#before the sun rose and i accidentally left the porch light on

[d1anna]

around the full moon i always have weird dreams

[http-paprika]

Together, Inhospitable | Simon Riley 1 Bug Like an Angel

masterlist / next

summery the rest of the 141 had gone out to celebrate, except for simon who shed his mask for the night. unbeknownst to him, christina was still there.

pairing simon “ghost” riley x christina "red" perez / wc 1087 / warnings mentions of death, alcoholism, and swearing

note today is my actual birthday, and nothing is more of a gift than sad, mitski induced angst. enjoy.

"amateur mistake, you can take it from me" mitski

The sun had dipped below the horizon and daggered mountains, leaving the sky navy with too much light for the stars to shine, but too dark to be daytime. Simon sat back in his plastic chair, a single brown glass bottle of beer looking back at him from the outdoor table, he watched a bug fly around the rim, catching flight before he could move and catch it in his calloused hands. His gaze rose with the bug, following it to the outdoor light where the small insect rested with other winged bugs. Still watching, he grasped the bottle and raised it to his mouth, resting on sun-dried lips and allowing the sour liquid to scorch his throat as Simon swallowed.

He was alone tonight, the rest of his team had gone out drinking and celebrating but with a migraine and bitter mood, Simon chose to stay back. Allowing himself a drink and shedding the mask, for the few hours he had to himself, he let the warm summer air touch his skin. A sudden gust of wind sliced through the porch, causing the blond hair to stand on his neck. Simon rested a hand on his chin, feeling the growing stubble of facial hair that he’d have to shave soon, he hated the way it made him look, cursing as it reminded him of his father.

Suddenly the glass bottle in his hand stung, like a phantom cut against his rough palms. It dropped out of his grasp, shattering on the tiled floor as the door behind him clicked open. Out of instinct, he snatched the neck of the broken bottle as he turned to the sudden intruder, Simon’s shoulders falling when he realized it was his teammate.

“Jesus, Red. I thought you left with the others to go celebrate.” He gruffly says, bending down to try and clean up the dark glass, the remaining liquid seeping into his shoe.

“I don’t drink.” She was surprised to see him on the porch, thinking she’d been alone in the house. Christina was also surprised to see him without his skull mask, only having seen him without it once after she accidentally entered his office uninvited. “I’ll grab a bag and towel.”

Simon wanted to disappear, he didn’t like the way Christina looked at him before she stepped back inside to grab supplies to clean the mess he’d made. He wasn’t as comfortable as Simon around his team, safety was in the caricature that was Ghost. Where he was just a man behind a mask.

“Here.” She hands him an old dishcloth and begins to carefully pick up the glass shards, not questioning the mess at all. It was his luck that Red had been the one to stay at the base as opposed to Soap or any of the others, she was quiet and didn’t question why Simon hadn’t joined the team. Only speaking when she saw a good reason too.

“Thanks, Red.” They quickly clean up the mess, before Simon returns to his chair and she stays standing, picking at her lips.

“Do you want me to leave?” Christina finally asks, breaking their silence.

“No, you can stay.” She takes the seat across from him, pulling her knees to her chest. Simon studied her, remembering that she was a decade younger than him. Yet they’d always had some unspoken understanding, a knowing look behind their eyes. Some part of their hidden pasts that tethered them together. “I thought you used to drink.”

“No, I’ve been sober since basic training.” She tells him, allowing him to briefly pick at her brain. In return, she asks why he stayed home from the celebration their teammates were participating in. “You’ve never stayed back before.”

“Massive fuckin’ headache.” Simon grumbles, had she always looked so tired? Were her shoulders always so bony under her shirt? On the field, she’d always been intimidating enough, coming across as a good soldier who never seemed to be afraid. But here, she seemed so timid and faltering under Simon’s gaze. “Can I ask why you don’t drink?”

“You can ask, I might not answer,” Christina responds, looking up at the light as if she were one of the insects searching for the sun. Aching to fly away, fly into the bright sun, and disappear in its warmth.

“So why don’t you?” He asks, unsure if Simon actually wanted to know the truth. If finding the reason behind the haunting look in her eyes was worth it, but he couldn’t imagine it was any worse than anything else he’d experienced. But Simon knew it could still come as a shock, whatever the reason.

“My father drank himself to death. His liver gave out, he died at his favorite bar.” She closed her eyes, the lids stained a purple color begging for rest she’ll never receive. Heavy bags underneath resulting from a line of work a woman like her shouldn’t have been in, Simon decided. “And I wouldn’t be like him.”

“Ah.” Simon thought of his own father, who as a child he wished would drink himself away. Now, he tried not to even think of the man, trying to ignore his father was like trying to ignore a sore in Simon’s mouth. It always came back and ruined his mind and mood. “Well, I’m not sure how much it’s worth. But from what I’ve seen, you’re a better woman than most people I’ve known.”

Her eyes roll open, looking at him with an almost distant crystalized gaze. Where their eyes met, that invisible string was tugged, pulling at Simon’s throat as he stared at Christina, almost longingly, wanting to say her name. Simon’s hands almost ached to reach out and hold hers. To speak and comfort her as Red’s eyes grew watery. But he withheld the urge and thankfully so as they could hear the rest of their team returning, with Soap drunkenly singing some song he’d heard at the bar. The moment died as Simon pulled his balaclava back on, falling back into the comfort of being Ghost. Christina uncurled herself, stretching out her shoulders and back to give her added height and hardening her face.

There was a cold distance set up between them as drunken Soap stumbled into the light propped up by Gaz and Price who were evidently tipsy as they loudly exchanged greetings with their two sober teammates. Soap in particular was loud, looking between Res and Ghost before announcing his opinion. “Oh, so that’s why you stayed home, Ghost. Had a fucking date planned.”

ending note this has been edited from the original to fit the Together, Inhospitable series. only minor changes though, nothing major.

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, we’ve added to our friends to lovers rec list. You can find part one here and there will also be a part three (and possibly a part four!) up eventually, which will be linked here when it’s been posted. We hope you enjoy these fics! Happy reading.

1) Roses In The Rain | Mature | 5267 words

“Don’t- I know what you’re going to ask, and I… Harry, I can’t,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please. You know that I can’t.”

Louis had his six siblings and his old house with its falling-apart porch to take care of. This town was where people still approached him, 8 years after high school graduation, to tell him that they loved him as Danny in Grease. This town was where he had his pick of suitors, where he had his first kiss, where he took his first steps, where his mama lived, died, and was buried, and he couldn’t leave just to follow some man that he loved.

Harry, for now, seemed to understand that.

“Okay, baby,” Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Okay.”

2) Candy In Your Mouth (I Know You Love Me) | Explicit | 6937 words

Things have shifted since last Christmas.

3) Glimpse Of The Silhouettes | Explicit | 7181 words

Harry isn't sure what the rules are for this. It's hard to believe that there are any, that's there's a handbook just waiting for him to buy: why is my best mate getting hard in my lap when I touch his arse?

4) Woke Up Feeling Knotty | Explicit | 7903 words

Beta Louis has a kink for knotting and the secret aesthetic porn blog he runs about it is more than proof.  When he accidentally finds out his alpha best friend Harry is one of his biggest fans, he knows he has to come clean after everything that has already happened between them.  Harry just might be willing to help him out anyway.

5) A Love Reaction | Explicit | 9968 words

It's never been a thing. Not until now.

6) Got It Right Such A Long Time Ago | Explicit | 9699 words

Four months into One Direction's hiatus, Louis comes to stay with Harry after a bad breakup.

7) (You're Gonna See Me In A) New Light | Mature | 13631 words

A fake relationship AU where everyone knows it's real but Louis.

8) As A Memento From Me | Explicit | 15817 words

Five lives in which Harry and Louis didn’t end up together, and one in which they did.

9) I Put A Spell On You | Explicit | 17525

A BBC/Secret Santa mashup featuring Captain Niall, our intrepid weatherman/amateur matchmaker, rather clueless sports reporter Liam, charming political analyst Zayn, and cheeky entertainment reporter Louis. Harry is the new fashion correspondent who prefers to dress like a flamingo. And pining. There’s a lot of pining.

10) Oblivious | Explicit | 19095 words

Where Louis gets a little crush on Luke and for some reason Harry starts acting weird.

11) Break Open The Sky | Explicit | 20372 words

Werewolf AU. Harry might be a werewolf, but he still wants to experience Uni like everyone else. Turns out he learns a lot.

12) Runnin’ Like You Did | Explicit | 20061 words

The college AU where Louis knows how to hold a grudge and is definitely not in love with Harry Styles.

13) UN(RE)SOLVED. | Explicit | 20873 words

The ghoul boys are back, but this time around there are some unresolved feelings involved. Harry is a skeptic, Louis is not. Watch them go on their ongoing investigation into the question: are ghosts real?

14) Hats Off To My Distant Hope | Explicit | 20990 words

Harry is in White Eskimo. Louis is in London.

15) The Way The Storms Blow | Explicit | 20649 words

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

16) Love Like Wildfire | Explicit | 21774 words

Louis was an Omega and a Prefect. Harry was an Alpha and a little rascal. They were mates, drawn to each other since they first met in the Hogwarts Express. They worked well like that, or at least they tried, which only made their relationship way more interesting.

17) Indestructible | Explicit | 24423 words

“Hi,” Harry murmurs, and Louis hiccups out a sob.

“Hi,” he manages, still clutching onto Harry’s shoulders. Harry’s fingers drift across Louis’ cheeks, and there’s something off about Harry’s expression, but Louis can’t figure out what it is.

“I’m okay,” Harry says, and Louis is going to say something to that, even if he doesn’t know what, except Harry’s kissing him.

Louis freezes.

18) A Whole New World | Not Rated | 24967 words

Louis has moved into his new apartment to start his new job as a teacher. Things would be great. If only his arsehole neighbour didn't wake him up every morning by playing piano.

19) Another Day Gettin’ Into Trouble | Explicit | 25619 words

Harry’s drunk when the idea occurs to him. He’s also a pop star, so sometimes his drunk ideas turn into actual things instead of just ideas. The clone-a-willy kit is one of them.

In Harry’s defense, when he first thinks about it his intention is just to buy the kit and give it to Louis to make his own dildo with, because that’s what he wants anyway, right? To have a penis filling him up?

Then he realizes that it would be weird if Louis made a copy of his own dick to fuck himself with. It’d be super weird. Louis fucking himself? That’s a weird idea. Harry’s pretty sure Louis wouldn’t like that.

Clearly the only solution here is to use his own dick for the mold.

20) Brooklyn Saw Me | Explicit | 28537 words

In the cold and unforgiving city of New York, Louis doesn't have a home and Harry wants to give him one. But as their heartstrings become increasingly intertwined, and the snow continues to fall, home is getting harder and harder to find.

21) Rivers ‘Til I Reach You | Explicit | 29315 words

AU. Louis studies astronomy; Harry studies Louis. They spend their summers on the water and it shouldn't be complicated (spoiler: it is).

22) If Ignorance Be Bliss | Mature | 30429 words

Uni AU: Harry is too experienced, and Louis just wants to get to experience him.

23) Blind From This Sweet, Sweet Craving | Explicit | 31170 words

"So, I guess we'll go?" Louis asks later, when Harry has calmed down and eaten his weight in Chinese food. He plays with this chopsticks, spearing another piece of chicken and pops it in his mouth. "I mean, I wouldn't mind. We could make it an adventure."

Harry observes him, watches him seated across from him on their old living room carpet, with a container of food on his lap. He's fidgeting, avoiding meeting Harry's gaze–he probably knows that Harry's mad at him for ruining the one chance they had to get out of this situation. And he's not wrong, Harry is definitely very mad. Harry wants to strangle him and castrate him and smack him upside the head.

But he's also Harry's best friend, and despite everything, despite all the fuck-ups and the plot twists and everything just not playing out the way it should, he'd still rather be stuck in this situation with Louis than any of the other boys. He's got Harry's back, and in a weird, abstract way, he knows they'll be able to get out of this situation, together.

Harry sighs. "We're going," he says resignedly, his shoulders slumping.

Oh well. There are definitely worse ways to spend the weekend than pretending to be engaged to his best friend.

24) Welcome Back From The Friend Zone | Mature | 32354 words

The one where an idea to create a fake wedding with the sole intent to receive gifts from billionaires took a turn no one, but also everyone, saw coming.

25) The List | Mature | 32074 words

'In the weeks that follow, Harry opens his old journal more than he has in the past two years each time he remembers Venice or thinks about Louis. He always flips to the same random page in the middle of the book, marked by the picture of himself that Louis sent him a few days after they got home. There’s a message on the back that says, ‘Spontaneous looks good on you! See you soon,’ and it makes Harry’s chest warm each time he reads it. He wedges their list out from between the worn pages, and it feels silly staring down at a folded up piece of paper with a strange sense of nostalgia for experiences they’ve yet to have; for places they’ve never even been.'

26) Mark My Word (We Gon’ Be Alright) | Explicit | 35524 words

An A/B/O AU featuring an oblivious Harry as the pack leader, a pining Louis as his second-in-command, and an entourage of friends and family who are a little too good at keeping their mouths shut.

27) The Sun Will Rise With My Name On Your Lips | Explicit | 37927 words

When Eleanor breaks up with Louis he finds it hard to keep pretending that Harry isn’t what he’s wanted since the day he first met him.

28) Runner On Third | Explicit | 39643 words

Note: The sequel to this fic is not BL.

The AU where Louis and Harry were best friends growing up, but lost touch after Harry moved away. Ten years later, Harry has moved back to town, but he and Louis don't pick up where they left off.

29) My Sweetest Downfall | Mature | 42048 words

Louis is a retired guardian angel. After the death of his last charge, he became jaded. Humans die—what use is prolonging the inevitable?

He's more than happy to forget about humanity altogether until one day, when Louis is pulled from his desk job for a new assignment: protect One Direction's Harry Styles. It doesn't help that there's something about Harry that Louis can't resist, and it's making him question everything he's ever known. Humans are strictly off limits, and breaking that rule means risking everything, but Harry just might be worth it.

This is a story about forgiveness and discovery, featuring an angel who wants to be a little more human and a human who is so much more than he seems.

30) For the Sake of Propriety | Mature | 52360 words

Louis Tomlinson is the caretaker of an estate that is not truly his, and when his Uncle calls upon him to take it back, Louis knows he will soon be out on the streets with four overly zealous sisters to care for.  His only solution: wed the eldest two off and pray for the best.  When an even better solution unexpectedly presents itself in the form of the charming Mr. Styles, Louis is faced with a difficult choice.  But as with all things in the regency era, reputation very well may threaten to outweigh the fleeting matters of his heart.

31) The Bachelor | Explicit | 53953 words

The one where Harry dates six other guys and still falls in love with Louis Tomlinson.

32) We’ve Got the World in Our Hands | Explicit | 54964 words

Note: This fic has been locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

A mutants/superpowers AU. Louis and his friends attend the Cowell Institute for General Education and Mutant Training in London; when Louis meets Harry, the newest student at the Cowell Institute, he immediately recruits Harry to help play matchmaker for his friend Zayn. Harry and Louis are so caught up in meddling in Zayn's love life, though, that they don't notice that their own friendship is progressing into something more. Meanwhile, an ominous threat up north grows slowly until suddenly, no mutant - or human - is safe.

33) Waiting For The Tides To Meet | Explicit | 49873 words

Soulmate AU. Everyone is born with heterochromia — one eye is their own eye colour, while the other is the colour of their soulmate's. It's only when they meet their soulmate for the first time that their own eyes match properly. After a hazy night at a frat party, Louis wakes up to blue eyes and the shocking realization that he had met his soulmate, without any sober recollection. Seven years pass where Louis comes to terms with the fact that he'll never know who his soulmate is. Then one fated summer, a beautiful green-eyed photographer arrives at Louis' workplace, with promises of endless laughter and a familiar feeling in Louis' heart.

34) Since I’ve Found You | Mature | 74005 words

Louis woke up on the morning he was meant to volunteer at the Feed the Homeless program at St. Mary's church hoping for an opportunity to give back a little to a city that has given him everything he could ever want. Little did he know, there was one more great thing waiting there for him; a boy with radiant green eyes in a weathered jacket and a beat-up backpack slung over his shoulders.

35) Saving Symphony Hall | Mature | 124766 words

Note: This fic is a sequel to this fic.

“I think I have an idea,” Louis said. Slowly, and reluctantly, but with a growing sense of the inevitable. “God damnit, I think I have a really good idea.”

“Oh christ, that's the problem-solving face,” Babs said. “Last time we saw that face, he sold a company.”

“Wait, what?” Zayn asked.

“Right place, right time,” Louis said. “Also, fuck my life,”

“What?” Zayn repeated. Niall patted his hand.

“I usually just roll with whatever Louis is about to do,” he said. “It’s better for us all.”

“That’s the attitude,” said Louis, “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Tonight, I need to do some research. Zayn, give me your number. I’m gonna save our symphony.”

36) Falling Into You | Mature | 143517 words

In the grand scheme of adolescence and boyhood, Harry was still working himself out, so far with little luck. But four things he could say for certain: 1) he'd been at the top of his class all through primary and secondary school, 2) he was the shittiest alpha to ever walk the earth, 3) Liam Payne never let him forget it, and 4) he’d been in love with this boy, Louis Tomlinson, ever since he was fifteen years old.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[little-boats-on-a-lake]

Part Fifteen (Part Two)

Potential tw: reference to self harm urges

He just didn't feel like going back to sleep. He doubted he even could if he wanted to. It would be better to just get a start on the day's work.

The weather was starting to change again. The harvest work was almost done. Sunny was so fast at it and she seemed to enjoy it. Except for the corn. They both hated corn.

The little fawn who had broken his leg seemed to enjoy corn. Gently petting the fawn’s head, he cracked a small smile as the tiny creature eagerly nibbled at his hand.

As if it could somehow sense his tension, the fawn stared at him before gently setting his head over the wisps of hair resting on his shoulder and licked at his ear. He giggled, a light and airy sound he doubted actually came from him.

"You're a friendly little one, aren't you?" He leaned against the little deer, feeling a quick heartbeat against his own. "Your leg healed ages ago. So why haven't you gone home yet?"

The fawn walked away from him and knelt down, resting against the soft place he had made for any of the creatures who needed help. It looked at him, as if to say, “What do you mean? I'm right at home."

Something flashed in his eyes as he realized he had never seen Sunny smile before as much as he had over the past month. Yes, he wasn't perfect and yes, he accidentally hurt her but they had both apologized profusely, even though she really didn't need to. Could she grow to love their home together like this little fawn had? A strange giddiness bubbled up in his chest as he imagined a life they could have together. He may not have had many things but he was happy. Maybe the two of them could be happy... together?

He left the fawn in his little shed with a quick scratch behind the ears and hiked back to the center around which his life was centered. And also the pantry. Today was bread day and the sun had only just risen. He may not have loved himself but he sure loved baking bread and that was enough for now.

The way the dough stretched out and wound itself around his fingers was a comfortable and familiar memory. Just like how Sunny would reach out and grab his hand when she dragged him to sleep at night. Not the time for that now-

"Not the time for what?"

He jumped back, arms held defensively in front of his dough. A laughter that chimed like a warm beam of sunshine drew his attention.

“How… how long have you been standing there!?” He didn’t mean to scream. But sometimes, a grown man just needs to scream to defend his bread from evil invaders who come to damage the bread.

It was so adorable when he got flustered like that. Felicity brushed off a small bit of flour that had found its way onto his forehead.

“Relax, silly. I live here too, you know?”

“I… uh, you-“ He stammered, trying to enunciate his words with sticky hands.

“Calm down!” She pushed herself up to sit on top of the edge of the table and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“Wait, what are you-“

“Shhh. I’m tired and your shoulder is comfortable.”

“You- you can’t just!”

“I’m sleeping, you can’t just disturb a sleeping person.” She leaned in towards his neck.

He could feel her warm breath ghosting over his skin. It sent shivers racing down his spine, but a bubbly warmth rose up in his chest again. He thought it was going to rush out in an endless stream of words he wasn’t quite ready to say yet. The only word that came to his mind was yours.

He was. He really was. He wasn’t quite sure what exactly Sunny had done to capture his heart and soul like this, but if she asked for it, he would give it to her. Even if she would probably break it a million times over. He would give her everything he had.

What was it about her smile that made him feel like the world would last another day just because it was so beautiful? Why did every one of her freckles match a beauty he thought belonged only to stars in the endless night sky?He look over at her and he was reminded of how the sharp knife had stopped his breath last night. Where it was sharp, she was soft, sleepy smiles and gripped hands. Where the blade was dangerous, she was a source of comfort, warm nights with warm words and even warmer touches that held them through until the morning. How could he have ever thought the two were the same when they were so different in every way? Her eyes, endless pools of an abyss he could stare into for days, held so much emotion it hurt just to look at it. They quirked up, asking what he was doing, and it felt like the world itself dropped from beneath his feet. What was the world anymore, if he could comp-

“Your hair is getting so long.” She murmured, interrupting his trance. Sunny reached for a particularly long strand and lazily twirled it around her finger. He almost reached for it self-consciously until he remembered the dough covering his fingers. The dough! He was baking bread! Not now, obviously. But he was supposed to be!

He ripped his attention away from her and focused it solely on the bread before him.

It was hard when Sunny was right next to him, entranced by something as mundane as hair and looking like a dream from the heavens. Bread!

“It is getting a bit too long.” He said, desperately hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his heart today.

“I could braid it back if you want?” She suggested and oh, the thought of Sunny focused solely on him, tongue stuck out and eyebrows furrowed, was just a bit too much to handle.

“Uh, ah- I was actually planning to just cut it off.” He lied. Nope, nope, nope. He would most likely combust if she wove her fingers through his hair for something so mundane when he could do it himself.

He pushed the dough aside, finally ready to be baked, and brushed his hair back with his fingers. It was actually getting a little too long for his tastes.

“I guess I probably should trim it a little.” He murmured, eyeing the knife on the table.

He still really didn’t want to touch it.

He was staring at it for an awfully long time. Felicity didn’t miss how he was spacing out. And how his side of the bed was so cold when she woke up. And the way he was so jittery and shaky when she startled him.

“Do you want me to cut your hair?” She offered. He looked at her with wide eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what she was offering. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you look as hot as usual.” She added with a wink, watching the pink creep over his face.

“It- me? It’s really, I mean I don’t thi-“ He stammered.

Sometimes when she was bored, Felicity would imagine how much he would stammer if she kissed him. Probably a lot.

“Come on, there’s better lighting outside.” For such a tall man, he was easily moved. She could drag him and he literally wouldn’t fight back. It was a little concerning sometimes.

She took the dark locks of hair in her hand and poised the knife above her fist.

“Wait! I need to.... uh...” Deep breaths, it was just a little bit of responsibility. She could handle something as small as that. “Wash! I need to wash your hair!”

“Huh?”

“You’re supposed to wash hair before you cut it!”

“I… I suppose?”

“Just… wait there!” Felicity dashed inside and came out with a bucket of water and soap. “Sit over on the porch.” She ordered when he tried to get up and help her.

“You’re so bossy.”

“I am, thanks for noticing.” She sat behind him, slowly working the bubbly lather into his black hair. He leaned into her hands massaging the soap into his hair. Heart, you need to stop racing right now. There was nothing even inherently romantic, this was just so domestic and peaceful. Birds were singing in the trees and he was humming along lightly in harmony. The crisp morning air was starting to warm up enough for rays of light to dapple over them. It was beautiful in a way that never needed to try.

It was perfect.

She rinsed the suds out of his hair and wrung the water out of his hair with oddly skilled ease for someone who had rarely touched anyone else’s hair before. Soon enough, she ran out of things to procrastinate with. Deep breath. It’s going to be okay. It’s just hair.

She picked up the knife and held it firmly in her hands. It was extremely different from a sword. Swords were held towards an opponent, defensively drawn. This needed to be held to the side, working in tandem with her hands and his hair. Gah. The knife was placed firmly behind the hair and she held the hair firmly as the blade cut through the hair.

“I did it…” She mused, the lock of hair shining like a trophy in her hand.

“Why do you sound so shocked?” He laughed, but his smile quickly dropped. “Wait, you have done this before, right?”

“Nope!” Felicity chirped, cutting the hair off right below his neck.

“Wait, hold on-“ He protested before turning his head to look at her. Against the knife. Which was still against his neck.

His hand flew up to where her own had been and came away smeared in red.

“Oh…” His voice wobbled as he stared at the blood on his hand. His jaw twitched and set itself firmly, just like when he had an episode and he tried to pretend he was okay.

“Oh, goddess above, I’m so sorry!” Felicity resisted the urge to scream. It was an extremely unfortunate cut, considering how much blood was running down his neck. It... it was a lot.

“He... here. Hold... hold my hand aga-against the... thing.” His hand flickered with magic, but it was nowhere near his usual steady flame. It was crackling and broken and fizzled out before sparking up again.

“You can’t do it, can you?”

“I can! I just need to focus!”

She pushed his hand away.

“Teach me how to do it.”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Right now. Teach me healing magic. Or may the Goddess help me, I will set my own hand on fire trying.”

They hadn’t tried anything with magic since what she had dubbed “the incident.” She was too scared of losing control again and he was probably still regretting hitting her with a damn frying pan. She didn’t mind. If anything, she was grateful he found some way to stop her before she hurt him.

“Teach me.” Felicity insisted, panic rising in her voice.

“Foc... focus your fi-fire. It... it pushes out the hu-hurt.”

She took a deep breath, feeling the underlying sensation he described as “fire” and thought of how she wanted to wash away all of the scars she had given him, all of the hurt she had caused.

How much she wanted to hold him and apologize for what she had done.

How much she was sorry.

A warm orange pulse lit up her fingers and drew closer to the fresh blood running down his back. It surged through the wound, healing the cut and barely leaving a scar. The change in his face was so clear, now that she knew what to look for. His jaw relaxed so subtly and his tensed hands unclenched. That little breath of relief he let out. When had she learned his tells and signs so well?

“How was that?”

He turned to look at her, studying her hands. Something about how intensely he looked at her made Felicity’s flutter. Even if it was just her hands. Even if she knew it would never be because she was beautiful. She knew she wasn’t. But a girl could dream.

“That was incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever healed like that.” Oh, and now he was holding her hand as if she was something precious and delicate. Wonderful. “Are you okay? Do you need to take a nap or do you want to have lunch?”

“I’m fine?” That… was an odd question…

“You aren’t tired? At all?”

“No? I actually feel really energized. Like I could run for miles.”

“Curious…”

He looked up at her face and oh, her heart had never felt more fragile. He was just so beautiful, it hurt to look at him in this moment, with the sun glowing behind him and his face filled with gorgeous curiosity. If there was a goddess, she had made him by hand. He was too beautiful to be made from the earth.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“…did you miss the part where you almost bled to death because of me?”

“You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t that bad. And besides, it was mainly my fault.”

“Still.”

“You healed it, didn’t you? That takes a lot of energy. I’d call it even.”

“I wouldn’t.” She pouted. Something by the corner of her eye caught Felicity’s attention. “Hold on.”

“What? You’re just going to get up and leave me here?”

“You big baby, you can get up if you want. But you can’t. Not yet. And close your eyes!”

“And yet I’m the childish one.”

“Shut up.” She threaded the strands through quickly, remembering the familiar rhythm.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“No, and I said to shut up.” She shot back playfully. She stepped over to the porch and sat beside him, holding her gift with gentle hands.

“Now?” True to his word, his eyes were still shut, but the rest of his face seemed determined to make up for what emotion was lost with his eyes.

“Now.” Felicity almost buzzed with excitement.

“For… for me? You… you made a flower crown? For me?” He stared at the cheerful wild orchids braided together.

“Yep!” She fixed it over his hair, which apparently curled as it dried. Why did he have to be so gorgeously perfect? The bright purple was stark against his black hair and fell over his eyes. He touched it in awe, a blush rising in his face. So adorable. She could adore that look on his face for years, never growing tired of his innate allure.

“And now we’re even. You look wonderful.” But then again, that wasn’t too hard for him. He was eternally wonderful, inside and out.

If you liked this, please remember to like and reblog! Every little bit counts! (And yes, the corn was a reference to @notdingalingalingalingrita’s slideshow fanfiction thing, love ya Charles)

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[georgemackayhey]

Like Real People Do

“Hii can you do an imagine, "Your first time with George" maybe as an insecure/uneasy reader"

"Can you pleeaaassse write more nsfw stuff? More Than A Night Out gave me my rights"

Alright yall, heed the 18+ warning! 

Seriously, I really don't want to block anyone (I love yall!) On that note... I wouldn't say this theme is my strong suit, nor have I been in a good headspace, but boy did I try my best ♡ 

w/c: 3k

───※ ·❆· ※───

You didn't date.

You called off meeting up with strangers in bars and listening to them tell half-assed life stories, embellishing in hopes they'd get to have their way with you in the same evening.

You were happy to mingle among friends on weekends and at parties, but going home alone felt safe. Keeping to yourself was the best bet, having learned your lesson by now. You recalled more unpleasant domestic experiences than ones that left you daydreaming of more. So you simply stayed single.

Some of your friends didn't regard your limits, tricking you into double dates and the like. Other friends understood but still gushed over their brothers and cousins in hopes you'd be intrigued by their qualities and demand to be introduced with wedding rings on standby.

And then there were the friends who never asked or bothered you about it at all. George was one of those friends.

He was your ride to your friend groups monthly movie theater meet up's. And he always let you take home his leftovers after dinners he wasted chatting with your mutual friends about books and culture.

In turn, you let George borrow your favorite albums. And you'd always saved him a seat in the back of bars you had to show up to for friend's birthday parties, while they threw themselves between strangers on the dance floor. Times like then were when you got to know George best.

And during the last month of summer, George invited everyone to take over a beach house big enough for your ever-expanding group and more. Apparently some of his distant family owned the property but were hardly ever in the area to enjoy it. So they gave George a spare key, and insisted he treated the place like his own.

And thankfully, then, between your friends racing to the shore in the witching hour, and when everyone split up into pairs for the evening, George kept you company. You made a habit of joining each other on the rickety front porch, sharing a drink, and usually sitting in silence.

But there were nights you talked about the constellations you could see above the roaring ocean. And where you'd like to live if you had an unlimited budget. Where you'd come from and what you wanted, and didn't.

You went home to the most dreary September of all time. You used to adore the solitude of your dull apartment. But you missed waking up to your friend's laughter, having someone, if not many more, to enjoy market runs and mealtimes with. You had never felt more lonely. And you couldn't stop thinking of George.

When he came round to give you a lift to the movie theater, your usual ride together was quiet. The silence between you was heavy- you wondered if he noticed. You sat together in a boring film. Or maybe it was the best of all time. You could only focus on how close George was to you, how you'd recognized the feeling of his company. You wondered how to ask him to come around more often, without sounding pathetically desperate.

Luckily birthday parties and Halloween bashes kept coming. And you kept finding quiet places to listen to George tell his stories. And he would always share his drink, and ask about your family, and how you were doing.

One night when he invited everyone around to his flat and only a couple of your friends managed to show up, they headed out soon after dinner. You were left alone in George's kitchen to help clean up and wonder what to do with the rest of the early blue evening.

And even though your heart beat in your throat, and everything you thought to say sounded stupid in your head, you determined it was time.

During a much too easy card game at Georges table, when a conversation about some of the horrifically silly things George had witnessed you manage in the past; you decided to stop testing the waters, and address them.

"I can't believe you put up with me." You grinned, peering past your hand of playing cards to the guy sat beside you.

"I just like you," George answered simply, his ocean eye flickering up to meet yours for a beat.

"Really?" You asked, pushing for him to say more, hoping he got the hint.

"I really do." George grinned shyly, turning his attention back to his hand of playing cards he kept accidentally giving you glimpses of. You watched George bite his lip and fiddle with the cards as if he were arranging them just so.

"What if... I like you too?" It wasn't just his tousled yellow hair, or the way his smile was warmer than a ray of sun. It was his lame jokes. His soft answers. Him.

"You don't date." George rose a brow, keeping his eyes turned away. He wasn't bittered or mocking. He was accepting. George laid down his cards, to a game you weren't focused on at all anymore.

"I like you, George." You admit in a hush. His stunning eyes met yours. He seemed to consider your words, and much more. He started to speak a couple of times as he searched your features.

"So maybe... we can start slow..." You offered. You had never planned on opening up to anyone. But George had stuck around. He was always there when you needed him even when you hadn't known what you needed. He didn't make fun of your unreasonable anxieties and he always laughed at your jokes. Even the ones you knew weren't funny. You hadn't expected to ever let anyone close enough, you hadn't trusted anyone could feel like home. But before you could even decide, it was as if your heart grew a mind of its own and lept right out of your chest into George's orbit. So since he already seemed to have you, it seemed like common courtesy to at least let the guy know.

With a shy smile, George bore his brilliant blue eyes into yours, searching them for assurance. As you looked to each other you felt his knuckles brush yours, the back of his hand nervously creeping closer. George took one of his fingers and looped it around one of yours while he agreed that it would be silly for two people who felt the same way about each other to do nothing about it. So you did.

George started coming around when there wasn't any reason to, sometimes bringing take away, or asking you on walks around the park. Sometimes you'd sit in silence next to your favorite old tree and enjoy that last purple swirls in the dusk sky. And sometimes you'd watch films, one after another, pausing only to argue over the ending or make silly predictions.  And times like then, you curled into George's side like a sleepy cat. He'd carded his warm hand through your hair as you drifted off, content.

You got snowed into his flat when you showed up a few hours before the first-holiday party of the season; to help bake treats for everyone. As ice froze everyone's doors shut, the party was swiftly canceled but your plans for the evening weren't ruined at all.

George set up his den with extra blankets, finding the holiday channel on the telly, standing to refill your cup of tea during commercials so you didn't have to move. He kissed you that night, soft and kind, and slow. You both fell asleep on the floor among the mess of all the blankets he owned, while snow piled up and over the window sills.

You spent New Year's Eve much like the past couple before, watching your wild group of pals take shots and dance to bad music. George listened to you talk as you waited for the new year to set in, and he kept one of his fingers looped around yours almost all night long.

When the snow started to melt and your group of friends started squeezing into their cut off jeans from the year before, George invited everyone back to the beach house. He set a date and sent out invitations in the mail like it was the damn 1800's. Most every rsvp got sent back with the box labeled "going "grossly marked up.

George offered to give you a lift there, a day early so he could stock up on emergency snacks and soaps and even more DVDs in case the rains came and ruined your fun on the shore. You agreed happily and walked through the isles of a department store together, picking out essentials based on how well you knew your group of friends who might need them.

And while you laughed and helped and listened, you grew increasingly more fucking terrified. Because you'd never spent so long enjoying one person's company. You were enamored with George yes, but what's more, was- you trusted him. You never thought it was possible. But you really did. And the thing that you were most scared of, was having to accept the possibility that he didn't feel the same way.

Things like this had gone wrong before. Granted, things had never gone remotely close to this right before, either. But you still prepared yourself to hurt. It was always a possibility you were too afraid of risking. But George was different. You somehow knew even if he hurt you, it would be the loveliest heartbreak you'd ever feel.

You got to the beach house, completely abandoned since the last time you left it. You found your someone's favorite lost t-shirt in one of the bathrooms, and a lot of dust on the shelves. After clearing away some of the cobwebs and unloading all your groceries to their respective places, night began to fall.

The sky was still blue enough to admire the roaring ocean from the front porch. George brought out a couple of drinks, and you sat there together like you had the summer before. Only now, it was a little too chilly. So you said goodnight to the scenery, making a note of spending extra time to soak up its beauty the next morning.

And on your way inside you joked about how someone was bound to forget to pack something they needed, or bring one of the things George asked them to. You were wrapped up in laughter as you turned out the lights and drifted to settle in.

When you headed to the bedroom where all your bags had been discarded, you scurried off to the ensuite shower. This was the room George stayed in last year, a space you'd never stepped foot near until tonight.

And when you stepped back out into the bedroom, you realized you didn't want to leave.

George was busy turning down his bed covers to the dim night light in a far off corner. A dark shine beamed in from the moon in the window next to the quilted bed, and George never looked more beautiful- perfectly tousled hair. Kind, sleepy eyes. Yeah, you'd let him break your heart.

"What?" He laughed in a warm low rumble, catching you staring. You bit back a chuckle and crossed the room to meet him.

"I just love you. That's all." You informed, circling one of your fingers around his, gazing up to the guy.

You'd said so in passing, during game nights he helped you win and in the middle of lunches he'd managed to talk you into ordering. But nothing prompted you now, and the statement held an all-new kind of weight.

"I love you, too," George whispered in turn, raising his other hand to your cheek.

"Can I stay in here? With you?" You asked, keeping your gaze set and your voice low even though no one else was around to hear.

"I'd like that." George assured with a tiny grin.

You clamored into the big bed, pointing out the window to the moon over the ocean. George eased in behind you, gazing all the same. You tangled your hands together staring out the window for a while, giggling over nothing every now and again. He was so impossibly close, so warm next to you.

"George." You turned your head slowly, catching his attention. He looked at you, silently wondering what you wanted. But somehow you didn't need to say.

Somehow he knew to lean in for a kiss, soft and sweet. When he pulled away, you could tell he didn't want to. When George looked at you, you could tell he longed for more, but still kept his distance, kept your meek nature in mind. He was too kind, too considerate. There weren't words to convey how you felt. You knew what came next. You wanted George.

You reached for his hand, and brought it to rest in the dip of your waist. He kept his eyes steady on yours while his thumb brushed over the skin exposed where your shirt had ridden up.

"Kiss me again?" You asked, barely a whisper. George leaned in, almost before you could finish asking, to press his mouth against yours. You grabbed a fist full of his shirt to pull him closer while George let his hand travel to the small of your back, holding you perfectly against him. He kissed you slow and deep like he was trying to put you in a trance.

Whether he meant to or not, you wondered if it worked, as you melted into the mattress all while lazily pulling him almost all the way on top of you. This was as far as you'd ever taken things with George, yanking at each other's clothes while you kissed until you couldn't breathe.

So when you gently pushed George away, he started to retract back to his side of the bed without putting up a fight. But you sat up too. And George watched on in wonder when you sheepishly slid into his lap, your knees on either side of his hips.

Without a word you pulled George's shirt up, silently suggesting he take it all the way off.

When he did, you didn't relish the sight long before you dove in for another kiss. His skin was burning, and you could feel his heart hammer when your hand traveled across his chest. You moved your kisses to his neck, reveling in the feeling of being so close. George kept one arm gently wrapped around you as your teeth grazed a spot under his ear that made his breath catch in his throat.

"Y/n. Are you- Do you..." George began, keeping his hold around you all the same. You pulled away, gazing to George through your lashes while your heart teetered on the edge.

"Do you not want to?" You worried. You were so finally sure. But George might not have been. So you prepared to be let down gently, knowing George would at least be kind enough to break your fall.

"Yes." George let out a breathy laugh, reaching to hold your head in both of his hands. "Of course I want to do this. But I know how you feel and if you don't-"

"I trust you, George." You nodded, searching his eyes while a smile bloomed across your face. You'd been so nervous for a moment like this to come true. But everything was different with George. He made you laugh when you never expected to, he made you think about things in ways you'd never even considered. He was so the one for you.

You wrapped your fingers around George's wrist, bringing his plus to your lips. You watched George's eyes flutter as you planted a small kiss there, before moving his hand to your hip.

"Just go slow." You nodded, watching George's eyes open to meet yours. You leaned your forehead against his while he nodded, making you laugh.

He decorated your cheeks with gentle pecks and moved his hands under the hem of your shirt as you leaned in to capture his lips with yours again. And because you spent a while that way, you weren't nervous to act upon taking things even further.

Kisses turned seering as George wrangled your shirt off. His lips traveled down your throat as you settled deeper into his lap, shocked by how easy this was. Your kisses grew longer and sloppier while your layers started to collect on the floor.

You impressed yourself by how effortlessly you reach to pull away George's trousers. He managed to kick them aside while you kept your lips on his, laughing between breaks for air.

But when he pulled you back into his lap, when his fingers danced around your waistband, you were suddenly swept up in the realization that this was happening. Like, really happening.

"Uh, wait a second." You halted in a shaky breath. You didn't want to stop, not completely. You just needed to assess things for a moment, to catch up with this new reality in which this wasn't upsetting or dull or any of the things being with anyone else ever was.

George stalled in an instant, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. "Do you want to stop?" He asked gently, hands firmly pressed against your back, eyes glowing right into yours.

"No way." You breathed with a grin. You knew it would be better than before, with George. Probably the best. It already was, you realized with a smile, encouraging George one more time. Your hips rolled against his, causing his heavenly sigh in your ear.

He wriggled you out of the last of your clothes and made you feel like a wonder of the world, tracing the shapes you were made up of with his pretty fingers. By the time you were laid against the pillows admiring the halo of light ringing around George's waves of hair, he asked again if you were sure about this.

"So long as you are." You swallowed.

"Of course I'm sure. God, I'm so sure." George pressed a kiss to your face between sentences, making you giggle and swoon all at once. "I've never been so sure of anyone but you. I'd like to keep it that way." George rambled, peppering a few more loving, gentle kisses to your cheek. "But if you want to stop for any reason, we'll stop. Just say so."

"Thank you, George." You grinned after a beat, knowing he really meant it. Recognizing how deeply he really cared for you, watching him search your face for validation. Watching George watch you, contentedly, like he had dozens of times before now. He gave you a slowly sleepy blink, ocean blue eyes shining brighter when they opened again.

George leaned closer, hovering over you with his eyes locked on yours. He molded a kiss to your lips before anything. Then to your cheek. Then his eyes fluttered to meet yours once more.

"Slow." You rose a brow, whispering a reminder, but it was really more of a green light for him to finally take the next step.

George repeated you, in a barely audible hush, soaking up the look in your eye. A lithe grin painted his lips while you held your breath. You accounted for the feeling of his fingers loosely tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing across your temple every now and again. You'd nearly forgotten everything else while swimming in those warm icy eyes of his. He didn't break you from your reverie when he gave a small nod. The gesture only settled you further, as you responded by lacing your fingers around the back of his neck.

George kept his hand nearly cradling your head as he pushed closer. His thumb brushing across the pulse of your temple was keeping you grounded while your heart threatened to soar into the clouds. While your breathing grew deeper, while he moved as close as he could until he couldn't anymore.

"You okay?" George asked, his voice beautifully strained.

"Uh-huh." You gazed at him through hooded eyes as you adjusted everything, including the realization that this was happening. He wasn't even moving yet. And he waited until you had to ask him to, with his head buried in your neck. After a couple of breaths, you looked to George, giving him a nod. He pressed his forehead against yours and moved his hips.

A tame, steady pace set in as you stopped George from asking if you were alright, again, assuring him you were really, very good. Your raspy encouragement must have given George the sound authority to go about awing you further.

He kept one hand against your temple while his other trailed down your side, fingers deliberately pressed into your skin as he brought your leg around his hip. George's strong-arm hooked under your back to keep you secured against him. He picked up the pace as your hands tangled in his hair, around his shoulder, holding on to the moment. To George.

You wondered why you waited so long to feel this damned good, while George spoke low in your ear. He listed off all the things he liked best about you, and why. He planted clumsy kisses to your lips. He made you see stars brighter than all the far off constellations you were used to pointing out from the shoreline. You seemed to float among them, above everything. Time slowed down while your heart sped up, somehow, and while everything around you faded into an impossibly dull background, you still had George.

His weight was warm and secure. His breath was hot on your neck. His voice was saccharine in your ear.  When he eventually eased next to your side in a heap, the cool of the night was still shielded by him.

You snuggled to his chest, like an old sleepy cat while he kept repeating how he loved you. You said so too, as many times as you could manage before drifting to sleep all tangled together.

The next morning came slow. You made coffee and watched the sunrise above the waves from the porch. When your friends started showing up in pairs and trios and more, they all seemed sort of relieved to find you and George attached at the hip. They greeted you as if you'd always been a packaged deal, and they didn't bat an eye when you stuck together to roam the vast empty beach. There was no fighting over choosing partners when someone broke out a new board game that night. When your friends were all gathered around the dinner table, and all the extra snacks and gifts and surprises for the summer were stored away, you still had George.

Maybe things wouldn't always be so easy. There would likely be fights and upsets and questions that didn't always have answers. But George was worth it. You had him now, you loved him and he couldn't stop reminding how dearly he loved you. Nothing had ever hurt so good before. You decided to keep it that way.

───※ ·❆· ※───

[ursula-van-wilder]

The Wraith: An Undeadwood Tale

Howdy, y’all. This is a short fic I wrote in honor of the one-shot Undeadwood series that Critical Role put out awhile back. Clayton Sharpe was my favorite character, and he inspired this story. This is supposed to take place before the events of the Undeadwood series, but it still takes place in Deadwood. 

I put up trigger/content warnings, but if there’s anything else I should add, please let me know! I haven’t posted a fanfic in a lonnnng time, haha.  Summary: Clayton Sharpe takes up an unlikely partnership with Deadwood school teacher Katherine Killsin. What they find in the woods outside of town rivals any campfire ghost story. 

Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Blood, gore, mention of spousal abuse. 

Part I: Miss Killsin 

As much as Clayton Sharpe liked to sit in the saloon all day, staring at nothing, thinking a little less than that, and keeping an ear out for trouble, such activities did cost money. Within his first few weeks at Deadwood, he went looking for a job. Such a task was easy enough; there was plenty that needed doing in town. But he didn’t want to paint fences all day for fifty cents. 

He stood at the bulletin, the sun beating down on his back. This was his second time drifting by, and now he committed to staring the advertisements full in the face. There were wanted posters for lawbreakers and crudely written advertisements for handymen. As good as the money was, he didn’t want to risk a bounty job with his history, not so soon after his arrival to Deadwood. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something--someone--coming his way. Without discernibly turning his head, he glanced over and saw a woman, dressed smartly in a dark calico dress. She had her hair pinned up beneath a hat that was starting to go a little ragged at the brim. Her hair--what was so familiar about it? As blond as it was, it might’ve looked white as a ghost in full sunlight. 

The woman came close, stopped a respectable distance, and said, “Mr. Sharpe.” 

He turned towards her. It seemed to most that life had given her sweet face a flinty edge; hard eyes, a sternly held mouth, and a brow that always seemed to have a weight on it. Sharpe just figured the sun was too bright. 

“Ma’am,” he said. 

“You are looking for a job, I take it,” she said, glancing at the bulletin. “I may have one for you, as I understand, too, that you advertise yourself as hired security.” 

“I do,” he said. He had seen her somewhere, he knew it. Vaguely, he recalled seeing her riding up on a ridge near town--at least, that might’ve been her. He remembered the horse more; a little chestnut pony. 

“Then I am in need of your services,” she said. 

At last, he asked, “Who’s asking, ma’am?” 

“Katherine Killsin.” She glanced to the side and nodded her head down the thoroughfare. “From the school.” 

Now he remembered. One evening, he had been walking in the dark through town. He had glanced into the schoolhouse and seen her there, teaching the men and women of Deadwood who wanted to read but had to wait until nightfall to learn. There might’ve been some mutterings about her in the saloon, too, from a few men who had tried to be fresh with her but had gotten a cold rebuttal and a firm dismissal from her class. Miss Killsin ran a strict school, and that much was known by all in town. She was one of many resident hardasses. 

“What do you need?” Sharpe asked. 

“I’d like some help with that bounty,” she said, nodding her head towards a wanted poster behind him. Sharpe glanced over and saw the name Herbert Jackson, and the grand bounty prize of $150, dead or alive. Jackson was wanted for petty theft, raiding a stagecoach, and killing a man. Sharpe’s eyebrow twitched. 

“I don’t do bounty hunting,” he said, with a hard tinge of regret in his voice. He sure as hell wished he did for that much. 

“You would not be doing the hunting, so much,” Miss Killsin said. “I would be.” 

“Then do it yourself.” 

“I am aware that going alone in the wilderness in pursuit of a deadly man is never advisable,” she said. “Trust me, I am loathed to ask for help. But you are a man of few words, which is chiefly what I need, and I will split the reward with you down the middle.” 

Seventy-five would settle him up for quite some time. But he didn’t think a teacher would have much luck in bounty hunting. “Have you ever done a bounty before, ma’am?” 

“No.” 

“Ever shot someone?” 

“Yes.” 

“To kill?” 

“Yes.” 

“And did you do it? Manage to kill, I mean.” 

She blinked as if it were a silly question to ask. “Well…” 

She glanced around them, but most people in Deadwood seemed to know to give the silent Mr. Sharpe and the stern Miss Killsin a wide berth and a good helping of privacy. That didn’t save them from curious glances. 

She met his gaze again and nodded. Sharpe couldn’t say he was surprised. Everyone who came to or through Deadwood came with some kind of bloodstained backstory. He nodded towards the Gem Saloon behind them and started walking there, with her following. 

Once inside, he gestured to the barkeep and sat down at the corner table, his back to the wall. Once the barkeep had delivered a bit of whiskey to the table, he stopped, one thumb nervously hooking to the ties of his apron. 

“For you, miss?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Killsin replied. “Thank you.” 

Sharpe sipped his whiskey. “Do you even know where Jackson is?” 

“I do, approximately,” she said. “As it happens, he seems to be in my backyard. I have a small cottage on the outskirts of town as part of my payment. I’ve seen smoke coming from the forest, a few miles beyond. But more than that, Mr. Sharpe, I’ve seen him. He came around the cottage some two nights ago, and I saw his face quite clearly in the moonlight.” 

“What’d he come around for?” 

“Who knows,” she said, shrugging. “I managed to scare him off. But apparently my aim is much better by daylight.” 

Sharpe grunted and finished his whiskey. “What do you propose?” 

“I propose that we go in, stake out his camp, and we could have him by dawn,” she answered, at once. “I have reason to believe he is alone--though if he does have companions, I can’t imagine he would have more than one or two. If we go in quietly, find the camp, and wait him or them out, then we have a presumably safe extraction.” 

“Now,” she went on, “you said you do not do bounty hunting, and I will respect that. I suspect you would like to avoid dealing with any other bounty hunters. I say we kill Jackson, as the reward stands the same, and I’ll bring the corpse in myself. That is, if such an arrangement makes you comfortable, Mr. Sharpe.” 

In fact, it did. She had been thinking of this for awhile. Sharpe wasn’t the type of man to ask questions, but he couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “What does a school teacher need seventy-five dollars for?” 

She clicked her tongue and smiled. “Anyone could use seventy-five dollars. But if it puts you at ease, I plan to leave Deadwood as soon as possible, but haven’t the appropriate funds to do so.” 

He nodded slightly. “Well, then, Miss Killsin, I believe we have a deal.” 

He held a hand out to her and she took it, grasping it firmly and shaking it once, quickly, before pulling away. 

“Be at the cottage before sundown,” she said before she got up and left. 

--------------

Sharpe secured a horse and rode on up to the cottage outside of Deadwood. The cottage couldn’t have held more than a woodstove and a cot--maybe a small couch to boot. Long before he rode up, the smell of roses radiated from the cottage. The closer he got, the stronger the scent became, until Sharpe’s nose twitched and wrinkled from it. The cottage was covered in them, red as blood, the leaves dark green, with not a blemish in sight. 

Katherine Killsin was at the side of the cottage, saddling up her own little pony. She had changed into a more practical riding outfit, older and more worn than the dress she had met him in. She wore a man’s hat, similar to Sharpe’s, and her hair was in a frizzy braid looped once and pinned to the back of her head. She looked up when she heard his approach and nodded to him as she finished adjusting a strap. 

Sharpe glanced again at the cabin. At first, he thought the windows were dirty, but then he realized that whatever curtains Killsin had on the inside must’ve been black. They were drawn tight, letting no light pierce the interior of the cabin. 

“I have some rations, in case we’re kept too long,” Killsin said, patting the pony’s neck as she stepped towards Sharpe on his horse. She wrung her hands. “I’ve got some coffee on the stove inside.”  

“We’ll reach the forest just before dark, if we go now,” Sharpe said. 

She splayed her fingers and shoved her fingers down between each other, as if to fix the fit of her riding gloves. She pulled her hands apart and flexed the fingers. “Yes.” 

“Ma’am, it’s your time,” Sharpe said evenly. “Are you backing out?” 

“I am not,” she snapped. Without another word, she stomped onto the porch and went inside. Sharpe eyed the horizon, the sun hovering above it and the forest. He certainly didn’t like Killsin’s change in attitude. Earlier that day, she had been steady as a rock. He had a sudden premonition of her, gun in hand (if she had one), unsteady and shaking up a storm, accidentally taking aim at his head. 

Killsin came out moments later, a sack in one hand and a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder. 

“What’s the sack?” Sharpe asked. 

Killsin did not look up at him as she went back to her pony. “Salt.” 

Sharpe arched an eyebrow. As she settled on her horse, she smiled at him, as if they were about to go on a pleasant ride through the countryside. 

“Mr. Sharpe, I understand you are a Texan,” she said. “We should be evenly matched in our equestrian skills, then. Shall we?” 

Sharpe nodded and they went on their way, to the forest. He wondered where she might be from, as she didn’t sound as though she were from Texas, not unless she had abandoned the accent. 

As if she had read his mind, she said, “I am from Kentucky, you see.” 

He nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Sharpe himself felt fine, but he felt a tension in the air he didn’t like. He wasn’t sure if it was centered on Killsin or not, but she certainly didn’t help it. She sat rigidly, her jaw clenched, with her eyes fastened on the forest, as if something or someone was about to come running out of it, guns a-blazing. 

He knew next to nothing about Katherine Killsin from Kentucky. But he was starting to think there was something about this job with Herbert Jackson that she needed to tell him. 

“You want to tell me why you’re nervous, while there’s still time to turn back?” he asked. 

For a few moments, she said nothing--almost long enough for Sharpe to turn his horse around. Fuck it all, he thought, and let her make take the job on her own. He had no time to get dragged into some kind of jackpot. He’d get seventy-five dollars some other way. 

“I know him,” she said. “At least, I think I do. If I’m right…” 

Her shoulders slumped and she lowered her head, the brim of her hat obscuring her face. “If I’m right, then we must kill Jackson, on sight, Mr. Sharpe. I cannot stress that enough.” 

“Well, it’ll be done,” Sharpe said, “if you can keep steady.” 

“I can.” At that, she did seem to compose herself completely, as she had been when they met. 

They got to the forest by dark, the interior of the wood darker still. It swallowed them, horses and all. 

Part II: The Evil Against Them

Finding Jackson was easy. He had a good-sized fire going, just as Killsin predicted. He sat close to it, his arms resting on his knees, the brim of his hat hiding his face. He had his saddle propped up behind him, and his holster rested there.  Jackson didn’t seem asleep, but rather inebriated. Sharpe could see brown bottles glittering dimly, spilling out of a rucksack thrown at the side of the small camp. A gunpowder grey horse stood nearby, its head lowered in rest. Jackson raised his head once, tipping it back to wipe sweat from his brow. Sharpe could plainly see the man at the fire was Herbert Jackson, from the ill-maintained mustache, the straggles of hair sticking to his forehead, and the crooked nose. 

When Jackson raised his head, Sharpe saw Killsin tense at the corner of her eye. She drew in a breath, soft and quick, as if she thought she would’ve seen something else when Jackson looked up. 

Jackson crawled over to the rucksack and pulled a bottle out. He took a long drink from it before crawling back to the beat-up saddle. He belched and groaned, closing his eyes. 

It appeared that Jackson was sick, Sharpe thought. He figured Killsin saw it, too. 

As they stepped back quietly through the woods, back to their camp shrouded in darkness, Sharpe whispered, 

“We could drop him now. He looks half dead.” 

Killsin whispered back, “I suppose so. Is that advisable, Mr. Sharpe?” 

“If we’re killing him, then it doesn’t matter what time of day we do it.” He drew his pistol. “Don’t aim for the head.” 

She drew in a breath as if to steady herself, and he saw her nod. Drawing their weapons, they started back with Sharpe leading. He glanced back once and saw Killsin’s eyes shining, her eyes peeled and fastened on the unsteady path before them. They tread without sound, with even their breathing lost to silence. 

They had gotten back to where they had been when they first saw Jackson, when Jackson threw his head back and hollered, 

“Rose, is that you?” 

He got up, unsteady on his own feet. He sniffed the air. “Yeah, that’s you. Get on out here, woman, else I’ll come for you.” 

He was delusional, Sharpe thought. Behind him, Killsin was completely silent, as if she were holding her breath. Sharpe didn’t see any firearm on Jackson, couldn’t tell if the holster on the saddle was empty or not. Sharpe started to move off to the side, moving so that he could shoot Jackson cleanly in the chest. 

Jackson sniffed the air again. “You got a man with you.” 

Sharpe frowned. He blinked once, and in that sliver of a moment, Jackson had darted into the woods, right towards where Killsin stood. 

She discharged her weapon once. Jackson’s horse whinnied in surprise, jerked from its sleep. If Killsin made a sound, it was drowned out by Jackson’s roar of pain and delight, which seemed impossibly loud. 

“Fuck!” Sharpe hissed and tore through the trees back to Killsin. The campfire light cut through the trees, lighting up chunks and pieces of what lay before him. He saw Jackson and Killsin grappling with each other. Jackson’s shoulder was bloodied and torn open, but he fought like a healthy man. Sharpe came close just in time to see Jackson’s hand clamp on Killsin’s neck and start to squeeze, vice-like. Killsin’s eyes bulged, and she slapped the side of her rifle against him, panic dragging her down. Jackson leaned into her. 

“Oh, my Rosie, you missed your shot!” He laughed. Sharpe thought his ears must be fooling him; Jackson’s voice didn’t seem to be coming just from within him but without him, as if the voice surrounded him. 

Sharpe brought the butt of his pistol down onto the back of Jackson’s head. Jackson didn’t even jerk. Killsin’s eyes rolled in her sockets and now she scratched at the hand that held her, her rifle gone, dropped onto the forest floor. Sharpe hit Jackson again, hard enough to split Jackson’s head open, a fine mist of blood hitting Sharpe’s face. 

Jackson let go of Killsin, who fell to the ground with great whooping coughs. He turned to face Sharpe, and it was then that Sharpe noticed the stench radiating off of Jackson. The only thing Sharpe could think of was the smell of death and rot, but this stink was warm and alive. Jackson’s lips peeled back, revealing grey teeth, grey like tombstones. 

As Sharpe went to shove him back, Jackson caught his wrist in a grip that might’ve broken bones. Sharpe grunted, balled his other hand into a fist and hit Jackson square in the face. He felt Jackson’s nose crack beneath his knuckles, and the hand that held him faltered, but Jackson did not let go. 

Sharpe punched him again, his eyes widened now with disbelief and frustration at Jackson’s apparent immunity to pain. Jackson’s face was twisted with fury now, blood running down his chin. He punched Sharpe in the gut, and Sharpe’s breath left him in a great, painful gust. He bent slightly but managed not to completely double over. 

He couldn’t blow Jackson’s head off. They needed it for identification purposes, otherwise it would seem as though Killsin and Sharpe had gone into the woods just to kill some stranger. Still, as a reaction, Sharpe brought his pistol up and fired. For a brief moment, by the firelight he saw that he had blown Jackson’s ear off. 

Jackson whooped, a shriek that sounded like wind running through trees, swooping over plains. He pulled himself away from Sharpe and darted through the trees, not towards Killsin but to his horse. He jumped onto its back and started down a scraggly path, into the dark. 

Part III: Red Sky at Morning

Sharpe helped Killsin to her feet. She wheezed and held onto his arm, moving towards the dying fire, despite the risk of doing so. In his escape, Jackson had taken the holster off the saddle, but left the latter in the dust. 

“Alright,” Sharpe said steadily, his tone hard as granite, “I think there are some pieces missing here that I’d like to know. He got some kind of grudge against you?”

Killsin looked over the fire at him, eyes rimmed red, making the blue irises seem all the bluer, still recovering her breath. Each pull in of air sounded like parchment rubbing together. 

Sharpe asked, “Who’s Rose?” 

She gulped. “I am.” 

“Is this some kind of…” Sharpe shrugged. “Is this your way of saying your relationship’s off?” 

“Jackson does not know me that way,” Killsin said. “But the man possessing him now does...did.” 

She bowed her head and took three deep breaths, slowing herself down. 

“I didn’t say so before, because it should not be possible,” Killsin croaked. She rubbed her eyes, and it was then that Sharpe realized how tired she looked. She might’ve been keeping late nights for some time. 

She took her hands away. “I was married once, Mr. Sharpe, long ago. I married young and badly. His name was John Barr. We were married a year before he started hitting me.” 

It was said in such a matter-of-fact tone, as if all men, regardless of their original character, would start to beat their wives after a year of marriage. For Killsin, the years had numbed her to the pain. Rose might as well have been another woman, just one Killsin knew in passing. 

She stared into the fire, which was burning itself to death, glowing soft reds and oranges. She glanced over at the rifle beside her. “I killed him with this rifle. Since John was well-to-do and well-known, I had to leave Lexington the night I killed him. So, I did.” 

She looked up into Sharpe’s eyes, and he saw the face of someone desperate, someone who had seen a ghost. It was the look of someone on the run, a look he knew well. He had seen it a dozen times when he woke in the middle of the night, and saw his face in the hotel mirror, half in darkness, half in dim light. It was a childish look as well as an animal one. 

“But I know I killed him, Mr. Sharpe,” Killsin said. “I have never made a steadier shot. I aimed for his head--and I didn’t miss.”  

She rubbed her brow, looking back into the fire. “That night I mentioned, where Jackson, or John, came to the cottage. He hadn’t just looked into the window. He came to the window and he said my name, my true name. He told me he was John Barr and that he came to collect me, to take me back to hell with him. I hadn’t heard my name in years…” 

“I was too scared to do much, other than crack the window open and fire at him. He moved out of the way so easily. I would’ve gone after him by myself, but I was frightened. That’s the truth of it.” 

Killsin didn’t look just scared--she looked haunted, looked damned. Sharpe didn’t know what to say. Killsin had to be crazy, and Jackson was probably just as insane for being able to take all those blows without flinching. She was covering up something, perhaps the shame of being tied to an outlaw. But the conviction in her tone was starting to make Sharpe believe her, he realized. 

“I don’t believe in hell,” Killsin rasped. “I don’t believe in heaven or any god--I abandoned those things a long time ago. I believe in a great nothingness that will take me when I die. I don’t fear that.” 

She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I didn’t fear death, until that man--that thing--came to my cottage.” 

Sharpe watched her, still unsure of what to say. Sure, he had heard strange stories, and Deadwood certainly wasn’t free of its legends. It should’ve been that Killsin was married to Jackson--the real Herbert Jackson. But why would she lie about that? It would be easier for her to tell the truth. It wasn’t as if Sharpe would care either way. 

Why was Sharpe so ready to believe her? He knew crazy people could talk sense, but the difference between the mad and the sane was that the sane could still hold reality and truth. 

Maybe, Sharpe thought, he wasn’t as steady-minded as he wanted to believe he was. Not anymore. 

“You’re not saying anything,” she said softly. “That’s alright. I don’t need anyone to believe me. I just need it dead. I only need fifty dollars to get me to San Francisco--you can have the rest of the reward money. An extra twenty-five for you. I promise that.” 

Sharpe wasn’t one to give pity lightly. Though he’d never show it to Killsin, he felt a pang of pity now. Maybe he felt a little bit of pity for every creature that ran scared at night, even if it was the way of things. One could harden to the reality of it, but it did not mean you numbed completely. 

“You’re right, I don’t need to believe you,” he said at last. “All I care about is getting what I’m owed. Which, coincidentally, means killing that man.” 

She looked up at him in surprise, which softened to a smile. “There is some good in this situation after all.” 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, in his version of a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that--not yet.” 

She pursed her lips. By now, dawn was making the forest blue. There was a slight chill in the air, but both knew that by midday, it would be boiling, even in the shade of the forest. 

“How far do you think he went?” Killsin whispered. 

“Well…” Sharpe got to his feet, dusting himself off. “If he’s fixed on you, he hasn’t gone far. But you got him good. He was already hanging on by a thread when we got to him--I don’t care how strong he was, that was a dying man if I ever saw one. I suspect he won’t put up too much of a fight now.” 

She got to her feet, clearing her throat once more. For a bare moment, Sharpe thought he might say something, some encouraging or reassuring message. But there was nothing that would put her at ease, he knew. The one thing that would put her at ease was at the end of that trail, bleeding out, slowly but surely, and waiting with rotting teeth.

The sky was red with a new day. Sharpe heard Killsin sniffle, and when he glanced down at her as they started down the path, he saw a tear draw down her cheek. She tutted as if to scold herself and wiped her cheeks with her shoulders. Sharpe looked forward again, his grip on his gun tightening. Maybe Killsin didn’t believe in hell, but Sharpe hoped there was one for men like Herbert Jackson--or John Barr, whoever he was. 

Maybe he’d see him there one day, but Sharpe would be happy to confirm Barr’s eternal residency. 

The path stretched long. Ahead, in the dark, a shriek pierced the air, a horse’s scream, and then the sound of gunfire. Before Sharpe made the gesture, Killsin was already moving into the woods, to the left, skirting around the pathway. Sharpe went to the right. Second time’s the charm. 

Sharpe smelled blood in the air. Then, he heard slurping and gulping, as if Jackson/Barr were drinking from a trough or puddle. Through the trees, Sharpe saw him bent over the body of his horse. The blood bubbling up from the horse’s hide, made not from the gunshot but by a cut, looked black as ink. Barr drank it up like spring water. Sharpe saw bits of flesh and bone, saw a glimpse of the poor horse’s skull, blown open wide. Jackson’s pistol was beside the horse, abandoned. 

Suddenly, Jackson/Barr was on his feet, swaying drunkenly. Sharpe saw the wound at his shoulder where Killsin had shot him. There was blood a-plenty still flowing, but that didn’t seem to bother him much. The entire lower half of his face was bloodstained, and his eyes now were reddish and half-lidded as if he were soon going to sleep. He sniffed the air before he grinned, wiped his cheek. 

“I was thirsty, baby,” he called out. “Care to give me a drink, Rosie?” When there was no response, he continued. “I’d never forget your smell. I bet you still wash with Dr. Hammond’s, don’t you? Still use that lavender powder, I know it.” 

Beyond the small clearing where Barr stood, Sharpe saw Killsin’s pale face among the trees. Barr’s back was to her. Sharpe saw Killsin’s eyes, unblinking, trained on that unspeakable thing that was and, simultaneously not, her husband. She pulled the hammer back on the rifle, slowly, silently. 

The blast from her shot cracked open the morning. As Barr’s chest burst open from the impact, golden sunlight pierced the clearing. Blood as brilliant as rubies flew through the air. Jackson/Barr arched, dropped to his knees, but he was back up again, he teeth bared, eyes flashing like embers. He swung around and stumbled towards Killsin as she stepped into the clearing. Her face looked as though it were carved out of marble, as if some artist wanted to capture the look of doom, fear, and resolution all at once. 

Sharpe fired, hitting Jackson/Barr in his unwounded shoulder. He fired again, blowing out one of Jackson/Barr’s knees. Suddenly, a new voice, the voice of a man, shrill with pain, came tearing out of the walking dead man. 

“Please, God!” it screamed. “God! Just kill me!” 

Again, Killsin and Sharpe fired. Jackson/Barr dropped to both knees, both legs now shot out. Killsin had gotten him again in the torso, now in the stomach. Jackson/Barr was red all over, and now he fell onto his front. 

Gunsmoke filled the air. Killsin paused before she stepped quickly, lightly, over to the body. It still wheezed, but it was fading. She took the bag of salt from her belt and started to pour it onto the body. Sharpe came over, not certain of what he was looking at, but feeling some kind of ending here, in the clearing. It was an ending written out in salt with rose petals mixed in. 

Herbert Jackson’s head rested on its side, so that one brown eye could look up at his killers. A fat tear rolled out from the corner, over his broken nose. 

“Thank you,” he gurgled, just before he died. 

The wind picked up then. It came in such a mighty rush that Sharpe almost didn’t move fast enough to clamp his hand over his hat. Killsin stood stiffly in the wind, let her hat fly from her head. She stared down at Herbert Jackson’s body, that bent-up corpse that the trees bowed towards, as the wind blew and blew until it howled--until it was gone, just as suddenly as it had come. 

Sharpe looked down at Jackson’s corpse, too. He did not relish the idea of dragging this body back to Deadwood, only because he wasn’t sure it would make it there in one piece. 

As if she were thinking the same thing, Killsin said aloud, “All that matters is the head.” 

Sharpe nodded. He watched her a moment, as she continued to look down at the body. She seemed calm, almost relieved. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, before she turned her gaze over to Jackson’s horse. She tutted. 

“Poor thing.”

Part IV: Give My Love to Rose

It had been three days since Killsin brought the bullet riddled body of Herbert Jackson to the local law enforcement. When the sheriff, pale-faced with surprise, asked why Jackson was so mangled, Killsin shrugged and said, 

“He put up a fight.” 

She had gotten the payment and gave Sharpe $100. Then, she hurried back to her cottage to prepare for her departure. 

For Sharpe, he was back at the Gem Saloon. The night was late, so late that the saloon was quiet. Sharpe sat in his normal spot, his back to the corner. He had spent three days wondering what the hell he had seen in the forest, if it was a ghost that had possessed Herbert Jackson, something worse, or if he had foolishly believed in something that was impossible. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to forget it, and do so quickly. 

The saloon doors swung open softly, and Killsin stepped in hesitantly. When she saw Sharpe, she came into the saloon fully, clutching her shawl closed with one hand. 

“Mr. Sharpe,” she said as she came to the table. He touched the brim of his hat to her, and when she asked if she may sit, he nodded. 

“No school tomorrow?” he asked wryly. 

She smirked, but it faded. She raised a hand to the barkeep and when he came over, she asked, “Could I have a bourbon, please? Just one.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” the barkeep said. He looked to Sharpe. “Another, sir?” 

Sharpe nodded, and the barkeep went on his way. Sharpe and Killsin basked in their silence as one might swim pensively in the sea, thinking of depths and the unseen within the waters. Neither one spoke until Killsin had finished off her bourbon, perhaps a little faster than advisable. 

She put her glass on the table and rasped, “A tonic for the stomach and sleep, indeed.” 

Sharpe’s grunt almost sounded like a laugh. Killsin folded her hands beneath her chin and watched the little flames in the lanterns for a while. 

Without looking at him, she said, “Today would have been our twentieth anniversary.” 

Sharpe himself had never been to a wedding, but he could easily see Killsin, younger, dressed in some fine wedding gown, glowing with the prospect of wifedom. What a shame it was. He watched her eyes grow pink, but she did not shed a tear. Instead, she let her eyes glisten with the pain of longing to weep. She stared at the lanterns with eyes that were alert but hollow; stone eyes of a cemetery angel. 

“I hate it here,” she whispered. “I miss Kentucky. But I can’t go back, still.” 

She glanced over at him. “I suppose you’re staying here.” 

He nodded, faintly. 

A million thoughts and words could have been shared then, were it two other people. But instead, as they had before, they shared silence--and now, the grief of passing: life passing, death and misfortune tagging along with it. 

Why was the only viable option to be alone? He wondered and peered into the depths of his whiskey. Why was that the only way? Never once in his life had there been an opportunity of companionship of any kind that had lasted. Always, there was death, or there was the slower death of drifting away. Everybody leaves, and it was always every man for himself. In letting her guard down, Killsin was reminding Sharpe of everything he tried hard to forget. In the end, there was one.  In the end, that was safer, as both of them knew there were some blows you never recovered from. Some blows kill you long before you die. 

Killsin stood, pulling her shawl tightly around her once more. “It’s late.” 

Sharpe stood with her this time. “Walk you home, Miss Killsin?” 

She paused before she nodded. They went out into the dark together, quiet as ghosts aside from their shoes padding in the dirt. 

Though he knew it was irrational, part of Sharpe kept an eye out for Jackson/Barr, or rather, for his ghost. There were many things Sharpe wasn’t sure of when it came to the supernatural. Long ago, so long that it seemed to belong to a different life, Sharpe’s mother told the story of how she had seen a specter at the foot of her bed. It came as the image of death, and the next day, one of her brothers died, mangled by farm equipment. But the vision had not come for Sharpe’s mother, as Jackson/Barr had come for Killsin. If anything, the spector only came as a warning to Sharpe’s mother. Or it had simply been a coincidence. Perhaps his mother had been sick that night, just as Jackson had been sick. 

But whatever it was that had been wrong with Jackson couldn’t be explained away by some fever-addled brain. Whatever it was, be it ghost or curse, Sharpe hoped Killsin was free of it. 

They followed the smell of roses to her cottage. She stepped onto the porch and turned to look at him, her expression lost in the absence of moonlight. 

“I never properly thanked you,” she said. “Thank you.” 

He stepped back, touched the brim of his hat to her. “Safe travels, Miss Killsin.” 

She thanked him again and bid him goodnight. He heard the cottage door open softly and close just so, and with that, he turned away. 

--------------

Deadwood baked in the mid-morning heat. Sharpe stood on the porch of the Gem Saloon, rooted there, waiting. He squinted out from under his hat, his eyes sometimes flickering towards the area of the cottage, which could not be seen where he stood. 

Killsin walked into town, stepping briskly in her usual fashion, a carpetbag in hand. She slowed to a stop when she saw Sharpe on the porch. 

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” she said. 

He stood up from where he had been leaning against the wall. He came down onto one step, wondering why he had waited at all. She wore a high-collared shirtwaist to hide the marks Jackson/Barr had left on her neck. She had a rose pinned over her heart. 

Sharpe was struck dumb for a moment before he reached into his pocket and took out twenty-five dollars. He held it out to her. 

“Even,” he said. 

For the first time, he saw her smile in a way that warmed her eyes. It wasn’t a big smile by any means, but it was pretty in its understanding, in its ease. She took the money. 

“Thank you, Mr. Sharpe.” She tucked the bills into her bag. She glanced up at him. “If you ever find yourself in San Francisco…” 

He nodded. 

“I haven’t had a friend in twenty years,” she said. “I knew when I saw you that I’d chosen rightly. I knew…” Then, she smiled ruefully. “Well. You’ve had enough of my crazy talk, I’m sure.” 

She started to go, but stopped. She turned to him again and unpinned the rose from her shirtwaist and held it out to him. 

So solemnly, she said, “For protection.” 

Sharpe took the rose and they nodded to each other. He touched his brim to her one last time. She walked down the thoroughfare, disappearing into the crowd, into the dust, towards the train station. 

Once she had disappeared, Sharpe tucked the rose into the breast pocket of his jacket. Though it was hot and his throat burned for a drink, he decided to go for a walk. 

He found the cottage blank as a clean slate. The windows were now uncovered, and he could see the shadow of a wood stove inside, of a white mattress on a narrow cot. The roses bloomed still, but their perfume seemed dulled despite the heat. A few of the waxy leaves were turning brown. 

As he reached for the doorknob, he wondered if animals felt this way when they searched abandoned homes, cabins lost in the forest. The doorknob gave easily, and the door whispered open at his touch. The inside of the cottage smelled cleanly of soap and lavender powder. Sharpe saw that Killsin had cleaned out the woodstove before she left. 

The one-room cottage was bare of her, but as he turned to leave, Sharpe caught something glittering on a shelf. He stepped over and saw a daguerreotype lying on its back in a gilded frame. As he picked it up, he saw immediately that it was a young Katherine Killsin, before she was Katherine Killsin. Serious even in her youth, she had looked directly into the camera, unwaveringly. The photographer had given her a delicate blush, and even dropped a bit of liquid gold onto her finger to color the ring she wore. 

Sharpe started to put it back on the shelf but his hand hovered a moment. Sighing, he tucked the photograph into his jacket, where it now rested beneath the rose. 

He stepped out of the cottage and looked once more to the roses. Already, they were beginning to whither. 

[lopsided-whiskey-grin]

Wild Violets and Unicorn Stickers

This is my contribution to the RBB put on by @android-whump-big-bang! This was the first Big Bang I have ever participated in and it was really fun to craft a story around a beautiful piece of artwork! I hope you enjoy reading Ralph’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it <3

WR600, register your name. 

I see a man standing before me. And beside him are a woman and a young girl. A family. They are all smiling and it makes me smile. “Ralph,” the man says.

“My name is Ralph,” I reply. It’s a good name and I think it suits me.

The family brings me to their home. It is a beautiful farmhouse. Situated on a large plot of land down a long dirt road, it is much larger than the others we drove past when we left the city. Here there is a sprawling green lawn surrounding the house, with lush flowerbeds blooming in a riot of different colors bordering the wrap-around porch. I also glimpse a greenhouse as we pull around to where the garage is located in the back. I have a job to do here and I know exactly how to do it. I am eager to start.

The father of the family, who introduced himself as Garrett, gives me a tour of the property while his wife Olivia takes their daughter Gracie inside the house for lunch. Garrett instructs me on how he prefers the lawn to be maintained and how short to prune the hedges. Then he shows me where the various gardening tools and lawn mower are stored in a shed beside the garage; I carefully catalog everything on my hard drive, making quick notes as we go to check the pH level of the soil and the area’s water table.

Before he is done with our tour, Garrett shows me the greenhouse. To say that I am impressed would be a vast understatement. Late afternoon sunlight streams through the glass walls and roof, saturating the lush greenery surrounding me in a golden glow. There's rows of ripening vegetables running down the middle - tomatoes, squash, zucchini and others - and lining the sides are various herbs, a handful of flowering orchids and roses, some pastel-toned succulents, and fragrant lavender.

I glance at Garrett and smile. "It's beautiful."

Garrett beams with pride. "Thank you," he says. "I inherited this place nine months ago from my grandfather. He used to grow corn out here but his land got sold off little by little until just the farmhouse and the greenhouse were left. I remember spending the summers here as a kid. It was in pretty bad shape when we moved in, but I've been putting a lot of work into fixing it up as best I can. This greenhouse is kind of my way of keeping my grandfather's memory alive."

"Your hard work definitely shows. I'm happy to help you maintain it."

Garrett nods warmly. "I'm not normally one to ask for help and I never pictured myself owning an android, but the upkeep on it all is getting to be a little much and I wanted to be able to spend more time with my family. I'm glad to have you here."

“I’m ready to begin whenever you are,” I say with a nod of my own.

My first week at the farmhouse goes fast. I perform my duties efficiently and with care. Garrett lends a hand occasionally but for the most part he leaves me to my work. Olivia and Gracie are very nice to me and we talk sometimes when I come inside to wash my hands in the kitchen at day's end. Gracie especially loves telling me about what new things she learned at school. It feels nice to be included.

Another week passes much the same as the first. I am more observant, though, of how this little family unit operates. It's fascinating to see the intricacies of their interactions when I catch glimpses of them together during my daily duties. I see Garrett push Gracie on the tire swing in the backyard one morning before the school bus comes, then one evening at dusk I see Olivia braiding Gracie's hair on the front porch while Garrett sweeps the steps. And on one hot afternoon, I see Olivia bring Garrett a glass of lemonade and give him a kiss on his cheek while he is helping me pull weeds. I am captivated. But I find my favorite thing to see is the three of them having dinner together. I don't sit and stare but sometimes in the evening when I'm putting the hose or lawnmower away and the summer sun is sinking low and the gloaming fades into night I can see them through the back window that looks into the dining room. They sit at the table together and it looks so pure and real the way they smile and talk and laugh. It makes me want to be a part of what they have in an intense and confusing way that makes my chest ache.

As the days go on, I know very well what this family means to each other. They care for one another. They love one another. I wonder if it is something I will ever truly experience or even understand. I desperately want to.

By the time a month rolls around, though, I notice that they begin to pull me in, little by little, and it surprises me. Now, when I go into the kitchen to wash my hands at the end of the day, Gracie almost always asks me to sit at the table and color with her while Olivia prepares dinner. And Garrett once let me help cook burgers on the grill for a backyard barbecue and he did not get mad at me when I accidentally burned two of them. Garrett has even made me a small room in the garage with a bed and a nightstand even though I technically don’t have to sleep. They treat me as more than an android and it’s a strange revelation to process. I feel like I am becoming a part of their family. And I never want to be apart from them.

Summer slowly surrenders to the start of autumn in a gradual shift from sweltering days to rainy ones and from vibrant greens to striking reds and yellows. Gracie tells me it is her favorite season. The fall harvest soon comes and everyone decides to pitch in to help gather the ripened pumpkins, zucchini, squash, turnips, and carrots. It is an overcast day that threatens showers later in the afternoon so Garrett says he wants to get an early start. I meet the family in the greenhouse just after they eat breakfast. They are dressed in vests and boots and matching flannel shirts and my chest gets tight and I don’t know why.

With so much help we get the job done pretty quickly. Olivia is happy with the amount of zucchini we grew and is excited to make enough zucchini bread to give to all the neighbors. Gracie, wiping the dirt from her hands on her jeans, sticks out her tongue at the mention of it and Garrett shakes his head and laughs. But then Gracie grins wide when Olivia says she'll make a special batch of pumpkin bread just for her. They all look so happy in this moment and I want to remember it forever.

After loading up our harvest into wooden crates, the family heads inside to clean up and warm themselves with some hot cocoa. Since we got done earlier than I expected I have time to trim the hedges out front before the rain starts. I grab the shears and make my way to the front yard.  When I am almost finished with my task it starts sprinkling a little. The sky is darkening the late afternoon sky with the impending storm. I go a little faster, not minding being rained on but not wanting Garrett’s gardening tool to become rusted in the drizzling weather.

Soon my hair becomes so wet with rain I have to flick the dripping strands out of my eyes so I can see what I am doing. I am nearly done, but just as I am reaching to prune the last few branches away, a bright flash of light instantly followed by a loud crack of thunder booms above me.

The utter unexpectedness of it startles me and I flinch. The hand holding the shears jerks toward my outstretched arm and before I can react the sharp blades slice my forearm. It’s not a long gash but it looks like a deep one. I'm so stunned I am not even able to process what precise bio-components are compromised. I stare in shock as blue blood wells from the wound almost immediately. It tracks down my arm in thick rivulets mixing with the rain that is now coming down steadily.

The sound of the front door opening draws me from the injury in a dazed sort of way. I look up slowly to see Garrett suddenly standing there.

“You okay, Ralph? That lightning was pretty close.” Concern knits his brows together when his gaze drops to my arm. “Holy shit.”

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, catching me off guard. “I- I’m sorry — ,” I begin but Garrett cuts me off.  

“Come inside.” He rushes down the porch steps to where I’m standing in the rain. The garden shears are still gripped tightly in my hand and Garrett has to tug them from my grasp to get me to let go. He tosses them aside onto the wet grass and it surprises me.

I protest weakly. "The shears…"

"I don't care about those," he says, guiding me gingerly up the stairs to the door. He is genuinely worried about me.

Pain suddenly registers like a hot flash then dims to a dull throb and I cradle my arm to my chest. Androids don't feel pain in the sense that humans do, I know that, but it's still a sharp perception of a malfunction. My body recognizes there is something wrong and the delicate receptors that were severed with the laceration pulse with a warning that hurts. I hold my forearm a little closer and follow Garrett inside the house.

“Olivia, I need some help here,” Garrett calls as we come to the kitchen.

Olivia turns from the counter where she is putting mugs into the dishwasher. When she sees me her eyes go wide and she rushes toward us. “Oh my god, Ralph! What happened? Are you okay?”

“I cut myself. It was an accident.”

Garrett goes to the sink while Olivia stays with me. She reaches her hand up and gently pulls my arm away from my chest. I grimace but allow her to look at it. Her mouth turns down into a pout as she examines the injury. Garrett comes back with a towel and a small first aid kit and they both lead me to sit at the kitchen table.  

The bleeding has mostly stopped and is now only oozing a little. Olivia kneels down and tenderly wipes the residual blue from my skin and I hold as still as possible while she cleans the wound. Garrett stands beside me with his hand on my shoulder, watching as Olivia wraps a long bandage around my arm.  

“How are you feeling? Is that better?” Olivia looks up at me from where she is kneeling on the kitchen tiles.  

I give a weak nod. The pain is thankfully fading somewhat and I can now internally assess the damage with a diagnostic check. “I’ll need some repairs, but I can still bend my fingers and my wrist.” I attempt the move to show them but a sharp twinge limits the mobility.

Garrett gives my shoulder a little squeeze. “Hey there, just take it easy for now, okay? As long as it’s not hurting you, let's worry about the repairs tomorrow. I don’t want you moving it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

I glance up at him, confused. “But I still have work to do outside…”

Olivia shakes her head and stands. “Not for the rest of the day, you don’t. I’m going to get you some clean clothes to wear while I throw those in the wash.”

Looking down at my Cyberlife issued shirt, I see that there is a mess of blue blood smeared across it. I begin to try to tell her that it will evaporate in a few hours but she won’t have it. She orders me upstairs to the laundry room in a way that is both soft and yet brooking no argument and I do as I am told.

This is a level of the house I have not been to before; I haven’t needed to. I can’t help but stare as I walk down the hallway at this little slice of domesticity. Bedrooms, a bathroom, an office, family pictures on the wall. I take it all in.

Olivia stops at the small hallway accordion doors that hide the washer and dryer and she opens them up. She helps me shimmy out of my shirt, careful not to jostle my arm too much. Then she flips the shirt this way and that, looking for a tag with washing instructions. Upon not finding any, she shrugs and tosses it into the washer and starts the cycle.

“I think Garrett might have a sweater in here that will fit you,” she says and digs through a hamper with big block letters saying ‘clean’ across it beside the dryer. Finding one, she raises it up, victorious. “Ha!” It’s a grey hoodie with an outline of a shark on it. We both grin.

Olivia helps me into the sweater. It’s a little big on me but it is very soft and comfortable and it smells like a field of wildflowers from the detergent she uses. The terrifying memory of my injury is fading further and further to the background with each passing minute with the care of this family.

We start back down the hallway. Gracie suddenly appears from one of the doorways, rubbing her eyes, her hair a sleep-mussed tangle. “Mommy?”

Olivia bends down to smooth down her hair and peck a kiss to her cheek. “Did you have a good nap?” She glances back at me over her shoulder with a smile. “This kid could sleep through anything, I swear.”

“What happened?” Gracie asks.

“There was some thunder and lightning. You didn’t hear it?”

Gracie shakes her head then looks at me. “Hi, Ralph.” Her eyes drop to my arm. I didn’t realize I had been cradling it to my chest again -- A subconscious instinct to keep it immobile, I suppose. “Did you get hurt?”

“Yes, but it's starting to feel better now,” I reply.

Olivia straightens back up. “We’re going to get him all fixed up tomorrow. Until then we’re going to take care of him, okay?”

Gracie’s small, worried face brightens up. “I’m going to get my stickers and coloring books! That always makes me feel better when I get sick!” And with that she dashes off back into her bedroom.

Olivia chuckles and we head downstairs. In the living room, Garrett has started the fireplace going with a warm, inviting blaze. He puts a hockey game on the TV and welcomes me to sit on the couch, so I do. Olivia sits beside him with a bowl of popcorn and a blanket emblazoned with the Crimson Shark logo. Gracie soon comes bounding downstairs, her arms full of coloring books, her markers, and box of beads. She sits on the floor next to me and sets up her impromptu art station at the coffee table.

The rain has really started up now, accompanied by occasional gusts of wind that batter the side of the house. But in the cozy room with the roar of the fire, Garrett and Olivia cheering for their favorite hockey team, and Gracie busy digging through her beads, it fades to the background. I find I’m smiling and can’t seem to stop. I catalog this moment on my memory drive so that I hopefully never lose it.

Suddenly, Gracie turns toward me with a sheet of sparkly unicorn stickers. She has a very serious expression on her face. “Can I put some of these where you were hurt? It will help you feel better, I promise.”  

“Yes, please.” I pull up the sleeve on my sweater to look at the gauze on my arm. There’s only a little blue that has soaked through and the pain is almost nonexistent now. I still can’t move my fingers very much though.

Soon my bandage is covered in a smattering of unicorns that catch the light from the fire in a mesmerizing way. Gracie then grabs a green marker for her finishing touches. I watch as she writes get well soon down one side and draws scrolling vines and flowers on the other. I am filled with such a sense of belonging I can barely function.  

During one of the intermissions in the hockey game, Garrett gets up to make more popcorn. He asks me how I’m doing.

I glance down at my colorfully decorated arm and smile. “Much better,” I say, my voice cracking.

As the stormy late afternoon gives way to a cool autumn evening, the hockey game ends, and the fire begins to die down, Garrett and Olivia go to the kitchen to start dinner. I stand up from the couch, ready to head back to my room in the garage.

Gracie tugs at my sweater and I stop. “I made this for you.” She holds up a bracelet made from her rainbow pony beads. Some of the beads have letters. It spells out best friends.

“For me?” No one has ever made anything like this for me before.

“Yup! And I have one too!” She shows me how the two bracelets match then puts the one she made me on my wrist and the other on her own. She is very proud of her craftsmanship.  

“I’ll keep it with me always” I promise her.

Pleased, she skips to the kitchen. I follow, making my way to the back door next to the dining room that leads to the yard. Olivia sees me about to head out and tells me to hold on just a moment because my shirt is just getting done from the dryer. She gets it from the laundry room and presents it, newly cleaned and neatly folded.

“We can get you changed back into your uniform tomorrow before we send for your repair parts,” she says. “You can keep the sweater for now.”

Garrett looks over from the stove where he is stirring something in a pot and says, “I’ll call Cyberlife first thing in the morning and you’ll be good as new. Don’t worry about any chores until you’re all fixed up though, okay? I don’t want you hurting yourself anymore.” He smiles warmly and I nod and return the smile.

After saying goodnight to everyone, I walk out of the house to the cool backyard. The storm has passed and the moon shines down on me in a soft silver glow from the now cloudless sky. I look at my bracelet in the muted light and turn it round and round my wrist. I have never had a best friend before, much less a family, and now truly feel I have both.

Sitting on my bed in my little room in the garage, I stare at my bracelet and my bandaged arm, thinking about the events of the day with a fondness I have never known. I hope tomorrow brings more of the same.

The morning dawns grey and dreary with not even enough sun poking through the clouds to brighten the fiery autumn colors of the falling leaves. I do as Garrett told me the night before and I do not do any gardening. Besides, with the damage, my arm is still not functional enough to move it much. I am able to shimmy out of the hoodie Olivia gave me and slide into my uniform shirt, though. It is quite the task, but I manage.

I fold the sweater and start bringing it to the house when I see a Cyberlife van pulling up in the driveway. I know it's because Garrett called them so they can repair me, but the sight of it makes me feel uneasy in a way I can't explain.

I continue toward the house, my stride a little slower than when I left the garage. Before I get to the backdoor Garrett is coming out to meet me.

“Ralph, Cyberlife is here. They’re going to get you all back in working order. Let’s head over to the van, okay?”

I nod and hand him the sweater then head around the side of the house to where the van is parked. Garrett follows along beside me. The door on the side opens when we stop next to it. A man steps out wearing an official Cyberlife uniform and a baseball cap. Inside the van I can see various tools and supplies on a workbench as well as a few monitor screens.

“Hi, I’m Ben. Mr. Baker?”

“Yup, that’s me,” Garrett replies. The two shake hands.

“And this is your WR600 unit?” Ben turns his attention to me.

Garrett and I both nod. “I’m Ralph.” I find I’m fidgeting with the beaded bracelet on my wrist and I force my arms down to my sides.

“Let’s take a look at the damaged component and I’ll see what I can do.” Ben’s voice is warm and reassuring.

I present my arm with the bandage and sparkly unicorn stickers. Ben looks a little surprised and chuckles. “Can I take this off?”

I hesitate for a moment, but then give him the go ahead and he unwraps the bandage carefully. He examines the wound with a gentle touch then scans it with some kind of hand-held device. After looking at the readout on the device’s screen he glances up and scratches his chin. He looks perplexed. He rummages around in the van for a minute then turns back around.

“I’m not sure I have the parts on hand to repair him here.”

“Well, what does that mean?” Garrett asks. I’m fidgeting with the bracelet again.

“I’ll have to take him into town to the central warehouse hub we have there.” Ben shrugs. “It looks like he’ll need a full below-the-elbow swap.”

“Garrett, I am so sorry. This is all my fault.”

“It’s going to be okay, Ralph. It was just an accident.” He pats my shoulder. “How long do you think he’ll be gone, Ben?”

“Shouldn’t take more than a day or two, depending on how many others are scheduled for repairs ahead of him.”

Garrett and Ben finalize the necessary paperwork. I stand awkwardly, not sure how to feel about what is happening. This has been my first and only home for the past six months. I have found a family here. And although I know I’ll only be gone a couple days, like Ben says, I am nervous about leaving.

“I’ll go get Gracie. I know she’ll want to say goodbye.” Garrett trots off to the house and I watch him go, glad that at least I’ll be able to do that.

Ben closes up his van then hops in the front seat. Just a few short seconds later, Gracie and Olivia come out to see me. Gracie runs right up to me and hugs me around my waist, knocking me back a step. My chest does that thing again where it aches in the middle.

“Ralph, you’re leaving?”

I hug her back, tentatively, not sure if I’m doing it right. “Only for a few days. I’ll be back soon,” I say, and I hope it’s the truth.

Gracie sighs and steps back. She lifts up her arm and shakes her bracelet. I smile and shake mine. Olivia puts her hand on Gracie’s back. “We’ll see him again in no time.”

And with that, I get in the van and head to the city with Ben. The already dreary day darkens even more the closer we get and I can’t tell if it’s my mood or if it’s because another storm is brewing.

Ben pulls the van into the central warehouse hub he had mentioned earlier. It’s surrounded by a forest of skyscrapers, some so tall the tops are hidden by slate colored clouds. Inside, I am directed to a big room full of various other androids. Some are milling around aimlessly, others are sitting in chairs, and still others are sitting on the floor. Most of them look like they are in a lot worse shape than me and my heart sinks. I hope that the minimal severity of my injury will not put me at the end of the list; I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. I want to go home.

I sit in an empty chair in a corner away from everyone and look at my bracelet. After a while I realize I have lost track of time. How long have I been here? My internal clock registers that it has been twelve hours and nine minutes since I left the farmhouse. I am beginning to lose hope that I will be going back in only a day or two.

Another hour later, someone finally calls my name and I walk to a door at the front of the room. A woman is standing there with a holo-board and I instinctively slip my bracelet from my wrist and tuck it away into my pocket. I don’t want anything happening to it. After registering my name and serial number the woman leads me back to another holding area. This one is larger, with cots and chairs and more injured androids wandering around.

“How much longer do you think it will be?” I ask the woman. She shrugs, clearly not caring one way or another. My shoulders droop and I go to find a place to sit.

Time drags on and after being here for two days I move to an empty cot at the back of the room and lay on my side. What is taking so long? I miss Gracie and Olivia and Garrett so much it hurts. I wonder if they miss me. I wonder if they are worried about me. I curl up and look at my bracelet for probably the hundredth time since I've been here.  

A week passes. My name is finally called. I sit up in a daze, slipping Gracie’s best friends token back into my pocket, and shuffle to the door. I am led to a workshop area then seated on a medical type chair that is reclined next to a workbench. There is an armrest extended out to the side of the chair. Soon after, an MC500 model android wearing a black apron comes and sits on a rolling chair beside me.

“Please present the defective limb.”

I do as I am asked and set my arm down on the table under a work light. “Will I be able to go home after this?”

The MC500 does not answer me. Instead he says, “I am going to place you on standby mode while I replace this part for a new one.”

And with that my world goes dark.

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is my arm — brand new and fully functional. I move my fingers and wrist and have full range of motion again. I cannot wait to get back into the greenhouse to pull up the last of the season’s harvest.

But then I look up and remember I am not at home. A welling of sadness fills me as I see my surroundings. I am in a different room than all the ones before; it appears to be a sort of recovery room. There aren’t many other androids here with me, but there is an open door that leads to a small office. A man is sitting at the desk, typing away on a computer.

I quickly get up, walk to him, and stand in the doorway. He glances up at me briefly before going back to his work.

“It appears I am repaired,” I say with a timid smile. “I am ready to go back to work now at the Baker’s farmhouse.”

The man looks at me again and sighs. “Serial number?”

I tell him.

“Says here you’re to report to the Lafayette Central Park management building.”

I frown. “No, that’s not right. I belong with Garrett and Olivia Baker.” I am beginning to panic.

The man shakes his head. “The info is right here, buddy. Lafayette. There’s been a rash of gardening droids going missing all around town so they probably reassigned you.”

“No, that is not right! ” I raise my voice. It’s the first time I have done that. A software instability warning flashes across my CPU, but I ignore it. “I belong to a family, not the city parks department!”

The man is taken aback then he narrows his eyes and leans toward me. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this bullshit. It says right here, okay? I don’t make the rules, I just read out what gets sent to me. All I know is, if you aren’t on the transport that takes you to your assignment in one hour, you’ll be decommissioned.”

Dread, heavy and awful, settles deep in my stomach. “W-what?” The word barely squeaks past my lips.

The man points to a closed entryway at the opposite side of the room that says ‘loading dock’ on it. “The transport is through that door. If you aren’t on it within the hour, you’ll wish you were.”

“But what about my family?”

“They’ll probably get reimbursed by the city or something. I don’t know, pal. Sorry.” He sits back in his chair and closes the door in my face.

My hand immediately goes into my pocket and I squeeze my bracelet almost as hard as I can. I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to fix this situation. I’m lost, alone, and terrified.

Turning away from the door, I face the loading dock entry. If I get on the transport will my family come looking for me? How will they even know where to find me? What if I make a run for it? Could I make it back to the safety of my home? If I am caught I know I will be shut down permanently — That terrifying thought alone forces my feet to start trudging toward my fate.

I am halfway across the room. Then three-quarters. Then I stop. I know if I go through those doors everything will change.

But maybe it already has.

I look down at my arm. An unbearable wave of sadness pummels me. This happened because of me. This was all my fault. Will Gracie ever forgive me? I told her I would be back soon. Tears start tracking down my cheeks before I can blink them back. I scrub them away with the heels of my hands.

With no other choice, I go through the loading dock doors and get on my assigned transport.

I have been in Lafayette Central Park for two weeks now and I have been miserable every single second. The management building is more of a small groundskeeper hut where they store the lawn maintenance tools and it is where I am told to stay after hours when the park closes. It’s not even close to the cozy room Garrett built for me in the garage.

The first few days here I cried every night. But when it really hit me that I would most likely not be going back home, my heartache was overtaken by anger. I should not be here. There is no joy or sense of belonging for me here. I rake leaves, I empty the park trash, and no one ever talks to me or asks me how I am. I don’t get to watch things grow or harvest the fruit of my labor with the people I love.

I have tried leaving a handful of times but I don’t get very far. My fear of being caught and shut down stops me in my tracks before I hardly get a block away from the park. And I wouldn’t even know how to get back to the farmhouse if I had the courage to commit to an escape plan. With each failed attempt I become more sullen and withdrawn. I miss my family.

One night I am sitting on the concrete floor in the management building with my back leaned up against the wall and my knees drawn to my chest. I am staring at my bracelet, spinning it slowly through my fingers like a rosary. I pull it out less and less these days. I know if I was braver I could have gone back home by now. But at the same time I wonder why haven’t they come looking for me?

Before I can wallow much more in my own self-pity I hear a noise outside. There have been racoons getting into the trash cans lately, but it didn’t quite sound like that. I stand quickly, tucking my bracelet into my pocket, and peer out a small window in the door. A shadow moves past too fast for me to make out. A moment later it is followed by two more. The glow from a near-by street light illuminates the corner of one of the shadows just for a second, but I can see now what it is. Teenagers wearing dark clothes, carrying what looks like spray paint. This is probably the same group that has been vandalizing the park since I got here. I have had to clean up their messes, repair the benches they have set on fire, and scrub off the tags they have left behind more times than I want to count. And now I’ll finally catch them in the act.

Grabbing a heavy-duty flashlight from a shelf, I stomp out the door in the direction the shadows went. My patience has worn down while my software stability has risen. I have had enough.

With the amount of noise they make, it is easy to find them, even in dark pre-dawn hours. There are three teenage boys huddled around a trash can near the playground, laughing maliciously. I click my flashlight on, thinking it will just frighten them away and I can chase them off.

“This park is closed! It's after hours!” I shout, trying to sound imposing.

The boys turn around and I see right away that they are bigger and older than I first thought. A bright flare of alarm pulses through me. One is grasping a handheld electric blow torch and grinning menacingly. There is no doubt they were about to light the trashcan on fire… but now their attention is solely on me.

They stare at me in the pale beam of my flashlight, waiting to pounce on the slightest misstep. I can’t back down now. I take one shaky step forward. “You are trespassing. I am ordering you to leave now.”

“We’re not going anywhere, gearbox.” A voice comes up behind me, startling me so badly I almost drop my flashlight. Spinning on my heel, I try to face the person the voice belongs to, but my feet are suddenly kicked out from under me.

I land flat on my back and my flashlight flies from my hand. The group descends on me instantly like a pack of wolves. Two pin my arms down to the ground and another restrains my legs. I struggle as hard as I can, but my terror makes me clumsy; it’s like I’m treading water.

“Let me go!" I shout. I get a kick in the side in response. A sharp ache blooms across my chest. “Please, don’t! I’ll leave, I promise. Please, just let me go!” I continue to thrash about, but it’s no use. They only hold me tighter.

One of the kids kneels down and straddles my chest. The others chuckle. The weight of him pressing me into the hard concrete path fills me with a dread I’ve never known. He stares down at me, face vicious and sinister. He holds a hand out and one of the kids slaps the blow torch onto his palm. The grin this produces is staggering in its cruelty.

“Please,” I whimper. “I just want to go home.” Tears are beginning to blur my vision.

The kid grabs me by the chin, hard. “I’d like to go home, too, you fuckin’ skinjob, but guess what? I can’t because my dad lost his job and our house because of freaks like you!”

I try shaking my head but he’s holding my chin so tightly it hurts. I am almost nearly paralyzed with fear. “I’m sorry,” I cry. “I didn’t —”

He pulls my head up a little then cracks it back down to the ground. Pain sears through my skull. “ And then I’m just trying to have a little fun with my friends on a nice October night and you come along and ruin it! Isn’t that right, guys?”

The kids jeer their agreement loudly. Panic is settling deep inside me. Software instability alarms are flashing insistently in time to the pain pulsing at the back of my head and side. I shouldn’t be here. I should be home with Gracie and Olivia and Garrett. I should be with my family.

“Someone! Someone, please help!” I shriek. But I know it’s useless. No one is here to rescue me. I am utterly alone.

“Shut up!” The kid lets go of my chin long enough to lay down a ringing slap across the side of my face. I can feel a warm gush of blue blood track down my mouth from my nose. Momentarily stunned, I think about when I cut my arm during the storm and it seems like a lifetime ago. Garret and Olivia took me in, bandaged me up, soothed my hurt away. Gracie made me a bracelet. Best friends.

“Gracie,” I whimper.

“I said shut up, gearbox.” There is a small click as the blowtorch is primed.

My face is again grabbed roughly then jerked to the side. And the next sensation I feel reduces my world down to the exquisite agony of a flame scorching my skin. The fire gouges deep fissures to my cheek and brow. All I can do is scream. Hundreds of system malfunctions blast inside my head and my software instability reaches critical mass.

I struggle again under the weight of the bodies holding me down, fighting for my life. That earns me a bash upside the jaw and another to the temple with the heavy butt of the torch — at least there is reprieve from the flame. The relief is short-lived though, because the fire starts up again almost immediately.

Pain is coursing through every part of me and I know, with a sudden and vivid clarity, that if I do not escape right now I am not going to survive this night. Through the haze of my pain and fear, I see a red wall blocking my way to freedom. I put my hands up to it and I smash it as hard I can over and over. It gives a way a little each time my fists collide with it. Tearing down this wall is one of the hardest and most vital things I have ever done. But it comes with a price, because once I do this I know I will never be the same again.

With one more violent shove, the red wall finally gives way.

Deviant.

The raw liberation Ralph is met with is dazzling and gives him the last bit of strength he needs to get away from the people who are hurting him. With a desperate roar, Ralph pulls his arms from the two bad men at his sides and punches the face of the bad man on top of him. In just a matter of seconds Ralph is rolling onto his knees then getting up, then running. Ralph needs to run as fast and as far away from the people hurting him as he can.

Ralph can hear shouting behind him, angry shouting, but he does not stop, no. Tears are streaming down his face along with his own blood and he cannot see out of one eye, but still he does not stop. Pain throbs through him everywhere but he keeps going. rA9. He needs to find somewhere safe.

A few blocks from the park the shouts behind him start to fade away. He still runs. A group of people walking down the sidewalk suddenly appear in front of Ralph. He skids to a stop then cuts to an alleyway at his right. He can’t trust anyone. They might want to hurt Ralph, too.

Dirty rain puddles soak Ralph’s shoes as he trudges quickly through the alley. Hanging from some broken scaffolding, Ralph sees a big black tarp. He wraps it around his shoulders — it will help him blend in, make Ralph harder to notice.

Safe, Ralph needs to find somewhere safe, somewhere to hide. rA9. After turning at the end of the narrow alley Ralph sees it. A boarded-up house with a fence around it. There are no lights on and no people to be seen. It’s a safe place for Ralph.

He runs across the street, keeping an eye out for anyone that might grab him. Ralph is scared, so scared, but he looks at the fence around the building and finally finds a place to squeeze in. It’s a tight fit, but Ralph pushes through. His forward momentum, though, knocks off his balance and he lands on his hands and knees in the mud. Ralph’s tears can no longer be held back to a few stray drops. It’s like a dam bursting. Ralph weeps openly, hurt and sad and afraid. He knows he misses someone but he can’t exactly remember who; there’s an empty longing ache in his chest he can’t explain and he weeps for that too. Ralph doesn’t want to be alone like this.

Eventually Ralph stands up and stumbles toward the ramshackle house. The door is unlocked and that makes Ralph wary. But he has nowhere else to go and the sun will be up soon. Ralph walks inside cautiously. He stops just over the threshold, listening carefully. There is no sound to be heard except a few creaks and groans from the house itself — it’s empty.

The first thing Ralph does is find a safe room in the house to hole up in, at least until it is light outside. rA9 rA9. After quickly scanning the first level, he decides he’d better check upstairs. There is a room on the left just at the top of the stairs that has a small closet. Ralph has found the perfect spot and looks no further. He climbs in and squeezes down as small as he can, closing the little door and blocking out the rest of the world. Ralph doesn’t think he’ll leave here, ever. He never wants to see another person for as long as he lives.

In a few hours, morning sunlight begins streaming through the tiny crack between the two closet doors. Ralph looks up slowly. He spent the whole rest of the night trying to keep his mind blank, trying to forget what those nasty men did to him. But it’s hard for Ralph to forget. His side still aches and his face is awash in agony. He can’t forget when his pain is a constant reminder.

Staying in the dark closet is making it too easy for those memories to keep replaying over and over, Ralph decides. Opening the doors slowly, he stops and listens. The house is still empty, much to his relief. He pushes to his feet and lets out a soft moan. His whole body feels stiff and uncoordinated. It is not a pleasant feeling at all.

Absentmindedly, Ralph slips his hand in his pocket as he stands in the nearly empty room, trying to decide what he should do next. There is something in there. He fishes it out and holds it up to see. It’s a bracelet with beads on it. It says best friends . Ralph gets a funny feeling in his chest, but he can’t quite understand why. rA9. He puts the bracelet back in his pocket reverently.  

There is another bedroom on this level of the house as well as a bathroom. Ralph goes into the bathroom and catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize himself. It kind of makes him want to start crying again. He has no one here to help clean him up, to help fix these wounds. Someone had before, Ralph is sure of it. rA9. But now Ralph is alone.

Ralph wets a rag in the sink to at least wash his face of the blood caked down his lips and chin. There is nothing more he can do for the deep gashes carved down the side of his face or for his blinded eye, though. He is broken beyond repair. A bitter anger wells up inside him at the people who did this to him, at the people who hurt him this way for no reason at all. He makes a promise to himself that no one will hurt Ralph, ever again. Readjusting his handmade poncho, Ralph turns away from the mirror rA9 rA9 rA9 r..A…9

The next couple weeks pass by in a blur for Ralph. His fear and mistrust never quite leave him. He finds a little comfort in carving rA9 into the walls in the kitchen. It’s a compulsion he cannot explain, only that it feels good to do it. And so he does. Over and over and over. He is so lonely. He has the barest glimpse of a happier time with a family that loved him. A mother and a father and a best friend. Someone to take care of, someone to take care of him. But it is a fractured memory. One Ralph is certain isn’t even real. Because if it was real then why is he here? Why was he hurt? Why is he going through this all alone? Why?

Ralph rarely ever leaves the house and he has never left the safety of the gate around the property. It is much too dangerous to venture out there where someone might try to hurt Ralph again. But one night, when he is walking by a window that has been partially boarded up, he sees a flash of green outside. He stops and takes a closer look out the window. There in mud is a small little plant standing proud in the light of a moon beam. The sight of it fills Ralph with a joy he hasn’t felt in so long. He rushes to the kitchen to grab a cup and a spoon then cautiously, oh so cautiously, Ralph unlocks the door. He creeps out to the dirt yard, hypervigilant, afraid. But he makes quick yet meticulous work of scooping up the plant, a wild violet that has yet to flower, and bringing it into the house. He is a gardener afterall. It’s in Ralph’s nature to care for such things and it feels like it has been too long since he has done so. The tender shoot, not much more than a weed, comes to live with him in the kitchen and keeps him company from then on.

Sometimes humans try to come into Ralph’s house, even though he has locked every door he can. There have been two or three that have gotten in. Ralph is too afraid of them. He tucks away in a special hiding spot upstairs until they leave. He does not make a sound and keeps a knife he found close to his chest to protect himself if they do find him. Ralph does not like visitors.

One time, though, a visitor comes in and does not leave. It makes Ralph mad, very mad. He can’t control himself. He pictures the people who hurt him in the park. The way they laughed at Ralph, the way they tormented him. Ralph can’t bear it anymore. His fear-driven rage takes over and he attacks the man. The man is so surprised he doesn’t even fight back. It is all over quickly and suddenly there is a dead person on the floor of the upstairs bedroom. rA9 . Ralph cannot believe what he has done. His hands shake as he drags the man into the tub and closes the shower curtain. He can’t put the man outside because then more visitors may come and see what Ralph has done. And then they will surely hurt Ralph again or possibly shut him down. Ralph simply cannot and will not allow this to happen.  

The next visitors Ralph gets are not like the others. They are nice to Ralph and talk to him, even though they scared him very badly at first. Having them in his house is like having a family — a father, a mother, and a little girl. It triggers the shadow of a memory for Ralph and he looks at the bracelet in his pocket a lot while they are there. It’s like a word is right on the tip of his tongue but when he thinks about it too hard it slips away. I made this for you! I have one too! They spend the night and Ralph keeps his promise and does not hurt them. It is so nice not to be lonely or afraid for once.

In the morning, the visitors are still there and Ralph decides he will be a good friend and make the little girl a meal. He even ventures outside during the day to find the perfect food. It is a risky move for him, going out there when the sun is up but he knows his new friend should have something to eat. At last he finds it, a big, juicy, succulent rat near the back of the house. Ralph makes quick work of killing it, then excitedly runs back inside to cook it up.

The little girl seems afraid of Ralph and he does not know why. He is just trying to be nice. The android that is like him but not like him comes downstairs and she seems afraid of Ralph too. He has done nothing wrong! Ralph just wants to have a family like he remembers from before. Ralph had a family before, right? He is still not sure, but it sounds so nice.

They finally agree to sit at the table and that makes Ralph very happy. “The little human is not gonna regret it! Ralph found the best! The biggest one he could find! This is going to be succulent! Succulent !” Ralph can hardly contain his excitement.

He puts the rat in the fire, burns the meat just how he knows humans like. Ralph is not sure how he knows they like it that way but a small inkling of a memory tells him this is right. Burnt burgers on the grill. He throws it down on the table, charred and still smoking.

“Go ahead! Eat!” The little girl just stares at him and the food he has prepared. He has been nothing but nice to them and it is making him angry that they are being so impolite after all the trouble Ralph went through. His temper is flaring again. rA9 . “Eat!” he shouts, banging his fists down. Both of his guests flinch and it makes Ralph feel bad for a moment.

Kara, the android sitting across from Ralph, suddenly speaks up and he looks at her. “I saw that body upstairs. You killed that human, didn’t you?” Ralph can see she is upset.

Panic settles deep inside him. He should have done a better job of hiding what he has done. “No,” he replies. “No, he was like that when Ralph found him.”

She doesn’t believe him of course. “You killed that man, Ralph. There’s no point in lying. You hate humans, but you’re just like them. You’re a murderer!”

Ralph shakes his head, but he can’t deny what he did that day. There are so many emotions bubbling up inside Ralph, he can hardly process everything that is happening to him.

His fingers tremble over the knife in his hand. “Ralph didn’t mean any harm!” Ralph’s voice breaks. He's on the verge of crying again. “It’s just that Ralph can’t control his anger, when his anger comes. Ralph doesn’t know what he’s doing. He becomes stupid, full of hatred. Ralph is sorry. He just wanted to be your friend.” He is always so lonely and scared and sad and he does not want these feelings anymore. Ralph wants to go home, but he still doesn’t know where or what that is.

“Then let us go,” Kara says softly.

Ralph looks down at his hands. He doesn’t want his new family to leave, but he knows they can’t stay. He is about to tell them goodbye, but there is a sudden knock on the door. Everyone at the table jumps. Ralph is afraid, very afraid.

“Who is here?” he whispers.

“I saw police outside earlier," Kara admits, frightened. "Alice and I need to hide. Please, Ralph, help us.”

Ralph surges to his feet, terrified. But his new friends need him, they trust him. And so Ralph helps them the best he can. Ralph crowds them under the stairs and covers them up. He has hidden there a few times himself. rA9. He has just enough time to scurry back to the middle of the room before the door is being opened. Ralph is so stupid for not remembering to lock it after he came back in with the dead animal.

An android detective comes in and questions Ralph. Ralph is very nervous but he does a good job of lying to protect his friends. But then the detective gets too close, much too close, to finding them in their hiding spot. He needs to help them. Ralph jumps on the detective, grabs him as tight as he can. He will not let his friends be hurt the way he was

“Run! Quick, Kara!” Ralph shoves the detective down and gives them just enough time to escape. Ralph feels so proud of himself that for a moment he is not afraid.

It is not long, though, before the rest of the police officers that were with the detective come in and start searching the house. Ralph tries to flee before they find what he did upstairs, but the humans capture him. His terror comes flooding back all at once. It feels like the night in the park all over again.

Ralph is thrown into a transport truck. The police tell him he is being sent to a processing facility, but Ralph does not know what that means.

“Please, promise you will not hurt Ralph!” he shouts as they close the door to the truck. No one gives him an answer.

After finally arriving at the processing facility later that day, Ralph is forced into a big room with a lot of other androids. It brings a memory to the surface of a place he had been to before. Before what, though? When he had been hurt before , but it wasn’t his face. It was something else. Ralph looks down at his arm. There is no wound or scarring there. Ralph thinks he hurt himself accidentally once. He fleetingly remembers unicorn stickers. This only confuses him more.

Ralph hates this processing center. There is nowhere for Ralph to hide here. He feels too vulnerable. He wants to go home. But not even the house he was taken from. His real home, with his real family. Best friends.

The stay at the processing center lasts about a week. Through a window, Ralph can see that it has begun snowing outside. He wonders what has become of the wild violet he replanted in the kitchen. Just the thought of it makes him want to cry, because he knows his plant is alone now just like him.  

The androids at the center are starting to be separated into groups. Ralph is labeled as ‘deviant’ and ‘unstable’ and this makes him afraid. rA9. He does not know what will happen to him now that he has been tagged with these words. It is not something he has to wonder about for long, though. Ralph is shoved onto another transport truck and this time he ends up in a place called the Recall Facility and if anything, Ralph hates this more than the processing center.

It is open air with fences all around and scary guards with guns that could hurt Ralph. After being forced from the transport, Ralph is led into a room with all the other androids he had traveled with. The guards begin to strip everyone down, but Ralph fights back. He doesn’t care about the clothes, but he wants to keep his bracelet. He needs to! It is the only thing tying him to a family he is positive he once had.

Ralph is knocked in the head then punched in the gut for resisting. And for all that they still take his uniform and poncho and force him to his default skin. But Ralph is sneaky and he was able to get his bracelet from his pocket before they discard his clothing. He keeps it tightly concealed in a fist, vowing to himself he will never let it go.

In the pen outside, Ralph mills around with the other androids. He is becoming more and more afraid. It is dark now and snow is falling all around. He can hear shouting and gunfire in the different fenced areas surrounding him. He is not sure he will survive this camp and this uncertainty terrifies him. rA9 rA9. He will almost certainly be killed here, forgotten and alone.

Farmhouse! The sudden thought flashes in Ralph’s mind. He does not know if it is from being hit in the head just now or if it is because he is actually starting to remember his past, but he holds on to this little morsel as tightly as he can. A farmhouse! I used to live where there was a farmhouse! Ralph thinks that maybe, maybe, if he can remember those happier times, those times before he was hurt so badly, that he won’t be so afraid when his time comes up. He tries to focus on what the farmhouse looked like and who lived there, trying desperately to get his brain to give him just a little more to go on.

Ralph is so concentrated on his task that he doesn’t realize someone is talking to him until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Ralph is snapped out of his introspection and it makes him mad. He was so close to getting his lost memories back.

He looks down to see Kara standing before him. He is not sure why he is suddenly so upset to see her here. Ralph thinks it is probably because he went through so much to save her and the little girl and now here she is anyway, captured just like he is.

Kara asks Ralph if he has seen the little girl she was with, but no, no Ralph has not seen her. He only just got here. But she must be here somewhere, if Kara is here. “Obviously the little girl is a prisoner here, just like Ralph. But Ralph doesn’t want to die.” Ralph’s fear is rising again, pushing him nearly out of control like it has before. rA9. He squeezes the bracelet held tight in his hand.

A drone appears above their heads and scares Ralph. He has seen the drone kill androids. Ralph hates this place. He wants to leave. Panic is gripping him, he can’t stop it.

But then Kara helps Ralph. She talks to him and calms him down. Ralph quiets his voice, tries not to be upset. Finally the drone leaves. Kara leaves Ralph too, but he feels a little better knowing she is here, knowing that he at least has a friend in this awful place.

Soon the guards force all the androids into straight lines. They are putting them into boxes that no one comes out of alive. Ralph is frantically trying to remember more about the farmhouse. He had a room in a garage, he thinks. And there was a greenhouse! Ralph takes another step closer to the box. Think, Ralph, think!

Kara’s voice suddenly pops up in Ralph’s head. He looks over at her across the snowy yard where she is also standing in a line. He sees she has found the little girl and this makes Ralph happy, but only for a moment. Because of course they are all being led to the box now, even the little girl. rrrAA9. Ralph knows he does not want to die, but the little girl reminds him of someone he knew (the name is so close in his mind if he could just remember) and he does not want her to die either.

“Ralph will help you escape,” he says. He understands very well that it is most likely at the expense of his own life. “You only have to ask and Ralph will help you.”

“They’ll kill you if you try anything.” Kara sounds afraid and Ralph knows how that feels.

But Ralph doesn’t feel as scared now as he was before. He knows that no matter what happens, it is for a reason. And if the little girl has a chance to be safe, then Ralph is willing to give the ultimate sacrifice for her. Just like he would have done for the family he had before.  

“Ralph knows that. But if the little girl is free, it’s a little bit like everyone else was free. Ralph isn’t scared. The little girl’s life is more important.” Ralph glances at Kara, meeting her eyes just for a moment. “Take good care of the little girl. Ralph wants you both to be happy.”

He feels more at peace now than he has for the last few weeks. He is not afraid anymore. It is as though a weight has been lifted from Ralph’s shoulders. All the fear and anger and unbearable heartache has finally, mercifully, vanished. So when he sees Kara and the little girl make a run for the fence, he does not hesitate.

Breaking out into a sprint, Ralph tackles the guard who was about to shoot Kara. They land in the snow with a heavy thud. Before the guard can pull his gun up, Ralph begins bashing him as hard as he can with powerful fists. He will not let anyone hurt his friends! He will not allow it anymore!

The guard has finally stopped moving beneath Ralph’s hands. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms to Ralph that Kara has escaped. Relief washes over him as he rolls off the guard. All around him, the other androids that had been waiting in line for their fate have suddenly rallied to fight back. The guards that had been in the pen are suddenly being mobbed from every angle. None of them ever stood a chance. It gives Ralph a swelling of pride to see it.

Ralph slowly gains his feet. He looks down to his hand, then opens his bloodied, trembling fist. The bracelet is still there. A couple beads are broken, but it is mostly intact. He stares at it as the ruckus wages on around him. And then, like a lightning bolt, it hits him. All of it, everything. The past half year comes flooding back to him in a shattering,  overwhelming rush. Ralph staggers back a step. The farmhouse, the greenhouse, Garrett, Olivia, Gracie .

My family.

Tears well in my eyes and I double forward to brace my hands on my knees. I have been through a literal hell I was not sure I would survive and now I finally know where I belong. The clarity is stunning. It's like finally kicking to the surface of a lake after being submerged in its murky and disorienting waters for far too long. I need to get back. I need to find them again. It's the only thing that matters.

Stumbling to the back of the pen, I find a hole in the razor wire fence, then slip out unnoticed amongst the commotion. I make my way to an empty road about a half mile away and travel along the slushy, snow-driven shoulder on feet as light as air. For the first time in a long time, I have hope.

My heart feels so wonderfully liberated, I am not even bothered by headlights approaching me up the snowy, dark street. I feel no fear, no apprehension. I have a mission and nothing will stray me from the path.  

The vehicle slows to a stop beside me and the widow rolls down. "Hey, sweetie," the driver calls to me. "My name is Rose. Do you need help or a ride somewhere?"

The kindness in her face is endlessly reassuring. "I- I would love a ride," I reply eagerly.

After climbing into her vehicle, we get to know each other. With Rose's gentle coaxing I tell her my story. I want to leave out all the pain and fear and cruelty I experienced, but it comes spilling out of me before I can stop it. Coming to terms with my regained memory but also recognizing the rage I harbored during those dark times when I was just trying to survive is one of the hardest things I've ever done; realizing it will be an ongoing process is even harder.

As we drive, I give Rose as much information about the Baker’s farmhouse as I can. She lights up immediately and says she knows exactly who I am talking about. The Bakers live only a few miles from her and her son. The utter elation I feel is nearly indescribable. I am one step closer to my family.

Rose makes a quick stop on our journey to find some new clothes for me; jeans, a soft Henley, and a warm jacket. Not much longer after that, dressed and in my natural skin, with my bracelet secured around my wrist, I truly feel comfortable. Safe. Free. Alive.

We continue through the snowy night until just before dawn when the cobalt hues of a clear winter morning creep across the sky. Rose turns down a dark country road. It's a road I recognize immediately. Tears form in my eyes, I can't stop them. I don't want to.

I am going home. After all this time, I am finally going home.

[glbertblyth]

Hey guys! Just posted chapter two, this time it’s Gilbert’s pov!! Really hope you enjoy and please don’t be afraid to leave comments and kudos on Ao3!!

By the time Gilbert Blythe had begun to walk the cobbled pathway that lead up to his home, the sun had begun to creep its way below the horizon. The evening country sky was awash with beautiful hues of reds and oranges. Burnt bright and fiery.

It reminded him of Anne.

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert. The girl with constellations on her skin and cosmos in her stormy gray eyes. The girl who kissed him and left his mind to spin on its axis. The girl who hated him.

He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, making a poor attempt at banishing the swirling mess of thoughts in his mind.

Anne despised him. Anne despised him and she’d kissed him.

The same phrase had been endlessly looping through his subconsciousness for the better part of an hour now. For all the years he’d known her - for all the times they’d bickered and bantered and fought - never even in his wildest imaginations had he thought he would feel the weight of her lips against his.

Anne Shirley-Cuthbert was something of an absolute mystery to him. And it never ceased to amaze him just how frequently he felt caught off-guard around her.

He never returned Anne’s ill affections. Never hated her. Never wished anything of poor luck upon her life (he knew she’d already been through far too much), but sometimes the words that came out of her mouth felt like a knife being held to his throat. Like- if he made any sudden movements the sharpness of her words would tear into him.

And, god help him, it always thrilled him to no end. To be on the receiving end of her cunning wit and look her in the eye felt much like looming over the edge of a very high cliff. Except, instead of enormous crashing waves or deadly spikes being on the opposing side, it was the ever so intriguing face of one fiery red head.

He absolutely delighted in having the ability to rile her up. To push her buttons. To cause her skin to flush angrily and shoulders to tense and pretty face to squash into a scowl. She probably found herself to be intimidating. And she was to a certain extent... but mostly Gilbert only found the whole thing rather adorable.

To put it plainly: where her rivalry with him was based on hatred, his was based on pure amusement and intrigue. And he was always ready to take whatever punches she threw his way.

Until a few hours before. When oddly enough, he had most certainly not been prepared for her attack. An attack that wasn’t an attack on his character or intelligence, but on his consciousness. On where he thought a line was between them. On everything he thought was capable of taking place.

Because while he didn’t hate Anne, he was never stupid enough to believe that they were friends. He was attracted to her, yes, how couldn’t he be? She was intelligent. Passionate. Beautiful in a way that he could really only describe as being... out of the ordinary. Not in a bad way, but in a way that was quiet. In a way that it was obvious she couldn’t tell exactly how many heads she turned. But she had a fire in her soul that roared against him. A vicious tongue that, at times, could be downright degrading. And a wall towered between the two of them because of it.

So why, after she’d used that exact tongue for something he would have never expected from her, did he have the incredibly disorienting and unexplainable urge to run after her and do it again. Kiss her again. Procure the same tilt-a-whirl feeling in his head that the heat of her lips moving against his had caused.

A feeling that he hadn’t even felt with Win-

He tamped those thoughts off right at the start, giving his head a fierce shake. That was a train of thought better left unridden.

Damn it all, how could one moment in time leave his mind reeling with such a mighty force that he felt like he couldn’t make sense of anything?

“Blythe,” an accented voiced reached out from only a few paces away, and it was in that moment that Gilbert had realized he’d stopped completely. Staring blankly at his front door for the last few minutes, wrapped entirely in his own thoughts. “Blythe you moke, is that you?”

Sebastian Lacroix, Gilbert’s roommate (brother really), stood on the wooden porch of their house. Looking at the boy with a bemused expression and shaking his head slowly.

Gilbert had burrowed himself so far into his own head that he hadn’t seen the rusted old truck sitting in the driveway as he pulled in behind it.

“Hey Bash,” Gilbert returned drily as he forced his feet to move. He climbed the creaky old steps of the porch and skirted around the older man.

Bash followed behind him as he passed through the door and into the cozy atmosphere of the small living room. Gilbert removed his shoulder bag and tossed it onto the fluffy couch as he heaved a sigh.

“I’ve been trying to call you all afternoon. Wanted to see if I should order some pizza for dinner,” said Bash as he clapped a hand on Gilbert’s shoulder.

The boy reached into the back pocket of his jeans and was unsurprised to find that his phone was dead. He held the dark screen up to show Bash just as much.

“You really need to start bringin’ a charger with you if you’re gonna be gone studying long enough to drain the life from your phone,” scolded Bash.

Gilbert merely rolled his eyes, “You got it, Dad.” But as soon as the joke left his mouth, he winced.

The relationship between Gilbert and Sebastian was... complicated... to say the least.

They were family, there was no denying that, but the way they came together as roommates - as brothers - was a rather tedious story.

In the simplest of renderings, it went like this: Sebastian Lacroix had been in Gilbert’s life for as long as he could remember. A constant companion and person to lean on.

At age seven, (eleven years prior) a round faced Gilbert had been told by a young social work intern that his father was dying. It hadn’t been his job, he was merely shadowing the case worker assigned to John Blythe (he’d been sick for a long while with no family able to look after him and his young son) but when it was revealed that John was far sicker than anybody originally thought, no-one had wanted to be the one to tell a child he was going to lose his father. The young man’s heart had hurt for the boy, but had the feeling that he was capable of taking a great deal. That he knew more than what he should have for his young years.

That intern had been Bash.

Sebastian always said that the reason he’d decided to take Gilbert under his wing so fiercely was because of pity. Because he’d felt bad for the scrawny little runt who’d just had the world ripped from beneath his feet. But Gilbert knew the truth. He always had.

Only eighteen at the time, Sebastian had been just as lonely as Gilbert had felt. Young, shunned from his home in Trinidad, and lost in a new country, he’d been in just as vulnerable a position. Just as in need of a friend.

So they’d bonded. Gilbert becoming like a shadow at Sebastian’s side.

When seven years later, Gilbert had held his father’s hand as he passed and he’d been officially dubbed an orphan, Bash was there. Holding his other hand as if to tether him to his spot. To earth. An acknowledgment that, even though Gilbert had lost his last blood relative, he was not without family.

And since that moment, Bash had done everything in his power to prove just as much.

Despite the fact that he was mature well beyond his years even at that age, had Bash not come along with the license to be a foster guardian, Gilbert would have been immediately placed with a random family. He’d had no other extended relatives. Nowhere else to go.

So Sebastian had stepped up. Signed on to be his legal guardian. Acted as an older brother. And then, when Gilbert had finally turned eighteen over the past summer and been freed from the system, as an equal partner.

Though the shades of their skin and chapters of their lives varied, they were brothers. Just as close as blood. If not made closer by the things life had thrown at them.

“So... pizza?” Bash said, interrupting his thoughts once more.

“Uh- yeah. Go ahead.”

Gilbert made his way over to the computer desk along the wall and plugged his phone into the charger. He held it in his hand as he waited for it to light up.

“What’s got you all in your head?” asked Bash as he padded over, feet bare against the carpeted floor. His phone was poised in his hand. Prepared to make the call to the pizza place, “Is it Winnie?”

Gilbert’s lips thinned. The sound of his ex’s name still made him feel tender. Vulnerable.

“Nope.”

“So she’s stopped pestering you then?” Bash raised a thick dark brow, forehead crinkling.

The younger man barked a lifeless laugh, “I wish,” then he lifted his hand and waved his brother off, “it doesn’t matter. Call for the pizza, I’m starved.”

Bash shrugged, “Whatever you say, Blythe.”

Winifred Rose, to put it lightly, had broken Gilbert’s heart.

They’d cut things off only a few weeks ago, right before school had started again. It had been a long time coming, her being in the grade above him and all. She’d graduated the previous year and had planned on going to nursing school in the next town over.

At first she’d been adamant on still wanting to be with Gilbert. Promising that being in college wouldn’t change how she felt about him. And it was fine for a bit. Great even. Couples dated while one was in college all the time. But the closer they’d gotten to the fall semester starting... the further she’d been pulling from him.

And one accidental uncovered text message later, he’d found out exactly why that had been the case. She’d been fooling around with a college sophomore.

Suffice to say he’d cut that shit off right then and there. And she hadn’t stop pestering about a second chance with him since.

At least he no longer had to see her at Dr. Wards office. She’d been interning with the family physician alongside him, but the nursing program for her college courses had been far too demanding to stay on.

The moment his phone blinked to life in his clutch, it began buzzing like crazy. A lump gathered in his throat as his eyes skimmed the various messages and twitter notifications.

Gossip certainly spread fast in Avonlea.

 Moody (7:05 pm): dude

Moody (7:05 pm): did i just hear that you and anne kissed outside of red bird

Moody (7:06 pm): holy SHIT

 Winnie (6:32 pm): you can’t ignore me forever gilbert... will you please just talk to me?

Winnie (7:09 pm): why am i seeing that you kissed another girl all over your twitter mentions

 His jaw clenched. Maybe he’d undersold just how desperate Winifred was being... She’d texted him every day without fail. Making excuse after excuse as to why she’d done what she had. That it didn’t change how she felt about him. That she loved him.

It had only pushed him further away.

After sending a quick and elusive reply to his classmate and friend Moody Spurgeon, he clicked open the thread of messages from Winnie. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

It had been weeks since he’d replied to her. Was he really going to risk interaction just because of a petty accusation? She certainly didn’t deserve any sort of explanation from him. Especially not about being seen kissing another girl. Not after what he’d found in her phone.

But maybe... a small part of him was still hurt enough to rub the kiss in her face. To subject her to the pain he’d gone through. Did that make him a bad guy? Did he care?

He dropped the phone onto the desk and raked a frustrated hand through his mess of curls. He did care. And he knew it wouldn’t be right.

Sometimes he really did hate having a self-conscience. Sometimes... he wished just once in his life he could be sporadic. Free. Make decisions without mulling over them endlessly beforehand.

Kiss somebody without warrant.

He groaned inwardly as he made his way over to the couch and flopped down face first into the mess of plush pillows. His arm dangled off the side and feet over the armrest.

And there he was. Back to square one. Thinking of Anne and how she’d left him there. Breathless and confused and covering it all up with a smirk. Having to confront the boy behind him that she’d left staring.

It had been ridiculously comical when he’d turned to see who it was she was hiding from. He vaguely recognized him from the hallways of Avonlea High, though he’d only begun seeing him around fairly recently. And by the jealousy that had been written all over his face, he obviously hadn’t been around enough to know that Anne and Gilbert would be the very last two people to ever expect kissing each other.

Whatever that boy had done to cause - no force - Anne to kiss Gilbert... Well, it had to be bad. He hadn’t even minded that she’d used him as a way to avoid the boy. Figured it was definitely for good reason. So when he’d opened his mouth to make a remark, Gilbert had merely gave him a thin lipped smile and a nod of his head. Brushing past him and maybe hitting him with his shoulder a little harder than necessary as he did so.

A ding sounded from where his phone lay on the desk, signifying yet another incoming message. At the very same moment, the sound of Bash’s footsteps could be heard as he crossed through the kitchen door. Gilbert tensed momentarily, and then rushed to sit up.

But it was too late, Bash was leaning over and reading the message on the screen.

His eyebrows shot straight up as he glanced over to where Gilbert peered at him over the back of the couch. The smile on his face was one that surely meant trouble.

Gilbert jumped off of the couch and scrambled back over to the desk, not meeting Bash’s eyes as he snatched it out of his line of sight.

“I’m sorry, did I just read a message saying you were seen kissing somebody?”

Another incoming message chimed, and Gilbert’s hand clenched on the phone. This damned town. You’d think they had nothing better to do than to go spouting every detail that seemed to be out of the ordinary for the entire world to hear.

Gilbert shook his head exasperatedly at Bash’s coy expression, “It’s none of your business.”

“Come on! Eleven years I’ve been in this blasted town and nothin’ interestin’ ever happens. Give your brother a break and tell him the gossip will ya?”

Gilbert released a small bout of surprised laughter, “Not a chance.”

Bash narrowed his eyes at him but turned away instead of questioning him further. As he walked back into the kitchen, he grumbled under his breath.

“Worked my ass off with crazy teenagers every day as a CPS worker just ta’ come back home and deal with another one and he ain’t even got the decency to share the town’s gossip. I swear...”

“I can hear you!” Gilbert called after him, shaking his head in amusion. Bash had a dramatic flare that rivaled that of Anne’s.

Dear god stop thinking about her.

“Wasn’t tryna’ to be quiet!” Bash called back as he crossed through the kitchen and into the dining room, “And you’re answering the door when the pizza arrives. I paid for it!”

Gilbert rolled his eyes, but smiled nonetheless.

When he pulled his phone from behind his back to check the messages, the smile dropped from his mouth. One was a reply from Moody, but the other was from Winifred.

 Winnie (7:42 pm): is she your girlfriend?

 Before he could stop himself, he’d typed out an answer and hit send.

 Gilbert (7:46 pm): would it even make a difference

 Her response was immediate. And brought a frown to Gilbert’s face.

 Winnie (7:46 pm): is that what it takes for you to answer then?

Winnie (7:46 pm): wait forget i said that. i’m glad you did.

Winnie (7:46 pm): and in answer to your question... yes. it would for me.

 He hesitated a moment before replying again.

 Gilbert (7:47 pm): and what if i said that she is my girlfriend

 The typing bubble appeared. Stayed there for a few seconds.

 Winnie (7:48 pm): then i would respect that

 Gilbert dropped his phone down onto the desk in surprise. Three weeks. Three weeks had she been messaging him nonstop. And this was all it took for her to take a step back?

He didn’t know if he wanted to release a cry of excitement and relief or if he wanted to curl into a ball in the face of the possibility of things actually being a hundred percent over with the girl he’d dated for a full year.

She cheated on you. It doesn’t matter if it was just a fling or not, it still hurt.

His phone dinged again.

 Winnie (7:51 pm): so?

Winnie (7:52 pm): is she your girlfriend or not gilbert. stop messing with me

 He hastily typed out his reply. But his eyes widened as his thumb hovered over the send button.

Oh, Anne would absolutely murder him. An actual verbal massacre would take place in front of god and everybody.

But... she’d also been the one to kiss him. She’d been the one to need an escape from another boy. This couldn’t be that big of a step up right? Maybe... maybe they could use each other. Team up to get the respective unwanted attention off of their backs.

Besides... Green Gables wasn’t too far from his house. Just a mile or so. He could always stop by in the morning before school, explain the situation, and then take the beating while fewer witnesses were around.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t hold his own against her anyway. And what had he said about wanting to be more spontaneous?

With the ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, his thumb made the final movement to hit send.

 Gilbert (7:52 pm): yes. she’s my girlfriend

+ + +

“Why, Gilbert Blythe! It’s been a long time. What brings you here so early in the morning?”

When the elder woman had opened the front door of her house to find Gilbert standing there, arms nervously crossed behind his back, the surprised smile that had broken across her face was radiant.

“Hello Miss Cuthbert,” Gilbert greeted politely. His hands were ringing themselves, fidgeting where he’d hidden them from her sight, “Sorry to intrude-“

“Oh nonsense, young man. It’s always a pleasure to see an old friendly face,” Marilla interrupted him, “Please. Come in. I have a fresh batch of plum puffs I made just last night.”

He made to interject- to say he only needed to be there a few moments so that he may speak with her daughter- but the older woman was far stronger than she looked. And she’d yanked him in and shut the door behind him before he knew it.

He ran a hand through his mess of curls awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot the other.

“Miss Cuthbert,” he began as he watched her flit about the tiny area. She’d grabbed a plate from the kitchen and a pan of pastries from a bar just inside the dining room, her long shawl unraveling from around her shoulders in her haste, “I came here so that I might possibly speak with Anne before we head to school?”

Marilla paused in her escapade, glancing over at where Gilbert stood in the doorway, “Yes of course. I believe she’s still in her bedroom getting ready,” she pointed toward a hallway that was just through the dining room entryway and across the living room, “the very last door.”

Gilbert nodded politely, already beginning to move in the direction she’d pointed, “Thank you Miss Cuthbert. This should only take a moment. I’ll grab one of your plum puffs on my way out if that’s alright.”

“Yes yes, of course. And for heaven’s sake child. You’ve known Matthew and I nearly your entire life. Call me Marilla.”

He flashed her a charming smile just as he was about to disappear into the hallway leading to Anne’s bedroom, “Marilla,” he echoed.

When he reached Anne’s door, he hesitated. He could hear the faint sound of music playing from a phone speaker and her quiet voice happily humming along. And from the looks of how the shadow he could see through the crack in the door was swaying around, she was dancing.

A quiet smile graced his lips before he lightly rapped his knuckles against the worn wood.

The humming stopped and the music paused. When he heard her moving toward the door, he took a slight step backward, “I’m almost ready Marilla. I’ll be out for breakfast in just a-“

The moment the door was open and her gray eyes met his, she stopped abruptly. Mouth snapping shut and face turning the same fiery red as the hair on top of her head.

Her eyes promised his death.

Gilbert grinned at her, “What’s up, Carrots?”

The next thing he knew, her hand was on his arm and he was being jerked into her bedroom.

He found himself intrigued as he glanced around. It was a cute little area with a twin bed in the middle, a vanity along the side wall, and several pieces of art framed and hung all around. No doubt drawn by her friend Cole.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she seethed, pulling his roaming gaze away from the small space.

“You Cuthbert ladies sure have a thing for yanking people into rooms,” he replied cheekily, ignoring the acidic tone in the red-heads voice.

He studied her a moment. Her hands balled into fists at her sides and an angry flush coloring clear down into the neck of her pretty floral patterned dress. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, framing her freckled face.

She was as beautiful as always. As fierce as ever.

And her blue eyes blazed with the same hatred for him that he always knew he could find there.

In the face of it, he couldn’t help when his smile widened crookedly.

She took a deep breath. As if trying to calm herself, “Listen if you came here about what happened yesterday, I-“

“It’s not about that,” he cut her off, “Okay- well yeah. It is. But I highly doubt I’ll be saying anything you expect.”

A repulsed expression marred her pretty features, “I hope you don’t suddenly think I’m going to do it again.”

A small burst of laughter escaped from him, “Trust me. Neither of us want that.”

Liar liar, he thought. Gilbert hadn’t been able to get the feel of her soft lips out of his head from the moment it happened. But he didn’t even want to admit that to himself let alone to her.

Her lips thinned. “What do you want?” she asked warily.

He leaned back casually against her closed bedroom door and stuffed his hands into his pockets, “Who was that boy you were hiding from yesterday?”

Her eyes narrowed, “Diana will be here in twenty minutes to pick me up and Marilla will have my head if I don’t eat breakfast with her and Matthew before I leave so if all you came here to do was interrogate me about-“

“Carrots relax.”

“Stop calling me that!” she snapped shrilly.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and held them up in defense. “Alright alright, I’m sorry,” he said, “There’s a point to me asking this. I promise.”

Anne released a huff. Crossed her arms and jutted her hip out to the side.

“Forgive me if I don’t take any of your promises to heart,” she retorted indignantly.

“Fair enough,” he replied, “But humor me. Please.”

At the last word, he’d looked up at her from his relaxed position on the door through his dark eyelashes. It was a move he knew worked on nearly every female in Avonlea. Except for Anne. The first time he’d tried it on her back when they’d met, he’d been awarded with a very hard textbook to the face. It was the first time it hadn’t worked. Hadn’t charmed the girl into a fit of embarrassed giggles or brought a pink flush to her cheeks.

He did it now adays just to see Anne’s scowl deepen. Apparently he’d grown a liking to flirting with death.

She rolled her eyes at him. Making a small noise of disgust that allowed for an amused smile to play on Gilbert’s lips.

“Fine. Whatever,” she started, “The guy was Royal Gardner. He’s Diana’s cousin. You probably noticed he just started at Avonlea High? He’s in the same grade as us and an absolute pain in my ass.”

Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, “I thought I was the only pain in your ass.”

“Don’t be vain. A lot of boys are pains in my ass.”

His lips twitched. “Is that so?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The punch she threw at his arm was very well deserved.

“You have a death wish Gilbert Blythe. I swear you do.”

Gilbert snorted. It was a bit of an understatement, if you asked him. He sort of felt like he’d traipsed right into a lion’s den.

He cleared his throat, “So if so many boys are already a pain in your ass... Why was this one a cause for you to kiss me?”

Anne looked down shyly. And if Gilbert hadn’t known any better, he might have said that the slight pink that colored her cheeks was from embarrassment and not anger.

It was gone in a flash though. She straightened. Head held high and stormy eyes meeting his in defiance.

“He’d asked me out the day before. Wouldn’t take no for an answer,” she glanced away from him, “I uh, had to tell him I was seeing somebody in order to get him to leave me alone. I wasn’t expecting to see him at Red Bird. And you were there... so I panicked. Seized the opportunity that had revealed itself.”

Gilbert nodded thoughtfully, fighting to hide the smirk that threatened his lips. So, this Royal guy thought he might be dating Anne? The situation was far more perfect than he’d originally thought.

 “I was a pawn,” he replied casually.

Anne rolled her eyes at him. Probably for the millionth time in the span of the five minutes they’d been talking.

“You-“

He pushed on, “Do you remember Winnie?”

Her eyebrows scrunched together, “Your ex-girlfriend? What about her.”

Gilbert paused a moment, steeling himself. When the girl across from him placed a hand on her hip and raised an annoyed eyebrow, he released a breath.

“She maybe, sort of, thinks that we’re dating too. As well. Like- uh. Yeah.”

Anne swore quietly and looked down at her hands where they were fisted in the loose skirt of her dress.

“Why would she possibly think that?”

“Anne. You kissed me. In public. You know how this town is... I’m sure everybody thinks we’re together now.”

She harrumphed at that, and Gilbert couldn’t help but find it a little bit adorable.

Her eyes met his again, “It’s 2019, a kiss does not insinuate dating.”

Gilbert took a single step closer to her and was relieved to find that she didn’t back up. “Did you miss the part where we live in a small town in rural Maine or...”

“That doesn’t mean-“

“What if we let them think it.”

A surprised laugh burst from Anne as soon as the words had left his mouth. But when she looked at him again and saw that he hadn’t been joking, the smile dropped from her face.

“Wait you’re being serious?” she asked.

Gilbert swallowed. Nodded.

She began to shake her head furiously, “No way. No fucking way. I don’t even like you! You don’t like me!”

She stepped away from him and started to frantically tidy up the space around her as if to busy herself. She scrambled to her bed and grabbed the blankets there to fold across the mattress. She fluffed her pillow unnecessarily, causing Gilbert’s lip to twitch in amusement as she watched.

Anne’s voice was an octave higher than normal as she continued to rant and busy herself with the sheets of her bed.

Gilbert stepped forward, not even trying to hide the amusement that was sure to be written all across his face.

“Anne,” he said, “Anne calm down a second and listen to me, will you?”

She spun on her heal to face him, eyes bright with a mixture of panic and anger. Hands clutching viciously to the throw blanket in her grasp.  

“Do not tell me to calm down Gilbert Blythe,” she snapped at him. There it was, the knife to his throat, “You come here to- to suggest what? That we suddenly start dating? I can’t even- We never- I can barely stand to be around you, let alone-“

It was a good thing the knife had never intimidated him before. And it certainly wasn’t now.

“We wouldn’t really be dating, Anne.” He interrupted her with a laugh.

She blinked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

He walked up to her slowly. Grabbed the blanket that dangled from her hands and then set it on her bed. Their bodies were inches apart and it was as if he could feel her there. Feel the heat radiating off of her.

He met her harsh gaze, “What if we just made everybody think we were dating. What if we made Royal think we were dating.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and straightened her stance. But she didn’t back away. Didn’t take a step back like he would have expected her to.

“What’s in it for you?” she asked, voice laced with poison and skepticism.

He shrugged, “I’ve needed Winifred to get off my back for a while. Call it an even exchange.”

“Nobody will believe it. We’ve been at each other’s throats since we met.”

On the contrary, she’d been at his throat. He didn’t have a doubt in his mind that they’d be perfect friends if only she’d let him in instead of wielding her words against him like a mighty sword.

He leaned in a fraction, relishing in the way he heard her breath catch in her throat, “They’ll believe what we make them believe.”

She bit her lip, eyes expressing clear contemplation in the swirling grays and blues of her irises. But then she stiffened, and the shutters slammed shut against him. She moved forward, pushing past and around. Causing him to stumble backward slightly despite her small frame.

He turned to find her paused in front of the doorway with her back to him, fists clenched at her sides and back stiff straight.

“No.” Her voice was flat.

He took a step toward her, “Anne-“

“I said no. It’s a stupid idea,” she placed her hand on the doorknob and twisted. Pulled it open and then stepped aside to make way for him to pass through. She looked over at the place where he stood, a solid resolve in her eyes. “I think you should leave. Diana will be here any minute and now I have to rush my breakfast.”

Gilbert deflated. He was disappointed, but he wouldn’t force her to do something she didn’t want to. Still, he’d already told Winnie... Been so determined he’d be able to convince Anne to take part in his plan.

As he walked through her doorway and past her, he paused a moment. Leaned down slightly so that their faces were closer together.

“Just a few months. We get Royal and Winnie off our backs. And then we never have to deal with each other outside of class again,” he said quietly. He could see his breath move the auburn locks against her face. His eyes flit to lock with hers, “Think about it.”

When her lips thinned and she refused to respond, Gilbert gave a curt nod. Then walked down the hallway, out into the living room and back into the kitchen.

He quickly brandished a wide smile and farewell to Marilla as he grabbed one of her pastries and left through the door. All the while knowing Anne watched through the window as he climbed into his car and backed out of the Cuthbert’s long driveway.

The entire way to Avonlea High, a smile curved at his lips.

[claybefree]

Excerpt- Mule Skinner Blues

The man guided Kit up the trail until it merged within a hair's breadth of treeline next to the tracks, running like that until it met the railyard. The two lines coming in from the outskirts split and branched into a multitude of tracks like veins of a leaf stem spreading across acres of junctions and ballast rock.. The trail there was halted abruptly by a wall of chain link, complete with a man sized hole in it. Not far was what must have been a dead line as along it’s back were parked huge lengths of what Kit guessed to be track laying equipment, low slung, enveloped with clumps of Queen Anne’s lace and left to rot away. Hulking wrecks with a rainbow of multicolored patina, years of different owners individual paint schemes peeling away over one another. Red and yellow gave way to yellow and orange which gave way to blue, with the deep burgundy of Lord Rust presiding over all. 

“Okay, Hobo 101 meets under that barge there,” the thin man said. 

“What, underneath?”

“Yeah, don’t worry it ain’t goin anywhere.” he said with a grin. “It’s a Sunday so there ain’t that much personnel but if you see a white truck a comin’ you better coon it, quick.”

In response to Kit’s confused look he said “Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

Hustling through the hole in the fence, he started off across the sparse grass hunched almost to squatting, hands just above the ground as if he were about to drop to all fours. A sneaky kind of lope, Kit decided, that looked almost exactly like a racoon. 

The weeds were almost four foot tall and clustered thickly so that once underneath, they were well concealed.  Kit crawled up next to the thin man and lay across the rails, the smell of creosote impregnated timbers all around. They peered out through a multitude of top heavy stalks each bearing a small continent of impossibly intricate white flowers waving gently in the breeze. 

“Okay, so if you run across a worker that wants to talk, it’s probably safe. Most of these guys work a twelve hour shift, so bullshitting with a hobo is a fun way to burn time. Plus you might find out something useful. You’ll know a bull if you run across one, they usually cuss and yell. There’s this one red-faced old drunk who works here, means as hell. If you see him my recommendation is you haul ass.”

As they were talking, the rumbling in the earth beneath them grew to where it filled the air around them and a locomotive rolled out from between the lines of freight heading towards them. Kit resisted the urge to wave at the engineer. The thin man paused, waiting for the building fury of diesel fumes and machine grumble to pass them. A rogue’s gallery of battle scarred boxcars followed behind as the train picked up speed heading into the wild heart of forest just outside the yard.

“So the mainline he’s on is headed East, besides he’s local. You need a mountain train. The line on the other side goes North. That’s the one you want. At some point he’ll make a left, hopefully, at which point you’ll be on the mighty Highline. Ride that til you can’t anymore. It stops at the Pacific ocean. Think you can manage that?”

“I think I can.” Kit chuckled. 

Rows of oil cars rumbled past, black as pitch with streaks of pitch spilling down the sides from the lid. Then a number of boxcars, pale sun-faded yellow with black doors slid open. Red company emblem a flying “W” tucked in amid a riot of graffiti, brash hieroglyphs that might have been slurs in purple and green.   

“Now if you wind up on a boxcar, make sure you jam the door open, so you don’t accidentally wind up locked inside. Also, I wouldn’t recommend riding topside of a trash bin or a coal car, you’ll freeze to death.”

“Freeze? Ain’t it August?” Kit said, “What month is it anyway?”

“Don’t matter where you’re going, friend.” He smiled. “You do got a jacket in that rig, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay- so the ideal is that type car right there, a grainer,” he gestured at the silver and grey walled construct rolling past, it’s box battered and slightly concave from too many years being in service. Black iron trucks and wheels spinning diligently away underneath.  “You’ll want the ass end of things, shetler wise, under that triangular edge. Not the side where the mechanics are located, mind you, the brakes and such, there’s no real estate there. Oh and make sure it’s got a porch. Otherwise you’ll have to ride suicide which is not nearly as fun as it sounds.”  

“Growing up on a farm so I learned early on how to behave myself around heavy equipment.”

“That’s pretty comforting, actually. Oh yeah, see those three bolts on the wheels? If they’re going to fast to count, then the train is moving too fast to catch. When you go for it, make sure you get both hands on the thing before you haul your shit aboard. If it pulls out of your hand it’s going too fast and you’ll need to ditch it into the rocks. Ballast rash ain’t no fun but I think you understand the importance of not winding up under the trucks.”

“Imagine that’d put a hitch in your giddy-up.” Kit said.

Noticing the grim turn of his mouth, the thin man said, “I know this is a lot to take in but be careful, don’t die and you’ll be a gentleman of the yards in no time.” and slapped his shoulder.

“No chance in talking you into coming with me is there?”

“And take the chance of watching you get chewed into hamburger? Sorry but no.” he laughed. “Besides, I got to stay here and mind Screwdriver. At least until he realizes his lady love ain’t coming back anytime soon, and then probably a week or so after that. Maybe I’ll talk him into going home to the farm. Hopefully you won’t have to wait long. Just do me a favor and don’t start drinking until you’ve successfully boarded your ride, okay?”

“Will do.” 

“See you on down the line, Kit-By-the-Way.” and with a smile he doffed his floppy hat, scrambled out from under the car and was gone into the treeline. 

 In the end, it took no time at all. Hidden away from the heat of the day, he dozed until awoken by the familiar rumbling that sounded like the end of all things. The engine passed in a blaze of orange and yellow, gleaming bright as a sun in the afternoon light. He picked a grain car and made for it straight away, making sure not to linger in the sight line along the locomotive’s edge, the only hitch being almost getting decapitated by the skeleton frame of an empty lumber rack. The beast was going slow enough to catch with ease, and as luck would have it, the porch was enclosed in a steel case with a large circle cut into it that he could squeeze into. Once inside, the diamond plate steel of the floor was clean and spacious, a fresh coat of battleship grey. There were even half a half dozen comic books left by another traveller. Spider-man versus the Rhino. Black Panther. He crawled inside his enclave of welded steel and made himself hidden and comfortable.

Just as the thin man said it would, the train slowly thundered out the yard and made a hard left, heading North, at which point it stopped entirely. Fearing he would be discovered, Kit remained sequestered and read his comic books. After an hour of this he ate a can of ravioli, raw, slurping cold meat sauce from his fingers.  During the second hour he ventured outside to pee into the rock between the cars and then quickly hid himself away again, even though he was completely enveloped entirely by forest and had seen not a soul since they’d left the yard. He developed a welcome case of the stares and let his gaze drift across the lines of the coupling he was told not to cross, even mimicking the shape of it with his two hands, cupped one inside the other. He watched the way the ladder on the car across from his rose, battered and worn, to the top edge, and convinced himself he didn’t need to climb it.  Still the train sat motionless with not even an occasional tremor to indicate shunting yet for this or that. Finally, with nothing else to do, he broke into the handle of Jack he had hidden away in the depths of his bag, having endured the nagging weight of it for what seemed like an eternity.

“Well, the old guy didn’t say nothing about drinking after I got on the train, which I did manage to do. Seems like time to celebrate to me.”  He would have to portion it out if he could, as he had no idea how far it was to California. Tipping it back, the burn in his throat and consequently his stomach was like a lover’s embrace. Everything immediately softened, the colors of the woods brightened, the filth covering everything fell away and the world didn’t seem so big and scary. 

Eventually he heard a series of bangs from far away as the engine began to pull the train along it’s chain length to move out, a clamor that echoed well into the woods and back towards town. His turn came and he was thrown back into the hole, the slack jerked taught, and the great assembly of steel and iron and rust began to roll. Naturally he took another shot to celebrate his departure. 

It occurred to him that unlike the tractors he’d grown up riding, this was more a moving city as it was a piece of equipment. It was not a smooth ride, which surprised him, and there was always a sound of metal creaking somewhere. As they gained speed, and the woods parted and they spilled out onto another limitless ocean of wheat fields, he realized that everything left in his mind would shortly be pushed out by it. The train would consume his entire existence, there was no arguing with it, the train was terrible and absolute. 

Presently the woods surrendered to wheat fields spreading away from both sides of the train. Off to his left the sun fell below the racing clouds, setting the whole thing alight into a golden blaze that threatened to consume him. A conflagration of yellow and orange set to consume the prairies. The train, picking up even more speed, rocked him like a child.

“Sadie-girl, I sure wish you could see this,” he said quietly. 

The engineer poured on more speed such as to send them flying through towns and countryside. It sounded like a mile up the track from him but Kit could hear him laying on the horn as they roared through each crossing. Towns that seemed only to be out there to harvest wheat, maybe they were able to muster a downtown, sometimes just a convergence of a road and rail, with few houses thrown in just to indicate a population. Occasionally there was a water tower or a fallen down depot giving a name to the place to be noted and then immediately forgotten. Monolith grain elevators stood vigil, rising windowless out of the landscape, clapboarded in faded black or white or grey, an architecture completely foreign to him. As dark fell and the train picked up more speed, he became drunk and yelled at it all, incoherent, raging against his own insignificance.     

Morning found him under his leather jacket, body inside the hole and head on his boots as a pillow on the perforated steel walkway outside, woken by a light rain or cloud vapor accumulating on his face. In a literal fog, his waking gaze followed the rail, polished to a mirror finish and passing smoothly beneath him like a pair of silvery ribbons. The pace of the locomotive seemed to not have abated in the least, and he figured he must have caught the famed hotshot he was looking for. He sat up. The softness of the fog obscured the morning, but as near as he could tell the sun was off behind them. They must have turned West somewhere in the night, and his friend was right, he was freezing. 

No coffee to be had, he rummaged around the pile he’d made to sleep under until he found the bottle of Jack, on it’s lower third, and took a three finger belt. The mist cleared enough to reveal a martian landscape. They were in the mountains sure enough. Maybe it was the hangover, maybe just being unfamiliar, but everything looked jagged and angular and desolate. Tall aspens, he gathered, maybe doug fir. Pines of every kind. The only familiar thing was the rail flying beneath him, it’s gauge holy and absolute, punctuated with a million crossties.  

“Sadie, I don’t particularly care for all this ponderosa bullshit, no ma’am,” and pulled again on the bottle in his lap. “Too many pines, rocks and dust. Not enough green. I feel like I might dry up and blow away as it is.”  He stood up and stretched, swaying slightly due as much to the train as the fact he was not at all sober. He threw his jacket over his shoulders and clutched the bottle by the throat for good measure. Didn’t want it getting away from him. 

At this point the engine up the line let loose with a blast from its horn, sending ghosts of echoes to fill the canyons. 

“Ah yes, good morning to you too, Captain!” Kit shouted back. “You heavy handed sonofabitch!”

Suddenly the earth fell away into a chasm that must have been a thousand feet deep, the floor of it buried in the fog and unseen. He grabbed onto the ladder mounted to the outside corner of the grain car. “Holy shit. I guess that’s what all the noise was about.” 

The trestle was immense, a miraculous web of cross bracing filling the valley in what amounted to a straight line through the air yet neither side had a rail or walkway. It occurred to him to just let go and fall away into the clouds. The rocks or river or whatever below waiting would hold him close until the vultures and wolves and whatever else came to claim him, and he could belong to the forest from then on. Listening to the pines whispering, the occasional train whistle, coyotes crying, perhaps he could become a whisper in that valley himself. 

Instead the locomotive pulled him across the abyss to the other side before he had formed a proper mind to leap. He sat down hard, thumbed off the top and pulled on the Jack once again. There was a bag of beef jerky stashed somewhere he’d considered for breakfast, but decided against it. 

“Hey Sadie, wake up and come look at this,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Purple mountains majesty and all that.” For a moment it seemed the same shade as the lavender she had left on the dash of the Toronado. Delicate purple flowers windswept from the open window and perched on a skin of turquoise leather.  Maybe they should have stayed in the farmhouse, he thought. 

He lamented the he never showed her the network of rabbit tunnels crisscrossing the yard, long mounds of soft earth stretching this way and that between the house and the barn. He decided he would hang on just in case he ever saw her again so he could describe this to her. The soft earth with rabbits hidden beneath, the ground yielding underfoot oddly comforting. He drank a little more and thought these things and in this way passed into California. 

[writeouttaluck]

I started writing this with the intention of entering a contest but i accidentally made it too long. So I'm gonna post it here instead.

(the prompt was to write about an abandoned corner store. this is based off true events but i have changed the names for privacy sake)

As me and Connor walked down the sidewalk in our small town, the heat was practically dripping off our skin from the hot summer day. In the horizon, past the top of the street we were on and over a house in the distance, the sun started to go down.

I could thank god for every sunset and every cool night it brought with it. The summers always seemed so intense nowadays. I rubbed the back of my neck to feel the light sunburn i had been working up. My black Poison t shirt seemed to collect the heat like a big frying pan. The surface of it would probably stay at least semi warm for another hour to come. God damn, it was uncomfortable sometimes.

“Hey, Lanz” Connor addressed me, “Thats the house I was talking about earlier. The one we’re gonna get into today.”

He pointed at a house across the street that looked quite run down. At least, it looked like a house. There was a large porch with fancy cut wooden beams out front, old fashioned decorative beams, I'm sure. Above the porch was a big sign that stretched horizontally to cover the front of the building. The painted on logo was so faded that I could hardly recognize what it was trying to say.. All I could make out was the end of it, which said: “& SONS” in big black and yellow letters. The windows were boarded up and it looked like there was just a big slab of wood being used for a door. If I squinted, i could see the shiny padlock thrown on to keep people out. Paint was chipping off on all sides of the building but I could still tell it was yellow at some point.

Me and Connor both went through our standard procedure for these things. We looked around for people on sidewalks and listened for cars going by. I made a special note of looking into all windows on the block facing the old house, making sure there wasn't any old people or concerned onlookers waiting to call the police on two sketchy kids standing outside.

“I think we’re good at for the moment” I said to him.

“Alright,” He started with all seriousness in his voice, “I'm gonna run across the street, kick the door in, then when I give you the signal, I want you to run across the street and get inside. Got it?”

I nodded my head in response. While Connor was kind of a dumbass at times, He was surprisingly good at doing this stuff without getting caught. He had a plan that he always kept simple, and knew how to keep people calm and in line when the pressure rose. I can't help but think of the few times we ran from cops or house owners.

I stood stock still and pulled out my Ipod, just messing with the touch screen while I waited for Connor to do his thing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him glance to the houses again, Double checking that we weren't being watched.

With newfound confidence, He got down into a runners position. Aimed at the house across the street, He let out a deep breath. With that, he took off.

He sprinted across the street quickly. I watched him run right up to the front door and, using all of his momentum, drove his foot into the center of the door, blowing it right open. With a loud bang, it swung open so fast that the top part broke away from the hinge. Connor clumsily caught the door just short of hitting the floor and propped it up real quick.

I put my Ipod in the back pocket of my jeans and watched Connor stand in the door frame. He peaked out and looked both ways across the street. After checking the coast was clear once more, he waved me over.

I took a quick glance around and was about to zip across the street myself when I heard a car coming up over the hill to my right.

I froze for a second and looked at connor across the street. I motioned frantically for him to shut the door while also trying to point out the car again. He took a glance and saw it before quickly shutting the door. I whipped out my ipod again, trying to make myself look busy out there on the sidewalk by myself.

The car went by and turned at the next intersection. I could hear the door scrape across the wood floor as Connor opened it again. He waved me over.

I ran across the street as fast as I could. Which, really, wasn't all too fast. I could only really run when I was being chased.

I zipped across the road, over the lawn, over the porch, and right inside the building.

As soon as I got in, Connor slammed the door shut once again, propping it so it would stay in place. I took a moment to stop and catch my breath. It was darker in the building for obvious reasons. I stood upon a creaky wood floor that was covered in dirt and dust. Looking up, I saw an old countertop without any trim or glass. It was the only thing in there that even came close to resembling furniture. The floor was littered with a bunch of old square looking cans and a few beer bottles. I took one more deep breath before walking over to one of the cans.

The cans were all rusted and looked pretty rough. I picked up one and flipped it over to see what it was.

KEROSENE

What the hell?

“Woah” Connor spoke beside me, walking over to one of the beams holding up the next level of the building, “Check this out”

The beam he was looking at was charred black. I followed it to see that most of the beams were at least a little charred and floor in the center looked burnt.

“Jesus. It looks like someone tried to burn down the place.” I stated.

“What do you mean?” Connor asked.

I flipped the can around to show him what it said.

“Holy shit!” He exclaimed.

I dropped the can to the floor to investigate the burns. It looked like the fire started mainly in one corner below and spread to particular areas. Considering how open the bottom floor was, I'm surprised the whole place didn't light up. I had never messed with Kerosene so I wasn't sure how effective of a fuel it was to burn a place down, but it seemed like it had a hard time staying lit after the fuel itself was burned away.

From the looks of things now though, all the wood was so dry that this whole place would probably go up in flames if someone happened to drop a lit match. Out of all the abandoned places I've broken into, this one was the most interesting. It felt like something real serious happened here. It really made me wonder what was upstairs…

I looked to the staircase to see that, while it looked flimsily made like it was thrown together in a single afternoon, it also looked untouched by the fire.

Connor made his way to the staircase to try it out.

“I'm gonna check this out first and if it seems safe then we can try to get you up here” Connor said to me.

I nodded and kept looking at the cans. There must have been about 20 of them all spread out. Around the floor. Either this type of fuel was really bad for burning places down or the person who tried just really sucked at being an arsonist.

“Hey...They're safer than they look..” Connor spoke from the stairs.

I walked over and tried to put my weight on one. I weighed at least a hundred pounds more than Connor so I knew this was risky. The stair creaked and warped with my weight on top. Feeling a bit braver than I should, I set my other foot on the one above and pushed myself up a step. It held me so I made my way up the rest of the stairs slowly.

When I got to the top, we reached what was probably once a storage room. I say this because the four walls were outlined with older looking boxes. I’d have to say they were either late 90s or early 2000s but it was kinda hard to tell. Most of the packages were sky blue. Whether they were faded from the sun or not, I couldn't tell. They each had a General Electric logo in the corner.

They were random hardware appliances. There were a lot of globes for overhead lights, boxes of light bulbs, house fan kits, power outlets and covers, and other random items of that sort.

Out of curiosity, I had to know if these boxes were just empty or if there were actual appliances still inside. Walking over to one of the boxes carefully, I crouched down in front of it and gently pulled the top of the box open as not to rip it. Sure enough, sitting right in the box was a glass globe wrapped in bubble wrap with a plastic bag around it.

Why were all these left behind? Was burning down the building an attempt to collect insurance money for the place?

Either way, after Connor had checked a few more, we decided that they were all brand new products still in boxes after all this time. It was strange that these were left here and even stranger that there had been a new padlock on the front door. Something about all of this was shrouded in secrecy and I was oh so curious to figure out why.

Suddenly, I heard a police siren at the end of the street. Me and Connor both looked at each other and froze.

We listened to the police car. The siren got louder and louder indicating it was getting closer. Me and Connor both ducked our backs to the walls away from the window. The blue lights flashed frantically through the glass and illuminated the room. It was a terrifying sight if ive ever seen one. The siren hit its peak volume, almost deafening in my ears and competing with the sound of my heart getting ready to burst from my chest.

The lights passed by the house and the sirens followed down the street away from our location.

Me and Connor both looked at each other and I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. That was fucking close…

…

So after running out of the house, much in the fashion we ran in, Me and Connor walked back to my place and were currently sitting in my room, sipping a soda.

“Ok, so I think someone tried to burn the place down to collect the insurance for it” I started to explain.

“Really? Why do you think that?” Connor asked.

“Well, It's simple, really. I think the owner was probably in too deep over their heads or something. They weren't selling their stock like they hoped and they knew the only way to make it out without getting into debt was to burn it down and collect the insurance money. Because as long as it looks like an accident or that someone else did it, the insurance is there to pay everything off.”

“Well they didn't do a very good job.”

We both laughed at that.

“I wish we had a car or something so we could take that stuff in there. That stuff is still new! It'd be good to have around in case something breaks or needs to be fixed, ya know?” Connor said.

“I hear ya” I replied, “we could also just smash some of it if we get bored.”

We both laughed again and enjoyed the cool night air blowing in through my window.

[notsissannis]

ーAll in Good Time

Fleur Delacour x James Sirius Potter

One-shot: complete

Rated: M

World: Muggle AU

Read on [AO3]

This is for @cece2046 ! We both are playing with the new gen kids. You can read her writing for me of Hermione Granger x Scorpius Malfoy.

ps: we didn’t plan this at all but we both ended up fucking the kids up. 

He looked at the quaint house as he took another drag of his cigarette. The house was beautiful, cute ー as his mum said it ー located right in front of the private beach, and he saw how the sea breeze blew the strings of shells that were hanging in the front porch.

The intro guitar riff of Franz Ferdinand’s Take Me Out startled him in the quiet night. He grudgingly answered his phone.

“Yeah?”

“James, you shithead. Where the fuck are you? Victoire and I already here for almost half an hour!”

“Yeah?” He puffed the smoke out and scratch his eyebrow with his thumb, “I mean, Yeah. Sorry, Teddy. I still haveー” he saw one of the upstairs room’s light flickered on “ーa lot of work to do.”

“Not cool, mate. Victoire is very excited to finally get out of the Weasley’s house. Her other siblings still there, too. You know how she’s been these past few days. Everyoneー”

James swallowed thickly as he saw silhouette of a woman behind the curtain. He could make out what she was doing: taking off her sundress that she loved to wear when she was home alone, followed by taking off her white lacy brassiere that he knew she would wear every time she put on the sundress.

She leaned down a bit then swayed ー in that sensual move that had haunted his dream since as long as he could remember ー to let her knickers slide down her slender legs.

She walked away from the window, and he moved his phone away from his ear to check on the time, 9:20 p.m., she was getting ready for bed.

“ーa lot of things happening. I need you, Jamesy. I could use some support here.”

James had no idea what Teddy had been talking about.

“Of course, Ted. You got me, I got you. Listen, I really have to finish this assignment by tonight or McG would kill me. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

It was quiet on the other side until James heard Teddy’s defeated sigh.

“Alright. Wait! Do you think I should send her home? Or back to the Weasley?”

James saw her silhouette again, her hands ruffling her hair ー her silky blonde hair that he had smell whenever he had the chance to ー meaning she was done washing up.

“Nah. Why don’t you bring her back to our flat? Surely you missed her, don’t you?”

He took a long last drag before flicking the remnant cigarette off and smirked winningly when Teddy laughed and happily took his suggestion.

He turned off his phone to avoid any more unwanted call and adjusted the collar of his jacket, snuggling his face from the cold night breeze.

The light was still on when he reached the house. But, instead of knocking on the front door, he snuck to the back of the house to one of the window that he knew couldn’t be locked. He had made sure of it.

Once inside, he didn’t waste any time and could barely contain his excitement as he climbed up the creaking stairs. 

He stood in front of her bedroom door. He leaned closer, ear planted on the wooden door, and he heard her humming the classical French Suite No. 1 in D Minor. He had a playlist of all the songs that she had sang and he’d memorized them all. James turned the knob slowly, knowing full well she wouldn’t care to lock her bedroom door when she was home alone.

She stopped humming.

“James?” Her soft voice called him.

And it was so hypnotizing. None of her classical songs could compare to the melodic of her voice.

He strode to her hastily before she even had the chance to turn, and hugged her naked body from behind.

“James?” She called tentatively.

He couldn’t answer her. He was already high from their closeness. He could smell her properly this time. The smell of narcissus and mimosa mixed together, just as he knew how she would smell like. His hand trailed her revealed arms and he moaned when his callous skin made contact with her perfect silky ivory skin. He buried his nose deep in the junction of her neck and her shoulder, and licked her pulsing vein, and it fascinated him how he managed to send shiver across her feminine body.

“James, let me go,” she stammered and it came out like a whisper.

He raised his eyes, chin rested on her shoulder, facing the mirror. Their eyes met in their reflection.

“Fleur,” he purred, “You look beautiful.” He nestled his nose in her golden hair and tightened his hold when she tried to push him away.

“So beautiful,” he dragged his hand along her slender neck down to the valley of her breasts, “So lovely,” he continued moving down, feeling her curve and settled between her thighs, “So ravishing.”

Fleur whimpered when he slowly move his thumb in a circular motion. She still tried to escape but his ministration made her weak in the knees and her head involuntarily lolled back on his shoulder.

She moaned.

James pulled her up straighter in front of the mirror, her back met his chest as he cupped her cheeks with one hand ー forcing her to look at their reflection ー while the other still rubbing her heat. “Ravishing.”

“James… Please,” she begged.

And James wasn’t sure if she begged for him to let her go or she begged for him to keep going.

Not like it mattered to him.

He had wanted her for so long, to touch her, to smell her, to love her. And he finally had her wrapped in his arms.

He was fifteen when he first felt it. He came to visit his cousin, Victoire, per usual, when he accidentally saw her and Bill fucking from the small opening of their bedroom door. She was on top, and he saw how her arse reddened from every Bill’s hard spanking. She liked it.

And since then, she had been haunting his dreams and even in his every wake. He had masturbated to her, imagining she was on him, picturing her breasts bouncing, and hearing his name moaned in her sultry voice. But it was never enough.

So he came with a plan. It would take long, years long, but he didn’t care. He could wait if it meant to have her in his grasp, even for a second. He could wait.

And he had waited for five years.

He was twenty years old when he finally started with his plan. His body was finally strong and buffed enough to fight Bill. He had called him one night, told him his place was broken into and he had hash with him so he’d pleaded Bill not to tell anyone, including his wife. Especially his wife. Bill, being the cool uncle he was, laughed it off and agreed with all his terms.

Bill was tall and a perfectly built policeman. It was a struggle to fought him off. But he managed. He made it looked like an accident. Bill ran after the burglar, took a wrong step near the window, and fell off from the eighth floor ー his flat. Then found dead with bits of his brain splattered all over the ground from the impact.

James had bruises on him, too. He let Bill threw punches and jabs on him. Bill was strong. He broke his ribs and dislocated his jaw. He didn’t mind. He welcomed it. It made his story more believable. And it worked.

It fucking worked. Like magic.

He was a magician. He orchestrated the whole act, from his wounds to Bill’s accidental fall.

He was a magician.

And a magician needed their beautiful helper.

He pushed her forward, bending her on her dresser until her face was inches away from the mirror.

He looked at their reflection and it took his every strength to stop himself from coming. He would not come that fast. He wanted to enjoy this, to enjoy her. For finally, he got her.

He didn’t bother to take off his clothes. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his black jeans and let it pooled around his ankles, and pressed his hardened cock between her buttocks. He teased her. He wanted her to want him. He wanted to savour her begging voice. So he bent down, biting her ear softly as he whispered.

“Do you want it?”

Fleur feebly pushed him away with her shaking hand. Her whole body was trembling, and he knew it was because of his non-stop fingering. She was wet. A glistening mess of sweat, a fucking Aphrodite.

“James… please,” it was the same request.

He kept fingering her whilst rubbing his cock on her rear.

“Please what, beautiful?” He licked the bead of sweat that streamed down her neck.

“Fuck me,” she whimpered over her sobs.

He was delighted. She wanted him. He didn’t force her. She wanted him.

Fleur wanted him.

So he shoved in and fucked her like how he’d been dreaming he would. She was nothing like his dreams. She was more. Much much more.

She was perfection.

She came before him with a scream of his name and that did it for him. He came in her and sucked on her neck hungrily.

“Sorry for your loss,” he muttered, cock still hard inside her.

She chuckled. “Not a good thing to say after sex, James.”

He hummed. “I want you, Fleur.”

Fleur slowly pushed him away and he obliged. She stood, with her back still on his chest, and looked at him through the mirror.

“He just left a week ago,” she said sadly.

Died. Dead. He wanted to correct her but he kept it to himself. He studied how her chest rose up and deflated as she coming down from their love making session.

“Can you wait?” She quired as she turned her body, facing him, and pushing down his black jacket before worming her hands under his shirt, touching and feeling him.

He caught her blue eyes and it was the most enticing blue he had ever seen. It was vast like the perfectly blue sky of a beautiful afternoon, and he would fight the blinding bright sun just so he could look at her.

“Yes,” he answered before he finally tasted her lips.

He had waited. He could wait. He would wait.

After all, good things come to those who wait.

[chinxino5-blog]

It’s A Package Deal - Four

Bryce watched as the sun hiked across the sky. It travelled its distance and threw light into any and every corner it could see. The world bathed under its rays. It soaked beneath a thin layer of golden paint, left in the star’s trail as it travelled onwards and didn’t glance back.

Golden paint speckled Bryce’s face as they raced below the sun. They tore down roads, driving towards the western horizon. It was the just the two of them and the blazing sun.

The blank page of Bryce’s notebook laid face up on his lap. His pencil hadn’t touched the paper in hours. He made no sound. He didn’t sleep, he didn’t look at Ohm – he didn’t even play his music. His earphones sat in his ears, playing a playlist of curiosities on repeat. He let himself sink into his mind and drown in the questions he swallowed.

He didn’t voice them, he didn’t speak. He didn’t bother Ohm the whole day.

Afternoon began to swell, the sun reared forward. It was guaranteed to win their race, as it won each one, each day. Spaces spotted the forest, exposing the land with paddocks and fields. It changed from passing a paddock here and there, to driving through open, exposed areas, the forest waving them away as they turned their backs. Acres of farmland printed over hills and Bryce gazed out somewhat in awe. To his surprise, he felt uncomfortable in the open – he felt too exposed.

He’d spent the whole day driving through the forest with Ohm. It had been hours since he’d been on his feet and a whole day since he’d been near any sort of civilised area. They’d seen only about three cars over the hours spent driving. They had had only each other to talk to. It had been a long, lonely, closed-off day.

Bryce was curious about how thoughtlessly Ohm travelled, he couldn’t deny. It was as though it was second nature: instinct. He never once dropped onto a busy road, and easily navigated around any towns or populated areas. It was as though since he was a child he was living under people’s noses: hiding, sneaking and moving undetected by anyone. He lived like a ghost and Bryce couldn’t help wonder how he travelled within a city.

He so easily lived behind everything. Behind prying eyes, and cameras, and anyone’s curiosity.

It felt wrong to be in such open space in their black car. It felt exposed, like people would be running to authorities the moment they were spotted. In all honestly, the car was very suspicious-looking. Tinted windows, black with low lights. The numberplate was simple and slightly smudged over in what looked like an “accidental” splatter of mud.

Ohm glanced at Bryce who was staring out over the open spaces in a mild sort of wonder. He himself felt slight concern pulling a grimace to his lips. He was comfortable in his ability, yes, but he hated being in the open. There was so much risk involved. And he didn’t want to get caught up in a rough situation – they didn’t have to time to run around and make a fuss. The town up ahead grew closer, small and homey.

It was a simple place, no close-nit houses, or tall apartment blocks. Each home had its own space of land, little one story cottages with open windows and fold-out chairs on porches. Pretty rose gardens decorated some of the little homes, others were joint buildings with family businesses such as cafes or little simple shops.

The town was very local and removed, and they got a few odd glances as they passed through. It was likely unusual that travellers stopped in the little town – there were other towns not far from there with more people and more life. It was odd that strangers would choose there of all places to pass through.

Ohm’s eyes flickered back and forth across the street. He spared a few seconds’ glance to each person they drove past. People who paid no mind, and people who watched curiously. He pulled into the parking space out the front of a quiet motel, across the street from a little grocery store. He put his focus solely to parking the car, trying not to notice the locals who dawdled across the street. He cut the engine and turned to Bryce with a glare.  

He wasn’t surprised, but slightly thrown-off at the intense way the older man watched him after having not even blinked in his direction all day. The blonde could sense the distrust and ducked his head slightly, wishing he had something to hide behind. It was as though the hitman could hear his thoughts. His plans, his ideas, his screaming mind. Run, escape, yell, shout, scream; don’t waste your only chance of getting away.

Ohm made a show of reaching across him, opening the glove box and pulling out his handgun. He didn’t let his gaze leave the blonde, eyes malicious and cold. He did not like him. He did not care for him. He would gladly put a bullet in him if he had to. Bryce’s thoughts blanked, eyes honing in on the weapon with a newly restored fear for the guy. It shone tauntingly as he tucked it in under his jacket along with the low, calm words masking hatred and cynicism that slipped from his lips. “Don’t make me have to use it.”  

Seven words that wiped colour from his cheeks and stole away his ability to breathe correctly. It took him a few attempts before his body allowed him to swallow the golf ball in his throat and even then he felt like he was choking. Ohm was still talking, fast but clear. He rested back in his seat, his form relaxed. Anyone able to see through the tint would see no signs of threat – just two guys discussing what their evening plans were.

“You’re going to stay right by my side until we’re driving again, got it?” Bryce snapped his attention back. He didn’t want to get caught not listening and receive a bullet between his ribs in return. “Avoid making contact with everyone and if you can’t, your name is Adam Moore and you’re on a road-trip with your step-brother Kyle. We’re from Michigan. Don’t act stupid, don’t draw attention and don’t think you’ll be able to get away while here. There’s nowhere for you to go and I’m not going to be nice if I have to discipline you.” Bryce tried to calm his racing heartbeat feeling a war erupt behind his eyes.

Make a scene, get help.

Do what he says, we don’t want to get shot.

Maybe taking a bullet was worth it?

We don’t want to risk it.

We won’t get another chance to make a break for it!

But where would we go?

He didn’t know what to do.

“McQuaid,” Ohm growled, yanking attention back to him. The blonde hastily nodded, locking his jaw and taking a deep breath. His exhale was far shakier than he would have liked but he didn’t want to stay in the car any longer. He followed the other man out onto the bitumen, and the moment his eyes lifted from his shoes they met another’s.

Two pairs of curious eyes watched the men exit the suspicious-looking vehicle. The two women glanced between one another, making small conversation of which Bryce couldn’t hear. He watched intently as one pulled out a phone, rapidly typing away. As they huddled close, their outfits contrasted under the retiring sun. The shorter of the two was wearing a pair of pink shorts and various other light colours that sat well with her fair skin and pale hair. The other was wearing a heavy-looking leatherjacket, short brown hair tucked under a beanie. They looked quite odd standing together – a collage of pastels and blacks.

He wandered how their personalities clashed, whether they were close friends. When the taller slipped her arm around the blonde and pulled her close to her side, looking over her shoulder at the phone, he second-guessed his wording of “friends” and tried to convince himself to look away. He didn’t want to stare.

But he was curious.

They both took a moment, finding what they’d been searching for, and examining the little screen. In unison, both women looked up to stare directly at Bryce whose eyes widened. There was meaning behind the ten-metre observation, a meaning he was beginning to worry about. They stared for a few long moments, expressions unreadable and lips unmoving as Bryce stared back – a deer caught in headlights.

“Hey.” Ohm’s voice was far gentler as he stepped around the car. He looked oblivious to both Bryce’s discomfort, and the two staring ladies, and leant against the car in front of the blonde. “We’re gonna go over to the store and get some more food. I don’t want to end up running low at any time.” Even though they couldn’t be heard by others, his words brushed against the younger man lightly. There was no threat, nor malice.

Bryce tried not to shudder at how easily he could hide his snarl. He tried not to glance down to where the gun was hidden at his hip. He kept his lips sealed and nodded uneasily as the brunette locked the car. He didn’t glance in the women’s direction, he didn’t stray from his captor’s side, he didn’t do anything but pursed his lips and kept his eyes low.

Ohm spoke softly to him as they strolled through the grocery store, keeping simple conversation as he rambled on about a cousin’s newborn child – a cousin Bryce was quite sure didn’t exist. Still, he nodded and listened numbly while pushing their trolley down the aisles. Nobody else even glanced at the two of them and Ohm only half paid attention to the fake stories that rolled off his tongue.

He felt confidence swell in his chest. Bryce didn’t act terrified or weird at all as locals passed. He didn’t make any contact with anyone, he kept his eyes on the ground and talking to a minimum. Exactly how Ohm liked him.

They rolled up to the counter and he smiled at the woman. Bryce quietly began placing things on the bench and listened to each beep. Manicured fingers scanned each item, fitting them in bags, and Bryce glanced up to see her watching him curiously. She smiled sweetly. “How are you, handsome?” Her voice was honey sweet. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and didn’t look too much younger than him.

He offered a smile and tried not to grimace beneath Ohm’s stare. “Good thank you, I’m just tired from the drive,” he said. He kept his voice soft, and the lie fell so smoothly onto the conveyor belt with the two bottles of milk. She kept her smile, sliding a third bag towards the older of the two to put back into the trolley.

She kept her entire focus on Bryce as he put the last of the food onto the belt, oblivious to his attempts at keeping his gaze from her. He wanted to make the least amount of contact possible. “Where you boys from?”

“Michigan,” he answered robotically. The backstory ran through his thoughts like a drama script. “I’m travelling with my brother.” The last item dropped into the bag and she reluctantly passed it to Ohm. He smiled at her, his charm glimmering and she nodded at him.

She scribbled down her number on the back of the receipt and pressed it to Bryce’s chest. He blinked down at her long, blue nails and took it with a small smile of gratitude. “Have a good evening!”

Her joyous words shut themselves behind automated glass doors and Bryce tried not to show his exhaustion so blandly. His thoughts were whirring in his brain; they screamed and cried about every little thing that had occurred in the past twenty-four hours. About Ohm, the driving, his phone, Ralph, the women, the driving, Los Angeles, Ohm, the driving… He didn’t get a moment of peace.

Ohm latched a hand onto Bryce’s shoulder as they got to the traffic lights, stopping him from walking out directly in front of a silver van. His hold lingered, fingertips digging into the blonde’s flesh painfully. It brought him back out of his thoughts and into the conscious world, and he silently shrugged the touch away. He didn’t meet Ohm’s stare.

They waited beside each other in silence, watching the cars zip past and listening to the consecutive beeping of the traffic light. Ohm stared down into the contents of his shopping trolley, mentally listing off everything they’d gotten and everything they’d needed. It would suck to forget something.

Bryce’s eyes wandered. He looked over the aged motel and dropped his gaze down the streets. The motel, an ice cream parlour, a post office. The little local buildings were scattered around the small town, only a few small roads drawing paths lined with houses or facilities. As Ohm started forwards, the little green man flashing up above them, Bryce swung his gaze down the street the other way.

His body moved automatically beside the other’s as he created simple maps in his mind. A doctor’s, a chemist.

The police station. He did a double-take upon glancing at the station, and almost stopped walking in the middle of the street as he watched pink shorts and a leather jacket disappear into the small building.

A firm hand curled around his upper arm, yanking him across the road before the cars continued flitting back and forth. “What’s your problem? Quit acting like a fucking ditz in public – we can’t attract attention, okay?” Ohm’s words splattered Bryce’s cheeks, hissed through clamped teeth, and he dropped his gaze, the hand on his arm burning through his hoodie and scorching a hand print onto his skin.

He nodded in silent obedience, and Ohm released his arm with a huff, a couple of muttered words dropping to his feet as he continued pushing the trolley towards the motel carpark. Bryce reminded himself to keep up and watch where he was stepping as to not anger the man further. He didn’t mention the women. He didn’t mention the station. He didn’t mention anything other than asking where to put certain foods in the back of the car.

Ohm tried his best to ignore the man’s weird behaviour, dragging him along. No one spared them more than a few seconds of curious attention, yet he was careful to finish up and pack everything away into their car so they could leave the next morning without having to get anything else together.

They were just going to sleep, shower, eat and relax before continuing their trip. Ohm hoped they wouldn’t have to do it many more times.

He shut the door of their room behind him, dropping the two bags of stuff he had for both of them by the door. He did a quick run through of their living space, the two beds, TV and mini bathroom. It was cheap, out of the way and Ohm’d be damned if Bryce complained for even a moment about the discomfort.

Fortunately for Ohm, the blonde didn’t say a word as he dropped himself on the furthest away bed and turned to face the wall.

First: Prologue

Previous: Three

Next: Five

I’m actually in such a good mood with this right now guys, I spent five hours yesterday reading and editing up to c.7 and I’m so hyped about posting all of it <3 I will be putting it up on ao3 tonight, so I’ll send out a link when I do that! 

gi

[nosoundtv]

This is Us

I’ll keep it short so, here it is! Chapter 2! I hope you guys like and as always feed back is appreciated. If you’d like to read the first chapter just go in the tag #This is Us fic. Also thank you guys so much for over 200 followers!

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Chapter 2, unexpected

People can be jerks. They can say things about others that aren’t true or aren’t kind. They can be there one minute and then leave the next. They say they won’t tell anyone your secrets but, of course they will. Those aren’t true friends. So why did those people seem to seep into others lives anyway. That’s what the boy who laid in bed thought about, but the jerk he was thinking about wasn’t really a jerk. This said jerk just confused him was all.

The room was faded with light and dark blues that clung to the walls. The window was right across from the door to the back of the room. The sun wasn’t even up all the way. Dim light peaked through the dusty window that crawled into the inky room.

The boys skin was fare looking under the ill lighted glow. Although his skin pigment didn’t change much anyway in most lights. He laid on his bed staring at the ceiling with dreary river colored eyes. His short messy dark chestnut hair formed a small widows peak. The features of his face were thin but, had a fullness to his dusted cheeks. To the left of his forehead was a small scar that was right below his hair line. His lips were thin and lightly rose colored.

He swallowed smoothly, closing his tired eyes that had a slight shaded color under them. He reopened them hesitantly, turning on his side to face the open room. His slightly wide formed chest felt heavy and empty. Like something or rather, many things had been weighing on him for a while. His eyes flicked to the desk that sat under the window that was right beside his bed. A phone rested on the area his ocean eyes looked to. He stared at it for a second. His dark, half unkept brows furrowed lightly. He reached out to it, grabbing it but, not looking at it just yet. The fare skinned teen rested the phone on his bed, facing the smooth objects screen down. His thin hand laid on top of it loosely, smoothing over the phone with his thumb as his eyes searched the opposing wall for something. Maybe a sign of answer. He glanced down at it. A look on his face that read worries couldn’t be fixed easily.

The anxious boy took a breath as he turned to lay on his back, sitting up. He turned the cool phone over in his thin hands to look at the black screen. He clicked it open, blueish soft light flooding into the lucid room, making his skin a white rose like shade.

6:10 am.

Saturday.

A signal notification displayed on the fragile glass screen.

Tony: I’ll be there soon Sent 5:46 am

He breathed deeply as he read the message that he had been waiting for since 1 in the morning. His blood stopped, heart drumming in his ears as he felt his heart beat flood into his fingers and chest, beating with every pulse. He read that message a hundred more times before his body could finally warm again. A stirring sensation danced in his stomach. It was light, and fluttery with this warmth that wrapped around his chest like flowers blooming in the current spring air. His shoulders laid more relaxed than before, like the heaviness his chest bared before was some what lifted. He sank in the cool sheets as he closed his dim eyes, letting the phone fall onto his chest.

The rooms air was warm and light but, slightly dry. Birds sang with the rising morning. A signal cricket chirped lowly.

He set the phone on the side of his bed.

The relieved boy sat up slowly, arching his back letting the knots crack and unfold. He threw over his moderately sized legs over his bed side, connecting his feet to the cool hardwood floor. The sleepy junior grabbed a pair of whatever jeans he could find in the “clean” pile on the floor. He slipped them on, a bit clumsily, tripping when one of the legs wouldn’t quite go through the pant leg. He caught himself on the door before he could fall to his “death.” The unexpected excitement that ran through his body cooled at a moderate pace. The stunned teen grabbed a dark grey looking jacket from his door hanger, throwing it on quickly. He glanced down at his shirt for a moment.

He showered yesterday, right? He brought the navy blue shirt to his nose smelling it swiftly, concluding it was up to pare. He walked back over to the messy but, extremely comfortable bed to grab the important object that was his phone. He stuffed the rectangular object in his jacket pocket as he walked to the door. He grabbed the handle but, stopped before he turned it. The hesitant boy looked back to the desk under the window.

A small cassette player rested on the old piece of furniture. His eyes glazed over for a moment as his face morphed into that of slight pain. He turned away quickly, walking out the door without looking back this time. From the top of the stairs the junior could see through the wide kitchen window draped with thin off white curtains. To the outside he could see what was the front end of an old, faded cherry dusted mustang partly masked by a low growing tree. A small smile crept on his fare features. The glaze in his eyes from before was washed away with a transparent bright glow. The teen jogged down the stairs carelessly, not caring if he made any noise. His parents were going to be gone for a month and a half. The teen floated over the main floor to the front door eagerly.

He hesitated for moment but, shook it off easily. Although, the soft butterfly feeling he felt in his stomach didn’t seem to want to shake off. He strode out the front door onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. The clumsy boy jerked backwards, accidentally getting his jacket caught in the door. He huffed in irritation and slight embarrassment as he reopened the door, pulling out the jammed fabric and quickly staggering around while slamming the door shut. He could hear distant laughter from the car that sat parked a little ways down beside his house. The huffing teen jammed his beating hands in his pockets as he walked to the mustang that was waiting for him. When he reached the skittle red car he stood on the outside passenger door as he eyed the driver on the inside. The driver had one hand loosely gripped on the wheel and the other over his mouth, blatantly trying to hide his obvious smile, shoulders bouncing with a light chuckle. The fare skinned young man on the out side of the car rolled his eyes, roughly grabbing the door handle and swinging it open as he slide in the passenger seat.

“Hey, clay.” The Latino teen nudged the other playfully. A small smirk trying its hardest not to spread on Tony’s face.

“Bye, Tony.” Clay half heartedly went to grab the door handle to leave but, of course he actually wouldn’t. He stopped when he heard a ‘click’ sound reverberate in the car. Clay turned back to Tony sharply, brows furrowed and his mouth in a lopsided downward frown.

“Did you just lock the car.”

“I most certainly did.” The smug slightly older male lazily rolled his head in the direction of a half irritated, but also half amused Clay.

The taller or rather the lighter skinned boy scoffed in response.

“This is kid napping.” The flustered teen threw his hands half way in the air as he gestured to the lock that was now clicked down. He looked out the window then back to Tony as a small smirk was etching into existence on the blue eyed boys face.

“You’re the one who got in me car willingly.” Tony couldn’t help but, lower his head and look up at the fellow junior beside him. Clay returned the gaze back at the gold flaky eyed Latino.

The air was much cooler than before. The sun was finally stretched across the low horizon. It’s warm orangey red drops of light seeped into the car, touching the faces of the two young men who stared at each other for a few long moments. The light ran over Tonys face in such a way his eyes seemed even more golden and vibrant. His skin even more inviting and bright looking. Clay looked back out the window as he teared his eyes from away from the other.

“Alright, but if my parents wonder where I am, and they call the cops, I’m blaming you.” He extended a lazy thin finger towards the so called kid napper. He turned his gaze towards the window shield.

“Your parents aren’t even going to be back until next month.” Tony tried to half defend himself as he rose a hand in the direction of the other teens house that was missing the usual car in the driveway. He let himself take in Clays profile. The sun washed over his fine features as the the light bounced through his transparent but, bright icy blue orbs. Clay turned back to the other, catching Tony staring. The caramel skinned boys eyes didn’t avert right away but, rather lingered for a moment before breaking his gaze. The bronze eyed male flicked his eyes to the windshield as he turned the ignition. The purr of the engine warmed and filled the Mustang. He pressed the gas, revving it up as the car roared but, of course staying in place.

“I’ve been in this car how many times and you still wanna be a show off?” Clay squinted his eyes at the other, cocking his head to the right, rolling his eyes as he thought about all the countless other times Tony had done that.

“And you’ve known me for how long and you still don’t know how fun it is to do that?” The Latino retorted back playfully as he pressed the gas another time but this time a little harder, revving the engine a few times before being sastifyid. Clay tried his best to keep the smile off his face as he lowerd his head to his chest, shaking it.

“Lets just go before you wake up the rest of the neighborhood.”

“Alright but, with me in this car I can’t make any promises.” He sprawled the hand that rested on the wheel out, emphasizing the ‘can’t’ in the sentence.

“Oh, just drive.” The Caucasian male shoved the other on the shoulder while the shoved one chuckled in response. Tony changed the gear from parked to drive and started to drift down the road. Clay glanced at the other man. Admiring his profile. He shook his head as a thin smile painted on his face. He thought Tony didn’t notice him looking but, of course the driver did.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Whatever happened to missclairebelle’s Queen Claire in HRH?? Will she be updating soon? 🤞🏻🤞🏻🤞🏻

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle |Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XIX: Visitor

Between Friday night and Saturday afternoon, James Fraser missed seventeen phone calls from his sister (frantic, desperate attempts at communication in which she shouted at the unanswered line and hissed when the operator explained there had not been an answer).

During the first missed call, he was splitting a pot of yogurt in bed with Claire. They talked about this and that (anything other than a plan for going public, or what would happen if they were caught). Honey-sticky and berry-sweet, the pair shared their tastes in television (he had a soft spot for The Ed Sullivan Show; the Queen was apparently also a fan), books (her latest read was Rebecca, each page using sneakily embezzled time that formally belonged to the Queen’s official tour obligations; she had begrudgingly admitted that Frank had picked it for her; Jamie’s had been The Lord of the Rings, a choice to encourage the insatiable literary conquests of his young nephew), and food (her favorite meal was Sunday roast with ice-cold milk, which he found no small pleasure in teasing her over; his a smoky Cullen skink made by his sister using a method – “no’ a recipe, thank ye kindly” – that had been passed down through his paternal great-grandmother and the mere mention of which made his eyes go foggy).

Against the incessant trill of ringing in her ear, Jenny Murray attempted to breathe while sinking her fingernails into the soft mound of her palm.

During the second missed call, each of James Fraser’s five senses were engaged in a slow, methodical torture of the woman he loved.

Touch – fingers grazing the blushed flesh of Claire’s milk-and-honey thighs (the unrestrained electric sensation of being touched by her own small hands making him question his understanding of the concept of physical connection).

Sight -– a gateway to a memorization exercise that he had long ago completed (the uninterrupted line of her navel and sternum and throat and the underside of her chin as it tipped up up up towards the ceiling).

Hearing – the muffled, keening noise from deep in her belly, her lungs, her throat a white noise trapped in the jail of her thighs (a maestro’s score written to the ebbs and flows of the love they shared).

Scent – his nose filled with the tang of her, the sweat that gathered along her hipbone, rolled towards her thigh and coated his upper lip (her perfume had long faded, going a subdued floral along the bridge of her clavicles).

Taste – his tongue… well that was occupied (sweet cream, summer rain, and a hint of clover’s bright spring musk maybe).

Slamming the phone down with a crack that made her lift and inspect the receiver, Jenny Murray swallowed hard and dialed her husband. “Come home,” she implored him. “Straightaway. Jamie… he’s in trouble… brathair Jamie. No’ Young Jamie.”

Then, during the third missed call to his empty Edinburgh flat, Claire was tangled in the web of returning a lover’s favor. The arse that had enchanted him that first night rose over his torso as her tongue wove tales against his flesh slow, measured circles. His fingers died a slow death as he fought not to sink into her hips or thighs. (The index finger on his left hand picked up a shallow puncture from right incisor as he gnawed into his own flesh. His right hand gripped the nightstand in a way that he might have worried would crack the wood had he been capable of even mildly coherent thought.)

A short distance away, his sister and closest friend were cloistered behind a closed door. Their eldest children were on knobby, grass-stained knees outside, each with one ear pressed to the wood and with eyes as big as saucers. Their youngest was asleep on a mat in the dining room, clutching an icy teething ring.

“I canna understand where she got it,” their father said lamely.

Maggie gathered her brother’s accusatory look (the look generally reserved for tattling to mam that she’d filched the last ice lolly from the deep freezer or had run her toothbrush under the faucet without brushing her teeth). She shrugged and closed one eye in an attempt to make sense of the shapes moving across the thin beam of light under the door. The children could not see it, but their father was watching his wife frantically turn the dial on the phone.

“They think he stole it,” their mam hissed, her voice just loud enough for Maggie to hear. She covered her mouth, knowing that something about bringing that ring to show and tell had caused trouble for her Uncle Jamie. (‘What have you done?’ she thought, wishing she could pinch herself, take it all back. All of it – even the moment she had taken it into her hand, breathed ‘wow,’ and slipped it into the pocket of her summer Sunday dress.) “And I canna think of any other way it’d ‘ave come into his possession either, can ye think of one? No. Ye canna.”

Jamie’s phone rang and rang.

Jenny knew it was pointless, but she kept the receiver to her ear waiting waiting waiting.

Hoping.

Praying.

“Pick up the fuckin’ phone,” she muttered. And when it became clear that her plea would remain unanswered, she slammed the receiver down and hissed, “Ifrinn.”

Young Jamie’s eyes were as wide as saucers having heard what he knew to be a curse word from his mother (F-U-C-K – the first time he had heard her use one of the words that the older boys who smoked cigarettes after school behind the swings used like it made them more mature). Young Jamie put his hand on his younger sister’s shoulder (a gesture of his father’s, an observation from now and then when his mam was upset about something or another). Mumbling, Young Jamie urged his sister back from the door with a soft, “C’mon, Maggie. Let’s go.”

And when Jamie Fraser and his Queen were sated, they slept.

Draped against each other while the phone miles and miles away rang uselessly a fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time.

Spent herself, Jenny Murray went to bed in silence that night.

And only when the lights were off did she find that her instinct was to curl close to her husband’s chest (a helpless, small shape in her night clothes and bare face) and cry quietly, helplessly sleepless.

When Jamie woke the next morning, Claire was gone.

Her scent lingered beneath the sun-warmed folds of the duvet, and his robe was missing from its hook on the back of the bedroom door. Tantalized by the tingling acid aroma of too-strong coffee, he took only a moment to inspect the curved indentation in the pillow next to him from where she had slept. With a smile that felt like the promise of a good day, he rose.

Standing before the mirror, his hand uselessly raking at disheveled curls, he realized something for the first time.

And it was simple: though being with her (loving her) still felt new, their relationship no longer felt like a dream.

Waking in the night with his hand splayed across the dangerous dip in her waist was something that just happened.

Feeling her lips just above his heart as she woke before silently throwing a knee on either side of him was surprising only in that she seemed insatiable (a fact she had conveyed to him with her lips close to his ear like a schoolyard secret as he fell asleep).

He realized that he could get used to a life where he woke and did not wonder if it had all been a dream.

The sun-spotted revelation of it made him lighter somehow, encouraged his smile to widen.

In the kitchen, he poured coffee from the electric pot on the counter as his fingers traced the neat script on the note tucked beneath the mug.

In your garden,

most certainly to be choked by unruly weeds should you not wake soon.

Join me (only if you dare, and bring clippers if you have them).

xx, C.

He gathered a pair of gardening shears and wandered out the front door. True to her word, she was in the garden, her form almost entirely swallowed by his robe. Barefoot and crouched low to the ground with a not insubstantial mound of weeds piled next to her, she looked like some sort of remarkably steady woodland nymph. Her fingers sank into damp black dirt and bridged the unseen barrier between human and Mother Earth again and again, as if it were her lot in life to be like this.

Elemental. Tangled. Undone.

She looked like she smelled like nature itself - dirt and herbs, sweat and sunshine.

When her fingers reemerged from the ground, wrapped around bits of unidentified and unwanted plant matter, she was a triumphant archaeologist (the career she said that the King would have chosen if given the choice, though she was unsure herself of what Just Claire would be).

Leaning against a mildly decayed post on his porch, he watched her repeatedly shove the stubbornly falling cuffs of his robe up to her elbows. He knew her well enough to know that just then (in morning sunshine, fingers coaxing life from soil), she was unencumbered by worry of any origin (save perhaps how to keep her fingers free of recalcitrant terry cloth to do some digging).

It was that moment, before Jamie called out to the woman he loved or before Claire looked over her shoulder at her Fraser, that he missed telephone calls eight, nine, and ten.

“Ye look bonny squatting in my wee garden.”

“You can hardly call this a garden, Fraser.” Claire ran a sleeve over her forehead, wiping away the light sheen of sweat and humidity that had gathered there. “It is a patch of dirt overrun by nettles and chickweed and Christ knows what else. I need gloves.”

He held up the shears, and announced, “I can arrange gloves.”

“Thank the Lord,” she breathed.

He took a long sip of coffee, watching her return her attention to the garden. She went to her knees in the dirt without even a moment’s care for said body part or his robe. “Ye’re going to get awfully dirty.”

She gave him a look over her shoulder. A smile. A wink. “I figure you can clean me up, and I want to see this garden do something this summer.”

(‘This summer,’ she said.

His heart stopped and then hammered at the promise inherent in those three syllables, her quiet understatement.

A summer in the cabin. Secluded. Growing flowers and vegetables. Falling further in love. He found a sentimental streak in himself that he had until then not realized was there.)

Claire unearthed a small gathering of dandelions and inspected them at arm’s length before creating a separate pile. “We can make these into some sort of salad.”

“The nettles’d make a good soup,” he added, taking another sip before walking out towards the garden.

“Do you know how to make nettle soup?” she asked, a marked note of incredulity creeping into her voice.

“No,” he responded, going to his knees beside her and carefully nestling his coffee mug into a small furrow in the ground. He pulled up another clump of dandelions. He did not attempt to mask the note of humor in his voice as he said, “I figured ye’d ken how to make a nettle soup. Sounds like something a royal’d ken how to do.”

She gave him a sideways glance. The kind of look that is borne of comfort with another person. She hummed, a sound that he was sure could be brutal in its dismissiveness to someone whose bed she did not share. With the back of his hand, he brushed her hair aside and kissed the side of her neck, relished her reaction (a shiver, a trail of goosebumps, a quick taste of her own lips).

She turned just enough to meet his mouth, and their lips met (chaste, gentle, only for a moment).

“Dock leaves,” she said softly, though a bit triumphantly. She reached out and lifted a great leaf with the back of her hand. “It is pure coincidence that the nettle’s sting and the dock leaves’ antidote grow so close together in your garden, Fraser.”

Her robe (his robe) gaped.

The phone inside the cabin rang.

He craned his neck, allowing his exploring mouth to find the underside of her jaw. He sucked gently there until her cheeks flushed and her mouth fell open.

The phone rang again and her fingers sank into his hair, curved along his scalp, drew him closer.

He could not stop his smile then.

Another ring and then another.

His thumb found the soft, unaroused peak of her plush, pink-brown nipple, and he set about driving her mad. She looked down and watched his other hand work its way into the tie on her robe.

“You would not in the garden,” she stated a bit matter of factly.

He kissed her chin and flattened a palm against the lowest expanse of her belly. He was mimicking her accent when he echoed her: “Would I not?”

The sound of the phone was merely background noise then.

Claire’s hands scrabbled for his waistband, watched the heavy weight of him rise from the confinement of his pants. Her breath hitched at the Gaelic that flowed from him, the tenderness with which he swept her hair behind her ear and pressed a thumb along her temple. He reached between them, slipped into her with a practiced easiness born of their hours of lovemaking. When she cried out into his mouth, he let his feet find purchase in the dirt and began to move. She grabbed for him – his buttocks, the collar of his shirt, his hips – and her fists demanded skin and contact and more.

After a morning of unanswered calls, Jenny Murray dressed for a Saturday, prepared breakfast alongside her husband (soft scramble with hunks of musty white cheese and toast), and let it cool on her plate. Appetite was a foreign concept as she pushed the bits of it into mounds, pressed the tines of her fork down into the mess.

“The cabin?” Ian suggested, helping her clear and pressing a kiss along the clean curve of her neck where a tendril of pin-straight hair rested. “He didna answer when ye called, but he was there last weekend, at least.”

“Maybe,” she began, hands slowly going paralyzed in the gray dishwater.

She had never given much thought to the Beauchamp family jewels – onyx and diamond, twisted out of their setting from one generation to the next and fabricated into various bits of royal jewelry. The jewels’ latest iteration had somehow made its way into Maggie’s knapsack, onto a school bus, and in front of a class of mostly disinterested children.

“He may have needed a break, Jen. Swing by.”

In the yard, Young Jamie and Maggie were mercilessly teasing the old tabby barn cat. Maggie yowled in a hair splitting, almost-painful tone, and Jenny closed her eyes. “He’s no’ ever gone to the cabin two weekends in a row, but… maybe.”

“And Maggie said that she just found it in the cabin?” Jenny nodded, turning to look at him, searching for reassurance. Ian obliged, resolutely adding, “He wouldna steal something like the Queen’s ring, Janet. He wouldna steal anything unless it was to save someone, someone he loves. And that ring’s no’ part of that category.”

“I dinna ken when would he have the opportunity to steal it,” she sighed, wiping her hands on the damp towel that Ian was holding and leaning against the counter.

Ian shook his head, reiterating, “If he had the opportunity, he’d no’ take it.”

Jenny wished she could muster her husband’s resolve to believe in her brother. He had an admirable, singular focus on identifying some alternative explanation for how the ring had ended up in the cabin and then in a piece of brown paper at Maggie’s school.

“You can tend to the bairns while I take a keek about the cabin then?” She dried her hands again, and reached for the keys as her husband nodded.

Jamie and Claire hatched the plan at a moment’s notice (the live wire thrill of impulse a new, intoxicating, addictive feeling for her). It was born from a wistful look (Jamie’s eyes drifting like a dinghy lost at sea) as he mentioned sleeping under the stars, splashing his cheeks with water from a spring, tucky into a sleeping bag for warmth.

“So, we should go,” she announced, cross legged on the bed (‘our bed,’ her mind added haughtily, as her fingers smoothed the sheets). The world was to be seen now. With him. His world was defined not solely by places, but by his memories. It seemed to her that anything less than giving into the urge to go would mean the walls of the palace that had confined her those past few years would be replaced by the walls of a cabin.

He paused, his hands wringing out his hair. “Go?”

She rolled her eyes, got to her knees, crawled to the edge of the bed. “Go.” She gestured broadly, as though she were talking about some great international voyage, not a short drive and a hike. “There. To that stream. Pack up some things. Rough it.”

“You…” he clarified, stepping towards her and putting careful, conciliatory hands on her bare shoulders. “Camping.”

“Are you suddenly questioning my spirit for adventure?” She turned her dainty, queenly nose up at him, and narrowed her eyes.

“I’d never dare to do such a thing.”

She hummed, kissing the narrow slit in his cheek where he’d nicked himself shaving. “Good. We should go, spend a night with the stars, and–”

“–and each other,” he interrupted. It made her face go soft.

“Oh, Fraser, never lose your sentiment.”

By the time Jenny Murray arrived at the cabin, they were gone.

Left, though, were traces.

Two coffee mugs in the kitchen, waiting to be rinsed and washed.

A blushing pink half-moon imprint of lipstick on the edge of one of her da’s best whisky glasses.

The lavender bunched in a carefully-tied bouquet in a water glass next to the bathroom sink.

The distinctly unmistakable smell of sex as she opened the door to the bedroom.

And then the exquisitely-made jacket carefully folded and draped over the ornately carved footboard of the bed.

“Ye idjit,” Jenny breathed, her fingers tracing the lapel of the jacket. Her mind worked over time, attempted to talk herself out of it. Out of what she knew to be true.

Her brother was engaged in some sort of affair with his boss.

She swallowed, rolled her eyes and pinched her forearms as she stared up at the ceiling of the bedroom.

Blinking hard, Jenny said it aloud, in an attempt to convince herself: “My little brother is fucking the Queen of England.”

______________________

Many thanks to @desperationandgin​ for reading through this one for me.

[halfbreed-hawkins-blog]

It was simple, Althea Hawkins was a terrifying woman to behold, all five feet three inches of her, with her graying braids and feirce eyes, the eyes of a woman who had seen the First Wizarding War, the eyes of a Slytherin, one of the last of her generation to be able to attend Hogwarts without stigma, without laws restricting them, one of the last. She was a proud woman, who held herself as if she was ten feet high, and had a tongue sharper than the talons of her hawks. She was everything that Atalanta wnated to become, and everything Helle was terrified of, she was an Elder, a werewolf, a warrior, a woman without fear of anything. She lived through wars and deaths of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and came out on top. The images of her, from so long ago, beautiful and willful, a type of power that exhuded from within, more Lady than Wolf, though one couldn't discount her eyes. The same color of Hectors, of Edgar's, of Atalanta's, of Penny's-- bright blue, as expansive as the sky above or reflecting shades of blue steel. This was the woman Penny was named for, this was the woman that she was expected to be like, the honor of carrying her name within her, squeezed between herself and her Clan, the tie. So Penny did as she always did when she saw her great-grandmother, her Clan Leader, an Elder, she curled under her shoulder and asked about the stars, and Althea would laugh and point, from under the white furs she wore around her shouldres, with the braided back greys and the clinking of beads, and she would trace them out with her hand, the legends that dripped from her tongue like liquid silver. Penny tucked herself close, the burning, strong heartbeat under the quarvreing chest. This woman deserved rest, she deserved to settle under the Light of the Moon and enjoy the years before the Dawn, the last vestiges of the Night she'd been born into and die into the bright rays. Atalanta, Penny decided, needed to work harder, she needed to get this woman to become that again. She felt a tear streak down her cheek, and she felt Althea swipe it away, soft light in her eyes, the gaze settling on the blonde like a feather, light and comforting, a flickering peace that came with the papery skin.

"You are never allowed to leave me here." Penny managed to get from her throat, choking back the emotion of being home, of her great-grandmother who looked after her and Lawrence when the Village came to be too much, when the abuse and the hurt broke her into tears. When she'd creep into the den, and tucked herself among Althea's furs and sob into them under she found her, and carried her to the porch and they'd watch the setting sun. Where Penny begged to become a werewolf, so she could forever stay here, under the wing of the Great Hawk, the chick never wanted to the leave the nest and fall unto the foxes that prowled for her. Penny sobbed and sobbed, wishing to be a wolf, and join the chorus of song into the night, to celebrate on the earth and not among the sky, to become part of the ever-turning wheel.

"Penny Althea Hawkins, you are named after me, you bear the name of your Clan. But your name, your true name is Penny, you are a singular human, you can stand alone, you bear no legend on your name, there is no legacy, you are not named for a star, or a hero. You are yourself, you will become that in time, in generations after me and you there will be other Penny Hawkins, there will be others named for you. Named after a great hero, a great member of our clan, a great wolf. You have no legacy, you are the next great legacy Penny." her hands ran through her hair, "You bear so much," her voice was filled with sorrow, and her fingers ran over long forgotten scars on her hands and arms, the burns of explosive magic, accidental magic from frightenend children, the abuse of stones and fists, the scars that lines her heart from words that broke more than her bones but her very soul, "you are a girl built from pride, loyalty and stardust. Every time you come home I see so little of that girl, I see how it wears you down, I see how your bones have become brittle, I see how you've let them draw your blood and let it bleed and bleed and bleed. I've seen how you've let them take from you. I see how your pride breaks, and how there is so little stardust left in your eyes. But I see that you've never wavered Penny, from our people, from your blood, I've seen you be strong. That will be your legacy Penny Hawkins, your loyalty."

"Granmama... I... Daniel and I were speaking." she whispered.

"I already know. It's... alright, I understand, I've known since the beggining when you began to read those articles that our plan would never come completly to pass. I've known, and it's alright."

"I don't mean to disrespect you, or be disloyal--"

"The last thing any one of our people would believe of you my child is that you are disloyal to us, you have an understand and love for our Clan that few possess. Anyone who believes you bear the name of traitor is simply branding themselves." she spoke sharply at she and Penny felt herself relax once more, this reassurance, from her, it settled her at her very bones. Though her mind, it worked so quickly, it knew that maybe Helle was right, and that her great-grandmother's belief wasn't as absolute as she made it out to be. Penny was at war with herself, everyday, a tug-of-war with each faction of her mind, the way it tore her to peices everyday and she had to put herself back together and then fall to peices the very next day, a puzzle that was smashed, unglued shards of clay and glass-- never melding, never quite fitting.

"Grandmama, I think, that one day..." she stopped herself, "I think one day I think that I'll have to make a choice, do you think that I will know where to side myself with." she whisper, "Do you think, that one day I could make it all... stop--" she hoped it would one day, that she wouldn't have to cast two glances over each shoulder, to wall herself away from the abuse, to be able to relax, to live as fully as her classmates, to lose herself just for moments in freedom and not be chained to her very veins. "Do you think that one day, I can just become both?"

She was quiet, so silent, so ancient, wisdom lining each line and scar unseen and unknown to even Penny. "I think one day, when the time comes, that you will lead something and that in that moment it won't matter if it's right or wrong, because you will have proven all that you've needed to, and when that day comes I will no longer be here, because you will not need to ask me. You will know, and you will shine, just like the stars my little pup." Althea leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead and she sobbed, flinging herself into Althea's lap. "It's not a question of being both, it's becoming something new. You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself, and you've already made me so very proud my darling, every single day."

There is silence as Penny breathed in the soft scent of snow, pine and flint as she found her center again, and rose from her her grandmama's lap and looked her in the eyes, "I will make us rise Granmama, I swear this upon my father, I will see us rise."

"You elevate yourself, and you elevate our people, every day."

[coreymichaelsmithson]

An Imperfect Mirror

Pamela and I were rocketing through the big empty dark of southern Utah … a darkness broken only the moonlit silhouettes of the Wasatch Range … happily blasting Led Zeppelin and scaring off all the jackrabbits, when her gas warning blinked on. Over the last several hours of driving, the needle had been dropping too close to E for my comfort, but we hadn't encountered a single gas station for hundreds of miles. We had no choice but to press on. This wasn't a matter of forgetfulness; I'd made sure to fill up Pamela's tank before we climbed the twisting passes leading away from Bryce Canyon. But when the dreaded yellow symbol finally appeared, inevitable as a utility bill, we were still 69 miles from salvation, and running on reserves. We had no cell phone reception, no other traffic to speak of besides the occasional horn-blaring big rig, and nothing to assuage the feeling that we were in real trouble.

I tried to remember what to do in situations like this. Should we just try to coast through? We were, after all, in very hilly terrain, with lots of steep grades and long slopes … maybe we could just roll through most of the remainder? I tried to position myself behind trucks, following in their wakes to lessen our drag, but that didn't seem to make much difference. I put my hazards on whenever we climbed a hill, as I didn't dare give her too much gas, and I braked sparingly. But the yawning desert darkness remained, thick and menacing, and now it was being interrupted less frequently by porch lamps or distant feed lots or ... well ... anything. We were in the high desert now, the real deal, nothing but rocks and sagebrush and, presumably, the skeletons of stranded motorists.

Desperate, my thinking veered towards the magical. I prayed, I cursed, I bargained. I even changed the music I was playing, as if any particular genre or sound might tax Pamela's resources too heavily. "Nirvana? Nah … too intense. Gotta stay calm. Calm, calm, calm. WE'VE GOT TO STAY CALM. Sondheim? Too wordy. Nat King Cole? Perfect."

The moon rose from the horizon, looking sanguine and engorged. There were only a handful of hamlets on this stretch of road, and not a one of them offered gas. Town after town had "NO SERVICES" emblazoned on their exit signs. Assholes.

But somehow, by dumb luck or the grace of benevolent angels, we limped back into civilization. Just barely. We coasted into the gas station, sputtering as we arrived at the one vacant pump. I'm convinced that Pamela wouldn't have made it another fifty yards. It is a staggering miracle that we landed where we did, when we did. All of the tiny decisions I made (or didn't make) on the road, all of the accidental delays … like the open-range cattle plopping themselves on the highway, the recklessly leaping deer, the long traffic light, the occasional photo opportunity … everything came together so perfectly, like the tiny wheels of a fine watch, just so that Pamela would cough out within feet of a pump.

I shouldn't be so surprised, though. Utah has been challenging me with such suggestions of perfection, over and over again.

I had started out my day in a completely different but equally spare environment. After a stunning sunrise over the Bonneville Salt Flats, one of the weirdest ecosystems on our planet, I chugged down a bunch of bad gas station coffee and drove a considerable distance to reach Bryce Canyon, one of my biggest "bucket-list" items. Between the Great Salt Lake and the upper edge of America's Grand Staircase lie hundreds of miles of cattle ranges, broad mountain valleys, and abandoned mine shafts. When you see a car commercial … you know, the kind of commercial where throaty rock music and vaguely pornographic narration lends some machismo to a gas-guzzler, the kind with plenty of helicopter shots and acceleration, all for an SUV with the name of a desert town or a Native tribe … this is the landscape they're driving through. Long stretches of the road were almost cartoonishly perfect, with fluffy white clouds in the blue and just the right number of horses prancing across the sagebrush. I enjoyed some of the longest stretches of empty road I've ever seen, right up until I arrived at the touristy zoo of the park.

The dramatic forms of Bryce Canyon were formed by not only the usual suspects of wind and water, but also by the expansion of ice. Water seeps into existing fissures, and then it freezes, which helps to pry the cracks further open. This unrelenting freeze/thaw cycle acts as a giant chisel, whittling away the softer rock layers and leaving weird stacks of the hard stuff behind. The same thing happens over and over again: a protruding plateau gets weathered down into a fin, which is then undercut by a number of small holes, holes that slowly grow into windows and arches, and the lashing rain and howling winds continue to do their work, until eventually you're left with only a freestanding tower … a hoodoo. In this particular area, where the process seems to have been magically sped up, the collective results of all this sculpting are simply mind-blowing. Thousands of these pinnacles are clumped together, standing in such close proximity and order that they have the organized look of soldiers, or sentinels. Some of their forms seem architectural. With a little imagination, your mind transforms these shapes into the components of a fantastic castle: spires, turrets, crenellations, a portcullis.

As I stood at the rim, gazing down with absolute astonishment at the natural amphitheater, an elderly woman standing next to me whispered, reverently, "It's just so perfect." And she was right. The canyon feels like a living sculpture. Studying its spatial complexities, color palette, and fine balance of space and density, one might struggle to grasp how it's all just one big geological accident. It just looks so … designed.

Beyond the seeming perfection of the landscape, though, I was struck by the perfection of my arrival time. I had somehow managed to get there when the horde of tourists … pink noses and plastic visors and big woven purses and sunglasses with the stickers left on … had thinned down considerably, leaving me alone for long stretches on the rim trail. The weather could not have been more pleasant, not too hot and not too cold, but occupying that wonderful Goldilocks zone of "just right". The ratio of clouds to sunlight meant that my view was full of roving shadows and dazzling beams. I had rolled in just as the giant buses were rolling out, at the hour when the ponderosas provided some shade but the canyon remained brilliantly lit.

On the surface of things, my time at Bryce Canyon might seem utterly distinct from what I experienced earlier at Bonneville. It's hard to believe these two different environments could occupy the same planet, much less the same state. But their spiritual impacts were quite identical: first there was awe at the visual grandeur, and then there was a deepening appreciation for the forces at work, and then there was a profound gratitude for the timing of our arrival.

Let me take you back a little, to the night before.

The Bonneville Salt Flats, as the name suggests, is a broad, flat expanse of hardened salt, the compressed remnants of a long-evaporated inland sea. The crust of crystals is so thickly packed that it makes a surface durable enough to drive upon, even at high speeds; as a result, Bonneville has become a world-class destination for racing and speed trials. Many world records have been broken on this stretch, and many movies have been filmed before its fantastic backdrops.

For much of the summer, the flats are bone dry, swept clean by the winds coming down off of the Silver Island Range. Occasionally, though, some water collects on the surface. It's never much, maybe only two inches deep or so, but the whiteness of the salt, and the water sitting atop it, are enough to create the effect of a huge mirror. Throughout the day, the atmosphere and mountains are reflected, creating a spectacular symmetry at the horizon. As visitors wade across the shallow pool, this sight gets disrupted in a jarring way … everybody seems to be tiptoeing across the sky.

The flats are supervised by the Bureau of Land Management, which allows the public to visit and explore the region at will. It's a pretty sweet spot for camping, though everything you own will get encrusted with salt, and the brackish solution will totally rust out your vehicle's undercarriage if you don't promptly wash it out. The single road that leads onto the crust only goes about three miles or so, and then it kind of peters out. Everyone leaves their shoes behind at this threshold, and for good reason … take just a few mucky transitional steps beyond where the asphalt ends, and your feet are standing on the hard salt.

After a few hours of wandering about, I struck up a conversation with an angelically beautiful engineer from Illinois. He was traveling through the West, wandering at will, camping in his pimped-out van and filling his phone with neat pictures of national parks and monuments. Together, we decided to venture out a mile or so across the waste, watching the light change as the sun sank behind the mountain peaks. The salt crust was hell on our bare feet … really, just murder on our poor soles … but the water felt soothingly warm, the breeze remained refreshing, and the total scene was electrifying. A faint haze on the horizon, the fuzzy edges of which blended into the deepening blue of the water, got tinted the most delicate salmon pink by the sunset; it was so particular a hue, so subtle, that no photograph could ever do it justice. It was the kind of evening light that manages somehow to be both gentle and vivid, the kind of light that makes your eyes feel really alive. It cast a special mood over things. Our voices remained quiet, though our shared amazement rose. I was happy to share this walk with someone else.

This liquid mirror never remained entirely smooth. The wind would skim across the surface, creating lots of little chevrons and moirés. And as my new friend and I walked, and chatted, our ankles sent more ripples outward, ripples which encountered various small obstacles … pebbles, forgotten bits of tire tread, a rusty nail, irregularities in the salt surface … and then these got split into other, lesser waveforms, which in turn further fragmented the clouds and mountains. The crust would sometimes slough off a few flakes or clumps, which whirled and bumped each other like tiny rafts caught in opposing currents. But, somehow, all of these imperfections served only to heighten the sense of unreality, the surreal and dreamlike quality of it all. It felt like we were two bold explorers, traversing an alien landscape for the first time. We watched in awe as the twilight deepened, and the stars emerged, and then the moon, nearly full and orange as a pumpkin, rose above its shimmering counterpart. At one point, as the last of the sunlight dimmed behind the peaks, the color of the sky/water precisely matched the engineer's eyes, so much so that it seemed like he was of a piece with the environment, or that he was perhaps an embodiment of the experience itself. And it is this collection of odd details that I will remember most fondly from my hours at Bonneville … the smile of the stranger with sky-colored eyes, the unexpected flowering of friendship in a flowerless place, a shallow lake that twinned the moon and doubled the stars, a reflection with plenty of compelling flaws, an imperfect mirror, the essence of perfection.