#cold blooded fic

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)

—

Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.

So far, everything was going to plan.

About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.

Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.

Danny’s hands were cold.

He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.

Now, though, his body was freezing.

Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.

He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.

The process was excruciating.

Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.

Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.

Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.

Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.

Danny stared down at his hands.

Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.

“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”

Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”

“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”

“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”

“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”

“What did he say?”

“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”

The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.

“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.

“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”

Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.

A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.

The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.

“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”

They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.

Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.

There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.

His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.

Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.

The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.

Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.

Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.

Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.

However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.

Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.

“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”

Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.

The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.

Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.

He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.

Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.

Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.

They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.

The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.

Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.

They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.

Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.

“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”

“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”

Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.

He had to check.

“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”

Danny shook his head.

“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.

“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”

Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.

“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.

They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.

That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.

She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.

Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.

The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.

Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.

He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.

Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.

“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Danny?”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.

“I thought you were…”

“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”

Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.

They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.

“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”

Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.

Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.

Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.

His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.

The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.

They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.

Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.

He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.

Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.

Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.

The entire room went white.

Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.

Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…

Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.

The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.

Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.

They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.

As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.

Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.

Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.

“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”

Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.

Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.

—

[chloepleasestopdying]

I love me a dark Max fic when it’s done right. Like the idea of Max slowly losing her grip on her moral compass due to rewinding over and over again is just, ugh, so good.

Mix that with the comics idea of Max being able to hop timelines (which seems to be what Double Exposure is going for) and I LOVE the idea of a hardened and jaded Max timeline jumping for her own personal reasons without caring how her acts affect that timelines Max.

[v4visms]

[splickedylit]

Winter Soldier Gamkar has hit 100K words and 6 completed chapters and a whole lot of supernatural bullshit and Reminding My Traumatized Boyfriend What Kindness Is nonsense. Thanks to the co-writer groupchat for reading the first draft and 1. convincing me not to half-ass my scene planning, and 2. helping me figure out Karkat's Whole Deal, lol. Clandestine military experiments.....a comic book classic...

--

You don’t know what the thing you were fused with used to be.  You call it the Cancer, in your head, to yourself, but some part of you knows it’s a whole fucking lot older than the concept of names.  It died so long ago, there wasn’t a word for death yet. 

Any of its corpse that washes up into your reality is just skeletal detritus; the assholes who experimented on you couldn’t find any consciousness to bore into your skull like the Scratch did to Feferi and Eridan.  They had to fuse it into your flesh to wring power out of its remains, and it’s only through some hideous joke of luck that it took and you’re still alive to bitch about it. 

It could be worse.  You could be a rotted, mangled corpse in an unmarked grave.

They’d almost seemed surprised that you were pissed, when you found out about that little wrinkle after the fact.  You regret a lot of shit in your life, but savaging the asshole who changed you—who killed dozens of stupid kids before you—isn’t one of them.

You don’t know who has it worse, really.  Feferi and Eridan don’t show much sign from the outside that anything was even done to them—but for all the double-takes you get on the street, you don’t have to listen to voices and whispers.  There’s no living, scheming forces trying to push you to do anything, there’s just a vast, echoing emptiness in the back of your head.  Sometimes when you sleep, you find yourself in the place where it lives—or where it died.  An endless, quiet walk through an empty shell the size of a thousand cathedrals, rotting and half-consumed.

[teecupangel]

Assassins Creed could pretty easily be turned into an isekai. No animus involved, just Desmond getting hit by a truck and then mysteriously waking up as Ezio! Or even more hilarious, going the "reincarnated as a book character" route for isekai launch points, Ezio gets run over by a cart and wakes up as Altair, whose journal he'd been reading the night before.

Regardless of who transmigrated, Desmond as Ezio or Ezio as Altaïr, the name of this fic will have to be “I have been transmigrated as the legendary Assassin!” (the exclamation point is necessary, the shortening would either be ITLA or LegAss)

The main two ways to get transmigrated is either through Truck-kun (or Car-kun is Truck-kun is stuck in traffic) or by dying while doing something mundane from overwork or illness.

We’ll go for Truck-kun for Desmond and he’ll wake up as Ezio Auditore, the legendary Assassin from Renaissance Italy.

Of course, since we did specify No Animus involved, we’re going for an alternative world where Desmond never got kidnapped and kept living his peaceful life in New York with the added consolation of the Solar Flare being dealt by something or someone else (perhaps Abstergo with their The Eye project? Or Bill gets to be sacrificed instead? XD)

Anyway, Abstergo still released the Animus as a gaming console and one of their games is about Ezio (primarily from Clay’s sessions, heavily edited) and Desmond is hooked.

He admits, there’s a part of him that was jealous of Ezio. Sure, his story was a tragedy that turned him to a monster (or so Abstergo painted him) but Desmond sorta gets it.

Sorta.

Or maybe he was projecting.

It’s just…

Desmond wanted to know more about Ezio. The game ended after Rodrigo Borgia managed to get Ezio not kill him, to show him how he had become a monster and to return to the light.

It felt like a weak ending in Desmond’s eyes and he’d been contemplating if it was worth the risk joining an online forum to talk about the ending and how a lot of Ezio’s actions doesn’t seemed to make any sense sometimes in the cutscenes.

He just got a ping in his phone while waiting for the pedestrian light to go green and blinked when he read that there were rumors of Abstergo planning to make a sequel to Ezio’s game.

Huh.

They didn’t even care about the cliffhanger of Altaïr’s game.

Then again, Ezio’s game was the most successful game Abstergo Entertainment released for the Animus.

The pedestrian light turned green.

Desmond took a step as he read the article.

Then…

Light.

He turned just in time to see the truck-

Before-

Blood.

He tasted blood.

His lips hurt.

What?

“Uccidetelo!”

Desmond blinked.

He recognized Vieri Pazzi immediately. He had seen his ugly mug in VR for so long because he kept replaying Ezio’s game when he was bored after all.

Desmond blocked the attack of the men charging him, his body seemingly remembering the years of training on the Farm…

No.

His movements…

Was he remembering how to move like Ezio in VR?

That didn’t make sense.

None of this makes sense.

“Ehi!” The man about to punch Desmond from behind dropped to the floor as a familiar man grinned at him, “Behind you!”

“Federico?” Desmond choked, recognizing the older Auditore.

“What’s wrong, Ezio? Too surprised to see your older brother saving you once again?”

Ezio.

He just called Desmond Ezio.

Oh god.

He was Ezio.

He just replaced the Monster of Florence, the White Death himself…

Ezio Auditore.

(Ezio, on the other hand, gets transmigrated when he lost his consciousness while reading Altaïr’s journal for the last time before going to the ship that will sail him as close to Masyaf as it could. He gets transmigrated just as Al Mualim stabs Altaïr on the stomach for failing to recover the Apple)

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (5) - the trouble was always here

pairings: biker!cody rhodes x black reader, biker!roman reigns x black reader (mentioned) warnings: FLUFF! descriptions that imply stalking. explicit descriptions of blood and violence. dialogue and descriptions pertaining to guns. cody being kinda simpy (he’s so adorable) roman being a jerk still (he’ll come around) authors note: a present day chapter!!! w/ a full cody perspective because we haven't gotten that yet. finally a little cody and roman interaction. thanks for 1700 followers btw!!! word count: 8800 tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @theninthwonder @thesamoanqueen @kill-the-artiste @empressdede @sortudademais @gg-trini @southerngirl41 @2-muchsauce

...m'not tryin to cause trouble for you...

...you don't wanna cause trouble anymore...

cody had felt the premature slight of his own words then. those few weeks ago, amongst the wordless overly cool diner air and lukewarm food. and then felt it again as he said it. your eyes tired and cautious—dim and slipping into sleep just after the end of a twelve hour shift—suddenly veering off into something less meek and weary.  indignation a bright flare as it woke you up to be less inviting. and cody was still suffering the trickle down effects of that somewhat exhaustive empty diner reunion, along with the onslaught of a new torrential down pour of bullshit caused by his president's drunken tantrum. the diner situation was a mild disagreement. a brakeless drive of frustration that he meant, but did not mean to say. and he'd said the thing that you'd always hated. "don't be dense". a stupid fucking move on his part. it made maneuvering the funeral—God rest's richie's soul—a few days after, awkward and God awful. cody hoped it was something worth leaving to cool off. a dissipation that would make way for a fresh slate. and he'd made headway, little as it was but he was getting his footing again with you. but roman. oh his president and fearless fucking leader. he just had to muddy the water.

and all of that humble, earnest desire—despite the hesitancies—to return back into the fold that was the world of the bloodline, to go generally unscathed, had been destroyed. by whiskey-beer inspired words and the wrath of a bruised man. because yes, roman had performed so well in chilling over since their youth, that now he was bruised. marred and undone, that much cody knew. a spoiled over bitterness that sometimes made for thick and difficult to breathe in air. a siphoning of the room to please him self. to revitalize whatever'd been lost. and unfortunately, to your credit, you'd done well at stealing away such heavy grief, turning the funeral into a reunion. but roman couldn't just sit still in his shit. he had to spread and smear about his anger. a tantrum that sent you home quiet. a silence cody was made to suffer through because he'd taken it upon himself to be your ride to and from such an event of a funeral. made to suffer because he cared. 

but that service and burial for richie, in the grand scheme of cody's long anxious waiting, had been just two weeks ago. two long weeks of silence. and yeah maybe it was partially on him. mostly roman's doing but maybe him too. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', the overripe cherry on top of already stale cake. 

in essence, you were doing his bidding. because avoidance of the bloodline meant free from trouble, as scathing as that thought feels to him. but cody isn't above admitting it. the forming of something harsh and sickly in his belly. a hollowness that drains his skin. not hearing from you is odd. something he hates. 

-monday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: need your help

text message | cody r: ?

text message | incoming: car is fucked

text message | cody r: glad to know i can hear from you if you need something

text message | incoming: 12 hour shifts are a bitch. so sorry for not checkin in every second of the day...was trying to keep away from all this trouble i'm apparently causing. my bad. 

text message | cody r: where are you?

text message | incoming: the house

text message | cody r: be there soon. 

and maybe it's the june heat getting to him, the bare down of the sun muddying his sensibilities till they roll over and form newer with these streaks of entitlement. an entitlement he'd never profess outwardly. never claim to outside of loose thoughts and the nagging linger of other truths kept unsaid. but cody—and God does this sound awful even as he thinks it—much prefers you away from pensacola. away from home. because in those times, his willingness to please you was nothing more than some shapeless desire. something he would do if he could. a possibility. the distance keeping the brunt of his feelings at bay. but having you here—as much as it makes him happy—seems to cause more issues than he'd like. because issues mean a loose fumbling grasp at things. a lack of control. because now he'll actually have to acknowledge the burn in his belly when you look at him. the prick of heat over his skin when you say his name. your anger influencing discomfort till he makes it right. he'd have to—amidst such a cryptic life—be honest about deeply buried thoughts. the hidden things he's always promised to himself to keep hidden. 

and maybe thats why his words slipped out so loose and fast and inconsiderate. 'you don't wanna cause trouble anymore', because bits of that trouble include a deep unearthing of his own shit. 

because roman isn't the only one troubled and undone about you. 

cody's teeth suck. a quick, easy, manifestation of displeasure. because he doesn't stay put and he doesn't drag his feet either. he moves with purpose. present mechanic duties forgotten along with the old and janky BL AUTO sign behind him as he shifts his weight up and into a tow truck. displeasure because maybe his selflessness is more than just a base line compassion. but servile? no. cody isn't that. but as he backs out with a reverse and drives off to meet at your place, your parents old house, he feels his stomach coil up in a way that burdens him wholly. a feeling that has only performed well enough on rare occasions. a tight ball settled at the base of his belly, his chest going on with an irregular beating and cody thinks it's all so damn pitiful. years and years of a slow simmering, never quite getting to the rapid chaos of a boil but hot all the same. but if not for the tease of it than what else was there to have? what other possibility could there be for him besides the grand swarming performance of butterflies. his eyes rolling as he drives. twenty something again. with this particular thing, he still isn't ready to name, cody is in a perpetual state of being that twenty something guy. 

the blare of a horn pulls him up and out of his harboring. the street light apparently green for sometime. 

and he decides—because he's in control, he swears—to leave it be. to allow his body to process the sensations. an attempt at emotional extraction from the physicality of it. because it's not butterflies if you don't call it butterflies. because names give things meaning. a process he's done time and time again. evasion easy and efficient. 

because he's towed plenty of cars. fixed plenty of cars. this would be the same as the others. no emotional weight and ancient histories involved. because cody has the control to will it so. 

and the settling of this process gives him freedom. enough to slip back into the familiar. something that lacks such sentimental complexity. cody observes. the roads, the weather, the cars. taking a fine tooth comb through the details. 

"the underestimations is what gets you son. don't let em get you". 

dusty's voice curling about his left ear. riding just under the flow of a summer breeze. and cody never knew his father to be wrong about anything. 

"always take note of the scene son".

the regularity of the day but a facade. sunny and warm and unsuspecting. but cody knows enough to know that the mere face of a thing is not the representation of the inward parts. that if you look well enough for a thing, it will appear with a clear exposure. and the drive to your fathers house is both familiar and burdening. the pensacola heat and the sentiments of faraway memory attempting with much fight to dull his senses. streetlights he's passed and roads he's turned down before. the only difference now being your presence. and there goes the curl in of his belly. his words refusing to form into truth even inwardly still, to spell out the feelings. feelings he thought quelled. it's something he so obviously needs to work on. his eyes flitting to his rearview mirror, breaking away from those too ardent thoughts. 

a gray chevrolet ss maybe? the model he's unsure. but he's fixed many a chevy to know that its a chevy. 

cody turns a corner, and with him turns the chevy. something he doesn't think much of. giving the wheels of the tow truck an easy ride for a few miles or so. but the chevy remains a comfortable distance behind him. cody takes a test turn. an abrupt right that veers him slightly off course. 

but his truck isn't a pain to follow. the size of it easy to make out. losing the tail from such a spur of the moment turn before it appears again. behind him and steady. the windows tinted. 

his ears burn warm. fingers itching. 

cody rolls into the beginning of your block. double parking several doors down before quickly exiting the tow truck. his fingers slipping out his shades as his feet kick up loose gravel. the tint of them blocking the harsh beat down of daylight. the chevy rolling by at a slower pace, something done to very obviously piss him off, before it continues down the block and out of his sight. his eye looking to catch the plates. 

C47-6BQ. repeating it to himself for good measure. 

and something in cody jostles. a squick sinking in his belly as his nerves go on disturbed. twisting to perform well in his gut. a sickening swim of intuition. the weight of an impending viciousness. a feeling he knows all too intimately well. amidst the quiet breezy heat of the afternoon, the tips of his ears warm and his fists balling. thumbs working to skim his knuckles. always restless and ready. but the quiet is nothing if not the surface of a deepened well, endless in its depth and muddy. filled with slow to die creeping things. problems thought fixed rearing with an ugliness. but these are the worst of his worries. the what if thoughts that take over him. making him restless, but ready. cody is always ready. headaches persistent from an overworking. C47-6BQ. florida plates. a gray chevy ss that drives slow. to what? to taunt him? a warning maybe? 

an acknowledgement. 

he hadn't agreed that night to do what they did. feeling the inner parts of him growing soft and malleable. but messages need clear words. there was, is, never any room to mince words when so little of them were at their disposal in any useful way. actions more concrete than anything that could ever be said. 

KG's house, your house now, closer to him. his feet growing slower. knuckles working still in tandem with the blooming of a familiar knocking in his skull. 

he'd voted for something more diplomatic. a message that read like an advisory. some agreed. seth and jey and sami. 

"this ain't the fucking UN. we ain't working to save face on foreign affairs".

roman had spat that out. riled up and the ball of his fists demanding. and he couldn't be persuaded otherwise. 

and that particular tasting of whiskey was hell to swallow. these slivers of guilt nestling along the bite of it. the bottle passed from man to man and mouth to mouth. a partaking sip that was as vicious as it was fraternal. a dirty burn at the back of cody's throat, before the bottle was poured out over nico jeff's back. dean's fingers working to bring about the quick flick of a match before it'd been tossed hot. the soul crush of a scream and the sizzling singe of skin. and maybe this gray chevy SS is the beginning results of a lack in diplomatic flair. and maybe it isn't. maybe cody's restlessness has finally deadened his intuition, his edge. but cody is his fathers son. and cody has never seen his father be wrong. even beyond death and the grave. 

it'd been reckless. an eager show of power where such theatrics need not exist. but cody's opinions have not had room for proper growth in sometime, especially not now. 

and as cody twists the house key into your front door—a key he acquired sometime after KG's death—he feels that bursting in his belly. that pulling, nagging feeling. skin skittish and his eyes taking to the quiet of the block again. waiting for what? well he's not sure but he waits anyways. painstaking seconds where the dread feels most sure, amidst the stillness, just before the coming in of the storm. 

he wants to be wrong about this. strong, tired fingers twisting the knob to step over the threshold. and he wants to be wrong about his preferences too. wants to feel the guilt of his entitlement, of not wanting you here. but even that wars with other desires. fingers itching to touch you. to hear your voice without the disruptive tone of radio waves.

his head ache taunting him. playing about his skull easy. your movements swift and urgent as you move about the living room. seemingly on a mission. heaps of moving boxes everywhere still. the house cluttered and undone by such abrupt use after years of loneliness. 

cody knocks. stepping in fully. 

your attention shifting just barely. a half of a half of an acknowledgment that plummets the ball in his belly. doing well with this little game of silence. a large box in your arms as you move it to the corner of the living room.

"forgot you have a key", your eyes not meeting. occupied. a finger throwing away a gesture toward your car keys on the coffee table. "the car is right out front. i think the alternator is bad, the battery keeps going-"

"it's fuck me i guess".

and cody can't help the uncomfortableness of this. the skating around and the avoidance. the way you maneuver about and refuse him. a first time of it all that makes him bristle. because when you were in new york, he never had to deal with such bouts of silence. never had to wade through the terrible water of your indignation. there was never anything tumultuous or gut wrenching about this, playing a part in the skull knock of a headache and the overwhelming process of sifting through untouched, un-talked about feelings. it was easy and nice and shapeless. a private little thing to call his own. and God was it good and selfish. and shit what a fuck load of entitlement its caused. so very obviously existing on both ends of whatever this is. because you'd just expected him to perform. and he'd gone about it up til now without a syllable of push back. 

"what?" 

and the way you say it. like a sudden cluelessness of it all has so suddenly taken you. makes his nerves itch. a scratch he can't reach. his arms folding instead. a little more solid and upright. "some courtesy would be nice", a slow stride up to where you move about. his path blocked by boxes. "y'know considering the state of fucked your car is in, a hi or how you doing would be good to hear". his nerves still itching, face warring with itself not to grimace. the shuffle of boxes nearly sending him over a wall. and God after years, you knew still just how to set him off. silence eating him whole. "i'm doing fine by the way if you're wondering". 

you sigh deep. like you're being inconvenienced. "are you good now? got that off your chest?" 

its an abrupt movement. something he's barely processing till he's halfway through it. snatching a stack of boxes from your hands and setting them recklessly over the couch. his eyes hard. irritated. 

"is there something here? what am i missing?" 

because the tension of it unsettles him whole. 

you side step and he's following diligently. patience thinning. he gives you no where to go.

"cody i just want my car-"

"the car stays unfixed until you talk to me. none of this icy, boxin me out shit". 

your eyes cut to him. "i can do without the hostility". 

"be upfront". 

making him live in silence again. amongst the clutter of boxes and bright near blinding daylight. because this part of you has always been a process. something surgical and proving to need a little bit of method. a little bit of time. but cody's patience wears on him. thins his resolve. and such tiredness in of itself can only come from the deep well of care he's got stored in himself for you. and at this present moment 'care' is the word he chooses to commit to. a silent agreement. a word that explains the tensity of headaches and borderline nausea. butterfly's corralling in his belly to sicken him. an uncomfortableness in his body that only wanes with the slipping off of that face of disinterests you've worn so well till this second. 

your eyes softer. struck with bits of pain. 

"i'm not gonna be in places where m'not wanted. i'm not here to be a punching bag". 

"so then why are you here?"

you bristle. "cody what are you-" 

"i'm being serious. why are you here?"

because his curiosity has never taken him so wholly as to ask. only ever to accept the circumstance. but the validity of his question is true, enough for it to unearth an answer that carries just as much sincerity. 

"this is home cody", you give him. 

simple and plain and affirming all of his little ardent unpleasantries. because if this is home, and he's always been here, does that mean he's home too? does the possibility of that answer extend to others? question's maybe not to be answered today. question's maybe never to be considered outside such shapeless thought for the sake of his own poorly crafted peace of mind. because he can live with possibilities. with formless what if's and maybe's. 

"good". a word that falls quick. full in the way it exists against the air. as sure as all the ones after it. "so fuck him then. don't let him and his bullshit run you out of where you wanna be. don't give him that". 

because roman could shift the temperature of a thing quite easily. rooms and situations and people. could siphon the air to a blue-gray-skinned suffocation if it pleased him. hell he'd done it weeks ago. a harsh ability. so very fitting for him, for his heavy leather and even heavier boots. for the little patch that sew itself across the right side of his kutte. cody's president. his oh so fearless fucking leader. 

but it doesn't mean that other things, other people can't live and last amidst the width and hot take of such pride. 

and you concede. "you're right". looking to him with that full acknowledgment he'd wanted for some days. soft brown eyes warm. 

"i don't think i've ever really been wrong about anything". 

"shut up", a small smile against pretty lips. 

his eyes catching the curve of them more than they should. 

"c'mere". 

and the effects of such a slow, gradual, embrace warm him over better than any afternoon cast over of the sun. relief and then the inevitable fluttering swarm of butterflies. that control he so easily subscribed to having earlier done away with as your arms circle about him. a tight enough embrace that brings about the beginning breaths of a resolution. smelling of autumn inspired things that arrest his senses. and maybe this is where those entitled preferences grow sour in their wrongness. maybe his earlier afternoon selfishness was some petulant, tired, anxious reaction. the coming back to life of twenty something thoughts and ideas. maybe seconds old him was right. more right than that slightly older him. because the rightness of the matter was only ever contingent upon where ever  you were and where ever you wanted to be. and that he can agree with, if it meant an embrace this good.

his hands slip. wide and spreading at your back comfortable and innocent. your hands just the same at his arms. your fingers softly testing the strength of them. a slight press in he's all too aware of. 

"you try to silent treatment me again for two weeks and we're gonna have problems", he plays. smiling down on you.

your eyes play at a roll. "m'sorry", you give him. teeth stuck to pull over your lip. your eyes flitting to his mouth before they return. a quick slip of a movement that does nothing to quell the rise of warmth in his fingers. that he felt and saw. a sensation he'll mull over the validity of later. 

his palms come up to hold your cheeks. a tender hold that leaves you unable to look away from him. gentle eyes delicate in their waiting. your fingers holding his forearms. and this to cody feels like an agreement of the moment. the silent reciprocation of a not so newly born intimacy. the shapeless thing now found to have an edge. a streak of definition. new york and pensacola. the everlasting length of text messages and lasting too long phone calls. strung together words that almost say "i miss you", which could've been said if not for the fear of actually meaning it. and the fear of what meaning it means. 

his thumb runs a streak at your skin. sincerity blooming dangerously pure. "m'very happy you're here. okay?" 

if nothing else, the surest affirmation. cody hopes you believe him. 

"okay". 

and when the tension is far too real to believe in, cody falls away graciously. pulls in his touch and the daze of his eyes enough to regain the lasting bits of his composure. hands feeling empty at his sides before he's crossing his arms up over his chest. stepping over boxes again and making a sluggish path towards the door. 

"i should have your car back by wednesday latest". 

you advance with him. "just let me know how much i owe you". 

his eyes roll. "we just had a nice bit of resolution. don't ruin it".

"cody i'm being serious". 

you both linger amidst the threshold of the door. his eyes slipping over your skin to remember the softness. "i'm unfortunately aware. i'll see you soon".

and he doesn't think. finds even that its better not to harp on the why of whatever he does. and its innocent enough. an easy lingering kiss to your forehead. something terribly gentle. an accumulation of all the unspoken things. and with that he leaves. never giving himself the courtesy of seeing whatever you've decided to express in the wake of something as affectionate as his mouth on you.

-tuesday. the first week in june-

kill them with kindness. it's a pride-less phrase. suffers the body to think and act against itself. against the primitivity of instinct. bloodline born instinct. brass knuckle rings and the broken neck of a beer bottle. the drawing up of wet crimson blood and splotchy bruises to deserved skin. killing with kindness isn't cody's forte, but neither is senseless violence. because things need purpose. they need a reasonable decline into bitterness before that shameless stain of iron can dress his tongue. there has to be proper earthen ground to stand on before the strong, old nature of his leather takes him wholly. 

that childish little shoulder check had been accounted for the moment it happened. along with roman's tantrum that led to your teary eyed bout of silence. and you'd never mentioned what he said, but cody felt the possibility of a violation. a deep splitting open of the skin all for the sake of proving that he could do it. that too had been accounted for. and the more he thinks on it, richie's funeral—though no funeral begins or ends well—was only a few steps from a mess. an uneven state of affairs. touch and go as they say. everything too thinly spread, and the histories now existing with too much distance. which has been, was, and is never good. because unbridged gaps promote weakness in the foundation. and naturally, roman—stuck in whatever thoughts of his own—gives no effort in making it easier. 

and cody can feel it, amongst the swelter of the summer sun. the heat talking, taunting through slim breezes. their time approaching soon. a clashing up one against the other, like the stressing violence of metal against metal. he just hopes time for it is sooner than later. before the foundation is too weak to be resolved. 

it's interesting though, funny even, because cody isn't a grudge keeper. doesn't go all out in the meticulous process of such an angry keeping of the score. but that faithful swarming of butterflies, care and the need to please, they use him well as a champion to do their, his inner, bidding. posing and propping him up as this great defender. 

and roman makes no qualms about going unheard. unnoticed. his body tall, blotting out the spread of one of many lights shinning above your car. lips spreading in that amused way that works to cover up the lesser delighted parts of him. "if i knew we did free work i'd put up a sign or two. let the people know how generous of a business we've become". roman's hands pressing into the car to lean inward. a proximity that performs well to make anybody with sense uncomfortable. "i'm a charitable man cody, but i got my limits". 

cody hums. continues the process of switching out your alternator. because you were right, the alternator was fried, causing your battery to drain. an easy enough fix for him, but roman attempting his little show of dominance didn't do much to help. 

"i guess i'm just a little more compassionate".

roman chuckles. turns to lean up against the car where cody works. arms crossed and relaxed. giving him enough space to perform the fix but not enough to do it comfortably. "being a doormat isn't compassion rhodes. it's just being a doormat. humor me though..." he begins. "what's the little deal you two got set up?" roman's faux interest running annoyingly under cody's skin. "you do a little fixin' here and there and then what? she pats you on the back? gives a little scratch behind the ear? tells you how good of a boy you are for her?"

a dog? really? the abuse of it cutting into one ear and refusing to leave out the other. a deep lodging that slots up and slips in against the warmth of his blood. and yes. it's accounted for. like the ticking scratch of a pencil to check through a box. "i don't know roman you tell me". alternator be damned. the heat of the day sticking to cody ungraciously. "you got it all figured out, maybe you know something i don't. six or seven years, cause honestly who knows or gives a shit, of prior experience on the resume and all. thats a long time for skill buildin, to be wrapped around her finger". 

and cody sees roman falter. the slightest bit of a half step. a small little tell so often easily missed. can feel his chest burst wild and so damn delighted. that subtle jaw twitch beneath his president’s beard. 

roman is close. eyes hard, narrowing over cody's face. "it's nothing you got that's better than shit she's already had. that i can promise you". 

"you keep mistaking me for someone you're in competition with".

"competition ain't a word in my vocabulary, but i'll humor you", smiling mirthless. "if it were, we're still levels apart. it's actual comedy how uneven the paying field is here". 

"and you're so right about that", cody fully amused. "considering just how much she avoids even saying your name, i think i like the level i'm at". 

and this was it. the steady decline into bitterness, fixed only by that warlike clashing. an affair close enough, the phantom taste of something iron, wet and pungent on cody's tongue. because it'd happened before, history always finding a way to rhyme. to unearth already thought to be dead things that were not so lifeless after all. 

"hey!", the far reach of deans voice, echoing over loud against the walls of the shop. "kiss and get a room or break it up!". 

cody is right. killing with kindness is treason against the body. against words and instinct. an esteem-less, pride-less thing. and he quite likes his pride. 

-wednesday. the first week in june-

text message | incoming: are you busy later in the evening?

text message | cody r: shouldn't be. whats up?

text message | incoming: making dinner. you should come by. 

text message | cody r: absolutely. your car is all fixed up btw. need me to bring anything else? 

text message | incoming: just you❤️

it means nothing. it means, nothing. it. means. nothing. and the feeling is juvenile. overly sentimental and spilling over. a losing fight as he urges himself not to break with a smile. because cody is old, or at least old enough not to fall into such thrills reminiscent of early twenty something wish and desire. but that doesn't stop the sickly sweet churn in his belly, nor does it keep his eyes from falling over the short exchange of texts. these little flits across the screen, a short comb over, as if with the third and fourth time the letters will reappear to read something different and new and less intimate. less domestic. because he fixed your car and now he's left with the silly assumption that you're making him dinner for it. not just for him but for him all the same. and its all stupid and oddly sitting under his skin. swarming tight in his belly so much so that he walks awkwardly amongst the cloudy chill of the afternoon air. it means something, but for the sake of his peace it will have to mean all of nothing. 

his stomach growling on a dangerously annoying cue. body ready to make the trip back to pensacola. marianna, florida suddenly too far from home—a mere two hour drive—for proper comfort. 

but his leather keeps him bound to club business. his shoes kicking up the loose dirt of the beginnings of a wide patch of land. a ranch spreading out over for some acres. grass reaching his ankles and the air crisp with the teasing smell of rain. seth and dean marching forward just in front of him, seemingly more focused. void of an ardently born frenzy about the nerves.

and in the distance, just at the entrance of a corned off shack, steve waves them over, before disappearing inside. the scuffling walk over to the shoddy wooden build of it giving cody enough time to steel over his expression and the manner of his disposition. because they were on a ranch after all, surrounded by the easy roam of an abundance of cattle being raised commercially. a job like that surely needing an expert level of perception. perception cody is sure steve austin has. what with the stoic manner of his eyes and the mirthless pull of his mouth. always watching and quietly discerning. even with the satisfaction of good business, cody has yet to see the rancher actually smile ever. cody figures he'll save his musings for another time. 

"boys", steve greets. reaching his hand to greet them. firm shakes before he's uplifting duffle bags from off the shack floor and placing them atop a wooden table. unzipping them to reveal the disassembled parts of a variety of fire arms. 

"how's business steve?" dean gives, as the three of them look over the contents of the bags. touching against cool, dangerous metal.

"sometimes good, sometimes not so great, but it goes either way", his voice coarse. "m'hopin we can facilitate business well enough without issue". 

"a simple pick up now and drop off later", seth starts. "it's nothing we haven't done before". 

and steve hums. the noise of it short lived and singing low as it considers seth's assurance. a hum so obviously filling itself with disbelief. steve austin unpersuaded as he makes to lean up against the dusty wooden wall of the shack. blue-grey eyes falling over the three of them. "well usually our business isn't accompanied by so much of a ...spectacle, which is never simple". something like mirth taking his expression, forming wryly. "i didn't know pyro-theatrics were in you all's arena of business". 

something in cody winces. a flinching of his memory as it works with a tireless hand of remembrance. smelling now amidst the earthiness of the ranch that pungent burn of alcohol and nico's skin. his screams as the sizzling melt of his flesh sings hot and dirty. the heavy disappointment felt from that night, filling cody whole once more. his insides malleable and undone by discontent. a decision made he'll always hate. 

but dean chuckles the silence off. a lazy, toothy smile along with it. "we're a uh...multi act group. a variety show if you will". 

"i can admire the severity of it, but also, i gotta say...", steve starts. leading them out of the shack and to their parked truck. duffle bags filling their hands as they all make way across the ranch. "...i don't like it much considering it hasn't done nothing for you all but draw some attention". 

and if nothing else causes a failing in the security of cody's nerve, this does. a fast to plummet drop in his stomach and the quick maneuver of his memory once more. a swift to move flooding of curiosity filled with anxious debris. that grey chevy rolling by slowly and the horribly conspicuous tinted windows. not a warning but an acknowledgment. he breaks his silence. "how'd you hear about it?" 

"got a call from a buddy of mine over in tallahassee askin about the bloodline and that boy yall burnt up. apparently he's connected. well enough for some trouble i'd assume". 

which affirms the existence of the chevy. C47-6BQ, the plate number this echoing mantra about cody's thoughts. eager to remember it for use later. a beat of silence falling over them all as they load in the duffle bags. and what a coincidence it is, for the day to be overtaken by that edging smell of rain. not yet willing to unleash the brunt of it's power but settling to tease them all the same. 

"he was trying to set up a base of sorts near pensacola beach, dealing off the boardwalk and out of some local bars, pushing laced shit", dean goes. his vice president's patch catching cody's eye. black fabric sewn against a gray silver to spell out his rank. his thoughts rolling into words, never straying too far from roman's way of thinking. "our city has been free of the hard stuff for as long as we’ve been around. askin nicely didn’t work for this guy. we're just tryna keep our side of the street clean". 

seth nods, catching deans eye, though he's slow to do so. weary still, cody is sure. steve settling over cody, sharp eyes searching. a silent examination. looking for doubts, cody is sure of that too. but he gives nothing. says nothing. 

"an admirable act for sure", steve nods. his eyes appearing more gray than blue as they live under the cloudiness of the afternoon sky. cody feeling the brunt of them still, sharp cuts into the skin of his face. steve looking for an agreement maybe, or the sign of a grievance. and though the discontentment remains sure, cody's loyalty reigns better than the softer parts of him that work to veer off into less agreeable thoughts and ideas. and it will always remain that way so long as his leather sticks to his body. fraternal codes and all that jazz. never letting the outsiders know of such disagreements and presenting a united front. 

"im guessin we feel good about the merchandise?", steve asks. 

dean reaches out for a handshake as he goes to speak. cody and seth gesturing the same. "absolutely. beautiful stuff as always". 

"drop off is the same?'", steve making his way back slowly. 

"yes sir". 

"word of advice from an animal enthusiast", steve starts. slowly walking backwards to face them still. "no more of the fanfare theatrics. if you plan on puttin down an animal, a bullet between the eyes gets the job done quick and just fine".

a thing easier said than done. the free fall of those words—"gets the job done quick and just fine"—growing a torturous distance from the ability he had once upon a time, when such time was endless. because way back when, cody could feel that crunch of gravel beneath his feet everywhere he walked and thought himself untouchable. an inherited hubris for sure. leather over his shoulders like armor and the roar of his engine this endless war cry of invincibility. he took cuts and bruises and the slices of knives as easy as the road would the simple skid of a rubber wheel. but the days grow shorter here in this older age. the memory in his muscle though quick, not as quick to perform as it used to be. his head wild with the outburst of an aching almost always and his body tired. 

and although the trip from pensacola to marianna and back was a usual one, the ride this time seemed to be quieter. those piled up duffle bags of violent metal heavier and the doom in his belly rolling over harsher than normal.

but that burden in cody never eases, only ever turning itself into something different. the cloudiness of the day rolling over into the evening. the sharp smell of rain resting in the air still. teasing him. your house porch light glowing a warm yellow as he steps up to it. keys in hand and that swarming flutter in his belly. hunger and a not yet spoken into the air passion forming this terrible marriage under his skin. leather draped over it all like a second skin. 

he steps into the house, met with a savory warmth. something fragrant that eases the tension. his boots thudding softly over old hardwood floors. music low and melodic to fill in those pockets of dead silence. your maneuvers about the kitchen a little less than fluid. body still coming into a slow to perform remembrance after a great forgetting. 

but you hear him. throwing words over your shoulder. "leather off at the door please". something your mothers used to say to your fathers. trying their best to grasp at control over a life bigger than them all. 

and cody obliges. feels the domesticity of it running rife in him so much till it starts to smoothen out the ache in his head and the weight in his belly. "hey", speaking gentle. unable to help himself as a hand finds the hard work of your arm, a brief interruption where he squeezes tenderly to let you know he's there. "hey", you give back. similar in how warm and delicate it feels against the air. an arm curling his waist as you reach to kiss at that patch of skin thats too close to his mouth to be his cheek, but too far from his mouth to be anything more than what it is. that 'what it is', he has no damn clue. but it feels good. a little more than amazing maybe. 

he stands off and away enough to let you finish what looks to be a dinner thats a little more abundant in nature than he was expecting. leaning up against the counter as you dip a spoon through the heat of a thick gravy. "smells good".

"i hope it taste good", a thread of nerve weaving through as you scoop the spoon. "i haven't made a roast in a while but here, try this", giving up the silverware. leaving cody to nearly melt in the richness of it. reminding him of old times even. bloodline sunday dinners and the simple inconvenience of wanting to be anywhere but with his parents and their friends. "missing anything?" 

"a plate and a drink". 

you smile. reaching above in the cabinets for a yet to be opened bottle. the cold of cody's blue eyes slipping easy as they lay over the skin that peaks as your top rises up with the reach of your arms. and then the quick awkward look away, warmth in his cheeks as he feels the childish guilt of it. 

"is wine ok?"

"s'perfect".

and no he does not mean to stare so deeply. to emphasize the pronunciation of a word that implies such flawlessness, but it happens. makes that meeting of the eyes last a little longer. a lingering that works well enough with low playing melodies that it forces your tell. lip stuck between the pull of your teeth. turning back to the food that waits impatiently, seeking a reprieve. 

you push at him playfull. in a fashion that begs for the air to be a little more breathable again. "ok go sit at the couch", turning back to your accomplishment of the night. "i'll be there". 

a certain pride swelling in his chest as he makes way to get comfortable on the couch. effectively influencing your nerves enough to cause a little speechlessness was more than cody hoped for tonight. taking in the cleanliness of the living room as he waits. the space bursting with earth tones and splashes of green. the smaller details slightly different, but the feel of the house remains, even with the age of it. the glass of old framed photos clearer, having been cleaned. the boxes working to overtake the floor corners no longer there, the shelves decorated with what must be things collected from your time in new york. a small bowl of rings at the center of the coffee table catching his eye so much that cody reaches for it. carved silver rings he remembers your father wearing all the time. so much so that the impressions remained in his skin.

you bring the wine and glasses first. walking back for the plates. sitting a comfortable distance away from him on the couch. close but not too much. enough for the air not to be so thick and consuming. 

"you never told me how much i owe you for the alternator".

the sincerity of that making cody's eyes roll, albeit a little more playful than serious. his fork working over the plate to dig into it. leaving you to hear him hum with delight at the taste. "dinner makes us even". 

another smile riding through to stretch over your lips. a comfortable wordless air settling over. quiet enough aside from the low ride of the music for cody to notice the wane of his headache. never afforded the grace of a full reprieve from such a pain but here, now, it's the dullest it's been for sometime. and he doesn't necessarily want to do the work of thinking over exactly what that means but he can feel the beginnings of that truth. in the heat of his cheeks and the ride up of a tingling over his spine.

"i feel like fixin the car up for me is the latest thing in a long like of things you've done for me", your plate set aside on the coffee table. glass in hand and trying your best to meet his eyes. "i might be cooking for you for a while to pay you back". 

"if it's anything like this, i'll be over here all the time". setting his plate down next to yours. turning to face you more. "for real though, whatever it is, i'm here. i got you". 

and he isn't sure what of what he said does it, but something flashes through the brown of your eyes. like the quick burning soar of a celestial body. working hot to cover the space of your memory before it disappears. your mouth sipping at your glass again. 

"how's your mom?"

a piece of his curiosity cody has held off on revealing for a while till now. 

"she's good". a neutral expression. a less rigid disposition even. "spoke to her maybe three or four weeks ago". 

"did you tell her about coming back home?"

"we spoke about it briefly", your thumb rubbing over the body of the wine glass. "she didn't have much to say about it". 

"m'glad you both found some footing with each other". 

"yeah", you nod. lost in thought. an arm bending to rest up on the couch. you head falling into your palm. "i think after everything with my dad, the door opened up some for us, but a lot of things for me just changed really quick". the music you have playing, a sweet addition to your voice. your eyes finally meeting him. sincerity blooming full but with a pace that notes the fragility of its unfurling. "we sorta, kinda, reconnected after dusty went, but i think after my pops died i understood you a lot more". eyes nearly nailing into him now. a quick difference from the timidity of them just moments prior. "being in new york, i was used to living alone but not feeling that way y'know? like in the back of my mind when he was alive i could eventually just come back home to him, to everything...", your voice dropping off. 

a heavy sigh he can only imagine the weight of. sipping from your wine and resting the glass down before you finish your thoughts. 

"...what i'm trying to say is...is that you understood me in a way that felt good. i didn't have to explain myself because you just knew what it meant to lose like that". 

his hand reaching to hold over yours. body shuffling against the soft leather of the couch to get closer. a comfort he can't afford to deny either of you. thumb circling the skin delicately. a faint touch that waits for acceptance. and when it comes the embrace of your hands are full and nearly overwhelming. fingers tangling as they curl over one another sweetly. 

"it goes both ways though", he gives. "thats why it's so easy to talk to you". a beat of silence. his words so far from a full admission of feeling but the affects of such a release tear through him all the same. heart stuttering and his belly twisting. his hand in yours still, playing aimlessly against the skin. eyes trailing over all the free space. "how you holdin up here on your own? is the house too big for you?" 

and cody only forgets he's without his leather at the feel of your hand trailing up his arm. over the ways of old tattoos and muscle. a faint squeeze to test the strength of it that he can just barely make out. as if to examine a particular quality he has yet to figure out. your thumb pressing into the inner fold of his elbow. "i think i just need to get used to it again. my apartment in new york was small, so it was fine being by myself". your eyes fall over him. warm from the yellow glow of the living room lamps. feeling them drift to his mouth before they return quickly to his own eyes. "it's just a lot of stuff attached to this place. i just need to readjust, but m'pretty used to living alone".

"that doesn't mean you like it", he says. enjoying the soft touches to his arm still. 

"very true".

"let me know though if that changes. we can always find something else for you". 

you smile. "look at you being all worried about me". squeezing his arm playfully before getting up to take the plates back to the kitchen. giving him a much needed cut in such thick aired tension. 

"ice cream?", you call out. 

dishes and utensils clattering in the background. 

he sighs. needing nothing else. "m'good thanks". waiting for your return to the couch. 

a bowl and a spoon in your hand as you pad softly over back to him. legs pressing into the couch as you go to sit with your legs folded under. "can i ask something?" your eyes curious. slipping over him with some hesitancy. 

"shoot". 

your hand plays with the scoop of the spoon, dipping in before you go to taste it. a silence as you so obviously string together words. gears turning. "at the end of last year, you told me you were seeing someone. what happened to her?" 

"why?" 

"you talked about her quite a bit, was just wondering". 

and never has the admission of anything been so burdensome till now. a weight atop his shoulders threatening to fall into his body till it flattened him. crushing bone and that faithful spirit of possibility. cody could live with what if's, could live in the terrible purgatory of maybe's and daydreams. he'd been doing so for sometime even. settling into a comfortability so stagnant that it left him statuesque. but the room is laden with a melodic tune still, the forever ache about his head nearly done away with and the memory of your easy touch playing over thought. maybe now is the time. as he's so terribly subdued by the moment. maybe now is the chance to tether together the words always left unsaid. 

"you want the truth?"

your eyes flit to him. these little flecks of weariness. "why wouldn't i?"

he sighs. ignoring the twist in his belly. "at the top of this year you asked me to make copies of the keys to here because you were seriously considering coming back to florida for good". 

"i hadn't fully decided yet though". 

"the fact that you considered it was enough for me". 

"i see". 

your eyes on the coffee table. forsaking him. or thats what it feels like at least. an awfulness biting into him slowly. ripping into the skin where his stomach lives. his ears warm, the heat feeding into his face till it rises in his cheeks. 

"listen", cody starts. looking to salvage what he can. "i didn't mean to-"

a sugary vanilla taste slipping over his mouth. your lips quite cold but sweet. the abrupt feel of them softer than imagined. the fulfillment of such imaginings only coming into a full registering once the thick heat of your thighs set over. an easy maneuver to straddle him. your palms at his cheeks and your lips firmer. his tongue licking in slow. savoring the milky taste. a moan breaking up quick, his fingers running beneath your shirt to curl lazily into supple skin. working as an extension of memory. using his touch as a tool to stain himself with everything of you. and God does it feel good. relief washing him whole. a good sort of creep in his spine as your nails run at the nape of his neck. 

his arms embrace you more. the simple hold of your hips slipping into a hug of your body that fastens you to him. another moan filling up his chest before it leaves him, loving the little pick and tug your teeth give his lip. 

a phone rings. stutters the momentum of passion. 

you groan annoyed. hiding your face in the dip of his neck. 

"i think that's you", cody says. palms feeling up on your skin still. working beneath your shirt. getting used to the tenderness. 

you lift up from him. reaching for your phone to tug it out of your back pocket, answering quickly.

"hello", you give. "hello?" your eyes rolling as you end the call. "so damn annoying", you gripe. pulling away from him to sit back against the couch. 

his curiosity piqued. "whats the number?" 

"it's blocked". setting the phone down. mildly irritated. "thats the third time thats happened though". 

it's hard, not to immediately think the worst. "when was the last time?"

"on my lunch break the other day-"

"what day?"

the sudden inquisition of it all gets to you, but it all feels too convenient not to question. 

"i don't know cody", rubbing your hands over your eyes. "monday". 

another ring. clashing terribly against the mellow drive of the music you have going. whatever residuals of intimacy that still lived in the air, now done away with. this time the call blaring from his phone. a shrill noise that brings back the throb of his head ache. he answers quickly, standing from the couch and making way to the living room windows. a peak between the blinds to scope out for anything oddly placed. 

"dean", he gives into his phone. 

"cody quick question". the noise of paper flipping in the background over dean's voice. "i just turned down service on a chevy malibu, the plates looked phony as hell and the girl was being a bit of a weirdo when i asked for the vin. you work on any red chevy's lately?" 

"not that i can remember. you get the plate number by chance?"

"yeah, it was C47-6BQ". 

we gonna stop it there but yeah, the drama is gearing up. some roman next chapter i promise!

[nattravn-art]

Month after writing it, I finally made a vignette for this fic I wrote! Woo!

[unfried-mouth-wheat]

sooooooo about that Dracula x Frankenstein crossover comic idea I was throwing around

[rotating3dobject]

I made a playlist inspired by all my feelings about Go from @okiedoketm 's incredible fic To be Warm in the Cold (which you can read here). I put the songs in order with what part of the story i associate them with, chronologically

If you wanna check out just one song first i reccomend Sam Jam by Covey, the most Go and Sanji sibling song there ever was, which ive been listening to on repeat for days

I also made some cover art for the playlist, based on one of my favorite scenes from the fic (from the beginning of chapter 4) the mental image of which is forever burned into my brain

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2024 - Day 19

Blood Trail | Abandoned Cabin

Contains: generic whumpee, blood loss, waiting for death, escape attempt, cold and snow, hopelessness

They were leaving a trail. Whumpee spared a thought to acknowledge the fact, but there was nothing they could do about it. They already had their hand pressed to the wound, catching as much blood as they could, but there were still bright red drops falling to the ground, glaring and brilliant against the pure white snow. 

Honestly, they might as well have quit walking right then and there. Curled up under a tree and waited to see whether their hunters would find them before they succumbed to the frigid cold.

But they couldn’t give up, not now. Even if it was hopeless, even if this excruciating hike through the woods was all for nothing, they had to press on. They’d been through too much to just lie down and accept their fate now.

By the time that the trees opened up into a clearing, revealing a small, rickety cabin, the trail of blood drops had started zigzagging with Whumpee’s stumbling steps. They halted, swaying in place, and blinked several times to clear their eyes. The cabin didn’t disappear. Maybe it wasn’t a hallucination, after all. 

Something in them warned that they needed to keep walking, to get further away, but their feet took them straight to the door. Maybe…maybe there would be someone inside that could help. Maybe they’d have bandages, or at least would let them hide for a little while. 

But the door swung open as soon as they touched it, and the one room inside was dark and void of furniture or life. There was no one to help. No one wanted to help them, anyway, who had they even been kidding? They were completely on their own. 

It wasn’t warm inside, by any means, but at least the wind was mostly blocked by the log walls. A fireplace on one wall taunted them with the dream of heat, but there was no firewood and they had no strength to do anything with it, anyway. 

They knew they should leave. Staying here was going to do them no good, especially not with that blood trail leading anyone who might be looking right up to the door.

But they were so tired. Slowly, Whumpee leaned against the wall next to the fireplace and slumped to the floor. They could just…rest here for a little while. Right? Just for a few minutes…

The next thing they knew, they were lying on their side, facing the cold fireplace, with their blood beginning to create a small puddle on the wooden floor. It was no use. This was as far as they were going to make it. All they could hope for now was that the blood loss would take them before they were found and dragged back to where they came from.

[shrimpchip123]

tiney in cold blood thing from a while back

[phoebepheebsphibs]

Let me tell you one crazy dream I had last night. Ok so I read new chapter from your fic "hide and seek." But not only that one, but also read in AO3 "the corner store" from Kicstarash.. then it got all mixed up in my head and made me think, how would Splinter and the turtles would deal with one the kids accidentally went into hibernation? Like would they think they.... :( imagine how desperate would Splinter be to try and wake them up so badly. Imagine how much angst for a first time parent 🥺 heart breaking 💔

-💙🌸

Let's tell a story...

Splinter was never really that into biology, but he knew enough about animals to know that most went into hibernation during winter. Mammals did, at least. Well, bears and squirrels did.

But he didn't know that reptiles did. After the mutation, when he'd gotten the chance he'd gone to the library to get a book on taking care of pet turtles. That was when he discovered that turtles were reptiles and not amphibians. That they were omnivores, though you should typically feed them veggies and fruits. That each of his new sons were different species, which really surprised him because in all honesty he thought that there were at max three different kinds of turtle. He was in way over his head, he realized. And then he got to the part about how they were cold-blooded. He got to the part on brumation, a reptilian hibernation, how when it got too cold their bodies slo-o-o-owed do-o-o-own... Splinter didn't fully get why this happened, but all he needed to know was that it did happen and what he could do to prevent it.

Splinter had to get heat lamps and place them all around the lair. He had bundles upon bundles of blankets. He worked overtime to make sure that each area of their sewer home was the right temperature for them all. Splinter's room was nice and cold, down in the low sixties, perfect for a hair-covered warm-blooded creature like himself. And his little babies seemed very content with the warmth he provided for them in every room. He also made sure that they had tiny pools of water waiting in every room too, just in case they got too hot and needed to cool down. Reptiles didn't have sweat glands, after all, so they couldn't cool down the same way a mammal could. But for the most part, and as a first-time parent and first-time reptile caretaker, Splinter was doing a fantastic job.

And then came their second December.

Splinter had woken up in the middle of the night from extreme chills and shivers. All of the heaters and lamps were off; a snowstorm had caused a city-wide power-outage. Splinter immediately rushed to his boys, they were just old enough to have a separate bedroom from Splinter, but they still shared a small bed. Splinter dropped to his knees and inspected the boys. Their heat lamp was off, the back-up heater too! The small bowl of water in the corner was slowly going from liquid to solid. He placed his fingers against Red's neck. There was almost no pulse... He pressed his ear against Purple's back, the tiny softshell tended to sleep on his stomach... he couldn't hear a heartbeat! Splinter panicked, grabbing each turtle and cradling them close to his chest.

"My precious boys," he whimpered, crying softly as he rocked them back and forth. "Please... please do not leave me alone..."

Splinter suddenly recalled something from the book... their bodies slowed down... they were just sleeping! Not dead! But he needed to warm them up as soon as possible...

He grabbed the blankie they slept with and bundled them together, trying to conserve their body heat. He rushed to his room and grabbed two more blankets -- one to sling around his chest like a baby bjorn, the other to wrap himself in. He made a mad dash to the generator, and after a few tries he finally managed to get it started. It took an hour for the heat to come back, and in the meantime Splinter kept himself moving about, hoping that his body would generate enough warmth for the boys...

He felt something. Something move against his shirt, slowly shuffling around in the sling... He pulled back his blanket and looked inside. Dear little baby Blue lolled his head back and forth as his eyes lazily opened. His brothers were still deep asleep, but Blue slowly tried to climb up and out to see his father's face better. Splinter held back tears of relieved joy as he lifted the little six year old up.

"...Daddy...?"

"Yes, my son, I'm here. Are you okay?"

"...Cold... tireedddd..."

"That's alright. It's still late in the night, you can go back to sleep."

Blue nodded groggily, though Splinter could tell the child was ever so desperately trying to fight the sleep. He saw his tiny eyes sliding closed, only to open suddenly as he jerked his head back, looked around, and then snuggled back into Splinter's fur. Then the cycle would continue a few more times before Blue finally succumbed.

By morning, the boys were fine again, and Splinter made doubly sure that the generator was always working after that.

[part-time-zombie]

Y'know what? Fuck it.

Ever since it was confirmed that janus is canonically cold-blooded I've had this idea for a fic where janus is out in the cold only to pass out and shut down when he freezes, which leads to the others having to take care of him and ultimately come to terms with their opinions of him and his role as a side.

I kinda wanna write this but ive never written a fic before so if this gets 10k notes I'll start writing it and put it on ao3.

[onhajoon]

An extract from kbizoom.com

Regarding the news of Season 3 production, Shin Jae Ha said, “Since Ha Joon is already dead in the drama, it is highly likely that I would not appear the next season, but I’m still cautiously hoping to join the team in Season 3”, adding “I had so much fun filming the drama with the seniors so I want to work with them again. I’m upset that my character has killed so many people, so I personally want On Ha Joon to return alive as a member of Rainbow Taxi Company. If not, I really want to come out as Ha Joon’s twin brother”.

JUST GIVE HIM WHAT HE WANTS 😭

[redeyeingirs]

Heyo

It's not that I do this super often, I have quite a lot of work and my own projects right now, the university is eating all the nerves out of me. However, here's something for one fanfiction that pleasantly surprised, heh. To be honest, I haven't seen fanfiction on the "The Thing" fandom before, although I like the movie. In general, here are some gifts for @pixienohken

Tw: blood, oke?

A version of the little goblin with and without snow

Jayluf makes claws

Something else

bug woman

I'm done here

[blushweddinggowns]

It was a strange feeling, walking out of the Creel house. It was unsettlingly quiet, all of the unpleasant thundering and gnashing noises of the Upside Down were just…gone. It should have felt like a relief. No noise meant no demons. Which meant they had won, right? They had won and none of them had died, why wasn’t Steve jumping for joy?

Maybe he just needed to see the kids for it to all come together. Maybe then the knot in his stomach would loosen up a bit after that. Maybe that was why he was peddling like a mad man, suddenly desperate to see everyone in one piece. 

But the closer they got to the trailer park, the more and more that knot tightened. 

He heard it before he saw it, the horrifying sound of Dustin sobbing. It made him pedal even faster, heart in his throat when he turned the corner to see a fucking horror show. 

Dustin was wailing, incomprehensible cries while he cradled an unmoving Eddie. Steve skidded to a stop, throwing the bike aside to kneel next to him, eyes wide when he realized he was kneeling in a pool of Eddie Munson’s fucking blood.

There were chunks missing out of him, enough that you could see inside of him. Steve had never wanted to know what someone else’s guts looked like, but now he had been granted the horrifying privilege to see Eddie’s, barely peeking out from his red soaked shirt. He was snow white, virtually still as Dustin clung to him. 

He looked fucking dead. 

But he was also still bleeding. Steve was no medical genius, but that had to mean something right? He was moving before he could think, retching Dustin away from him, ignoring the way he cried out in protest. He was already tearing pieces from his shirt, hands shaking as he stared at the near corpse in front of him.

"Stop crying," Steve hissed out as he started to press his makeshift bandages against his gaping wounds, "Help me stop the bleeding."

“Why?” Dustin asked, or more demanded. He wiped at his face, but it only made it more wet, red with Eddie’s blood, “He’s dead! A-And it’s my fault-”

“He’s not fucking dead yet!” Steve barked back, tearing another piece of clothing from Dustin’s shirt, “But he’s going to be if we don’t do something!”

Nancy and Robin were circling around them, finally caught up after Steve had started cycling like the wind. Steve spared them a glance, anger rising at their desolate expressions. Why was everyone already giving up? He wasn’t even cold yet. 

Steve kept working, avoiding they’re pitying expression. It was horrible, and he was fucking covered in blood, his friend’s blood. His friend who was going to die if everyone else didn’t get on fucking board. Steve wanted to gag at the overwhelming coppery smell, he wanted to cry at the sight of him laying there, but that wouldn’t help anything. That wouldn't save his life.

“Nancy, check his pulse,” Steve snapped, eyes still on Eddie. He was still warm, that had to mean something. 

Didn’t it?

Steve barely stopped himself from telling her to fuck off when she sighed at the request. Like she was just humoring him when she leaned down and pressed two fingers to his neck. But then her eyes widened.

"He has a pulse," Nancy gasped, clearly shocked, “Weakest thing I’ve ever felt but it’s there.”

That small amount of hope was enough to get Dustin tearing up again, but they didn’t have time for that. Steve barely spared him a glance when he barked at him, too focused on trying to make it semi feasible to move him, “Is that good enough for you? Now fucking help me!”

It was enough to get Dustin out of his grief-induced stupor, and finally he was helping tie the cloth across his ribs. It was a slapped ass job, but it was going to have to be enough. No amount of shitty first aid they could do would fix this. He needed a hospital and Steve was going to get him there if it killed him. 

He hoisted him up in his arms, still barking orders to the rest of them. He was uncomfortably light, and Steve came to the horrifying realization pretty quickly that that was because he was missing probably more than half of his blood. But he wasn’t dead yet. That’s what mattered. 

He basically had to throw him up through the portal and pray that Robin and Nancy would actually catch him. But they did, and they were out, and then Steve was taking him back into his arms and sprinting to the car. He barely even had the wherewithal to realize just how fucked everything else was, but when he finally got Eddie situated in the backseat, his mind was open enough to noticethe glowing, orange cracks in the earth, it made him ill for a completely different reason. 

He turned to Nancy and Robin, voice tight, “Find Max and Lucas. Make sure they’re okay. Dustin, come with me.”

He had never been this bossy in his entire damn life, but he wasn’t stopping now. And no one was arguing with him. Instead the girls went straight for the bikes, no time for comments on the fact that they had walked into the damn apocalypse.  He pushed Dustin into the backseat, with firm orders that he kept pressure on the worst of his gaping wounds. 

Steve did some pretty questionable shit while driving to the hospital, but it’s not like he had a choice. The roads were ruined with literal cracks to hell, so if he had to drive through some people’s front yards, sue him. And if a few mailboxes were also taken out, then fuck it. 

Eddie mattered more. 

He was colder when Steve lifted him from the backseat, and for a terrifying moment Steve was near sure he was dead. But he didn’t dwell, too busy sprinting inside the hospital, grateful that Dustin was doing all of the talking for him.

Or more like screaming. Screaming for help, voice loud and near shrill in the quiet of the hospital. The place was still running thank christ, and it wasn’t even that busy. Or at least not yet. But Steve had a feeling that the earth shattering beneath their feet had left more than a few casualties. They were just the lucky ones to make it in first. 

The next thing he knew he was setting Eddie down on a gurney, and he was being wheeled away. But they hadn’t taken one look at him and declared him dead, so that had to mean something, right?

Steve didn’t know. All of that fury driven optimism about Eddie surviving being eaten alive as starting to die out. He felt fucking ill, and the only thing that had been keeping his focus was gone to fight for his life in an operating room.

Dustin slumped down onto a waiting room couch, head in his hands as he took some deep breaths. Steve sat next to him, cringing when he realized he was going to stain the fabric. He was disgusting, coated in a layer of blood, sweat, grime, and probably some tears in a second here. He barely fucking knew Eddie, but he did know he didn’t deserve to die. 

He didn’t need to know him long to realize that he was kind. And funny, and honestly handled the whole interdimensional monster thing like a champ. He was sweet, in a weird, dickish kind of way. The same type of sweetness that had him shepherding the nerdy trio under his wing. He was smart enough to know how to hotwire a car, brave enough to risk dying to protect all of them, stupid enough to not realize the value of his own life. 

Why him? Why did all of this shit have to happen to him? What did he ever do to deserve this? What did any of them do besides the crime of being forced to live in Hawkins, Indiana? 

“Is he going to die?” Dustin asked, voice muffled through his hands.

Probably. That would have been the logical answer. It was shocking that he wasn’t dead yet. It would be a miracle if he survived through the night, let alone ever hoping for him to be back to himself. 

But Steve was never one for cold logic.

“No,” he answered, voice shaky. He wrapped an arm around Dustin’s shoulder, praying to any god out there that he was right, “We got him here in time. He’s going to be okay.”

There was zero evidence for that. Zero reason to actually believe the bullshit coming out of Steve’s mouth. But it felt true. And that was good enough for Dustin. He nodded, sniffling a little into his hands. They sat in heavy silence, just waiting for some news. Any news.

"I'm sorry, for earlier," Steve said eventually, hugging Dustin a little tighter to his side, “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

Dustin shrugged, "You were right though. Crying didn’t help anything."

“Still-”

“If he lives, you’ll have nothing to be sorry about,” Dustin interrupted, eyes on the ground, “And you said he’s gonna live. So there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Steve wanted to argue. To correct himself, to beg Dustin not to put all his hope into some dumb shit that came out of his mouth. But he didn’t have the time, because there was a whole new round of screaming from voices that he recognized. 

Both of them stood, wasting no time in running towards the sound of Lucas and Robin yelling for help. Though the sight of Max was enough to stop Steve in his tracks. She was already being set on a stretcher, completely limp, almost peaceful if you didn’t look too close. But when you did, you could see how her bones were fucked up, fractures on the edge of poking through the skin. 

If Steve wasn’t crying before, he sure as fuck was now. He looked to Lucas, sight already blurring, “Is she…?”

“She’s breathing,” Lucas sniffled, eyes never leaving the stretcher as she was wheeled away, “Jason almost killed her, but she’s breathing.”

Steve nodded, not asking for more details. They could wait, at least for right now. She wasn’t dead, and that’s all that mattered. And Lucas looked like he was on the edge of a breakdown. Who wouldn’t be, after seeing someone you love have all of their bones broken by a fucking demon wizard. Steve pulled him into a hug, thanking him for keeping her as safe as he could. 

It was probably the most disgusting hug in Lucas’s life, but he clung right back to him, sobbing into his shoulder. 

The five of them ended up hunkering down in the waiting room, silently watching as it slowly began to fill up with more and more people. News about Max came around first. They had pulled Robin aside, wrongly assuming a familial relation. Max was alive and stable. Breathing on her own, which was supposed to be a good sign. She was just in a coma. With minimal brain function. Robin was barely able to choke that last part out before falling into a fit of tears. 

But they were at least allowed to see her. They all migrated into her room, and the sight of her alive and breathing was enough for Lucas to finally allow himself to sleep. He pulled a chair as close to the bed as he could, reaching out to hold her hand before curling in on himself. He was asleep within minutes. And Robin and Dustin weren’t too far behind. Nancy was perched on the only other chair, the three of them opting to sit against the wall. Steve was in the middle, and eventually the both of them used his shoulder as a pillow, sandwiching him in between them as they slept.

Steve didn’t mind, even if it was uncomfortable. If anything it was comforting, to be enveloped by two of the people he loved most in the world. But he couldn’t sleep, despite his exhaustion. He refused to sleep, not until he knew if Eddie was still alive or not. 

Nancy wasn’t sleeping either. She was just watching, quiet as her gaze flicked all around the room. She landed on staring at the wall behind Steve’s head. 

“I’m tired of people dying,” She said eventually, nearly whispering to not wake any of them up, “I’m so damn tired of it Steve. I’m fucking sick of it.”

Steve leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling as he whispered back,“I know.”

“What did Eddie ever do to deserve this? Or Max, or Chrissy, or Heather, or Barb, or all of the other poor fucks who suffered because of this hellhole. Even fucking Billy didn't deserve what he got. When will it stop?”

Steve was pretty sure he had never heard her curse this much since he’d known her. He kind of liked it. Nancy had always been a bit of an enigma, always had this strange sense of mystery around her. But hearing her fed up and tired of the hell that was their lives was oddly humanizing. It reminded Steve how he fell in love with her in the first place.

He brought his eyes down from the ceiling to look at her, a small sad smile on his face. “I don’t know.”

Nancy stood from her chair, hair wild and eyes blazing, way too energetic for someone who went through what they all just went through. She walked over until she was in front of Steve, kneeling down so they were face to face,“I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

She reached for one of his hands, grasping it tightly in between both of hers,“Promise me we won’t die here. Neither of us. Swear to me.”

Steve stared at her, eyes stuck on their clasped hands. Seventeen hours ago Steve would have been pretty ecstatic about Nancy choosing to be this close to him, but this didn’t feel romantic. He just felt obligated. But not in a bad way, it just felt big. Bigger than their non-existent relationship. He felt like she was seeing right through him because she was right. He didn’t want to die in this pit. He didn’t want to live here forever, in constant fear that hell would open back up at any time. He didn’t want to be here anymore, he didn’t want any of them too. He wished this whole hellhole would just be condemned and quarantined, then no one else would have to suffer in it. 

He took a deep breath, looking her square in the eye, “I swear we won’t die in Hawkins, Indiana. Neither of us. When we’re in our nineties and die peacefully of old age, the longest living will have to go out of state for the funeral. ”

“Deal,” She gave his hand one last squeeze before curling back up in her chair, almost like the whole exchange had never happened. But that was just Nancy. She was weird like that, going from scarily intense back to neutrally calm in a nanosecond. 

It didn’t take long before he heard the soft sound of Nancy snoring in her chair, leaving Steve completely alone with nothing but his thoughts. 

She didn’t used to be like that when they were dating. Or maybe she was but she hid it from him, trying to play her part as his loving girlfriend while hiding all of her odd quirks. She used to hide a lot of things from him, and for the first time Steve wondered if he ever even got the opportunity to love her. The real her. Or if he’d just been pining after a fantasy for years. 

He wondered if they would ever be together like that again, or if that dream of an RV full of kids would ever come into fruition. It felt so small now, sitting in this hospital room with one of his favorite people hooked up to a million machines, bones shattered.

 He wasn’t even sure if it was his dream, or if it was just a dream of normalcy. Doing all of the things he was expected to do. Get married, have kids, be happy. And if he couldn’t do that with Nancy, who could he do it with? How else was he going to manage to be normal after all of this, if that was off the table? Maybe he’d just have to accept that he never would be. Maybe it was time for a new dream. And for now, Steve was fine with it being something as simple as not dying in Hawkins Indiana. It would do. 

He wondered if that dream could be expanded into no one else dying in Hawkins, Indiana. His mind wandered back to Eddie, how cold he’d been, how still. Maybe that could be added in. Max Mayfield and Eddie Munson, not dying here. Anywhere but here. 

Dustin used to tell him about how much Eddie wanted to leave. He talked about it nearly everyday, and anything Eddie talked about Dustin would repeat to Steve, because in the span of a couple months the guy had become his idol. That had been his plan the whole time. Get his diploma and bounce, and never look back. And he deserved to have that. 

They all did. And maybe, just maybe, they could have it. He wasn’t dead yet, right? That’s all that mattered. And Steve would repeat that to himself until he actually believed it. Steve let his head thunk back against the wall. And then he did the only thing he could do, he closed his eyes and waited. 

snippet from this fic