pouts slightly at the loss. You smile and slide down to your knees, hands undoing the button of his tight jeans and tugging them down.

“Shit, babe, I think you may be overpaying me,” he admits. “Wasn’t that hard to fix.”

As a finger pulls down the front of his boxers to let his cock spring free, you flick a smirk up to his face.

“Then consider this my repayment for being late on rent all those months,” you state before shifting your gaze back to his hardened cock. It’s gathered pre-cum at the head and you wonder if he’s been hard and wanting since he got here and first saw you. The thought is intoxicating and spurs you on.

Your tongue licks up the slick at the tip that threatens to drip off, before it swirls around the bulbous head. Yoongi isn’t afraid to be loud, it seems. You supposed you wouldn’t be afraid if you owned the building too. Who will complain? And to who?

“Hoooooly fuck,” he gasps. “Sh—shit I might let you pay rent like this for the rest of your lease.”

You pop your mouth off and lick your lips, allowing your hand to grip his shaft and begin stroking him.

“I don’t want to pay rent this way. How about we consider it a perk?” You smile, pressing forward to kiss his tip teasingly.

“God, a girl who doesn’t want to fuck me just to take advantage of me? And she’s hot as fuck and wants to blow me for fun?” he quirks his head. “Shit, be careful or I’ll end up falling in love.”  

It makes your head spin a little and you suckle at the tip a little longer, making him keen, before you pull away again.

“Maybe that was the plan all along,” you simper, then take him in fully, letting his tip glide down your mouth to the back of your throat.  He groans loudly, and it’s the most satisfying sound. It makes you want to do this more. Every day if you could.

You get to work, sucking him in, allowing him passage to your throat, vacuuming your cheeks to add additional pressure, gliding your hands up and down the slick shaft to assist you in touching every single bit. Yoongi is thriving. He can’t believe his luck. The hottest girl in the complex, the girl he’s secretly pined over, is sucking his cock as if her life depends on it.

You’re salivating at the act now, saliva spilling out your mouth as you continue to envelop his cock quickly. You slip it out of your mouth to lean down and lick and suck at his balls, which makes him hum in absolute pleasure.  You don’t remain long—his cock is nearly pulsating with desire.  Your mouth returns to its rightful place and as you’re licking and sucking and pumping and stroking him, you maintain even and sensual eye contact with him.

You want him to know this isn’t a chore, a means to an end. You want him to know you’ve dreamt of him fucking your throat raw every night since you moved in.

Yoongi got the picture pretty quickly. His mouth drops open as he openly gapes at your work, giving him probably the best and hottest blowjob of his life.  

Your tongue swirls at the ridge of his head and Yoongi feels it snap—the tightness that holds everything back.  He fucks desperately into your throat, relishing in the feel of your gagging and moaning.  It didn’t take long until he was seeing it through to the end, pumping hot white ropes down your throat while he moaned out your name with a string of expletives.

The immoral pop noise your mouth made as you pull off his cock makes the blue-haired landlord standing above you moan.

“Fucking hell—where the fuck have you been all my life?” he sighs as he cups his hand under your chin. He beckons you back up, desperate to kiss you.  You oblige and return to standing, pressing against his body to pull him in to a dirty kiss.

“Upstairs, apparently,” you murmur.

He swipes his tongue on yours, tastes himself there, and decides he wants to taste himself on you all the time.  His hands slide down to your ass, the g string still curving down the line.  He snaps at the straps as you kiss, making you puff a laugh against his lips before pulling away.

“I’d be willing to fix your leaky faucet in the bathroom if you let me eat you out,” he offers.  

You’re tugging him towards your bed, knocking over multiple fans in the process, and flopping onto the mattress, landing on your back.

“Throw in fixing the squeaky wheel on my closet, and you’ve got yourself a deal,” you joke, spreading your legs to give him the tiniest clue of what lays between.

He sighs dramatically with a smile, “Needy tenant,” before he slips down to hover over you. He intends to kiss and lick every part of your body, starting with the tits that hypnotized him.

“Can’t believe you opened the door like that,” he chuckled as he plucked a nipple between his fingers and lightly rolled it.  “I thought I was dreaming.”

The feeling is instant, electricity sparking at the tips of your nipples and warming its way around your body, directly to your cunt.  You’re absolutely certain that by the time Min Yoongi reaches his mouth to your core, he’ll drown in it.

He moves forward and wraps his lips around the bud, allowing his hands to travel to the neglected one and to squeeze and pinch and prod.  He’s rewarded with your beautiful sighs and gasps—it’s sweeter than any song he’s ever heard.

He presses your tits together and rubs his face in the cleavage there, making you gasp and laugh at the same time.  He gazes up at you and flashes his gummy smile.

“I’ve really wanted to do that,” he admits, which makes you giggle again.

“Be my guest,” you approve.  He takes your reply and does it again for just a moment, before he’s kissing and sucking at the flesh of your breasts.  He wants to mark you, leave a piece of him for you to remember every time you see yourself.  You moan in appreciation and rub your thighs together, desperate at the ache that grows with every nip and nibble of Yoongi’s lips and teeth.

He seems to understand and trails down, kissing and sucking at your long torso, abdomen, hips.  He leaves little bruises everywhere and you want them to last forever.  You want him to mark you and claim you as his own.

His fingers slip around the thin straps of your underwear, and he tugs them right off.  He’s unable to stop the loud moan when he notices the slick that strings between them and your folds.  You’re drenched, and he marveled at how excited you were about him.

“Fuck, babe—” he sighs as he lowers his chest down to lie in front of your spread thighs.  Your center is weeping, slicked with your arousal and he can tell you’re desperate for friction, for anything.  “Look at this perfect fucking pussy.”

You whimper as you can feel his breath so close to where you need him.  

“Yoongi, please,” you whine.  “I’m so fucking horny.”

“I can tell,” he hums.  “Keep moaning my name like that and I’ll make sure you’re always horny and ready for me.”

He lowers his lips, hovering millimeters from your slit.  He holds it there as he watches your anguished face nearly burst at how close and yet how far he is, before he obliges you and presses into you.  

You gasp at the first swipe of his tongue on your clit.  He maintains a soft up and down motion on the nub and you’re already seeing stars.  He steadily increases the pressure and the speed, then spices it up by swirling his tongue around in different shapes, spelling out his name on your cunt with his tongue to remind you just who got you this fucking soaked.

Your legs falter and quiver as he slips his tongue deeper inside you, licking into your hole and nearly drinking you up.  He pulls back and devotes his attention to your clit and your moans turn from soft gasps and pleas to loud whines as he slips his fingers into your cunt and slowly fucks you, spreading you out.  He’s not small by any means, he feels he can get you ready to go.

“I want you to cum for me on my tongue,” he states, matter-of-factly.  “I want to feel you on my fingers.”

You nod, plucking at your own nipples with one hand as the other seeks purchase in his hair.  

“Can you do that for me, babe? Can you cum for me and get my hand nice and drenched?  I want to lick it off my fingers.”

His fingers get frantic and he splits his time between suckling and laving at your clit and encouraging you with illicit requests and praises.  

Yoongi continues, never letting up or even giving an inkling of a hint he’s tiring.  His hand works like a machine and he slips yet another finger inside your heat, making you arch off the bed.  He licks at your clit with just the right pressure, and he picks up the speed and it sends you tumbling towards your orgasm.  You feel the breath leave your lungs as it hits you, core and channel muscles squeezing him tight and legs shaking around his body.   Your moans echo off the small apartment walls, only drowned out by the sound of the fresh air-con still running.  

“Oh, my god Yoongi—” you pant.  “I’ve never cum so hard from oral in my life.”

He pulls his fingers from inside you as you come back down from your high and chuckles at your words.  True to his promise, he lets the slick glisten on his finger and marvels at it, before he’s popping the fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean.

“You taste so fucking good,” he compliments, and it makes your chest tighten and tips of your ears turn red.  “Fuck, I could eat you every fucking day.”

You smirk, still sensitive but feeling the desperate ache inside you needy for him and his thick cock.  Your legs spread open as he lays between them and you’re wiggling your hips to get his attention.

“I’m sure we could arrange something in my lease for that,” you tease.  “I could suck your cock hourly, honestly.”

He groans as he sits up between your legs, cock resting heavily on top of your mound.  It’s so close, so close to where you need it to be.  You appreciate the thick member as it rests and as Yoongi catches his breath.  It’s thick and long, on top of your mound the tip reaches to the tiny swell of your stomach.  You know you will not be able to walk tomorrow, that’s for sure.

“You’re telling me I could have been going down on you and been getting my dick sucked by the hottest girl on the planet this whole time and all I’ve done is give you shit about rent?”  

You stifle a laugh and spread your legs open wider.  “Looks like it.  We better make up for all that lost time, don’t you think?”

His cock is rigid, almost stone, and he agrees heartily.

“Fuck yeah, we should.  I’ve been dreaming about being inside you.”

He sounds so dirty, looks so sinful—it’s all so much and you’re almost begging for him to take you.

He reaches down to the pants on the floor that dropped and shimmies a condom out of his wallet.  You send him a look that he silences with a roll of his eyes.

“Every dude has one, chill,” he mumbles. “I haven’t gotten laid in like a year and a half.”  He pales as he realizes what he just said. “Not that it matters.  Or that I care. Or that you care—christ can we fuck now please?” He asks as he rolls the rubber onto his stiff cock.

You’re laughing a bit, not at him but with him, and you lean up on your elbows to kiss his lips.  “If it makes it better, I haven’t gotten laid in 3 years so I’m the loser by comparison,” you assure.

He wants to ask you how the fuck you haven’t gotten laid in that long because you’re the hottest god damn person he thinks he’s ever seen, but he realizes he doesn’t care and that it works out in his favor because Yoongi doesn’t like competition.

“Looks like the landlord needs to fix yet another problem of yours,” he winks as he lines himself up.  You lean back onto the pillows and sigh as you feel the touch of his head right at the opening of your slit.

In one slow motion, he slides himself to the hilt. It’s tight, so fucking tight even after one orgasm, and Yoongi nearly hollers at the feel.  He’s sure his eyes are rolling back in his head.  It’s warm and tight and wet and even through a condom he’s in absolute bliss.  He’s hoping one day he can try it without—fuck you raw and stuff you full of his cum.  

He’s still inside you, and after a moment to breathe and adjust to the thick girth of him, you’re whining.  “Yoongi, fuck me, I need you so fucking bad.”

A feral groan leaves his lips, and he’s off, beginning a pace that has him hoarse from moaning in no time.  He’s never felt so good inside a cunt before, never understood how some men could do crazy shit for ‘magic pussy’, but now he gets it—he realizes he’d probably do some dumb things for a chance to be inside you again.

“Oh, yeah—” you whine. “S-shit, you’re so fucking big, Yoongi.  Fuck me nice and deep.”

“Mmm, yeah? You want me to bruise your cervix? Want me to make this cunt remember my fucking cock?”  He thrusts harder, pushing into you with diligent speed and intensity.  “Gonna make sure you can never cum from another cock again, only mine.”

You’re losing your breath with how hard he’s fucking into you, both your moans and pants coming out in quick little bursts between his thrusts.

“Y-y-yes! Yo-o-ongi! Right there!”  He hits a spot that feels so good, and you feel the pull towards orgasm tighten.

“God—you feel so. fucking. good.” he emphasizes with a thrust. “Need to feed your tiny pussy my dick every day, hm?  Needy little cunt needs my thick cock.”

Tears form in your eyes.  The depths he reaches inside you nearly scrambles your brains—you forget everything that isn’t Yoongi and his perfect thickness spearing inside you.

“Yoongi! Gonna c-cum!”

He goes harder, becomes rabid for your second orgasm and wants to feel the way you squeezed his fingers on his cock, knowing the channel will feel even impossibly tighter.

“That’s right, good girl,” he praises while he maintains a punishing pace.  “Let me see you cum on this cock, baby, wanna see that pretty little pussy all creamy for me.”

His thumb rubs at your clit, moving it in circular motions, and diverts his eyesight between watching your full tits bounce and your lips open and close in pure bliss.  You’re the definition of fucked out and Yoongi feels a surge of testosterone at the sight—knowing he was responsible.

“O-oh! Th-there!” You’re frantic and he can tell you’re right on the edge.  He goes even faster, deeper and harder, and it’s the final straw.  You’re catapulted off the edge and thrown headfirst into your orgasm.   As he suspected, your perfect cunt pulsates around him like a fist and he’s groaning and stuttering as it triggers his own release.  

It takes a few moments for both of you to come down, before he pulls his softening cock from within you and disposes of the condom.  You’re breathing hard, and he’s smiling at the sheen of sweat on your body.

“Good thing I got that AC fixed today, hm?” He asks as he leans over to kiss at your lips.

You grin and pull him down to lay next to you, snuggling into his body.  He holds onto you and kisses your head.  He feels a level of contentment he’s never felt before.

You break the silence. “Now, as the landlord’s girlfriend, do I get any special perks? Like you’ll throw the utilities into my rent? Free cable?”

He chuckles against your forehead. “Not a fucking chance, babe.”

© ppersonna - 2020 - do not repost on any site, or translate without express permission from author.

[emmyhem]

right where you left me (l.r.h)

a/n: hi everybody! so this is a bit of a longer one that is inspired by the song “right where you left me” by taylor swift on evermore. it’s one of my favorites by her because i love the writing and the concept. whether you’re a taylor fan or not i suggest reading and then listening to the song with the fic in mind, it makes the song hit extremely hard. also expect more taylor inspired stuff in the future because she’s one of my all time favorite artists. this one is sad but i live for the angst so what’re you gonna do? my calum piece, “everything you’re missing” should be up by the end of the week and i’m working hard on my very first michael and ashton pieces as well, which is really exciting. anyway i hope you all enjoy and are being safe (get vaccinated if you can!) once again my messages are always open and feedback/criticism is always appreciated. hugs and kisses to all, thanks - emmy <33

pairing: luke hemmings x fem!reader 

summary: you met 20 year old luke hemmings in a coffee shop eight years ago and were sure your life had been decided. you once told him you’d wait for him until you were sure he was happier without you. you never thought that day would actually come.

warning(s): angst, cursing, alludes to possible infidelity, it’s a sad one so buckle in. 

word count: 6.2k

Current time - December 14th 

The familiar ring of the entrance bell pulled your attention from the worn book beneath your fingers to take a routine glance at the patrons rushing in from the early December chill. Mitten covered hands, and icy cold flushed cheeks entered one after the other. Your typical seat in the corner of the small cafe was shielded from the penetrating winds that accompanied each person in their entrance but you still shivered in sympathy at each new arrival. 

Your steaming earl grey had faded into a tepid puddle at the bottom of your mug as the hours passed on the analog clock that adorned the brick wall in the front. Olive, a barista you had become friendly with over the years approached your table with the cafe’s winter speciality, an orange cranberry muffin in hand. 

“Last one.” she said, sitting it on a pine green napkin in front of you. 

You reached into your purse for a few spare bills to cover the cost when she stopped you by placing a hand on your forearm. 

“On the house for our favorite customer.” her eyes were filled with pity as she nodded down to you, and you were too tired to feel embarrassed. 

“Thanks, Liv.” you sighed. 

“It’s my pleasure, besides I always feel like we’re robbing you when you pay full price, you only ever eat half anyway.” she added as she walked away. 

You picked at the baked good, memories flooding your brain with each bite. 

Eight years ago - December 14th 

As you clutched your books with a death grip you cursed yourself for forgetting your gloves in your dorm. The wind was picking up and it wouldn’t be long until they were numb completely, and your sweater paws were less than effective in warming your frozen fingers. 

A flickering red light glowed just a bit down the street and a sugary citrus aroma was pulling your stiff limbs towards it against the wind. The closer you got the more mouthwatering the smell became and soon enough you had reached the door, bracing yourself for the chill of the copper handle as you pulled it open. 

Sweet, warm air enveloped you as you stepped inside. The red brick walls were chipped in more than a few places, red and green christmas lights twinkle from a tree in the corner, and the crackling of the fireplace was like music to your ears. You wondered how you had never noticed the quaint cafe before as you took your place in line behind a tall man wearing only a thin black hoodie and beanie for protection from the cold weather. As you got closer to him a piney scent cut through the sweet smell of pastries and you caught yourself leaning in to get a better whiff of its freshness. 

Your eyes scanned over the menu that hung behind the cash register while he ordered and did your best to ignore the chill that ran up your spine when his soft aussie accent invaded your ears. 

Once he finished and stepped off to the side to wait for his order you moved forward and placed your books on the counter. 

“Hi, how can I help you today?” a young ginger barista with an abundance of freckles said. 

“Hi,” you paused and located her name tag. “Olive, I’ve never been here before but there's this smell that-” 

“Our orange cranberry muffins.” she interrupted pointing to a chalkboard in front of her that read, “Warm up with a wintery treat, try our famous orange cranberry muffin today!” 

Your stomach growled quietly at the thought as you nodded. 

“I would love one of those and...a medium early grey, please.” you replied, pulling a 10 dollar bill from your pocket. 

“Sadly, we have just sold our last one to the customer in front of you.” she nodded to the enticing blonde man that had caught your attention earlier, who was now staring down at his black vans as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. 

You narrowed your eyes at the muffin thief when he glanced up at you innocently while accepting his coffee from another worker. 

“We do still have our gingerbread and pumpkin muffins if you’d be interested in one of those instead.” Olive continued motioning a hand to the glass display of tasty treats to your right. 

You let out a disappointed huff, “That’s okay, just the tea please.” 

You paid for your order making sure to leave a few extra dollars in the tip jar before taking a seat on a worn burgundy couch near the fire to wait for your drink. 

Leaning your head against your hand for support you allowed your eyes to drift closed and listen to the pops and crackles of the fire meshing with the soft holiday music echoing through the place. You only opened your eyes back up at the feeling of the couch dipping beside you. 

Sitting too close to not acknowledge, was the boy from earlier who was now alternating sips of what smelled like a strong latte with bites of the muffin that could’ve been yours. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” 

His head snapped in your direction at the sound of your voice, and he finished chewing before responding.

“Doing what?” 

“Taunting me with your stupid muffin.” you were aware of how childish you sounded but hunger had always brought out the irrational side of you. 

“It’s actually quite delicious.” he smirked, ignoring your frustration. 

You groaned in jealousy, “Don’t rub it in.” 

Realization sparked in his eyes. 

“Got the last one didn’t I?” 

You nodded. 

“M’happy to share.” he grinned, breaking off half and holding it out to you. 

“No, really it’s fine. I’m just being annoying.” you waved him off. 

“I’m not annoyed. Really, take it. I’d have to throw it away otherwise.”

Your eyebrows raised at his comment. 

“I’m stuffed.” he explained, patting his stomach twice. 

“I don’t believe you, but I’m starving and this smells incredible.” you responded, accepting the baked good. 

You closed your eyes and let out a satisfied hum after biting into it. 

“Holy shit, this is like the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” 

The boy watched you and laughed at every pleased noise that you released. 

Once you had finished your half you turned back to see him still watching you, he had scooted even closer to you and your knees knocked together at your movement. 

“Thank you, that was amazing. Although it was pretty rich I don’t think I could eat a whole one either.” 

“Your welcome,” when he paused you realized you hadn’t even introduced yourself but still stole half of this guy’s muffin. 

“I’m y/n.” you filled in. 

“Luke.” he returned. 

You nodded and repeated it, testing how it felt on your tongue. 

“Thank you again, Luke.” 

The two of you began talking about, school, work, music, your favorite movies, astrology, anything really. By the time you glanced up from the conversation the cafe was nearly empty and the fire in front of you had burnt out leaving a smoky debris hanging in the air. 

“I think they’re closing.” you said while checking the time on your phone. 

“Fuck, I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.” 

“Sorry, I kept you back.” you apologized, both of you gathering your things as you talked. 

“No, s’not your fault.” he dismissed as you both began to walk to the door.

Standing a few feet away from the exit you could already feel the nip that was permeating through the glass, it sent a chill through your spine making you wiggle your shoulders. As you stared at the floor over the books in your arms, trying to decide what the best way to ensure you would see Luke again was, you heard the buzz of a zipper. You lifted your head to see your new acquaintance removing his arms from the sleeves of his black hoodie. 

“Are you crazy? It’s freezing out there.” 

“I know, you’re shivering.” he answered, swinging the fabric behind your back until it dropped and wrapped around your shoulders. He pulled on the sleeves till they were hanging in place and you watched through your lashes, completely in awe of his concentrated expression. 

“Luke, I can’t wear this you’ll freeze and I can’t just take your clothes.” 

“C’mon of course y’can. I’m warm blooded. I'll be fine and you aren’t taking it. I’m gonna want to come in for one of those muffins tomorrow and you know I can’t eat the whole thing, so you’ll just have to be here to share with me. We meet, we eat, I retrieve my jacket, all is right in the world.” He smiled through his words, attempting to warm you up by rubbing his hands up and down your shoulders quickly. “Think you can do that?” 

“I’m sure.” 

“Excellent. Meet me here at 9:00 tomorrow.” 

You nodded as he pushed the door open and despite him trying to act unaffected you could tell from his rigid stance he was freezing. 

“I’m counting on you alright? Stay warm, y/n.” he reiterated through chattering teeth before exiting the shop. 

Current Time - December 14th 

When they talk about one moment defining your life it seems silly, and unrealistic. One day of your life is hardly even a blip so one minute defining everything seems completely ludacris. You would have never bought into it eight years ago, right up until Luke muttered those three words to you before braving the cold. 

“Stay warm, y/n.”

He said it and you had one of those moments. One of those, “and then everything changed.” moments. 

You had always been sure that your purpose would come to you later in life, maybe you’d have a spiritual awakening while in some foreign country. Maybe you’d read a book that would change your view on everything, or god forbid you’d have a close encounter with death and the epiphany would come then. You would’ve never guessed that a nearly missed encounter with the world’s best muffin and a lanky Australian guy would do it. 

But here you were eight years after the encounter, your hair was longer, the crinkles that appear by your eyes when you smile now linger, and Luke was nowhere to be seen, but some things haven’t changed at all. A half eaten muffin, the comforting cafe, and your unwavering certainty that your life’s purpose was to love and to be loved by Luke Hemmings all remained. 

Seven years ago - March 27th 

The door swung open to a positively beaming Luke, he leaned in to press a swift kiss on your cheek before hurriedly pulling you inside. 

“I have a surprise for you.” 

“You do?” you questioned, taking notice of the subtle burnt smell in the air and the smoky atmosphere of his apartment. 

He nodded excitedly pulling you by the hand into the kitchen where you were met with messy countertops packed full of lumpy and slightly charred muffins. Your mouth fell open and you turned to face your boyfriend who was smiling timidly at you, eyes scanning over your face. 

“I made you our muffins.” he smiled, proudly looking at his work. 

“Wha- how? How did you even get the recipe?” 

“Olive helped me out.” He responded, taking a seat on one of the bar stools by the island. 

“Lu, this is incredible. Thank you.” you praised, moving to stand between his legs. 

“I hope they turned out good. Y’know baking is a lot harder than it looks.” he tutted while unwrapping one for you. “Open up.” he instructed, tapping your chin. 

Your teeth struggled to bite through the dense baked good, and while your taste buds fought with the bitter crumbly substance you questioned whether Luke had actually followed any recipe at all because what you were eating tasted nothing like the warm, gooey, and tart treat that the two of you had come to love. 

You chewed slowly to avoid swallowing and kept your face as neutral as possible. 

“How is it? Good?” he spoke nervously and the little glint of hope in his eyes forced you to swallow it down and paint on a pleased smile. 

“Mmm” you moaned “It's delicious, Luke.” 

“Yeah?” he beamed. 

“Really good.” you nodded, your eyes drifting longingly to the sink. In that moment you would’ve killed for a glass of water. 

“Wow, I mean I thought they’d be alright but this is great. Lemme try.” he brought your muffin up to his mouth and in a panic you snatched it from his hands, squeaking out a small “No!” before shoving the rest of it in your mouth. 

“Babe, there’s plenty, no need to be greedy.” he laughed while unwrapping another. And you really should’ve thought this through because with puffed out cheeks full of possibly the worst muffin in history you took a step back and watched him bite into one. His face twisted in disgust and he quickly spit what he had taken back into the wrapper. 

When he looked back up to you, you were standing there with a full mouth and wide eyes. He cocked his head to the side in confusion, “You enjoyed that?” 

The second you shrugged your shoulders, feigning innocence Luke burst into a sharp cackle, his legs kicking up into the air from the force of his laughter. You took that as an opportunity to run to the trash and rid yourself of the awful taste in your mouth. 

Luke was still struggling to catch his breath while you finished pouring yourself a glass of water. 

“It’s not funny, Lu.” you argued between sips.

“Why didn’t you just spit it out?” he chortled, beckoning you closer with grabby hands. 

“Because, it was so sweet.” you reasoned. 

“Really? I would argue it was more rancid than sweet.” 

“Not the muffin you goon, the gesture.” you elaborated, smacking his shoulder. 

“I can’t believe you ate the whole thing.” 

“Shut up. I was trying to be nice.” you pouted. 

“Hey,” he said, standing and opening his arms. “M’sorry I know.” 

You waddled into his embrace, wrapping your arms around his back. 

“I love you for that.” he sighed, before kissing the top of your head. 

You froze in his hold, those three unexpected words echoing through your head. 

“You what?” 

His chest shook lightly as a laugh fell from his mouth. 

“I love you.” he repeated. It was so nonchalant, as if he’d said it to you a hundred times before. “You alright with that?” 

You nodded before pulling back just enough that you could see his face. 

“I love you.” you returned. 

Luke’s hands cupped your cheeks, a groan passing his lips before he pressed a soft kiss to your now pouty mouth.

“Say it again.” he pleaded into your mouth. 

“I love you.” you sighed, chasing his lips with your own. 

“And again, and again, and again…” he continued, rewarding you with one lingering peck for each declaration. 

“Mmm” he hummed in content when he decided he was satisfied. “Never stop saying it.” 

Current Time - December 14th 

A whirlwind romance like the one that the two of you had shared was never meant to be sad. It was the kind of love that constantly feels like a cheesy montage full of sweet moments that happens at the end of a rom-com. Unsuccessful baking attempts, cozy study dates, spontaneous weekend trips, hundreds of shared muffins, piggy back rides home from the bar, that’s what made you Luke and y/n. 

The two of you didn’t do well with the hard stuff and it worked because there just wasn’t any. Everything was easy and it felt good. It felt right. 

It had never even occurred to you that the hard stuff was part of any great love, that inevitably one day things would get hard. It really hadn’t occurred to you that pushing through the hard stuff was something that Luke may not be up for. Because you were and you always had been, all in. 

Six years ago - February 17th 

You had gotten home late after a long shift at the library you worked at part time . Luke was sitting on the couch scribbling something in a notebook and taking tiny sips of his steaming cup of tea, too impatient to wait for it to cool properly. 

You’d been listening to an audiobook while organizing the shelves that day and the somber tone of it had seriously dampened your mood. It also made you extremely grateful that you had Luke to cuddle away all your sorrows. 

He had noticed your sad expression the second he saw you and was quick to pull you into his arms and press you for information. 

“What happened baby?” he cooed as you nestled as close into him as physically possible. 

“Sad book.” you mumbled into his chest. 

“Aw, love you shouldn’t let that stuff get to you. S’not real, there’s no need to get upset.” This was something you had heard plenty of times before, seeing as you were an extremely emotional person and felt things strongly. 

“It was so sad though, bubs.” You reasoned that talking through it with someone else might dull the ache that it had left on your taut heartstrings. You explained the whole plot, how the couple had met on a plane and spent their two separate vacations together and along the way fallen in love. Luke would hum or nod every so often indicating he was listening but you knew most of his focus was on the fact that you were tearing up through your explanation. He let his lips rest along your hairline as you got to the climax of the story, speaking through cracks in your voice to tell him that they had lost each other’s numbers on their way back and while the woman was able to move on and find love later in life, the man waited at the airport for years hoping that one day he would see her again. 

Luke’s hand ran through your hair while your head rested on his chest. 

“I don’t think there’s anything romantic about it. It’s just sad.” he concluded. 

“I disagree.” 

“Really?” 

“I’d wait for you.” you confirmed, running your fingers over the fabric of his shirt. 

“Not forever though,” he added. 

“I’d wait until I knew you were happier without me.” 

“Yea, me too.” he agreed. 

“I’d never be happier without you.” 

Current Time - December 14th 

One thing that you never doubted in your relationship was whether or not Luke loved you. You knew he did. It was something that had always been casual between the two of you, it was as much a greeting as it was anything else. 

As the sun rose and broke through your curtains the words to break the silence that lingered from the night before wasn’t “Good morning” it was “I love you.” Before leaving for work instead of an impersonal “Bye!” you shouted “Love you!” through the closing door of your apartment. It was a phrase that had been repeated millions of times, and despite the casualness of it all, it never lost its meaning. 

Even now, five years since you’d last seen him you knew with every bone in your body that no matter where he was right now, half the world away or two blocks downtown, he still loved you. 

Luke always kept his promises, a million times he had promised that he would always love you. And a million times you had promised it right back. 

A hundred years apart wouldn’t change that, let alone five. 

Five years ago - December 13th 

You watched the snow fall from the living room window, what you would normally find peaceful was making you go insane. It had been perpetually silent around your apartment for the past couple of weeks. Luke was hardly ever home, when asked he would tell you that he had a big project at work and needed to teach the new intern how things were done in the office. You hadn’t thought much of it, there were times when you were busy and had to put things with him on the back burner to focus on the uncertainty of work. It had never been an issue because as far as you were concerned things were set between you and Luke. There was the unspoken promise of forever. 

Of course, that didn’t stop you from missing him tons. On this specific occasion the cold weather had left you with clogged sinuses and a bad headache, one that you would typically soothe with a cup of  earl grey from the cafe and an abundance of snuggling. Since Luke wasn’t around to fulfill your touch deprivation you decided that wearing one of his favorite sweatshirts would have to do for now. 

You blindly reached into his drawer to search for it but stopped when your hand caught on a folded piece of paper. You pulled it out and walked to the bed, flicking on the lamp as you sat. Once the light turned on you were able to see it clear as day, two airline tickets to Sydney departing on the 20th and returning  on January 3rd. The two of you had briefly discussed travelling to Australia at some point so you could finally meet his family but nothing had ever been confirmed. 

The naivety that had always been a part of who you were began to connect non-existent dots with hopeful lines. Luke was planning on surprising you with Christmas in Australia with his family. It explained why he was never home, it also explained the secretive phone calls you had started picking up on after he scurried out of bed in the middle of the night a while ago to speak to someone in hushed tones just outside the bedroom door.

That night when he finally got home at nearly eleven you had made sure to leave half a muffin with a note that read, “Miss you, stud muffin. You work too hard. Love you -y/n” on the kitchen counter. From where you laid in bed, you could hear him laugh as he read it aloud. You quickly sat up in bed when the laughs you were reveling in started to sound like sobs. 

The dim lighting in the kitchen didn’t stop you from seeing the tears on Luke’s face as he looked up to where you stood, stunned in the hallway. 

“What’s wrong?” you hurried to him. 

He made a sniffing sound before gathering you in his arms. He held you so tight that if it wasn’t so sincere it might’ve hurt. 

“Lu, what’s going on.” you squeaked out. 

He tightened his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your hair, emitting soft cries every so often. 

“I love you, y/n.” 

“I know. I love you too.” 

“I swear I’ll always love you. I swear.” 

“I know. Hey, Lu I know.” you soothed as his breaths became more labored. 

At some point you had managed to calm him down and coax him into bed, you reasoned that he was just so tired that his feelings got the best of him, something that had happened to you many times before. And honestly you were just happy to be back in his arms once again, so when he was wrapped around you in bed, his hands playing with your hair like they always did when he got anxious, you didn’t think twice about it when he said,

“We need to talk tomorrow, over breakfast. We can go to the café if you want?” 

You nodded against his chest as sleep overtook you, the last thing you heard being “I promise I’ll always love you.”  

Current Time - December 14th 

Your reminiscing was interrupted by a high pitched screech from the front of the cafe. When you followed the sound your eyes landed upon a distressed toddler, about three years old if you to guess, who was pouting up at a tall, gorgeous woman that was apologizing profusely to Olive for her son’s outbreak. You wouldn’t have looked twice at the scene if  it wasn’t for the way Olive’s troubled expression and wide eyes were directed precisely on you. 

The child was screaming through his cries “I want daddy’s muffin!” His face was red and blotchy from tears and the cold weather but didn’t completely overtake his creamy skin tone that complimented his familiar blue eyes. He was an adorable kid, a full head of blonde ringlets and chubby cheeks that you were sure turned a light pink when he smiled. 

He kind of reminded you of Luke. When the thought entered your head you were quick to dismiss it though, because if you were being honest most things reminded you of Luke. 

“I’m so sorry about this. He isn’t normally so loud, it’s just that my husband loves these muffins and he promised Sammy one.” you heard the gorgeous woman say. 

“It’s fine, the cranberry orange muffin is a big hit around here. They sell out almost everyday.” Olive responded, her eyes unbreaking from yours. 

“Yea that’s what Luke always tells me.” 

Five years ago - December 14th 

The walk to the café felt longer than it typically did and you had no idea why, for some reason you didn’t notice that Luke was dragging his feet. Maybe it was because you were sure that this impromptu breakfast date was to tell you of the surprise Christmas trip to Australia. Maybe it was because any amount of extra time you got to spend holding Luke’s hand in your own you considered a gift. 

When you finally arrived you were quick to usher him to your favorite table, one that was secluded in the corner, enough to have a bit of privacy but also allowed you to people watch on slow days and have telepathic conversations with Olive from across the room. 

You noticed that Luke wasn’t eating after a few minutes, his muffin half sat untouched in front of him and his nervous demeanor was driving you crazy. 

“I have to admit something.” you finally said, tired of the silence. 

Luke nodded for you to continue but refused to meet your eyes as you spoke. 

“I know about Australia, I found the tickets in your drawer so if that’s what you're so nervous about, there’s no need. Of course I’ll go with you, you have no idea how excited I am to meet your mom, she can finally show me all those baby pictures that she’s always telling me about.” you were so busy picturing your potential trip to Luke’s hometown that you didn’t notice Luke’s teared up eyes and anxious tapping. 

“Y/n, the tickets aren’t for-” he cut himself off before the approaching crack in his voice could prevail. “I met someone.” 

“Okay?” 

You didn’t even know what that meant, he met someone? You met people all the time, what does that have to do with the trip?  You lifted your mug to take a sip while you waited for him to continue.

“I mean I-I have feelings for someone, uh someone else.” 

You didn’t even feel your grip release, you didn’t hear the shattering noise, you didn’t feel the scorching liquid seep through your top onto your skin. 

Luke was leaving you. He fell in love with someone else. It was serious enough that he was bringing her home. Luke was leaving you. Luke was leaving you. Luke was leaving you.

“I don’t understand.” The crying had already begun, and although it didn’t surprise Luke he couldn’t bear to watch it. He stared at the spilled tea and shards of glass. The entire cafe’s eyes were on you and you didn’t even notice all you could see was that Luke’s weren’t. 

“Look at me.” you pleaded. There was a time when he would’ve seen your face, seen how distressed you were and gone back on everything solely because it hurt him too much to see you hurt. 

When did that stop? Why hadn’t you noticed? 

“I love you y/n, really I do. But I love her too.” 

“You love her more.” you didn’t even try to phrase it as a question, there was no point, you already knew the answer. He must’ve loved her more because he was leaving you for her. Luke was leaving you. 

Your acknowledgement of his feelings didn’t make it hurt any less when he didn’t deny it. Luke was leaving you. 

You sat in silence for at least five minutes, it felt like years. Luke watched you cry, fighting the urge to wrap you in his arms, and sway you back and forth until you stopped. He wouldn’t do that because it was selfish, it would ease his troubles more than yours, he deserved to see how his hurtful actions affected the one he swore to shield from any and all pain. 

“I’ll have everything out of the apartment by the end of the week.” 

The end of the week? You had planned on spending the rest of your life with him and he was telling you that he would essentially be out of your life by the end of the week. Luke was leaving you. None of it felt real. 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I love you.” 

Watching him leave felt surreal, you couldn’t hear anything but your blood pumping, you hardly took any notice when Olive rushed to your table and pulled you into her embrace. 

Luke left you. 

Current time - December 14th 

You could feel his presence as soon as he stumbled out of the bathroom.

How could you have missed him coming in?

You dragged your eyes up his body from his feet, and when they fell upon his face it was like someone had pressed play after fast forwarding through the years that had been taken from you. You weren’t 23 anymore, and Luke certainly wasn’t either. He’d always had a strong build, but he held himself differently now. He was confident and collected, very sure of himself. He had a bit of scruff lining his jaw but you could tell it was well kept and intentional and a pair of black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. You reacquainted yourself with his appearance from your spot in the corner. 

With each subtle change you catalogued in your brain, vivid images danced through your head, like a kaleidoscope of what could’ve been. You saw lazy Sunday mornings on the couch leisurely sipping coffee, the open windows next to you bringing in a sweet breeze making the house smell like fresh grass after it rains. You saw yourself pushing a stroller through a park, Luke chasing behind one of your little ones just a few feet ahead. You saw roadtrips, vacations, theme parks, crowded family dinners, trick or treating, white gowns, and wedding cakes. You saw binkies, and bottles, tangled sheets, ruffled hair, pecks on the forehead, lunch boxes, and I love you notes. 

The last scene you saw, one that felt so real you could’ve sworn you were really there, started with Luke sitting on the floor surrounded in wrapping paper a toddler curled up in his lap. He wore flannel pajama pants and a ratty shirt he had purchased at the concert you went to for your third date. He took sips from his mug of lukewarm coffee every so often, and you were sure if you got close enough you’d be able to smell it on his breath, not that you would mind. His curls were grown out more than he typically liked them, they were messy from sleep and obstructing his vision slightly. Just as you reached out to brush them from his forehead, it was like you had been thrown backwards by a force strong enough to make your stomach drop. 

Reality. 

You could still see Luke from where you stood but he was so far away now. You reached your hand out again, gasping in shock when it hit a sheet of glass, you knocked against it firmly but nothing happened. It was like a window where you watched the scene unfold. A woman you had been in the same position as not seconds ago stood up and revealed her face. It was his wife, she handed Luke a small gift bag and waited patiently as he opened it. He acknowledged the gift, a framed photo of the two of them and leaned forward to press a thank you kiss to her lips. 

“Stop!” you called.

No one can hear you. 

“Luke, I’m right here.” you yelled, slamming an open hand to the glass. 

Hot tears fell from your cheeks as you continued to knock and shout. 

“Lu, please.”

As he pulled away from the kiss a grin plastered his face. And it hit you, he was happy. He really was happy. 

Realization of the thing you dreaded the most in the world happened quickly, but not painlessly. Luke’s eyes flicked to your own, he saw you through the window. He saw you calling for him, crying for him, begging for him. He saw you and then he looked away. 

And reality snapped you back yet again, right into the present moment. You were in your café, staring at your empty mug, your face felt hot and wet. When had you started to cry? You reached a shaky hand out for a napkin to wipe your tears, but ended up knocking the mini poinsettia pot in front of you over instead. A crash echoed through the café and everyone turned their attention to you and your frantic demeanor. Everyone, even Luke. 

You forced your eyes up from the glass that sat shattered on the white tablecloth with slow movements and shallow breaths until they finally found the culprit, the reason for your pain. You could see right through the light blue of his eyes, shock and bittersweet nostalgia pooled in the cerulean waves. 

Just like you were suddenly 29 and hurt when you saw Luke. He was suddenly 20 and enamored when he saw you. 

He physically winced while taking notice of the black streaks that cascaded down your cheeks. It reminded him of leaving you. It was all his fault. 

He met your gaze with a desperate one of his own, silently praying that you could still read him well enough to understand. 

His eyes released unspoken declarations with every slow blink. 

I can’t believe I’m seeing you. I miss you. I still love you. I’ll always love you. 

You can’t be here right now. I’m with my family. I’m happy now. I’m happy without you. 

Every silent, stabbing confession all summed up into one that you had been afraid of for the entire eight years that Luke Hemmings had stolen from you. 

I love you, but somehow that stopped being enough.

The place was silent. All eyes on you. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

You weren’t quite sure who you were apologizing to or what for,  it could’ve been to Olive for making yet another mess that she would end up cleaning. It could’ve been to all the customers you disrupted when you broke the flower pot. Or Luke’s son who you had stolen a muffin from. Or maybe his wife, that you had been demonizing in your head for years, seeing her only as the woman who stole the love of your life. It could’ve been to Luke, you were sorry you hadn’t taken him seriously, he was in love and he had a family and you were still waiting around for the day he decided to come back for you. The day that would never come. 

Deep down though, you knew you were saying it to yourself. Eight years is a long time, you had stopped living for yourself a long time ago. You did miss Luke, of course you did but maybe part of the hole in your chest that you had been so desperately trying to fill, was yourself. You really missed you. You without Luke. How could you have forgotten about her? 

“I have to go.” this time you knew exactly who you were talking to and as your feet carried you to the door you didn’t even contemplate turning around when Luke’s voice broke through the silence of the café to say,         

 “Y/n, wait!” 

You kept walking, past the stunned patrons, past Olive, past Luke. You kept walking until you were sure that no one would catch up. You just kept walking because after all this time you were so done waiting.

[calzona-ga]

[Spoiler's] departure marks only the fifth time (and first since Patrick Dempsey) that the ABC medical drama has said farewell to a series regular via character death.

[This story contains spoilers from the March 11, "Helplessly Hoping," episode of Grey's Anatomy.]

Grey's Anatomy said parted ways with a beloved member of its cast during Thursday's midseason premiere and it did so in a relatively rare fashion for the ABC medical drama: with a character death.

Giacomo Gianniotti's Dr. Andrew DeLuca was killed off following a heroic battle to stop a sex trafficker in a storyline that stretched back to last season and ultimately capped the actor's seven-season run on the Shondaland favorite. DeLuca, who was stabbed and ultimately died in surgery, became only the fifth series regular in Grey's Anatomy history to have their storyline end in a fatality and the first since Patrick Dempsey's shocking exit nearly six years ago.

In a fitting end to his storyline, DeLuca winds up on Meredith's (Ellen Pompeo) magical beach and is able to have a farewell with his former love interest before walking into the sunset. DeLuca joins George (T.R. Knight), Derek (Dempsey), Mark (Eric Dane) and Lexie (Chyler Leigh) as series regulars (per Wikipedia) to leave the show in death. Of the 33 total series regulars in 17 seasons of Grey's, 13 characters have left alive. And it's of course worth noting that several other characters have been killed off of Grey's, though those actors have either been guest stars or recurring players.

Below, showrunner Krista Vernoff and star Gianniotti talk with The Hollywood Reporter about how DeLuca's death factors into a season that has put COVID-19 at the top of the show's call sheet and what's next.

Meredith is on a vent and that was the last beat until the show's return tonight. Why was it important for that to be the image viewers had of this iconic character for three months? She's still on the vent in the midseason return.

Vernoff: That happened to be the midseason finale. Sometimes stories tell themselves and things happen in very powerful ways. As an image, that works on people's psyche and helps them understand that this pandemic is ongoing and profound and impacting communities in really painful ways. It's a powerful image to help people remember why staying they're home. If this thing can hit Meredith Grey, it can hit anybody.

This season has put COVID-19 at the top of the call sheet, with realistic portrayals of everything from infected doctors, others struggling with the emotional gravity and, in the midseason finale, hospitals reached capacity. When it aired, that episode was sadly prescient. How does the rest of the season play out in terms of how close it has been to what's happening in the world now?

Vernoff: What's so interesting about it being prescient is that we were telling the truth in that episode of what was happening in May 2020 in Washington state and it was happening again in Los Angeles in December, when the episode aired. We weren't prescient; we were telling a story that happened in the early stage of the pandemic. It's been amazing how when we thought when we were breaking the show, we thought we were going home for two weeks and now it's a year later and we're looking at this in this way. It's still staggering to me. We are not jumping forward to some imaginary future where covid is a thing of the past. We are still set in the past in the back half of the season. That was one of the decisions when we decided that Meredith has covid and that that would span a fair amount of the season. We didn't want Meredith in a bed with covid for 11 months. We are still in like May/June of 2020 creatively. We're not jumping forward so we don't have to try and keep up with what's happening now; we're looking at what was happening then.

In a season exploring covid, why was the first major character death of the season unrelated? Was this supposed to be the season finale last year?

Vernoff: There was no plan to kill him at the end of last season. I very much did not want to kill DeLuca last season because he'd been through a mental health crisis and he'd come through it. I wanted to show that a person can go through a mental health crisis and come out the other side and be a functional, contributing member of the hospital staff. This story of DeLuca seeing that sex trafficker again and following her out of the hospital and refusing to let up and it becoming a part of Station 19 and following it and right when you think he's got her, somebody punches him. You think he's been punched but you come back and realize he's been stabbed and then he's on the beach with Meredith. My reaction to [the story idea] was, What?! Fuck! No! Really!? This is what I'm doing?! No! Many times after I pitched it to the writers and we designed the season around this story, I started to chicken out and second-guess myself. Can we save him?! Can he live?! He can't. We've done a lot of near-deaths and saved them since I took over the show. So now people are expecting that. This was the story. It was as shocking to me as it was to you.

Giacomo, what was your reaction when you got the call that Andrew was being killed off?

Gianniotti: Krista and Debbie Allen, our exec producer, called me into an office said they've tried it different ways and keep coming back to the trafficking storyline from last season. The storyline was so highly received, and because of that, they knew they had to continue to explore it. They saw an opportunity to tell a beautiful story that highlighted human trafficking and for DeLuca to go down as a hero and make this really noble act to stop this perpetrator but would unfortunately cost him his life. I've been on the show for seven seasons thought it was a great way to exit. Krista running Station 19 as well had the idea to make it a crossover so we could tell it over two episodes and spend time with DeLuca. I'm a storyteller and the best story always wins and I thought this was the best story.

What was the larger point you wanted to make with DeLuca's storyline? He dies a hero, which is a bit of the ultimate for a Grey's death.

Vernoff: I was processing [grief] myself when this story came. As we were going through this shared trauma of covid together and quarantine and being away from the people we loved, I wanted all the other tragedies in the world to just stop. It didn't seem fair. The Alexandria House, a charity I support in L.A. that shelters battered women and their children — so people who have already been traumatized — the first week of the shutdown, the Alexandria House caught on fire. It was like, What?! Isn't covid enough? But everything else didn't stop because of covid and we were all having to process other things, too, and horrible tragedies that come with life. That's part of where this story was born. All these people are going to die of covid but also sometimes other people just die. And it's f—ing awful. Part of DeLuca dying in this way … watching this episode, watching his mom greet him on the beach and feeling that grief, I cried harder watching this episode than I cried since George O'Malley died. I thank Giacomo for playing this character so beautifully and powerfully that through the death of DeLuca I believe there is an opportunity for us all to release our collective grief.

Will DeLuca re-appear on that beach again this season?

Vernoff: No. I thought him walking away with his mom was the most powerful closure for that character. But you will see him again, just not on the beach.

Gianniotti: Even though his life has come to an end, there's many ways to show our characters who have passed. I look forward to tell some other stories in those ways. Maybe there's flashbacks or other scenarios where we can see DeLuca. That's about all I can say. But it's not a drill; he's definitely died.

What was filming on that beach like given how much those scenes have meant to viewers?

Gianniotti: Ellen and I kept pinching ourselves. To be able to shoot on a beach was amazing. It was nice to be a part of that and have DeLuca have his moment and say his piece with Meredith. There was a lot of unfinished business between them. Maybe if Meredith hadn't gotten covid, the first part of this season could have been them picking up the pieces of where they left off in their romances. But circumstances didn't allow for that. It was nice that DeLuca got to at least thank her for everything she'd given him.

How do you think Meredith will respond to DeLuca's death?

Gianniotti: It's tough to say because you think of the dream and what happened at the end of the episode and wonder if Meredith would correlate that with the metaphor: if he's joining his mother that must mean he's leaving me and passing on. Maybe that would translate to her waking up? Who knows? Or it will be a massive surprise when she wakes up. There is a very obvious, glaring comparison with reality in that so many health care professionals have lost their own due to covid. It's a direct representation and reflection of that. It's helping people in the industry feel seen as well. It hits different and it's going to send a shockwave through all the characters at the hospital — and maybe Meredith the most.

Knowing Meredith is battling covid, it feels like there's one of two outcomes there. How does the covid story that you're telling impact the different finales that you're crafting considering the show's uncertain future?

Vernoff: More will be revealed as you watch the show. (Laughs)

Without spoiling anything, how would you describe who else will visit Meredith on that magical beach?

Vernoff: There are some really fun surprises coming up. It's one of the things that I have enjoyed as rays of light in the darkness of the storytelling necessitated by covid. That beach is a ray of light and the surprises of who you see there are rays of light. And I don't want to take that away.

Can you confirm there will be others who appear on that beach who viewers haven't seen there yet this season?

Vernoff: Yes.

Giacomo, you got to make your directorial debut on Grey's this season. After seven seasons, was there anything you wanted to do on the show but never had the chance?

Gianniotti: This felt like a gift. They rolled everything I wanted to do into two episodes, they wrote my dream exit storyline. I got to have an action movie told on Station 19 chasing a perpetrator and not wearing scrubs. That was fun and not something I'd gotten to do on Grey's for obvious reasons. All the scenes where we got to take our time and be together with Ellen and Meredith on the beach was a good way to tie up the loose ends. As far as the mental health storyline, it was an honor and privilege to tell that story. Ultimately, it's about representation and for people to see someone who is bipolar can be an attending and command a whole department at a hospital is huge.

Did you keep anything from set?

Gianniotti: I didn't! Maybe I'll go steal my stethoscope next time I'm there!

What's next for you? Any plans on returning to Grey's as a director?

Gianniotti: Definitely investing a ton of time in directing and hoping to continue to do that here and abroad. I'm seeking a lot of opportunities in Italy and Canada as a director and actor and have a few things coming on the horizon that I'm excited to share

[thepulta]

Home, Part 1?/?

Set sometime between the Birthday fic and Westlie’s Departure. In which the word ‘Fuck’ is used just as many times as the words ‘Westlie’ ‘Morgan’ and ‘The’. Officially labeled as sub-canon by me because I don't want it to affect game-play even though I'm positive it happened; angst just seems to happen with these two.

.

Only one person kicked open the door to Fairweather Merchandise in that particular way. A smile teased the edges of Westlie’s mouth as she looked up from the Navigator’s Handbook.

“Madam!” Morgan ripped off a brown traveler’s cap and bowed deeply, carpetbag bulging in her other hand. She was covered from head to toe with a thin film of coal dust. “I have urgent request of several pounds of coffee, two crates of hours, and-” she swept up to the counter and leaned one elbow on it, plowing into Westlie’s personal space. “-a secret so intense it’d make a lornfluke weep. Madam, can you provide?”

Westlie snapped her book shut and leaned in closer to Morgan’s fiercely playful gaze. “My lady, you wish for a secret to make lornflukes weep? Those are rare to come by. The price will be exorbant.”

“Ah, you do not know me!” Morgan waved a hand exuberantly. “I am the engimatic Faire! And I am fair in looks and fair to thee. If a cost there may be, charge it to my family three.”

Westlie threw back her head and laughed.

Morgan grinned and pulled off the cap to hide her face below the eyes. Her brown eyes peered at Westlie. “Madam, I but gave you my name. This order, I must have it urgently. Many lives depend on its delivery.”

The world was brighter when Morgan was home.

“My lady, we can provide goods throughout the wilderness. Wherebouts do you require this odd, strange, order?”

Morgan plopped the cap back on her head, took a leap and perched on the counter, forcing Westlie to take a step back. “Across the Reach! To the winters of Lustrome!”

“My lady,” Westlie reached up and yanked the cap over Morgan’s eyes. “It shall be done!”

Morgan forgot she was sitting and leaning across the counter on one arm, grinning cheekily while she reached to fix the cap. She promptly lost her balance and yelped.

“Morgan-!”

She slipped head-first over the counter with a crash, dragging down three jars of peppermint candy with her. Morgan groaned and raised her head a little, looking to reach across and flick off half a dozen candies on her chest. “Ow.”

“No! Don’t move. The glass-” Westlie grabbed for the broom instinctively and gingerly swept around her. “Are you hurt?”

Morgan giggled and the peppermints slid around. “No, I’m good.”

“Fuck, you’re lucky.” Westlie looked down - really looked down at her idiot of a sister lying in glass and peppermints - and stopped sweeping to laugh. “What were you thinking?”

“That was so funny.” Morgan somewhat gingerly laid her head back on the ground and grinned. “Don’t lie, I saw your mouth twitch.”

Westlie smiled and rolled her eyes, moving to sweep the peppermints off her. “Well, welcome home. How long was this trip? Three months?”

“Longest yet! A hundred-and-two whole entire days.” Morgan sat up once she was mostly clean and brushed a few pieces of glass out of her hair, shimmying a little as she popped to her feet to get any further shards off her coat. They fell to the ground with little shatter sounds. “Sorry about the jars.”

“Oh that’s all right. Nobody buys peppermints anyway.” Westlie reached down and scooped up one to toss to her sister. “Here, have one for free, Miss Enigmatic Faire. …Stars, I hope you don’t use that line anywhere else.”

Morgan popped the mint into her mouth and wandered around the counter to pick up her carpetbag. “I won’t tell you to let you get your sleep at night.”

“Morgan.”

“Oh, I know. I’m not only the most enigmatic Faire, but the most compassionate.” The playful cheeky grin was back and Morgan blew her a kiss. “When do you close up?”

Westlie glanced at the clock on the far wall. “Well- actually. It’s been a slow day.”

“Aha, I knew it.” Morgan snatched the Navigator’s Handbook sitting on the counter. “This only comes out when you have more than fifteen minutes to sit still.”

“Thirty,” Westlie corrected her.

“Well that’s worse, because then you have time to fuck off and do something more interesting, but I understand the sentiment.” Morgan grinned.

Westlie scowled and swept up the last of the glass. “Anyway, I was going to say, because it’s been a slow day, I don’t think anyone would notice if we closed a bit early.”

“Yes!”

Westlie placed the broom back against the wall and stepped back to the counter, shuffling a bit of paperwork and trading it under the counter for her coat. “I can be surprising sometimes. I’m not going to sit here doing that much of nothing.”

Morgan leaned up a little on her toes as Westlie came around the corner and she placed her elbow on her shoulder, grinning. “Westlie, you are still so boring.” Westlie right-hooked her in the side and Morgan wheezed, nearly dropping the carpetbag. “Fuu-”

“Spontaneous.” Westlie reached the front and flipped the sign on the shop door to Closed. She grinned as they walked - and limped - outside where she locked the front. “Maybe I should be the Enigmatic Faire.”

“You don’t do anything enigmatic!”

Westlie laughed. It felt good to laugh again. Morgan rolled her eyes.

A chilly wind nipped their coats as they walked down the street. The weather rarely changed in London, but the wind had decided to blow a swift, cold breeze from the east for the past week and it was cold enough for hats and scarves. Westlie could feel her nose starting to brush red; when she glanced over at her sister’s face her cheeks and nose had turned a healthy pink beneath the coal dust film. They probably looked a sight, Morgan dusty with her travel cap and plain skirt with Westlie prim - or she felt prim anyway - in her good black coat.

The walk got too quiet after a few minutes. Morgan swung her carpetbag at her side, people-watching. Westlie could feel herself starting to slip into the habit of reviewing the books in her head like she always did on her walk home, making a list of letters she needed to write later in the evening and a to-do for the next day. Which wasn’t fair to Morgan, obviously; just her returns felt more and more jarring as her trips grew longer and longer. Westlie was out of the habit of their banter, even though it came back naturally within a few hours.

“So,” Westlie gently poked her sister. “Tell me a story.”

“Mmm, what about?”

Westlie had to think. Where had their last letter exchange been from? Leadbeater? “Someone from Leadbeater; someone you liked.”

“Oh you couldn’t ask for someone I hated.” Morgan popped another mint in her mouth; she’d apparently scooped it up earlier. “That’s so much easier.”

“I like seeing you squirm.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “So kind, so thoughtful.”

Westlie bumped her shoulder, pushing aside the sudden mental note she had to write a credit letter to Threadworn since their cargo was now unrecoverable. “We have ten minutes, just pick someone.”

“Alright, alright. So there was this woman,” Morgan swung the carpetbag a bit into the breeze. “I only saw her twice. Once in the hotel lobby, once in one of the bars.” They crossed the street, weaving through throngs of people in their own cloaks and coats and top hats. “She was kind of a petite thing, shorter than both of us, actually, with this up-do fluffy dark hair. She looked like a skyfarer, although she probably wasn’t now I think about it; nobody wears a cloak that nice while flying. Anyway-” they turned into a side alley. “-I was just lounging around the lobby when she walks in and I see her pull out a notebook and she starts writing down everything in the lobby. Or I assume she was taking notes on them.”

“Eventually a manager asks her what the hell she’s doing and she starts taking notes on him; his clothes, his figure. She was circling him like a well. I doubt it was to comment on his hygiene but it might as well have been; he got pushy after a few minutes of that and she just kind of stood there disgruntled, and then she opened up her coat and she had two little ratti boys just tucked away inside! I don’t think they bit him but oh, he squealed.” Morgan rolled her eyes. “Ran all over his shoulders until he flung himself away and that was that. She just walked out!”

The surroundings of London changed a bit as they moved away from the docks and shops, shifting into townhomes of varying size, shape, and quality. They were all painted the same bland grey with red-grey brick walls around their gardens; unique, but eerily, annoying similar. The cloud of smoke and steam above London mixed with the red-glow of Albion’s wilderness just turned everything red and grey. They both blended in quite nicely, Westlie realized, with their red hair, Morgan being soot-covered as she was, and her with her black coat. Perfect little well-to-do Londoners. The thought irked her, even though she couldn’t pin down why. Something to do with Arthur, something to do with a banker. She had to renew their contract within a few days and she wasn’t going to have time tomorrow.

“…Wes, are you listening?”

Shit. “Yeah.”

Morgan scowled. “Lair. What did you hear last?”

“The rats. The rats popped out of her coat and scared him off. Sorry, I just- got distracted. ”

“Got distracted by what? There’s nothing here.” Morgan spun around, gesturing around them at the bland red-grey of London. “I should go paint a house. That’s what this place really needs. Can’t fucking do it in one night unless I hire someone else to go with me.” She scowled at the line of houses. “Might be worth it to give you something better to stare at. Distracted my ass.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Look, finish the story. We have two blocks left.”

Morgan huffed and sulked for a second, shoving her free hand in her pocket. “Well as I was saying. I didn’t see her around Leadbeater at all, but a few nights later I saw her in one of the pubs just drinking, but still with her notebook out. She was watching everyone so I had to lay low and slip around a little. After a while she stood up and went to the bartender, did the whole ‘can I speak to your manager’ bit, which did bring out the manager. She then proceeded to lay into him about clocks. Something about them being off, bad management; I don’t know. I was across the room so I couldn’t hear. I think the manager got pissy with her though, rightfully so. But then, she opens up this little box - couldn’t have been larger than a man’s fist - and the whole place goes blinding white. Totally white! Couldn’t see a thing. When it stopped like five seconds later they were both gone.”

“Both gone?!”

“Mmhm, vanished.” Morgan was still sulking, Westlie could feel it, but her mouth had a wry upward twist. “Now you have a secret to make loreflukes weep.”

“I’ll sell it only to the appropriate bidder.”

“You better,” Morgan swung her carpetbag from side to side and around herself with an salty, absentminded air, forcing Westlie to dodge a lightpost and walk in the street. “I can use that if it doesn’t scurry around the Reach too quickly.”

Westlie couldn’t think of anything else to say, and Morgan, salty, didn’t volunteer a topic, so they walked in silence and she made a brief to-do list until they reached their street. Her mood was not improved knowing Threadworn was going to be a pain in the ass now due to that cargo loss. Captain Scottson was a bitter man. She shook her head a little as they got closer, trying to clear it.

London was not the place for artful, imaginative housing. Their townhome was tall and equally grey as all the others on their street; it had a few artful wooden columns in the front, trim, and a hexagonal tower design on the front with a few gables to the north. The only real difference beside being slightly larger, was the advantage at being the last house on the street; trapped in the corner of St. Mark and St Andrew, so their garden wrapped around to the south of the house, extending the view from both Morgan and Westlie’s windows. It was a dull garden though with an extensive rock base, two mushroom beds, a few trees, and rosebushes intended to add color to the dull exterior. Relia had placed red lace curtains in the windows (always drawn) to help with that, but it wasn’t much.

“You’d think after twenty years, they would have done something extravagant to make it stand out,” Morgan mumbled. “It’s not like either of them.”

Westlie realized after a second they’d just been standing at the gate, looking at it. It was not a particularly beautiful house, and Westlie didn’t have any particular attachment to what was inside it either. It was a house. “Can’t have everything, I guess.” She unlatched the gate and they both stepped inside, still eyeing the house in a somewhat reserved way.

Whenever her sister returned in a fairly proper manner Westlie had a deja-vu realization that Morgan’s aura was bright, airy, and full of life, exactly the opposite of the houses around them - especially this house, in particular. The whole street loomed quiet and imposing and dead. There was no reason for her to want to come home. She’d never blamed her for staying away, but it was a good reminder. How had Morgan even lived here for 18 years in the first place without ending up equally quiet and dull anyway?

Westlie sighed, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her sister. I’m just as dead inside or I’d probably be off somewhere too. She felt her heart cling just a little tighter to Morgan and her light. “Do you want to clean up first?”

“Yeah, I’ll shake these off, just give me a minute. I’ll invade your room when I’m done.”

“Like always.” Westlie smiled, hoping it gave off the feeling she didn’t mind at all. “Where were you thinking tonight?”

“Mmm, maybe Porters?” Morgan slapped her cap against the silvery fleur-de-lis wallpaper, leaving soot stains, and very obviously not giving a shit about it. “No, that’s too nice. Let’s do O’Malley’s this time. I need a whiskey.”

“The Enigmatic’s drink of choice.” Westlie rolled her eyes, giving her a little smile. “I’ll be down in a minute, I just want to change coats-”

“Westlie!” A thump and the roar came from upstairs.

Shit. Oh, fuck.

Westlie could feel her brain turning. He’d heard the door shut and their voices. She hadn’t closed the shop that early. It was paperwork. It had to be paperwork. What did she miss? Fuck, what did she miss? A precious second ticked by. Westlie and Morgan looked at each other instinctively at the sound of footsteps with the same calculation in their heads. Three months away and a night off early; Arthur couldn’t ruin this. Morgan’s face paled but her lips and eyebrows were drawn in a firm, set line. She grabbed Westlie’s hand and yanked her down the hallway as heavy footsteps sounded up above. “Westlie!”

Morgan pulled her into the kitchen and into the open pantry. It smelled like onions and mushrooms. She dragged away a basket of potatoes to reveal the faint outlines of a cellar, and Morgan grabbed the ring, yanking up on it with all her might. It heaved with a cloud of dust and they both coughed. “Quick, get in there.”

“Westlie!!”

He was on the landing now.

Westlie disliked dark holes, especially in the ground clouded with dust, but Arthur’s request could take anywhere from ten minutes to ten days. It wasn’t worth the gamble. … She could still imagine spiders crawling on her skin just looking at the black cellar. “Is that safe?”

“Are you fucking asking this now? Get in there. You owe me one.”

Westlie held her breath and took several steps down. It was black, pitch black; the kind of black you couldn’t see the outline of your hand if you waved it in front of your face. “Morgan…?”

“Just stay quiet.” Morgan shut the door on top of her and Westlie felt rather than heard the potatoes slide back over the opening. Her heart raced and she opened her mouth to take a breath, trying to stay calm. The cellar smelled overwhelmingly like fungi and decay. It smelled like death, only in a more earthy, inhuman way. Her breathing quickened. Don’t panic, Westlie. Stay quiet.

There were footsteps above. Arthur’s. He came into the kitchen; paused. Westlie felt herself staring at the trapdoor above her in the dark, straining her eyes for some glimpse of light.

“You could at least say hello.” Morgan was somewhere by the stove. Westlie vaguely remembered something on the counter near there when she walked in. Maybe pastries. Morgan knew how to use props.

She could imagine Arthur’s curled lip in disdain. “I thought you were gone.”

“Unfortunately I’ve returned.”

“Where’s Westlie?”

There was a half-beat silence and Westlie knew the non-committal shrug of Morgan’s shoulders. “I don’t know. Just got back. Wanted something to eat before I cleaned up.”

Arthur had a low tolerance for conversation with Morgan and they both knew it. There was an audible growl in his voice. “I heard her with you in the hallway.”

Morgan’s tone was scathing. “And I left. And now I’m here.” There were Morgan’s footsteps, but not her usual light, happy ones. There was a dry, somehow coy pause. “… I’m not her keeper, Father dear.”

She could imagine Arthur’s scorching look of distaste and Westlie was briefly distracted from her horror at the cold and the dark with a wave of protectiveness. She reached up a hand to the floor and almost pressed against the slats before realizing the potatoes were on top of her, and besides that, if she opened it- Her hand hesitated. If she opened it, she would have to face Arthur when they were supposed to be going out on an early evening and- and- Westlie dropped her hand and guilt settled in her stomach. 

At some point a few years ago she’d thought of mailing Morgan a monthly stipend; let her stay the fuck away from all of this. It’d be easily excused as giving herself a raise, and her gut twisted whenever Morgan and Arthur had to be in a room together. Fuck, it was just so wrong. She hadn’t thought it was necessary back then so she didn’t do it. It was definitely necessary, she was definitely going to do it.

Arthur snorted, and his feet shifted on the boards like he was looking around for any disturbance. “… If you see her I need to speak with her.”

Morgan, don’t say anything. Let him leave.

“Oh, I gathered that from all the screaming. The choir could use you, you know.”

… Morgan.

“I should have put you in choir. Prop open your mouth with a stick when I need a songbird. Teach you respect.”

Morgan’s voice tightened. “Last time I checked I can’t carry a “Westlie” down the stairs at full volume.”

“You never needed anything useful out of her.”

“Well, I prefer to ask in a standard tone of voice like a regular human.”

“Ah, regular humans.” Arthur paused for his customary sneer. “Good thing she’s less normal and more useful than you. I didn’t realize the second one would be such a gooddamn parasite.” 

Westlie’s stomach churned like she’d eaten something foul. She could imagine Arthur’s savage disdain and somehow her gut hurt worse. She could take it; she expected the disdain at this point since it was just his reaction to someone he didn’t need to please. Morgan on the other hand, once said two whole words to him in a year. It was “Good Morning”, and the withering scowl Arthur gave her at those words shut her up for a day and a half. … Morgan wasn’t fourteen anymore, but still. Fuck, he couldn’t be civil for one interaction could he. Parasite. Her stomach flopped again and Westlie took a breath to steady it.

There was a long, quiet thirty seconds. Arthur’s footsteps moved from the hallway; heavy stomps up the stairs; there was creaking down the wing to his study she could barely make out. Westlie was too nervous to reach out for a wall she couldn’t see in the dark, so she just stood there on the bottom step, eyes closed, sick. The stench of active fungi pressed in harder and curled down her throat. Morgan, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you stop.

Softer footsteps eventually walked across the kitchen, into the pantry, and the potatoes scraped against the floor. The trapdoor creaked and a dusty grey light broke into the cellar. It’d be like seeing heaven if Morgan’s pale, pointedly neutral face weren’t Westlie’s personal hell. She knew that look; she pretended too, and it was far harder for Morgan to hide under a mask of neutrality. She always tried to say Arthur’s slurs didn’t bite at her, but they did. They definitely did. Fuck, when did everything smell like mushrooms? Westlie covered her mouth as her stomach heaved. “S-sorry.”

She stumbled up the stairs, shoved past Morgan, and made a beeline for the sink, barely reaching it before the reek of mushrooms overcame her and she hurled her lunch. Pork loin tasted decidedly worse the second time. Westlie caught her breath as her stomach twisted again and the rest of breakfast came up too.

“Westlie-?”

“I’m- I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Westlie had to resist the urge to snap; acid just tasted so bad. “I’m fine.” Don’t fucking worry about me. She leaned back against the counter with an elbow, panting. Pull yourself together, Westlie. “I just- I wanted one evening off. … He was the last thing I wanted to deal with.” Fuck, Morgan, you didn’t deserve that interaction.

“We’re still going.”

Westlie couldn’t answer, she just faced the kitchen and leaned back against the counter, eyes closed trying to breathe and get the stench of acid off her tongue. When was the last time she even threw up? When she was fifteen? sixteen? Got too careless with too much rum, but she never made that mistake again.

“We’re still going, right, Wes?” She could hear the hesitant, accusatory tone in Morgan’s voice without looking at her narrowed eyes like she’d throw up to get out of the pub.

“Yeah- Yeah. I need a fucking drink. And I owe you one of whatever the fuck you want from the surface.” Westlie waved her hand a bit non-committally, eyes still tightly shut. “Go change or whatever you were thinking. I’ll just stay down here. I’ll go like this. I’m fine.”

Morgan straighted, suspicious in an entirely new way. She was trying to eliminate possibilities; Westlie groaned inside her head. “I will, but… Westlie, you’re not fine.”

“I am fine.”

“You can’t be. When was the last time you threw up? You’re not that scared of the dark.”

Westlie grunted, opening one eye. “I hate imagining spiders under my skirt too.”

“There are no spiders under your skirt.” Morgan scowled. “Why are you deflecting?”

“’m not. I’m trying to catch my breath.”

“Westlie-”

“Just- stop.”

“Are you okay?!”

“I said I am!”

“But you never throw up!”

“I know! Goddamn it. Stop fucking worrying about me!” It came out before Westlie could stop it and she opened her eyes to Morgan recoiling like she’d been slapped. Her eyes narrowed.

“Well that wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“I told you I’d go to the pub. Now go get dressed.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Westlie scowled. “I’m not telling you shit. Go clean up!”

They were both equally, infuriatingly stubborn. Morgan glared at her. “No.”

Westlie growled and threw up her hands. “It was fucking dark, I hate mushrooms, and it felt like spiders were crawling on my spine.”

“We snuck into a museum through an air duct together!”

“Yeah, well, that was then! Stop fucking asking!” Westlie’s voice raised and she checked herself, lowing it into an angry hiss.

“I just want to know!”

“And you don’t need to. Keep your damn nose out of my business.”

“Oh you are an ungrateful bitch. I should have let Arthur hang your ass to dry.”

“Morgan-”

“No, you-” Morgan adjusted her own tone into a hissed whisper, clearly wondering how far their voices would carry. “You listen to me. You’re a fucking idiot and I’m the only one with some goddamn sense in this family and I will beat it into you if I have to. You are not fine now. You’ve never been fucking fine. Are you blind, or stupid, or just being an asshole right now?”

Westlie glared. “Alright, fine. I’m being an asshole. I’m the asshole. Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix shit. I come home after three months and you’re distracted half the time and it makes you an asshole the other half.” Oh, so she was still pissed about earlier too.

Westlie’s tone turned bitter. “I said I’m sorry. What more do you want?”

“Don’t fucking pretend you’re fine when you just threw up in the sink. Don’t fucking ask me for a story if you don’t give a shit about it - especially not a good one. Don’t lie to me you busy bitch.”

“Fine.” Westlie glared at her. “Fine. I just won’t ask about your travels. Didn’t realize asking who you fucking met on your haphazard, three-month, expensive-as-shit tour of the Reach I gave you the money for was so important I have to drop everything to pay attention to Morgan-only-Morgan.”

Morgan narrowed her eyes, wrapping her ire around herself like a shield, the same as Westlie did for her anger. That hurt. Westlie’s stomach twisted again and she ignored it. “I’ve been gone three months and I’m the selfish one for asking for five minutes?”

“I didn’t say you were selfish-”

“Morgan-only-Morgan,” She mocked in a hissed sing-song tone. “Well ‘Morgan-only-Morgan’ wants to know why you’re throwing up all over the goddamn sink to prove I’m not as fucking inconsiderate as you think.” She edged closer, eyes furious. “Any answers?”

“I don’t like the dark.” Westlie growled back.

“Don’t fucking lie to me or I will call Arthur right back in here.”

Westlie felt her breath catch just enough she noticed and if she noticed Morgan undoubtedly saw it too. Alright, fine. “I don’t like the dark … and-” Morgan’s eyes narrowed further. “-I haven’t had a free night in three weeks.”

Morgan straightened up a little, brown eyes still furiously pinning Westlie in place. “Now that sounds like the truth and I ought to murder you for an entirely different reason.”

Westlie scowled. “I don’t decide that.”

“You decided right now five minutes ago when you let me shove you in the cellar, you fucking idiot, and you would be fine if you just stopped being so goddamn perfect trying to keep a shitty business running.”

“I’m not perfect, I have a job to do, Morgan. I’m not going to fuck off without reason.”

“This is a reason! You throwing up is a reason! You’re stressed! What is wrong with you?!”

Westlie felt her anger peak and her own eyes flash. “You don’t get it. Every employer in all of goddamn Albion is the same fucking person. You find an asshole to work for, Morgan, you work for them, and then you die. You fucking die, and you can’t do shit about it. So I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit your three month schedule, but that’s life.”

“That’s not true.”

“Fucking cry me a river. ‘Not True.’ When did you get experience with employers in London?”

“I’m just saying you’re not fine.” Morgan hissed, because she knew she was beat there. “When was the last time you threw up? My Westlie can’t fucking hold her liquor but she doesn’t vomit it all over the goddamn floor either. Don’t defend that asshole.”

“What asshole? Arthur? Like fuck I’m defending him.”

“Want to say that lie to my face until I believe it?”

Westlie made a lunge for her and Morgan leaped back. They circled each other like hissing tomcats, voices still hushed with furious eyes.

“Don’t you dare accuse me of defending him,” Westlie hissed.

“Oh, I’ll dare,” a wicked smile appeared, giving a glimpse of Morgan’s darker counterpart. “I’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear. All the bits of truth I watch you run away from.”

“You wouldn’t know truth if it smacked you upside the head.”

“I’ll smack you upside the head; you playing the part of this clever monolith holding shit together.”

“I do my duty,” Westlie snarled.

“You hide!” Morgan’s eyes flashed and she took a step forward with her lip curled, gaining ground. “You hide in plain sight like a fucking chameleon in these shitty old houses with the fucking grey trim and you work for your father who drags you like a puppet on strings and you stay unhappy because you don’t. fucking. change. anything. ever.” She leaned in closer, snarling into Westlie face. “You keep your hair up in that neat little knot and you wear that fucking black jacket with the little gold trim to feel like less of an imposter in a sea of filthy top hats because I know you, Westlie.” Morgan shoved a finger up and Westlie had to take a step back, choking on her own tongue.

“So fucking afraid to do anything you just bite your nails and if something comes up it’s ‘oh faaather, what do I doo’, ‘father, help mee’. Like a little whiny bitch who pretends she has balls to everyone else except where it matters because it’s all a farce.” Morgan’s voice went squeaky-high. “‘Oh I’m so refined’ ‘Oh I’m so elegant’, ‘Oh I’m so smart’.” It dropped back into a savage growl. “You’re smart all right. Have everyone else fooled while you sit in your shitty little room and write letters he won’t bother to write himself because you’re too afraid or stupid or uptight to tell him no, that you want a goddamn night off. And you- you are a coward. That’s what you are.” Morgan hissed. “You’re a fucking coward.”

Something snapped. Westlie wound up her arm to throw a right hook but she just- she couldn’t- Her jaw clenched and she wound up again but she didn’t throw it. She couldn’t throw it. Morgan took a sudden step back at her movement like she was snapping out of a trance, almost like she was surprised at what came out of her mouth. Her eyes weren’t regretful though. She was not sorry. Five seconds later a brief flash of horror washed over her face. “Fuck, Westlie-”

“… leave, Morgan.”

Morgan searched her face, hesitated, then turned around and headed for the door without another word.

Fuck.

The door shut. Westlie let her arm drop and she drooped against the counter, leaning back and sliding all the way to bury her head in her knees. Half of her wanted to give an incredulous scoff and the other half felt ripped to pieces. Holy fuck, Morgan. Westlie laughed softly in the stunned, quiet silence. I didn’t know you were that cruel.

No, no that was wrong. She knew Morgan could be that cruel. It was rare, but not unheard of. She didn’t know she could be that cruel to her. I just wanted to help, Westlie’s heart ached and she shut it down immediately, took a deep breath, steadied herself. I wanted to help and I couldn’t do anything.

No, not ‘couldn’t’, ‘didn’t’. Fuck her sister. A choked sound escaped her. That was the worst part, she was right. Fuck she was right. She did all those things - she was all those things. A frightened imposter puppet coward. She choked and let out a breath. She wasn’t going to break; could not break over this. Fuck, it hurt.

She searched for something to keep her hands busy and helplessly undid her hair, taking minutes longer than necessary and consciously pulling out the hairpins and setting them down on the floor beside her. She took the time to line them up exactly and face them in a neat little row, stomping quietly on all her other thoughts as she did it. She pulled her hair over her shoulder and carded her fingers through it, breathing, letting the words rip her up inside in a way she could handle. She could take it; she’d managed pain before. This was the same thing.

Westlie let out a deep breath. What did she want to do? Well, not stay here. If she snuck out of the kitchen she could find her logs, maybe. Logs would be a comfort. There was the absurd irony of using work to help her escape this new grotesque hell. However, she’d have to risk her potential night off avoiding Arthur. He’d still be looking for her somewhere; he put down his pen about seven and it definitely wasn’t seven.

She groaned and leaned back against the cupboard, still carding her hair. Fuck, it hurt. Parasite. Coward.

The c-word had lurked in the back of her mind for a long time, suspiciously accurate enough to stay but it didn’t fit enough to take up room. Morgan had finally given it space in her head large enough to take hold and it was like lichenweed, a tangled mess of parasitic fungi that quickly crawled over everything and suffocated it. Coward. Westlie shivered and shoved it down, quickly braiding her hair to give her fingers something to do. … Coward.

I am not. Westlie hissed to herself, grabbing the braid and fiercely wrapping it on the back of her head. I am not a coward. I do my work, I excel at my work, and I’ve fucking worked all these years to be the best at what I do. I am not a coward.

… Coward.

Westlie hissed in anger and stood up, glancing around the kitchen for something to occupy her time. How the fuck was she supposed to get out of here anyway. She had to make it to her room? Was Morgan even coming back? Probably not. Westlie scoffed and grabbed an apple and bit into it hard enough to make her jaw ache. She chewed; considered hurling it across the room and the satisfactory splat on the wall.

Damn Morgan. Damn how she always made her lose control. She knew all the buttons to push, every word, every action. She knew Westlie felt guilty because she dragged herself back to this hellhole. It wasn’t like she asked or she made her, but Morgan came back all the same. When Morgan spread her wings in the beginning, it was small trips; two weeks, three weeks, a month scattered throughout the year. Then it turned into a few more weeks begged away, then a month at a time, then two months. She was cocky, sure of herself, just like she’d always been but moreso now. The past two years she was gone three months twice in the same year. How long had she been home? A month at most? Who knew where she even spent her time. … And she still dragged herself back.

You’re a bad sister. The thought came unbidden, and Westlie hated its presence; hated that it sank in her stomach and stayed there, replacing breakfast and lunch with guilt.

… I know.

You’re the parasite. You drag her down, you keep her here for Arthur to infect.

… I know.

There was a brief acidic burn in her throat as her stomach twisted again and Westlie breathed through it. She pushed the feeling down, leaned on the table in the center of the kitchen, and focused on the wood grain.

A few more minutes passed but it was an excruciatingly long time. Westlie listened to all the creaks in the house, hating each one with the annoyed awareness if she didn’t distract herself she’d be sitting over the sink again because she was such a piss-poor stressed ball of bitch she let insults get under her skin. She jumped and froze in place when she heard light footsteps in the hallway. Morgan or Mary? There was a hesitation before the door and Westlie felt her body tense. Morgan. 

The door opened and she slipped inside in her usual loose blouse and walking skirt. Her face and her hands were clean but her hair still had specks of coal in it. She didn’t look angry, just tired. There was a brief, painful silence after she shut the door and Westlie just waited for her to open her mouth and for it to hurt worse.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

… Westlie watched her in distrust.

Morgan looked down at the ground and she seemed smaller. “… I’m sorry. I- I went too far.”

Damn right. Westlie didn’t know what to say so she just stayed quiet. Her stomach ached.

Morgan opened her mouth, hesitated, stood there. A minute passed. She looked lost. “Say something, Westlie,” she whispered.

That was unforgiveable. Was the first thing that came to her head, but Westlie couldn’t force it out of her mouth. She tore her gaze from Morgan’s and stared at her hands, leaning on the center table.

Morgan’s voice got smaller. “… Westlie?”

Westlie still couldn’t say anything and they just stood there in a horrible sinking quiet. They had fights sometimes, but they never formed chasms this big. She was supposed to bridge it, Westlie knew. She was the older, responsible one. She was the peacekeeper, somehow, even with her temper, because her love for Morgan always, always overrode whatever anger she had. There was still love there, maybe, but the ground had been pulled out from under her and it just felt… it just felt so empty now.

Such a coward. Something in her head whispered and Westlie’s brow furrowed. She grit her teeth.

Morgan took a step closer toward the table, hesitant. Westlie didn’t look up to see the fear in her eyes. “Wes, It’s not true. I didn’t mean it.”

Westlie’s head snapped up and she opened her mouth to spit something out, but it died at the look of fear on Morgan’s face. She rephrased and went for a glare. “Oh, you fucking meant all of it.” Nice bridge you built there, Westlie.

“I was… I was-”

“I don’t even care, Morgan.” Westlie straightened up and sighed, finally meeting her eyes. “… It hurt.”

The words came out in a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“… Sorry doesn’t fix shit.”

Westlie could feel their dynamic falter as they stared. She was never in control; Morgan was the one to pick their spots, Morgan was the one to make things work, to choose new ideas, challenge whatever they’d done before. But now Morgan was at a loss and Westlie who hadn’t lost her temper who hadn’t insulted the cruelest part of Morgan’s self stood above her like a god casting judgement. And Westlie could feel her waiting for the hammer to drop … only she couldn’t think of anything else to say. What punishment was good enough?

“What do you want, Westlie?” Morgan finally whispered, breaking the silence.

… I want you to say I’m not a coward. I’m not a coward. Fucking say it.

… I want you to go to the bar by yourself and drink yourself into a goddamn stupor.

… I want you to stay out of my fucking business. Don’t fucking ask about Arthur or the shop or anything else.

… I want you to learn how the books work so you could be me, just this once.

… I want you to fuck off. And that would be the cruelest one. That would be- The bitter side of Westlie wanted to spit it just to see Morgan crack and shatter and fall to pieces in front of her because that revenge would be sweet after Westlie felt herself crack and shatter and fall. But there would be no fixing it once said. That was something that could never be undone. This could still be mended. Westlie let out the softest sigh and her pride folded - because she was a coward.

Morgan’s look was tortured; a quiet plea.

“… I want…” Westlie hesitated at how rough her whispered voice sounded. “… I want you to be safe.”

Morgan had been holding her breath and it burst out of her in a quiet half-smile half-sob. “W-What?”

“I want you to be safe.”

She took a step forward, resting her hand on the edge of the table. “Westlie, what does that even mean?”

Westlie’s face twisted in annoyance. “… what does it sound like it means?”

Morgan threw up her hands, sniffing. “Gods fucking save me. I- I don’t know what you mean. Do you not want me to throw you in a cellar? Do you not want me to go to the pub at 3am? Do you not want me to leave London again? What does that mean?”

“Don’t-” Westlie snorted, her throat still rough. “Don’t barb Arthur. You knew how it was going to turn out. You know he’s cruel. Morgan you know him. I know you hate being here. I know it, you know it.” Westlie choked and just waved a hand around the kitchen. “Just- you don’t have to fight it.”

Morgan let out a somewhat incredulous laugh and turned to the side to rub at her eyes before focusing on Westlie again. “That’s what this is all about?”

“N-no, not all of it, but-” If I told you I wanted to knock your face in for that rant, it doesn’t have the same ring to it. Westlie couldn’t think of anything to add and finally shrugged, turning her face away. “… just take it.”

She flinched a little when Morgan grabbed her sleeve. “What-?” Her sister tugged her around the table and wrapped her arms around her waist, squeezing so tight she could barely breathe.”Morgan-”

“… you’re not a coward,” Morgan mumbled almost unintelligibly. “ You- you do a lot. I’m sorry.”

Westlie did not want to hug her. It hurt. She took a quiet breath and wrapped her arms around her sister, swallowing as she let her fingers slip in the base of Morgan’s hair. “… I will end you if you do that again.”

Morgan nodded without hesitation and Westlie had to sigh, waiting a long thirty seconds before she could get the words out. “… I’m a coward, but I want you safe. … I don’t understand what goes through your head. You should have just… let him go.”

“I don’t care what he thinks of me,” Morgan mumbled. “He can suck it.”

“I care.”

There was a tiny laugh and Westlie forgot, for a second, the circumstances. “You care about everything, Wes.”

“That’s my job,” Westlie murmured.

“Can you suck at it more?”

“No.”

Morgan laughed softly again.

Westlie curled around her, fitting her chin a little on top of Morgan’s bright hair. “I’m… sorry I didn’t pay attention.”

“I was being an ass; I know I need to pull you out slowly. It was a really long day.”

“I was an ass too. … We both made asses of ourselves.”

She felt Morgan smile and Westlie resisted the urge to hold her closer. When she focused, she realized that the initial pain was less. It ached and she was bitter, but in the way of something she could bury, maybe, after a while, although she was not going to forget those words easily.  Should she even forget them? Maybe after several drinks and several stories, and several days of Morgan being Morgan. … Morgan still clinging to her regretfully was a start. Westlie frowned and decided not to think about it. It was tomorrow-Westlie’s problem.

She sighed and straightened, gently peeling herself away from her younger sister. Morgan settled herself and leaned back on the center table, hiding her face by looking at the far wall. Her eyes were probably red; Westlie politely ignored it. “What time is it?”

There was a shrug. “I don’t know. Five? Six?”

“… Early enough. I can still go to bed at a sane time and I need possibly the stiffest drink they have.”

Morgan glanced at her. “I… figured you’d want to go to bed.”

“Oh I am definitely going to bed in four hours.” Westlie glanced around the kitchen for something quick to eat and grabbed one of the pastries. She bit into it. “I’m not fucking sitting in my room and spending my night off reading the same wind speed chart over and over though. And I’m definitely not spending any part of those four hours finding a new drinking partner.”

Morgan stayed suspiciously quiet and Westlie got to savor the knowledge she’d rendered Morgan mute twice in the same day. The pastry tasted even better.

After a second Morgan straightened and did the annoyingly familiar stabilizing breath. She gave Westlie a weak smile. “Well, O’Malleys got their shipment from the Surface in yesterday.”

“O’Malleys it is then.” Westlie bowed low, but it couldn’t be taken seriously with the fucking pastry half-eaten and the faint smile on Morgan’s face grew ever so slightly more genuine. “Lead the way, Faire.”

[starswornoaths]

Ever a Seneschal, Ne’er a Princess (3/4)

Part 1, Part 2

Aymeric gets to plan things out for Little Ladies’ Day. Serella is...suspicious.

Or:

If you thought I had abandoned this and wouldn’t turn it into sugary sappy nonsense you were dead fucking wrong, friendo.

Word count: 4739

Pleasantly, the first sensation Serella awoke to was the soft, sweet feeling of familiar fingers drifting through her hair with the utmost care. The sensation was a soothing and repetitious one, just comforting enough that she hovered in that realm between wakefulness and slumber, but stimulating enough that she was aware. With a sleepy hum, she snuggled deeper into the pillows and blankets, and a warm, velvety chuckle rumbled from somewhere beside her.

“Will you not greet the day with me, Ella?” Aymeric asked in her ear.

Shivering pleasantly at the sleep roughened timbre of his voice, she smiled though did not open her eyes.

“Has dawn come to visit so soon?” Serella asked half into to her pillow.

“Only for a brief while, dear one.” He answered. The hand stroking her hair smoothed it away from her forehead. Her smile widened on its own when she felt him kiss her temple. “Have I brushed enough starlight from your hair that you might open your eyes for me?”

“Hmm,” she pretended to contemplate his question as she languidly stretched her limbs out. When she cracked one eye open, she couldn’t help the way she melted under the warmth in his gaze, propped up on his arm over her as he was. “I suppose—but only because it’s you.”

“Blessed am I, then. Although,” he mused, his smile warmer than the sunshine spilling through the windows. “I only see my ocean, Ella.” He chuckled again. “No credit for half effort, I am afraid.”

“A pity.” She said, though finally turned bodily so she could open her other eye and fully look at him, and was all at once glad she did.

Haloed by the cool toned, overcast light spilling in from the foggy windows behind them he looked heaven sent, looking at her like she was everything he needed in that moment. She flushed under his warm gaze, even as she smiled at his blissful sigh when she reached up to stroke his face.

“There is my world.” Aymeric sighed, and when he bent to kiss her, he breathed against her lips between kisses, “my heart. My all.”

As they kissed, slowly and softly yielding, Serella’s heart felt warm and full to bursting. While their mornings were always filled with affection, it was a rare luxury to be able to linger in the moment, to lounge in bed with one another and nowhere to be. With a breath of laughter they finally drifted apart just enough to breathe.

“And there is mine.” Serella mused, bumping her nose against his.

His smile widened even as he moved to brush his lips against hers again. When she lightly scratched her nails along his scalp his head dropped into the crook of her neck with a delighted hum.

“Pray do not distract me overly much this morn, beloved.” He let out another sigh and shivered pleasantly when her fingers softly drifted across the span of his back to lightly tickle his skin. “Else I fear we will accomplish naught before noon.”

“Have you errands to run?” She asked, her mind flipping through the previous night’s conversation for something she forgot. “I thought you had today off.”

“No work today— but I do have an errand or two that needs attending to— and one of which is, admittedly, for work, and that I would be glad for your assistance with.” He answered. “I would also just greatly appreciate your company besides.”

“You’ll have it— oh, but must we get up now?” Serella asked with a pout. “It seems criminal to stop enjoying you as you are right now.”

“‘As I am right now?’ And how might I be, dear one?” Aymeric asked in amusement.

“Oh, surely you know you’re stunning when you first wake up.” She flustered, even as she smiled. “I mean, you’re always stunning, but you’re so relaxed and you seem so happy—”

“‘Tis all your doing, I’m afraid.” He kissed her cheek. “For how can I face the day with aught but a smile when I awake next to you?”

“Alright, I give up,” she laughed and bumped his nose with hers, “you’re still better at flattery than I am.”

“You have afforded me much practice,” he teased. “Perhaps if I may tempt you out of bed, I might continue to do so.”

“You would do so regardless,” she dismissed, even as she stretched and wriggled closer to the edge of the bed, “but I suppose I could get up.”

“I do so because I love you,” he said, and even now, so late in their relationship that never failed to make her beam at him.

“And I’m learning to get better at it because I love you too,” she replied, and pecked his cheek on the way to getting ready for their errands, not realizing his smile still lit up as if it were the first time she said it.

***

**

*

It said something of how little Aymeric deviated from his work schedule when he was surprised by how bustling and busy the Jeweled Crozier was at midday, Serella thought to herself as they descended the stairs toward the shops and stalls. Though she supposed she could concede that the Crozier had grown busier than typical of late with even more trade and international business being conducted there now that Ala Mhigo and Doma were exporting goods again.

This was…nice, she decided when he gallantly offered her his arm as they walked. Rare enough were the times they had an entire day to spend together, but rarer still did they have an opportunity—or the energy—to do something outside the house together that didn’t involve work. She delighted in having such a mundane day with him.

“This should not be unexpected, I suppose,” Aymeric commented idly, his mild surprise easing from his features as they wound their way around the pockets of patrons. “Reports we receive within the Houses have reflected such growth.”

“There’s something to be said for making time to see such things for yourself, dear one.” Serella said with a laugh.

“After seeing all of this, I am inclined to agree.” He conceded.

“Huh,” she mused when she spied the crowd circling the jeweler stand. “Wonder if Seghuie released a new collection. Her stall usually isn’t so busy.”

“Would you like to see?” Aymeric offered, already slowing his gait.

“T’would be poor form if I did, I’m afraid,” Serella said with a dramatic sigh and a flick of her free hand. “Lest she accuse me of spying on my competition.”

“I had not realized there was such rivalry between you.” Aymeric said with an amused smile.

“Oh, there isn’t,” she replied airily, “because she can’t compete with me.”

“Such resounding humility.” Aymeric teased, his smile widening.

“I speak only in regard to price,” she explained with a shake of her head. “She pays for her metals and gems to be imported. I gather mine myself rather than ordering supplies to be shipped in bulk, and I don’t pay rent for a stall.” She shrugged. “My wares will always be cheaper because of that. I just have fewer costs to offset.”

“A fair enough point,” he said, though he seemed distracted even as he nodded his head.

She followed his gaze as he craned his neck to look further down the marketplace and wondered what it was he was looking for.

“You mentioned you had business in the Crozier,” she said conversationally as he began to walk again, though kept his pace slow as his eyes scanned the shop windows and stall counters they passed. “How can I help?”

He looked back at her in mild surprise. “I daresay you are, though if you might happen to recall which shop is the tailor…”

Serella rolled her eyes and smiled despite herself. “You’ve lived here all your life, and you’re entrusting this to the woman who becomes directionally challenged the moment she steps inside a city.”

“Desperate times, desperate measures, my dear.” Aymeric said solemnly, patting her hand on his arm.

“But you’ll be glad to know, that I do happen to remember the shop’s on the left, just after the smithy stall.” She supplied, pursing her lips.

Even for how often she would either purchase supplies from them or work with them, she let out a relieved sigh when they neared and it turned out that she had steered them correctly. Aymeric smiled wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the corners but graciously did not comment, and instead ushered her gently in the door he held open for her.

While the winds were nearly still that day, the warmth of the shop was welcome against the frost that had settled outside—though more welcome still were the new textiles and bolts of beautiful fabric that Serella spied on the far wall, shelved like tall books and laden with just as much potential to capture her imagination.

“Serella!” Dolores, the aging owner of the establishment, chirped from the counter, lifting the door to come around to greet her.

Serella beamed. “Dottie,” she greeted with equal warmth, “it’s so good to see you again!”

“Ohh, look at you! Tell me of all you’ve done since you last came! How’s your brother doing?” Dolores doted and fussed, and Serella bent to accept her outstretched arms in a friendly embrace.

“Been on the road, mostly— Uthen’s well, and misses you greatly.”

“You tell that young man he should stop by for biscuits and coffee! I always enjoy visiting with you both, my dear!” Dottie must have spied Aymeric closing the door behind him, because she gasped. “Oh! Lord Commander—err, Lord Speaker!” She flustered, stepping away from her fellow weaver to offer a curtsy.

“Please,” Aymeric said with a faint smile. “There is no need for such formality—I am not presently on duty. I am, however, in need of your services, if you are available?”

“Oh!” She gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as her gaze flitted between Lord Commander and Warrior of Light respectively. “Yes, yes, of course—I should be glad to help!”

“You have my thanks,” Aymeric said before looking over at Serella, who already fidgeted with the want to more closely inspect a certain bolt of a soft looking amethyst fabric. “Has something caught your interest, dear one?” He asked.

“A few things,” Serella reluctantly admitted, tearing her gaze away. “Nothing I can’t come back for another day. You needed me for something here, right?”

“Aye,” he affirmed with a nod. “Though that might take some time yet—there are particulars for which I must defer to Madam Dolores’ expertise,” with a gentle caress of her hand with his, he coaxed her, “go on, take all the time you need. We will be here.”

“You’re sure…?” Serella said hesitantly.

Were she eyeing the fabrics for business, she would have no qualms rushing over and doing a bit of shopping, but the only things she could think of to make with such fabrics—if they felt as soft and light and smooth as they looked, that is—were all very much personal projects: dresses and vests that she would so rarely get to wear.

A waste on an adventurer, she thought mournfully.

“I promise, neither the good Madam nor myself object.” Aymeric reassured her, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing her knuckles.

“Go on, dear,” Dottie insisted, shooing her away. “I have some bolts fresh off the cart from Gyr Abania there—they’ve become quite popular, you know!”

With no further prompting needed, Serella practically floated over to the richly dyed fabric.

Intuition had told her correctly it seemed, as the fabric was just as luxuriously soft and supple as she had expected it to be. Its deep violet hue was gorgeous, and experience told her that if she were to fashion something from it, the cloth would flow like water when the wearer moved. She cooed softly as she ran her fingers along the length of the bolt. Her mind was already a flurry of imagination and schematics, clothing patterns and ideas for a dress. How elegant it would look, with a high collar and maybe an open back—

But…ah, it would be wasted on her, Serella reminded herself. She could certainly justify making something of this fabric for a friend, but…she was an adventurer. How often would she truly make any use of it?

Though most of her friends were adventurers, too—and those that weren’t likely already had entire armoires filled with finery and things befitting their station. There is always more than one option when considering a bolt of fabric, she remembered Redolent Rose’s tutelage, to be a weaver is to adapt! So she looked again.

The fabric was too thin for a cloak or a coat…though she could line it with a dark fur or wool. Fur would likely allow for it to be just as warm and anchoring without sacrificing the fabric’s languid movement. Maybe gold thread trim to keep the edges sturdy and fashionable? She would have to sketch out a pattern for the embroidery, but that would do nicely.

Not…not for her, though. She didn’t need a cloak, but she could think of a few friends whose own coats and protective gear were looking a little worse for wear.

Something to dwell on later—and a perfectly good excuse to come back and properly chat with Dottie over tea…once she’d fixed that squeaky hinge on the counter door…and a few things here and there she’d noticed she could patch up. Maybe she could plan it so Uthengentle could come with; he loved seeing Dottie, too, and Serella had taken stock of some things around the shop that could do with a bit of maintenance that she just didn’t have the expertise for.

“Ella?” She nearly jumped out of her skin when Aymeric called her softly.

It was probably better that he spoke up from beside her first before he placed his hand on the small of her back; she had been just deep enough in her own thoughts that she might have instinctively swung at him on principle otherwise. Instead, she pressed a hand against her chest to calm her heart.

“Gods, you startled me,” she sighed. “I, ah, must have drifted a little there.”

Though concern flickered in his gaze—likely out of fear that she had another episode with the voice calling to her—when he saw that she was still idly smoothing her fingers over the bolt of fabric, his expression eased into a relieved smile.

“Forgive me, that was not my intent.” He said. “Have you a mind to put this to good use?” He guessed when he followed her gaze.

“I’ll need to think more on it,” she said, and withdrew her hand once she realized she was still touching the bolt. “I know what I could make from it, I just need to figure out if anyone needs it.”

He tilted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “Is there aught you wanted to make from it?” He asked her. “For yourself?”

“Plenty of things,” she answered, shrugging even as she stepped back toward where Dottie had begun fussing over a dress form. “All of which would be wasted on me.”

“Ella,” he said again, and though she wasn’t facing him, she could hear something akin to startled upset in his voice.

Which struck her as odd—surely he knew her life didn’t really allow for many niceties on the road? And what niceties she did have, had function? There was hardly a need to be upset about that.

“You needed my help, right?” Serella asked, turning to look at him from over her shoulder. “That’s why you came looking for me?”

For a moment, Aymeric looked almost…sad. Before she could question it, his expression smoothed into something warmer, if more neutral. His hand returned to the small of her back, gentle, never pressing, a soft reminder of his presence and reassurance. She loved that about him.

“Yes,” Aymeric said, and with a gesture toward Dottie, they moved back to the counter. “I believe we came to an agreement.”

“But I’ll need your help, Serella dear.” Dottie said, only barely unlocking the counter door before she was a flurry of motion, sliding bolts of fabric and plucking skeins of thread from the shelves behind the counter. “Come round the counter, if you please!”

Serella loved watching Dottie work—a master in her field with years of experience and practiced movements she moved with incredible efficiency but no less passion. She was an inspiration—Serella would count herself as blessed if she lived long enough to do much the same someday.

“How can I help, Dottie?” Serella asked hesitantly, stepping behind the counter as instructed.

“Stand on the dais!” Dottie answered, pointing toward the corner of the back office meant for taking customer measurements.

Serella arched a brow, curious. When she spared a glance over at Aymeric, he merely shrugged.

“We could think of none better to take measurements from.” He explained, as if that answered everything. “Mine own measurements were already taken.”

That didn’t surprise her: Dottie moved quickly.

“What is this for?” Serella asked—and really, would just settle for someone explaining it—even as she hung her cloak on the coat rack and worked to pull off her boots. “A coat? Pants?”

“I had thought to commission Madam Dolores for assistance with the Temple Knights—and the Watch.” Aymeric said, even as Dottie fussed him onto a cushioned stool. “For more durable clothing to wear beneath their armor—and uniforms for the Watch besides.”

“For the Templars and the Watch?” Serella asked with a concerned frown. “I don’t mind helping, but that’s a lot for a one person shop—“

“I’m just working on a model for them to take for mass production—though your man is paying well for it.” Dottie answered. “But thank you for the concern, my dear.” She shooed the Paladin into stepping on the dais. “Up, up, now.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not built that differently from the average Templar…and I am a member of the Watch…” Serella conceded, tapping a finger to her chin in thought. “Still, are you sure that I’d be—?”

She yelped in alarm when Dottie struck her hip with her yalm ruler—not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough that Serella pulled her posture straight and returned her hands to her sides out of ingrained reflex.

“Now, now, dear,” Dottie tutted gently as though she hadn’t just welted the Warrior of Light with a yalm stick. “You were taught how to measure, so I know you know how to stand and be measured.”

“Straight, still, and softly,” Serella supplied automatically, feeling heat creep up her neck at the admonishment.

Out of the corner of her eye she spied Aymeric rub his knuckles almost subconsciously with a wince. Must be a reflex from younger days, she guessed.

There was a tap at the inner part of her knee, though gentler this time. Guiding, not reprimanding. She shuffled her feet a few ilms apart.

“There we are.” Dottie said with a satisfied nod.

Her tape measurer, slung along her neck like a fashionable scarf—in addition to the fashionable scarf already there—was swiftly in her hands and pressed along the outside of Serella’s leg.

“Have you two met before?” Serella asked, still making a point not to turn her head—Dottie somehow always knew when she moved even an ilm.

“A time or two,” Dottie answered. “Not for long, but enough that I recognized him.”

“I knew her more by name than face.” Aymeric admitted. “You speak of her highly. She was the first I thought of when in need of a tailor’s services.”

When Dottie stepped in front of her to measure her torso, Serella saw her flush as she hid a smile. Serella made no effort to hide her own grin, even as Dottie finished up the last of her measurements.

Dottie began muttering to herself then, though Serella could clearly hear her weighing the options for fabrics and their merit in combat situations. A retired Templar herself, she would doubtless know the uniform—and what wear and tear it would face—better than most.

“Yes,” she said slowly, laying out a tough but flexible fabric dyed the color of night. “This should do nicely.” Clapping her hands she turned toward Aymeric. “I should have the prototypes to present to you in a fortnight.”

“That is more than agreeable,” Aymeric said with a nod.

Presuming their need of her was concluded, Serella made to stepped off the dais and reach for her boots.

“Oh, Serella dear,” Dottie insisted. “I would ask a personal favor of you.”

“Hmm?” Serella paused, startled. “Err, sure, but what—?”

Dottie had already disappeared down the little hallway of shelves and drawers, rummaging and mumbling to herself. She was clearly in her stride, then. Serella knew better than to try to break it with needless chatter— personal experience told her how frustrating that was to try and get back once lost.

Fidgeting in place, she spared a glance over her shoulder again to look where Aymeric sat to see him regarding her with the faintest of smiles curling the corner of his lips. There was…not amusement, but something closer to mischief twinkling in his eyes—an oddity for him. Still, the light from the window softened his features, all gently angular and tempered with those dark, silken curls framing his face. So unfairly handsome, she thought with a mental sigh.

“What’s that look for?” She asked rather than swoon over him in silence.

“’Tis nothing,” he reassured her—though his smile widening told her that was a bold faced lie. “I am merely enjoying my favorite view.”

“Incorrigible flatterer,” Serella grumbled, ignoring the heat that pooled to her cheeks. “You’re planning something, I know that look.”

“I am!” Aymeric admitted freely. Before Serella could press him, he added, “I am considering how best to coordinate this commission with the Weaver’s Guild in Ul’Dah.”

Serella narrowed her eyes in suspicion. His smile, infuriatingly, turned into a knowing smirk. He knew she suspected more was afoot.

“There’s more you’re planning.”

“There is always more to plan for, my dearest,” he answered smoothly.

Dottie’s footsteps drew near, and Serella knew better than to press on a matter Aymeric would not otherwise disclose, so she swallowed her questions and just shot him a baleful glare. She caught his smug grin before she turned to face Dottie emerging from the hall. Secretive little shite, she grumbled in her mind.

“I have a commission for a lovely young lass,” Dottie explained, smoothing out the crinkled pages in her commission journal and flipping to a marked page. “But I have very little direction, I’ll be honest. Asked for an outfit that was ‘light and airy that flowed nicely.’” She lightly poked the Paladin’s arm. “Now I’m no spring chicken, so I don’t know what would look best on a young lady—”

“So I’m to help with designing, am I?” Serella guessed, pursing her lips.

“Always such a quick one, you.” Dottie patted her hand.

“Right, then.” With a sigh, Serella ruminated over the request. “Light and airy…but still warm enough for Coerthas?”

“No, no, I should have mentioned— this is for an event in Thanalan,” Dottie corrected.

“Oh!” She startled, but given the setting was to be elsewhere, that certainly freed up a few ideas. “In that case...the first thing I think of a nice top with a knee length skirt. Maybe stockings, too, if she’s so inclined.”

“That could work,” Dottie nodded along, her pen already scratching out a rough design on the first semi-clear page she found. “With a natural waistline?” She asked, almost to herself, tapping her pencil along the model’s middle.

“Would an empire waist work better? Just below the bust?” Serella guessed. “She wants something new—maybe a higher waistline with a darker skirt would work.”

“Darker skirt…” Dottie paused a moment. “Like a deep blue?”

“Or something like it?” Serella suggested.

Dottie resumed scrawling, though Serella couldn’t make out the details, even peering over her shoulder.

“What if the top,” Dottie spoke quietly, deep in thought, “was a lighter color?”

“That…that sounds nice, actually.” Serella tilted her head. “Something much lighter, though—gray, maybe?”

“No, no,” Dottie muttered, the paper near tearing beneath her frantic and frenzied sketching. “The difference should be stark—something striking, while not too sharply contrasting.” She set her pen down and looked up as though she had an epiphany. “Stay there.”

Aware that Dottie had hit that crafting frenzy that many a creator hit in the middle of inspiration, Serella did as instructed, and resumed staying well out of the way as Dottie hastily pulled a fairly large bolt end scrap of deep navy colored fabric, and what appeared to be a scrap of gauzy ivory material.

“Obviously, the dress will have more to it than this,” Dottie muttered, hastily pinning the fabric scraps to the dress form. “But just to see how the colors balance…”

The white fabric stopped just below the bust, and with the blue fabric draped over it at the ribcage, Serella had to admit that it made for a flattering combination. Seeing the ivory and navy together, contrasting but complimentary, she happily conceded that the boltmaster knew best.

“I think it’s beautiful.” Serella said quietly. “Picking ivory and not white was a wonderful choice. It…I don’t know how to word it…” she tilted her head. “It softens it, I guess. Somehow.” When she caught Aymeric and Dottie both sharing a look, her cheeks burned. “Err…that has to sound silly, forget I said—“

“I couldn’t agree more, my dear.” Dottie said. She smiled wide enough her eyes crinkled. “And I’m delighted you think so, too.”

Suddenly Serella— but not Aymeric, she noted grumpily— was being shooed out of the back room before she could even properly put her boots back on, and she fought the urge to grumble as she hopped on one foot to pull her boot over her foot. Doubtless they were working out the logistics of the uniforms and finalizing payments. Just as well; she wasn’t exactly needed for such talks, but Dottie could have at least waited for her to put her boots on!

She tried not to huff when the two of them stepped out again, all smiles and secrecy— and a package tucked beneath Aymeric’s arm. She tried not to seem as suspicious as she was, even as she looped her arm through his offered one and promised Dottie a visit over tea sometime soon and they made their way back out into the chilly streets.

“Was there aught you needed while we were out?” Aymeric asked.

When she shook her head, he suggested they make for home; though only just past midday, the wind was beginning to pick up, and the streets only growing more congested. Better for both their nerves if they made a hasty retreat, he reasoned. Serella agreed.

Once safely back in her home and after he had freshened up, Aymeric suggested he make them lunch— and more or less shooed her off with a kiss to change into her comfortable loungewear while he did so. Feeling very much like she was being lovingly bossed around today by those dear to her, she obliged— though mostly because she had just wanted to change clothes anyway, so she just did it with more grumbling than originally intended.

Though when she entered the bedroom, she realized that the package Aymeric had brought with him sat upon it— with a note addressed to her sat on top. She arched a brow, even as she took the little card and turned it over to read.

I know not what you had thought to make for yourself, but pray use this to do so— and remember that you are allowed to want for yourself, my love.

Inside the package was that stunning purple fabric, with a smaller scrap of pattern paper with Dottie’s compact writing: 10 yalms, should be enough for whatever you like, dear.

Misty eyed, Serella safely tucked both notes inside her jewelry box and set the fabric in her closet-made-crafting lounge, and made a mental note to sketch out some more concrete designs later, after she’d gone back downstairs and showered her lover in kisses until he tired of it.

As it turned out, he did not tire of it at all, and reassured her that he never would.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

FIC PROMPTS. YOU KNOW THE THING. ÉTIENNE CHASING CHELSEA AROUND THE WORLD, AND ALL THE DESPERATE MEETINGS ALONG THE WAY. OR ANYTHING WITH CHELSEA, AT ALL.

I BET YOU THOUGHT I FORGOT ABOUT THIS ASK! THINK AGAIN MOTHERFUCKERS, I COME WITH CHELSEA ANGST!

over hill, over dale, over valley and vale

There’s a lot to be said for living inFairyland, in Chelsea’s opinion.  DukeTorquill is very nice—partly, she suspects, because he views all of Sir Daye’sstrays as a sort of motley crew of grandchildren—even if his wife is strangeand distant even in her kindness.  Pixiesare a vastly more interesting pest than mice, the Hobs in the kitchen are alltoo game to allow or even encourageChelsea to steal snacks whenever she’s interested, and for the first time inher life, Chelsea has friends near her own age. Quentin, and through Quentin Raj, and Karen, and sometimes evenCassandra or Helen.  Not many friends,and spread across seven or eight years in age, but there are nights whenChelsea feels almost dizzy with the embarrassment of riches.

Then there are days like this one, whereChelsea wishes Fairyland had left her well alone until the day she died ahappily ignorant human death.

Chelsea sucked in a breath and it tasted like fire, and ittasted like smoke, and it tasted like screaming, and then—yes, God, yes, thank you, a doorout of this hell, she knew where it would take her, it would take her toSeattle—

She stumbled into ice and snow, and there was a voice shoutingfor her to listen, for her to breathe, just for a moment, and then—

The stars overhead were unfamiliar, and there was an invisiblefist around her spine, around her heart, holding her in place, and her skin wasbeing sanded away to reveal something new and strange, and there was still somuch screaming—anything to be out of this place where everything hurt and shewas a prisoner, anything, anywhere would be better, anywhere but—

There was a man with green eyes and a startled expression, andthen there was fire, and then—

Chelsea’s eyes snap open, and sheflinches back so hard her head cracks into the stone wall.  Her hands fly out, trying to ward off theflames, grabbing for the intangible somethingthat makes up the world, but—

Hands lowering slowly, Chelsea blinks,gulping in a vast breath, then another, and another, as she feels her heartrace.  Right.  Of course. She’s at Shadowed Hills, the dim shapes around her focusing into herroom as her eyes remember what seeing feels like.  There are her books, and her desk, and herwardrobe.

There’s no glittering door in front ofher.

It’s a good thing.  It’s safety. It’s the surest sign in the world she’ll never be swept away again.

It makes Chelsea’s gut twist up with fearuntil she’s sure she’s about to be sick.

Chelsea pulls her legs up to her chestand wraps both arms tight around them, like a little kid afraid of thedark.  Chelsea had never been afraid ofthe dark—even as a child, she had been able to see through the dim,light-polluted Berkley night with ease, and it had felt safe and comforting,nothing like the punishing whipcrack of sunrise.  She thinks she might be learning to be afraidnow, despite her fine new night vision.

At very least, her time in Duchess Riordan’scare taught her well and truly to be afraid of being alone.

“I want my dad,” she whispers into herknees.

It’s a strange impulse.  Her dad—Etienne—is still nearly astranger.  She doesn’t know him, notreally.  He’s a knight, for God’s sake, he fights with a sword.  But—

But she also knows him better than she’sever known anyone, because the first time she met him, he caught her shakingshoulders in his hands and said that he would never leave her again, and shehad looked into his eyes and known hewas telling the truth.

It went like this.

Chelsea was sure she was going to die,alone in a strange world, surrounded by people who didn’t even care enough tohate her.  She wonders, now, if SirDaye—Toby, which Chelsea is still adjusting to—knows how utterly fortunate sheis, that most of her enemies hate herwith every fiber of her being.  It wasterrifying, gut-wrenching, to know that she was going to die, her body left onthe heather or thrown over the cliffs, and no one who cared would ever know,and no one who knew would ever care, except that their crowbar to pry open thewalls of the world had finally given out.

And worse than that, she was going to diein pain, because the blinding painthat had started in her head was lancing down her neck, burning along hernerves like it was trying to chew through her bones.  The longer she held open the gate, the moreit hurt—and she couldn’t do anything else, she couldn’t, because there was an unbreakable grip around her spineand she couldn’t run, couldn’t fight, couldn’t do anything but try to standhere and not die.

When the fight started, she could barelysee past the white-static haze drifting over her vision, popping here and therewith black starbursts.  There wasscreaming, barely distinguishable from the noise in Chelsea’s ears.  It had started as a pitchy hum, then aringing, and now it was as if she was standing in a high wind, just an endlessroaring that ebbed every once in a while to remind her that her heart reallywas beating that fast.

Someone was rushing toward her.  Fine. Chelsea couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just gasped out a wheezing, sobbingbreath and tried to straighten under the weight of the pain.  The gate, the gate, she had to hold up thegate—

“Chelsea!”

That was what had finally gotten herattention, brought her back into her body from the elsewhere she had started todrift toward.  If Riordan knew her name,Chelsea had never seen any evidence of that fact.  The only people who had shouted her name werethe other changeling, and the man with her, and this was neither of them.

Turning her head hurt more than anythingelse Chelsea had ever done.

There was a man moving toward her, movingfast, and he looked like he’d been beaten to hell and back but he bulledthrough one of the invisible soldiers without so much as a pause.

“Chelsea!” he repeated, more sharply, andthen he was in front of her.  He wastall, and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and sharply pointed ears and eyes asbright as freshly minted pennies. “Chelsea, breathe,” he said. There was a strange accent clinging to his deep voice, but his wordswere kind, and he caught her shoulder when she wavered on her feet.

“Who—are—you,” Chelsea forced out, oneword at a time, and his face twisted into something between grief and blind,homicidal rage.

“My name is Etienne,” he said, and oh,then his hands were brushing her hair out of her face, careful and unsure, butthe touch left a small path of painlessness, for a brief moment.  “I’m—I’m your father.”

“It hurts,” Chelsea gasped, feeling tearsgather in her eyes again.  The ragesettled more fully onto his face.  “It—Ithurts.”

“I know it does, Chelsea,” the man—her father—said.  “I’m going to help you hold open thegate.  Just look at me.  You’re doing wonderfully.”

“I don’t want to keep it open anymore,”she said, tipping over fully into crying. “It hurts, I—I don’t want to die, I don’t--”

“You are not going to die,” her father said fiercely, cupping her face inhis hands and catching her eyes with his own. Her eyes, his eyes.  It was funny,to a hysterical part of Chelsea’s brain, but laughing was one too many thingsto consider doing right now.  “I am goingto get you out of this, Chelsea.  Youhave my word.”

“Please don’t leave me,” Chelsea begged,and she knew she was begging, and she didn’t care, because fuck, at least if he stayed, she wouldn’t die alone.  “Please, please, I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.”  Her father was still cradling her face inboth hands, and he looked every inch the knight of the Fair Folk, even throughthe bruises and blood—wild, and terrible, and honest.  “Chelsea, you can do this.  I am going to get you out of this, but weneed that gate back to the mortal world to do it.  Chelsea—Chelsea, look at me, open your eyes.”

Were they closed?  Chelsea forced them open, and it took far toolong for his face to resolve.  All shecould see was his eyes, bright as copper, and vicious with determination.

“Listen to me, Chelsea,” he said, wipingthe tears from her face with his thumbs. “I am so sorry, that I wasn’t there for you.  We should have had all these years together,and we didn’t, and I’m sorry.  But I giveyou my word, on oak and ash and thornand rowan and anything else you want me to swear on, that I am not leaving younow.  Do you believe me?”

And God save her—oak and ash and thornand rowan save her—she did.

“Yes,” she whispered.  Her voice sounded like a child’s when shespoke again.  “Daddy?  What do I do?”

“You breathe,” he said, sounding close totears himself.  “And you look at me.”

And he had somehow, through some miracleof magic she didn’t think even Etienne could explain, talked her throughkeeping the gate open, even when her legs tried to fold up under her and shestopped being able to speak through the pain. He had held her up, keeping his voice steady, and she had clung to himas best she could without losing her grasp on the gate, and then when she hadbeen snatched away again—

She knows now what it had cost Etienne tofollow her, to chase her through cities and countries and realms when, at hisstrongest, he found it tiring to go from Shadowed Hills to Toby’s house.  The magic burn had been brutal, powerdampeners or not.  But he had stayed onher heels every step of the way, he had stayed on his feet when she wascollapsing, he had held her hand when they were close enough and hugged her closein the Snow Kingdoms and told her where they were.  Within an hour, he had gone from a strangerto her dad, the man who would doanything in the world to keep her safe.

So maybe it makes sense, now, thatChelsea wants him.

Her mom—her mom is wonderful.  Bridget Ames loves her daughter witheverything she has and more than a few things she doesn’t, and Chelsea knowsthis.

Her mom also didn’t understand why herbeautiful baby girl screamed and sobbed every day at dawn, and even if sheknows the reason now, she’ll never understand.  Her mom would do anything for her, but shecould never have hung onto Chelsea’s hand and panted out “Welcome toTir-na-Nog,” just so that Chelsea wouldn’t be lost anymore.

But she’s seventeen damn years old, goingon eternity, and she’s going to take some deep breaths and get herself undercontrol rather than running to her parents.

The shaking has started to ease out of herhands, finally, when her door opens—just a crack.

If it was at home—if Chelsea was how shewas, at her old home—she wouldn’t have been able to make out the face of theperson standing there in this darkness. The Summerlands might be comparable to light-polluted California intheir perpetual twilight, but any room meant for sleeping is dark, heavy curtains or else no windowsat all, and Chelsea’s is the same.  Now,though, she blinks away the last haze clinging to her lashes and whispers,“Daddy?”

“I—I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says,like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I only—Chelsea, are you all right?”

And she doesn’t know what gave her away,if he can see the salt tracks on her cheeks or hear the faint rasp in hervoice, or maybe he just knows, butit’s the middle of the day and she can’t lie to him.

“Can I have a hug?” Chelsea breathes, andshe knows she sounds like a child afraid of the dark and doesn’t care.

Chelsea doesn’t care because there’s abeat where Etienne seems taken off-guard, but then he says, “Of course.”  And he crosses the room in a handful of quicksteps to hesitate, just for a fraction of a second, next to her bed before hevisibly steels himself and settles down next to her to pull her into a hug, andhe’s nervous and unsure of his welcome, just like he was when he brushed herhair from her face, but his arms are strong and he holds onto her like she’sthe most precious thing he’s ever touched. Chelsea presses her face into his shoulder without thinking twice,wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing in the faint scent of cedarthat clings to him even though he hasn’t had his magic in weeks, and herfather’s grip goes from cautious to firm the moment he’s sure of what shewants, and it’s—

Chelsea finds herself bursting into tearsagain without really knowing why.

Etienne makes a faint noise, like he’s ata loss for what to do, but he’s a damn knight,her father, and he knows how to rally and come through when he’s needed.  He comforts differently from her mother—doesn’trub her back or rock back and forth, just holds her tight with one arm and strokesher hair with the other hand, tucking her head under his jaw while she burrowsinto his shoulder.  He doesn’t sayanything, either, and somehow it’s perfect.

She’s heard stories of the Fair Folk allher life, but none of them ever mentioned how brutally hard Faerie took change.  She’salways been fae enough for that.  

She doesn’t know how to explain why she’scrying, can’t put her fingers on the words to say why she’s shaking apart half-wayinto her father’s lap, it’s all too much and too strange and some deep part ofher that’s woken up lately clings pettily to the way things used to be andmutters that change is for mortals.  And her father, Etienne who kept ShadowedHills standing when the Duke went mad with change,doesn’t ask her to explain, just holds her and strokes her hair and waits forher to cry herself out.

It takes a while.  When Chelsea’s tears finally ebb until she’snot shuddering anymore, she realizes that he’s humming, something sweet and alittle sad in the back of his throat. Not a lullaby, but maybe a ballad.  And she keeps her head pressed against hisshoulder, tucks her face into the curve of his throat, and lets the sound of itresonate into her bones while she breathes through the last of the tears.

“Sorry,” Chelsea whispers into her father’sshoulder.

“It’s quite all right,” Etienne says,loosening his grip on her slightly to let her sit away from him.  Then he cups her face in his hands, like hedid in Annwn, and wipes away her tears with his thumbs, looking into her eyeswith a worried expression.  In the dimlight spilling in through the hallway, his eyes are too shadowed to show thebright penny-copper, but he can probably see it in hers.  “Are you well, Chelsea?  Did you have a nightmare?”

Chelsea nods, and self-consciousness isstarting to set in, at last, because this might be her father, her Daddy, buthe was also a perfect stranger two months ago. Two months ago, he’d probably never let a teenager sob all over him inhis life.  

“I didn’t mean to—sorry,” she says again,weakly, reaching up between Etienne’s hands to rub at her eyes.  He lets go of her at once, to give her thespace to collect herself, and Chelsea wishes idly that she wasn’t such ablotchy crier.  Her mother cries with thecollected elegance of a princess. Chelsea’s face flushes red in patches and her eyes go bloodshot and shealways manages to look hopelessly frazzled. Being a pureblood just means it doesn’t last as long as it used to.

Etienne’s frown deepens, minutely.  “Don’t be. What was your nightmare about?”

“Fire,” Chelsea says, and her voicewavers.  She clears her throat and saysagain, more steadily, “Fire.  And someother places.”

Etienne reaches out, hesitant, and tucksa wayward lock of hair back from her face, and says, “Do you want something hotto drink?”

The question is so—not what Chelsea expected that she blinks at him for a moment.  “Something hot to drink?” she echoes, blank.

He smiles faintly.  “Yes. I used to drink tea when I had nightmares as a child.  Do you want something hot to drink?”  She blinks at him one or two more times forgood measure, against the gritty feeling of having cried too hard for too long,and Etienne adds, “I’m sure that someone is awake in the kitchen, and if not, Iknow where everything is.  You like hotchocolate.”

He says the last somewhere between aquestion and a statement.  Like he knowsit’s the truth but isn’t sure he’s allowedto know it.

“I—look like a mess,” Chelsea says.  “I always look like a mess after I cry.”

Etienne’s smile widens a little, takingon some of that wondering edge she’s getting used to seeing on him.  “You get that from me, I’m afraid.”

“You are not an ugly crier.”

“You would lose that bet, my love,” hesays dryly, and stands up from her bed.  Thenhe holds out a hand to her, and—

Her father’s hand is warm and Chelseafeels like a kid, standing up next to him. They’re almost of a height—Chelsea is probably due a few more inches,which will put them dead even—but she’s in pajama pants with little frogs onthem and he’s still wearing livery, fine fae cloth that looks expensive evenafter she wept all over it.  The stone iscold on her feet before she steps into her slippers.  It’s a strange, out-of-place sense memory, ofbeing a little girl holding her mother’s hand after a bad dream, but it’sfamiliar and safe and soothing.

Etienne has callouses on his palm thatcan’t be from anything but a sword, but the strong, sure grip on her hand as heleads her down the hall hits that same sense memory.  Chelsea relaxes into it, more easily than shewould have dreamed, into this feeling of being a kid shuffling after her parentand trying not to yawn every time she’s faced with a bright light.  Few people are awake at this hour, and thosethat are mostly consist of Etienne’s knights, who smile at her a littleindulgently and give him a polite nod, and then they’re at the kitchen, andEtienne is placing Chelsea on a stool while he boils water in a saucepan.

He doesn’t talk while he does it, andChelsea doesn’t ask any questions.  She’stoo busy watching the apparently intricate process of making hot chocolate on astove.  It makes some intuitive sense,she guesses.  Etienne’s exact age is somethingshe’ll have to ask about someday, but he probably predates Swiss Miss hot cocoapackets and definitely predates the microwave.  He can use one—Chelsea saw him with her own eyes,at Tamed Lightning—but apparently for the time being he prefers to meltchocolate into milk the old-fashioned way. There’s a lot more stirring and careful heat management than Chelsea isused to, when it comes to making anything short of a meal.

God, can Etienne cook?  He seems reasonably confident, adding a bitof cinnamon and something else that smells strange and exotic to the chocolate,but Chelsea has literally never seen him make anything more complicated thancoffee.  The Hobs that usually populatethe kitchen are happy to feed anyone who comes through, but, as a rule, aren’tcharitable to strangers cooking in their space. Etienne is lucky there aren’t any here, or they definitely would havechased him off before he could even turn on the stove.

Chelsea is so absorbed in watching thehypnotic swirl of the hot chocolate that it startles her, when Etienne liftsthe saucepan away and neatly pours some into a mug.

“It’s been a while since I made hot chocolate,”he says, with that trace of rueful humor Chelsea has started to recognize.  He sets the blue mug on the table in front ofher stool and it smells sweetly of chocolate and spices, cinnamon and thatother darker spice she can’t quite put her finger on.  The porcelain isn’t quite hot enough to burnwhen she wraps her hands around it.  “Butthe principle is still simple enough.”

“Just like riding a bike,” she says,staring at the hot chocolate like she’s expecting it to disappear.  Etienne makes a noise that she’s starting toknow as his I understood that human idiombut you’ll never make me admit it noise, and she smiles down at her mug.  “Daddy,” she says.  “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Etienne says quietly.

Chelsea takes a sip of the hot chocolateand it’s—fucking incredible, actually. Chelsea’s always had a sweet tooth, the kind of kid who stole sugarpackets when her mother’s back was turned, and the hot chocolate is so thickand sweet that it washes away the sour taste of tears with a single swallow.  When she lowers the cup, she realizes thatEtienne has the remainder of the hot chocolate in a smaller mug, his hippropped against the counter next to her, not quite selling casual but very nearly hitting the mark on comfortable.

“You were there in my dream,” she says,before she can talk herself out of it. Etienne looks up at her, over the edge of his cup.  “I fell through the Snow Kingdoms, and Icould hear your voice.  You were tellingme to breathe, and that it would be okay.”

It seems to take Etienne so off-guardthat he’s left fumbling for words.  Inthe warm golden light of the kitchen, his eyes are so bright they lookpolished, and when he blinks quickly, twice, something glitters for a moment onhis lashes before he rallies, taking another sip of his hot chocolate as if tofortify himself.

“Chelsea,” he says, voice still quiet, asif they’re still in her room.  “I—I hopeyou know that I did not mean to leave you, as a baby.  I would have given anything, to be able tospend those years with you, and your mother. You are—you are the greatest gift I could ever have dreamed of, and nowthat I have the option, I intend to do everything in my power to be at yourside for as long as you want me there. For the rest of your life, if you wish.”

“For the rest of forever?” Chelsea asks,and her voice sounds thin and wistful. Forever might be her birthright, now, as a pureblood, but it’s a longtime to the girl who grew up half human.

“Until the last oak and ash crumble, andthe rowan and thorn never grow again,” Etienne swears, and he sounds so seriousthat she thinks it must be a vow. Chelsea nods, and takes a few more long swallows of her hot chocolate.

“This is really good, Daddy,” shemurmurs.  “What did you put in it?”

“Cloves,” Etienne says immediately.  “I’m afraid my culinary talents are—limited,but no one ever accused me of being inept with spices.  I could--” He pauses, and then bulls on like a good knight.  “I could teach you how to make it someday, ifyou’d like.”

“Yeah,”Chelsea says.  “Yeah, I’d love that.”

[the-progress-bar]

You Wore Out a Path Recap

I haven’t written something this long in … well, I don’t want to check.

The Inception

I don’t remember where the idea for this came from, specifically. I wrote the beginning of the first chapter for Camp NaNoWriMo, along with a whole slew of other FE:A material. It turns out that I’m extremely bad at writing linear narratives, given the absolute mess and if you say goodbye is to straighten out and more casually in the boy across the hall.

Chapter One

The fairy tale was written first actually. I filled in around its scene breaks with Robin being in a Bad Mental State™ as a way to carry this. weird, meandering fairy tale. Also, there’s a much more comedic story in the works that involves Grima and Robin again and I wanted to do something more serious on that vein at the same time.

He strikes to the south east. For some reason, Donnel didn’t stay in the armed forces as Robin hoped but went back home for good.

Donnel! I love Donnel for the sheer comedy of some country boy latching onto the Shepherds, which is otherwise comprised of nobles, and him being able to take on a whole battlefield by himself, leaving the rest in the dust. But he doesn’t stay in Ylisstol and Robin and I are forever sad over that lost potential.

Thunder crumbles around the spirit. They press a stone into the prince’s hand and sighs.

Here’s an instance where it’s clear that I didn’t outline the first chapter at all nor was I thinking about how the pieces fit if I expanded the story. This stone was supposed to do your normal fairy tale shenaniganry with like. Blessings and shielding and magical properties. Then I completely lost that vein and only left the part in where spirit!Robin basically gives Chrom, the prince, their heart. Good job, me. This constantly bothers me, but I also don’t have the motivation to rewrite this bit.

He freezes at Frederick’s stare.

I sincerely love Frederick for reasons that are spoilers for a giant FE:A fic I have in the works, but he’s also so, so fun to wind up.

Chapter Two

So, now I had to actually sit down and outline how this story went. Just a bunch of sentences jotted down, but enough to make me realize how bizarre the geography in this game is. Like, what even is going on with the story’s timeline? Do you know how long it takes to move an army over a continent, when its fastest mode of transportation are horses? I never get how they’re able to run from Plegia over to Mount Prism, then back to the opposite side of the continent and onto Grima’s back. Did Grima just wait for Chrom and co. to arrive? Like, they’re extra enough, but Nintendo, come on.

Let me just say, the FE:A world map has been a permanent fixture in my browser for months and I’m glad to see it gone.

Chrom sinks onto the bed and stares at the coat in his hands.

It’s been almost a decade.

The reason it took Chrom so long to appear among the character tags is because he wasn’t supposed to appear. Not until the last scene. Somehow he snuck into the open and close of the rest of the chapters and I didn’t kick him out.

“I died, Frederick,” Robin snaps. “Please leave it alone.”

Rereading the earlier chapters, I’m a bit surprised myself about how bitchy and defeated (?) Robin is. Being possessed by Grima sucks, and so does slowly turning into a dragon-human thing, but wow boi. Normally my characters are more on the “body slam our problems into submission” side of the spectrum. It all works out eventually, but for a while I had to deal with the nasty problem that apparently only the female characters have any of their shit together.

“Blood magic is a sorry inheritance,” his mother said sadly, thumbs rubbing at the brand on his hand.

I hope you all love Modron as much as me, because I love her and aggressively ignore how Nintendo did her dirty by including her as a key character in a whole bunch of fics coming down the pipeline. Though in this particular fic, her presence snuck in while I wasn’t watching, but not enough to recreate the Chrom situation.

The fisherman knocks on the wooden door of his younger brother’s stone house.

I planned on putting a fairy tale of my own creation into every chapter, with each linked in a tangentially narrative way to Robin’s family. Obviously that didn’t happen. This tale was supposed to be involving Robin and two Morgan’s. That plan derailed immediately.

Chapter Three

Robin’s daughter greets Chrom in Chon’sin’s silks and lacquer, the twists of dark purple contrasting her currently golden hair.

I keep making Say’ri a lesbian. That point doesn’t come up in this story, because Chrom wasn’t supposed to take over so much, but Morgan and Say’ri are together by this point, even if that gets muddled a bit by their weird work relation. I’m just saying, like father, like daughter.

And yes, Morgan dyes her hair. This is more established in the remix I wrote out of boredom of yet another chapter of Robin and Frederick yelling at each other in the snow.

“It’s a wonder your wayward mother never tried fleeing the continent all together,” Grima says.

At this point, I just accepted that I had no control over character barging in because they felt like it. Grima kept the story interesting at least, or else this whole plot would have been the slowest, most boring road trip ever.

At the cost of bloating this chapter and shoving out some other content I initially wanted to cover.

Due to Ferox’s waveringly official stance of neutrality, we spent a few years moving back and forth here.

[Cackling laughter]

Lon’qu and Olivia drop unannounced into the unoccupied seats at the table while Frederick and Robin waited for their dinners.

This scene is … weird. A slight mess. Originally, Lon’qu and Olivia had the same level of screen time as Donnel and Nowi did in the first chapter. But I already had the outline sectioned off into five chapters and writing even more scenes on boats was not a good usage of my time. Presumably, the khans got word that Robin and Frederick were back and heading to Valm and since Lon’qu and Olivia were already in the area with the same destination, they decided to do a favor and sent a message ahead.

What are the Ferox kids doing in Valm? Spying Something, wasn’t important.

A hazy memory of before. Sumia stumbles into Robin’s shoulder, the two of them laughing, drunk on wine and mirth.

In my drafts, there’s half of the fairy tale that was supposed to go in this chapter. Sumia drunkenly tells an equally sloshed Robin the story as they stumble around in the castle. It’s a more standard tale paralleling Modron hiding her children from the Grimleal and made much more sense than whatever was happening in the last chapter. Unfortunately, I cut it out because certain parties used up too many words when they weren’t even supposed to appear.

Chapter Four

Chapter four and five were supposed to come out back to back because I assumed I’d have time to write over the holiday break. As we all know now, that didn’t happen, like so many of my plans.

More importantly though, at this point I realized that Robin needed to start getting his shit together, fast.

A beat from Grima’s many wings carried them on the hot winds blowing off the fires below, covering several hours march in a fraction of the time.

This passage from the bad timeline is one of those sections I wrote nearly immediately since it just clicked. (The other significant passage is the final scene.) Honestly though, I was starting to have a hard time not repeating the same imagery and words over and over again. My grasp of English and vocabulary has never been anything to write home about, first language notwithstanding, and I literally had to pull out the thesaurus a few times in the later sections so I wouldn’t keep writing “scream” but completely forgot what other words existed. Linguistics amazes me, but it is so not my department.

Is it anger? Is it despair? Is it exhaustion, ascending to the Exalt’s throne alone, …

How to Tell I Wrote a Section by Hand Rather Than on My Computer: when the sentences get long and on this roll of phrase after phrase after phrase, that’s me with a pen. This whole section from Chrom was handwritten on my then-new iPad to test out some software.

By this point, I accepted that Chrom was just going to Be There and started working on his scenes to also try ramping up the tension in the fic by going backwards in his history to when the grief gets rawer and rawer. you wore out a path isn’t primarily about grief or depression, but some of those beats snuck in?

Chrom is a Mess™ at this point.

They dream feverishly.

What the fuck was this section.

“How am I supposed to keep this army and your father alive if you won’t tell me what happens? You’re one of our greatest sources of information and you refuse to share with anyone. Stop hiding.”

I hate! This dumb trope! Of not sharing info when traveling back in time! What’s the point of time traveling with the express purpose of changing history and then not! Changing history!

I have strong feelings.

By private captain, Robin means pirates. They must find pirates to board with.

This was entirely for my own amusement. There’s no other reason. Another key sign that my characters are getting a handle on their lives is that the writing starts getting snarkier.

Chapter Five

If by some future machination, the count increases to three out of three, he’s going to wholesale stop trusting magical mountains.

Case in point about the snark.

The master revived, the blood burning, the sacrifice slain, the master revived, the lORD, the FelL DRAGON, death, glory, the gOD and its vessel, returned, returned.

It turns out, messing with AO3’s formatting to have some font fun is a pain in the ass involving work skin shenanigans. The picture work skin already failed to do its job, I wasn’t going to wrestle with another skin just for this sentence. How it’s supposed to look:

A good two-third of this chapter just all came at once, in a sudden dash of productive writing. The muses are fickle that way.

Back on the point about how I Did Not Outline, there were a few items I wanted to reappear through the narrative. Elements from the fairy tales come back in this fight, for example. Another point I decided in the fourth chapter when writing the opening scene are the cathedrals. 

(Disclaimer: I’m not religious and thus don’t know the full symbolic significance in cathedrals. What I know can be distilled into: You Thought New York Construction Was Slow? and Very Pretty Because Very Important and Yes, The Organ is Behind You and Very Loud. Not a lot.)

“Why do you fight for Chrom?”

Robin getting interrogated on this point keeps coming up in my fics, but the scenes are always fantastic short bursts that are good at breaking up a section that’s been running too long.

Suddenly, Robin is quite literally on fire.

I already drew the picture. The boy’s on fire. There was a good explanation when I first thought this up, but then when it came time to writing the scene, I forgot why, and my outline didn’t have any notes. Bonds? Naga’s flame? Dramatically dissolving Grima’s marks from Robin’s body? All of the above?

“One last tale for the road,” Modron says to her son, …

Modron’s name. I’ve seen people taking cues from Morgan and going with Morgana, but I’m a contrary soul that always resists whatever fandom decides is a good idea. This works out well half the time.

Morgan and Morgana led my brain to the Arthurian legends, and I decided to see what some of those character’s mothers were called. Went to Wikipedia, clicked a bunch off links radiating from Morgan le Fay and somehow landed on Modron? She’s interesting. Nor did I know about the DnD Bill Cipher thing. 

Normally, though, I would not have started with a Welsh name. Some of the name choices for Plegian characters have vaguely Middle East origins (which is a completely different discussion about real world politics in that casting decision) and I would have started there.

I’m not a linguist though. Or someone that knows about naming conventions. So.

Now he stands grounded and as well rooted as the Mila Tree, the fire traded for a calm glow and Robin’s so grateful.

And this line here, this line here, is the sole reason I humored Chrom kicking his way into the story. This final scene was one of the first things I wrote after deciding to expand past the first chapter.

Look at these two dumb boys growing up.

In Conclusion

[staring at my file archives]

Have I ever actually finished a multi-chapter fic before?

[sarah-bae-maas]

A Court of Hearts and Darkness Chapter Thirty Two

It’s been over a century since the epic and bloody war against Hybern, but a new, unprecedented horror lies in wait to threaten everything the Inner Circle holds dear.

At a mere 17, it seems that the only one who can save them is the Heir to the Night Court, Feyre and Rhysand’s daughter Eleana, but as a creature so vile promises to kill everyone she loves, she must combat the urge to succumb to the darkness herself. The key to success lies hidden within her mate, the bastard born Kaden, who is as oblivious to the bond as her Court is oblivious to the war on the horizon.

With the help of her cousin and warrior Felix, the son of the famed Nesta and Cassian, they will try to save everything they hold dear, hopefully before the darkness takes them all.

(This fic was written pre-acowar, so please bear in mind there are some small differences but it can still hopefully be enjoyed!)

Link on Ao3 Masterlist

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***

-Chapter 32-

“Shh, you have to be quiet,” Kaden laughed as he kissed Eleana, the woman enveloped in his arms as he walked them to his room.

“You won’t be saying that in five minutes.” She pushed him against the wall in the hallway, kissing him fiercely as she undid the buttons to his shirt, running her hands up and down his chiselled chest as she did.

His breath hitched as her hands wandered further, but he was still conscious of waking the others in the house. He bent down, picking her up like she was his bride and carrying her to his room. He slammed his door behind him, noise suddenly not an issue when Eleana was whispering such filthy things in his ear. He threw her onto the bed, stripping off the rest of his clothes before he joined her.

He was on top of her, her legs around his waist as he gently grinded into her, teasing her. Her moans were ethereal, and the feel of her warm body under him had him melting into her. He worked his tongue and teeth over her jaw, then her collar bones, and then pulled down her strapless dress so that her breasts were exposed to him.

Before he could completely undo her, she flipped them. Her undergarments had long been discarded, and her dress was of no interference when she lowered herself onto him with a groan. Kaden’s breathing nearly stopped in surprise and pleasure, and as she moved her hips perfectly against him he threw his head back, moaning her name.

Still riding him, she bent down and pressed her teeth, her lovely fae fangs, against his neck. Anticipating the bite, his heart started to race, and his hands squeezed her hips hard.

She kissed his jugular first, and then delicately bit him. Pulling back, Kaden drowned in her golden eyes.

Wait, no.

He tried to get away, but the strength of the queen and the darkness that didn’t belong to her pinned him down. No matter how he screamed, there was nothing he could do as she snarled and tore into his flesh again, devouring him alive.

____

Kaden was startled awake by Felix pinching him hard enough to make Kaden cry out in pain. He hissed as he rubbed at the hurt and glared confusedly at his best friend.

“What the fuck.”

“I tried calling your name and it didn’t work. Time to get up sunshine, we have work to do.”

Kaden sat up with a groan, and sluggishly walked to his window to peer out the glass. The sun was high – it was the afternoon – and he turned away from the bright light as his eyes burned.

It has been four days since Felix’s return. Four days of the pair staying awake at night and pouring over any and every text that might pertain to helping Eleana, four days of Felix staying close to the candles and avoiding the encroaching darkness at all costs. Four days of Kaden staying at his side, awake when he was and asleep when he wasn’t, and that had led to times such as now.

Kaden quickly washed, trying to be only slightly more presentable than usual.

“Now, Kaden, I must warn you,” Felix’s voice was grave as he appeared behind Kaden, but the withheld smirk on his face gave away his true intentions. “High Lord Helion is one of the most attractive men in Prythian, but he isn’t interested in us younglings. I would know, I’ve tried many a time.”

“Maybe he’s just not interested in you.”

“Not possible.”

Kaden huffed a laugh and pushed past Felix to gather the few texts he had on veilsingers, shoving them into a bag. “Is Mor ready yet?”

“Has been for hours. We’ll leave for the Day Court when you’re prepared.”

“Then let’s leave now.” Kaden swung the bag over his shoulder and followed Felix out of his room and downstairs. Mor was waiting in the hallway, undoubtedly having heard them talking. Kaden noticed, very quickly, that any magic designed to sound proof does not work with the doors open.

He greeted Mor with a kiss to the cheek, and she looked delighted at his appearance. He was wearing one of the suits she had bought for him and left for him in his closet. It wasn’t as decorative as the one Felix bought him all those months ago for his cousin’s wedding, but the deep blue, fitted fabric was still fine enough for a lord. He wanted to look nice – trick the High Lord of the Day Court into thinking he was something he wasn’t. Respectable.

Mor grabbed Felix and Kaden’s by the arm and winnowed them away.

Kaden had to close his eyes the moment they landed. The sun was blinding, not a single cloud to interrupt the beams, and Felix quickly walked them both under the shade of a large balcony.

Kaden was awed by the palace in front of him. Tall, white marble beams gashed with green and gold greeted him. The palace just rose higher and higher, and spatted along were mirrors reflecting the crystalline blue of the sky. Mor and Felix didn’t take note of the place. It was sometimes hard for Kaden to remember that places such as these were the norm for them. Even if he wasn’t a bastard, Kaden never would have seen such structures in Illyria.

What was more notable though, was the debris around him that was still being cleared from the queen’s attack. The chunks that were missing from the buildings, and the heavy feeling from the sentries around him that spoke legions of the people now missing from their forces.

Helion was tall in front of them. The High Lord’s arm was still in a sling, but it didn’t affect him as he stood imposingly.

“Come this way.” No welcome, but Kaden didn’t expect one, nor did he expect the strange glances Helion kept shooting his way.

They followed him through his home and to his personal library. He started talking on the way.

“Of the five recorded veilsingers in written history, three have been from this court, and the other two hailed from ancestors who did. We’ve never been able to find a tangible reason as to why, but with magic such as this no origin is ever found.” He peered at Kaden. “You’re an abnormality, it seems. Everything we have, whole books just on those five persons, three females and two males, is in my personal collection. You think a shadowsinger is coveted? Some of the things these fae could do will blow your mind, and make you understand why they’ve always been hunted by whatever ruler or daemati knew of their existence. You were smart, boy, allying yourself with the Night Court. You may fair easier than those who have come before you.”

Kaden smiled slightly at the thought – to even think that he had this life for any reason other than Felix and Eleana was laughable. Felix, contrary to Kaden, looked bothered by the High Lord’s words, as if he might interject that Kaden’s life had been hard enough already, and that Felix had no plans to let anyone hurt him again.

They reached the doors to the library, and Helion stopped with his hands on the door knobs and turned to them. “We also have a fae named Den who said she would talk to you. I will warn you though, she has had trauma in her life that makes her… difficult to understand, and to get answers from. I suggest two of you speak to her – I recommend you Mor, she might like the presence of another woman – and one of you go through the texts.”

“Den… isn’t that your famed historian? I thought she went missing decades ago,” Mor said slowly.

“She’s back now,” was Helion’s explanation.

Mor didn’t question him further, just looked at Kaden and Felix. “Felix, you come with me to speak to Den. Kaden, you’ll recognize more about the veilsingers than we can.” She reached out and squeezed his hand. “You come find me if you need me, okay honey?” She patted him on the cheek.

Helion quickly guided Kaden into the study, directly to the pile of books he’d accumulated since High Lord Rhysand had requested some of his Inner Circle come to do research.

Because soon, so soon, Kaden would have to try and draw the queen out, and he would have to know as much as possible about his magic before he could.

_____

“This Den, she is not only a historian, but also your personal seer,” Mor mused. She wasn’t curious as to why he had omitted that fact in his description of her, but she needed a subtle way to warn Felix of what was to come.

Den. A fae she had heard of but never had met. The most powerful seer ever recorded, she had vanished without warning.

“Her being a seer is irrelevant. She no longer gives prophesies,” Helion replied.

“Why not?” Felix asked.

Helion sighed deeply through his nose. “You’ll see soon enough.”

He led them through the palace, taking them higher and higher until they were climbing the spiral staircase of a giant turret – quarters fit for the finest noblewoman. Helion had done her well. Mor skimmed her hand against the smooth rock as they went up, needing the coolness to centre her. Eventually, they stopped at a red, thick door. Helion knocked four times, and then opened it just a smidge.

“Den?” he called.

“Helion, lovely, do come in. You’ve brought me guests?”

Her voice was what flowers in bloom would sound like it they could talk. It was whispy but sure, lighter than a petal falling in the wind. It was beautiful.

The door opened, and Mor saw that the beauty of that voice was probably once reflected in the woman before her.

Her skin was a shadow of tan and grey, and the bones in her hands and face cut her they were so jagged. She was the thinnest person Mor had ever seen, thinner than Feyre even, after Rhys first brought her to the Night Court. Her hair was the brightest thing, even with decorations of all the colours of the rainbow lining her walls. It was the colour of spun gold. Her eyes, the darkest black she had ever seen, we sunken and marred with bags beneath them. There was no balcony, but there were wide windows that let her overlook the court. She was sitting on an arm chair with a blanket thrown over her, her hands resting in her lap.

Mor looked at the woman and felt like she knew her.

“Den, this is Lady Morrigan and Lord Felix of the Night Court. They are the people that wished to speak to you about veilsingers, and about a creature in Prythian and some symbols we’ve been seeing. Do you remember?”

“Yes, lovely Helion, God of the sun and all the burns bright in the day. I remember.”

Felix stepped forward and bowed to the lady. “It is nice to meet your acquaintance.”

She stared at Felix, and the small smile she had given Helion turned to a beam brighter than her hair. “A baby with wings!” she proclaimed. “How was it, the first time you flew? Your mother was scared to death, but you never went far. And then your warrior father would fly with you, and all was well. Do you sing in the sky?”

Felix foundered. “Pardon?”

“Did it scare you when your little sister didn’t have wings? When you learnt that she would never know the taste of wind?”

Felix looked at her curiously. “You can see the past?”

“I can see everything.”

Helion cleared his throat. “Den has the ability to see the future, past, and present, in all realms.”

“So, even all the way across the continent?”

Helion’s face turned dark. “Much, much further than that.”

Mor stepped towards the woman and sunk to her knees in front of her. “We beg for your aide, Den. My niece is in grave danger, and your knowledge might save her life and many others. Can you help us?”

Den opened her mouth in shock, her hands moving to Mor’s cheeks. “Why of course! I would do anything for a friend.”

A friend. Mor accepted the term and put her hands over Den’s, so she could gently remove them from her face. She did not let go, though, and instead clasped them tightly. “Felix, would you be kind enough to show Den the sketches of the symbols?”

“Of course.” He walked over and presented one of Glaslane’s sketchbooks to her.

She started flipping through the pages, making noises of surprise and concern as she did. All the while, Helion leant against the closed door and Felix stood over them. Mor stayed crouched beside her.

“This creature, she has kidnapped your niece?”

“Can’t you already tell?” Felix raised a brow.

In response, she giggled lightly. “Oh no, sweetest boy. I rarely choose what I see. Once upon a time, I used up all the stardust that was inside my blood to see the future of my favourite boy, so that I might live his life with him. I can no longer choose.”

Felix didn’t have a response to that.

“The creature has taken my nieces mind and body from her, so that she might use her magic,” Mor said after a long pause. The whole time, the delirious smile never left Den’s face.

“She took your niece for her magic?”

“Yes.”

“Then she is no queen.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if she was a queen she would not need another’s magic. She might a princess, but never someone who could take a throne in her own land.”

“Her own land?”

“These are not symbols in the way you suggest, rather a written language that can be used in any world. I have seen things that would baffle you, that you would likely deny. It is not the first time a creature, a creature I suspect I may know what is, has used the magic in this language to break through the unseen barriers that separate our world from others.”

Den’s tone had completely changed, her face had become contemplative. It was if she went from being delirious to being a lecturer. It was as if stepping into her old role, as a teacher, as a wise woman, brought her closer to reality than what she normally was.

“The good news is they can be defeated and expelled. It’s difficult, and usually ends in death for both parties, but the life of your niece isn’t necessarily forfeit. You would need someone with a certain type of fire, there’s never been one recorded in this land though. Other than that…” Her eyes lit up. “A veilsinger.” Her face fell. “But the last living veilsinger died over 600 years ago.”

“What is this creature?” Felix finally asked a question. His voice was thick, but his shoulders are more relaxed than they had been in days.

Mor wondered if this whole time he had been guessing that Kaden could help Eleana. If a large part of him was just putting on a front so his family could be held together just a little longer.

“The word isn’t one I can say in this language. I can write it though, write everything I know down. “

“That would be of great help. I – I would be forever thankful,” Mor said sincerely.

With the topic coming to a conclusion, the far-away look started to return to Den’s face. She turned her head to Felix.

“I wanted to watch him as a cloud. I assume you’re here to bring him back to me.”

Mor looked at Den in confusion, and Helion stepped forward, as if to drag Felix and herself from the room.

“Bring who?” Felix asked.

Den looked down at her hands, still entwined with Mor’s and snatched them back. She jolted out of her chair and scampered to the edge of the room, where she slammed open a desk drawer and pulled out a long knife.

Mor was immediately on her feet, and Felix drew a sword she didn’t even realise he had. Helion raised his hand and called her name, trying to calm her.

“Who are you?” she shrieked at Felix.

“Den, that is Lord Felix of the Night Court, remember?”

“No. No he is not! He is here to take him away from me. He wants to take my baby away from me! No, no no no no no no noI won’t let him!”

“Woah, hold on there Den. No one’s here for that. You’re in the Day Court. You live here. This is your room. You know it is, that’s how you knew where to stash your knife,” Helion said slowly and delicately.

Her eyes, the colour of aged charcoal, raced between Felix and Helion. Mor stepped towards Helion, ready to demand an explanation but not in front of this female.

Triggered by Mor’s movements, the woman looked at her, and one again, her whole demeanour changed. Mor had seen four versions of this woman in an hour, and this seemed like a new one.

“Oh.” Den had tears in her eyes, but her smile had returned. She dropped the knife to the floor and wiped her hands on her green dress. “You’ve returned to me.”

Mor looked behind her, not sure who Den was talking too. When she glanced back, Mor flinched with the intensity of Den’s gaze on her.

“I knew you would come back. I knew you heard me call to you. The dust told me so as it wiggled into my ears.”

“I’ve been here the whole time, with you.”

“I mean before.” She rang her hands. “In my cell, with the other Forgotten lives. I called to you, I told you. I remember the exact words. My baby. I can’t find my child.”

The boy she kept referring to was her child – her baby? – and Mor didn’t think it was a coincidence that Den had used the word Forgotten.

As in the Forgotten of Hewn City, where prisoners were left to rot for their crimes. The Forgotten, who she had passed while looking for Kaden’s mother, disregarding the things the prisoners said to her as she did. Is it possible that this woman was one of those people? She certainly looked the part, and she had seen many break at the harsh conditions and act in such a jarring manner.

“You were – were you in Hewn City?” Mor breathed.

“Mor, outside, now,” Helion interjected before anyone could say a word.

He practically dragged Mor out by her arm and down the stairs, enough so that they were out of hearing distance.

“Helion, who the fuckis she? Tell me that woman hasn’t been rotting in Hewn City this whole time.”

“Mor.” He could barely meet her eyes, and he slumped against the wall and slip down, putting his head in his hand. “We looked for her for years. She is invaluable to this court. Or she was. Until we found her in Hewn City. She’s been like that ever since. Sporadic, dangerous, it’s why she has this turret to herself.”

“How did you find her?”

“By complete accident. There’s a young boy, he’s only seven, that was born with the ability to see where people are by touching different objects. He can’t pinpoint a location, only see what they see. If a person’s dead, he sees where their body is, if they’re alive, he can give a completely accurate description of where they are. He found some textbooks that Den had written, her personal first editions, and started babbling on about what he was seeing. It was concerning to the librarian, and after a chain of fae it eventually came to me. The only place I could think of that matched what he was saying was your prisons in Hewn City. I didn’t bother asking for permission, knowing it was better to instead seek forgiveness if I was caught.”

The images of the prison in Hewn City flashed in her mind, and Mor felt sick. What could Den have done to end up there? That dank, lifeless place meant for those who were criminally insane but not dangerous enough for their other prisons.

“And her baby?”

“A healer came in. She says there are signs that Den may have had a child, but it would have been decades ago. He wouldn’t be the infant she keeps referring to. She wasn’t pregnant when she disappeared, so he could be anything from fifteen to thirty years old. If he even exists.”

“If an illegitimate baby of another court was born in Hewn City, it was likely left to the wolves to die.” Mor joined him on the steps, deflated. “You knew, when I came here, you knew I would eventually recognize her. Her voice… I can’t forget that voice. Why would you do this? Why would you put this on me after everything my family has been through?”

“Once, she was one of the most revered fae in Prythian. And now look at her. She was in the dark for so long, and I don’t know whether it’s that or the shock of the sun that has made her this way. Her skin burns and peels. She incessantly insists we find her baby. She’s been back for a few months, and she has shown no sign of progress.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Isn’t it obvious, Mor?”

Before she could reply, they were abruptly interrupted by a panting sentry, weapons drawn and sweat coating him.

_____

Felix watched Mor and Helion leave. He awkwardly tapped his foot and tilted his lips upward in an imitation of a smile while whisking his sword back to the in-between pocket of this world.

“Have you seen him? I could’ve sworn you brought him with you.”

Felix gulped, and subtly backed away from her. It’s not that he was scared, but…

There was still something scary about her – about someone so unhinged.

“How old are you?” he asked. He had heard of her and read her books in class when he was a child, but knowing her teachings and her as a person were two different things.

“I stopped counting after two thousand.”

He raised his eyebrows. “When did you stop counting?”

“Before the war.”

“With the King of Hybern?”

“The one before that.”

“The slave wars with Amarantha and Miryam?”

“No, before that one too.” She paused, her smile so gentle it was shocking. Felix hadn’t seen a look so pure many times.

On Eleana, when she was Quathryn’s age, on Quathryn, who had yet to learn the hardships of the world.

It was the look of innocent hope, and Felix didn’t understand how this woman had it.

“Did you bring my son with you?”

“No, ma’am, I did not.”

“Are you sure? He’s small, but strong. His hair is lovely and fluffy and looks like the sand at the beach on a bright day. He’s like an itty-bitty sun.”

Felix could smell her from where he was standing. She smelt like paper, the kind you find in ancient books, and, somehow, she smelt like the wind.

“They took him from me, but you brought him here,” she insisted again.

Felix walked to her and handed her the book she had discarded when she had forgotten who Felix and Mor were. He reminded her, as kindly as he could, that she said she would write down everything she knew about the creatures, what that could mean for Eleana, and the veilsingers.

In an instant, she changed again, and Felix was struggling to keep up with the gaunt woman’s moods.

She started methodically documenting everything she knew for him, occasionally speaking her thoughts aloud, in an authoritative, clear voice.

When she was finished, Felix was impressed by how quick she was, she started floating away again.

Felix couldn’t stand the silence.

“Den is an unusual name,” he said.

“It’s one of many I have.” She started moving around the room, tiding things that were already perfectly straight. She picked up her knife and hid it in the pockets of her skirts. She remade her bed.

“What other names do you have?”

“Annaliese is my middle name. My father was from the Winter Court and wanted to make sure I had something to tie me there even if I lived my whole life here. Sometimes I lie and say it’s my first name. Den is also a shortening.”  

Felix was about to ask more, when Helion and Mor burst into the room, both red faced and fuming.

Felix was immediately alert, summoning his sword back as well as a battle axe – he was just as good with both arms, let them both hold deadly weapons.

“What?” he demanded.

“The queen has marched on the mortal realms. Humans are being slaughtered as we speak by the thousands. We don’t have any more time to plan – it’s now or never, and we just have to pray to the Cauldron Kaden can do it. Do you remember the plan in its entirety?” Mor spoke succinctly.

Felix nodded, knowing every inch of the plan the Inner Circle had made two days before to hopefully save Eleana. But it was a draft, and it needed refinement.

It would have to do.

“Kaden’s already in the Night Court preparing to leave – I’ve winnowed him there, and we’ll go straight to the Spring Court, where your father and the Elite will be waiting.”

Felix wasted no time and strode to Mor. He was about to grab her hand so they could winnow away, but just before he could Den said one more thing.

“Please bring my baby back to me. His name is Dimitri.”  

****

A/N since this fic has been posted over such a long amount of time, rereading chapter twelve and eighteen wouldn’t hurt

[tobns]

SNOWED IN: A (Tragic) Christmas Story — part two.

In Which Jennifer Proves to Everyone That She Really Has Gone Off the Deep End This Time

Josh Hutcherson has perhaps risen past every imaginable evil on the top of my hit list within nine hours flat, solely for doing the one damn thing I’d hoped he hadn’t done – jinxing us.

Jackie, Jack and I all wound up sharing a room – the original setup was for Alexander and I to share one of the guest rooms, but the second that was announced, Jackie grabbed my wrist and told Jen, “Over my fucking bloody corpse” – which I wasn’t too enthused about, seeing as how I didn’t really want to third wheel any more than necessary. Fortunately, Jackie is an even better best friend than she is a girlfriend and banished Jack to the sleeping bag, her and I sharing the full-size bed. If Jack had a problem with it, he didn’t voice it. Truth be told, I think he was so mentally exhausted from his journey through the supposed underworld that Jackie could have given him a blanket and pointed to the closet and he wouldn’t have complained any.

I’d been rudely awakened somewhere around eight, mostly to the sound of Jackie tripping over Jack as she stumbled to look out the window. Apparently, she wasn’t playing around when it came to buying our plane tickets out of here – she was hellbent on getting out of Colorado before the sun set, even if it meant she flew the plane herself. I’m not sure why she’s got her foot on the gas pedal with this one; if anyone would have gone behind our backs and orchestrated the Hunger Games cast reunion of the decade, I would have pegged it to be Jackie. I just don’t think she appreciates being lied to, and she doesn’t want to have Alexander’s blood on her hands when Dayo goes in for the kill and she gets her fair share of swipes in.

No need to set an alarm clock when with Jackie, she makes a good enough one all on her own.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“Can you fucking keep it down?!” Jack had moaned. “I’m trying to dream about sleeping on a mattress and not this godawful carpet.”

The sound of curtains violently moving around filled the room, along with Jackie’s mumbling to herself under her breath about how she was going to strangle Josh once she saw him at breakfast.

“Where’s the fire?” I’d mumbled, still half asleep as I sat up. Even through bleary eyes, I could see Jackie standing in the glow of the window, everything white around her and a halo of strawberry blonde hair.

She’d simply turned around, frown settled on her face and the creases on her forehead deep. “Oh, there’s no fire,” was her mocking reply. “There’s too much snow on the ground for that to ever fucking happen here!”

Breakfast was an interesting affair; Josh was waltzing around the table giving everyone pancakes the sizes of our heads while we all glared at him. I think he begged Jen to give him that job for two reasons: number one, so he wouldn’t have to worry about any of us poisoning him (accidentally or purposeful), and number two, so he was always just far enough out of reach that he didn’t wind up with a butter knife in his side.

“Eleven inches of snow,” Dayo had mumbled into his glass of milk to no one in particular. “That’s just enough snow to bury Josh in and no one will ever be able to recover the body.”

Jackie nearly spit her orange juice clear across the table at that one.

After breakfast, the unspoken consensus is that we are all going our separate ways in this gigantic house to do our own thing while we wait for the heavy and blowing snow to settle. Jen, however has other ideas.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” she says as soon as Leven and Willow start to get up. “Where are you guys going?”

“Back to bed,” Willow replies.

Leven juts her thumb out in Willow’s direction. “What she said.”

Jen looks appalled at this revelation. “No, I’ve got stuff for us to do!” she exclaims, sliding her chair back. “Go nowhere.” With that, she darts back off into the kitchen.

Jackie leans over in my direction. “What are the chances that I can go outside and not die of hypothermia or frostbite?”

“Very slim,” I inform her.

“Might be worth it.”

Jen returns almost as quickly as she vanished, and perhaps it’s because I’m still exhausted (Jackie is still a kicker when she sleeps) but I’m having trouble discerning what it is that Jen has gone to do. That is, until I realize she is now wearing a shirt that has my face on it.

I don’t even want to know how much it cost her to get it made, but Jen has made herself a giant sweatshirt with the giant cast picture we all took for Vanity Fair back in Concord. Willow wasn’t present for that shoot and Liam was, but since Liam is not here but Willow is, Jen has taken the creative liberty to photoshop Willow’s face over Liam’s body. As if the shirt couldn’t look any more ridiculous with that addition, Jen spins around to show off the back – in between the shoulder blades, exposed thanks to her sloppy bun and in giant, orange letters, reads, ‘DIRECTOR OF FUN.’ Out of the corner of my eye, Dayo’s hand twitches a little bit closer to his fork, presumably to gouge out his eyes.

“I’m almost scared to ask why you have that on and what ‘director of fun’ could possibly mean,” Jack starts warily.

“Then I’ll save you the trouble,” Jen finishes, a smile that no one who has only gotten a handful of hours of sleep should be able to don reappearing on her face. “Since we’re stuck inside until later tonight at least, and you guys are kinda right about us all having grown up and gone down our different paths, I figured we could do some fun stuff with each other today! We can rediscover our bond.” She flourishes her end statement with a set of jazz hands.

Everyone is deathly silent, until Amandla speaks up. “That is the most ridiculous, whitest shit I have ever heard of.”

“Thank you,” Jen replies, and either she doesn’t see the insult in it or just elects to ignore it. “We haven’t hung out all together in ages, and I feel like we need to learn who we are now in order to be as close of friends, so bond we shall!” She then protrudes her cell phone out of the pocket of her pajama pants. “Now, I may or may not have stolen all of these things from the Camp Hi-Ho counselor training, but I think they’ll be just as fun.”

“Fun?” Dayo repeats. “You know what would be fun? Going back to bed. That heating blanket was everything.”

“That’s not on the checklist of fun,” Jen shoots down. Jack groans.

“There’s a checklist of fun too?”

“What do you take me for, Quaid, an unorganized moron?” I can see his answer perched on his lips even with Jackie sitting in between the both of us.

“Alright,” Jen continues, clapping her hands together after she shoves her phone back in her pocket. “I’m giving you losers an hour to take showers, brush your teeth – especially you, Hutcherson – and to pull yourselves together however you so need. I expect all of you sitting down in my basement by eleven to have fun.”

“The basement?” Alexander whispers as he leans in closer to me – he’d happily swiped the seat next to mine the very second I sat down, thinking he had beaten Jackie out. He had been a little deflated ever since Jackie swept me away to room with her. “Is she planning to off us one by one where they can’t hear our screams?”

“If we disobey, yes,” I mutter back, never taking my eyes off of our self-proclaimed director of fun.

When none of us begin to move from the table, Jen starts clapping wildly. “Come on people, let’s look alive!” she yells. We startle forward, grumbling our way out of our seats and leaving everything for Josh to clean – again, to keep himself out of the line of fire from everyone else for jinxing us.

“I’m pretty sure Jen was a drill sergeant in a past life,” Amandla muses when I find myself standing next to her as we wait for Jack to shimmy on up the stairs.

“Maybe that’s what she’s been doing in her free time,” I say, shrugging.

“Jen a drill sergeant, you an athlete,” she points out. Our eyes meet, and I can see the glimmer in them as she looks up at me with a cheeky little smirk on her face.

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised by that too,” I warn. She quickly lifts one of her hands in mock arrest, the other settling on the banister as we start upstairs.

“All I’m saying is that I was the one who saved Alexander from going to prison when he tried to give you mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after you fell off that platform.”

My eyes widen into a glare right about the time Alexander’s head pops in between us. “What’s this about me going to prison?” he asks.

Amandla simply reaches forward and pats him on the shoulder. “Nothing you need to worry about, bucko.”

Jackie exiles Jack from the bedroom after he offers to shower with her and save water – I want to crawl under the covers and die when he makes that suggestion, their coupledom can be a little disturbing to think about – leaving the two of us to get changed and pull ourselves together in peace. She asks that I braid her hair after we change out of our pajamas, perched on the edge of the bed while I sit on my knees, weaving strands of her hair together as delicately as I can.

“This is gonna be a fuckshow, I’m sure,” I say, and Jackie snorts.

“Ya think? Twenty bucks says Dayo tries to kill Alexander, Alexander hits on you, Jack manages to break a limb, Leven breaks a nail, Amandla escapes through the fucking air ducts, and Saturn falls out of orbit.” She then makes a circular gesturing motion. “All before lunch.” I simply hum my agreement, and Jackie continues talking.

“Speaking of Alexander, what the hell were you two talking about on the plane last night?” she asks. “I swear, you two liked to have never shut up.” It’s a very good thing we aren’t in front of a mirror and Jackie has no choice but to look straight ahead, because I can feel the heat beginning to rise into my cheeks.

Jackie and Jack had been diagonal to Alexander and I on the plane, Jackie’s need for the window seat overruling the need to monitor Alexander and I. “Hands to yourself,” she’d warned him before ushering on in, and he’d simply rolled his eyes.

“She’s not changed any,” he told me as we walked into our little row of seats, waiting for me to slide past him into the window seat – he’d been happy to offer it to me.

My reply was every bit explanation as it was remark. “It’s Jackie.”

Despite having a decently-sized arm rest in between our seats, Alexander had offered to share his USC blanket with me as an alternative to using the shitty one provided by the airline, as well as his earphones and jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids. I think most of it was simply an excuse to talk to me, which ultimately worked in the long run.

Somewhere over Illinois and around the fifth Black Keys song that had come on shuffle thus far, Alexander had glanced over at me, smirk riddling his face. “You still only eat the red ones?” he’d observed, head tilting in the direction of the half-empty bag of Sour Patch kids.

I’d nodded. “The others still taste like medicine.”

“The green ones do not taste like medicine,” he countered, and I’d rolled my eyes.

“They’re lime flavored, which is a sin within itself.”

A quiet laugh had fallen past his lips as he looked right at me. “You haven’t changed any, either.”

“Oh, god, I don’t know about that,” I’d mumbled. “I mean, I can now drive a car, buy cigarettes, get tattoos, and buy lottery tickets – I’m a breath away from legally ordering shots at a bar. I’d say a lot has changed since our Hunger Games days.”

“Okay, well if you look at it like that, then yeah.” Alexander ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing down his hair. “I’m just referring to…well, you, I guess. Your personality. You’re exactly how I remember you, maybe a just little bit feistier.”

“Coming from the grown man who has no qualms about exposing his bare ass for all of Instagram to see.”

“You saw that?” he asked, a slight guffaw slipping out. I merely shot him a look.

“How does one not see that?”

Underneath the blanket, his arm reached over the arm rest and he nudged my arm with his elbow. “Hey, you can’t say too much – there’s no way I’m ever gonna unsee that Joshua Tree picture you posted a little while ago.” My cheeks immediately started to burn; that picture had only come about from a dare courtesy of Madeline, and hadn’t bothered me any when she posted it. There was no shame or embarrassment to be had, up until then at least. All it seemed to do was amuse him. “Yep, still modest – I’m telling you Iz, you haven’t changed a bit.”

The conversation rolled on through how school had gone for each of us (we had fallen out of contact by the time I made it to my senior year) to recent projects, past what family vacation we’d last been on and crushing right through the political climate of America before touching on our individual meanings of life based on what the last few years had brought our way. Eventually, we just decided to be courteous to the majority of the cabin around us and shut up, the both of us pulling books out of our carry-ons and diving in. Part of me felt compelled to take a picture of it, since I knew Jackie couldn’t see it and she wouldn’t believe me when I told her Alexander was reading a book not entirely composed of giant words or pictures of naked girls. It had been nice just coexisting next to him for a little bit, the version of him that felt a little more subdued than the one I’d known back when I was fourteen. For god’s sake, the man wore reading glasses now. It was enough to make me overlook the revolving door of shitty girlfriends he had for just a little while and appreciate the human being next to me, skipping over all of the country songs because he knew how much I loathed them.

“Oh, nothing really,” I reply to Jackie quietly, voice a little squeaky.

She scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll bet it was.”

I finish off the braid, moving the hair tie up my wrist and tying it off. Patting her shoulders to signal I’m done, I fall back on my ankles. “Listen, I could have grilled you about your sex life now that Jack has finally fucking left us alone, but I didn’t, so count your blessings and hold your tongue.”

The whole way downstairs, Jackie drills holes into the back of my head for that comment.

Everyone save for Jack and Willow is already downstairs in the basement, which has been renovated to be a giant recreation room. Jen’s pushed the pool table against the back wall, the TV above it reflecting her Spotify account as she plays the aptly titled ‘Fun-ger Games’ playlist (it’s currently playing Sister Sledge’s We Are Family). A bunch of beanbag chairs, random storage chests, and stray couch cushions have been lined up against the long wall, where everyone else is sitting, looking less than pleased. Jackie and I exchange glances, both of which have a unanimous mood: death is nigh.

“Fuhrman, Emerson!” Jen chirps, meeting us at the doorway. “What, no Jack?”

“Why would Jack be with us?” Jackie replies, to which Jen’s face falls.

“You’re hilarious, Mrs. Quaid,” she teases, and Jackie’s eyes darken. “Go sit down, we’ll start in a minute.”

As we saunter past Jen, Jackie sidles up to me. “Don’t you dare tell him this, but Jack was right yesterday,” she hisses through my hair and into my ear. “That airport was the gate to hell, hell being this.” All I can do is nod in agreement.

She and I sit down on one of the trunks next to Dayo, who is watching the weather like it will suddenly reflect the very thing he wants to see – melted snow and free roadways. Jackie leans over my lap to try and get a look at what he’s scrolling through. “You looking at the website for a funeral home?” she asks, their eyes meeting knowingly after she flickers her gaze in Alexander’s direction.

Dayo scowls. “Nope, that was last night’s light reading.”

Her lips curl up in a thin smile. “How I’ve missed my kindred mind.”

Jack and Willow finally come traipsing down, Jack wearing the exact same outfit he was wearing last night on the plane. “Okie doke,” Jen announces, producing a little bucket out of nowhere. “Before we get started, fork over any and all cellular devices.”

“Have you lost your mind, woman?” Jack asks as she juts the bucket out in his direction first. She simply blinks, unfazed. The two of them engage in a little stare off, to which Jack finally caves in on. Her face brightens.

“Hand ‘em over, rest of you.”

Each of us puts our phone into the bucket begrudgingly, giving Jen a look as she makes her way down the line. After she’s collected the last phone, she pulls her own out of her pocket and sets it on top – at least she’s committing to it as well, I guess – before walking across the room. I hadn’t noticed the gigantic fucking safe sitting on top of the counter until she stops in front of it, putting the bucket inside and slamming the door shut.

Jackie leans a little closer to me as she whispers, “She really wants to incite the real-life Hunger Games, Iz, Jen has gone full-blown kamikaze.”

“Well, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” Jen proclaims, turning away from the safe and back towards us.

“I’d like to get on the road to the airport,” Dayo mutters under his breath. Jen hears this, shooting him a glare in response.

“Anyways,” she draws out, cutting her eyes away from him. “Like I said, I swiped most of this from Camp Hi-Ho, but I think it’ll work just as well! Normally, we’d start off by introducing ourselves and sharing one fun fact with each other, but I think that’s a little bit uncalled for in this situation. I think we’ll just jump straight into the human knot.”

“The human what now?” Leven repeats.

Jen gestures for all of us to stand up, arranging us in a circle. I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with Amandla and Alexander, who all but shoves Jackie out of his way so he could stand beside me, Amandla and I exchanging pained glances and murder flickering in Jackie’s eyes. “Alright, so everyone has to grab hands with someone that isn’t standing next to you,” Jen explains. To make an example, she reaches across the way and grabs my left hand with her right, and Jack’s left hand with her left hand. “Commence the tangling.”

With my free hand, I grab onto Leven’s, while everyone else around us reaches over and tries to grab hands with the minimal amount of grumbling. At least the objective here is to tangle together, because that is exactly what happens. I think Alexander purposefully grabs onto one of Jackie’s hands, which, to her displeasure, only has the realization until after there’s a mass of arms above their intertwined hands.

“Now what?” Amandla asks after we’re all closer than we ever thought we’d be in 2017.

“Now we untangle ourselves before twenty minutes goes by,” Jen replies. “And you can’t let go of anyone’s hands, or we have to start over. All the way over.”

Already I see this not going well.

Instead of untangling ourselves any, I think we only make things that much more complicated. Jackie and Josh take the leads in dictating where each of us ought to go, and how we ought to move, which meets varied reception from all of us. Some of their ideas work, and others absolutely do not. Whatsoever.

“Isabelle is going to have to get out from between Jackie and Alexander somehow, they need to be beside one another.”

“That might not be a good idea, I value my life a little more than that.”

Josh looks across the circle at me. “Izzy, how good are your limbo skills?”

My eyes narrow. “Um, not very.”

“Y’know, it’s a very good thing we didn’t do this where some of you weren’t allowed to talk.”

“You want us to complete this before we ring in the New Year, right?”

“Okay, on what fucking solar system do you expect me to be able to dive between the tiny gap that yours and Dayo’s arms create?” Jack asks Josh after he makes the suggestion, his eyes narrowing.

“Well, we gotta get you through here somehow, dude.”

“We can just not and say we did, thank you very much.”

“Guys, time is running out!” Jen warns.

Willow rolls her eyes. “Jen, you’re deluded to think we can do this in under two hours, much less twenty minutes.”

“I believe in you guys,” she argues. Dayo snorts.

“Well that is some misplaced faith, sister.”

We don’t beat the twenty minutes, of course, but Jen insists we keep on going until we figure it out. After an extra twenty minutes of the human knot comes the hypothetical plane crash, where we have to work together to think of what twelve items within Jen’s basement we’d find most useful in the case we were all stranded on a desert island. After that comes the game of three truths and a lie, which is about as disastrous as one could expect – we spend a solid ten minutes debating on whether or not Alexander accidentally told two lies instead of just the one, and I lose my appetite upon learning much more about the sex lives of my former costars than I would ever care to know. Jen finally lets us break for lunch after that, which is subpar due to the fact that she wasn’t anticipating a blizzard to trap us here and prevent Dominos from delivering. The only bright spot is the Christmas cookies that are low in number and in high demand. I come close to breaking one of Jack’s fingers trying to get the last one.

As Josh goes around and collects our trash, Jen starts up with yet another prelude to what I can only imagine is an equally as horrific as the others we’ve been subjected to.

“Okay, I think the next thing on my list was the blindfolded maze—”

Alexander raises his hand. “Uh yeah, I can tell you right now that blindfolding me and sending me on a journey of disorient ain’t gonna end well, can we push that one back?”

“Or just not do it at all?” Jackie adds hopefully.

Jen’s face draws up into full-blown resting bitch mode. “We’re doing it, Emerson. But,” she concedes, her shoulders slouching. “I guess we could do something a little less action-y.”

“That would be splendid,” Dayo remarks.  

“Can we do nap time?” Josh asks, lifting his hand in question. “Because I think we’d all be in agreement that naptime is the perfect bonding experience – we’re all in one another’s presence while we sleep relatively peacefully.”

“Naps are for chumps.”

“Says the girl who fell asleep standing against a tree.”

Jen rolls her eyes, taking a sip from her water bottle. “Okay, so this next bit is called the purposeful mingle.”

The guys all groan at that. “Purposeful mingle?” Alexander whines.

“I already know all of you, why do I need to mingle and more importantly, why does it have to be purposeful? There’s nothing purposeful about mingling!” Dayo insists. “The two contradict one another entirely!”

Out from her back pocket – I’m really going to have to ask Jen where on earth she bought these sweatpants, because these pockets have to be bottomless pits – Jen withdraws two Camp Hi-Ho bandanas and holds them out. “I can always blindfold you,” she offers. Dayo shuts his mouth very quickly, and Jen smiles.

“Purposeful mingling,” she says. “Blaine told me he had to do this once at a leadership development thingy and that it was utter bullshit, but I figured out a way that we can make it fun.”

Under his breath, Jack mutters, “Heroin would be more fun.”

“I may or may not have stolen part of this from One Tree Hill, but basically I’m gonna pair all of you losers up with someone that you don’t see all the time—" Jen shoots a pointed look at Jackie and Jack, to which they both react with a frown “—and you’re gonna mingle. Purposefully. Anywhere in the house. Just talk about stuff, bond and shit! The person who I think has the most purposeful mingling is gonna win something spectacular,” she promises.

“And how are you gonna determine who mingles the most…purposefully?” Willow asks.

“Like I’m gonna tell you – you morons cheat the system enough as it is. I gotta keep some cards up my sleeve.” She begins to look around our little circle, cogs whirring as she tries to decide who to pair up. I can already kiss any hopes of being with Jackie a fond farewell.

“Okay,” she says slowly, lifting her pointer finger. “Dayo and Jack. Amandla and Josh. Willow and Jackie. Isabelle and Alexander.” Jackie begins to mutter something rather colorful under her breath. Alexander’s already got his eyes locked on me, a hopeful smile on his face when he catches my glance. “And then me and Levvy.”

“You said we can go anywhere in the house?” Josh repeats for clarification.

“Yes,” Jen replies, and then she backtracks a little. “Well, anywhere within reason.” Her eyes then drift over towards Alexander. “I don’t need to see the future youth of America in the contraception stage when I come to gather you all for the regroup.”

From beside me, Jackie’s face is fifty shades of murder as she gleefully assists Jen in shooting Alexander a warning glare. He merely rolls his eyes.

“For fuck’s sake, you people act like I don’t know how to keep it in my pants.”

“You don’t,” Amandla replies, masking it in a cough.

Jen claps her hands, breaking up the conversation. “Alright people, get to mingling. Purposefully! But not too purposefully, Isabelle-and-Alexander-in-particular!”

As I stand up, tugging down the hem of my shirt, I tell Jackie, “You know, maybe the whole hypothermia and frostbite situation won’t be that bad.”

She simply lifts both of her eyebrows, as if to say, ‘I told you.’

Alexander is quick to meet me halfway, rubbing at his chin sheepishly. “They’re insane,” he mutters quietly, what I suppose is his apology on the rest of our nutcase friends’ behalves.

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

His hands burrow down into the pockets of his jeans as he glances around the room, watching as everyone else scatters and Jen and Leven set up camp in the corner of the room. “Where do you wanna go to do this thing?” he asks me.

“I might have an idea or two.”

                                                              ...

“Okay, I don’t know anything about women’s fashion, but this cannot be Jen’s.”

“I don’t even think that could be her mother’s.”

Alexander looks down at the sweater he’s held up to his chest, another laugh falling from his lips. “I wonder if they’d notice if it went missing – this would win me every ugly sweater contest there ever was.”

“You mean ugly Christmas sweater?” I try to correct, my hands fiddling with the rogue lid of a shoebox.

“No, Isabelle, I mean ugly sweater. All of them. This is their king.” Alexander returns it back to the rack in the same place we pulled it from before sitting down cross legged in front of me. “What made you think of coming in here again?”

I shrug. “Tell me, if you were a rabid, anti-Alexbelle Jackie looking to keep an eye on the two of us, where’s the last place you’re gonna think to look?” He concedes, tilting his head towards me. “I dunno, I figured we’d get a little privacy in the master closet, no successful spying attempts occurring for the first few minutes anyways.”

To that, Alexander rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Amandla and Josh have already made it their personal mission to sniff us out.”

“Them or Dayo one.”

A shadow falls over Alexander’s face, and I instantly want to withdraw that statement. It’s so easy to forget that Dayo is a raw nerve for Alexander and vice versa – it’s incredibly easy seeing as how I don’t know the full story behind that. “Why do you think they’re so hung up on the thought of us being together?” I try to reroute the conversation, my voice a little higher than usual.

“They probably bought into that huge fucking fanfiction craze back in the day. Surely you remember that.” His voice is a little lighter, which I’m taking as a good sign.

“How can I forget? I’m the one who sent you links to them half the time,” I tease, cracking a half-smile.

“Will literally followed them for years,” he continues. “I caught her reading one when we went out to lunch one day.”

“Will and Mandla might as well have championed that craze,” I muse. “I still remember the texts I got from them when that Castro posted that stupid list.”

“You know I’m sorry about that, right?” Alexander says softly, and once again, I have singlehandedly managed to derail the conversation to a place I really wasn’t expecting to go to.

I wave my hand around in dismissal. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, of course. It’s water under the bridge, Zander. That happened so long ago…”

“I know, but it doesn’t change the fact that that was super shitty of them and it changed things between us. They knew what they signed up for when Nic got involved with me, the whole fan thing – I told them that they had a thing for the two of us together and it never meant anything other than them just being passionate about something fictional. Still pissed her off though.”

“That wasn’t why you two broke up though, right?” I ask nervously.

He shakes his head, scoffing lightly. “Nah. Nic was an iceberg. We might have had a tiny problem on the surface, but it extended miles beneath it.” His shoulders fall as he sighs. “The relocation Vikings wanted out of me wasn’t something she wanted to commit to, amongst other things.”

My eyebrows furrow together. “Other things?”

When Alexander’s eyes meet mine, I start to feel little punches right to my diaphragm. The vulnerability reflecting in them is the same as if he was standing here in front of me naked – not the kind in which he frequents, but the kind where he’s entirely exposed. No little schticks to hide behind. “Life, I guess,” he admits. “Being the dudebro douchebag can’t last forever, y’know? I burned out with that act faster than I got started with it, it just…wasn’t really me. And that was what she wanted, the parties, the sex, the alcohol, all of that. But I wanted to mature up. Get serious with work, do something that gave me the leeway to get married and have kids.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear my ears were deceiving me. I try not to let the shock color my face as I speak. “Is that still what you want?”

One of his hands drags down his jaw, and his eyes cast back down at the carpet. “Yeah, ‘course it is. I’m ready for that.”

“But?”

“But,” he sighs. “I just don’t feel like I’m…I don’t know. I still don’t feel like I’m in the right place for it, even after ditching all the dead weight I possibly could. Everything I do just feels like one misstep after the other.”

“Hey, that’s not true,” I insist, reaching out and resting my hand on the top of his knee. “As far as I’m concerned, the only missteps you ever took were Liv it Up and Grownups 2.”

Blue eyes flit back up at me. “I was an idiot, huh?”

“Please, this might as well be the cohort of idiots,” I reassure him. “We’ve all done stupid stuff.”

“Gimme a break – you’re perfect, Belle.”

“And you’re full of shit.” One of my eyebrows raises as I grin. “Wanna hear a secret?”

“Isabelle Fuhrman has secrets?” Alexander asks incredulously, and I roll my eyes.

“I’m gonna retract the offer,” I warn.

He shakes his head, sliding a little closer to me. “No, tell me. I’m all ears.”

“Airplane,” I tell him bluntly. He stares at me puzzled.

“Airplane?” It doesn’t seem to click with him as he repeats it out loud, and I give him a pointed look. Even if he didn’t want to, he took away more from the dudebro douchebag act than I think he realizes, seeing as how he can’t take a damn hint or comprehend loaded statements. It takes a second for what I’m actually saying to arrive on his doorstep, and the look on his face when it comes to him is priceless. His face lights up, a shocked laugh echoing through the closet. “Isabelle Gretchen Fuhrman,” he gasps.

“It wasn’t like...the whole shebang,” I clarify. “Just almost.”

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” he says in the midst of what I hope is feigned shock. “Never in a million years would I have ever thought—”

“Yeah, well, welcome to the year 3000,” I tease.

Alexander wallows in his surprise for a minute, the two of us just breaking out into laughs about it once he regains control over his ability to emote beyond wide eyes and jaw dropped. Our bubble is popped right about the time someone starts knocking on the door. “Go away, Jackie!” I call out.

It’s Jen who yells from the other side of the door. “Are your clothes on?”  

“Oh my god,” I groan. “Yes.”

“She’s lying!” Alexander yells out, and I swiftly deliver a punch to his shoulder. “Jesus, you can still pack a punch.”

“Magic, I guess.”

Jen cracks open the door, sliding in a tiny little polaroid camera before shutting it back. “You guys are the last ones to get it – take a cute little picture of each other however you best see fit to commemorate, and for the love of god, if you do nudes—”

“—we are not—“

--definitely gonna do nudes—”

“—then please retrieve them and hide them where I will never be able to see them. Ever. Just bring it with you when you come downstairs, we’re meeting back up in ten.”

I scoot back on the carpet, grabbing the camera as I hear Jen’s footsteps recede away from the closet door. “Take a polaroid to commemorate our time in this stupid walk-in closet,” I repeat, turning the camera over a few times in my hands.

“Oh, I’ve already got a great idea for yours,” Alexander insists, hand expectant as he reaches out for the camera. “Gimme, Fuhrman.”

I sit with my hands in my lap as I wait for him to take the picture, and he very quickly shakes his head. “No, no, no. You aren’t getting off that easy.” He stands up, perusing through the aisles of clothes around us, and all I can do is watch him confusedly. “Was Jen’s grandma a flight attendant in a past life?” he asks, eyes sparkling as he glances back at me.

“Alexander,” I hiss, eyes growing wide as I realize where he’s taking this. “Stop it.”

“Put this on,” he finally says, holding out a navy blazer, pencil skirt and a pair of black heels.

“You’re fucking insane.”

“It’s adorable when you swear,” he comments. “And it’s not like anyone’s ever gonna see this aside from me anyways. I’ll just lie and tell Jen that we did the nudes.”

“Alexander!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Seriously though. No one’s gonna see this. I might put it in my wallet or some shit though, just to…y’know. Commemorate.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I grumble as I slip off my jeans and switch it out for the pencil skirt. The blazer covers up my white sweater alright, and the heels are two sizes too big – I feel exactly how I look, like a little girl playing dress up in someone’s closet. Alexander also finds me a tie from the men’s side of the closet, helping me tie it around my neck before backing up a little.

“Oh yeah, definitely the flight attendant aesthetic. This is so going in my wallet.”

I frown, flipping him off.

“C’mon, Belle, lighten up. Strike a stupid pose or some shit,” he persuades.

I figure I have nothing to lose – if anything, Alexander will forget where he even puts this picture. So I force an overly cheerful smile onto my face, giving a little two fingered salute as I pop my hip out. He laughs as he takes the picture. “Gorgeous,” he compliments playfully.

“If that ends up on Instagram, I will bury you,” I threaten as I kick off the heels.

I shimmy out of Jen’s mom’s clothes, who I hope will never notice that they’ve been disturbed, Alexander putting them back up on their hangers while we wait for the picture to develop. “You gonna get your payback on me?” he asks.

My lips purse together as I sift through a few potential ideas, most of which involve just that. “Mm, nah,” I finally settle. “I’ll think of how to do that later.”

“Oh god,” he mutters. “That might be even worse.”

“Okay, shut up and do as I tell you.”

I position Alexander where I want him and he does so without complaint – a much better model than I will ever be – and I raise the camera up to my face. “Gorgeous,” I mimic him, lowering my voice as I press down on the button. He breaks into laughter right as I do so, and I already know that that’s exactly how the picture will develop.

When we leave the closet and start to head back downstairs to the basement, the polaroid of Alexander is tucked safely into the back pocket of my jeans, far away from Jackie’s prying eyes. She swoops in right next to me when she spots me walking past the kitchen, which is apparently where she and Willow stayed the entire time. “How was it?” she whispers.

“It was fine.”

“Any attempt of penetration?”

My jaw drops a little, and I shove her. “Jacqueline!”

“What?!” she protests. “I had to ask!”

The vibe in the room seems to have shifted a little, some of the edge deriving mostly from hostility having dissipated. We all go back to sitting against the wall, Jen leaning up against the pool table and messing with the cue ball while she waits for us to get settled and shut up.

“Alright Jen, I purposefully mingled my ass off,” Dayo tells her. “How are you picking the winner?”

“See?” she muses to no one in particular. “You guys are so much more motivated when there’s a tangible incentive involved – I should have done this three team building exercises ago.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Jen pushes a piece of hair out of her face, peeling her body off of the edge of the pool table. “Okay, kiddos. I want to see how much purpose you actually mingled with. Everyone’s going to go around and tell one fun fact that they learned about their partner. Person with the most interesting, not-surface level fact gets a check for a thousand dollars.”

Jack begins to choke on the very air he’s breathing.

“A thousand dollars?! For a fun fact?”

Jen looks like the cat that ate the singing canary as she nods. “Yep. So you better make it good, motherfuckers.”

“Do I get a thousand dollars if I pretend to like this whole team building shit?” Dayo asks, Jen’s face quickly falling.

“No. I only bust the checkbook out for worthwhile bribes.” She then wildly gestures towards all of us. “Somebody go!”

The thousand dollars on the table most definitely changes the vibe in the room – this is the first time since we realized we had the curtain pulled over our eyes that we’re actually on board with this whole get-together. Everyone is so excited about this, in fact, that we all start talking over one another.

“Dayo got drunk at a Shades of Blue wrap party and sang Jenny from the Block in front of J-Lo!”

“Dude!”

“Jackie’s on a first name basis with the president of Germany!”

“Amandla babysat Blue Ivy!”

“Josh was still sitting on a phone book to reach the gas pedal his senior year of high school!”

“Isabelle almost joined the mile-high club!”

I’m so prepared to spring everyone with the little tidbit that Ludwig, Manwhore Extraordinaire actually wants to settle down in the next year or two and have kids and watch that thousand-dollar check come my way that I almost miss Alexander’s voice shouting out the fun fact about me. Almost.

It’s Jackie’s turn to choke on the very air she’s breathing, her head whipping in my direction so fucking fast that I don’t know how her neck breaks. I, however, beat her to the punch.

“Excuse me!?” I screech, the room going deathly silent. The gravity of what sort of mistake this has been hits both Alexander and Jen square in the face the minute my voice rings out in the quiet, Jen slowly backing up into the pool table and making her way underneath it so it serves as cover. No number of zeroes is going to deliver us from this level of hell.

“Belle—”

“Dude, too far.” Jack says quietly, shaking his head. “The sex life is always off limits.”

Jackie is nearly purple in the face as she spits out the words at Alexander like they’re knives. “With who, you?”

“Jackie, get a fucking grip, of course not,” I snap, only letting my eyes stray from her for a second before I round back on Alexander. “That was personal, Ludwig.”

“I know, I know,” he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry, Belle, it just…slipped.”

Everything that happened in the closet between us is beginning to slide down a very slippery slope, becoming more and more lackluster by the second. Leave it to Ludwig to ruin it. Should have seen it coming, really. “Just slipped,” I repeat dully. “That’s wonderful. Really.”

“I’ll give you the thousand dollars, I swear—”

“I will set fire to your bank account, Jennifer, if you pay him.”

“I like you better anyways, Belly,” Jen rushes to confirm. I nod, pulling myself off of the ground and dusting off my hands. I start walking around the room, rummaging through random trunks and drawers along the wall lined with cabinets.

“What are you looking for?” Leven asks me. “Ludwig’s sanity is nowhere to be found, babe.”

“I can hear you!” Alexander snaps.

“A knife,” I reply. “I’m curious to see how well my skills have held up after all this time.”

And with that, team building activities for the rest of the day get postponed. Indefinitely.

[jackfollmanwriter-blog]

The Big Lonely

    “Do you know what a little America is?” Kyle uttered the first words either of us had spoken since we had left San Francisco five hours ago.

    “What?” I asked back in a tone that even I would have to admit was pretty bitchy.

     “A little America. Have you ever heard that term?” He asked again.

I was the kind of tired that even moving my lips felt like a chore. It wasn’t just that I was pissed off at Kyle. I simply wanted to go to sleep and wasn’t interested in hearing one of his history lessons or informative tidbits that he frequently liked to share as if he was providing the footnotes of my life.

   “No.”

    “A little America is a truck stop along lightly populated freeways that has everything that a trucker might need – restaurant, hotel, bar, store, bathrooms, even like little porno shops. They are like little slices of America out in the middle of nowhere. Hence, the name, little America,” Kyle said this with his eyes still glued to the desolate road in front of us that we were traversing at around 85 miles per-hour.

    “Cool,” I could not have sounded any less enthused.

I could hear Kyle grinding his teeth from behind the wheel when we journeyed back into the cone of silence.

    “You’re pissed off at me,” Kyle unclamped his teeth and spoke at me out of the side of his mouth.

     “I’m not. It’s fine. I’m just tired, and hungry.”

It’s true, I was extremely tired. It was nearly 2 a.m. and I had been up since six in the morning when I got up to get ready for work. However, I was mostly pissed because of a common Kyle behavior that he was exhibiting that I internally referred to as the “Kyle trap.” In this trap, he would do something that would assuredly, and justifiably, get under my skin and then act as if he was completely mystified as to why I was upset so it would seem like I was being the irrational bad guy.

This time, Kyle made us stay in town to watch the Giants’ World Series game at his favorite bar even though he knew that we had to make it to New York by Monday morning and that waiting till the end of the game would make it so we could barely stop along the way to even take a piss if we had to. He didn’t care. It wasn’t him that had to be at his first day of a new job in Manhattan bright and early Monday morning.

     “Well, the good news is that I know there is one of those little America’s coming up here in just a few miles,” Kyle interrupted my self-loathing. “We can stop there and get some food, and some sleep.”

    “That sounds good,” I made sure to perk my voice up an octave or two.

Fuck, I could just not stay mad at him.

After a few more minutes of silence, we were pulling into a parking lot that was the size of a football field bathed in towering streetlights that reminded me of the palm trees that we were leaving behind in California. Stepping out into the frigid winds of the meadow of dark paved asphalt also served a bitter reminder that we were leaving the comfort of reasonably warm October nights behind. A chilling gust swept in and seemed to go right up my shirt like an overzealous high school boy after just a few moments of making out.

I brushed off Kyle not giving a reason for why he parked 30 yards away from the hub of the truck stop and silently followed him up to the thing that looked like a suburban shopping mall that had been stranded in the middle of rocky desert and surrounded by semi trucks. The soundtrack of the trucks’ mechanical hum filled the air like crickets on a summer night. I could feel the hot lights of the trucks upon us as we shuffled through the parking lot and couldn’t help but feel like a wildebeest in some nature documentary clopping up to a watering hole with the eyes of hungry lions lingering off in the distance.

A quick scan of the entire property confirmed what Kyle had said about the little America. The heart of the facility was a conglomerate of a building that advertised a diner, a motel, an Internet café, luxury bathrooms/showers, a convenience store and a bar. Serving as the cherry on top were the buzzing yellow lights of an adult book store with a front entrance that was clouded in the cigarette smoke of a few patrons who appeared to be shooting the shit out front. I quickly began to wonder if I would be the only woman in this entire place and if I should ask Kyle if we should just keep going, but stopped myself.

I followed Kyle into the truck stop diner that someone had made the horrible decision to decide to primarily decorate with sea green, plastic and the stinging, sweaty smell a guy gives off when he is really hung over.  I also expected some beaten down old single mom to greet us and take us over to one of the tables that appeared to be coated with leftover syrup, but the only thing that greeted us was a sickening fart that erupted from the table closest to us.

    “Oh fuck,” Kyle shot out the words before pulling the collar of his shirt up over the lower half of his face. “That’s bad.”

I fired a look over in the direction of the flatulence and saw a well-greased old prospector in a straw cowboy hat that was literally falling apart on his bald head. He slunk back into his chair with a slight grin and started forking at some wet pancakes.

    “Just have a seat. Char’s gone,” a friendly voice called out from the middle of the dining area where a guy with a snow white push broom mustache wearing a Canadian tuxedo coated with dust was nursing a cup of coffee.

    “Thanks,” I said in the most non-bitchy tone that I could summon at the moment and then immediately whispered at Kyle. “Should we just go?”

   “Are you kidding me? This is great.”

I knew Kyle was going to say that. He had that obnoxious hipster crumbling Americana fetish thing where he relished bars full of borderline homeless people, thrift shop t-shirts and the fact that he could pack all of his possessions into his 1994 RAV4, even at the age of 31.

     “But seriously, there is probably going to be like babies in the food, and they don’t even have a waitress.”

Right on cue the odor of musty smokes replaced the lingering stench of hot fart and a nearly-elderly woman with a bun of salty black hair who sounded and looked like she had been smoking a pack a day since she was 12 walked past us with an announcement.

    “Sit anywhere you like. Menus are on the table.”

Kyle led me through the graveyard of vacant tables until he settled on a little two-seater near where the old man with the mustache who had first spoken to us had been before he had vanished like some kind of truck stop ghost in an old CB radio song from the 70s. We took seats across from each other and the immediate presence of Kyle’s smile actually put my at ease in a place that seemingly should have never elicited looks of joy from someone with more than three years left on their lifespan.

    “I gotta take a piss,” Kyle announced and took off towards the entrance.

I numbly scanned the laminated menu with razor sharp corners as soon as Kyle left while being mad at myself for leaving my phone in the car.

The waitress returned as soon as I had mentally made my decision and filled both of the mugs on the table without asking if I wanted any.

    “On the house after midnight,” the waitress jingled.

Much to my surprise, she then plopped down in the chair that Kyle had been sitting in and started playing with her bun.

    “I bet you’re glad to see another woman in this place. I sure am,” the waitress started in.

I let out a nervous chuckle.

    “Yeah, I guess,” I agreed and started furiously spinning the menu in circles on the table.

The waitress started talking again, but I was mostly blocking her out. I was more concerned with why Kyle was taking so long to come back from the bathroom. The fact that he never washed his hands and had a deep fear of shitting in public restrooms usually kept his bathroom breaks as fast as a NASCAR pit stop.

My eyes drifted over to the men’s room door that he had disappeared into. No signs of life.

    “What is bringing you through this way?”

I jumped when I turned to see the waitress staring right at me with eyes that were the same color as the table.

     “Oh, oh, I uh, got a job in New York. We are moving there this weekend, from San Francisco,” I said, a little flush in the face from the embarrassment of being startled.

     “Ooh la la, what are you doing in New York?”

    “Uh, I work for a public relations agency, they transferred me to the main office there.”

The waitress clucked her tongue.

    “I don’t know. So expensive there. A one-room apartment probably costs as much as a mansion here.”

    “Yeah, but San Francisco’s not any better,” I spoke the words while thinking “where the fuck is Kyle?”

    “What does your boyfriend do there?” The waitress asked after staring at my barren left ring finger.

I took a deep breath, assuming it was nearly impossible to not see that I was annoyed about the whole situation at this point.

     “Uh, he is a wedding photographer.”

    “Oh,” the waitress gave a quick laugh before going on. “Is that a real job?”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

    “I know what you mean.”

    “I always wanted to go to New York, or San Francisco,” the waitress said and kicked back into her chair in a whimsical manner. “But things didn’t really work out for me.”

I could tell that the waitress was waiting for me to say something like “what happened?” but I didn’t care, I was pretty much only concerned with the men’s room door that remained closed.

    “I was living around here when I was 15 and started working at a diner in town. The owner seemed like a real nice old man. He hired me even though I was young and it was my first job. So when he asked me to come out to his place by the lake one weekend, I did it. Caught the bus all the way over to Tahoe and went to his house. My parents were fine with it. Maybe they just didn’t care, but I went out there.”

I shot a look to the men’s room again. Nothing.

   “And he was nice. For a while. Then it started to get near dark and I started to wonder what we were going to do. He had told me that he was going to drive me back home before dinner because he needed to stop by the diner anyways, but he told me that his plans had changed and we were going to have dinner there instead and he poured some wine. I felt so sophisticated. People don’t remember in the 60s, people didn’t really drink wine. I had never even seen it in-person and I just went with it. I drank a couple of glasses and the next thing you know, I felt the owner’s hand on my leg…

    “Hey.”

I had never been happier to hear Kyle’s voice. He strolled up to the table with the old timer who had greeted us earlier behind him wearing a huge smile.

“Sorry about that, got to chatting with Don here in the bathroom about the area and we lost track of time.”

Kyle shot me a smile just as big as the one that Don was beaming and the waitress hurried to her feet looking rather embarrassed while quietly apologizing.

The rest of our experience in there was fast and easy. We had about 30 seconds of friendly small talk with Don and then he left. The waitress took our order – two pancake plates. Kyle and I talked about the logistics of our drive from there. We ate, paid in cash so we could get the hell out of there as soon as possible, and went out to our car.

Everything would change when we got to the car.

I had never felt the kind of chill that wrapped over me when we walked up to Kyle’s dirty white RAV4 to see every single door wide open.

   “What the fuck?” the words just fell out of my already-open mouth and we sprinted the rest of the way to the car.

Kyle got there first and immediately started spouting assurances.

    “Everything’s here. They didn’t take anything.”

I followed Kyle’s lead of rifling through the inside of the SUV that was jammed packed with his belongings and quickly conceded that he was right until I looked in the cup holder of the center console where my brand new iPhone had been.

   “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” I screamed and smashed my hand upon the hard plastic of the center console, effectively tearing up my soft knuckles.

    “They just took your phone?”

    “Yeah, I’m sure they knew that your shit isn’t worth anything,” I fired back. “How the fuck are we even going to get there now without navigation?”

I went on with the thought of Kyle’s navigationless, ancient flip phone searing into my soul. We were going to get fucking lost in America because he thought it was cool to have a phone from 2006 because he didn’t need all of the fancy bells and whistles of a smartphone.

Kyle shook his head and jumped into the driver’s seat and I collapsed into the passenger’s seat like a lumpy bag of bones. I felt his arm reach over across the console and fall limply upon my back and then softly begin to pet.

    “I’m sorry,” Kyle’s voice lifted over the sound of the roaring semi engines that provided the score of the night and my spirit came up off the canvas.

    “It’s okay,” I replied, effectively fighting off tears. “Let’s just get the fuck out of this place.”

   “Sorry we stopped here,” Kyle said and then put the car in gear and headed to the exit.

I hated how dark the roads were around here. It reminded me of driving around where my grandparents lived in Montana, everything was black. We had barely left San Francisco, but I already missed the pale glow of the streetlights.

I would get my light though. We had followed the signs that directed us back to I-80 East from the truck stop and they had led us to a dark intersection and a freeway entrance that was quarantined off with road flares, cones and Marlboro men clad in reflective orange, working in the night.

Kyle rolled down the window and one of the workers strolled over after spewing out a thick jag of chewing tobacco. The worker gave out a verbal greeting that sounded like a mix of the clearing of a throat and someone saying the phrase “hee haw.”

     “What’s going on?” Kyle asked.

The worker leaned against the open driver’s side window, close enough to where I could see the little bits of cement stuck in his short red beard.

   “Road’s closed. Construction,” the worker spat out almost before Kyle could even finish his question.

    “Is there another way we can take? We don’t know our way around here,” Kyle followed up.

The worker just walked away without another word and scratched his ass.

     “Fuckers,” Kyle muttered underneath his breath.

    “What do we do?” I asked.

    “There’s gotta be some kind of.”

Kyle got cut off by the trumpeting roar of a horn from just behind us. I jumped out of my seat and looked in the rear view mirror to see the towering headlights of a big rig bearing down on us.

    “Of fucking course someone is behind us right now in the middle of nowhere,” Kyle screamed as angry as I had ever heard him.

Kyle started to back the car up, but stopped when the big rig pulled around us to the left and quickly stopped once it came abreast.

   “Sorry about that,” a vaguely-familiar voice called down from the open passenger-side window of the robin’s egg blue big rig. “These guys will close this thing down all the time without even telling anybody.”

I peered up at the open window of the big rig to see the grizzled face of Don, whom we had just met at the truck stop.

He went on with a big smile upon his face.

     “Follow me. I know my way around this mess.”

A cracking noise sounded out from Don’s truck and he pulled out in front of us.

Kyle put the car in gear and trailed him.

   “You really think we should follow him?” I asked.

   “I don’t think we really have any other choice.”

    “I’m sure there are signs.”

Kyle just shook his head and followed Don’s truck onto a darkened side road that looked to run perpendicular to the freeway.

   “We could go back to the truck stop and ask someone,” I suggested.

Kyle just shook his head.

Our headlights illuminated the back of Don’s truck as our mini-convoy picked up speed and that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach from the parking lot returned.

XXXXX

We had been following Don’s big rig for miles now and the road had long ago winded away from the freeway, but Kyle didn’t seem the least bit concerned. We could now see nothing but endless road, endless night and the air inside our vehicle was filled with endless silence that I finally had to break.

   “Are you really sure we should keep following him?”

    “Yeah, yeah,” Kyle replied quietly and I turned my attention back to the world of darkness.

Everything was as it had boringly been before my question except for a small change in the rear-view mirror.

Two round beams of light, approaching us swiftly from behind.

   “Kyle…

The headlights behind us were getting closer and closer, now just about 20 yards behind us.

    “I know.”

I was about to speak up some more but my thoughts were dashed by the sounds of squealing breaks that cut through the air and a helpless skidding feeling. I screamed as the back of Don’s semi rushed towards the windshield and closed my eyes with my arms stretched out helplessly in front of me.

We were stopped when I opened my eyes again.

The back of Don’s semi must have been millimeters from the front of our car. What was now revealed to be another semi was behind us, but it was now twisted a bit to the left of us, in the other lane of the road. The second semi’s positions essentially blocked our car from moving anywhere else on the road. The only direction out was towards the endless black that was to my right. I checked to see that my door was locked before turning to my left and screaming.

Kyle was looking over at me, his face obscured behind a sheet of hot red blood that coated his face and spurted out from a fresh wound that gaped upon his forehead.

    “Oh my God. Oh my God, Kyle.”

    “It’s okay. It’s okay. I just hit my head on the steering wheel”

My gaze moved from Kyle to the outside world for a moment when a bright figure entered my vision outside of the driver’s side window.

The figure was an old woman, one that could have been anyone’s grandma packaged in white shorts, a green blouse and a white visor, looking like she belonged on a golf course in Scottsdale as opposed to a desolate desert road somewhere in Nevada.

She walked up to the window and knocked upon the thick glass.

   “You must be Kyle and Melissa,” the grandma said with kind eyes behind glasses, seemingly unaffected by the fact that Kyle looked like Carrie after they dumped the blood on her at prom.

    “How do you know our names?” I shot back and her face scrunched up.

    “Oh, Don told me,” the grandma said then cringed at Kyle. “Ew, that looks bad. We are gonna have to take you to the emergency room.”

    “Why did he stop so suddenly?” I pleaded at the grandma. “Where are you leading us?”

The grandma ignored me and kept looking Kyle up and down.

    “Son, we’re gonna have to get you to the hospital, or you could be in some serious trouble. I’ll radio Don and he will lead the way. Come on now,” the grandma said and walked back over to the long hauler that I couldn’t believe she commanded.

Fighting off my simmering rage for the elderly woman, I grabbed one of the numerous dirty shirts that were strewn about the backseat, and wrapped it around Kyle’s head, right over the gash that was still milking out hot blood.

      “I don’t think we should follow them. We should just find the hospital ourselves, call 411 or something on your phone,” I said.

I didn’t notice that Kyle was already looking at his phone.

    “No service.”

    “Fuck, call 911.”

     “I’m not calling 911. Jesus Christ, we’re not going to get killed by some Grandma. When was the last time you heard of a 70-year old, female, serial killer?”

I sat there in silence, the full weight of how stupid this all seemed hitting home when Kyle spelled it out like that.

Kyle put the car into gear, but something was clearly off with the car. Even I could tell and I didn’t know shit about cars. The whole vehicle seemed to react as if we ran over a boulder every few feet that it rolled.

    “Shit, I think we have a flat tire,” Kyle exhaled with every word and Don emerged from his big rig.

Don shuffled up to the driver’s window with a huge dip of chaw bulging his jaw and started talking before Kyle even got the window all the way rolled down.

     “Fucking a, you got a flat tire. Unless you got a spare, we can either roll that thing up into my hauler, I got room, or, you can just ride with Darla to the spital,” Don said, and that’s not a typo, that’s how he pronounced “hospital.”

    “Do we have a spare tire?” I frantically asked Kyle.

    “We did. I sold it,” Kyle dribbled back.

    “Well y’all wanna hop in with Darla then?” Don asked.

I started gnashing my teeth before I even heard Kyle agree, but it didn’t matter. We had no real other choice. Kyle actually could maybe bleed to death if we didn’t get him some attention soon.

I followed Kyle out of the car and over to the passenger side door of Darla’s rig.

The truck gave out a heavy gasp and then the door swung out mechanically like the door of a school bus revealing Darla sitting there behind the wheel looking like Large Marge.

   “Pretty nifty ain’t it?” Darla said.

Kyle agreed verbally, I just kind of gave a half nod when we stepped up into the rig.

    “You two can hang out in the sleeper cab if you would rather stay together than try and share the front seat up here,” Darla announced.

The two of us piled into the darkness of Darla’s sleeper cab that reminded me a bit of the RV that my best friend’s family used when I would camp with them while growing up. The thing even had the musty, outdoorsy smell that I remembered.

Kyle and I found a seat on a futon-style cushy couch in the back of the thing, far from Darla who was whistling vaguely familiar old show tunes and captaining the rig out onto the road.

It seemed weird, but maybe that familiar smell had soothed my nerves. I suddenly felt a little bit at ease.

I was about to say something to Kyle, but was interrupted when Don’s country drawl crackled over the radio up by Darla’s perch. She reached over and cranked the volume once his gravelly voice came over the waves.

    “You kids are cute. Sitting back there all cuddled up, young and in love. Going from big city to big city.”

Don’s voice let out a deep exhale, creating a lengthy pause.

     “That’s why this is going to be so hard, you see. You’re probably expecting me to start in on some Bible-thumping diatribe or some speech about how you city pricks are ruing our lives, but that’s not why we are doing this. We are doing this, because it’s just what we like to do. It’s an impulse and one that I don’t know where it comes from. That’s all. Over and out.”

Without any hesitation, I sprung up to my feet before Don had even finished and ran towards the cab of the truck where Darla was driving.

In a flash, I was in the light of the cabin, just over Darla’s shoulder, ready to lunge, when I heard Don’s voice crackle back over the radio.

    “I know right now you are probably thinking about, or, already trying to scramble your way out of the rig, but the bad news is that it is already too late. You don’t realize it, but we have a friend back there with you.”

I heard the worst sound I had ever heard in my life burst out from behind me. It was like the sound of a horrifying scream interrupted by the sound of air being let out of a car tire.

I looked back for just a moment to see Kyle wrapped up like a python’s prey by a figure that looked like the color black formed into a human body. I could barely even tell what I was looking at was Kyle. His neck was being snapped back and filleted with a thick knife that shimmered in the hints of light that leaked into the sleeper cab. His blood gushing down onto his plain white t-shirt that had already been turned a Kool-Aide red.

My body didn’t connect with my brain. I just moved in one snap. I dove upon Darla behind the steering wheel, slipping the powerful wheel from her grasp, sending the entire vehicle into a shudder. I didn’t even look to where we were going. I just looked to my hands numbly wrapped around the old woman’s neck and the look of pure terror in her eyes. I could hear the sounds of Don freaking out on the radio as Darla slipped out of the chair and the truck pitched to the left, throwing both of us against the door. I grabbed hold of the cold metal of the door’s handle on my way into the thing and pulled the little lever towards me as hard as I could, flinging the door out into the cold open of the night.

Without even looking what I had opened myself up to, I leapt, instinctually covered my head and felt my body fly upon the air of the night for seconds that felt like hours.

XXXXX

I wasn’t sure if the world had been completely dark for minutes, seconds or hours when I opened my eyes to see a cloud of smoke billowing up against the backdrop of the rising sun that was cresting the desert horizon. My eyes followed the trail of smoke down to the twisted carnage of a burning heap of metal that was broadcasting waves of heat and a sickening acrid smell out into the fresh morning air.

It was hard to make out with how horribly burnt the wreckage was, but it appeared that the two robin’s egg blue semis that belonged to Don and Darla were the twisted metal campfires that were making the world smell what I imagined meth smelled like and casting a shadow of black smoke upon the lonely desert.

My initial instinct was to take off in any direction away from the wreckage, but the extent of the carnage made me pretty sure that our assailants were helpless and/or gone, but just to be safe, I extended up onto my feet, ready for action and felt a rash of crippling pain wash over my body. I fell right back to a crumpled heap, looking like a human version of the burning semi trucks. Battered, bloodied, broken and road rashed all over my entire body, I laid there sobbing, not caring if the charred ghost of Don or Darla crawled over and snuffed me out. The last thing I could remember truly seeing was Kyle’s neck bone being hacked into while drowning in the darkest blood that I had ever seen. I didn’t give a fuck anymore, I just laid there on the yellow median of the road as the sun started to shine on me and break the cold of the morning air.

The sound of boots on the ground rustled me from my near slumber. I opened my eyes to see scuffed, black work boots staring at me as they rested upon the asphalt.

    “Oh my God,” a friendly male voice radiated from above me.

I scratched at my ears and ripped away the clumps of dried blood and the music of the world trickled into my ears with much more clarity.

    “Let’s get you out of here,” the male voice went on.

I looked up to see a non-threatening looking middle-aged man towering over me, looking at me through thick glasses. Pale, balding, pot-bellied, short, wearing a collared shirt and glasses, he looked like a cubicle jockey lost in the desert.

   “Come on,” he said and then lifted me to his feet.

We walked together in a scene that looked like when a trainer helps an injured football player off of the field as we stumbled over to his older sedan.

I felt the weight of the world slink off of me when I sat down in the soft caress of his passenger seat. I could barely stay awake, hearing him start the engine, put the car in gear and start driving down the road. It was simply nearly impossible for me to keep my eyes open.

The last thing I could remember hearing was a familiar sound, familiar enough to where I wanted to open my eyes, but couldn’t. It took me a minute to put my finger upon what exactly the sound was and why it was familiar, but I eventually did and I immediately knew that it was all over for me.

It was the sound of my cell phone ringing.

Originally published by Thought Catalog on www.ThoughtCatalog.com

[toddmichaelrogers]

928 Days Later

This post originally appeared as an update across various social media for Spell Saga.

~pre Eh, ya’ll know I ramble. I don’t fucking like it when people who are too old use new language as if it’s their fucking language, but there is a tl:dr (god, I had to google that) at the bottom of the page if’n yer only interested in the sweet stuff (shipments, deck 2 & the like). But I like stories, and I am--if not old, getting older, so my stories take a long time to wind up and spill out. Longer than they did when I was a kid, anyhow. And much slower than these new youths and their dang emotiji’s or whatever.

all the kids’ talk in hieroglyphics It’s good for feelings but not specifics

~1 It all comes down to choices, really. I remember when I was younger--I was very newly 20, and barely 13 in most of my head--I remember I was homeless, not like, starving homeless (though sometimes I was) and not like, sleep under a bridge homeless (I had the couches of friends, and their friends, and my barely-met acquaintances, though no one seemed to own an air conditioner that Summer. One dude shall remain nameless, as I’m fairly certain he might be a super bad guy. He was never around anyway so I used to listen to his CD collections and spread my Star Wars figures around his house (13, remember, 13). I remember he had a box set of Joy Division, and I became obsessed with this one really fast version of “Love Will tear us Apart”. I used to listen to that in the Summer heat and walk around the house naked looking for something to eat. It was really years later that I realized I had lost my mind.

I had made the choice to stop taking my meds regularly. And then some other choices, as my mind spiraled without that ketracel-white. After what some would say was an alarming series of ordinarily dysfunctional life, my parents made the choice to kick me out. I have had to make a lot more choices since then.

here is a pic of me from around that time with original french toaster: Paxson of Ashgarden.

~2 Where are your fucking packages?

~3 I know that there are some people who keep in touch with me regularly and have a better idea of what’s been going on. And I also know there are others who backed this project 2 and a half years ago and think it’s dead, or i’ve been trolling everyone with shipping dates.

~4 I was at a restaurant. I was not a customer. I had just spent three days straight and about 30 hours running around mopping up drinks. By Sunday, I’m usually on my third double, and it hurts to stand, or run up the stairs with trays of food. (who puts stairs in a restaurant)? But I was feeling pretty good about myself, having made it through one more death sentence of a weekend. I took the job to pay for Spell Saga when some other stuff fell through (like, uh, all our plans, & people abandoning the project). Each Sunday usually ends with me depositing a wad of cash into an ATM and then passing out on my couch surrounded by boxes of a fantasy card game. It is not a bad life, if not a little embarrassing. Also this particular Sunday it was tornado weather and I got to watch an entire porch of rich people get fucking destroyed. I was soaked and running around collecting plates being thrown on the wind. Inside I sat down next to people my age, and before long it came time to tell them why I was serving them and not doing something with my life, which is what I always do if I like a table. As it came out, these people were super into games, and Kickstarter, and anything I could possibly like. I had a used deck in my car that I grabbed for them and they thanked me and told me I was doing great. It was a real moment for me. What was most important though, was the stories they told me about other crowdfunded projects, and how much keeping backers up-to-date mattered to them.

~5 Most of my choices about Spell Saga have been insane. Whether good, or bad (there have been both) the choices have been the work of a mad man. That goes for game design as well as business wise. I do not apologize for the game, but man I am fucking trying you guys. And you will have all your shit this year. But it’s taking forever and here’s where we’re at now:

In 2016 I made a plan with my main man J Rizzo to fund a shipment of 300 units, so all of you would get your shit before we finished with all the printing (there were delays due to packaging changes and etc).

Also that year, J Rizz* dropped off the face of the earth, as did most everyone involved with the project, due to various reasons. I took a second job or two and funded the shipment myself. They arrived in July of that year.

*J Rizz and I are cool. We had a very long talk recently that lifetime asked if they could film.

here is a pic of me & paxson of ashgarden & his son! (we are cool too)

I started sending packages out almost immediately, but I had to wait on the mail myself (autographed boxes take some damn time). By the end of the year everything was going smoothly and every. Single. Package. was about to go out by December 31st. What a fucking relief that was.

Then I lost two jobs in a month, and so did my wife. That was around the time the comments started to crop up, “where is my shit” and etc. Which I get. I mean, I don’t leave comments like that, but I get why someone would.

I scrambled and pulled together jobs and money and started sending out packages again. But now there was a problem: It was 2017 and we needed to start thinking about our patient, angelic manufacturer. Right now, they are waiting for us to upload the art to print Deck 2 and pay the deposit on it. Panda Games has been amazing with us. And I’m not saying that I’m paying for everything by working a restaurant--I have other sources of income for this project. But I am putting most of my personal funds towards it this month, just to get it finished quickly.

So in the last month I had to make another choice, in a long line of choices, and not send as many packages out. Everyone in the US who pledged over $25 should have their shit. I sent out a few Internationals, but not many. My ever-shifting goal is that by July everyone has their stuff. But again, I’ve lost two jobs before--shit happens. I used to not want to leave ANY updates because I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. I think looking back that was a bad choice. It was probably also a bad choice to air ship any units over here. The cost alone would have covered the printing of Deck 2. But I like all’a you. Even if you leave a mean comment every once in awhile. And I want everyone to have their stuff. Most of my e n t i r e life revolves around it right now.

~6 More choices have been made since the last update. We are printing new packaging for deck 1 and the prelude deck (which means everyone will at least have a fancy zero edition package from those we air-shipped last July--only 301 ever made)! We are also printing deck 2 AND it has it’s very own super-cool holofoil sleeve. But that’s not even the most exciting shit for me.

Cousin Lauren and I are finishing it up. That’s right. It’s happening. She is illustrating a picture for the front of deck 2’s box (I have been dreaming for years it would match the minstrel/lover pic we use on deck 1) and then she’s illustrating a picture for deck 3’s box.

We aren’t printing deck 3 at the moment. But it’s going to happen. So in the meantime, she’ll be spending the next month getting all the art for deck 3 and the ending finished (as soon as I finish writing her an art list).

And THAT’S NOT ALL. Lauren is going to be working on the art for the a new realmwalker deck you may remember called The Discordant Shore. It is the deck that includes copies of all the homemade Paladin Cards you will be receiving this year.

I don’t want to get too into details on this one just yet, but you play as a girl named Brell, who is also named Scaradh. And it’s an adventure so unlike the highlands you will be surprised at where it takes you. Here is a pic of some character descriptions I sent Lauren:

~7 When I’m not trying to NOT vomit because I am cleaning up a table, or worrying about you, or reading wonderful or disparaging comments in between cleaning up tables and worrying, I have been very hard at work on the next Spell Saga release: 1.5 The Under Sky. This DECK is like 2 games in one. You can use it between decks one and two, or use it as a new deck one. The design of this thing has destroyed me. I had to Photoshop the cards as I was making it because the ideas became so complex. It’s all about The Last Minstrel, but it’s also about how this process of making the game has been. Everything has taken so long, and a part of me is sort of dead inside. But I think maybe that part was supposed to die. In it’s place I have found a new type of strength to make things no matter what.

~8 This December is the 8th anniversary of when I first designed Spell Saga. In my head, there is a sort of countdown clock (198 days as of this posting). When the clock in my head strikes zero, my plan is that everyone will have everything. every. Thing. And then I’ll never work in a restaurant again.

~epi Spell Saga continues to dominate my life. As do other things. My band just finished recording everything except the vocals on our first LP, another project that took longer than expected. And I wake up nearly every morning and try to spend at least an hour working on The Novel that has consumed a decade of my life. My plan is that once everyone has their shit, I will pay to have decks 3 and the ending printed, and then we will Kickstart them to recover costs and make sure everyone who wants one sees it. I don’t give a shit about money. I don’t care if I ever make a goddamn cent on this game. It’s all going to end up going back into it anyway. Ii just want to finish the story. And now we can. I hope, regardless of how you feel or think about me, you will want to finish it to.

-mE. 913 days since the kickstarter started.

TL:DR

-packages still going out -no you have not missed yours -deck 2 the forest being printed with holofoil sleeve -deck 3 the caves being illustrated / finished -deck 4 the ending being illustrated / finished -deck 1.5 the under sky nearly finished -realkwalker ~ the discordant shore being illustrated / finished -paladin level cards part of discordant shore -everyone will have everything this year -most will have everything by july -life is hard but good