#garbage with gait

[gaitwae]

is this how you make a cake?

[lupine-phoenix]

Come one, come all to my ao3 blog!

Quick rules: Keep it PG-13 at a maximum and be polite! No question is a bad one if you're genuinely curious.

You'll see the following fandoms (usually) on my ao3:

Downton Abbey

Star Trek (TOS, TNG, VOY, DS9, ENT, SNW)

MCU

[gaitwae]

did. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I said M*cbeth during a performance backstage and then not even an hour later our set broke. In half. With over half the cast on it.

girl I would kill myself if I did that lol

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

A hand grips your shoulder. "We'll take care of them. Keep low and find a place for all of you to hide. Do not come out until we say."

His words blur together, but you manage to act accordingly, ignoring the pit in your stomach when he disappears around the truck. The concrete is covered in glass and rusted debris, so you keep low without letting your knees touch the ground and motion for the others to follow.

The closest place is an old café, the door closed with chains but the glass window shattered enough for you to crawl through. You pull the knife from your ankle as you move everyone behind the cash register, gripping the handle tight once you lean your back against it. The café is quiet. Still. No one else is here. You steady your breath. Staring at you are the double doors to the kitchen in the back, a thick waft of mold radiating, and behind you are tipped-over chairs and tables.

The noise outside has drifted. When you take a quick peek, you don't see anyone near the truck anymore. It is as if the three of them have followed whoever was shooting.

"Twix, I—"

You look back. Blue is holding her hand out, a shard of glass thrust in her palm.

Blood oozes.

You have no supplies on you, but you carefully pinch the glass between your thumb and forefinger. She bites her lip as it wriggles free, releasing another gush of blood. As if on cue, the kitchen doors burst open with ear-splintering screeches, and three Greys surge toward you.

Blue's bloodied hand reaches for her ankle knife as one tackles you, grinding your spine into the counter's edge. Two gunshots ring out over the snarling in your face. You thrust your arm against its throat, keeping the chomping jaws at bay, and with your other hand, stab the knife into its skull three times, until it whines like a dying animal.

When you shove the corpse to the tile floor, you see the two others on the ground. Blue is pulling her knife from one skull, and Ari has a gun in his hand.

"I only have one more bullet," he pants, double-checking the barrel.

"Someone could've heard the gunshots," Nereida whispers frantically.

"Then we find somewhere else to hide. Come on." Your eyes land on a graffitied door on the side wall. It leads into an alleyway that smells putrid. You motion for Ari to give you the gun as you lead the way, sandwiched between brick walls. You can still hear rounds firing from the street. They stutter in sync with your heartbeat.

You shove a rusted crate that blocks the path. You catch sight of movement, and something scurries between your boots. Blue squeaks and grips Ari's arm, your hand tightening on the gun—but it's only a raccoon.

"There."

You spot a sizable dumpster around the corner, where the narrow alley widens enough for cars to pass behind the buildings. Nereida helps you shove off the debris on top and heave open the lid. A thick waft of rot rises, along with a buzz of fruit flies. The dumpster is half-filled with blackened garbage and charred bones, but no Greys. You don't have time to find another spot as two male voices echo from down the alley.

"I heard it over here!"

"Let's check, come on."

Shit.

You lace your fingers for Blue to step on them. "Quick, get in."

Once the kids are inside, Nereida grabs the edge and hoists herself up. You glance back, stomach coiling as two shadows approach the corner. Quickly, you close the lid after her, scatter the debris back on top, and scurry behind a nearby crate, palm sweaty around the gun.

A fevered study of the shadows reveals two healthy, fit men. One bullet. Something in the second one's gait seems slightly off. You make a split-second decision, peek over the crate, and aim for the first man's chest, doubting your ability to land a headshot.

He falls dead with a thud and then you are launching blindly at the second man with your knife, but you fail to pierce flesh when a strong grip snatches your wrist. The man's rifle skids across the ground and your back is slammed against the wall, your skull colliding with the brick hard enough to make stars dance across your vision. A muscled forearm presses into your neck, effectively cutting off your air.

"Fucking bitch."

Even through the blood rushing between your ears, the growl in your face is—familiar.

You blink up at a man swallowed by a massive burn scar.

The tip of his nose is gone, with eyelashes and scalp burnt away, revealing poorly healed ripples of flesh.

One eyelid fails to open properly, the skin too scarred.

The recognition unfurls your eyes.

He presses harder. "I know you, don't I?" Anger cuts through his gaze. "Ah. That's right—a thief and a killer. You're full of surprises, sweetheart." The curl on his burnt lips makes you flinch, but there is nowhere to go. "I guess you found new friends."

"I guess—I guess you did... too..." Short gasps leave your mouth.

"Shut up," he growls. "I don't want to hear a word from a stuck-up bitch like you who thinks her tits and her cunt are worth more than my goddam face." He is yelling now, spit flying in your eyes. "Don't you dare look away from it! What, not proud of your handiwork?" He breathes hard and looks you over with a snigger. "Finding you is just my luck. I was going to go easy the first time, but now I think I'll kill you then enjoy you. How's that sound? Your corpse being passed around? Hope your cunt is as good when you're dead—"

White-hot anger ripples through your veins and you snarl before hurling a wad of saliva in his face, using the brief distraction to drive your knee into his groin. His staggers back enough for you to escape his hold and push away from the wall.

Gulps of air feel painful down your throat. You back away, readjusting the hold on your knife while he rubs his eyes furiously. 

"You're sick," you growl, voice hoarse and low. 

"And you're not, princess?"

"I'm not a goddamn rapist."

"You ruined my fucking face," he retorts, stalking you down the alley. At least you are drawing him away from their hiding place—you make an unnoticed glance at the dumpster to ensure no one else has approached, relieved to see the lid unmoved. When your eyes flick back to him, a sick curl twitches on his lips. "You're not innocent here. You're damned like everyone else. That ride of yours now has a shot tire, and that boat—" he chuckles, "—what? Thought you were gonna get out of this hell? We made sure to put a hole in that, too."

His words sink in. 

For a moment, horror grips you.

But you channel it through your veins as something useful—rage—and launch at him without abandon. He anticipates an attempt to stab his side again, so he blocks there, but instead, you reach for his marred face and claw the unhealed wounds, reopening them. He howls like an animal, stumbling back and cradling his cheek as blood seeps between his fingers. 

"I'm going to kill you, bitch—"

He blindly reaches for the rifle on the ground but you are quick to kick it away. You jump on him, this time bringing him to the concrete, which scrapes against your exposed skin as you wrestle to come out on top. But he is stronger. Heavier. For the second time you become pinned, he tries to dig his hands into your throat. The lack of oxygen threatens to turn the world black, but you slap a hand back on his face and rip off his scarred eyelid before it can.

He roars.

You spit in his face.

Your knife—you lost it in the midst.

As blood pours from his eye, you outstretch an arm and feel for the handle.

The leather is in your palm.

You stab his side.

You shove at his shoulder to get him off.

Then you pin him down, and plunge the knife over and over into every piece of him you find. Neck, chest, cheek, shoulder.

Again and again.

A slashed jugular. Ripped arteries.

Your vision is consumed by blood. You let yourself drown in it. Hot, thick—

Arms grab you by the waist and lift you into the air.

You attempt to wriggle free and dig your knife in them, but the person is quick to disarm you.

"Twix." 

A skull face stares down at you. Your bloodied fingers wrap around Ghost's shirt as you pant heavily. It's him. He's here. 

"Where are they?" he shouts over the ringing in your ears.

He sets you down, gripping your shoulders to steady you. It takes a moment to gather your senses, to comprehend his words. Your hands, shirt, and face are drenched in blood. Your head throbs with weight. Slowly, the world snaps back into focus. You glance around, spotting Kyle and Price standing behind him.

"There," you finally breathe out. "The dumpster. They're...they're in there. Safe. They're safe."

His eyes flick over the length of you, perhaps to ensure all of the blood is not yours, before the three of them thrash off the debris and lift the lid to the dumpster around the corner. They help out Nereida, Ari, and Blue. 

"Ghost." You try to swallow, but the pain hums with each attempt. His eyes snap to yours just as he checks over Blue. "He... They've shot a tire."

"I know. I've got a spare."

"The kayak, too. How are we—"

"We figure that out later. We need to leave." Price slings the rifle over his shoulder and grabs his wife by the arm. "Those fucks are going to be drawn straight to us now."

Blood. Right. 

You push through the ache in your head and run after them back to the truck. The absence of gunfire signifies everyone else has been taken care of, but just as predicted, a chorus of moans begins to filter through the buildings. From windows, underneath cars, and benches—Greys begin to crawl out. The faster ones are quickly shot by either Kyle's handgun or Ghost's rifle. Price helps everyone into the car and slams the door shut as Ghost and Kyle continue firing.

"Wipe yourself, quick. And change inside." Price throws a rag at you. Your backpack.

You get into the passenger seat, wiping your face and hair with a splash of water from Blue's canteen, then toss the stained rag out onto the street.

You don't care if anyone can see as you slip off your shirt, throwing it out the window, and slipping on a clean one.

Outside, Price and Kyle shoot away any Greys that approach as you suspect Ghost is changing the blown out tire, because you can't see him even in the side mirror. 

Within ten minutes, he flings open the door and takes seat behind the wheel. This time Price and Kyle hop in the truck bed with their guns as Ghost starts the ignition with a loud rumble, veering sharply back onto the road. 

Time has been stolen. It is high afternoon, the sky a clear blue even though the streets you leave behind in Halstead are tainted red.

Now the map is in your hands, but Ghost seems to know the way from here.

"How long can the spare go for?"

"Long enough." His words are clipped. "But the kayak we need to figure out."

"It can't be fixed, can it?"

His silence is your response.

Your mind races.

Minutes blur. Behind you, Nereida quietly helps wrap Blue's hand.

Colchester whirls by without obstructions, but you keep looking out the window and squinting, paranoid. You make it to the coast within an hour. The buildings turn into colorful, seafaring cottages and the streets turn to uneven cobblestone. Seashell chimes dance in store fronts that are plastered with old signs reading KEEP OUT IF INFECTED. Ghost makes a sharp right down a narrow street and parks the truck in front of a lone, blue cottage that seems remote enough to be safe. Even if the kayak was fine, you'd have to stop for the night in order to get out on the water at the start of morning.

A flock of oystercatchers scatters as the truck doors slam open and close. The air, thick with salt and spume, is cooler here, the breeze tugging at your tangled hair, where bits of dried blood still clings. The view of the sandy shore and rocky pier would be beautiful, if your mind weren't elsewhere, if the day hadn't been marked by panic.

Ghost circles around to look at the kayak. "How bad is it?"

"Bad," Price mutters.

He helps him pull it out. 

Blue and Ari sit on the steps to of the cottage's porch and listen in silence. 

Nereida watches from beside you, tucking a sweater on against the chill.

Ghost flips the kayak, revealing a bullet hole that goes through one end and out the other. Anger radiates from his tense shoulders. "Christ."

"We can't patch it like we did the raft, can we?" Kyle asks, bending on his knees to look at the damage.

Price raps his knuckles against the hollow sides. "No, it's hard plastic. It would need welding to fix holes like that."

The understanding lingers in the air as you cross arms over your chest. "I'll stay behind, then," you speak up. Nails cutting your palms. You're damned like everyone else. Nereida looks at you with wide eyes, touching your arm. "If we can't fix it, then all we have is the raft and it only fits six. You guys take it in the morning and I will stay behind here—"

"No one is staying behind," Ghost grits fiercely. He gestures at the truck bed. "It doesn't even matter if we got rid of a person. The supplies have to fit, too. Even if we make it across, we're dead without the ammo and food."

Price trails his thumb over the hole in the plastic. "Two would have to stay behind in order for us to fit all the supplies." Your breath hitches as you watch him calmly stand up. "Or... two would have to swim."

"Swim?" you repeat, shaking your head with a disbelieving chuff. "You can't just swim it. I mean—it's open water ."

"Nothing we haven't swam in before." Kyle leans against the side of the truck, crossing his arms. "But it's further across than the strait. Jesus, what is it? A 40, 50 kilometer swim?"

"Then we take turns," Price says. "Two of us at a time."

"I can take a turn," Nereida offers. "I used to swim in college. I mean, it can't be so bad if we go in intervals, and hold onto the raft."

You breathe deep, looking at the water that crashes upon the shore in the distance and then at Ghost, who is already staring at you. "I can take a turn, too."

"The three of us will start it off. If we need you two to cover, then you'll be ready to go. The kids stay in the raft."

You swallow. "It's not just about getting tired, we need plenty of water to drink. You can still get quickly dehydrated, and the temperature of the water—I mean, hypothermia can set in fast even it is warm."

"We load up on clean water tonight and have blankets and towels ready to go," Kyle says.

You glance back at Ghost. The rise and fall of his chest turns more steady as he nods his head in resignation.

"That's our only choice, then."

The evening is thick with silence.

No one has the energy for conversation, only exchanging brief requests or simple instructions. Starting a fire is risky even here, but you need clean water. A freshwater creek lies a few kilometers back, so Price and Ghost take the truck while the rest of you work on inflating the raft for tomorrow. Whatever happened between you and Kyle goes unspoken, both of you focused on the task at hand, taking turns pumping and checking the seams for anymore holes. When the two return, you help boil the water over a small wood-burning stove in the cottage, praying the smoke rising from the chimney isn’t too noticeable in the growing breeze as the sun sets.

The cottage is mostly bare, with only a dining table, a knocked-over chair, and a stripped bed frame in one of the rooms. The bathroom is quaint, its sea star wallpaper faded, and a warped mirror hangs above the sink. You stare at your reflection while the others lay out sleeping bags on the dusty floor, turning in early to conserve energy for the new plan to cross the channel. Ghost has taken first watch, sitting out on the porch with a rifle.

You listen to their soft murmurs outside the bathroom door as you work on getting out the rest of the blood in your hair. There is a red mark on your throat that is sore to the touch, and the back of your head still feels like someone has taken a hammer to it. Your eyes seem darker than the last time you saw them. You take another rag, wet it, and wipe it all over your skin. Then, you pad back out where the last lamp has been turned off and only moonlight through the boarded windows is left.

You slip into the empty sleeping bag next to Blue and stare at the ceiling. It is impossible to sleep—to even close your eyes for longer than a few seconds. Your heart refuses to even its pace, furiously pumping blood through your veins.

After an hour of lying still, the itch becomes intolerable. You slip silently from the sleeping bag, grab your backpack, and creep to the back door by the kitchen. It opens to a patch of overgrown grass. The cold air raises gooseflesh on your arms, but after emptying your bag, saving only the clothes, and tying it up on a branch, your blood runs hotter. Teeth gritted, you pound your fists into the makeshift punching bag, breathing hard through your nose to keep the noise to a minimum. 

You hit it until your lungs burn cold, and take a pause only to grab the backpack, close your eyes, and lean your forehead against it while breathing deeply. 

"I would say you can't sleep because you're excited for a swim tomorrow, but I know better."

His voice is just behind you, a rough murmur over the distant lapping sea.

You don't turn around. "I'm thrilled for it, actually."

A pause. Then, "Quite heroic of you. Offering to stay behind."

"I wasn't trying to be a hero. It just made the most sense."

You let out one last huff and then settle back into your stance, reopening your eyes to take another swing, but a hand on your wrist wretches you away. You glare up at him as he holds both of your closed fists, peering down at the raw, reddened knuckles.

You’re ready to argue—to tell him to leave you alone and let you hurt your own hands if you want to—but instead, he surprises you by letting go and stepping back. He chucks off his jacket and tosses it to the ground, unrivaled strength evident in the width of his bare, inked biceps. His feet widen, and his fists rise, silently beckoning you.

It’s been over a week since your last sparring session, but as soon as your fists are raised, the familiar rhythm takes over. He doesn’t hold back—not here, not ever. You abandon strategy, driven by the primal satisfaction of ramming your knuckles into his ribs. The adrenaline surge becomes the perfect distraction, each punch feeding your hunger for more. Your breath quickens, harsh and ragged, as you throw punch after punch. Most of your hits are deflected with effortless grace. He mirrors your every step, matching your intensity with his own.

He sweeps his leg out, sending you to your hands and knees. A growl escapes your lips as you spring back up.

He circles you like a vulture.

"I saw his face."

Cold sweat trickles down your bruised neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"It was burned. Well, what was left of it. You fucked him up more than necessary." He lowers his fists, eyes locking onto yours with an intense scrutiny. Your nostrils flare as you aim a swipe at his jaw, but he catches your forearm, yanking you close until your chest is pressed against his. With a firm grip on your chin, he tilts your face upward, forcing your narrowed gaze to meet his."You can't hide, Twix. Not from me."

"He was the one who almost raped me, is that what you want to hear?" You dig your free hand into his chest. "And I killed him."

The shade of his irises darkens. "You did what you had to do—what I knew you could do when I left you. You protected yourself and the others."

"I enjoyed it. I wanted to kill him, and I have never wanted that before." You swallow through your sore throat and feel a subtle tremor up your spine as the fresh images brandish your mind. "I wanted to feel his blood on my hands, and if you hadn't stopped me, I would've kept going."

"He deserved it ten times over. I would've done the same."

"And what do I deserve?"

His voice is harsh. "You deserve to cross the channel tomorrow, and keep going. It was life or death. He got death, and you got life."

"And how much longer do I get it? Until the next time people start attacking us? The next horde of Greys? Even if we make it there alive, it will never be a normal life. I can never be a normal person again. Never. I feel like...like there is something broken and rotten inside of me, a-and maybe it was always there, like you said. But only now can I truly feel it."

By the last word, your voice has quieted to a harsh whisper. You avoid the stare bearing down at you by turning your chin. You failed to realize how close your faces have become. Your gaze drifts to the arm still holding you, prominent veins trailing beneath the inked skin, and you swear you can see a pulse in them as fast as your own. Heated breaths pass between your bodies in silence before you look back up at him.

"You murdered someone, didn't you?" you breathe out. "Before shit happened. Outside of the military. Actual murder."

His jaw ticks. "Yes. I did."

The blunt admission doesn't surprise you, nor does it frighten you.

He lowers his face a bit, enough for his exhalation to leave gooseflesh across your cheeks. "Ask me if I enjoyed it. Go on."

"Did you?"

"Very much so."

You swallow hard. "I guess you haven't been normal for a long time."

"No. I guess not," he murmurs.

The air feels thick between you. He studies you intently, fingers uncomfortably tight around your wrist, when the tip of his masked nose nudges tentatively—experimentally—against yours. Your breath hitches at the top of your throat. Your fingers absentmindedly slip under the hem of his mask on their own accord, peeling it up his neck to reveal a stubbled, scarred chin and full, pink mouth.

He doesn't move to stop you.  

You study the sight before you—one you didn't see so close up even when he broke his nose.

Then—the last thin thread of sanity within you snaps. With a surge of abandon, you firmly close your lips over his.

Heat instantly spreads through your mouth, through your limbs, and down to your socked toes. It is enough to flood you with the raw need to taste more of it. Your hands lower to twist tightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him closer, and for a moment, those warm lips move slowly against yours. Then, he firmly presses on your shoulder and breaks away with a thin thread of saliva joining your mouths.

"Ghost." You pant raggedly, eyes darting across his face. Humiliation is ready to sink in at his rejection, but he growls under his breath and kisses you again—harder this time, drawing you in with a hand to your jaw.

It quickly turns into a clumsy, greedy mess of clanking teeth. One of your hands curls around the short hair at the nape of his neck. It is difficult to comprehend that it is his tongue, hot and demanding at the seam of your mouth, pushing in once you part it open. It is his hand moving from your jaw to your hair, fisting it to the point of pain, while his other grips your hip and backs you into the tree.

Your spine presses roughly against the bark. The heat and solidity of his chest against your breasts makes your mind go numb. You can't think about anything, not the day behind you or the one ahead, only feel. Blood courses through your veins with the same heat as when you fight him, but instead of growling in anger, you release a throaty sound of desperation, moving your hands to the backs of his shoulders and digging your nails into the flexed muscle. It encourages him to grind his hips against yours with a low groan, striking an unfamiliar wave of warmth between your legs.

You try to recreate the satisfying friction, greedily bucking into him, but it's difficult with the standing position. The mess of emotions inside you is impossible to sift through, but one certainty stands out: you need more of this, whatever it is.

You attempt to lift your legs and lock your ankles around him, biting his lip as a demand for him to help you, but his hand suddenly releases its hold on your hip and he rips away from your mouth, breathing hard through his bitten lips.

"That's enough," he says roughly, stepping away.

What?

It doesn't feel like even close to enough.

Before you can reach for him, he gives you his back and leaves you there, trying to regain your breath. 

[yeyinde]

piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao

You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.

He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—

Watching.

In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—

Not.

Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.

Something is wrong with your dog.

He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.

You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—

There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—

(and he looked so scared.)

Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—

Him.

Check on him.

He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—

It's—his—lip curls.

He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—

"Baby?"

It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—

It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.

"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.

You wait for it. And wait. Wait—

But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.

He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.

Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.

That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—

His eyes are on you.

Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.

He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.

You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.

You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.

Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—

Fear.

That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.

You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.

He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—

He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.

He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.

He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.

He's going to eat you alive. You love him.

This thing isn't your dog—

He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.

Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.

Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."

He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.

The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—

You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.

As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.

(leave him there—)

He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—

Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.

Scratch, scratch, scratch—

He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.

"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"

Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.

When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.

"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

part two to this little thing 'cause i saw these tags on the last part from @stevesjester and actually kicked my feet and giggled about it

After Pretty Boy kissed him, Eddie walked back to the staff break room in a daze.

His slow lumbering gait still managed to scare some folks, though, so that’s a plus.

He opens the door, slowly turns to close it softly, and leans back against it once it is.

“Eddie? You okay?” Comes a voice he’d know anywhere. “Wait, that is you, right? You’re supposed to be Piggy Man tonight?”

Eddie pulls the rubber mask off, making his stomach flip thinking about the last time it was pulled up. You know, ‘cause he’s a sap.

Chrissy takes in his shocked, sweaty face, “Oh my god, you okay? What happened?”

He looks up at his roommate (best friend, sister) in her bloody cheerleader costume, an ironic holdout from their time in high school, and breathes a laugh, “I fell in love.”

“OMG OMG tell me everything right now!!” Chrissy bounces over to him excitedly and pulls him down to the bench of their one (1) break table, a sagging plastic picnic table.

He looks up at her bright happy face and barks out a half hysterical laugh, “I can’t believe you’re this excited about me potentially falling in love with someone I’m literally being paid to scare.”

“Oooh, so they were a runner??”

“Yeah, literally in this case.”

“Start talking, Munson, or I’m going to throw all your guitar picks down the garbage disposal.”

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ.. Okay, so I did my usual creepy husky voice at him, called him all the usual things,”

“Let me guess, you started with ‘pretty boy’?”

“Yeah. ‘Cause he’s pretty. Duh. Damn was he pretty…”

“Uh huh. And you fell in love with him ‘cause he was pretty?”

“No, no of course not, listen to this:” Eddie sits up straighter in preparation for the story. “I had him backed into a corner, right? The fake gate over in section 2B,”

“Ah yes, of course.”

“Yeah! And when I lunged at him, he caught my arm, and spun me around.”

“Shut. Up.”

“No, never. SO he’s got me backed against the fence, and he–I swear to fucking Jesus H. Christ–lifts my mask up and kisses me.”

Chrissy starts to squeal incoherently. “Eeeeee!!! Shutupshutupshutup!! Holy shit there’s no way this happened!!”

“Look, 100% serious right now; he kissed me stupid, and spun around and booked it again.”

“Pretty Boy distracted you with a kiss to escape!?! I cannot believe this, c’mon..” Crissy grabs ahold of his arm again and pulls him out of the breakroom with her insane unchecked leftover cheer squad strength.

“Whoa, what? Where’re we going?? He’s probably gone by now! I was standing over in 2B like an idiot for a while after he left!!”

“Not that, we gotta go see Argyle.”

“Argyle why—ohhh shit. Oh my god, you think they caught it on camera?” Eddie’s actively following her now.

The two burst into the warehouses’ security office, where they’re met with the backs of two ‘zombie’ guards (and the leftover smell of weed).

“Argyle, Jonathan, you need to look at something for us,”

“Is it the footage of Eddie’s makeout sesh in 2B? ‘Cause we’re waaayy ahead of you pompom.”

“Ah!! Holy shit he was telling the truth?!” Chrissy bodies between the two, sending Argyle rolling away on his chair, and Jonathan staggering back a step.

“Dude, that’s so cool of your boyfriend to come to the haunt, keepin’ us in business.” Argyle directs at Eddie, though still spinning slowly in his chair.

“He’s not my–you thought he was my boyfriend?”

“Yeah man, why else would you look at him like that.” Jonathan points down at the screen. 

Chrissy re-winds it again and Eddie watches himself charge forward at Pretty Boy (damn, he’s still pretty though this grainy footage too, how the fuck is that possible??), get spun and–oh shit, they’re right.

“Oh Jesus Christ.” he hangs his head into his hands, falling down into Jonathan’s previously abandoned chair.

“Sooo…he’s not your boyfriend..?”

Chrissy re-winds the footage again. Squeals happily.

“Nope. Just met him tonight.”

“Wow dude, that’s like, love at first sight if I ever saw it.”

She re-winds it again, squeals.

“Yeah I know, it’s embarrassing as shit, alright?” Eddie’s still talking into his palms.

Chrissy snorts at that, “Not for you! Well..kinda..but him too, did you not see that pause?”

“...What pause?”

His question goes unanswered as Jon and Argyle move back in over Chrissy’s shoulders and after a few seconds both “Ohh…” in sync.

“The fuck’re you talking about?”

“Look,” She re-winds the tape once again and points, “Watch after he lifts your mask.”

So he does, and..okay, there was a pause.

“...So?”

“He totally fell in love with you at the same time you did him. Fell with him. With each other?”

“You both fell in love at the same time.” Chrissy says what Jonathan was trying to. “We have GOT to find this guy somehow.”

Chrissy records the footage on the screen with her phone, intending to post it online to find the guy, but Argyle’s positive he’s gonna show back up tonight.

“Give him a chance, pompom, he’s totally in love too, remember?”

“Fine, but if he doesn’t come back today, I’m posting this. Maybe it’ll get us some more business too.”

“Do I get a say in this?” Eddie asks, already knowing the answer.

“No.” Yep, there it is.

So, he rolls his eyes, puts his mask back on, and finishes out the night like everything is normal and he didn’t just fall head over fuckin’ heels for a random (hot) stranger earlier.

He’s done for the night before Chrissy since she’s got a lot of that fake blood to try and wash off, so he grabs up his stuff and heads out the front, intending to wave bye to Gareth at the front counter before braving the frigid late fall wind to warm up his car (and move it closer to the entrance so Chrissy doesn't have to walk in the cold). 

“See ya Ed,” Gareth calls, and he waves over his shoulder at him as he passes, his attention pulled to a blonde with a choppy bob looking in through the glass of the door, partially silhouetted by the bright ass headlights of a shiny Tesla parked behind her.

He can see the shadow of someone in the driver seat too, as he gets closer and opens the door for her, their face only partially lit up through the tinted glass by the glow of a phone screen.

She starts rambling off immediately after the door is open. “Oh my god, I thought we were too late and you were closed and I completely didn’t even realize I’d left something here when we were here earlier an–”

“Nope, no worries, ma’am, just go talk to Gareth at the front counter and he can tell you if someone turned in…whatever it is you left here.”

She says her thanks and scoots past him, and he spins quickly towards the side lot where his old Neon is parked.

He glances back when he hears the bell chime over the door, a bit delayed (probably the wind holding it open), and sees that the Tesla’s stopped beaming their headlights into the front door, that’s nice of them.

He unlocks his car and gets in, turning the engine over and cranking the heat as high as it’ll go. Once the engine stops it’s signature ‘I’m cold as fuck rn, don’t even try to move me’ rattle, he drives to the front door to wait for Chrissy, pulling in next to the burgundy Tesla.

He scrolls down TikTok for a couple minutes before a banner pops up on his screen

Chris C.: oh my holy fucking shit eddie, get your ass back inside!

Panicking, he races back in through the door, not even bothering to shut off his engine (or close his car door for that matter), thinking shiny Telsa duo is like, robbing the place or something, but as soon as he gets back in, he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

His heart’s still beating a mile a minute, but now with nerves.

Because standing infront of the counter are Chrissy (who’s actually vibrating with excitement), choppy blonde, and…

Oh fuck.

No way.

“H–hi, hi. I’m Steve, you’re Eddie right?”

He can’t help the grin that splits across his face. “Hey, pretty boy.”

thanks to @henderdads for rightfully pointing out that modern day rich boy steve would probably have a tesla <3

tagging everyone i saw in the tags of the last post that seemed interested in more/wanted to see the aftermath lmao: @bangarangdarling, @tartarusknight, @kas-eddie-munson, @wormdebut (AMAZING url btw), @vecnuthy, @perseus-notjackson, @homosexual-having-tea, @matchingbatbites, @scarcrossdlvrs, @anzelsilver, @auroraplume, @kkpwnall, @wildwildsoul, @bennys-burgers, @steveharringtonssluttywaist

[sardonicdoll]

able-bodied artists (or artists who don't have the relevant disabilities even if they are physically disabled in some way) really need to start checking themselves because i have seen more than enough ableist garbage on my TL recently. i don't get any traction on twitter though so i'm posting this here instead.

1. i'm not giving my thoughts on "AI art" because i do not have the patience and energy but bringing up physically disabled artists with limb differences, motor impairments, etc. (the ones that able-bodied people put on a pedestal because inspiration porn, anyway) as a gotcha is just as bad as the "AI art" bros you're arguing with who aren't disabled themselves (or disabled in these ways) but also tokenize these forms of disability. we're not ammunition in online discourse, i bet 10-1 that you people never uplift and empower and give a platform to disabled artists w/ limb differences/motor impairments/etc. in your online art spaces otherwise, and any logic that amounts to "this disabled person can do [x] so you're just not trying hard enough/what's your excuse?" is always always ALWAYS ableist no matter how you try to spin it, sorry.

if you don't have these conditions and consider yourself an ally to us then you do not have any business speaking with any kind of authority in conversations involving limb differences, motor impairments, etc. and art-making, or bringing artists with these conditions up when people are talking art-making and accessibility. full-stop. speaking from experience, being an artist with coordination and motor skill impairments when i'm surrounded by artists who aren't hindered by those things (even if physically disabled) really takes a mental toll on you and being all "oh this guy learned to draw with his teeth, so" does not help that whatsoever.

2. speaking as a horror artist/author - critically examine what you consider monstrous or horrific and the overlap between that and visible physical disability. not only have i had the above nonsense shoved in my face but then semi-popular art account posted a few photos (from online assumedly) that they called "monster eyes" when one of those images was leukocoria and another looked something like tonic pupil and/or coloboma (the pupil looked atypically large and out of place.) structrual eye conditions that cause visible differences aren't "monstrous." one of the images had crystals growing out of the eye, which, yeah! do more with that. but consider that images of "freaky" eyes you find on the internet are in fact eye conditions that real people have and what you're doing is associating how their bodies look with "monstrosity."

people have talked about this quite a bit with limb differences, bodily proportions, gait differences, motor impairments, etc. but i've never seen it talked about nearly as much with eye conditions. stop associating aspects of visible bodily differences with horror and monstrosity. even if it's unintentional that's purely due to your ignorance of the wealth of conditions that cause disability. exploration of disability and bodily difference within the context of horror and monstrosity can and honestly should be explored but that should be left to to those of us who actually understand what that is like rather than those who only have an outside perspective.

generally i'm very tired of able-bodied artists and then any physically disabled ones who lack respect for those of different experience to their situation.

[saywhatjessie]

And The Microphone Smells Like A Beer

Written for the @housemdanniversary exchange! 2.7k [Ao3] Gift for @island-ofthelost. Enjoy!

Wilson heard House’s lopsided gait approaching his office and immediately picked up a random file. He didn’t look up when the door flew open, the sound of House’s steps pausing in the doorway.

“What’s this?”

“Hmm?” Wilson said, looking up even though he knew what House would be holding. He looked at the box, anyway. It was wrapped in newspaper. A Lady Gaga article was facing up. “A present,” he answered, pretending to turn his attention back to the file.

“Presents are wrapped in shiny paper,” House said. “This is garbage.”

“I’m recycling,” he said. “You can open it before deciding it’s garbage.”

“You just told me you were recycling.”

“The paper, not the present,” Wilson rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to open it.”

House scoffed, tossing the box carelessly on Wilson’s desk. He collapsed with a grunt in the opposite chair. “You don’t want me to open it?” 

Wilson shrugged, moving his eyes back over the file he was holding like he wasn’t at all interested in this conversation. “Makes no difference to me.”

“Oh no, of course not,” House said, hooking one leg on the corner of the desk and using his hands to pull his bad leg over it. “You just got me a present and wrapped it all up because you don’t care if I open it.”

Wilson put down the file, playing up his exasperation as he looked at House. “I saw it. I thought you could use it. The wrapping, I admit, was an indulgence.” He waved vaguely at the wrapped box as if he could wipe away the transgression. “But, honestly, throw it out if you want, it doesn’t matter.”

House made a disbelieving noise before snatching the box back off of Wilson’t desk and tearing at the paper. Wilson very carefully hid his smile.

House managed to get the device out of the box without identifying it, holding it up to his face in complete confusion. 

“Is this some kind of kinky metal bit gag?”

Wilson huffed a laugh. “Do you see any kind of tightening mechanism? Shitty ineffective gag.”

House hummed, putting it over his head. Once the bar rested in front of his mouth, he figured it out.

“Oh,” he groaned, whipping it back off. “A harmonica harness?”

Wilson grinned. “So I guess it is kind of a gag, in a way.”

House scoffed, holding up the harness with disgust. “This is the dorkiest thing you could have possibly given me.”

“It’s useful,” Wilson insisted. “I’ve seen you play and you always have to take one hand off the piano to play the harmonica. Don’t you want to keep your treble hand in play?”

“‘Georgie On My Mind’ doesn’t need treble during the harmonica portion.”

“But what if I wanted you to play ‘Piano Man’?”

“I refuse to play ‘Piano Man’.”

Wilson shook his head, amused, and held up his hands in defeat. “Fine. You don’t have to use it.”

“I wasn’t going to use it.”

“Good,” Wilson smiled.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

  House came into work with the harmonica holder around his neck, his harmonica strapped in and ready.

Wilson heard him before he saw him, standing at the nurse’s station at the clinic and glancing over the file of his next patient. He heard House coming, as he usually did, but in symphony with the usual three beat footsteps was a discordant heeee and hoooo timed with each of House’s breaths.

Wilson looked over at him, amused to see House dressed as he usually was in his sneakers, jeans, and blazer over band-tee combo, but with the shiny new harmonica harness around his neck.

“You’re looking dorky today,” Wilson greeted him.

House played a sort of ‘womp womp’ on the harmonica before pulling his mouth away and grinning.”This has made being annoying so much more efficient. I don’t even need hands.”

Wilson nodded, noting that House’s hands were otherwise occupied with his cane and a takeaway coffee. He never usually stopped for coffee on his way in. He probably wanted to test out how annoying he could be before he hard launched the harness at the hospital..

“Very efficient,” Wilson agreed, stealing House’s coffee while he was being too pleased with himself to notice. “Are you angling for something from Cuddy or is this just your usual pursuit of chaos?”

“I was going for ‘make you regret giving me this,’ but now I’m thinking I should have saved it. Do you think Cuddy would cut my clinic hours?”

Wilson sipped House’s coffee and shrugged. “Probably not just for this. It’s pretty benign, for you.”

House finally noticed Wilson stole his coffee and snatched it back. Wilson just smirked. “This is just the first phase of my irritating scheme,” House assured him, taking a spiteful sip of his own coffee. It was still too hot and Wilson enjoyed watching him pretend not to wince. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve.”

“I would never doubt that,” Wilson said. He tapped his clinic file on the counter then smacked House on the arm with it. “See you at lunch.”

  The next few hours passed with Wilson treating patients and people coming up to tell him about House’s latest shenanigans. And then lunch passed with House telling Wilson about his shenanigans and Wilson acting like it was the first time he was hearing them.

He laughed around a bite of his reuben. “And she just never acknowledged you?”

“She let me follow them down eight hallways. The rich donor or whatever looked back at me a lot. Which is normal! I was playing every step she took! But Cuddy pretended like she didn’t hear anything.” He grinned admiringly, stealing a chip from Wilson’s tray. “Cold-blooded bitch.”

“She probably only walked that much because she knew it would hurt you,” Wilson noted.

“Probably.” House sighed, the air blowing through his still-mounted harmonica and producing a soft note. “I will have to become even more disruptive.”

“Good God, man,” Wilson said dramatically, pausing with his drink halfway to his mouth. “A disruption? You go too far!”

“I will disrupt, I will agitate, might even do some light discombobulating.”

“Please no disturbances or I fear I may faint.”

House smirked, picking up the other half of Wilson’s sandwich and taking a bite. Some sauerkraut leaked out and dripped on his harmonica.

“That’s gonna taste like that forever, now,” Wilson commented, lightly.

House grimaced, wiping it off with his thumb before sucking it into his mouth. “I eat a reuben every day. My mouth always tastes like sauerkraut.”

Wilson hummed, allowing the hyperbole. House had other harmonicas.

  Wilson’s afternoon was back-to-back patient consults, so he wasn’t privy to what disruptions House was executing. It didn’t escalate enough that anyone from House’s team saw fit to interrupt him, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

This was all but confirmed when Wilson came home to the condo that evening and House was pouting on the couch. House would take issue with the word “pouting” and it might look more like brooding or scheming to the casual observer but Wilson was a connoisseur. Sitting slumped on the couch, legs spread, idly twirling his cane in one hand was peak House pouting behavior.

“Wow,” Wilson started, tossing his keys in the bowl. He heaved a huge breath of relief as he shrugged off his jacket. “I had such a relaxing afternoon. No commotions, kerfuffles, not even a brouhaha.”

House scowled. “Shut up, you sound like a middle school vocab quiz.”

“No, seriously,” Wilson said, setting his briefcase on a kitchen island chair. “I got so much work done! My patients were comfortable, my office was orderly. Peace and love on planet earth.”

“I’m gonna piss in your desk drawer.”

“That would still only be half as annoying as you said you were going to be.”

House groaned, stilling his cane and bringing it up to butt against his forehead. “I got a case. Got distracted. It’s surprisingly interesting. But not as interesting as how much Thirteen and Chase seem to care about it.”

“So, what, you forgot to be annoying?”

“No, of course I was annoying,” House said, rolling his eyes. “It was just localized to my team. Who are practically immune.” He blew out a breath. “I could try again tomorrow but I’ll still be working on the case.”

Wilson hummed, cracking a beer and bringing another one to the couch for House. House took it, leaning a little to the side so Wilson could sit next to him. “Maybe I can bring it back later. Save it for a better time.”

Wilson scoffed, making himself comfortable. “You just got on my case for recycling.”

“It wouldn’t be recycling, it would be a callback. Self-referential humor.”

“Cliche. Not usually your style.”

“You’re right, I need way more bullhorns and whipped cream.”

“How about this,” Wilson said, leaning more of his weight against House. “You already know what’s wrong with the patient, right?”

House swiveled his head, waffling. “I have theories.”

“You know,” Wilson repeated, rolling his eyes. “You’re just playing with your food so you can watch whatever’s happening with Thirteen and Chase.”

House just took a sip of his beer, not confirming nor denying.

“I bet you you can’t last a whole day only communicating through the harmonica,” Wilson said.

House scoffed but in an interested way.

Wilson smirked. “You can still do your DDX on the whiteboard, but you can’t write or text or type or whatever to say words, you have to speak with your music.”

House rolled his eyes but took another sip of his beer, consideringly.

Wilson waited, settling back into the couch and taking a sip of his own beer.

And of course House answered how he knew he would: “You’re on.”

Wilson let himself into the Diagnostics outer office the next morning, greeting the fellows who were already there and helping himself to their coffee set up. The patient must have been stable because no one was panicking and Taub and Foreman were bickering about something outside the case. He let himself dawdle, hiding House’s mug in a lower cabinet and brewing a fresh pot. He didn’t mind waiting. Actually, waiting was kind of the point.

He was pouring himself a fresh cup in the mug that used to be Cameron’s when the ducklings all sat up a little straighter, catching the sound of House’s approach just moments before Wilson.

Not that it was hard to miss. He was breathing into the harmonica as he walked again.

Wilson smiled down at his mug as he stirred his cream in, turning and resting his ass against the counter to watch the show.

House opened the glass door, the harmonica making a kind of “hello” shaped sound as he entered.

“Oh good, we’re still doing this,” Thirteen sighed, turning back to her file.

“Patient’s responding to treatment but started presenting a rash on her pelvis,” Chase reported, unbothered.

House dropped his backpack and cane at his seat, making another sound on the harmonica that could really only be interpreted as a joke about syphilis.

“STI panel was clean,” Foreman answered. “And she’s not allergic to what we’ve given her. Which makes it a new symptom.”

House played a chord in reluctant agreement, limping over to the whiteboard and uncapping his marker.

Wilson wanted to ask him if the rash changed the diagnosis House had already come up with, but he wasn’t about to give the game away. Not when the team didn’t seem to realize what was happening yet.

House added “pelvic rash” to the list of symptoms and then “blurry vision” right below it.

“The patient hasn’t complained of blurry vision,” Taub said.

“Well, she does wear glasses,” Thirteen said.

“And she’s worn glasses since she was 10, why would this only now be a symptom?”

“She probably does need glasses, but if her vision got blurrier, she might just think she needs to change her prescription, not that it’s a new symptom.”

House played a delighted note and pointed at Thirteen.

“There’s no reason to think she has blurry vision,” Foreman argued.

“Unless you think you know what it is,” Chase said, talking to House.

House shrugged and made an ‘I don’t know’ kind of sound. Foreman sighed.

“It doesn’t hurt to check her eyes,” Thirteen offered.

House played a loud bleat of agreement. Then he pointed at Chase, pointed at Taub, played a little trill and pointed out the door.

Chase sighed, getting up, “Fine, we’ll go do an eye test.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Foreman argued.

House played a sarcastic little riff that probably amounted to ‘the patient’s not presently dying, just do the damn test,’ and Foreman scoffed and let Chase and Taub leave.

“What are we supposed to do?” Thirteen asked.

“I can answer that,” Wilson said, standing straight from his slouch.

House narrowed his eyes and played an agitated eight count. Wilson rolled his eyes at him. “You would say that.”

Thirteen looked between them, her eyes lighting with mischief. “I’m assuming we don’t think it’s cancer and you’re here about the harmonica.”

“I am,” Wilson said. “And it’s extremely telling that no one even asked about it this morning.”

Foreman shrugged. “He was messing with it all day yesterday.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t spoken.”

Wilson watched as Foreman and Thirteen blinked, looked at each other, looked at House, and smiled.

“Do you have to talk through the harmonica?” Thirteen guessed.

“Did you lose a bet or is this the bet?” Foreman asked.

“This is the bet. And I need you both to tell me if he cheats.”

House made a discordant sound of outrage, gesturing some mean stuff to Wilson.

“No typing or texting or writing stuff to communicate. The white board is fine and he can gesture,” Wilson told them, grinning at House over his coffee. “Just for today.”

“Done,” Thirteen agreed, immediately. “So do we just tail him all day or…”

“No, I'm sure there’s something doctor-y he needs you to do,” Wilson said, making his way to the door. “And while I’d love to watch him attempt to explain whatever that is, I should get back to work. Have fun, House!”

House flipped him off as he left and Wilson let himself cackle down the hallway.

  House lost, of course he lost, but Wilson had fun watching him try.

As usually happened, the case got complicated, and House couldn’t resist telling his team why they were idiots. He did make it through most of the day, though, so Wilson couldn’t gloat about his victory too much.

He could, however, hold House hostage in his victory, back at House’s old apartment, and make him play for him.

“This is humiliating,” House said, playing the opening keys to “Piano Man” on his own piano. “I’m better than this. You’re better than this.”

“Silence, music man, or there will be no bread for your jar.”

House rolled his eyes but leaned forward to play the opening harmonica. Wilson raised his beer in praise.

He sang along with House on the choruses but let House sing the verses, enjoying his rough baritone giving the song a jazzier sound. He pushed his way onto the piano bench with House, forcing House to sway with him. House shot him annoyed looks but didn’t falter on the music, even smiling at Wilson when he held up his beer to be a microphone.

House played out the song with the harmonica and piano chords at the same time and Wison went in with raucous applause.

“You’re a dork,” House told him, but his eyes were soft. He took off the harmonica harness and laid it gently on the piano. “And a terrible winner. You could have made me do this at an actual piano bar. Or at the hospital. You didn’t even take a video.”

“Why should other people get to hear you play?” Wilson said, leaning his body into House. “They didn’t win a bet. They didn’t get you a good present.”

“This is not a good present.”

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“Yes you do – you love it and you love me.”

House sighed, bringing his arm around Wilson’s waist. “You got me there.”

Wilson hummed, leaning in to kiss House. House kissed him back hard and they very quickly got carried away.

Wilson could not be blamed: that harmonica had been hogging House’s mouth for days.

[pyfilove]

｡ .◦ ° ʚ  𝐿𝑒𝑡'𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 ɞ ° ◦. ｡

Description: Edward may be strange at times, but Y/N managed to become a good friend to him

Warning: Smoking and foul language

Word count: 1897

Y/N exhaled the smoke from her cigarette and extinguished it on the railing. Throwing the bull off the fire escape, her eyes darted to the window, where Edward was already standing and looking tiredly at her. It was her roommate; they had been living together for four months now. In fact, she would like to move back to her parents' house, but with Edward life was much more pleasant and comfortable.

“Are you going to go out through the window every time to smoke on the stairs?”

It may have sounded a little rude, but her antics amused him.

“At least I can fit through the window.”

Y/N smiled slyly, hinting a little that he was chubby. He rolled his eyes in displeasure and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He opened it and immediately exhaled with displeasure.

“You know, I don’t mind you taking cigarettes from me, but can I at least ask about this?”

The girl turned around.

“I didn’t steal anything from you... I promise.”

The stupid smile never left her face.

“I started counting them and two cigarettes were missing.”

"Sometimes you can."

She shook hands. Looking into the distance, she watched as several police cars drove along the road, the howl of a siren hitting her ears. Looking down a little, she saw a couple of bastards injecting something or using something. Y/N didn't really understand, so she didn't pay attention. There was always garbage lying around the house. It was dirty and unpleasant. This whole city made her feel tense, as if she lived not with people, but with animals. To get away from it all, a cigarette, good night weather and a starry sky helped her. Looking up, she saw a beautiful sky with numerous stars.

"Beautiful."

She said quietly. Until someone's hand touched her shoulder. Y/N jumped looking back. With a smug smile, Edward stood behind her and held her shoulder.

“My size doesn’t stop me from climbing through that damn window.”

He said, reaching his hand to his pants pocket and taking out a lighter from there. With his other hand he held a cigarette.

“Will you?”

He asked with the same smile. The girl was still in shock, she wanted to say something about this.

"How?"

"What how?"

He said a little hesitantly from the incomprehensible answer from her.

“How did you get in?”

“Like you, through the window.”

"But..."

“Just because I weigh more than you doesn’t mean I can’t fit through that window. Although I thought I would get stuck...”

He laughed quietly, adjusting his glasses a little with the back of his hand. He handed her a cigarette.

“You know, I want to be your lung cancer sponsor.” The guy answered, bringing the cigarette closer to her.

“I’ll pass,” she answered dissatisfied. Edward shrugged and put a cigarette in his mouth, he lit it. With a calm gait, the guy walked closer to the railing, placing his elbows on it. Exhaling smoke through his nostrils, he pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked at Y/N again.

"Is something bothering you?" When their eyes met, the girl was already on her wavelength. While Edward was feeding his nicotine addiction, the girl was enjoying his movements. How gracefully he smoked, and how he adjusted his glasses with a busy hand. And how he exhaled smoke. This smoke fascinated her. Y/N fucking loved it. She would have continued to stare at him until another word came out of his mouth.

“Hey, Y/N...what are you thinking about?” Edward took another drag on his cigarette and looked straight at the girl. The girl immediately thought, she shouldn’t have told him that she was enjoying his nicotine addiction. So I said the first thing that had been bothering me for several weeks.

“Um... well... Gotham... You know, I want to get out of this hole.” She said quietly.

“So get out of here.” Edward said as he took another sip of nicotine and exhaled smoke into the night air. “You don't deserve to live here.” The guy's thoughtful face immediately appeared.

“Wow, exactly like that. Does that mean I’m worse because I don’t deserve this shitty city?” She immediately smiled slyly. I wanted to wipe this expression off my face. But he just put out his cigarette on the railing.

“You know what I’m talking about... so that you go to the city better, much better, arrange your life, and not rot here.” Throwing the bull over the railing, he looked at the night sky. Y/N smiled more at his words. Despite the fact that they were roommates for only 5 months, they got along very quickly. Perhaps she expected such an answer from Edward.

"And you?" The girl answered calmly, looking at Edward.

“I...probably...don’t even know...” He mumbled something under his nose.

“What don’t you know? You're a smart enough guy, I think you can handle the move. I especially think you will be appreciated in a normal city.”

"Don't think." He answered sharply, turning his gaze to Y/N. “Everyone wants status, money, but not intelligence.” The girl came closer to him and gently placed her hand on his back. The hand stroked his back in circular motions.

“Ed, you may not be appreciated at work or anywhere else...know that I appreciate you very much. And I think that they don’t even deserve to communicate with someone like you. Know that you are important. Important to me.”

Edward froze at these words. Something flashed through his head, as if he had already heard these words.

“Important...? We’ve only been talking for 5 months, how can I be important to you?”

“Auch... do you doubt my feelings?”

“No, it just feels like you’re lying so I don’t feel pathetic.”

“Nope.” She continued stroking. “You know, I say this from the bottom of my heart. In this city, only with you I was able to get along well and I appreciate it.” The gaze turned to the night sky. “I’ll probably even be sad without you...” She said quietly.

The guy's cheeks quickly turned red realizing her words. A smile adorned his face. And the hand closed its eyes in embarrassment.

“I'm glad you're my roommate, not some weird bastard.”

“You know what, Ed? Let's move out of this city together?"

"Together?" The hand immediately fell from her face, and her eyes stared at her.

“Y/N, are you sure? But what about the difficulties and…”

“I don’t care, more precisely.” She thought. “Other people move and nothing happens. They live there, no matter how hard it is.” She turned to him and looked him straight in the eyes. “Let's leave this hole together. You and me."

These words made his heart beat faster. Edward couldn't tell if she was joking with him or serious.

"To hell." There was a soft smile on his face. “We’ll leave this hole, just you and me.”

“And we’ll live in... Mmm... I want to go to Las Vegas, oh no Boston... You know, let’s go to California..."

“But I have a question.” Edward adjusted his glasses.

"What question?" She said enthusiastically.

“Why do you want to leave with me? And without that ‘you deserve it’... Do I mean anything to you?”

She was silent, thinking about what to say. "Do you want the truth?"

“You know I don’t like lies, so I only want to know the truth.”

"I think I like you."

“D-do you think that...?” He was shocked, thinking that he had mixed up her words.

“I like you.” Her look was a little uncertain from his reaction.

Immediately his tall figure loomed over her, making the girl feel so small and tiny. Two large hands cupped her cheeks, gently stroking the skin with their thumbs. The girl looked at him, a blush filled her cheeks, she definitely did not expect this from him. Looking away, Y/N laughed nervously, her hands grabbing his wrists but not trying to free herself from him.

“It's a little embarrassing.”

“M?” He answered quietly, without stopping to gently stroke her cheeks. His thumb touched her lower lip. My heart rate quickened and the butterflies in my stomach started celebrating. Y/N wanted to say something, but didn't want to ruin the moment. My eyes closed in anticipation of what would happen next. His head bent down, bringing his lips very close to hers. "Can I…?" The voice trembled a little.

“Yes,” she answered almost without breathing.

Edward's lips gently touched the girl's lips. Both his and her hearts were beating wildly in their chests. The girl squeezed his wrists a little, feeling a wild surge of emotions and adrenaline. But the guy himself just stood up like a statue and could not move from embarrassment. Feeling that Edward was not moving, she opened one eye to look at him and was immediately surprised.

"Why are you crying?" Y/N gently cupped his cheeks and wiped away his tears with her thumbs. At this moment, his hands slowly moved to the girl’s waist and hugged her tightly, holding her close to him. His head buried himself in Y/N’s gentle shoulder and the guy whimpered quietly, pressing himself against her.

“I..just don’t believe it.” He purred against her skin. “I'm glad, very glad that you feel the same.”

The girl laughed quietly and hugged him back tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck. The hand slowly moved gently to the back of his head and gently stroked and also fingered the strands of his hair. The guy felt better from her touch and her recognition. All he wanted at that moment was to gently hug her and kiss her, quietly telling her how much he liked her. Edward calmed down a little, but still did not want to let her out of his arms. The guy raised his head a little and brought his mouth to her ear.

“Can I kiss you again. Your lips are too beautiful for me to stop.”

The girl just smiled shyly, feeling that her legs were becoming weak.

“I would be only too glad,” she said, moving away a little from him to look at him. The guy's eyes and cheeks were still wet, but his sweet and small smile shone throughout his face. He tightened his arms around her waist and immediately kissed her. Lips greedily grabbed Y/N's lips so that she gasped in pleasure. The girl's hands moved to his cheeks, needily cupping his face with her palms. In my head there were thoughts only about him and how greedy his lips and touches were. Edward continued to greedily enjoy Y/N, his possessive hands gently penetrating under the T-shirt and roughly touching the girl’s back.

“Let's leave this town.” He whispered into his lips.

"Certainly. And we will live happily far from here.” She immediately wanted to kiss the guy again, but he averted his face. Y/N looked back at him questioningly.

“Let's not continue this here.”

“Well, yes...Then one at a time?” Hinting at a cigarette.

"Fine." With a sweet smile, he took out two cigarettes and handed one. The girl immediately took it and Edward lit her cigarette and his own. The two of them lit a cigarette and enjoyed the night.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unexpected 28

Sequel to Unsolicited

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, car sex, Lloyd being the worst, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

How many times have you been awoken by this man? You resist the urge to elbow Lloyd as he jostles you again. He lets out a weak whimper in his struggle. You keep your eyes shut and your back to him as the bed shifts.

He stands, another pathetic noise escaping him. You listen to his uneven gait as he crosses the room. Is he trying to make a racket or is he really hurting that bad? You huff and stay as you are, you're so fucking tired.

He leaves the room and you hear him slowly trail down the hall. His feet thump on each stair as he descends and you growl. You’re wound tight, tighter than ever. Even after everything said, you just can’t ease the tension.

You open your eyes fully and push yourself up on resignation. You rub your lower back and reach for the thick support belt, wrapping it around your stomach as you stand and pulling it tight. It helps ease the pressure off your hips.

You move as slowly as he did but steadily. You cling to the railing with your other hand on your back as you take the stairs one by one. In the kitchen, Lloyd leans against the counter, fighting to load the coffee maker with one hand.

"I got it," you insist as you near him, "you're just going to get it everywhere."

You stop beside him and take the scoop, measuring coffee onto the basket filter. You sense him watching you as you slide the tank off the back and move to the sink to fill it, reaching past your belly to flip on the faucet. You glance over to find him staring at your stomach.

He looks awful. Dark circles under his eyes, ugly bruises splotched on his cheek, the cut in his brow inflamed, and his bare chest criss crossed with bandages. He still wore a healthy bristle of stubble on his jaw and cheeks. Christ, you suppose looking after him is good practice. 

You sidle past him and return the tank to the machine. You shut the lid and hit start. The smell of the grounds tempts you. God, you miss coffee. Real coffee. 

"You should go lay down," you say as you put your hand on your stomach, "you look like garbage."

He steps closer and puts his hand below yours. You wince as he feels your bump. Well, it's pretty big now.

He bends, sucking in air between clenched teeth as he groans, "how's my little girl?" He rubs your stomach, "I'm sorry I went away, sunshine, but I'm back now."

"What are you doing?" You glower at him.

"Checking in with my peach pit," he peers up at you with a grin, "you like that? I came up with that a few nights ago."

You roll your eyes and brush his hand away. The heat from his touch lingers, raising beads on the back of your neck. You miss it, the warmth of someone else, even him. So much so, that you got good use out of your array of toys in his absence.

He grunts and you pull on his arm until he’s somewhat straight. His forehead is lined with agony.

"You should lay down," you open the cupboard and stretch to grab a mug, belly against the counter.

"Take your own advice, sweet cheeks," he purrs, "god, you're so big."

"What?" You snap as you set the mug down loudly.

"No, no, babe, not… not in a bad way. I swear."

"Sure, please, go back to bed," you chide, "you're just gonna make it worse and I'm the one who's gotta listen to it."

“I’ll go on the couch,” he says, “see, I can compromise.”

“No, you don’t think you can’t make it back upstairs,” you cluck.

He opens his mouth but stops himself from whatever he was going to say, “you’re right, honey.” He brings his hand up behind your head, “always so wise.” He tilts your head and kisses your forehead. You frown at the doting gesture.

“Go. Lay down,” you turn away to watch the trickle of coffee, “I’ll bring you it.”

“What would I do without you, peaches?”

“Trust me, I wonder that more than you think,” you grumble as you grasp the edge of the counter.

He leaves you, reluctantly, more grunts and groans to denote his pain. It’s almost satisfying that he’s the one in agony. For once.

You fill a cup for him after a few minutes and shuffle across the kitchen. He’s on the couch as promised, one leg up as he’s angled against the armrest. You hand him the cup without a word and waddle away. You grab a cushion to shove behind him, forcing him to lean forward, a squeak escaping him, and unfold the throw blanket from across the back of the couch.

“Put something on,” you give him the remote.

“You’re leavin’ me?” He asks thinly.

“I’m tired,” you look at him, “you need anything else?”

“Well,” he smirks, “you know what I want but need?”

“Hm, Lloyd, you’re a fucking mess. You can barely sit up.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

“It wasn’t a yes either.”

“But you’re thinking about it.”

“Oh shut up,” you shove his shoulder and he whines, falling back against the pillow.

You help push his other leg up onto the couch, an awkward struggle around your stomach, and you back away. He pouts at you and you huff, hands on your hips.

“Fine, I’ll stay,” you go to the chair and he whimpers, sending you a mope, “There’s no room for me over there, Lloyd.”

“I’ll make room,” he pleads, “come on, peaches, it’s chilly in here.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I hurt, baby,” he stretches out one arm, curling his fingers wantingly, “please, sweet cheeks.”

“Oh hush,” you push away from the chair and near him, “let’s just figure this out so I can sit down.”

You lay your head on your stomach again as he moves down the couch. He yelps as he shifts the wrong way and grabs his shoulder. He growls but holds back. He points behind him, “I’ll put my head in your lap.”

“I don’t got much of a lap left,” you cross your arms.

“We’ll make it work, I wanna be close to my baby girl,” he reaches to pat your stomach but recoils as a pang strikes him. “Fuck me!”

“Fine,” you turn and sit, falling the last little bit onto the cushion. 

You watch him in his effort to get himself down, his neck awkwardly bent to accommodate your stomach as he rests it in your lap. He manages to nestle onto his side and fishes the remote from beside him. He holds it up over his shoulder.

“You can put something on, baby, one of your trashy shows,” he wiggles it at you.

“Trashy,” you snatch the remote, “whatever.”

“I mean, we all know your taste, peaches, you’re with me–”

You grumble and point the remote at the TV. You skip over your recommendations for a new melodramatic reality romp and instead opt for a docuseries. Lloyd is not the height of your taste level, if anything, he’s the bottom. In more ways than one.

Jesus, he’s invading your head.

“You know, peaches, I let the other guy get a few good ones in, just for you,” he says.

“Sure.”

“Really, I was holding my punches,” he says as he wiggles and hisses as he tries to fix the blanket. You reach over to help him, pulling it up his arm, “and thinking of you. Maybe I shouldn’t have just fucked off. Maybe… Maybe these bruises should be from you.”

“No, you had to. I was gonna bash your head in.”

“Yes!” He cackles.

“What? What is wrong with you?”

“Peaches, if you were thinking of caving my skull in, it means you were thinking of me. You’re a woman of passion, you know that?”

“I’m a woman without patience,” you correct him, realising your hand lingers on his shoulder, a thoughtless act. You flinch but don’t pull away. “Now hush, I’m tryna listen.”

He’s quiet, just for a moment, slowly reaching up to squeeze your kneecap, “I like this, peaches.”

“Then stop ruining it,” you poke him.

He lets out another soft chuckle, “you like it too, don’t lie.”

“Can’t hear you, watching TV.”

“Peachy–”

“Lloyd, I’m about to tear every hair from your head if you don’t be quiet. It’s early and I’m exhausted,” you smack his shoulder and he winces, “and it’s all your fault. You and your damn daughter.”

“Daughter,” he chimes, “she’s gonna be just like you, peach, and I’m gonna be in big trouble.”

“Pfft, me? She’s gonna be a handful and that sure as shit isn’t from me,” you snip and feel a tweak, a subtle spasm, “speak of the devil.” You press your hand to your stomach as the movement continues, “oo, she’s… awake.”

Lloyd sits up, cursing under his breath as he wobbles a bit. He looks down at your stomach wide-eyed. “You can feel her.”

“Well, yeah,” you scoff, “here, she’s dancing–” You grab his hand and push it against your belly, moving it around until she kicks again, “she’s an early riser.”

“Dancing?” He keeps his hand against you, “we should get her into ballet.”

“We got some time for that,” you shake your head and the sharp squeeze in your bladder makes you jolt, “fuck, she’s on my bladder.” You grip the arm rest and struggle to stand, “shit, I gotta go.”

“Baby,” Lloyd does his best to help you up, “you okay?”

“Pause it,” you toss the remote and move as fast as you can, “fuck.”

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 14: It’s Such a Perfect Day

Summary: You and Arthur go on your first "non-date" date, not even realizing it. *I got the idea for this one listening to Lou Reed's song "Perfect Day".

Just a perfect day You made me forget myself I thought I was someone else Someone good

*This stunning image was found on Pintrest, posted by Gail Hall. Awesome page, check her out. 

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

It is late morning and you turn your face up into the warm sunlight, squinting your eyes closed to the bright light. A contented hum escapes your lips as you settle into the languid sway of your horse's gait. It is an almost hypnotic motion, one that is always so comforting to you. Sighing deeply, you eventually open your eyes to look upon the vista stretched out ahead of you as you ride through the countryside. You could never tire of this view. The rolling landscape is lush with the vibrant colors of the fall foliage that has now started to turn for the season. The grasses sway softly with a slight breeze that kicks up every now and again as if Mother Nature was to remind you to stay awake and pay attention to the wonder around you. 

You look over to your right and see your traveling companion following suit. Arthur is not as awe-struck as you are when you're out and about like this, as he is out of camp more often than you. Arthur is used to roaming and sleeping under the night sky, being exposed to the natural elements and such. But even though he is used to it, it doesn't mean that he doesn't appreciate it just the same. Arthur is not one for "city-life" and is more at home in the countryside. He is in his most relaxed state when he's just as he is now:  on his horse, casually riding through the hillsides, with nothing but the clouds in the sky and the occasional squirrels in the trees to keep him company. The only other thing that could make it any more perfect for him when he is out like this is if you are riding alongside with him, just as you are now. You are not together as a couple, yet you both find great comfort in each other's presence, an unspoken "thing" between you. And with that notion, as if he internally knows your mind, he turns to look back at you as well. Meeting each other's gazes, not a word is said between you, and he returns just the smallest grin, but one that makes those lines around his eyes crinkle with happiness.

Today, you and Arthur have spent the morning hunting, trying to stock up on more food and supplies for your group. The task has proven most successful as you have brought down two deer and a handful of pheasant. Along the way, you came across an apple tree that still bore fruit, so you quickly grabbed what you could that wasn't rotten or picked-at by the birds. You even came across a rogue squash vine that was growing along a fence post! (Probably seeded there by either critters or a vegetable tossed to the side like garbage). Elated with your score, you and Arthur head back to camp with more than enough meat and a few sacks of wild fruit and vegetables, even mushrooms, that you've found along the way. At the moment, you are humming and singing your favorite songs off and on as you let Blue wander at his own pace beneath you. You even catch Arthur humming along with you, with a few words being mumbled in there as lyrics as well. The two of you are in such high spirits this morning, but unfortunately, things are about to take a turn. When you get back to the camp, you and Arthur are faced with the wall of negativity that is everyone else's foul mood.

You and Arthur get your horses hitched up and begin to carry the meat and bundles of other food over to the food wagon. As you approach Mr. Pearson to bring him the provisions, you are met with his horrible out-of-tune singing as he fusses about, preparing whatever concoction he's planning for today's meal. It makes you cringe inside a bit, causing your nose to wrinkle with the discomfort to your ears. But Pearson's horrible caterwauling is soon drowned out by the sound of bickering off in the distance. Dutch and Molly are at it again, and everyone can hear the yelling across the camp, even with them enclosed within their tent. Their harsh tones and constant hollering seems to swell by the minute. You and Arthur exchange an uneasy glance amongst yourselves before turning around to head off in the opposite direction if you can, desperate to find reprieve.

But the two of you simultaneously halt where you stand as the off-setting choice in the other direction is not that much better. Off in the remainder of the camp, Ms. Grimshaw is after Tilly once again, the two of them exchanging bitter snaps with each other. To your right, Bill and Lenny are having a heated debate over a game of cards. And although you can only faintly hear them, off to your left, you can see that Abigail and John have gotten into it. And by the way their arms are swinging around, it seems to be a fight that is rivaling the one that Dutch and Molly are having at the same time. Hosea smartly took Jack out for a walk to get away from all of the noise, and Charles is practically hiding up on the hill, working on new arrows. And to complete the sad sight, your eyes land on Uncle, passed-out drunk already under the tree.

Your surroundings are darkly depressing and you suddenly feel very trapped, like arms of oppression are closing in around you. You and your "family" live hard lives, difficult lives, and it is hard to have moments of unadulterated happiness such as the one that you and Arthur shared earlier this morning. Which is why you suddenly feel very defensive about prolonging the lovely mood that not only you are in, but have managed to procure for Arthur as well. This man constantly exudes exhaustion, evidence of it settled deep in his blue eyes at all times. And you were just so pleased that you were able to offer him just a bit of comfort and escape by simply getting him away from the trappings and responsibilities of the camp, even if it was just for a few hours this morning.

As you stand there, you can feel your face pull up in annoyance. You were floating on clouds just moments ago after your morning with Arthur, and now you have come back to this disheartening sight. You sigh deeply, feeling your shoulders dropping by the second. You shift your weight from hip to hip, debating on what to do. Arthur must feel the same way as you, as he has yet to leave your side. In fact, instead of running off and hiding in the safety and seclusion of his tent, his body slowly drifts to move closer to yours, almost as if to shield you from all of this ugliness. "Arthur?" you quietly say his name, fearing that you're about to get swept up in the wave of everyone else's bad temperament. And as you look over, you can see your own misery mirrored in Arthur's face as he stares about at the chaos with a deep scowl quickly setting upon his brow.

"Way ahead of ya, sweetheart," he mumbles. "C'mon," he tugs your elbow to follow him as he abruptly spins on his heels to head back to the horses. You are right behind him, rushing to get back to the hitching post. You and Arthur both walk at a rapid pace and with great purpose in your strides. You don't even have to speak another word to each other as you both quickly get back on your horses and spur out of the camp, desperate to get out before anyone tries to stop either of you.  

Only once the two of you have made your hasty departure and you are out at a safe distance from the camp, does Arthur finally speak up. "So, what do you want to do now?," he asks you as he runs his fingers through his hair before he readjusts his hat upon his head. "We probably got a few hours to kill before all that nonsense back home blows over," he says nodding over his shoulder at the people left behind you.

"Why don’t we go into town?" you suggest. "Maybe skip over to Ourey? I'm sure we can find something to occupy our time there." The newer town of Ourey had popped up when the railroad expanded in from Silverton and the town was quick to build up. For its law-abiding citizens, Ourey provides churches, diners, merchants, and even a new school, while the other side of town hosts numerous saloons and brothels. So it offers a little bit for everyone, as they say, making it a fine choice for you and Arthur to spend your day together.

"Alright, then." His response is simple and agreeable, making you chuckle. Arthur Morgan can be so intimidating and difficult sometimes. Yet other times, he is like a puppy that could follow you around endlessly.

So you head to Ourey, the trip taking about an hour on horseback. The ride over is pleasant, as usual, for you two. You chit-chat about everything as you ride together and enjoy the scenery along the way. Upon arrival, the two of you begin to walk around the busy town, surveying the atmosphere. There seems to be plenty of activity and people milling about today. "Well, this was your idea," Arthur says, turning towards you as he scratches at the stubble on his scarred chin. "What do you want to do while we're here?"

You think a moment, weighing your options. Your eyes fixate on nothing, going into a blank stare and your mouth twists up and your lips pull in on themselves as a result of your deep thought. You rarely get the chance, not only to be out from camp, but to be alone with Arthur, and you don't want to waste such an opportunity. "I don't want to do anything that I don’t want to do," you finally conclude.

Arthur stares at your for a moment, taking in your over-simplified statement. "Well, that narrows things down," he says with a slight snort of derision, pulling his cigarette case out of his satchel and placing one of the smokes between his plump lips.

You roll your eyes at him as you playfully back-hand your forearm into his chest. "Look, I don't care what we do, as long as there’s no laundry tub or pan of dirty dishes involved. There's no one around to tell us what to do for once. So let’s just walk around and do whatever strikes our fancy in the moment," you chirp with a slight shrug of your shoulders.

"Sounds like as good a plan as any," he drawls, shaking out the match as he takes a long drag off of the cigarette as he patiently waits for you to dictate the next move.

You take a moment, spinning about slightly to look around the town. You can hear music playing softly in the distance somewhere. "Sounds like they have a band playing in the square. Why don't we go over there and sit a bit until we figure out what to do, yeah?" you suggest. "Sounds good to me," he agrees and he follows your lead when you tug on his jacket sleeve to follow you.

The two of you amble over to the public square where a small quintet sits under a gazebo and is performing to a moderate-sized crowd. You both find a place in the small grandstand that was built for seating and listen to the music, taking in scene. You don't get much entertainment, living out in the woods as you do. The only music you get to hear is when you and Javier play and sing together, or Dutch fires up his gramophone. 

You and Arthur sit close to each other, contently listening. You even catch him humming and tapping his fingers along to the music at one point. You try to be inconspicuous as you shyly look him over. His tan leather jacket fits him so well, worn-down and broken-in from so much use that it is almost like a second skin to him. The collar of his black shirt that he's wearing underneath pokes out and frames his face nicely. Seeing him so content in this moment of time brings a certain joy to your heart and you shuffle just a bit closer to him, wanting so much to take-in and be a part of his happiness. He doesn't realize how close you have moved to him until he glances down when he feels your leg brush up against his own. Arthur stares at the sight of you being in such close proximity to him for a brief moment before looking up to your face to see you simply smiling back at him. The feeling between you two is electric as you hold each other's gaze for that lingering moment. Its like a force of nature that is inevitable to deny and it drowns out all others as if you two are the only ones in the world. You don't say a word, as nothing needs to be said right now, but simply bump your shoulder into his in acknowledgement.

When you eventually turn your attention back to the musicians, you notice a boy, about twelve years old, walking about the crowd, selling roasted walnuts. He calls out to the people, announcing his goods to sell. Arthur lifts his hand and nods to motion the boy over. "Whatcha got there, kid?" his voice is deep but always soft when he speaks to youngsters.

"Roasted walnuts, sir," says the boy as he hurries over to Arthur, excited to make a sale. "Picked 'em myself. I got salted and candied." The boy is young, but definitely knows how to peddle his wares to a crowd.

"We'll take some of them candied ones," says Arthur as he digs a few coins out of his satchel. Looking at the boy, you notice that his hands are dirty and his clothes a little worse for wear. You imagine that he's doing whatever he can to get money, even selling nuts out of the tree in his yard. But Arthur doesn't call him out on it, but instead treats this boy with respect, just as if he were a professional adult. "Better make it two," Arthur says after thinking a moment, noting just as you are, that this boy probably needs the money just as much, or more, than the two of you do. "The lady here has a sweet tooth", he winks at the boy and he nods in your direction with a grin. The boy's head bobs up and down excitedly at the prospect of doubling his sale and quickly hands over two paper bags with the delicious treat, and gratefully takes the coins out of Arthur's hands in return. Your heart melts as you watch them interact. This man has a heart bigger than he lets on, and you are just so grateful to be a part of his life. The boy gives Arthur a quick "Thanks, mister!" before moving on through the crowd.

"Here you go," says Arthur nonchalantly as if he didn't just do the most adorable thing, in your opinion, and hands you one of the bags. You give him a demure little smile as you take it out of his hands, your fingers glancing across his knuckles as you do, saying "Thank you". You pop a few of the walnut meats into your mouth and savor the delicious notes of sugar, molasses and spices dancing on your palate. Even Arthur lets out a brief and involuntary hum of pleasure as he tosses a handful across his own tongue.

You begin to casually look around the town again and take notice of a particular sign outside of one of the buildings. Upon seeing it, an idea immediately forms in your head and you tap Arthur's leg to get his attention. "Come on, I know what I want to do next!" you exclaim as you stand up with an excited look upon your face. Your sudden movement startles Arthur slightly, and he gives you a confused look as he looks up at you before standing up to follow you. "Jesus, its like walkin' 'round with a little kid," he jokingly mutters to you. You absentmindedly grab his hand with a giggle, tugging him after you. You are too wound up in your plan to think about what you're doing at the moment, but Arthur is quick to take notice your soft fingers wrapped around his meaty bear-paw. He's too fixated on the sight of your hands clasped together to notice where you are dragging him to.

After walking a few yards, you stop in front of a large white brick building, used as the common area for the town. There is a big sign on an A-frame stand in front that reads "ART SHOW". You look up at Arthur with a spirited grin, to which he only gives a questioning lift of his eyebrow. "Really, (Y/N)?" he asks you skeptically. "Yep! Wouldn't hurt to get a little more culture in our lives, Arthur" you snicker, your shoulder pulled up to your chin flirtatiously as you look up at him through your long eyelashes. This slight movement of your body makes him want to do anything and everything that you'd ask of him right now. "Sure", he sighs in resignation. "Let's go get 'cultured'," as he waves his arm in the direction of the building. You let out a slight squeal of excitement and push open the door, Arthur's arm coming up over your head to hold it open for you as he stays close behind.

The two of you step inside the building and its one great hall, open and expansive with large windows to let in plenty of natural light. Scattered about are partitions with various pieces of artwork mounted to them. Your mouth drops a bit in awe and excitement at the sight of it as you take it all in in one sweeping glance. "Good Afternoon, sir...miss," the usher greets you at the door. "Today's display is that of Chicago artist Christopher Palmer. Pieces are for sale as marked. Please, enjoy." And he swings his arm out to usher the two of you in to the room. "Thank you," you reply sweetly, as Arthur simply nods to the man in response as the two of you walk past with Arthur protectively placing his fingers along the small of your back as he falls in step behind you.

You and Arthur wander about the room together, looking at the various pieces of artwork. The pieces are drawings, sketches done in both charcoal and colored pastels. They are of various subjects, covering landscapes and sunsets, but mostly portraits; images of people in a range of states: old and young, smooth-skinned young women with delicate curves, and hardened men with frown lines and piercing eyes.

"You could be in here, you know?" you suggest to Arthur as the two of you stand in front of one of the walls, studying a particular piece.  

"What are you talkin’‘bout?" snorts Arthur, glancing at you slightly in doubt.

"Your drawings. You’re just as good, if not better, than this artist," you flick your wrist at the current sketch in front of you.

"You’re crazy," he dismisses you, turning his attention back to studying the sketch on the wall, his head tilted slightly as he notes the lines and technique of the artwork in front of him.

You eye him up a moment, trying to think of a proper response to his ever self-deprecating comments. "Yeah, you’re probably right. You’re not that good. Really bad, now that I think about it," you tease sarcastically.

"Hey, I’m not that bad." he retorts back at you.

"Yeah, you kinda are, now that I really stop and think about it," you smile mischievously at him.

"Hey, I’m good," Arthur justifies, knowing full-well that you are goading him now and decides to play along.

"Eh," you shrug. "It’s like looking at a toddler's doodling, to be honest," you continue.

Arthur turns fully to you now, giving you a hard stare, to which you simply smile innocently, trying to suppress a laugh. "You’re a brat, you know that?"

"Yep. Most definitely," you agree, tilting your head slightly with a light-hearted giggle as you slip your arm through his to lead him to the next collection on the wall. The two of you continue to casually walk through the room, taking your leisurely time, yet you leave your arm draped over his as you do, like a right and proper couple. Neither of you would admit it to the other, but you are each enjoying the fantasy of pretending. You could've pulled your arm away from his, but you don't. You like the feeling of comfort that the contact brings. Arthur walks with his head held high, a sense of pride radiating off of him. It feels good to have you on his arm, like you belong there. He even catches the glances from a few of the other patrons, an older couple, who observe the two of you with an approving smile. Arthur is genuinely having a nice time here with you. His usual scowl is replaced with a look of contentment, happiness even. He’d never believe it, but he is that much more handsome with a confident bounce in his step.

After you have finished your walk-through of the artwork, Arthur suggests that the two of you continue your day together and go over to one of the saloons for a drink and something to eat. Of course you agree, wanting to extend your day-trip out as long as you can. The walk to the saloon isn't too far from the town hall where you just left the artshow, and it doesn't take you long to get there. There are a few saloons in this town, but you head over to your favorite one.

Upon pushing through the doors  of the bar, you and Arthur take in the crowd, assessing how busy they are today. "I'm going to 'powder my nose'. Go ahead and grab us a table, I'll be right back," you tell Arthur, placing your hand upon his forearm as you give him a big smile before you proceed to walk across the room and towards the hall that leads to the public outhouse in the back. Arthur doesn't say a word, but simply watches you go. His eyes follow your path the entire time, not breaking contact, until you are physically out of his sight. He sighs deeply with a stupid, love-sick grin on his face. Part of him wants to follow you out back and pin you up against the wall of the building and plant a desperate and passionate kiss upon your perfect lips. But no. He's just not there yet. He still can't quite tell if you are just really good friends, or if there is the possibility of more there. But he is in no rush today. As long as you are here with him now, he really doesn't care to what capacity it is.

Arthur saunters over to the bar and places his large hands on the wooden top, catching the barkeep's attention with a slight lift of his chin. The gang has been in this bar quite a few times and you have gotten familiar with this particular bartender. His name is Dave and he's a mild-mannered fellow, but you can tell that he is not a man that you want to anger. He's not as large as Arthur, but he's large enough, with thick arms and a keen eye, and able to quell any fights and such that occasionally pop up in his establishment. If Arthur had to guess, Dave has a past of his own and is using this bar as a way to "go legit". And because of that, Arthur and Dave have a mutual respect whenever Arthur is here.

"What can I get for you today, my friend?" Dave asks Arthur, as he walks over, picking up a rag on his way and gives the bar a quick swipe.

"'Afternoon, Dave," Arthur greets him in return. "Just takin' the day off today with a friend of mine. Can I get a couple of beers and a plate of whatever you got back there?"

"Sure thing. Go ahead and grab a table. I'll get Theresa to bring it over to you," says Dave, nodding to the room of tables and chairs behind Arthur.

"Thank you, kindly," says Arthur, tossing a few coins on the bar with a grin.

He turns around and is about to make his way over to pick out a table in the corner for you and him, when a woman suddenly steps in front of him, blocking his path. His eyes instantly darken in confusion as he is halted in his actions.

"Well my, my, look at you, handsome," the woman purrs to Arthur. "Just where are you off to in such a rush, hmm?" She looks Arthur up and down with a sultry look upon her face. Her face is all done-up with make-up, a little bit too much in over-compensation, and she has a tight-fitting red dress on, one that plunges in the front to accent her amble bosom. The color and the design of the dress leave little to the imagination. Arthur doesn't recognize her, so she must be a fairly new working girl in the saloon.

"Ma'am," Arthur stiffly nods his head to acknowledge her. "I'm just goin' over to catch a seat at one of them tables over there," he tries his best to be polite, clearly not wanting anything to do with this sort of thing, before trying to walk around her and move on. But she is not going to let a prospective job get away so easily. Especially not one as attractive as Arthur. She observed how kindly he treated you when you walked into the saloon together. And she is hoping to not only be able to earn some money today, but to be with someone who also happens to not be an asshole while doing it.

"Oh hey, now, hold on a second," she sings to him, placing her hand on his chest to stop him. "I was thinking you and me could go off and have a little fun together?" she leans in a little closer to Arthur, lifting her eyebrow suggestively. "My name is Marie. What's yours, handsome?" and Marie reaches down and takes ahold of Arthur's wrist, lifting his hand up and begins to play with his fingers seductively.

"None of your business," replies Arthur flatly, trying to push past Marie. But she is quick to keep herself in his path once again, still holding his large hand in her own. And this time, seeing that she isn't making any progress with him, she tries a more daring move, and places Arthur's hand onto her own chest, sitting his palm flat on the soft skin between her collarbone and curvature of her breasts. She then begins to trail her fingers along his arm, as if to entice him into her bidding.

Arthur's eyes shoot open at the shock of such a bold invitation. He stands there motionless, not sure what to do. But the weird tension between them is quickly broken when he hears someone clear their throat with a simple "Ahem". Arthur and Marie both turn their heads to see you standing there, eyebrows raised in question as you observe them, smiling in amusement with your arms crossed over your chest.

Poor Arthur, he looks so uncomfortable. And the look on his face when you've caught him, literally red-handed, is priceless. "(Y/N)! Uh...erm..this isn’t what it looks like," he says awkwardly in his defense to you.

"It looks like you have your hand on that woman’s chest, Arthur," you reply calmly, with a grin that he can't quite read. Are you mad? Do you happen to find this situation comical? But you know how aggressive the working girls can be. And you can tell right away by the expression on his face, that this situation was not of Arthur's prompting.

"Oh, uh, then it is what it looks like, but what it looks like isn’t really what it is," he stammers, desperately trying to make a coherent thought, yet his hand has yet to move, as he is frozen in motion.

"Thank you for clearing that up," you say after making him sweat it out for a brief moment. And you walk away from the two of them, rolling your eyes, as you make your way to one of the tables to sit and wait for your lunch. Arthur awkwardly looks back at Marie, who in fear of getting her ass beat for trying to steal someone else's man, has smartly kept her mouth shut. He looks down at his hand that is still sitting on her chest before quickly snatching it away from her again, a scowl on his face and the dust of a shameful blush crossing his cheeks. "Go on, get outta here," he waves Marie off quietly. And accepting that she's not getting anywhere with this one, Marie gives a slight huff of frustration and quickly moves on to find herself another target.

Arthur slowly makes his way over to the table where you have chosen to sit. You have picked one of the tables in the corner by a window, ironically the one that he was heading to himself, and you are sitting quietly, occupied with fidgeting with your fingernails, until the waitress, Theresa, walks over and places two beers on the table in front of you. You give her an appreciative smile and a gracious 'Thank you', before you take a long gulp of the ale and swipe the edges of your mouth with your fingers, as if nothing is wrong. Arthur sheepishly sits down at the table across from you. "I’m sorry about that," he finally offers to you, not able to make direct eye contact with you.

"For what? I’m not your wife," you chuckle. "You can touch whomever you please," you say nonchalantly with a brief wave of your hand to dismiss the topic before you take another swig from your bottle. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah but…I don’t want you to think I'm that sort of man," he says in earnest, looking at you fully now, his face laced with concern. He really hopes that he didn't just screw everything up with you with some stupid stunt.

"And what sort is that?" you ask softly, your eyelids blinking slowly as you lean forward on the table, placing your chin in your hand as you meet his gaze.

"The kind that paws at a woman like that," he says, embarrassed that he even has to explain this to you, his face starting to go red again.

"Oh, I know you’re not like that," you reassure him. "That’s one of the reasons why I like you so much," you grin as you reach across the table with your free hand and wrap it around his in comfort. Relief washes over him immediately, and oddly enough, your understanding of him makes Arthur feel even better than he did before.

The day continues on, and after lunch and another round of lively conversation, the two of you leave Ourey and spend the time roaming the land on your horses, enjoying a slow pace, as if time doesn't matter; as if it is just the two of you in the world with no other cares or responsibilities waiting back home for either of you.

 As you take the road to start to head home, Arthur suddenly announces that he is taking you on a little detour. "I got something to show you," he says. "C'mon, this way," and he gives you that twinkle in his eye again over his shoulder.

Intrigued, you spur Blue into a faster canter behind Arthur and Buck to keep up. He takes you down a stray path about thirty minutes off the main trail, heading deeper into the woods and away from the more populated areas. 

As you ride further on, you start to hear water off in the distance. Eventually, the trail leads up to a small lake that the local river feeds into. It is surrounded by a thick ring of trees, tall oaks and wide evergreens, and there is a small waterfall cascading softly off to the side, carrying water in from further up the hillside and cliffs surrounding the area.

You and Arthur both pull your horses to a halt, stopping for a moment to take in the beautiful sight. "Found this place when I was looking for that Wilson bounty a few weeks ago," says Arthur, nodding his head. "Been meaning to bring you up here to show you." He turns to look at you, curious to your reaction. He is hoping that you find it as special as he did the first time that he came across it. But when he sees your jaw drop slightly in awe, he knows the answer to his query.

A huge smile graces your lips. You exchange a look with Arthur before you quickly hop down out of Blue's saddle and walk over the water’s edge. "Would you look at that water!" you say astonished, your hands resting on your hips as you gaze at the lake. Arthur slowly swings his leg over the saddle and climbs down from his own horse. He walks a few steps and absentmindedly rubs the velvety skin of Buck's nose while he watches you. You bend over, reaching down, and trail your fingertips into the cool water, snaking them back and forth and observing how the liquid elegantly ripples. The water catches the sunlight as the sun starts its journey down to the horizon again for the day. The sensation of the water moving between your fingers with a slight rippling sound is mesmerizing. You keep playing like a child, swirling your hand around and around. You could simply pitch forward into that pool and float weightless forever under its current. Then suddenly, you stand, shaking your hand dry. "Let’s go for a swim!" you declare definitively, your eyes wide and an air of excitement in your voice.  

Arthur's face twists with confusion as he is pulled out of his reverie of watching you play with the water. “What?”

"A swim!" you repeat yourself. "You do know how to, don’t you?" you ask teasingly.

“Yeah, of course I do,but…” he replies uneasily, shifting his weight, his boots scratching slightly into the dirt.

"But what?" you cut him off. You're not about to let him off the hook that easily.

"What if someone sees us? Gets the wrong idea?," he suggests, his body fidgeting slightly now with nervousness as his thumbs tuck into his gunbelt.

"No one’s gonna come along out here," you wave dismissively. "And besides, what idea is that?" you ask suggestively, raising your eyebrow at him.

"Well...you know…", he says with a gesture of his hand towards you, his face getting red again.

"Oh, so stealing and shooting people is OK for you, but you frown upon skinny dipping? Is that it?" you fold your arms in challenge, that same devilish smile sitting on your lips.

He sighs in frustration, having the moral debate in his head. Being put in such a precarious situation, he’s not so sure he’d be able to control himself if something were to start between you two. Today has been so perfect. And he really doesn’t want to risk ruining it by doing something stupid or offensive. But, then again, Arthur never can say 'no' to you. And you know it. He hangs his head for a brief moment, hands on his hips, before looking back up at you again. "Alright, fine," he caves, and you clap your hands quickly with a slight hop of excitement in victory.  

You stand there a minute, looking at him expectantly. "Well? Are you going to turn around so I can get undressed or what?" you ask as you spin your finger to indicate for him to look away.

"Oh!…yeah…right," he says, flustered. Arthur turns his back to give you privacy, his hands starting to sweat nervously as he rubs his thumb into the palm of his opposite hand as he waits. His eyes stare straight ahead as he hears the flutter of fabric behind him and tries not to think about that fact that you are stripping down at this very moment right behind him, just mere feet from him. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears at this point, like thunder rumbling to an oncoming storm. Jesus, what was he thinking bringing you here?

It only takes a few minutes until he hears water splashing and a brief yelp from you the moment that the cool water touches your skin. The feeling of the water brings your senses to life, full-on; from the invigorating temperature, to the way you glide and float as your limbs cut through the natural resistance of the water. You swim out far enough to cover yourself before turning around and calling back to Arthur on the shore. "OK, your turn now!" Arthur turns slowly, eyes searching until they find you out in the water. He stands perfectly still, not saying anything for a moment as he watches the sun dance off the water around you. You remind him of one of those water nymphs or mermaids from Jack's stories. He instantly notices how graceful you neck is, observing how it curves down to meet your now-bare shoulders, round and soft, and already covered in water droplets that dance with sunlight.

"Come on!" you holler even louder this time, trying to urge him into motion. "You said you’d do it too!"

"No, actually I didn’t agree to anything," Arthur replies calmly, a smirk slowly creeping across his face.

"Yes you did!" your eyes go wide, ready to argue. "I said 'Let’s go swimming' and you said 'fine'! Now, get out here, Morgan!!" you demand with a slight playful laugh.

Arthur sighs dramatically with an eye roll to match. "Fine. Are you gonna turn around now?" he challenges back.

Shaking your head at the big man's bashfulness, you spin in the water again. You gaze upon the waterfall while you wait, mesmerized by its water droplets tapping upon the lake's silvery surface as you hear the jingling of Arthur's gunbelt, followed by his belt buckle. God, you so wish you could turn around and sneak a glimpse of him right now. The temptation is so great at the moment that you catch yourself biting your lips a bit in anticipation. A few moments later, after the ruffling of clothing, you hear him getting into the water.

“Ah, geez! Damn, it’s cold!” he complains bitterly.

"Oh, stop it, you baby! It’s not that bad," you giggle, turning your chin slightly over your shoulder as you call to him.

A few moments of slight splashing and then he is making his way over to you in the water. "Alright, you can turn around now," he says. When you circle back around, waving your arms around in the water to turn yourself, you see Arthur swimming towards you, his chest bobbing in and out from under the water as he gets closer.

"There, you happy now?" he asks in an exaggerated pout.

"Yes, Mr. Morgan, you have made me quite happy," you smile back at him triumphantly.

"Well, that’s good to hear," he says with just a touch of sarcasm and a smile of his own mirroring back at you.

The two of you swim about and splash around for a bit. The water is cool and refreshing as it caresses your skin. The weightlessness of the liquid allows you both a unique opportunity of relaxation that only being submerged in water can offer. The air around the lake is quiet and still, the only sound is the water rippling around you, mixed with the occasional snort of laughter and mischievous conversation between the two of you. You are so thankful that it is just you and Arthur right now; that there is no one else around to dampen your spirits and ruin a perfect moment with their own drama.

It is quite fortuitous that you decided to wear your hair down and unbound today, as you simply cannot resist the urge to get your hair wet. At one point, you tip your head back, allowing the water to encompass your hair, the sensation soothing your scalp. You involuntarily let out an exhale of pure joy.  Arthur observes how such a simple thing can make you so content, and its the most beautiful thing that he's ever seen. His eyes glide down over your neck and on down to your collarbone, relishing the sight of your exposed skin, what little he can see. He watches as you raise your arms up to run your hands through your hair and then down again to fan out across the water's surface as you float there; an angel spreading its wings. Arthur swears his heart is about to burst right here and now within his chest. And then, it dawns on him that now is just as good a time as any to tell you what he's been practicing in his head for a long time now.

"Listen, (Y/N)," he says, catching your attention as you level your head again to meet his eyes. Arthur takes a deep breath. "There’s something I-“

"Oh my God Arthur, look!" you interrupt him suddenly with a shocked look upon your face as you point over his shoulder at the shore behind him. Confused, Arthur quickly spins around in the water to follow your line of sight and there he sees the object of your distraction. A couple of pudgy, rambunctious brown bear cubs have come bumbling out of the woods and down to the water to play. They do not notice you and Arthur and, therefore, pay you no mind. But eventually, a slowly ambling momma bear comes up behind her cubs to keep a careful eye on her offspring. The two little cubs are walking along the small beach, sniffing about, and begin to nose around your discarded clothing that they have found.

It is an awesome sight to see, but it doesn't take long before you realize the danger that you are now in. At best, you and Arthur are trapped, naked, in the water. Worst case scenario, that momma bear sees you and decides that you are a threat to her babes. You are suddenly thankful that you decided to let the horses wander untethered, safely away from this predator. You turn your head about quickly to check on them and can see the horses safely grazing off in the distance in the field adjacent to the beach.

"Arthur?" you whisper his name uneasily, swimming closer to him, your eyes never leaving the bears.

"It’s OK," he says quietly, slowly stretching his arm out to protectively move you behind him, yet keeping his steel-blue eyes keenly fixed on the shore as well. "Just stay quiet and as long as we make no advance towards the cubs we should be alright." You simply nod your head silently, obeying his instructions, yet watching the animals carefully.

You and Arthur sit motionless in the water, carefully watching the bear family move about. The adrenaline that courses through your veins is both terrifying and almost exhilarating at the same time. You both just pray that the momma stays calm. The bears sniff around curiously for about twenty minutes before they decide to slowly move on. Fortunately for you and Arthur, there is no commotion or problem from them at all. They are simply out scrounging for food before retiring for the evening. As you watch them make their way into the woods again, you slowly roll your eyes back into your head in relief. Once the bears are out of sight, you lean in closer to Arthur and whisper, "I think it’s time to go."

"I wholly agree," he nods. "I’ll go first, make sure it’s clear, and then you come on out," he says quietly over his shoulder, still wanting to keep his movements slow and calculated.  

"OK, but be careful!" you warn in a hushed tone, concern lacing across your eyebrows as you watch him start wading back to the beach.  

As he gets close to shore, Arthur is about to stand up and suddenly remembers that he’s still naked. “Turn around again!” he waves back at you as you still wait back in the depth of the water.

"But what if you get mauled by a bear?!" you ask, alarmed at the thought of letting Arthur out of your sight for even a second.

“Woman, if I get mauled by a bear, what in the hell are you going to do about it?!” he reminds you exasperatedly, looking at you like you're crazy.

"Oh...right...good point. OK," you say awkwardly, realizing how ridiculous you sound, before you spin around again, allowing Arthur to proceed to shore in discretion.

The man cautiously emerges from the water, looking left and right for any sign of the bears again, as he makes his way to your pile of clothes. He grabs a rag out of his satchel and hastily dries himself off before getting dressed in at least his union suit and jeans. He swipes his hands together, one across the other nervously, as he looks around for any lingering sign of the bears, before deciding that you are out of harm's way.

"Alright, you’re safe to come out," he calls out to the water to you and waves you in, as he spins around for you, now, to make your way to the beach as well.

Quickly, you swim to the shore and once out of the water, you snatch up the bit of cloth Arthur used to dry himself with before you, and start to get dressed, hastily pulling your loose blouse over your head first before fumbling with your skirt.

"I can not believe that just happened!" you say with a chuckle, totally amazed as your fingers work to retie the lacing of your skirt.

But Arthur is less than impressed at the moment as he turns to finish getting dressed. "It’s always something with you, isn’t it?" he asks, rolling his eyes with a huff, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.

"Oh, come on, now, we’ve had a wonderful day today, Arthur. And you have to admit, seeing those bears was pretty amazing, right?!" Your arms are outstretched emphatically towards him, holding your palms up to accent your point as your face lights up with excitement, so full of life.

“Sure”, he deadpans as he secures his gun belt.

"Oh, come on, Arthur," you whine again. "Don’t be like that…please?" 

Arthur just simply can't get over you. You could have been mauled by a bear, and left to float in the lake, naked, for the fish to eat. Yet here you are, thinking that this was an 'amazing experience'.

And he simply chuckles in disbelief, as he gives you a reluctant smile and shakes his head at the very wonder of you. "Yeah, OK. If we can manage to get back to camp in one piece today, I’ll admit, it’s been a perfect day."

A/N:  OK, so for those who have been following this storyline, we are finally coming to the big moment that my slow-burn has been building to. The next “chapter” will be “Feelings Revealed”. Super excited, as I have been working on that one for almost a year now. I do have an “ask” that I am going to write first (so excited, its my first “ask” ever!) but then on to the “main event”. Stay tuned...

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Destinytober24: Day 26 - Divine

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

Dust and rocks crunched under the Drifter's boots as he approached Eris Morn at her station on the Moon.

Eris's lip quirked up into a smile when she heard the sound. He was making noise as he walked on purpose to let her know he was there. She knew his gait instantly.

"Drifter." She addressed him, wondering if he had waited until the last Guardian had transmatted away and, if so, how long he had been waiting. It could not have been long or she would have smelled him.

"Hey, Three-Eyes! Came as soon as I could. What’s this mysterious thing you need me to see?"

Eris stepped toward him and clasped his hand in hers warmly.

"It is in a cave in the Anchor of Light. There will be Fallen on the way. May we take your Sparrow?"

"Yeah we can do that. We’ll have to snuggle, though. And it may be a bit more bumpy than you're used to."

"I am accustomed to walking."

"Right, well, this will definitely be faster than that. Wanna ride shotgun or drive?"

"I would prefer to drive."

"Ha. You say that now, but you might regret that."

. . .

A few moments later Eris was frowning as the Drifter climbed in behind her. It was a tight fit but that was not the source of her displeasure. The Sparrow engine made a grinding noise as she tried to turn the ignition. The vehicle lurched to the side but did not move forward.

"How is this even remotely tolerable to you?"

"Well, up until now I’ve been the only one that’s had to deal with it, and I’m used to it."

"It doesn’t even start."

"It starts, you just have to jiggle it a bit, give me your hand."

He put his chin as close to her shoulder as he could without pressing it into the Hive chitin on her pauldrons and reached around her, wrapping his gloved hand around her own.

"Like this." He jiggled and then twisted the switch hard. The engine begrudgingly kicked in and began to rumble in an unstable fashion.

"It sounds as though it is about to fall apart."

"I mean, you’re not wrong. We could walk."

"No. You will shoot and I will drive."

"You got it."

She pushed the accelerator and felt the vehicle churn as it responded, only to have to course correct to avoid driving them into a rock wall.

"Why does it pull to the left?"

"Ah yeah, that." He said in her ear as they picked up speed. "I’ve been meaning to fix that but I never got around to it. I’ve just gotten used to compensating for it."

"I’ve seen you build functional machines out of garbage. You have the competency. Why have you not fixed this?

"There’s this old saying, the cobbler's children have no shoes."

"People who make footwear abuse their children?"

"Nah, it’s just you do something all day every day and then you neglect that thing for yourself. You do it too. Like a lot."

"I doubt that."

"Yeah? How much rest and self care do you do when I’m not around, unofficial therapist of the Vanguard?"

"Hmmm… Two on your left.'

"On it."

The Drifter shifted behind her and his scout rifle began to fire.

. . .

"Well this sure is a spooky cave."

"You should see the Hellmouth sometime." Eris' glowing orb hovered above her hand as the Drifter followed.

"I’ll pass. Wha-"

Eris caught him as he began to slide down a rough incline. Gravel and dust continued past where his boots had stopped. They slid into a dark pit.

"Tread carefully."

"I am treading carefully. I just can't see in the dark like you."

"Take my hand. I will guide you."

The path was winding and steep but Eris' grip was firm and he did not slip again.

After a few minutes the cave opened up into a larger chamber.

"Here. This is what I needed you to see." She held her Ahamkara bone up high. Its light was largely swallowed by the surrounding darkness.

"You may wish to add some flame to the Soulfire," she added.

The Drifter snapped his fingers and a flaming coin appeared between them. He held it in front of him.

"Moondust… am I seein' what I think I’m seein?"

"I believe so."

"Is this some kind of joke?" he asked as he walked forward. "Someone pulling a prank on you?"

"Unlikely."

A large sigil was scratched into the floor. A four-lobed flower. Eris’ symbol, the Bane of the Swarm, the same one she had on all her charms and wore on her chestplate. It was several feet in diameter. The scratches were uneven and deep, as though they had been made by claws.

The Drifter walked across it to what could only be a stone altar at one end of the cavern. He held the flame in his hand up to the knee-high figure in the middle of the altar presiding over the room.

It was a rough-hewn effigy of a human figure made of stone. Crude armour made of rotting Hive chitin had been affixed to it with distinctive pointed pauldrons at the shoulders. In one hand it held a sword carved from bone with a very distinctive knife-point perpendicular to the blade affixed to the tip of it. A spherical green stone was in the other hand. In the figure's face were three finger-width holes containing small green stones.

"Huh. How’d you even find it?"

"I was led here."

"Led? By what?"

"A Thrall."

"Come again?" He looked back at her.

"It groveled to me and did not attack."

"What happened to it after you got here?"

"It left. Still groveling. Backwards out the way we came."

"You didn’t think they were trapping you in here?"

"It would not have ended well for them if they had."

"Huh. So they are worshiping you now?"

"I do not know. It is a shrine, but… Hive worship is usually some form of death: theirs or someone else’s."

"I mean, you were a god to them."

"I was."

"Have you showed this to anyone else?"

"I wanted your thoughts first."

"I mean, it’s certainly new behaviour that’s for sure. Do you think you can… control them?"

"The lesser Hive are easily controlled magically for short periods of time. They will cower to anyone with sufficient power."

"But for more than that? If they worship you, do you think they'd like… do what you want, long-term?"

"Doubtful. I have no way to receive their tithes. Their own worms would devour them."

"Wild. Has it changed since you were last here?"

"Hmmm… perhaps there is more detail? I cannot tell for certain."

"I wonder what would happen if you… leave them something here."

"I don’t know what I would leave, or why."

"Well, they wanted you to see it. Maybe something to… I don’t know… acknowledge them?"

"And what might accomplish that?"

"I mean, I’m just grasping at straws here but… nah that’s a terrible idea never mind."

"Speak."

"That’s a statue of you, right?"

"Mmhmm"

"It’s just, Hive are really into bodily fluids for some reason… usually pullin’ them outta other people, mind you… but… maybe smear some of your eye goo on the statue’s eyes maybe? Sorta like… peeing on it, without actually, you know, peeing on it? Claiming it in a way?"

"Crude, but… there is internal consistency in your logic… and it works within the principles of contagion magic. Very well."

Eris pulled her hand out from under her Ahamkara bone. It remained hovering beside her. She removed the gauntlet from her left hand and reached up to her cheek, sliding the tips of index, middle, and ring fingers through the paracausal tears flowing from below the bandage she wore around her eyes. Then she stepped forward and placed those fingers into the three eye-holes of the statue, drawing them down to leave dark streaks on the stone.

Hissing echoed through the tunnels.

"Uh." The Drifter held up his flaming coin, looking around nervously.

Louder hissing seemed to answer the call of the first.

Eris tugged her gauntlet back on and summoned her orb to her hand. "We should leave."

"Yeah."

"Stay close." She drew her sword.

"Don’t have to tell me twice, Sister." He moved behind her, his coin in one hand, his hand cannon in the other.

"Of all the things to call me." Eris began leading him back the way they had come.

"Fine, Lover."

"Hmmm…"

"Hmmm yourself," he said near her ear as the hissing seemed to swirl around them. "You’re smiling. I can hear it in your hmmm."

"Hmmm…"

They heard the sounds of claws scrabbling along stone in the distance.

"Faster," Eris said and began to move more quickly.

The Drifter matched her pace. "Can you make a portal to get us out quicker?"

"If necessary, although it would also make plain our position."

They heard more hissing coming from behind them. It was louder.

"Oh I think they already know we’re here."

"But which ones, I wonder."

"Let’s not stick around to find out."

"Agreed."

A dead Eliksni lay beside the Drifter’s sparrow when they emerged from the mouth of the cave. Its entrails had been ripped out. Its limbs were splayed in an unnatural configuration.

A wrench was still clasped tightly in one three-fingered hand. It held a wire rifle in another. The ammunition cartridge had been spent. A Marauder cloaking device had been pulled off of its belt and smashed. Bits of its other two hands were still embedded in the sparrow itself.

"Uh… " The Drifter looked down on the dead body with confusion.

"They protected your sparrow ."

"That's unfortunate," he said dryly. "It wasn't worth dying for. "

"I'm sorry. If it's any consolation we probably would have had to defend ourselves from it on our way out."

"Maybe. Still sucks."

"Yes."

The Drifter crouched down and pulled the dismembered fingers out of the vehicle. He dropped them into the hole in the middle of the corpse.

"Looks um… displayed," he said, Trust dangling from his fingers as he examined the body.

"An attempt at communication."

"Ghost!" The Drifter's ghost appeared at his shoulder. "Scan that." The ghost began to do as he asked.

"Maybe we can get them to communicate less violently?"

"Doubtful," Eris answered him. "This is the Hive."

The Drifter's eyes flickered to the empty tunnel mouth and then returned to the corpse.

"House of Devils." He muttered looking at what was left of its clothing. "That's weird. You ever seen House of Devils on the Moon?"

The Drifter's ghost emitted its single tone to announce it had completed its scan and disappeared.

"I am not certain. I do not believe so. I thought the House of Devils operated primarily on Earth"

"So did I. Never seen 'em on the Moon but you hang out here more than I do."

Hissing and scratching echoed up through the tunnel mouth. It sounded very close.

Eris mounted the sparrow and after a couple of tries, got it running.

"Are you coming?" she asked him.

The Drifter nodded. He paused to fold the dead Eliksni's four arms over its chest cavity and covered its head with what was left of the tattered cape bearing the sigil of its house.

"Best I can do." He told the corpse before standing and climbing on the back of the sparrow behind Eris. "Let's go."

The Sparrow made a grinding sound and lurched. Eris growled at the controls. The engine coughed and sputtered.

The Drifter reached down and picked up the wrench from the dead Eliksni. He gave the sparrow a sharp smack with it just in front of Eris' left knee.

The Sparrow's engine roared to life. Eris sighed and began driving them back across the lunar surface to Sanctuary.

Link to the entire month's worth of prompts on Ao3, posted daily.

[thenon-fictiondays]

Hirano to Kagiura light novel translation 3-2

Chapter 3: Present.

Part 2

Prev || Next

Having put on their sandals and passing through the entryway, they weave their way through the courtyard upon which the veranda looks out. The kids open the bag of fireworks, their chests puffed out in eager anticipation.

Watching them rifle through their stock of firework sets and peel off the tape seals, Kagiura is struck with the profound sense that summer has truly begun.

Up until last year, it had been the job of one of the adults to light the candles and place them around the courtyard, dripping a bit of wax on the ground to fix them in place.

This year, the task falls to Kagiura.

And what had been his job up until last year—filling buckets with water—had been left to one of the elementary-aged cousins. At one point, he’d been the one getting clapped on the shoulder and told, “it’s the most important job you can have when it comes to lighting fireworks,” by…wait, which uncle was it, again?

He lines up three mosquito-repellent incense sticks on the veranda and lights them.

His middle school-aged cousin, who had just arrived this morning, is taking no chances with bites in a long-sleeved shirt, long pants, and socks. He looks as if he’d come for a camping trip.

His older cousin, who’d had a bit of a rest after drinking a glass of beer, is sitting on the veranda supervising.

It’s nice to have Hirano here—a little strange, but Kagiura’s still glad. The earrings he’d given him just the night before shine brilliantly in his earlobes.

He had told everyone at breakfast that it was Hirano’s birthday, so they’d all sung happy birthday while eating their fish.

Kagiura’s aunt had run out to buy him a cake, so Hirano spent the whole time gratefully apologetic, but he’d seemed happy.

The air is thick with the white smoke rising with the burning gunpowder.

Every so often, a large bug comes close to the group, but after a while they stop caring about them, entranced by the beauty of the multicolored fireworks.

When one fades, they light the next.

The fidgety children had been jostling each other for a turn at the fireworks set, but somehow there were no collisions.

When they reach the end of their stash, they divide up the two types of sparklers and compete to see who can make the small, round fireballs last the longest.

“So pretty!”

Who was it who’d voiced that quiet exclamation of amazement?

And once the sparks fall to the ground, suddenly the world is bathed in darkness.

They submerge all the fireworks in the buckets, throw out the garbage, and blow out the candles.

“We can leave clean-up until tomorrow, since it’s dark now.”

The words had come out of Kagiura’s own mouth, but his voice was unrecognizable, almost as if it belonged to a complete stranger. His silhouette seemed to burn out with the light of the fireworks and melt into the night. But the traces yet remain. He wants to stay just like this, immersed in the faint heat coursing through him down to his fingertips.

“We didn’t light enough fireworks, did we?” At the sound of Hirano murmuring those few words, Kagiura is struck with the feeling that if he lets the moment end like this, he’ll regret it.

“Should we go buy a few more, then?”

Having crammed just their wallets into their pockets and told Kagiura’s aunt their destination, they stood in the entryway spraying each other with insect repellant.

“Akira-kuuun, it’s not safe at this time of night, so make sure you bring your cell phone with you!”

The voice at his back was perfectly clear, but Kagiura deliberately ignores it.

When he’s with his relatives, the time seems to go by slower if he leaves his phone alone, even when it’s done charging.

Stuffing his feet into his sandals, he steals a glance to the side at Hirano, who spreads both his hands with an expression of feigned ignorance. He’s not bringing his phone, either.

Like this, they have plausible deniability.

Kagiura’s gait is light with the feeling of being free from the strict curfew of the dorms.

The intermittent street lamps are dim, and the borders between the slim waterways and the road are dangerously indistinct.

The faint hums of bugs they couldn't hear during the day tickle their ears. It almost feels like the end of summer, even though there’s no sign of cooler weather.

But today is only August 1st, Hirano’s birthday.

Summer isn’t over just yet.

“Where are we going, Kagi-kun? A convenience store?”

Walking while engulfed in the warm night air conjures the illusion that they’re spending the summer the same as when they were little kids. 

Leading the way, a little ahead of Hirano, Kagiura slowly nods.

“Yup. That’s where we’re headed.”

No matter how many times he walks down the neighboring streets, the 24-hour supermarket is the closest to their house, and always has a good selection of products. The road to the convenience store is straight, but it takes 20 minutes to get there. If they walk slowly, they can have just a bit more alone time together.

“What should we do if they’re out of fireworks?”

Given the season, that’s not even a possibility, but the words came out of Kagiura’s mouth on their own.

“Buy some ice cream and call it a day?”

Buying snacks for the road is a daily occurrence for Kagiura, but this is the first time he’s heard Hirano suggest such a thing.

“It’s gonna melt by the time we get back home!”

“We can eat it while we walk. We’ll just buy enough for us two.”

“.....Oh, that’s what you meant.”

“What, did you wanna bring something back for your younger cousins?”

“Well, it’s just, my older cousins brought stuff back for me when I was a kid, so I thought maybe that’s what you were suggesting.” 

He doesn’t snack nearly as much when he’s at home, so he has a little extra pocket change and besides, his relatives had given him some spending money—these words are on the tip of his tongue, but Kagiura leaves it at that. Even if their pockets were light, he doubts Hirano would be swayed from the idea.

“Oh, really? Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

“You think so?”

They keep their voices quiet so they don’t echo down the night road, which makes it feel like their bodies are blending in with the darkness. As Kagiura listens to the voice of the person by his side, it feels like they’re on their way to a place much further than the convenience store, and he swallows.

“Ah…you know, your relatives are kinda like you. Even though I just met them, it doesn’t feel that way at all. To be honest, before we got here, I thought, ‘it’s gonna be super awkward if I don’t fit in with them’, but just like you said, I’m glad I came.”

“You’re fitting in just fine, Hirano-san. You’re really good with the younger kids, too.”

“Yeah, ‘cuz I usually live with a young person.”

���Hm? You don’t have younger brothers or sisters, right?”

“I’m talking about you, dumbass.”

“.....Do I really seem that much younger? Am I a handful?”

“You suck at waking yourself up even on days you have morning practice, you tell me you fall asleep in class all the time, and even though you suck at studying you probably wouldn’t even cram before a test if I don’t tell you to.”

Kagiura’s at a loss for words, and his eyes swim.

Hirano had hit the nail on the head, so he doesn’t even have a comeback.

Hirano’s eyes crinkle with affection at Kagiura’s reaction.

“Of course you’re a handful. But I also know that you’re kind, and you give everything your all. I bet this is the first time you’ve gotten a break from club practice all term. The basketball hoop in the courtyard’s obviously well-worn, too. When I heard from everyone that you put your all into practice even when you come home over breaks, I thought, “man, Kagi-kun’s serious about playing basketball,” and I was impressed all over again. Even on a regular basis, if you’ve been working that hard for your club, of course you can’t help but fall asleep in class.”

Kagiura’s body temperature gets one degree warmer for each kind word spoken in Hirano’s soft voice. His silhouette, nearly dissolved in the windless night air, distinctly sharpens, and hot blood swells all the way to his fingertips.

He’s endured days of sorrow and being so tired he wants to complain that ‘working hard for something I want to do is only right’. In this world where results are everything, he’s not doing this just so he’ll be praised for his efforts. He’s also banking on the idea that he can make up for his lack of study skills with things he’s good at.

That’s why, Kagiura’s a little uncertain if it’s okay to show openly how glad he is that Hirano understands his feelings enough to be able to validate him.

He’s always tried too hard to play it cool in front of him, hasn’t it?

But a certain memory flashes into his mind.

At the beginning of May, when he’d just started school, even when he’d uttered his disgraceful feelings of jealousy towards his teammate, Hirano had praised him, hadn’t he?

He knows all too well of the uncontrollable piteousness and impatience that had seemed to line up at the starting mark beside Kagiura’s teammate.

“Thanks, Hirano-san.”

They wait a bit at the traffic light, now running on the nighttime schedule, and cross at the crosswalk, where the traffic lanes increase and the sidewalks get wider. The line of stores facing the large street contains many famous chains.

When they come near the front of the video rental store, emitting dazzlingly bright light, Hirano says “once we’re inside, you’ll have to guide me,” with a laugh. There’s still quite a few cars passing by.

As they start walking side by side, Kagiura’s fingertips, throbbing with his pulse, most definitely brush against Hirano’s hand.

Sucking in a breath, he steals a glance to the side, where the brand new earrings shine in Hirano’s earlobes. The faint sparkle of blue that matches the gentle color of his eyes shines all the more brightly against the night road.

“Hirano-san, those earrings look amazing on you.”

Having chosen them himself, Kagiura is all the more proud, and he grins from ear to ear.

“That’s ‘cause you picked them out.”

He’s right.

The one who is by Hirano’s side the longest—not quite 24/7, but from the time they come home to their dorm until they head out the next day—is none other than Kagiura.

Of course he’s the right person to pick out the perfect pair for him.

*****

Prev || Next

Sorry for another tag so quickly lol but as always thank you to reading list members @jeizet, @jujupanic, @massyworld, @umbreonwolfy, and @acidsuzanne-blog 💗

[lebuc]

keep it movin'

* on the daily, the bits & bites we consume can lead to a serious case of indigestion

more aptly, without question, mental vexation

as it gestates within sans regurgitation.

our special dispensation is not to linger at any one station

as we trek the track to there & back

to home base, the basal space of our repose & peace, our chosen pace

on our race to the green stacks or golden plait awaiting, should we not falter in our gait

or slack in clearing our own plate as any well-meaning diner of the finer things life offers, not choking on the proffers provided in overripe streams to us quaffers

mindlessly sipping our brews, digesting sliders slip-sliding through.

can't speak this truth without eliding, but you get it dear fleeks, that's no lying;

garbage in's garbage out - that's been proven & corrosive intake leads to a gout state;

in such case, we all best keep it movin' so the toxic waste won't accumulate. * 2/24 - lebuc - keep it movin'

[chickensarentcheap]

Lost and Found- Chapter 24

Fandom: Extraction

Pairing: Tyler Rake and Esme Drummond (OFC. But you do not have to read the others in the series to understand this fic.)

Tagging: @tragiclyhip @secretaryunpaid @youflickedtooharddamnit @themaradwrites @munstysmind @thebejeweledwatercat @fanficanatic-tw @asirensrage @kmc1989 @karimac @theesirenteller @residentdormouse @alisbackalleybbq @ninjasawakenedmystar @arrthurpendragon @ocappreciation @occommunity

Warnings: profanity, (very minimal) gun violence, (brief mention) blood, (minor) physical violence (I mean, the guy's a mercenary, mmmkay)

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43179357/chapters/132270193

My tag list is OPEN. Please just let me know if you'd like to be added :)

******

As smoke billows heavily from the garbage room and fire alarms blare, he leads her down the hall; a firm, protective hand on the back of her neck as they blend seamlessly into the steady flow of guests that head for the closest stairwell. Taking an alternate route would have caused too much suspicion; The Continental’s clientele well-versed in how to be deceptive and how to spot those guilty of the same. The majority is immensely loyal to Winston; with eyes that are forever curious and peeled and ears that are always open and lurking for even the smallest hint of trouble.

Drawing attention is the last thing he wants; keeping his rifle pressed tightly against his side as he makes random, mundane small talk with a clearly nervous and fearful Esme. Knowing that his voice -if kept low and steady and reassuring- is enough to calm her down and keep her focused; needing both his presence and the security and the confidence that he’s always been able to instil in her. Using both words and the pressure on her neck to keep her moving; encouraging her to match his slow and steady gait as opposed to adopting anything more frantic and hurried.

The growing crowd notices nothing amiss; intently focused on the reality of their situation as opposed to what others are doing around them. Chattering and grumbling to one another in a mixture of confusion, slight concern, and immense annoyance; questioning the cause of the fire and bemoaning disrupted naps and schedules as they pull on sweaters and overcoats. He never makes eye contact; his hand slipping from the nape of Esme’s neck to the small of her back as he steers her towards the stairwell. Pausing to hold the door open for others; accepting the words of appreciation tossed in his direction and returning them with nothing more than a simple nod. And when the last person begins making their way down the stairs, he lingers briefly on the threshold; waiting until the others are a flight below before turning on his heel and quietly closing the door behind him.

Fishing the lone key from his jacket pocket, he jams it into the control box and turns it all the way to the left; the toe of a filthy, well-worn combat boot rhythmically tapping against immaculate, gleaming marble as they wait for the elevator to reach their floor. Beside him, Esme nervously rocks back and forth on her heels and chews anxiously on the inside of her cheek; her eyes fearful, her complexion a washed out, almost sickly gray. Taking advantage of the lull in activity, he reaches out to gently tug on her hair; shooting her a wink and flashing a brief yet reassuring smile when she glances up at him.

The lift noisily rumbles to a stop, and as the door opens, he moves his hand to the small of her back; applying firm yet gentle pressure as he encourages her to step on, then directs her to stand against the side wall. Out of sight in case an employee beckons the elevator from another floor; wanting to avoid both a confrontation and the chance of her impending departure getting back to Winston.

He shoves the key into the control panel; holding it in place as his free hand activates the two-way radio clipped to his vest. “We’re in the elevator now. Heading to the basement, level one.”

“Copy,” Nik responds. “We’re right behind you; southwest stairwell, seventh floor.”

“Any word from Wick? About the outside?”

“He’s stationed across the street. Taken up position on the roof. His people are here; fire trucks out front, men inside checking the situation, evacuating people. Should make it easier for you to get around.”

“Armoured car?”

“ETA three minutes. It’ll be waiting for you.”

“How much time do I have?”

“Fourteen minutes. Before the hotel’s security system goes back online.”

Esme urgently tugs on his sleeve, whispering: “Ask about Millie” when he glances down at her.

“Have you heard from Alcott? About how things went?”

“They made it safely out of and away from the building. Met no resistance. They’re at the designated spot; Wick will join them once you and Esme are away from the building and you give the all-clear.”

“Millie?”

“I’m assuming she’s fine. Alcott didn’t say otherwise. No news is good news.”

“What about Winston? Any sign of him?”

“Not that I was told. I know that doesn’t exactly fill you with a sense of confidence…”

“I’ll handle him. If I have to.”

“Tyler…”

“We talked about this. You know where I stand. I’ll handle him.” Releasing the comms button on his transmitter, he gives Esme a small yet reassuring smile. “She’s good. They didn’t have any problems getting outta here. They’re a few blocks away, waiting on us to get the fuck out. And to pick up Wick.”

Esme breathes an audible sigh of relief. “I’ve just been so worried about her. She’s just so sensitive, you know? I know she’s tough and resilient, and she’s crazy smart, but she’s still just a little girl. It’s always just been her and I, and it was hard enough telling her that she couldn’t come with us, never mind sending her with someone else.”

“I don’t necessarily like the idea of her with other people, either. But it was the right decision to make; if things go wrong, at least she isn’t around to suffer because of it. And like you said, she’s in great hands.”

“I don’t trust many people when it comes to her. I wouldn’t send her with just anyone.”

“I know. I trust your instincts. And your choices. I wouldn’t have gone along with it if I didn’t.”

“I just didn’t want you to think that I’m neglectful or thoughtless or that I just leave her with random people. I just…”

“I don’t think any of those things. I never would. You did the right thing for Millie. Do you really think I would have gone along with it if I didn’t think that?”

Esme shakes her head.

“Stop doubting yourself. You’re a good mum, Me. You’re an amazing mum. You’ve done right by her. And I know it wasn’t easy; doing it all yourself. There’s no doubting how much you love her. How you’ve devoted your entire life to her.”

“She’s my baby. She became my entire world. And if anything happens to her…”

“Listen to me.” Laying a hand on the back of her neck, he firmly squeezes. “Nothing is going to happen to her. Alcott will make sure of that. She’s safe. And you’ll see her soon. I promise.”

“You’re not worried about her? Or scared or…”

“You kidding? I’m scared shitless. But I know she’s gonna be alright. She’s with people that would do anything to protect her. I wouldn’t have gone along with sending her with them if I didn’t truly believe that. Now…” He re-checks the tightness on her vest. “...what I need you to do is just breathe. Stay calm, keep your eyes and your ears open, and let me know if something doesn’t feel right. Okay?”

She nods.

“You just gotta breathe, Esme. Just breathe and trust me.”

“I do. I DO trust you.”

Patting down the pockets on her coat, he reaches into the left one and removes a black, purple and pink striped beanie. Gently slipping the garment onto her head and then giving her a wink as he tugs it down over her ears. “It’s cold out.”

She manages a smile; briefly leaning her body into his before once again issuing a long, heavy sigh. “Please tell me you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

“You KNOW.”

“What YOU know is that I hate when you talk in riddles.”

“You’re not going to go after him, are you? Winston?”

“Not intentionally.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? You either are, or you aren’t. What…?”

“I’m not going looking for him. That’s not what I’m here for. I’m not going to search the place; hunt him down like a rabid dog. Even if it IS what he deserves.”

“But?”

“If he tries to stop me from getting you out of here, then I’ll deal with him.”

“Tyler..”

“I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want hear about the fucking rules of this place; how they're the only thing separating us from the animals. Or whatever bullshit he likes to preach. And I especially don’t want to hear about The High Table. Those fuckers have caused enough damage and enough problems to last a lifetime.”

“They are not the people you want to piss off. Haven’t you learned that by now? That they’re not the type of people you want to cross? After everything they did five years ago…”

“I already talked to Nik. If it comes to having to kill Winston and live with The High Table on my ass, she and Yaz will make sure you and Millie were kept safe. Taken care of.”

“So we basically just go back to the way things were? You in one place, us in the other?”

“If it has to be that way, then…”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. Five years wasn’t enough? I realize that was all my fault, and I can’t go back and make a different decision; I can’t ever erase what I did or make things right. But we just found each other again. After YEARS apart. And Millie just finally got her dad. And you’re willing to just say ‘fuck it’ and throw all that away?”

“I don’t want to fight. Especially right now. I don’t…”

“I’m not trying to fight. I’m trying to make sense of it. We are so close to having everything we wanted. Everything we should have gotten five years ago. And yet, you’re okay with losing that? For a second time? I don’t…”

“I’m not okay with anything. It’s not like I want to throw it away. It’s not like I love the idea of things going back to the way they were and…”

“You can’t retaliate. I know you’re pissed off; about that sniper coming after you and putting Millie in danger. And I know you hate this weird, gross obsession that Winston has when it comes to me. Believe me, I don’t particularly like the thought of it either. I understand why you’d want revenge. Part of me wants it to. But to go against The High Table and put a target right on your back…”

“I don’t care about me. If it comes down to protecting you…”

“You think it’s caring about me to put yourself in danger like that? Do you think that’s caring about Millie? You think we want you having to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”

“Don’t I already do that?”

“Trust me when I say this, Tyler: there isn’t anyone you’ve gone against that is as vicious and cold-blooded and unforgiving as The High Table. They won’t just kill you. That’s going easy on someone, as far as they’re concerned. They will make you suffer. They will abuse you and torture you until you’re begging them to put a bullet in your head. Even then, that won’t even be enough. They’ll stop and give you a few days rest and then start all over again. And that will last weeks. Maybe months. Maybe even years. Do you think I want that? Them doing things to you? I already saved you from that shit once. Don’t make me do it again.”

“Don’t threaten me with that. Don’t…”

“I’m not threatening you. I’m begging you. Please don’t go after him. Don’t let him reel in you like that. He wants you to react. He wants you to snap and do something drastic because he knows he can’t bring you down any other way. None of his threats have worked. Offering you money didn’t work. The sniper didn’t get the job done. And he’s not going to get his own hands dirty. He wants you to draw blood on Continental grounds so that The High Table will come for you. How can you not see that? That he will do whatever he has to ruin everything. To ruin YOU. Don’t fall for his shit. You are way too smart for that.”

“I can’t let him hurt you. I can’t let ANYONE hurt you. And if he gets in my way…”

“If you’re not going to think of yourself, at least think of me. And Millie. We NEED you. We’ve always needed you.”

“You’ve already done almost five years on your own. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. If you have to…”

“It isn’t about ‘having to.’ It’s about not WANTING to. I don’t want to do this alone anymore. I didn’t want to do it alone the first time! I am begging you, Tyler. Don’t do this to me. To Millie. To US. Please don’t.”

“What am I supposed to do? If he tries to stop us? If he won’t let me take you out of here. How am I supposed to handle that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…”

“Well, you better figure it out fast.” He glances up at the illuminated numbers above the elevator doors. “Because we have two floors to go and if we step out there without a fucking plan…”

“I don’t know. I don’t…” Briefly closing her eyes, Esme takes in a long, quivering breath. “...I’m just begging you not to kill him. I’m not saying you can’t defend me. Or yourself. He won’t break the rules; he’s not going to draw blood on Continental grounds.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that. He’s not above The High Table. NO ONE is. He breaks one of their golden rules, and they WILL punish him. They will strip him of his management, deconsecrate this place, and allow it to become a bloodbath in here. He knows it, and he won’t even chance it. The power that comes with running The Continental and being in The High Table’s good graces are what matters most to him.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“I’ve spent enough time here…enough time around Winston…to know what he treasures most of all. And it isn’t me. It’s power. He won’t risk losing that. Not even for you.”

“So we just talk it out? What do we do? If he tries to stop us? You better hurry, Esme. Because once those doors open…”

“You just can’t draw blood. You can threaten him. You can rough him up. You just can’t kill him. You find another way to handle things. You’re smarter than you think, Tyler. Way smarter. If anyone can handle Winston and play him at his own game, it’s you.”

“So I’m allowed to at least beat the shit out of him?”

“Within reason. If you start, you have to know when to stop. Don’t cross a line you can’t cross back over. That’s all I’m asking. Because I love you, and I need you. And I’m trying to protect you. So just please…PLEASE…remember who you’re dealing with and what he wants from you. And DON’T give it to him.”

Tyler nods slowly as he considers her words, then lays a hand on the back of her neck and pulls her into him. Covering her mouth with his in a long, deep kiss that lasts until a melodic tone announces that the elevator has reached its final destination. Pulling away, a gloved hand tightly squeezes her neck. g “We’re going to be alright.”

“Stronger together than we are apart.”

“Yeah…” He offers a slow yet shaky grin. “...we are.”

*****

The rifle moves slowly; controlled by a steady and confident grip as it makes sweeping passes over closed doors, hidden alcoves, and empty hallways. The silence within the bowels and dark recesses of The Continental deafening; exacerbating the sound of every breath they take and the brush of their soles against the cement floor. Coming to an abrupt halt when voices puncture the stillness; muffled conversations within the laundry room as employees shut down equipment and prepared to evacuate the building. And when they grow louder and closer, and he hears the faint squeak of an opening door, he mutters a "fuck...fuck....FUCK" and seizes her by the front of her vest; quickly and aggressively dragging her into an alcove. His back pressed against the wall as he pulls her much smaller and lighter body into his; a forearm draped across her collarbone and a hand covering her mouth in order to ensure her silence.

When the threat passes, he issues a sigh of relief; an arm ushering her behind him as they once more continue their journey. Vaguely aware of the hold she has on his jacket; her footfalls light and quiet as opposed to his awkward, shuffling gait. His weight and size proving to be detrimental; creating unwanted noise that seems to echo throughout the basement and bounce off the surrounding walls. And they’re fifty yards away from freedom when it happens; an unmarked door tossed open, followed by cocky, smirking Winston stepping out into the hall.

“You really didn’t think you’d get away with this, did you? That I wouldn’t catch wind of your little plan? That someone wouldn’t give you away? Not very smart, are you.”

“Stay back,” Tyler warns. “Don’t come any closer. Don’t…”

“You came into my home, where you’re certainly not welcome, and proceeded to ignore every rule laid out in front of you. Not to mention disrespected not only me, The Continental itself, but all of those who seek and take refuge here. Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the one that’s getting Esme out of here. Away from you. Out from under your thumb. It’s over, Winston. She’s not yours to protect. She never was.”

“You seem to forget that if it weren’t for me, she’d be long dead. And so would your child. In fact, that little one would have never even been born. She exists BECAUSE of me. Because I opened my doors to her mother. Because I gave her a safe haven. Which is something you couldn’t do. Something you’ll NEVER be able to do.”

“I’m going to need you to take a couple of steps back. ‘Cause if you come any closer to her…”

“In case you haven’t noticed by now, Mister Rake, you don’t intimidate me. Not in the slightest. I’m not threatened by you, nor am I scared of you. And I certainly don’t respect you.”

“Never thought I’d say this, but we actually have something in common. Because I feel the exact same way about you.”

“You are under MY roof. This is my home. My KINGDOM. Mine and mine alone. I certainly didn’t want you here; your type is never welcome at The Continental. And believe me, I did everything in my power to prevent you from even stepping foot in this city, never mind this establishment. But even I have my limits. My weaknesses. I admit that I DID succumb to her…how should I put this…feminine wiles.”

Esme hurries out from her ‘safe place’; managing half a step before finding herself blocked by his much larger, heavier body. “And what the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?

“Get back,” Tyler orders, using a forearm to once more tuck her behind him. “Don’t engage. Don’t even look at him. Just stay right there and keep quiet.”

“You know exactly what that means,” Winston informs her. “You have an uncanny ability; the gift of being able to manipulate people into doing exactly what you want. A well-placed smile or pout. Those big, dark eyes. That ‘damsel in distress’ air that you so easily adopt. Even those well versed in your true self fall for it; strong, noble men that never crack under pressure, never break a sweat under even the most dire of circumstances. You act shy and coy and sweet and…”

“That’s not true. I’ve never acted like that. Not with you. Not with ANYONE.”

“You’ve made a living…and a very lucrative one at that… doing those very things. Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place? Why you needed my help? My protection? For years you’ve conned the very best; talked and flirted and lied and…if I may be so bold…even whored…”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Tyler snarls. “Don’t you EVER…”

“... your way into their good graces. Their lives. Their BEDS. How long have you gotten away with it? How many men HAVE you fooled? How many have fallen in love with you, only to have their entire world crumble underneath them?”

“Those were jobs,” Esme argues. “Nothing more. Nothing less. That’s all they were. I never…”

“Never what? Meant to take things that far? Use them in ways that go far beyond your job description? You can’t tell me that Alessio was the first that you devoted so much time and energy to. Eight months. Nearly three-quarters of a year. You became part of his family and even accepted his proposal. You allowed him to raise your daughter, you…”

“He treated Millie like complete and utter shit! Like she was subhuman. He wanted to send her away! To boarding school! A four-year-old! A baby! He…”

“And just who enabled his behaviour? Who allowed him to be around the child? Who was so desperate to have a father in their daughter’s life that…”

“You fucking asshole!” Esme lunges forward; immediately finding herself snagged by the hood on her jacket and aggressively yanked backwards.

“Stop!” Tyler orders. “Just stop. This is what he wants. He wants us to react. Lash out. Do something stupid. So just get behind me and stay there. And don’t say another goddamn word!”

“That’s Millie he’s talking about! My daughter! OUR daughter! She’s just a little girl. A baby. She…”

“He’s using her to get to you. To get to US. Now just get behind me and stay there. And keep quiet. Got it?”

“But…”

“Got it?”

She tearfully nods, then obediently tucks herself behind him.

“You are noble.” Winston addresses Tyler. “I will give you that. Perhaps not the most intelligent, but…”

“I’m only going to tell you once. Get out of the way.”

“So gallant. So eager to protect And so damn devoted. To a fault, even. Do you not see what she’s doing to you? The pattern? Isn’t this how it all began? You protecting her? SAVING her?”

“Winston, back away. Before…”

“Before what?” The older man chuckles. “Before NOTHING. Are you that oblivious? To how you’re being played? Not just once, but TWICE?”

“I’m not taking the bait. I know what you want from me. You want me to snap. You want to be able to paint me as unstable. Unhinged. An unnecessary threat. You want to be able to tell everyone that you acted in self-defence. That I had no reason to act the way I did. You want to be able to kill me; break all the High Tables rules. And then get away with it by making up some bullshit on how it was justified.”

“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe you are more intelligent than I give you credit for.”

“It’s not going to work, Winston. No matter what you say or do. I’ve had much worse said to me. DONE to me. By WAY better.”

“She’s using you, Mister Rake. Just like she used you in Dhaka. She has no morals. She doesn’t care who she hurts. She brings men like you…like US…to our knees. She…”

“You and I? We are nothing alike.”

“We are EXACTLY alike. As much as it pains me to admit it. She’s conned us both. Used us. Manipulated us. Only with you, she got away with it TWICE.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You know nothing; about Esme and I and what went down between us and Dhaka.”

“Word travels fast in the circle. You should know that by now. You should also know that you’re the laughing stock. Everyone talks about it. About YOU. You may be a hero. You may be a legend. But you’re also a damn fool.”

“I’m only going to tell you once more, Winston. Get out of my way. You either move on your own, or I do it for you. And you don’t want that, believe me.”

“I’ll tell you something else. What happened two days ago? In your room? It’s the last time I hire an outsider. To get a job done. It was simple; I told them who the target was and exactly where to find him. Yet here you are. Standing in front of me. Still breathing. You’re a hard one to kill, Mister Rake.”

“I fucking knew it. As soon as it happened. I knew you were behind it. Why? Of all places to try and take me out, why there? With Millie in the room? She’s a baby. MY baby. Why…?”

“Unfortunately, when it comes to war, there’s always collateral damage.”

The rage is overwhelming. All consuming. And in one quick movement, he drives the butt end of his rifle into the side of Winston’s face; the older man roaring in both surprise and pain as he drops into a bloody heap. Blood thunders in his ears as he tosses the weapon aside and then stalks towards his prey; placing a knee in the middle of the other man’s chest as he changes his method of attack. Restoring to using his fists; raining punches down on Winston’s already battered head and face. Oblivious to Esme's initial orders and then her desperate pleas for him to stop; ignoring her as she attempts -in vain- to pull him away. Unable to control either strength or aggression, he pushes her away; causing her to lose her balance and fall heavily onto her rear in the middle of the dirty floor.

“Tyler! No!” As he reaches for his rifle, she scrambles to her knees and then her feet; rushing towards him in a frantic attempt to yank the weapon from his hands. Both arms wrapping around one of his as he places the muzzle against Winston’s forehead, finger poised on the trigger. “Tyler! Stop! Please don’t do this! Don’t…!”

“Just step away, Esme. That’s all you gotta do. Just step away.”

“Please don’t,” she tearfully pleads. “You don’t want to do this. It’s not worth it. HE’S not worth it.”

“You heard what he said. It WAS him. That tried to kill me. Millie was right there. She was in the room. That sniper aimed right at her.”

“Tyler, this isn’t what Millie would want. You kept her safe, yeah? You made sure nothing happened to her. You SAVED her. She’s alive because of you. And she’s waiting for us. She’s waiting for YOU. Her dad. She needs you, okay? She’s always needed you. And I’m sorry that I didn’t make that happen. That I kept her from you. I’m sorry that I hurt you. I never meant for it to get this far.”

“You have nothing to do with this. With HIM. So just step away and…”

“You and Millie just found each other. After all this time. You get to be a father again. And she finally gets her dad. The one she’s been asking about. Don’t rob her of that, okay? Don’t rob her of you. I already did. Don’t you do it to her, too.”

“Esme…”

“I can’t let you do that to her. I just can’t.”

“He deserves it. For him to have his head fucking blown off..”

“Maybe he does. But I don’t want you to be the one who does it. We are so close. To having everything we ever wanted. Please don’t throw that away. Please don’t throw ME away.”

Initially pressing the muzzle harder against Winston’s head, he finally relents, index finger slipping off the trigger as he backs away. And while Winston stumbles to his feet, Tyler once more takes hold of Esme’s hand and guides her behind him.

The older man smirks; using his tie and the sleeve of his suit jacket to clear the blood and sweat from his face. “You realize you just signed your death warrant. Both of yours, for that matter. You drew blood on Continental grounds. That’s rule one: no business is to be conducted on company property.”

“Just let us go, Winston,” Esme attempts to reason with him, struggling to remain calm despite the hammering in both chest and head. “It doesn’t have to go any further than this. It doesn’t have to escalate. Just let us go.”

“You know that can’t happen. It WON’T happen. I was never going to let either of you escape. The child, yes. She has many people who love her. Who will gladly step up and take care of her in your absence.”

“You’re going to kill both of us? Is that it? That was always your plan?”

“I’m not going to kill you. Why would I waste such a wonderful, beautiful asset? I’m not a stupid man, Esme. Don’t treat me as such.”

“When I told you I was hiring Tyler, and you agreed to let him into The Continental, you told me you’d let us go. That we’d be free to just walk out of here. You PROMISED me.”

“Well, you see, my love, like you, I too have to lie from time to time. To get my way.”

“You’re fucking crazy. Why would I ever stay here with you? Why would I want to? Especially after all of this. You think I’d just forgive you? For everything you’ve done? For keeping my daughter from me? For killing Tyler? You think I’d just learn to be okay with all of that?”

“I can have your daughter brought back. At any time. All you have to do is ask nicely and…”

“And do as I’m told? Is that what you were going to say? All I would have to do is be a quiet, obedient, submissive little thing, is that it? Play along? Be a trophy for you; someone you could parade around? Show off? Feed your ego? Cure your limp dick? Is THAT what you were going to say?”

“You are a feisty one. Always have been. I can give you a life. A very good one at that. You’ll never want for nothing. There’s nothing I can’t give you. Why won’t you let me do that? Give you the world? Why…?”

“I would rather put a bullet in my fucking brain than spend another minute here with you.”

“You’ll learn to love it. Life here. Where you’re safe.”

“I’m not staying here. So you’re going to have to kill me, too. Because I’ll do it myself. I’ll find a way. I will NOT be some toy for you.”

“But you’ll be one for him? Some ‘no one’. You’ll accept a life with THAT? Over one with me?”

Esme remains defiant. “I’d rather be his whore than your wife.”

“You really would choose him? An alcoholic, drug-addicted mercenary who abandoned his dying child?”

“Don’t talk about him like that.” Her hand disappears underneath the hem of her jacket; fingertips brushing against the handle of the Glock. “Don’t EVER talk about him like that. Don’t even say his name.”

“I don’t know who is more blind. Him or you. He can’t see what you’re doing to him, and you can’t see him for who he truly is. A nobody. No more than some two-bit thug who…”

“Winston, I am warning you. DON’T talk about him like that.”

“You’re more foolish than he is. You realize that, don’t you? The fact you would turn down a life with me for a pathetic, miserable existence with him? He doesn’t deserve you. Don’t you see that? He’ll never change. This is who he will always be. He’ll never give this up. This life. Not for you, not for your daughter. You can’t change him. You can’t save him. No matter how desperately you want to.”

Slipping the gun from its holster, she removes it from under her coat before either man has a chance to stop her.

Winston gives a mocking chuckle.. “And what are you going to do with that, little one? What…?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what YOU’RE going to do.”

“And that would be?”

“You’re going to let us out of here. You’re going to keep your promise. Or I will put a bullet in your fucking skull.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Like I told Alessio earlier. I don’t bluff.”

Behind her, the doors to the kitchen swing open, and she quickly pivots; training the gun on the figure that strides into the hallway.

“Miss Drummond,” Both Charon’s voice and eyes are soft. Reassuring. Kind. And he holds his hands up in a plea for peace, signifying to both Esme and Tyler that he poses no threat. “If you would be so inclined as to hand me your weapon.”

“I can’t. Not unless he lets us go. He’s going to kill Tyler. And keep me here. Away from Millie. He’s…”

“He’s going to do no such thing,” Charon assures her and slowly reaches for the weapon; giving a calm, gentle smile as he gingerly plucks it from her hand. “You’re safe. You’re BOTH safe. No ill is going to come to either of you.”

“But he said…”

“What he said doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to happen to you. Either of you. You’re going to walk out of here. Together. And you’re going to be reunited with your little girl. Very soon.”

“It was him, you know. That hired that sniper. To kill Tyler. He didn’t care that Millie was there. She could have been killed, too. And he didn’t even give a shit. That’s my little girl. My baby. And he didn’t even care.”

“I know. Of his involvement. The news of such I didn’t learn until this morning. But she is safe now. She’s away from here. This place. This life. And if you want to see her again…”

“It’ll never happen,” Winston interjects. “My people are already on their way. They’ll be here in minutes. So I suggest…” He glances at Esme, then at Tyler. “...that if you have anything to say to each other, you do it now. Or you won’t get the chance.”

“There is NO ONE coming,” Charon informs him. “There is no cavalry.”

“I called them myself.”

“As did I. After you hung up. It’s been called off. And they’re free to go.”

“You can’t make that decision. You…”

“No. But The High Table can. You’re not the only one with friends in power, sir.”

“You’re lying. You’re…”

“I NEVER lie. You should be expecting a visit from The Adjudicator. The High Table was very concerned that you hired someone to do business on Continental grounds. Not even you are above the rules.”

“First Jonathan, now you? Charon, how could you? Betray me like this? After everything we’ve been through. The years we’ve spent together. The battles we faced. All the things I’ve done for you. And THIS is how you repay me? This…”

“THIS is the right thing to do. Now…” He regards Esme over the top rim of his glasses, then holds out the Glock. “...you can be trusted with this? Rule number one…”

“I can be trusted.”

“Good. Now I suggest you leave. The way you have planned. I will meet up with you. At the airport.”

“You’re coming with us? Why? Why are you…?”

“I’m merely tagging along. To make sure you get to your destination. Safely. But if something does happen in the meantime…” Cradling her face in his palms, Charo presses a kiss to each of her cheeks. “...it has been a pleasure, Miss Drummond.”

As tears well in her eyes, she stands on her tiptoes and embraces him tightly. “Thank you. Not just for this. For EVERYTHING”

“I have very much enjoyed your company. And your friendship.”

Shouldering his rifle, Tyler plucks the Glock from Esme’s hand and slips it into the waistband of his pants, then wraps an arm around her shoulders and draws her tight against him. He gives Charon an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”

“We will see each other soon, Mister Rake.”

“I hope so.” He begins leading a trembling and terrified Esme away. “I really fucking hope so.”

******

As an armoured SUV waits for them outside the shipping and receiving, Tyler’s eyes quickly scan the immediate buildings for any sign of trouble; any figures lurking in open windows or within the shallow recesses of doors. And when he’s certain it’s safe, he jumps off the platform and then turns to assist Esme. His arms outstretched and waiting for her to make her move; easily and effortlessly catching her and then placing her on the ground. Holding her securely by the wrist as he pulls her in the direction of the vehicle; opening the door with one hand, the other shielding the top of her head from coming in contact with the frame. And he waits until she buckles herself in before shutting the door and hurrying for the driver’s side; slipping behind the wheel and throwing down the overhead visor, allowing the keys to fall into his lap.

“Well…” He guns the ignition. “...that went to shit.”

Esme attempts an apology. And an explanation. “I’m sorry. He just knew exactly what buttons to push. First talking about Millie, then about you. I just couldn’t take it. I couldn’t hear another word. He just kept going and going, and I just snapped and…”

“What did I tell you? About listening to me? About never second-guessing a goddamn thing?”

“I just couldn’t listen to it. As if admitting to being the one to hire the sniper wasn’t enough…”

“Esme, I told you to stay quiet. To not engage with him. And I didn’t tell you just once. I told you multiple times. To just shut up and get behind me and let me do my job. Why don’t you listen to me? Why can’t you just do what you’re told? Why…?”

“He just got to me. It was just too much. I can usually handle what people say about me. And I don’t really care that he called me a whore and…:

“I sure as hell fucking cared.”

“...and accused me of being a liar and manipulator. Because I WAS those things. When it came to the job. I DID do those things. I did lie, and I did manipulate people.”

“It was always a means to an end. You did what you had to do. It was work. That’s it.”

“He said the exact same things Gaspar did. About me. About US. About how I used you to get out of Dhaka. And that’s not true. I didn’t lie to you, and I didn’t manipulate you. And I didn’t use you.”

“I know that. I…”

“Everything that happened between us, everything we said to each other, everything we planned? It was all real. Every second, every word. None of that was fake. And for TWO people to insist on it?”

“If I didn’t believe it then, what the hell makes you think I’m going to believe it now? I don’t give a fuck what Gaspar said. And I sure as hell don’t give a shit about anything that came out of Winston’s mouth. I was there too, Esme. In Dhaka. In that hotel room. And it all felt real. It never felt anything BUT real.”

“I just wanted to make sure, that’s all. That you know that none of what Winston said is true and that….”

“Esme, I KNOW. I’ve ALWAYS known.”

“And then when he started in on Millie and then you…”

“Listen, as much as I would love to be able to just sit here and unpack all of this with you and assure you that everything is okay…that WE’RE okay…I can’t do it. Maybe later, but not right now. I need to get us the fuck out of here. Away from this place and out of this city. Out of this COUNTRY. So I’m going to need you to let this shit go. For now. Okay?”

She nods.

“I also need you to toe the fucking line. Because back there? With Winston? That almost ended very badly. And I don’t want to have to deal with something like that again. So, please…I am begging you…listen to me. Do as I say. Got it?”

Tears well in her eyes as both chin and lower lip tremble. “Got it.”

“And please don’t do that. Cry. Because I can’t deal with that right now. I can’t be who you need me to be when you’re this upset and close to freaking out. You hired me to do a job, yeah?”

She nods.

“Then let me do it. Or we are NOT going to get out here. Cooperate. Please.”

“I will. I just…”

“No more. No more talking about this. Just sit there and be quiet and…” His words trail off as his SAT phone vibrates within the confines of the inner pocket of his jacket. And he mutters a ‘fuck me’ as he pulls it out and jams an index finger into the ‘talk’ icon.“What?!”

“Where the hell are you?” Nik inquires. “We’ve been waiting here. At the rendezvous site. Where…?”

“I got a little held up.”

“A little?”

“We’re on our way now. Be there shortly.”

“You’re fifteen minutes past the deadline. Of when the security systems came back on line. Why haven’t you been answering me? On your radio? Did something happen to it or…?”

“I turned it off. In the basement.”

“Tyler…”

“Look, we had an issue, alright?”

“What kind of issue?”

“One I don’t have time to explain. I’m trying to fucking drive!”

“Do I need to remind you who's in charge? Who your boss is? Who gives you orders and signs your paycheck? Do I..?”

“Fuck off, Nik!” He barks, then hangs up and tosses the phone onto the dashboard; unleashing a host of profanities when it bounces off and falls to the floor at Esme’s feet.

Chewing anxiously on her bottom lip, she glances over at him, then down at the cell. And she strains against her seat belt as she leans over to pick it up; placing it in the hands-free holder clipped to the dashboard.

For several minutes, they remain in silence as they make their escape; grateful for the clear and easy path created by the slew of emergency vehicles provided by Wick’s men. To the untrained eye, the FDNY badges and logos seem legit; boldly plastered on the handful of engines and SUVs that not only keep the street directly in front of The Continental car and pedestrian free, but have succeeded in closing down all intersections within a three block radius in each direction.

The closer they get to their meet-up point, the more steady and confident his nerves become. With the confrontation with Winston now pushed onto the back burner, it makes room for cautious optimism; allowing himself to think of not only being reunited with Millie, but of finally being able to start his life -as a partner, soon-to-be husband, and a father- in his homeland. He’s anxious to share the things he loves with his little girl; already dreaming of teaching her to surf and taking her camping and fishing and dirt bike riding. Witnessing as she thrives and grows and gets accustomed to life ‘down under’; making friends and falling in love with the people and the wildlife and taking on an accent.

It’s those thoughts that release the last of the tension in his shoulders and jaw, feeling remarkably lighter as he glances over at Esme; watching as she nervously chews on the inside of her cheek and fidgets with the ties on either side of her hat. He regrets how harsh he’d been with her; the aggression he displayed, and the way he’d barked at her and ordered her around. Lowering himself to reprimanding her as if she were nothing more than a petulant child.

Dropping one of his hands from the steering wheel, he gently sweeps dirt and debris off the thighs of her jeans. “You’re not hurt are you?”

She glances over; a quizzical frown knitting her brows together.

“I didn’t mean to push you as hard as I did. I just meant to get you out of the way. I didn’t…”

“It wasn’t THAT hard. You didn’t hurt me. I just lost my balance. I…”

“That was a pretty hard fall. I didn’t…”

“Tyler…” She grabs a hold of his hand before he can remove it from her leg; managing a smile as she tightly squeezes. “...I’m fine. Honest. Remember when I talked about being thicker too?”

“Oh fuck, not this again…”

“Most of that thickness is in my ass. I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, it’s just made your ass even better. And it was pretty awesome before, so…”

“And you excuse me of unprofessional talk?” she teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be the mature and sensible one in this situation?”

“Fuck mature and sensible. You talking about your ass being thicker? All I can think about is that saying. About ‘more cushion for the pushin’.”

“You are nothing if not predictable,” she chides and releases his hand. “I KNEW as soon as I mentioned my ass, your mind would go there. Right into the gutter.”

“I was a total prick back there. I didn’t…”

“You weren’t. You…”

“No. I was. I shouldn’t have talked to you like I did. You didn’t deserve that. You…”

“You had every right to. I haven’t exactly been the most cooperative client, have I?”

“You’ve been a challenge. I thought maybe the last five years might have calmed you down; gotten you over that whole ‘I listen to no man’ stage.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I tend to listen to you more than other men.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That’s not saying much.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. That I just didn’t shut up and do what I was told. I didn’t exactly follow my own advice, did I? About not letting Winston get under our skin.”

“No, you did not.”

“Like I said, I don’t really care what people say about me. I’ve been called way worse by way better. But when he brought up Millie and then started threatening you and talking all kinds shit about you…”

“I’m a big boy, Esme. I don’t need you to protect me.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You DO need me. In more ways than you’ve ever been willing to admit. I may not be able to protect you the same way you do with me, but I can still have your back. Defend you. Take care of you.”

“And I’m still going to tell you that you don’t need to.”

“We’re going to have to come to some sort of impasse, Tae. Because…” She pauses when she sees the slow, almost boyish grin that spreads across his face. “...what? What’s that little smile for?”

“Nothing. I just haven’t heard you call me that in a long time. I missed it.”

Smiling, she reaches out and rubs his thigh, then squeezes his knee. “I missed saying it.”

“You gotta promise me that you’ll try and rein it in. How much you worry about me. Want to take care of me.”

“You know that’s impossible. It’s just who I am. Who I’ve ALWAYS been. When it comes to you. I’ve always cared too much and worried too much. That’s not going to change, you know. So I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree. About whether or not you need to be protected or not.”

“As long as you promise you won’t go too Mother Hen on me. You know I can’t handle it when you start that babying shit.”

“You are so full of it. You like it when I baby you. I mean, who else is going to put up with you when you’ve got the man flu? You’d probably drive other women completely crazy. They wouldn’t know how to handle you. You’d break them for sure.”

“Well, your sister always was amazed about how I managed to never break YOU in half.”

“I’m made of tough stuff, I guess. Momma didn’t raise a quitter. Or a coward." Yanking off her beanie, she smoothes down her hair and fixes her ponytail. “Did you know? About Charon? That he was part of all this?”

“All I knew was that Nik had someone on the inside. Who got her the blueprints of the hotel, security codes, and all kinds of info. I never would have thought it would be him, though.”

“What do you think made him turn? Against Winston?”

“You heard him; he said it was just the right thing to do. What happened the other day probably pushed him over the edge; the sniper even going after Millie.”

“You never told me that. That they intentionally targeted her.”

“I didn’t see a need to. There was no reason to upset you more than you already were.”

“That must have been terrifying. It’s one thing for people to come after you; you’re used to it. But for them to go after her?”

“I handled it. I did what I had to do. To keep her from getting hurt. But if I ever find exactly WHO pulled that trigger…”

“I give you full permission to shoot them in the head. After you torture them. Slowly and extremely painfully. Do you think he’s going to be okay? Charon? Winston isn’t going to take this lying down; he’s going to view it as a massive betrayal.”

“Winston isn’t dumb enough to try anything. Charon’s got The High Table on his side. Which means, in some weird, fucked up way, they’re on our side too.”

“Better than having to worry about them coming after us. Let’s just hope we never have to call in any favours. Rely on them for anything. Because if I ever have to resort to THAT…”

It happens quickly. Leaving no time to time to react or prepare for impact. The roar of an engine, the glare of headlights cutting through the thin veil of fog, the screeching of brakes. Safety and security suddenly and brutally ripped away; bodies violently jostled within the confines of the SUV as horns blare, glass shatters, and metal crunches and crumbles.

And then, silence.