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starlightrows · 3 years

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Something Sweet

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!Paz Vizsla x fem!reader

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: angst, symptoms of depression (not graphic or diagnosed), brief mention of alcohol and drug use, hopeful ending

Summary: Paz finds himself trapped in a routine that’s keeping him tied to a lifestyle that brings him no joy. It’s not until a phone call from his good friend Din, that he realizes that there are better things waiting just over the horizon if you can just be brave enough to make the leap of faith

This chapter is labeled chapter 0, because it takes places before the events of the actual story and does not include the reader. If you’re only here for the couply-goodness, feel free to skip this chapter and sit tight the romance is coming I promise!

Chapter 0 - Chasing Dreams is dedicated to @maybege who inspires me to chase my fan fiction dreams every single day, and is single handedly responsible for my love, yearning, and obsession with the Big Blue Mando Man we all know and love as Paz Vizsla! This is one is for you May ❤️

The 5am train is full of commuters, heading into work with coffee cups in hand and more or less rested ready to start the day. Everyone seems to be on the same page, consume enough caffeine to be personable by the time you get to the office, use the time on the train to do your hair or makeup or start a little early on emails from your phone if you’re behind. It’s all very hustle and bustle, keep your head down and keep grinding to make it in the big city.

Paz rode the 5am train every morning. But not heading into the city. No, he got on the train at 5am and rode it all the way down to the end of the line to get back to his dumpy little shoebox of an apartment on the outskirts of the city around 8am.

Why he chose to move to the city after getting out of the Marine Corps was beyond him. His commander told him that he had a friend that was looking to hire some muscle as private security for his upper echelon nightclubs and it could be a good job opportunity for him fresh out of the service. Not having anywhere else to go, he took the job. Now his days blurred together in a lopsided haze. Wake up around 3pm, eat something cheap and tasteless, work out, shower and get dressed to work. Catch the 6pm train into the city and spend all three hours thinking about far away places. What his life might be like if he was someone else or somewhere else. Get to the club and start work at 9pm. Spend the night watching people dance and sing and scream, drink ridiculously expensive alcohol and take brightly colored party drugs that blow out their pupils and make them want to dance and sing more. By the time 5am rolls around again his head is pounding from listening to electronic dance music for 8 continuous hours, and he spends the remaining 3 hours of his day riding the train back out of the city and wishing he had made different choices in his life.

Of course he does get Monday’s and Tuesday’s off, those days he still doesn’t really know what to do with himself. It’s too expensive to have a car in the city, so he can’t drive anywhere. And he’s too far away from any of the attractions of the city to walk to them. So he tends to spend his off days either walking around the track at the local park, or in his tiny kitchen kneading bread dough and baking test batches until it comes out the way he liked it. This is one of the big things he spends his time wondering about. If he kept up working in private security, and paying for this shit apartment, would he someday be able to afford to move closer to work and spend less time commuting? Maybe he could eventually save up and get a place with a bigger kitchen so he could try making more things. He liked baking. Kneading bread dough, making cake batter, mixing frosting colors. It’s telling that a man like him dreamt about pastries and cooking every night, and spent his long commuting hours debating on saving up more for a better place or spending a little extra on culinary equipment.

He didn’t tell anybody this is how he spent his time and money, not that he really talked to anyone these days anyway. Since leaving the service he hasn’t been good about keeping up with his brothers in arms, or his friends from before getting deployed. He hasn’t really made new friends in the city either. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to any of them, he’s just busy and when he does think about reaching out to someone, he always figures they’re busy too. Every day the sun rises and sets, and it’s like he’s just floating through life, waiting for something to change.

One Monday, Paz is walking around the track at the local park. It’s scraggly and not well maintained but at least it’s outdoors. He’s thinking about the sourdough loaf back in his apartment rising right now. Hopefully this one will turn out good, he’s planning to try a dutch oven bake soon, but that requires buying a dutch oven and he’s trying so hard to save up for a better apartment. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he considers just letting it go to voicemail figuring it was probably his boss asking him to come in and work tonight. But something in him tells him to look, the name on the screen surprises him. Din Djarin. His long time friend from way back before joining the service. Paz answered the phone.

“Hey buddy, Happy Birthday!” Din says. Paz stopped walking

“It’s not my birthday?” Paz stepped off to the side of the track and sat down on a bench running a hand over his face.

Din laughs on the other end of the line, “Yeah it is, April 30th right?”

Paz pulls his phone away from his face and checks the date, “Holy shit, it is my birthday,”

“Yeah man. Did you really forget?” Din asks, he sounds like he’s moving around Paz hopes he’s not bothering him or getting in the way of his day right now.

“Honestly yeah, it feels like April just started,” he admits

“Been busy then? Running around in the big city, making big money, romancing cute hunnies?” Din teases, Paz can hear another voice on the other side. He figure’s it’s Din’s son, he’s gotta be about two or three years old now.

“Yeah, something like that,” Paz mumbles

“Yeah? Then why don’t you sound happy about it?” Din asks, sensing his friends lack of enthusiasm

“It’s fine, really. The city is nice, I just wish I could actually live in it and enjoy it. Actually I wish everyone who lived here actually enjoyed it. Kinda just feels like everyone who lives here only knows how to work or be a strung out party goer,” Paz sighs

“Guess the big city life isn’t all it's cracked up to be huh,” Din says “Listen… you should come out to visit sometime. I feel like this city is more your style. We’re still a major city with nice attractions and events, but there’s more community here and things are a little slower ya know,”

“I can’t just drop everything and go all the way out there. You live over 2000 miles away,” Paz says, though the prospect of a smaller city with a community atmosphere does sound awfully appealing

“Paz, you’ve been working for a private security company for two years and I can almost guarantee that you haven’t taken a single hour of paid time off or sick leave. Flights are a little pricey, I’ll give you that, but you can stay with me so you don’t have to pay for a hotel or anything,” Din offers “I’ll pay for your half of your flight, call it a birthday present,”

“I’ll tell you what Din, I’ll think about it. You’re probably right, I do need to get out of the city for a bit. I’ll talk to the boss about taking some time off,” Paz says, standing back up.

“That’s the spirit!” Din exclaims “Call me when you figure out a time that’s good for you so we can book you a flight,”

Paz and Din chat idly for another couple of minutes before Din bids him goodbye, and happy birthday. Paz tucks his phone back into his pocket and smiles. For the first time in a very long time, he’s actually looking forward to something.

----

Two weeks later Paz is sitting on a plane for the first time since coming back to the states after deployment, with two weeks off of paid vacation time on his way to visit Din. It’s a long six and half hour flight and the seat is pretty small for how wide his frame is, but he’s hopeful. If nothing else, he was going to get to spend two weeks with his best friend.

Din is waiting for him at the airport when his flight arrives. He greets him with a bracing hug and the promise of a really good dinner waiting for him. The moment Paz steps out of the airport he knows he’s in trouble. Instead of a massive industrial looking city full of high rise buildings with thousands of people pushing their way through to get on with their day, he’s met with bright blue skies. Trees that are just starting to put out new leaves and flowers for spring. The air is fresh and clear. A feeling wells up in his chest, when he turns and can see mountains in the distance. It’s beautiful.

“You coming?” Din draws him out of his thoughts, tossing his suitcase in the back of his truck.

“Yeah, I just didn’t realize you lived so close to the mountains,” Paz admitted stepping up into the passenger seat.

“Everyone says that when they first come here. You should see them in winter when they’re covered in snow,” Din says. Paz can imagine it, but he hopes to see it with his own eyes.

Din drives through the city, it’s a lot like the city Paz had just come from, except older and less flashy. Less people, and less cars. All of the businesses looked unique and inviting.

Din passes a street and points down it without looking, “My studio is right down there. It’s a great little spot. All the business owners on the block are close, we play poker and shoot pool on Tuesday nights at the bar on the corner. You’re definitely coming with me for that this week,”

“I could shoot some pool,” Paz laughs.

Din turns out of the downtown area, and takes a main boulevard lined with fast food restaurants and dive bars. Din points again, “That’s the stadium for the university. Hope you like football, because it’s kind of a big thing here,”

“Still think I could have pulled a scholarship for football straight out of high school if I wasn’t so dead set on going into the Marine Corps,” Paz jokes

“It’s just as well,” Din shrugs with a smile “you make one hell of a Marine,”

Din turns down another road off the main drag. They pass parks, an elementary school, neighborhoods, and a lone Dairy Queen before turning into another neighborhood full of very nice houses with front lawns and trees giving off pink and white flower buds.

Din pulls the truck up into one of the driveways, and cuts the engine. Paz gets out of the truck and takes in the house. It’s massive by his standards.

“Is your girlfriend a CEO or something?” Paz asks with a laugh. Din gives him a look, and goes to take the suitcase out of the back.

“No? She and her brothers flip houses together,” he replies “why do you ask?”

“Your place is huge, man! When I was a kid these are the kind of houses I thought millionaires lived in,” Paz follows Din towards the front door.

Din laughs, as he unlocks the door. “Maybe in other states, but not here. The million dollar houses here are the size of castles. This house is pretty average for this area, and it didn’t cost us an arm and a leg to get,”

Paz nods and follows his friend into the house. It’s not just a house, it’s a home. Paz can tell because even though it’s clean on the inside it looks lived in, well loved. Pictures and art on the walls. The living room had a big tv and sectional couch, perfect for hosting game day events and watch parties. He could see a chest in the corner that clearly had toys in it. The kitchen was huge! A double doored refrigerator, cabinet space and marble countertops. He can see through a sliding glass door there’s a backyard, a play structure and home swing set sat in the middle of it for Din’s little boy. He didn’t have any pets but he could picture a dog running around out there too.

This is it. This is what he’d spent the last two years dreaming about on the train rides to and from the city. This is his far away place. He’s been here for less than half an hour and he already knows, he is meant to be here.

The next two weeks are the happiest Paz has ever felt. Exploring the downtown area, visiting the parks and the nature reserve just outside of town, the restaurants serve great food that doesn’t cost a fortune. He takes Din’s little boy to the zoo and out for ice cream. He gets to know Din’s girlfriend and her two brothers, apparently flipping houses in some of the older more run down parts of town is very rewarding and breathes new life into the city. He visits Din’s tattoo studio, and goes with him to the bar on Tuesday night like he promised.

Everyone there is friendly, welcoming and adamantly against him leaving at the end of the week.

“You sure you have to go back, you’re part of the crew man!” says Cara, she owns the boxing studio down the street.

Paz took a swing from his beer, and laughed “You think I want to go back there? I gotta figure out how to get out of my lease, quit my job. I gotta find somewhere to live and work here first,”

“If you’re looking for a job just to get on your feet, I could use another bartender,” Boba, the guy who owns the bar says “Fennec is looking to move to part time too, more time slots available for work,”

“If you’re serious, I’ll take you up on that offer,” Paz says.

Boba extends a hand to him, “Job’s yours if you want it,” Paz grins and shakes his hand.

A few days later Paz is genuinely sad about having to hug Din’s little boy goodbye, and get back on the plane to take him back across the country. Back to the city that never sleeps, and doesn’t appreciate the little things in life. Back to the six hours round trip of commuting. Back to the scraggly uncared for parks and dirty streets. He promised himself on that plane ride, he would not get caught up in the monotony and blinding routine like before. There is a better life waiting for him. All he has to do is make the leap of faith and take it.

———

He holds himself to his promise. In the first week when he got back he spent the entire three hour train ride to work researching apartments in the area he wanted to live. He was shocked to find out the exact same price he was paying for his shoebox apartment with no amenities and terrible maintenance; could get him a huge apartment with a big kitchen, access to a pool, gym, and shared entertainment space. It even came with a parking spot. And there were other options that were almost as nice for less money. And to think he had wasted so much time and money pretending he was happy, or was getting close to being able to afford to be happy living in the bigger city. What a joke.

He had Din submit an application to an apartment complex he really liked about a week after he got back. The second he found out he was approved and got the apartment, he put in his two weeks notice and started packing. Another six hours plane trip didn’t sound very appealing but, at least it was a one way trip this time.

Paz found moving out of his apartment to be exceptionally easy. He threw all of his belongings into two suitcases, and shipped the few things that wouldn’t fit in a box he could pick up at the post office when he got there. Everything else was not worth saving, so he put everything out on the side of the road in front of his old apartment with a piece of paper taped to it that read: FREE!

Unfortunately moving into the new apartment in the new city was a little more challenging. Furnishing an apartment from scratch is no small task. But to his amazement and truly heartfelt joy, all of Din’s friends he had met when he came to visit helped him move things into his new place. Boba even loaned him his truck to go pick up bigger furniture like the couch and bed frame he ordered. Cara and Peli, the woman who owned the auto parts store on the next block over from Din’s studio and Boba’s bar, sat with him for hours assembling IKEA furniture. Din’s girlfriend even came by with Din’s little boy, to visit uncle Paz and help him figure out how to appropriately decorate and furnish a “real apartment”.

He loves his new life in this new city. Working for Boba at the bar in the evenings is pretty low stress, and he makes quite a bit in tips. During the day he’s been working on sourdough starters, determining the best herbs and flavors to top focaccia bread, trying his hand at doing French baguettes. And more recently, he’s been trying to make chocolate croissants from scratch. Though he hasn’t had much success yet. But he keeps trying.

Every time something comes out perfect, he writes down every step in a blue notebook he found lying around with his things before he moved.

Paz never imagined his life turning out like this. If he was told just 3 months ago he would be moving across the country on a whim, to chase his dream of living a simpler life, he wouldn’t have believed it. And then things got even better.

About six months after moving, Paz really felt like he was home in this city. He split his time between working part time as an instructor at Cara’s boxing studio, bartending for Boba, and working on his culinary hobby. Until one day, the older couple that owned the bagel shop a few doors down from Din’s tattoo studio closed up shop. Apparently they were retiring, packing up the business and moving out of state to be closer to their grandchildren.

There was a sign on the vacant building indicating the unit was about to become available. A thought crossed his mind…. he had no idea where it came from or if he was remotely qualified to pull it off… but it couldn’t hurt to ask.

“Does anyone have a contact number for the couple that owned the bagel shop?” Paz asks the group

“Yeah,” Cara pipes up “I house sat for them once. Why?”

“I want to buy their industrial baking equipment, and takeover their lease,” he replies seriously

“You want to run the bagel shop?” Fennec asks

“No… I uh, I wanna open a bakery,” Paz admits

“You do make a mean sourdough dude…. I say go for it,” Din encourages him

“I’m sure they’ll sell you the equipment at a discount. Hell they might even leave it to you for free if you tell them what you’re gonna do with it,” Cara tells him, she writes down a phone number on a napkin and hands it to Paz. He pockets the napkin with a thank you and a nod.

The next day he calls the number, and has a lovely chat with the wife who, as Cara pointed out, was eager to get the equipment off their hands. She also provided a ton of helpful information on running a small business in this area, who trustworthy suppliers were, a good lawyer to get all the paperwork done, a good accountant to file taxes next spring, and more. Honestly it was a lot more than Paz has even considered, but something in his heart was telling him it’s the right decision. That this is a challenge he absolutely had to tackle. That maybe this has always been his calling.

And right he was. Vizsla’s Bakery had a grand debut the following autumn. And he knew, this is it. He’s finally made it. All of the time he spent in the Marines fighting in wars he never truly understood, all of his years spent working a mindless job in a depressing city, pretending he was not struggling. All of it has led him here. To a city he loves, with friends so close to him they’re like family, a home… a real home. And a dream he can finally live out.

Tag List: @maybege

#Star Wars #The Mandalorian #Paz Vizsla #Paz Vizsla x reader #Paz Viszla #Paz Viszla x reader #Pastry Chef!Paz AU #Pastry Chef!Paz #Modern!AU #Modern!Paz Vizsla

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pixiedoodlein · 3 years

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10 days until school and I’m no more decided than I was a week ago. I flip flop ten times day about what might be best. A is sick of hearing me talk about it. He doesn’t disagree with my risk assessment but he is sick of talking about it.

It caused an issue with his friend, a friend who is his best friend and is unvaccinated and works in a jail. Months ago we told friend he could only visit (this place is their boyhood dream) once he’s vaccinated. Friend typically believes in science and is very health conscious but his gf is a moron Trump lover and her family the same and that’s who he’s been spending all his time with since this all started. When I asked friend why he’s not vaccinated he said he’s young & healthy, didn’t trust the vaccines, would do it when they got full fda approval. Plenty of young healthy people are dead of this. Anyway then I asked ok so what if you give it to someone who isn’t and dies, people incarcerated in the jail he works in and don’t have the luxury of social distancing, and he was like eh whatever. So yes friend is an asshole, but his best friend for decades, friend has always been kind of an asshole but has many redeeming qualities too. So we said no visit. But then in July when there was no covid here and no covid where he lives and we were blissfully living our covid free lives we loosened up and said he could visit with two negative tests. But then covid got bad again and when asshole friend contacted A the other day to say he took time off in late Sept to visit, A said sorry, it’s fully fda approved now you have no excuses not to vaccinate, we’re worried about our unvaccinated kids, and as of now you can’t visit but hey maybe if you get vaccinated and the numbers look better we can reassess in a month and you can come. Friend was a total dick about it, didn’t understand our point of view at all, stressed A about it, who was in a bad mood about it for days afterward.

Then there’s the neighbors. I had a chat with the kids and a chat with the mom. I framed it as we love them so much and I know they’re careful but I think we should all be more careful while the numbers are so rising (aka only outdoor hangouts) and we are careful but I’ve heard terrifying stories from doctor friends about kids and babies getting very sick, and they have a baby who I don’t want us to make sick, and she said she agreed. The kids have been pretty good about making the adjustment from constant sleepovers to playing outside but M keeps asking me “the kids need to pee are they allowed to use the bathroom, the kids are hungry are they allowed to come inside even for one minute for a snack,” and I feel like the villain (I’ve been saying yes to pee, snacks I’ll bring out). Everyone’s been understanding but nobody is getting what I mean when I say only outdoor socializing. All the kids keep asking me when I’ll take them to town again for ice cream, “but it’s outside” (um yeah but the car’s not), asking their mom to ask me for sleepovers even though they know what the answer will be. The other day they were playing in our yard then it started raining and they were like “we can’t walk home in the rain”- I don’t want them to walk home in the rain, but again the car is indoors!- so I drove them home (but made M stay at our house). They’re not my kids so I can’t make them wear masks and it feels like now I am in the position of being the mean parent who’s psycho about covid, which in a way I am, but it would help me to stick to my guns and feel okay about sticking to them if the government policies matched the severity of the situation, ie mask mandates in public places (instead of stores posting polite recommendations), vaccine mandates, virtual learning options, etc.

Which brings me to school. After selling M hard on real school, then I sold her hard on home school. She already “did” 3rd grade last year (as much as me teaching her in my pajamas counts as doing), but this district has an earlier cut off than the city, so she’s in 3rd grade again here. Which is fine by me- her birthday is the same day as the very late nyc cut off (12/31) and I hated that she was the absolute youngest. I used to beg the school to hold her back and they’d say “but why she’s doing so well!” not understanding that I was thinking ahead to the teen years. But anyway, despite her haphazard pj’d professor, she seemed to learn a lot last year so homeschool this year could basically be unschool. She’d traipse around the forest identifying birds and trees with A and her brother, reading for pleasure, and I’d spend an hour here and there reviewing some worksheets with her so she’d be on track when she starts real school after she gets vaccinated. She was into the idea, until she found out she and one of the neighbor kids are in the same class. Now she absolutely wants to go to real school, AND ride the school bus. The school bus part makes me very nervous. While there is now a school mask mandate (but will it be enforced? what are their lunch procedures, what % of teachers are vaccinated, what % of the older kids in the same building as the little kids are vaccinated, did they actually really update their ventilation system?) and a bus mask rule, it’s a long rural route (15 min drive or 45 min bus) and I have no faith that bus windows will be open and all riders will be masked the whole time.

So just tell her she can go to school but has to be driven by a parent, right? Not so simple. I was offered a job at a (somewhat, commuting distance) nearby nonprofit- an easy low stress job in a bastion of liberalism with very very nice smart coworkers, excellent work life balance, a writing job that sounds made for me, like the job description is exactly what I would put together if I were putting together my dream job (except the pay, which is half what I was making at a fancy DC nonprofit, but high for this area, and our housing cost is half so it should be fine if A can get away from little guy long enough to bring in some money too). It’s mostly remote but approx one day a week in the office and some days there will be things I need to attend out in the community (not necessarily our community, they serve the whole region). It won’t always be the same day in the office and the office is an hour away- so on those days A would have no car to get her to and from school, since I’d need to leave before school starts and get home after it’s done. So I guess we need to buy a new car? Aside from this issue we really don’t need a second car now, were planning to get one eventually, but not until A’s business has enough projects to justify the cost.

Despite its many demands/challenges/ stressors, home school is sounding easier to me at this point (especially because she already did this grade), except she WANTS to go to school. Someone talk me out of putting some lipstick and a pantsuit on her and taking her to get vaccinated. I know, I know: the 5-11 dosage is 1/3 of the 12-adult dosage. The doctors I’ve spoken to are split on this hypothetical kamikaze mission. The doctors I’ve spoken to are also split on me and A going to a pharmacy now for booster. It’s been almost 6 months since our 2nd dose. We do not have compromised immune systems. This county has way more doses than demand and I would feel better sending M to school (bus or not) if we had our boosters and she had a first dose- moral and scientific quandaries aside- because there is A LOT of covid here now, a lot of covid everywhere now, and I feel like we are returning to regular life at the time when we should be most hunkered down.

Which brings me to the data. Per capita there are as many known cases here as in nyc, except nyc has a 50% higher vax rate, much more mask usage, better medical system. People are not getting enough tests here, there is a higher positivity rate, and so I think the actual number of cases is much higher than the reported number of cases. It seems like, friends here and in the city and in the suburbs (I just broke up with a friend in the suburbs because she professes to be a good democrat but is hosting a bonafide super spreader event and vacationing in a place with 39% positivity and a collapsed health care system), are thinking of covid as something you catch from strangers- they wear masks in stores- but aren’t careful at all around close friends and family (so many extended family gatherings, so many, cousins and grandparents and half-siblings and aunts and uncles and whoever), when this is a disease that kills via the people you love most, the ones who’d never intentionally hurt you.

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theodora3022 · 4 years

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Too Trusting (Yandere Ciel Phantomhive X F!reader)

Summary: You picked up a half-dead young man from a dark alley, tended to his wounds with your nurse skills. However, you did not expect his way of paying his debts.

Notes: So this is a Ciel counterpart of this by @animeyanderelover First time writing for Black butler so hopefully this do not turn out to be too OOC.

Ciel is aged up in this, so no pedophilia haha.

Word count:3.1k(I went overboard oops, a sequal is already taking space up in my mind but whatever), long read with caution

Trigger Warning(s): Gore, drugging, implied dub-con, stalking

Stars glistening behind thin clouds, while the silver moon watches over midnight London carefully.

You yawn and stretch your stiff limbs as you walk out the hospital hall. It has been a long night, though not many patients, the slow hours from afternoon to midnight is nothing less then torture.

You know what you were getting into when you took up studying nursing, but you still cannot chase away this sensation of annoyance. The walk back to your family’s manor is usually peaceful, as it is through a well-to-do neighbourhood of the city. But you still stay on your guard as you lower your hood cape and hurried along. Under ideal circumstances, you would have a carriage for commute, but your noble yet impoverished family could only live a modest life even though your father holds the title of Count. As a result you grown to be independent, cleaned your own room, dressed yourself, enough to become a hard-working nurse instead of a proper noble maiden.

You were unsure of your eyes when you noticed a trail of blood prints leading towards a dark alleyway. Judging by the traces, it means the person, or the thing is still nearby as they are fresh. Should you follow this? What if it is a criminal? But your care for this person’s health got the best of you. With this amount of blood loss, the wounds can be fatal if not given proper medical care. Whoever they are, you cannot just walk away and forget all about them, as it is against your conscience.

A young man dressed in fine suits is not what you expected, although you imagined that suit would look better if not soaked crimson, it seems that he has been shot by guns, the bullet wholes are the proofs. This is no good, you thought as you observe the pool of blood forming underneath him. He needs treatment right away. Although the gunshots are not on his vital parts, such as heart or brain, the blood loss from arteries would drain his life quickly.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” Crouching down, you made a close-up examination of his condition. Unconscious and pale, it seems he had dragged his way into his dark back alley with all those bullet shots. Putting some simple bandages over his wounds, you scoop his slim form up and hurried out of that place.

It feels like a long, feverish dream for Ciel, being carried as he senses the bullets still present in his flesh.

He woke up staring towards your bedroom ceiling. It is morning already, where is Sebastian? Noticing the unfamiliar scenery, Ciel quickly reaches for his right eye, relieved to feel that his eyepatch is still intact.

With a crack of the door, you walked in with a teacup in hand. “I see that you’re awake, I was expecting you to be in coma a bit longer.” Although you are a bit offended by the young man’s cold and evaluating gaze, you still put the cup of warm water on the nightstand.

Instead of taking a sip at the liquid, he asked questions. So demanding, fitting for a young noble.

“Where am I?” “The (family name) manor, do not worry, my parents would not be home until later this week.” Brining a man home while your parents are away, how scandalous, yet you know the laundry maid and the cleaning maid knows to keep their mouths shut. “I advise you to not trying to move too intensively at present, your wounds are still healing.” Pouring yourself a cup, you took a seat on the long sofa next to him. That is where you doze off last night, where the wounded man took your bed. Today is supposed to be your day off, you planned to use it to catch up on sleep, but now it is all ruined thanks to mister mystery on your bed here.

The (family name) family? Ciel vaguely recalls reading about this name before. This house of Counts used to be quite influential in the days of the Queen’s grandfather, George III, and the regency era, but now they are nothing more then minor nobles. Still, he cannot fandom how a lady like you had saved him from that bloody mess.

Looking down to his abdomen, Ciel can see he had received medical attention from you. Now that he has been saved from the reaper’s collection, Ciel knows the best thing to do is calling for his loyal butler. However, he must find a way to repay his debts you. You did save his life, after all.

“How long was I unconscious?” “Only for a couple of hours. May I have your name, Sir?”

He knew he should hide his identity, even from you. The less people knowing that the Queen’s guard dog was almost successfully assassinated last night, the better. But as if his lips have a mind of its own, Ciel let it slip out. “Ciel.” Good thing he managed to hold the word after.

Ciel, the French word for sky. Suitable for his eye color. “Well, pleasure to meet you Sir Ciel, I am (y/n). You might have guessed I am a noble but spare me the court protocols. Right now I am nothing but a humble nurse.” Now you have a chance to look at Ciel properly, he is actually quite handsome with those delicate features. Silky blue-black hair paired with peacock blue eyes, although one of them is covered by an eyepatch. You were tempted to pry when he was still out but choose not to as it could bring horrific consequences. Noblity can be so cruel, you do not want to get dragged into their mess further.

“I thank you, for coming to my aid.” Ciel lowering his upper body forward, attempt to bow as best as he could in his current state.

“It was nothing, really. Please be careful, Sir Ciel. Your wounds are sealed, but vigorous movement can still open them up.” Your knotted brow amuses him, how can you act so nonchalantly when receiving gratitude form Lord Phantomhive himself? You are a peculiar one indeed. Brining a stranger home and patching him up, while you know nothing of his identity or intentions. How very naïve of you. Guess there no harm in trusting you for a bit. If you want him dead you could have just left him in that damp alleyway.

Taking a sip of the teacup you prepared for him, the Earl frowned at the plain taste. But he drank all of it, nonetheless. Being subjected to tea for so long, he finds water dull and it leaves a foul taste in his mouth. It would have to suffice for now. “My butler would be here soon; would you mind opening the windows?”

Baffled by this odd request, you still drew away the curtains and let the morning sunshine in the room. Seeing you bathed in sunlight had made Ciel feel a certain something. He is startled by this strange sensation, how it made him blush and lose composure. The Earl had never been very sociable person since childhood, so the only female he frequently spend time with is his fiancée Elizabeth. One could say the fairer sex is foreign territory to this man. Ciel is used to being around Elizabeth, out of duty as she is his future bride. But he never felt this warm feeling when he is with her. You might not be a beauty by popular standards, but there is just something about you that made him want to... maybe it is your caring gaze, or your easygoing attitude, Ciel is not sure which one to pick.

“Excuse me, young lady, do you mind telling me how serious my lord’s injuries are?” You jumped back, frightened by the sudden appearance of the tall man on your window ledge. This is two stories high; how did he get up here? No wonder why Ciel wants you to open the windows.

“Sebastian, you frightened her.” The young man scolded the butler, who merely bowed and apologized for the intrusion. You begin describing his bullet wounds in great detail, even showing him the aftermaths: the bullets you took out before on a plate. But you soon found yourself staring up into the butler’s gorgeous eyes, and you started stuttering. Those eyes are like swirling tornadoes, drawing you close every minute. Although Sir Ciel is already an attractive lad, his butler seems to be on whole new level.

Usually when women were swooning over Sabastian, Ciel would find it irritating but simply ignore the interaction, as it could be used to their advantage. But seeing your starring eyes fixated on the tall man in black, a bunch of...jealousy hit in in the head. You saved him; he is supposed to be the one you are looking after! Why are you so focused on that demon? Taking notes of his young master’s angry signs: how Ciel bit his underlip, Sabastian knows he had gone too far with you.

“Sabastian, carry me back home, that is an order.” He spitted out the sentance rather harshly.

You snapped out of your funny state, approving his actions: “If you must move, it is the best if someone carry you. Sir Sabastian, do you need me to call you a carriage?”

“No need, Miss. My lord and I would be on our way now, thank you for your assistance.” Within two seconds, they both disappeared from the room, as if they were never there. You shook your head, cleaning up the teacup and the messy quilts, wondering how you are supposed to return that blood-stained suit jacket that still lies in the laundry bin downstairs.

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

The Earl Phantomhive is now back to his study, reading a report about you.

“May I ask you why this young lady had peaked your interests?” That smirk on Sabastian’s lips successfully irritated Ciel’s short temper. Scowling at him, he tried to explain how he only wants to properly thank you on saving his life. “I never like owning debts, but I do repay them. What is that smirk for, Sabastian? Are you teasing me?”

“Why, how could I milord. I do not have the courage to mock my master.” After giving him a warning look, Ciel returns to his paperwork, setting your files aside. But unfortunately his mind starts to wonder.

What would it be like, to have your hands messaging his shoulder when they are sore from work? Those hands that pulled him from death not so long ago. No, no. He has to stop. Ciel Phantomhive already has a fiancée, and even though he had no romantic feelings for Elizabeth, it is not proper to just daydream about another lady in such salacious manners.

Even so, Ciel needs to make you do not face any dreadful consequences because of him. Many people want him dead; he simply cannot allow you to be affected by his foolishness. A precious person like deserves to be protected and cherished.

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

Labelling your strange encounter with Sir Ciel as a notable but past event, you carried on your daily duties per usual. Your parents did not suspect a thing as you took care of all traces of Ciel, you still work those awful full night shifts. That suit jacket is cleansed, folded neatly in your bottom drawer, as a reminder of Ciel and his handsome butler is not a fever dream.

While browsing the London news during afternoon tea, you glance at the gossip column and find how Lord Phantomhive had broke off his engagement with little lady Midford. You pay it no particular mind, as you were barely involved in high society due to your family’s declining status. Gossips such as these does not bother you a bit. You placed the newspaper back to its proper shelve, finishing the biscuits as you thought about how you should get out of this state of unease.

Maybe you are just losing your sanity from night shifts, but ever since that day Ciel appear in your life, you have this constant feel of being watched everywhere. In your bedroom, in the hospital halls or in the streets, no matter where. No matter how hard you searched, there is nobody. Even though you sense no malicious intent, it still worries you and kept you up at nights. Your parents are worried about your ever-growing dark circles, but you just brush it off as side effects of your job.

“Really, dear, you shouldn’t overwork yourself.” The Countess, also your mother said at the dinner table one night. “The household can still run without your overtime pay; you know.”

You nod silently, pretending to be having trouble dissecting the salmon filet. Working is a way to help your parents pay for the ever-expensive bills of this manor, as well as your insurance of not being sold on the marriage market by your devious uncle, who brought suitors to every family party. How he said: “Your family might not be what it used to be, but a son of a wealthy merchant can change that!” disgusts you so. Those men disgust you also. All they want is that Count title, as you are the only child, your family title would go to you.

“You got mail, milady.” Your washer maid presents the latest postage to you. Ah, is it the pay checks?

When you held the white envelope in your hands, you could not believe your eyes; The scarlet wax seal is engraved with the crest of a dog, representing the Phantomhive family. What could the Earl possibly want with you? Although you are a nobleman’s daughter, you never acted like one and you lived a middle-class life. The only distinction being the family tree and your blood. Knowing your worth, you did not assume naively how the earl must have want your hand in marriage, even if he recently broke off his engagement. Your status of a backwater noble is too insignificant for him to notice, so why did you receive this letter?

It indicates the Lord wants you to join him for dinner tomorrow night, which made your stomach churns. Your table manners are not the best, as your parents do not care for such things. Along with the letter there is a package containing a fine black dress, its velvet material surely feels expensive. What did you do to attract such attention from the Queen’s guard dog? You simply cannot fathom why, never at once Ciel came to your mind. You initially wanted to turn down the invitation, but your father said it would reflect poorly on the family. You accepted it, not wanting to put your parents in trouble. This must be a mistake, you thought. I am not qualified to be some lady, all I wanted is to help people in the infirmary.

The dress fits you perfectly, as if it is tailored by the finest in London. A shiver climbs down your spine as you thought about how he obtained your measurements. All you have to do is smile, eat whatever, and he will get bored of you in no time, right?

No.

When you were greeted by that devilishly handsome butler again, you were so relieved. This is just Ciel inviting you to dinner, to show his gratitude! There is nothing to be concerned about.

Ciel not like himself from few weeks ago at all. You can tell that he is trying whatever strategy to make you feel comfortable, even telling you to forget about stiffy table manners if you like. Hm, how unusual, as you heard before the Earl is found of strict etiquette and protocols. But having seen him in a fragile state before, you never once suspected his true intention.

Ciel is mad. Not at just anyone, but at his loyal servant, Sebastian.

How dare he drawn your attention away, how dare he makes you giggle like a fool, how dare he make you smile like that. Doesn’t the demon know you will soon belong to his master from all those investigations? It is bad behaviour for a servant.

“Were you listening, (y/n)?” Ciel suddenly stops in the middle of a description on his company’s latest candies.

“I-I’m sorry Lord Phantomhive, it is just...” You lower your head to apologize, but he seems less then pleased.

“Sabastian, leave the room now.” “As you wish, young master.”

After the butler backout of the dining room, leaving the two of you alone, Ciel’s expression completely changed. But you are a bit preoccupied by your dizziness. Why did your head feel so heavy all of a sudden? Have you caught a chill? Standing up from the chair, you courtesies to your host: “Thank you, Lord Phantomhive for this delicious dinner. I am feeling rather unwell, so I am afraid I must take my leave.” You almost lost your balance because of your vertigo, only caught the chair for support at the last moment.

Thin, but strong long fingers grabbed your wrist, forcing you to sit down beside him. “Oh no, my dear. I think you are exactly where you need to be.”

His...dear? What can he possibly mean by that? There are certainly many other suitable noble ladies available to him, why?

However, your mind starting to become cloudy, as you can no longer form coherent thoughts. Seeing you in such hazy state, a sinister smile forms on his lips, as he pulls your body into his embrace, slowly stroking your hair as you black out. Feeling you had been forced into a dreamless sleep, Ciel knows he had succeeded, as always. To be honest with himself, Ciel did abuse your trust, by seasoning your steak a little differently, but it is your fault for being so trusting of someone you only met once. Ciel had won this game, now he would gladly take the prize to the new bedroom he so thoughtfully prepared for you. You are going to love it, including his series of plans. The title of Lady Phantomhive suits a sweet person like you impeccably.

He had thought about this long and hard, and he came to a conclusion of the best way to repay you is to offer you a position you cannot possibly refuse. The position of Lady Phantomhive. He even upsetted Elizabeth for this! It should qualify as a decent compensation. Should you ever think it is not suitable, your parents would be a good place to start negotiating. You wouldn’t want anythnig happening to them, don’t you?

Now that Ciel understand how it is like to “love” someone romantically, he swears he is going to try his best to make you comfortable with him in this new home. Your presence would lighten the grim mood of this manor greatly. Easily swooping your unconscious body up bridal style, Ciel begin to walk up the grand staircase, towards the bedrooms. Maybe the manor could return to its former glory in the near future, with a happily married couple and their adorable little brats. He could have a family again! Doesn’t that sound just lovely?

#yandere #yandere black butler #yandere ciel phantomhive #yandere ciel #ciel phantomhive #black butler imagines #black butler #collab

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some-kindofgnome · 4 years

Text

je vous ai manqué

in which Hawks comes home to you.

characters: takami keigo (hawks) x f!reader

warnings: smut (18+ please!), reader who is an amputee, lots and lots of soft midnight reunion sex

wc: 1100

beta: @linestrider, thank you my love 💖

notes: this fic is dedicated to my friend, 🦵anon. I did my very best to make this as soft and sweet and loving and spicy as possible for you my dear, and I hope that you enjoy it 💖

I also wanted to add a very quick disclaimer! The depiction of this reader was not intended to reflect the experience of everyone who has lost a limb. I did my very best to adapt the notes that were given to me from someone who has experienced this- and I do sincerely hope I’ve done them some justice- but my research was not exhaustive, and I acknowledge that. If I’ve overstepped in any way, shape, or form, please let me know. I am here to listen and to learn and to understand and create safe spaces.

Thank you 💖

(MASTERLIST)

This far above the city, the nights are always peaceful. Though the streets are populated by partygoers, late-night commuter car horns and blaring sirens, it all dulls to calming whitenoise in your penthouse in the sky.

The night wears into the wee hours of the morning when the terrace door slides open. You’ve been asleep for a couple of hours already, sprawled gently toward the empty side of the bed that Hawks normally occupies.

But the sound of the door, and the gentle rush of cold that accompanies it, rouses you.

As you lift your head and blink mid-cycle sleep from your gaze, there’s a familiar silhouette sliding the glass door shut behind him.

“Keigo,” you whisper, a rush of joy and relief hitting your chest at the sight of him.

“Hey, bluebird,” he croons. He crosses the bedroom in a step and a half. He’s still in his hero clothes, but you’re already pushing the blankets back to welcome him.

He plants a knee on the end of the bed and practically topples forward, landing gently in your lap. He smells fresh like the wind, and his palm is chilled as he wraps an arm around your knee, hooking it tenderly over his shoulder.

“God,” he sighs. “I missed you.”

He leans down, peppering soft kisses along the inside of your nub, trailing to the spot where it meets the edge of your underwear. His beard- grown out, after a few days on the road- tickles your flesh and makes you giggle as you reach down to comb your fingers through his hair.

“I didn’t think you were coming back ‘till tomorrow,” you murmur. Your voice is still raspy and low from the depths of sleep, and it makes him lift his head, shooting a pointed grin up your torso at you in the dark.

“Flew back early,” he explains. He drops your thigh and gently crawls up your body, pushing up your t-shirt to kiss at your hip, your belly, your ribs, before finally settling his weight against the sheets just in front of your pelvis. Now, his warmth washes over you completely, and he shrugs out of his jacket before leaning down to capture your lips properly.

“So I could…” he continues, mumbling into your mouth between deepening kisses, “spend one more night next to you.”

His kisses grow quickly insistent, sloppy and loving as he dips his tongue between your teeth and sucks languidly at your lower lip. He’s got one hand braced against your hip at this point. The other dips down, palm gently cupping your shorter limb. He’s gentle but tender as he rubs your flesh, stroking his thumb over the nub of it and kissing you as if he’s been gone far longer than a couple of days.

“Bluebird,” he coos, and as he presses the rough front of his hero pants against your body, you can tell that he’s getting excited. His cock rouses to life against one thigh of the tan denim, and his wings sweep forward until the ends of his longest feathers are trembling against your shoulders.

“Keigo,” you whimper against his mouth. You’re barely awake as it is, but his ministrations are quickly waking you up.

He dips his mouth from yours, trailing it into the crook of your neck and nipping gently at your sensitive earlobe.

“I know you’re sleepy,” he mumbles, “please, it’s been so long, baby… c-can I…?”

You arch your back, letting out a shaky sigh. You’re definitely not sleepy anymore.

“Yeah, baby,” you breathe. “Fuck, I need you.”

He doesn’t need any more encouragement than that. As soon as he gets the green light from you, he’s like lightning getting your clothes out of the way. He strips himself out of his mud-streaked hero pants and undershorts, carefully tugging your panties away from your nub and rolling them down your leg.

Keigo gets between your legs and slides into you all at once, sending a jolt of surprised pleasure through your system. He pushes your t-shirt up over the swell of your breasts and holds it there, using his other hand to hook your longer leg over his hip. In the dark of your bedroom, his tawny eyes glint like brass coins.

He ducks his head into your neck and starts to thrust. His rhythm is gentle but passionate, and he holds your thigh in place against his body while his hips slap languidly against yours. He’s slow at first- preparing you- but when he feels your body start to give around him, he settles a thumb over the swell of your clit and starts to fuck you in earnest.

“Shit,” he groans, voice vibrating into the skin of your throat. “So fuckin’ sloppy for me, bluebird. You been waitin’ for this, haven’t you? I bet you didn’t cum the whole time I was gone.”

“Keigo,” you whine. The muscles in your belly draw taut as he strums your clit with flawless rhythm. You’re starting to shake already. He’s right. It hasn’t been that long, but the last person to make you cum was the same one who’s about to.

“Fuck, bluebird. Fuck,” he cries, his voice dropping low as his balls draw up against your ass. “Gonna cum for you, bluebird. Gonna fill you so good. Fuck, bluebird. Fuck, bluebird. Fuuuuuuck-“

His voice cuts off as he cums with a low twitch of ecstasy, using the last vestiges of his control to deliver you a handful of tight thrusts. They’re enough to bring you to your peak as well, and you cum high and tight and deep, shuddering hard against his solid chest while he pumps you full of thick, warm cum.

When it’s over, he draws back from you with a quiet shiver and you revel in the renewed warmth of his cum inside you.

He strips you both down completely and spoons up behind you, nuzzling his face into the back of your shoulder while his hand trails down your side, tracing the bottom of your ribcage and sliding loving fingers all the way down to the tip of your nub.

You reach down, tugging the sheets carefully over the both of you.

“I love you,” he whispers quietly to you, already half asleep and smiling like a fool. The gentle affection of his words tickles your shoulder and you giggle, feeling safe- a little less empty now that he’s back in your arms. Back in the bed that you’re supposed to share.

Needless to say, it doesn’t take long for you to go back to sleep.

#hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo x reader #takami keigo #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #boku no hero academia #mha fanfic #my hero academia #bnha fanfic #amputee reader #missing limbs

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singeramg · 4 years

Text

Ruin Me

Quick little reader insert imagine based off this post. Based off a non-ask...

*Update: Now a full length story! Check out Masterlist for my chapters?*

Pairing: CEO! Henry Cavill x Female! Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Power imbalance, dom! Henry, sub! reader, fingering, dirty talk...

Song choice: Funny How Time Flies- Meshell Ndegeocello

PART 2 HERE

“ Y/N can you bring me a cup of coffee...please.”

His voice wasn’t raised but his tone told you all you needed to know.

He was not happy. Not happy at all.

He had called you from the phone in his office, not even bothering to call through the door or better yet come to the door himself which he usually did when he needed something from you and was in a good mood. You don’t dwell on it much and you get to your feet, and hustle over to break room to make a fresh pot of coffee.

It doesn’t take long; you wait the ten minutes to brew, taking note that your coworkers are packing up for the night. You look at the clock and realize you better do the same.

Although you have nowhere special to be the last thing you wanted to do on a Friday night was spend more time at the office. You didn’t complain much, the job wasn’t had for you. You hadn’t been with the company long but you were sure you liked it thus far.

You were Executive Assistant to the CEO of Cavill Industries. a company he started with his brothers years ago and had grown to be a world wide force. Henry Cavill may not have been the eldest brother but he certainly was the most determined and invested of the 5 and more so than any man you had met. This was why they made him the CEO.

You also thought that had something to do with the fact that he honestly was the best looking brother out of all of them.

The face of the company.

He had to stand out in a crowd, oh and Henry Cavill certainly did.

You could admit to no one but yourself that you had found him extremely attractive during your third and final interview where you finally got to meet him. If he wasn’t your boss, he would be exactly the type of guy you went for in terms of looks. Tall, dark curly hair, a jawline that could cut glass, dazzling smile and sharp blue eyes that seemed to pinpoint everything

Including any mistakes you made.

He had made adjusting to this new job hard for you.

Pointing out every mistake, forcing you to redo whole reports that people who got paid a lot more than you should have been doing

But nooooo

He ‘trusted ‘ a.k.a could hover over you while you fixed it.’ causing more late nights and overtime than you cared to think about.

Forget a social life, everything had to be about him.

You had to be everything.

In your job interview nobody had mentioned you would be basically in charge of his life.

Dry Cleaning, arranging his groceries to be delivered, you were even his dog walker on the days he brought his cute Akita Kal-El to the office.

Yea that was totally fun in the heels he forced you into everyday.

You had tried wearing respectable flats after your first week with sore feet and he vetoed that almost immediately.

Saying it wasn’t “seemly“ and that you were the assistant to the CEO and you should dress like it. Needless to say half of the time you wanted to slap him. The other time you were ridiculously turned on. I mean despite being an ass sometimes he played right into your masochistic streak. The way he spoke to you, wasn’t nasty but it had a very direct way that left no room for arguing or confusion. Just like with the heels. You normally would have argued your point, maybe even seen if he would come to some sort of compromise but you didn’t with him. You just kept the flats in your car and a pair under your desk for when you were sitting at your desk and for the days he was out of office.

That sort of sneaky was not like you at all. You just preferred to pull off the band-aid so to speak, but Mr. Cavill was not for any of that.

All you said to him when the response he wanted was obvious was a yes sir or no sir.

You made his coffee just as he liked two cubes of sugar, and a splash of cream. He always would like three extra cubes of sugar on the side, adding the extras depending on how his day had been going. The more sugar added the better his day. You walk as smooth as you can to his office, the large dark door. You don’t bother to knock, sliding open the door to his office, begging your heels not to catch on the floor. You sit his coffee on the desk, to his right, and far enough from his hand that he doesn’t accidentally knock it over.

You smooth out your black mid length dress, and try not to fidget with your red belt that gives a retro theme to the look, and you even had a red purse and red blazer to wear with it (which you had ditched mid-morning). You slip back out the door when he doesn’t look at you. You pick up the tablet you use to keep track of everything on a mobile basis. You pull up his calendar and head back into the large office.

The office itself had never intimidated you despite the large solid oak desk in the middle of the room. It felt open because of the floor to ceiling windows that had automatic curtains that came down on command. You actually loved his office despite the fact that you didn't spend a lot of time in it. You re-enter his office, and stand in front of the desk looking down at the calendar.

“Okay before the day ends I would like to go over your schedule for the weekend.”

He finally looked up at you, his blue eyes giving direct contact, that you couldn’t hold and went back to the glowing tablet, where the sun was starting to set outside.

“You have a dinner meeting tonight which starts at 6:30pm; a 30 minute commute time which means you need to be out of here in the next 45 minutes, if you would like to arrive with your 15 minute grace period as normal.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, then takes off the reading glasses off his face and tosses them on the desk.

“Continue.”

“ Not too many things on the agenda for this weekend except for family brunch on Sunday. Your mother requests you arrive on time this time.”

You regulate a smirk to the side of your mouth.

“I’ve arranged for a bouquet of flowers to be delivered to your house by 9am for you to take over there to her.”

“I don’t suppose I have any missed messages from today?”

You look at him confused.

“Ummm....no. Were you expecting a call?”

He sighs and rubs the temples of his head, clearly upset something.

“No...yes...don’t worry about it. You’ve already arranged for a car for me?”

Yep, he was upset and he was not about to share it with you. You didn’t press him, only prayed it didn’t result in a hell of a clean-up for you later. You had been the bad guy with no less than 4 woman, all of them glaring and spiting nasty vitriol at you when you wouldn’t give them access to Henry. You had seen them all come and go.

“Yes.”

He looks you over, getting to his feet, walking over to the door you knew to be an en-suite bathroom and keeping his extra changes of clothes.

“ Do you have any plans for tonight?”

He asks you suddenly and puts you on the spot. You don’t even have a lie to cover up how pitiful your life was, but you had to try. He didn’t need to know you don’t have anything planned tonight but a glass of wine and catching up on your TV shows you missed for all the overtime you’ve been working.

“Yes.”

“Like what?”

He asks almost immediately as if knowing you were lying. You had to try and get out of some crazy overtime he was known for. You didn’t want another late night in the office.

“Ummm...”

As noted earlier you didn’t think well on the spot. He raises an eyebrow at you.

“You know I don’t appreciate liars Y/N. Anyhow if you are done lying to me, the meeting for tonight requires a...feminine touch.”

“Feminine touch?”

You echo. He goes into the closet and you can hear him changing. You try not to think about him behind the wall.

“Yes. The people I am meeting with require a bit of finesse. The negotiations always go better when we bring our women to the meetings.”

“Soo... would you like me to call someone for you. I can have a dress sent over in their size to smooth the deal over.”

He laughs at you.

“No. Grab your things and call the car service to get here in 10 minutes.”

“ What stop the press? Are you putting me out of the office before you for once?”

You quip at him. He comes from around the corner his attire changed into a black button down shirt, left with the top few unbuttoned. He adjusts the sleeves and looks up with you.

“No you are going with me Y/N and we must hurry, you are going to require another dress.”

“But...”

“No buts. I need you and you are wasting time.”

He picks up a black suit jacket, his cologne hitting you with an umpf he walks by you to get to the car...

*********

The dinner had gone great from what you could tell. You saw a whole other side of Henry. One that was only observed under the rarest of occasions.

At least for you.

Overall you weren’t asked for much, Henry had bought you another black dress only this one was a bit more leggy than you were used to around such important people. Its spaghetti strapped and sweetheart neckline, offering way more cleavage than you would ever consider wearing around him, but Henry had literally come in with you, pulling it from the rack along with a few other choices and this was the tamest all the options he left you. You damn near had a panic attack in the dressing room. The women in the boutique had fixed your hair and makeup in the little amount of time you had, once again at Henry’s behest. You hadn’t be so pulled together since... well you couldn’t remember....

Henry had even been nice to you all evening, but you knew it was all an act, even if your body did respond to the compliments and lingering looks, the smile he would shoot you, he had even let his hands skim across your lower back.

You did your best not to read into anything. Had even gone along with the little game he was playing, being over sweet, playing with the curls on the nape of his neck, your hands lingering on his arms. Enough to suggest without being outwardly desperate and trashy. You were ever the smiling damsel to his associates, laughing at the jokes, ignoring the sexist comments about your dress or the ‘arm candy’ they referred to you as, despite it pissing you off.

You stayed to yourself most for the ride back to the office, and he stays quiet as well. Only then once the car parks do you realize in your haste earlier you left your keys upstairs. He insists he needs to come up as well to grab some files from his desk. You offer to bring them back down but he insists. You scurry to your desk, not finding them in the drawer where you usually kept your purse.

You don’t see them. You panic and look for them intensely.

Oh you hoped you didn’t leave them at the boutique where you changed dresses.

“Y/N. Could you come in here please? I would like to discuss something with you before you leave.”

He calls to you, the voice losing the soft tone he had with you all night, this only serves to make your blood run cold. Have you done something wrong? Said the wrong thing to the wrong person and cost him millions of dollars? You needed your job, and hoped pretty badly that this wasn’t the end of it.

You honestly couldn’t tell if you missed it or not. You disregard the thoughts you are having and push them back in your mind, offering to sort them out later. Preferably with alcohol nearby. You look into his office and see that he is standing behind his desk. Once you come in, thinking he needed something from you.

“Close the door.”

You close the door behind you, the lights on a dim shade, enough for you to see but not enough to over power your eyes.

“Did you need anything from me, because it’s late and I should be heading home...”

He surprises you by cutting you off in a tone that was even softer than any other time he had used with you before.

“I just wanted to say thank you for accompanying me tonight y/n.”

“You are Welcome. I’m just going to go...”

You smile and turn to leave but his voice stops you with a sharp tone that makes you freeze.

“Did I say you could leave?”

You feel your face get hot and you turn back around to face him. The lighting only showcasing the angles of his face, making you ever more nervous.

“No but Sir it's 12am...”

“I know what time it is. You are so stubborn all the time. Can’t even take a simple compliment.”

“I thought you were done.”

You shrug, and immediately regret being so nonchalant with him., his gaze intense.

“I wasn’t. Now before you interrupted me, I was saying thank you not only because you came with me but for playing your role so effortlessly. I didn’t expect you to be so ...reciprocating to me.”

“I figured that would be best. How would it appear if you showed up with a staff member we rather than a significant other like the other at the table.”

“Well your quick and astute observation saved me tonight.”

“All in a day's work. Now if I can just get out of these heels tonight and maybe into a pedicure tomorrow I will have made this all worth while.”

He surprises you by coming from behind the desk where he had been standing, coming to stand in front of you.

And you cursed yourself because it was back again.

The arousal you fought with every lingering look and touch he gave you tonight. How honeyed his words were with you, combined with the animalistic power you knew was just boiling under the surface.

“I have had many secretaries before and none of them take your position as seriously as you do. You put a lot of effort into your job and does not go unnoticed.”

Having him so close was unnerving. Especially when you had his direct attention. You can’t hold eye contact and look down at the floor. Henry touches your chin, his fingers tilt your chin up and you lock eyes. It wasn’t the first time you noticed the space of brown in his left eye, but the first time you were close enough to appreciate it.

You feel your pulse quickening.

“I don’t think I told you how beautiful you look tonight.”

He blinks slowly and you don’t breathe at all as his lips move toward your own. He is seconds away from kissing you, tension heavy in the room.

“Wait....Henry...I just...I Can’t go there.”

You say it out loud and it’s like someone let the air out of your balloon. He lets your face go and looks at you confused, for the first time you see just Henry. Not your boss, not the CEO who always had to be ‘on’ and in charge, you just saw Henry. His face was open and unguarded.

“It’s not that I don’t want you. It’s just you are my boss...”

Henry moves suddenly, and yet simultaneously time slows as he crashes his lips onto yours. The odd duality of soft, yet firm, calming yet passionate overtakes your mind and short circuits you. His hands are holding the side of your face on one side and behind your neck. His kiss steals what little breath you had away. You almost forget why this would have been such a bad idea but he pulls away.

“Darling, Didn’t anyone tell you? The boss makes the rules...”

He resumes kissing you and you offer little in the way of resistance as he picks you up, in fact you lock your legs around his waist and he deposits you on top of his desk. Everything you had been feeling for him was bubbling up in that moment. You were caught in being wanted to be treated like silk and wanting to toss him down and take exactly what you wanted in no uncertain terms of hatefucking him for all the jackass behavior he had exhibited since you started 6 months ago.

You slide his jacket off his broad shoulders, tossing it to the room, igniting the soft thud it makes when the expensive thing lands in a heap on the floor. He pulls your hips toward the edge of the desk and his large hands are hot as they slide up your skirt over trembling thighs and his lips move to your neck. He finds the sensitive spots there quicker than anyone ever had while also moving his fingers to play with your clit through the lining of the black lace panties you were wearing.

Your breath hitches in your throat and Henry grins against your lips, letting you take a second before he kisses you again. His fingers dance around before latching to the hemline and yanking them with enough force that they are torn from your body. Your hips sting from the pull, but you are more than turned on. You fumble with the buttons on his shirt, and don’t look at the skin revealed, but he doesn’t let you take it off him and instead pushes one of his fingers inside of you, you lewdly moan, and grasp his biceps quickly, having been taken off guard. It wasn’t that you weren’t wet, because you were plenty wet, your now ruined panties had been testament to that, but you had expected more of a playful teasing, but as one of your last coherent thoughts, you knew this man never wasted time.

He was a do-er...

And right now he was doing you. The amount of focus and precision he took in his work, pouring over contracts, logs, inventory and the like, he was putting in on you. As his finger moves in and out he is staring at you with such intensity you think you might explode.

“You are dripping baby girl. Melting right into the palm of my hand to be exact.”

He removes the finger that had been inside of you, raising it to his lips, tasting you from it, and you shudder. He kisses you again, you closing your eyes, then you hear in his deep tone like melted chocolate, luxurious to your ears,

“Open your eyes and suck them.”

He held two of his fingers and you opened your mouth. He wanted to hold your gaze.

“Get them nice and wet for me.”

You suck on them, imaging the girth that had been teasing you for months in his sacks, was what was actually in your mouth. You had wanted so badly to taste him and feel him you reach down, palming his obvious erection and you hear him growl. It was your turn to smirk, and as soon as he felt that smirk, he pulled his two fingers from your mouth and thrusts them into you.

You whimper and the one hand you left on his bicep clenched in, digging into his skin. His fingers glide in and out almost painfully slow. You need faster.You try to move your hips to make him move but he chuckles.

“That won’t work y/n. We do this at my pace. Be still or I will stop.”

He didn’t go any faster, his movements deliberately slow. You could tell he was getting a kick out this, and you whine again.

“Beg kitten.”

He whispers in your ear, his thumb teasing your clit again.

“Please.”

He moves a little faster.

“Come on love. You can do better than that.” Teasing.

“Please Henry...”

He slaps your thigh with a sharp tap and it sends the zing of arousal.

“That's not what you call me. Try again.”

While your brain is shorting out, you fumble on what he wants from you.

“I..i don’t know sir...”

He rewards you by speeding up more. Your torso drops backwards, your head follows as you rest back on your elbows, and legs move wider, making your dress bunch up around your hips.

“There you go. There’s what I was looking for. Now beg me to make you come.”

You worry your bottom lip, ignoring how your chest heaves, pulling against the black fabric of the dress.

“Fuck! Please sir please let me cum.”

“That’s more like it. Begging me like the dirty little slut you are.”

He speeds up, his fingers curling inside, tapping that spongy space that made your eyes cross and your vision blur. You didn’t think you would like being called a ‘little slut’ but it was more of a turn on than you had ever thought it would be.

“Sir let me cum please let me cum.”

His dexterous fingers speed up, his thumb rubbing your clit and you were glad no one else was in the office as your moans echo throughout the room.

“You want to be my good girl hmmm?”

You nod furiously, the edge of your orgasm coming up rapidly, as your walls begin their tell-tell sign of fluttering.

“Good girls wait until they have permission. You hold it.”

It was damn near impossible, but you try to focus on anything but how good his fingers feel. He pulls your body back up from the desk with his hand gripping behind your neck. His lips crash on your again, he lingers around your lips you breathe heavily against his lips.

“I’ll be your good girl!”

You yell.

“Good. Cum then come for me.”

It’s like the world goes silent and all you can focus on is his fingers as your orgasm pulls you under. It’s an out of body experience where you could hear your moans and groans of Henry’s name, where you were literally shaking, but you could bring yourself down. Destroyed, Henry is whispering praises in your ear. Calling you his and how good you were for him. It doesn’t take long to come back down, but when you do you feel wrung out, and as Henry pulls away, you notice the sheen of fine layered sweat on his forehead. You feel self conscious as he stares down at you, and without the haze of lust in your eyes it settles in you that your boss just gave you one of the best orgasms of your life and hadn’t even taken off his pants.

Pants that were currently begging you to be taken off. He begins to chuckle and you realize you’ve been staring at his cock outline, and he was laughing at you. He unbuttons his pants, and finally takes off his shirt the rest of the way, finally revealing the god sculpted body that he clearly worked for.

The look on his face says he is going to ruin you and you are going to like it.

Only then, as he begins to work on the zipper to your dress, do you look to your left on the desk and see your keys sitting there...

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

A/n: Hope that was what you were looking for @thiccgeralt Hope this met your expectations and thank you!

I am thinking of coming back to this, but honestly I am waiting until @laketaj24 finishes her CEO! fic The Rules, because its so freaking wonderful and I don’t want to ruin anything by stealing any thunder with a CEO fic OR Ficlet I would plan on doing. BTW if you haven’t read The Rules then please do yourself a favor a go over to her page and check out all of her work. You will not regret a second of it....

However I am tossing this out to see if there would be any interest in a continuation of this fic. Let me know and as always thank you for reading, re-blogging, and liking!

Henry Cavill Taglist: (OPEN! Let me know if this is something you want on!

@msblkfire84 @magdelen69

#Henry Cavill #henry cavill smut #henry cavill x reader

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ot3tropetober · 4 years

Photo

Eliot and Hardison are travel journalists for rival publications who keep showing up in the same places

Fic for this (~3500 words) is below the read more! Some notes:

[backstory on why Hardison is writing these comes from this post]

[Eliot, Parker, and Hardison are all commenting on this document, think of it like the chat in Google drive? In-document comments from Eliot are italicized, from Hardison are in bold, and from Parker are plain text]

By the time Will Coffey stepped off the plane in Dallas, all he wanted was a nice long shower and to sleep in his own bed for once. Being a travel journalist for a leading travel magazine had its perks– a month-long trip across Mexico, for example, all expenses paid or at least reimbursed – but after a month on the road he was dead tired and ready to be home.

Is this supposed to be me? Why am I living in Dallas?

Yes, and also, you don’t actually live in Dallas, Eliot, you live here, in Portland, with us.

I know that, I just– you know what, never mind.

Well, Will Coffey likes Dallas.

I am Will Coffey!!

That’s the spirit.

The other thing about being on the road for a living was that sometimes it felt kinda lonely, and as relieved as he was to be home, the first couple of minutes after he walked in, turned on the lights, and looked around at an empty place, that was always a little bittersweet. But the only other person he’d really seen in any kind of serious capacity the whole time he’d had this gig was a fellow traveler who spent just as much time on the road as he did, so it just kinda was what it was. He set his keys and his bag down and headed to the kitchen for a beer, but he hadn’t even opened his fridge when his phone buzzed a couple times. It was a text from Sarah, his editor. He’d known her forever– they shared a couple classes in college. Now they shared the stress of managing a print publication in an increasingly digital world.

“Did you see this?” she had written. There was a link in the next message. “How does this guy get this stuff up so fast?“

Will already knew what he was gonna find before he clicked the link, and sure enough, it directed him to a popular travel blog called The Travel Geek, which was a ridiculous name for a travel blog but people absolutely went wild for it. Will liked it too, not that he would ever really admit it, but that probably had more to do with the guy who ran it than anything else. They had…not a thing, exactly? It was hard to explain whatever was going on with Jeremy Edwards, who by rights Will should probably hate for stealing his stories and his audience. But the problem with that was mainly that the guy was so goddamn likeable.

I’m guessing that’s you.

You would be correct.

You think I think you’re likeable?

No, I know it.

he is pretty likeable

Yeah, yeah.

Will had met Jeremy a couple of years ago, right when he was just starting out with his blog. Jeremy said he’d been reading Will’s stuff for a while and would love some advice from a pro. It wasn’t like Will didn’t know it was a little bit of flattery, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know it was a little bit of flirting, either. It also wasn’t like Jeremy was bad to look at. So Will said sure, he’d be glad to, and they were in Belgium, so they shared some beers, ate fries from a baraque at one in the morning on a park bench, shoulders pressed together, while Will tipsily rhapsodized about gaufre de Liège while Jeremy laughed and laughed.

I have never *rhapsodized* about anything in my damn life.

Have you heard you talk about food? This is not a criticism. I could listen to that all day.

Nothing really happened, in the end, just a good conversation and the promise to keep in touch. That turned out to be easier than it should have been, because they started covering the same damn things, all the time. One big world, and somehow they were always sharing part of it: Will was in India on a camel safari through the Thar Desert, and Jeremy was there, keeping Will up at night tappity tapping on his keyboard. Or Will was in Oatman, Arizona, for a piece on Route 66, and there was Jeremy, taking selfies with the wild burros roaming the streets of the town. Or Will was traveling around Japan, doing a feature on onsens, and Jeremy was there, too, acting like he wasn’t looking in Will’s direction while they sat, very naked, in the soothing hot water. It went on like that for a while until finally one night in Barcelona, in front of Sagrada Familia, he looked at Jeremy, tall and handsome in this absurd brightly patterned scarf, and said, “This is ridiculous, man,” and pulled him in for a long, lingering kiss.

Do you honestly think it would have taken me that long?

I don’t know, baby, it took your cowboy ass five years in real time, so Will’s doing a lot better than you.

OoooooooOooo

We had a lot goin on!!! And what is that supposed to be, parker? are you some kind of ghost?

it made more sense in person

I’ll take your word for it.

It wasn’t a relationship, exactly. It was just something they did, sometimes, if they happened to run into each other on the road. It wasn’t like he was getting invited home for the holidays, or anything, and he was fine with that, really. The long and short of it was, they’d basically been circling each other for years now, professionally, personally, whatever, but the professional stuff was definitely getting in the way of anything else. Because Will would sit down and write out his long, detailed articles with carefully selected photographs that would look just right on the page, while Jeremy had already turned out quick blog entry after quick blog entry, listing off places people should visit with witty little one sentence summaries, and people just ate it right up with a spoon while Adventure., Will’s magazine, slowly saw its sales circling the drain. It stung a little. Maybe more than a little. It wasn’t like he could say the guy wasn’t working hard, but damn. Hell, the best selling issue they’d had in a couple years was the one where Sarah had masterminded a collaboration between Will and Jeremy. Blogging was definitely here to stay.

That night in Belgium was five years ago, and at the time it seemed impossible that the internet would ever really fully overtake print. But bloggers and phones had both gotten smarter over the last five years, and now everyone wanted their news in little chunks that they could read on a screen during their commute, so travel blogs were the hot new thing. Will grimaced as he looked at the blog entries Jeremy already had up from Mexico, where they’d run into each other at least half a dozen times.

Five Reasons You Need to Visit Mexico City Right Now; What You’re Missing Because You’re Not in Monterrey; Everything You Wanted to Know About Agave But Were Too Afraid to Ask

“You gotta be kidding me with this,” he muttered, staring at his phone and thinking about the half-written article he had saved on his laptop detailing the history of agave and how to experience Jalisco as more than just the birthplace of tequila.

He pulled up Sarah’s number and dialed.

“I don’t know how we can compete with this,” he sighed, when she picked up.

“We’re going to have to adapt,” she said. “You know that. I can hear you making a face."

"I don’t want to blog,” he complained. “I like print."

"I know,” she sighed. “I’m working on it. Anyway, I’m glad you called, I was going to call you. I need you to go to Italy. Flight leaves tomorrow."

"No way. Not interested,” he told her. “I just got back to my apartment, Sarah, I’ve been in Mexico for a month. I’m beat."

"It’s not my fault that you spend half your time on extracurricular activities,” she teased.

“You can just say sex,” he said. “I won’t be offended. And it’s not half my time. Like, maybe twenty-five percent. Anyway, I get the job done."

"Yeah, and you’re very good at it, which is why I need you to go to Italy,” she said.

“I’m not saying yes,” he told her, “and I’m not interested. But what’s in Italy that’s so important for me to get to?"

"You’ll love this one,” Sarah promised. “It’s a food festival."

Okay, maybe he was a little interested. "Oh?”

“Yeah,” she said. His phone buzzed in his ear. “I just emailed you the details. Including your flight info."

"Dammit, Sarah–"

"Oops, emergency, the printer’s on fire, gotta go!” she chirped, and the line disconnected.

Yeah okay that’s Parker huh

Yep!

I do know y'all a little bit.

“Dammit,” Will said again, and opened Sarah’s email to read up on his next destination.

The food festival turned out to be a week long international celebration of local food from around the world. It only happened once every few years in October, when a world of people descended on the city of Torino, and more specifically the park by the River Po, where they set up tents and stands and served pretty much every kind of food you could imagine, and Will loved food and could imagine a lot, so that was saying something. It was pretty cool, seeing all these people from all over the planet showing off food that was important to them, sharing it with strangers. It really was the whole planet, too, the way the park was set up you could walk through a continent at a time, with all the countries on it represented at their own space. He figured he’d pay his respects to the hosts first and start with Italy, which was definitely the largest section. Halfway through the displays he found a stall with some folks from Campania selling fresh mozzarella di bufala the size of his fist for a Euro. It was speared on a stick like a candy apple so he could walk around with it, nibbling on the sweet cheese as he checked out the festival’s other offerings. Aged cheeses covered in mud and straw from a little town in France. A swanky tent with wood plank floors where the Filipino agriculture offices had a set up with big displays dedicated to traditional food and heirloom crops. Six different kinds of wild rice were layered in a glass display bottle in the booth dedicated to Indigenous agriculture in North America. There were folks from the Yucatan peninsula displaying cured meats and wild honey. There was a whole series of displays about preserving, protecting, and raising Maasai red sheep, from Kenya. The whole event was really impressive, actually, and even though his body had no idea what time zone he was in, he didn’t feel too tired– although that might have been more because he’d been downing every cup of coffee from anyone selling it.

Okay, this actually sounds pretty cool. But now you gotta fake a whole food festival like this if we ever use these aliases.

I don’t have to. That’s a real thing. Happens every couple of years. I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to the next one. Parker can probably find us a job after, anyway.

I’d love– like that.

Hardison. HARDISON.

Why isn’t this deleting the things I tell it to delete???

Ooh, forgot to tell y'all, this chat records your keystrokes? You know. Just in case you happen to type something sappy about how much you love me, and then delete it before you send it in the chat. Pretty much exactly what just happened.

Dammit Hardison I’m gonna delete YOU

Baby, that doesn’t even make any sense.

im w hardison on this 1. it’s ok if u love things eliot. especially food . or us

Just let me finish reading Hardison’s make believe story so I can get back to dinner prep, ok?

(he loves us)

I know :)

Will strolled around the park, snapping photos here and there, jotting down notes. He talked to folks from all over who came here to run their country’s booths, locals who had come out to enjoy the day, and people who had traveled long distances to be there. After a couple of hours and a really good lunch, he found an unoccupied bench near the river and posted up there for a while, notebook open next to him as he flipped through photos on his phone, the story he could tell about this event already starting to take shape in his head, and he had to admit, at least to himself, that Sarah had been right about this one. Nobody else on their staff knew food enough to get this right. But even though he had a good idea where to start, he couldn’t help feeling a little overwhelmed, too. You could spend two weeks here and still not talk to everybody, and it seemed important to try, somehow.

“Well, well, well,” said a voice, and Will looked up from his phone and his notes to see the tall form of none other than Jeremy Edwards.

“Dammit, Edwards,” Will swore. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Again?"

Yeah it’s pretty much EXACTLY like that every time

Mmmhmm. You talk a big game, man, but no one here believes you.

What he said ur like that stuff u put on the dessert u made 4 us last wk

Stuff on dessert– the Italian meringue? You really comparing me to Italian meringue?!

Is that the stuff that was kinda hard and crunchy on the outside but actually really soft and sweet inside?

Yep that’s the stuff

This is the worst conversation we’ve ever had.

It’s weird how I can hear you smiling right now, though.

Shut up, Hardison, I’m reading.

Got him! XD

"Looks like it,” Jeremy said. He took a seat next to Will on the bench, despite the fact that Will had absolutely not fucking offered it to him. He grinned. Will looked back at his notes before he smiled back. “We’ve really gotta stop meeting like this."

"Yeah, well, trust me, I’m working on it,” Will grumbled, and risked a look at Jeremy again. Still handsome, and still smiling, unfortunately. He thought about the blog a little and made himself frown. “So, you’re here to blog about this, huh? How many blog posts have you done already?"

"None so far,” Jeremy said, scratching his chin, “but I am working on one right now. Tentative title, How to Tell The Guy You’re Casually Seeing And Have Been Chasing All Over the Globe That His Boss Sent Me Here To Work With Him."

Well, there was a lot of information there, but Will decided maybe sticking with the professional stuff was better for now. "I’m sorry, you’re here for what?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Sarah really liked that collaboration thing she got us to do last year, I guess, wanted to try it again for this. I said yes. It’s good for your magazine and it gives my blog some credibility with all you snooty print folks."

"We’re not snooty,” Will said, although that wasn’t exactly true. Maybe they were, a little. He unlocked his phone and saw the email from Sarah, the subject line of which read: “DON’T ARGUE IT WILL BE GOOD FOR YOU/US/THE MAGAZINE.” He sighed and looked back at Jeremy. “I can’t believe she sent you to a food thing."

"I’m offended,” Jeremy said, although it didn’t much sound like it. “I know food."

"Oh really? So last year when we were in Beijing and you were looking for a McDonald’s that was just you knowing food, huh,” Will drawled.

“Sometimes you just really want a Happy Meal,” Jeremy joked, and Will just shook his head.

“I guess we should figure out what we’re doing, then,” he said, and Jeremy raised his eyebrows.

“About the story,” he said, “right?"

"Yeah, about the story,” Will grumbled.

“Whatever you say,” Jeremy said affably, just like always.

It was actually pretty easy to figure out how to cover the festival now that he had a partner in crime. They worked out a plan that afternoon, sketched out a couple of pieces, a collab for Adventure., a short guest piece for Will on The Travel Geek, and a short story in the magazine for Jeremy. Sarah signed off on everything from afar– “What time is it where she is? Does that woman ever sleep?” Jeremy asked, as they both got email after email. “I don’t think she does, man,” Will laughed– and they got to work pretty quick. There was plenty to do and they were both here for a few days, so they wandered through the park as they worked, stopping occasionally to sample food or take photos. Eventually they walked all the way out of the park and into the city, up to a big plaza, Piazza Castello, in the center of the historic part of town. They got gelato from one of the many carts set up nearby for the festival, and sat outside, eating and talking as the sun set.

It was nice. It was always nice, when they ran into each other. That wasn’t the problem. But they’d been stuck in the same routine for years now: they’d find themselves in the same place, Jeremy would laugh, Will would pretend he was annoyed, and then they’d spend a good chunk of their time together enjoying each other’s company in as many ways as they could find, and then they’d head to the airport and go their separate ways. And that was that. This shouldn’t be any different, but somehow it was. Maybe it was the sunset lighting up Jeremy’s skin, or maybe he’d just been lonely too long, but maybe they needed to figure out what they were doing with more than just the stories they were here to tell.

“You wanna get dinner?” Will said, before he could talk himself out of it.

“Yeah,” Jeremy said, smiling again, and this time Will let himself smile back. Just a little.

They asked around for recommendations and ended up at a little restaurant in the city, a few blocks from the Piazza. They split a bottle of wine, a margherita pizza, and some perfectly fried fish, and they didn’t really talk about work at all.

“You know,” Jeremy said, about halfway through the wine, “not for nothing, but I’ve gotta say, this looks and feels a lot like a date."

"I wasn’t under the impression that you’d be opposed to that,” Will said.

“Oh, I’m not opposed,” Jeremy told him, “I’m just a little surprised you’re asking. I figured at this point it was gonna have to be me who said something."

Will eyed him carefully, thought back to a lot of nights on a lot of trips. "How long exactly have you been waiting around?"

"I mean, don’t get the wrong idea, here, I haven’t been pining away for you like some Victorian in a bad novel,” Jeremy said, and Will snorted. “But yeah. I played a long game, man. I gotta say, though, after that fishing boat incident in Guyana I really thought you figured out we had a thing."

"Yeah, well, I didn’t have time to notice, I was too busy taking pictures of you hiding behind that skinny British guy when that big old fish jumped out of the water,” Will snickered.

“Big old– that thing was two-hundred and thirty-four pounds of ichthyological torpedo headed straight for yours truly,” Jeremy said, and Will chuckled. “Big doesn’t really describe it.”

“Hmm. It was kinda wild he thought we were gonna get in the water with it,” Will mused. He winked. “Glad you finally remembered you owed me dinner for keeping him from pushing us into the river."

"Ha. You know Sarah wants us to work with that guy again, right?"

"Aw, hell,” Will said. “Really?"

"Yeah,” Jeremy confirmed. “She said she was gonna talk to you about it when we got back from this. Canada this time, so when Mister Fisherman tries to throw me in the water at least the hypothermia will probably get me before the monster fish does."

"Nah,” Will said. “Don’t worry about that. Nobody throws you off a fishing boat. Except maybe me. No. Well. Maybe. No,” he concluded.

Hah. I mean, okay, that does sound like me.

Oh, I am aware, trust me.

“Sarah maybe also mentioned we might do a few more of these little…collaborative things,” Jeremy said, drawing invisible circles on the table. “Maybe even in a more formal capacity."

Will raised his eyebrows. "No way she talked you into giving up the blog."

"Oh, definitely not,” Jeremy said. “But funnily enough, people keep sending me emails about wanting a print version of some of my photographs? But I don’t really have the publishing connections. A magazine, though…” he shrugged. “Me and Sarah figured we might come to some kind of mutually beneficial arrangement, somehow. Might be seeing more of you, is what I’m trying to say."

"Can’t say I mind that,” Will said, and reached out across the table to cover Jeremy’s hand with his.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Jeremy answered, and this time Will didn’t try to hide his smile.

/end

Okay?

Okay, what?

Well where the hell is the rest of it?

What rest of it? It’s clearly implied that they’re dating now. They’re dating, they’re happy, they’re gonna work together for real, happily ever after, et cetera.

they should have at least kissed. i would be into that

This is what I’m saying. Where’s the resolution, here?

Baby, anytime you want a kiss, you know where to find me.

What I want is for you to take this seriously since you’re making us read all of it.

Wow, okay. Here:

They walked around the city for a long time after dinner, still holding hands, and the kiss they shared later under the moonlight felt like a promise. The Actual End.

Y'all happy?

too sappy 4 me but idk what eliot thinks

Not your best work but it’ll do, I guess.

Are you still in the kitchen?

Yeah, why?

I’m gonna come give you a demonstration of my best work, that’s why.

Bring it on, man.

do i get a demo too

You know it.

#author: coffeesuperhero #leverage ot3 #parker x hardison x eliot #hardison x eliot #leverage #ot3tropetober #submission

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chestnuttoast · 3 years

Text

Mint Coffee

2.2k words

horror, crime, gore

I never used to be wary of striking up a conversation with someone while standing in the queue at the coffee shop I frequented everyday. Now, though, I think twice. I keep to myself and keep my head down; take my coffee and leave.

There is - as you might expect - a story behind this change. And I intend to tell it. However, I must warn you that this is not one for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the squeamish. That being said, if you wish to hear it then I will continue.

My order was always the same. Iced americano with a shot of mint syrup. An odd order, I know. But once you've tried it you might find you enjoy it. This is an irrelevant detail but while I'm here I might as well recommend my favourite drink to you.

Anyway, I stand in the queue from just before eight o'clock every morning and wait for around fifteen minutes before I get served. I am a creature of habit, and so this suits me just fine.

All of the workers know me by now and will make my drink upon seeing me, along with a cheery greeting and the generic small talk as they get on with their jobs. Usually, I would pass the time by chatting with those around me. Naturally, there would sometimes be those who don't want to chat. I don't force them, and so on those days I stand and mind my own business. This particular day though, the gentleman behind me was more than happy to join me in conversation and we immediately got along well. We just clicked, as people sometimes do.

Before long, I would see him everyday in the coffee shop and we would chat. He had just moved to the city and was grateful to have met me. Said I made him a little less lonely on his morning commute. We gradually became good friends and would meet for drinks after work as well. when we were together a conversation never went dry and so we would spend long hours talking and drinking. Those days were a wonderful respite from the stresses of everyday routine and work.

He was a slight gentleman, no more than his mid-thirties. He wore thick-framed glasses and I never saw him go to work not wearing a long trench coat. I never asked him about it. I just assumed this was one of his habits.

One day, he called me and said he wanted to meet me. It sounded like he just wanted to meet up for drinks as usual and so I readily agreed.

"There's a new bar that's just opened across town." he told me over the phone, "I've looked into it and I think it seems like somewhere perfect for us. It's aimed at those our age, rather than youngsters that just want to go out and get drunk out of their minds." he said with a tentative, dry laugh.

I agreed to meet him after he told me a bit more, and he said we would meet at the train station. When I got there, he was wearing his usual trench coat and we talked for a few minutes while waiting for the train to come. It didn't take long, and we stepped into the first carriage as soon as it arrived.

As it was the subway, it was pretty busy and there was nowhere for us to sit down. "Never mind." I told him. I could use all the exercise I could get if I was to be truthful.

My friend, on the other hand, seemed dissatisfied and walked over to one of the people sat on the seats opposite the door we had stepped into the train through. I assumed he was going to ask if there was any chance they would move. Not something I would have done personally, but I didn't interfere.

Once he was in front of the young man who was sat down, my friend just stopped. I was confused.

Moments later, the young man slumped forwards and my friend stepped to the side to allow him to fall face first onto his side. It took a second for everyone to process what happened. In the time that it took to process these events, the young man on the floor was slowly becoming surrounded by a dark red fluid that we all knew must be his own blood. I suppose none of us wanted to think too deeply about it, though.

I looked to my friend in horror. He must have known I was looking at him, because he turned around and flashed a smile so innocent you would not believe what he had just done if you had not been there.

He had moved faster than any of us in that train carriage had been able to see. Someone rolled the young man on the floor over and there was an obvious gash on his neck. His skin looked so delicate and the wound was so fresh it seemed the slightest movement would tear it further open, letting us see his throat.

By the time anyone had thought to take a look, his heart had long stopped beating and so the blood wasn't being pushed out of his body anymore. There was nothing we could do. This train was moving, and the man standing in the centre of the carriage was highly dangerous and capable. The poor young man was left to lie in that pool of his own blood.

"Take a seat." my friend said to me, still smiling.

Coming to my senses, I realised what he was saying to me. I pretended nothing had happened and politely told him that it was okay; he could have it.

At this his smile faltered and I was struck with a note of fear. There wasn't anything particularly menacing about the change in his expression, but instinct told me it was better to listen to what he was telling me.

"Then, I have to thank you." I said, politely again, as I stepped forward and sat in that seat the young man had previously occupied.

Once I was sitting, I wasn't quite sure what to do. My friend didn't speak to me further but something about him had changed. When he turned around, he brought a blade out of his pocket - this time slow enough that we could see, but still not slow enough to stand a chance of dodging - and drew a diagonal line along the torso of the gentleman that had been leaning against the opposite door when we got on the train, but had now come over to attempt to help.

From the way his shirt slowly coloured, the cut started just above his left hip and went all the way up to the right side of his chest. He looked down at himself lost and unsure what to do. As if he had lagged, he belatedly bent over and clutched his abdomen as if the try and keep the blood from pouring out of him.

Like the young man before - only slower - this gentleman was becoming surrounded by a pool of dark red. If it had been paint, I would have said the colour was beautifully stunning. Here, though, it was a horrific reminder of our fragile mortality and how precariously it sat in this man's hands.

"Hey what was that for?!" I shouted. That man hadn't even been in a seat. "He was just standing!"

My friend turned to face me and walked to stand in front of me. He bent down to look me in the eye, but didn't do anything else. It was odd, I was confused, but I didn't have time to be.

When my friend turned around he saw a woman kneeling beside the man who was bleeding. A moment later, dark red poured from her neck and she slumped forwards. His superhuman speed was impossible to defend against. She was stable on her knees, so when she fell she ended up just with her head on her knees, head rolled slightly to the side exposing the wound on her neck.

A violent urge to vomit rose up in me but I held back.

While this was happening, those who had shared a section with us had been trying to quietly back away or hide. I think there may have been people screaming, but I was so bewildered and out of it at this point that I could not say for sure.

After a few moments I came back to myself and looked around me. The carriage floor was now completely dark red. Very few spots remained the colour they had been when we boarded.

This train was one of the ones that didn't have distinct carriages although from the exterior it looked sectioned. From the interior it was just a long metal tube we all shared for the time being. By now, the rest of the people on the train had seen what was happening and were retreating to the other end of the train.

People stumbled over each other and I watched as a young child got pushed and trampled in the chaos. I could not watch. I was a coward. I turned around to pretend to look out of the windows, but nothing could prevent the screams from reaching my ears. Trying to block them out was useless, I was too aware of them now.

At one point I heard my friend speak. "Give it to me." he demanded. I turned to look and saw a mother with a young baby who had fallen and was too frightened to get back up. She had slipped on some blood on the floor and the lower half of her body was already covered. Unable to speak, she sobbed and clutched the baby in her arms closer to her chest, trying to protect it. But my friend crouched down in front of her and said something too quietly for me to hear. By the time he was done speaking, he was out of patience. Using that superhuman speed of his, he disposed of the mother and took the baby in his arms.

I could only imagine the plans he had for the tiny thing. A part of me wanted to believe he just couldn't bear to hurt it, but my gut told me that was far from the truth.

Despite now cradling a baby, he did not slow down. Once all the passengers reached the end of the train, they were trapped. He had all the targets he could get his hands on.

From where I was sitting I couldn't properly see what he did. The screams were louder for a short while, but very quickly died down. I only know that when we reached the next station, only me and him were left alive.

He never walked back up the train, mind you. Just stayed down there with the carnage he created. Before the doors opened, he looked back at me and winked.

When the doors opened I heard those on the platform scream. The train was in an awful state. Nothing could have prepared those poor souls for this. And I was in the worst position anyone could possibly imagine. Of course, everyone thought I did it.

Not one of them, though, seemed to notice the man cradling a baby that stepped off the train to reveal the pile of bodies he had left behind. It was as though he had not existed.

I had blacked out by the time anyone noticed me, and I woke up very confused and scared inside a cell.

I'd rather not speak about the next few months that passed, but they were hell. Eventually they had to let me go. It became clear that this was not my doing. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. However they could not say who did. There was a weapon left behind but the fingerprints on it barely resembled that of a human and were untraceable.

There was a blurry CCTV video of the doors of the train that showed my friend stepping out. No one on the platform noticed him though. When he got to the stairs he went out of view and seemingly vanished. Who or what he was, I may never know.

I did eventually find out through both the news and my own interrogation that at the other end of the carriage, the man had used what seemed to be a sort of whip made from something like barbed wire. Only, each barb was much larger than usual and much sharper. This was a home made weapon and extremely deadly. It could eviscerate a person in the span of a breath.

To this day I have no idea who that man really was, what provoked him or where he went, but I'm the one forced to live with the consequences. Some days I feel it would have been kinder for him to take me too.

That is why now, when I get my coffee every morning, I walk in, grab my drink and leave. I speak to no one other than the cashiers and the workers.

You just never know who you might run into.

#short story #horror #crime #serial killer #gore tw #body horror #death tw #violence tw #murder tw #chestnuttoast short stories #writing

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entitynumber5 · 3 years

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iceberg blues

this fic is basically one long jonmartin road trip but with depression and angst and yearning!!!!!! here’s the link to ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30788036. or you can read it below the line!!! <3

Content warnings: depressive episodes, disassociation, panic attacks, discussions of death and mortality, grief, emetophobia, economic anxiety, intrusive thoughts/images, very brief allusions to transphobia and xenophobia (in the context of UK politics), swearing, passive suicidal ideation, food, disordered eating, mention of hospitals, smoking, addiction, arguments, brief references to coercive relationships.

Martin has been sitting at his desk, shivering in his coat, for over half an hour. Still enough that the automatic lights have switched off for the night, one by one in an imploding cascade down the corridor he can see from his desk. Tim and Sasha left a while ago, and Martin had put his coat on and promised he would been right behind them, he was just going to check his emails one last time, when he’d seen Sasha had sent her part of the report on Naomi Hearne’s statement to him. He doesn’t know how to explain why he opened the document and scrolled through to Evan Lukas’s death certificate. But here he is. Stuck and staring.

He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be staring at the death certificate of a man he doesn’t even know. Since Naomi Hearne’s statement two days ago, Martin has been—well, off. He wishes he had a better explanation, but his creativity has jumped ship, apparently, and either a wall springs up every time he reaches for a way to name what he’s feeling or it is energy he doesn’t have to waste, forcing his mind into forming words.

It feels like there’s a balloon inside his chest and no matter how much he expands his lungs, no matter how many deep breaths he takes, he can’t make it smaller. He’d vomited, when he got back to his flat on the day of the statement; yesterday, he had opened the cupboard and stared at the ingredients but been unable to make himself make anything. On the Tube to work, when a stranger looked at him, just in passing, Martin had wanted to cry, and that feeling lingered with him but nothing came of it except an odd sort of internal tension, like a headache.

Yet at the same time, there’s something so dull about it all. He can feel the boredom in his teeth. The blunt edge of a knife, never drawing blood. Why does it matter? Why does it need to be a big deal?

It isn’t, as far as Martin’s concerned. No one else has noticed, and sometimes he doesn’t either. Sometimes it just slips his mind that this isn’t how he feels all the time. Even now, staring at the computer screen, he almost forgets that he’s cold, that it will be dark outside. That it’s Friday, and he usually calls his mum on Friday because the care home gets fish and chips delivered, every week, a whole event, and it’s easier for them both if she has a proper excuse not to answer.

“Martin,” Jon says.

Martin jumps, but his movements are slower than he expects. His shoulders lift enough that the waterproof lining of his coat makes a high-pitched scraping noise, but he can’t move the hand that’s on the mouse to close the document in shame he knows distantly he should feel.

“Martin,” Jon continues, looking somewhat confused, as if he’d already said his name a number of times. There’s a hint of defensive disapproval in his expression. “You’re still here.”

Martin tries to talk, but his voice croaks as if from disuse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. Just, um… finishing up.”

“It’s after seven.”

“You’re also still here,” Martin points out.

Another time, he thinks he’d be embarrassed by the remark. He should be feeling that hot, sharp lance of fear that this might be the fireable offence. But there was nothing in his tone except the monotone stating of a fact, and the phantom embarrassment is so vague he doesn’t even feel guilty about its reason for existing.

There’s a short, soft huff of laughter. Martin drags his eyes to Jon’s face, just in time to see his expression of defeated amusement before it disappears.

“Yes, well, I have my reasons.” Jon averts his eyes and doesn’t elaborate.

Martin turns back to the computer. It should be simple, moving the mouse to the corner of the document, pressing the red cross, shutting down the computer for the weekend, off-off, at the wall and all, not standby or Rosie would moan about the Institute’s already-failing green initiative. But he just can’t do it.

Jon lingers.

“Is… something wrong?” Martin manages to ask.

“I need to lock up,” Jon replies, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He lifts the small ring of keys in his hand as if in justification, a supply of proof. “Unless you would like to spend the weekend in the Archives, I suggest you leave in the next five minutes.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I—I’ll just—let me just…” He moves the mouse to the corner of the document, hovering, but he can’t bring himself to click off it. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to go home. He desperately doesn’t want to go home.

“Sometime today, please, Martin,” Jon presses.

Martin forces himself to close the document. The balloon in his chest feels very big. In his mind’s eye, he can still see Evan Lukas’s death certificate. The clinical recital of the cause, the dates echoing around in his mind. He feels like he might, at any moment, abruptly blurt the words out loud.

“S-sorry.”

“Yes, well,” Jon bristles, “I do have somewhere to be.”

Martin wishes dully that Jon wasn’t here. He could just pull the computer plug out of the wall and be done with it, although his fingers feel numb and he’s not sure he has the strength. Or rather he does have it, it exists, just not within reach.

Martin goes through the motions of small talk, nonetheless. A kneejerk courtesy that reminds him of all the commutes home he can’t remember, the familiar going-through-the-motions, arriving at your destination unharmed, but having done so on muscle memory alone.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Right.”

Jon lifts his eyes to the ceiling, as if he had considered rolling them and thought better of it. He takes a moment before he speaks again. “Actually, I had planned to drive to Wormshill this evening. There is a detail in Miss Hearne’s statement that I would like to check myself.”

“You’re going to Kent?”

“Yes,” Jon answers defensively. “It’s not far. A two-hour drive, at most.”

“But it’s—you just said it’s after seven.”

“Because I have an obligation to ensure my employees are not in the building after hours. What you do with the rest of your evening is none of my concern.”

Martin nods. The motion carries him away for a moment, and he gets lost in the gentle repetitiveness of it. He’s definitely nodding for longer than is acceptable—everything is taking longer than acceptable, today—and he should be embarrassed, but its vaguely soothing, a blip in the otherwise flat, linear trajectory of his mood.

Jon sighs. Loudly. “Is there anything unsaved on this computer?”

“No,” Martin replies, “Don’t think so.”

“Good,” Jon snaps, and then promptly switches it off at the wall.

Martin stares at the blank screen. He can just about make out his hollow reflection. “Oh.”

Jon is still standing there. “Martin…”

Martin hums in acknowledgement.

“There is—well, there’s the matter of the Institute’s health and safety guidelines, which stipulate that any employee conducting research in the field after seven p.m. must be accompanied by at least one other person,” Jon says, rushing but still somehow managing to keep the deep, unimpressed tone. “Ordinarily, I would disregard such bureaucratic nonsense, but I, uh, I rather suspect I’ll be receiving a complaint from Miss Hearne, and I’m—reluctant, I suppose, to attract any further attention from Elias.”

Martin doesn’t understand what Jon is trying to say.

“What I’m trying to say, Martin,” Jon continues, “Is that while I would much rather conduct my investigation alone, it might be pertinent to have company. If only to share the burden of driving.”

In the computer screen, Martin’s reflection doesn’t react to Jon’s statement. His eyes are cloudy, out of focus behind his glasses.

“Fine,” Jon huffs, “I’ll be direct, since nothing else seems to be getting through: Martin, will you come to Wormshill with me?”

Martin must say yes, because the next thing he knows, he’s still shivering in his coat but he’s outside, standing next to Jon on the steps of the Institute while they wait for the taxi that’s going to take them across the river to the car hire place in Croydon, apparently the only one willing to loan a vehicle on such short notice and at this time on a Friday. In his own coat, jaw set against his own shivers, Jon keeps stealing sideways glances at Martin as if expecting him to bow out of the bizarre excursion at any moment.

It occurs to Martin that maybe he should give Jon an out. A reason to go alone, since that’s what he seems to want. Now that Martin’s outside, at least, he thinks he can make it home. He can drift through the weekend, try to sleep off the feeling sitting heavy beneath his skin so that he can plaster on a smile again for Monday.

“Jon,” Martin says, “I can’t drive.”

Jon’s face snaps fully to Martin’s. “What do you mean, you can’t drive?”

“I mean I—I never learned how?”

The car was one of the first things they’d sold, when they could no longer afford to top up the meter, and when he’d turned seventeen, it had been too much money and too much time away from his mum to take lessons, even though so many jobs stipulated—illegally, he’d been told by one disgruntled employee at the Job Centre—that he needed a licence to apply. He knew his mum resented the lack of transport. She would complain about the tins getting dented or the fruit bruising on the bus journey back from the supermarket. Martin would take on extra shifts to cover the taxi costs to and from hospital appointments. But otherwise, they were stuck. There was no way around it.

Moving into London had helped with getting around, but not so much with money, and it had been a sort of comfort to Martin that mostly no one expected you to own a car or even drive here. Until now.

“Why didn’t you say something—?” Jon begins, but at that moment, the lights of the taxi slice through the darkness and a white Prius jolts to a stop in front of them, the driver giving an impatient toot of the horn to get their attention.

“I—I’m sorry,” Martin says. “I thought you knew.”

“How on earth would I—?” Another blare of the car horn. Jon makes a disgruntled sound and starts off down the steps. “Just get in the taxi.”

Martin stares down at him. “What—but I—are you sure?”

Jon, with his hand around the door handle, looks expectantly back at Martin. “Yes, Martin, just—come on.”

In the taxi, Martin sits on his hands as his mind lists restlessly between the vivid, intrusive image of opening the car door for no reason and the worry that he should be making conversation, before settling back into familiar numbness. Jon doesn’t make conversation either, which Martin supposes is a relief. The driver fields a number of calls during the journey and ends up doing enough talking for the both of them.

Jon pays the taxi driver with the Institute credit card when they reach Croydon. Martin stands on the pavement and watches the back lights of the Prius fade into the distance, the way you might watch to check someone gets into their house safely after you walk them home, because he can’t really think of what else to do until Jon demands, “Are you coming?”

Martin jogs after Jon, catching him up just as they reach the car park of the hire place. Jon tells Martin to wait outside, so he waits outside with his hands tucked into his pockets and wonders idly if Jon has picked up on his quietness. And if Jon has noticed, does he think it’s a relief, not having to suffer Martin’s small talk, his stammering inquiries and useless observations?

About ten minutes later, Jon emerges with a set of keys and a collection of paperwork. He barely glances at Martin, making a beeline for the car parked nearest the door, a yellow Citroën.

When Martin stops beside the car, waiting for Jon to unlock it, Jon snaps, “It’s all I could get on short notice.”

Martin stares over the roof of the car at Jon. Is Jon embarrassed because the car is yellow? Because it’s a Citroën? Martin feels like he’s missing something. “I didn’t say anything.”

Jon just huffs and climbs into the car. After a moment, Martin follows, ducking inside and settling into the passenger seat. Jon hands him the paperwork, somewhat unceremoniously, and Martin takes it and places it in his lap and doesn’t say anything about the fact that Jon has given the hire company a false name. Which likely means he has a fake ID. Which is a can of worms that Martin isn’t sure he’s ready to open.

They drive for a while in complete silence. Jon’s driving is a little shaky, at first. He stalls three times in the space of five minutes, and at one point gets flipped off by a teenager hauling Deliveroo via bike. Martin laughs, despite himself, a small huff of air through his nose—it’s a start, he supposes.

“Would you prefer to take the wheel?” Jon snaps and when Martin’s face drops, he adds. “I thought as much.”

Martin sinks back into his seat, the laughter forgotten. He stares out of the window at the other cars and wonders where their occupants are travelling—back to their families for the weekend? When Jon has to merge onto the M25, he clings to the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white, and Martin wishes he hadn’t laughed earlier.

On the motorway, at least, Jon seems to settle into the familiar motions of driving and eventually reaches for the radio, tuning into Radio 4. They’re broadcasting a political debate, and Martin tries to watch without being caught as Jon’s face twists or he snorts at a particularly egregious comment from one of the participants.

“Who’s that?” Martin asks, surprising himself, when Jon rolls his eyes for the fifth time—he’s counting—at the same voice.

Jon blinks, turning momentarily from the road before returning to his eyes-ahead vigil of the motorway. He rolls his lips, like he’s pushing down a retort about Martin’s ignorance of politics. After a while, and a sixth eye roll, he says: “That’s Ann Widdecombe.”

“Oh,” Martin says, “She was on Strictly.”

Jon once again looks like he wants to launch into a lecture about Martin’s witlessness. Instead, he says, in that dry voice of his: “Yes. She has also been a particularly insidious member of the Conservative Party for forty years.”

“Right. Of course. I know that.”

“I should hope so.”

“I didn’t vote for her,” Martin tells him, “On Strictly.”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

“Or in the general election,” Martin adds.

“Not least of all because you don’t live in her constituency.”

“I mean I didn’t vote for the—”

“Yes, Martin, I understood what you meant.” Jon pauses. “And for the record, neither did I.”

There’s a very long stretch of silence after that. Martin wants to point out that he used to watch Question Time with his mum, before she moved into the care home, plus he’s trans and what little family he has left are Polish, so it’s not like he can be ignorant about the UK’s political climate, and just because he’s not some Oxford-educated prick who listens to Radio 4—but what’s he trying to prove, really? It’s a waste of energy, and the lull of the car and the cold pressure in his chest quickly extinguish the flare of indignation.

A radio drama about wartime Britain replaces the debate, and Martin tips his head against the window. He can make out the sound of the words, but not what they mean, and the inside of his mind feels like the road ahead: a blur of sharp asphalt and red-white light, the kind of place where it’s not safe to stop. He feels vaguely sick.

Martin thinks about the weekend again. He wishes he could sleep through and wake up feeling better, feeling real. He wants so badly to pause this feeling and pick it up when he’s ready to deal with it. A break. He just wants a fucking break, so badly that the tight-throat tension of tears he knows he can’t shed is back. He closes his eyes, in case Jon notices, and plays with the paperclip holding the contract for the hire car together.

He doesn’t know if he falls asleep fully or just drifts, but the next thing he’s really aware of is the slam of a car door as Jon climbs back inside. Inside? Martin squints at him through the sickly light of the streetlamp outside the car as Jon manoeuvrers his way back into the driver’s seat while holding a cardboard tray of drinks and two greasy paper bags. He hands one of the bags to Martin. It’s warm in his hands, almost burning, but he doesn’t think to let go.

“Where are we?” Martin asks, detached from the question, uncaring of the answer.

“Just outside of Maidstone,” Jon replies, balancing the drinks tray on top of the clutch with meticulous precision before gesturing with far less accuracy in the general direction of the service station. There’s a glowing sign indicating the presence of a Costa and a number of other chains. “Do feel free to use the, uh, the facilities.”

“I’m fine,” Martin mumbles, “But thanks.”

Martin realises he can’t remember the last time he used the facilities, as Jon so delicately put it, even back at the Institute. It should be embarrassing, but even this is hard to care about. There were plenty of opportunities, at work, to get up and make a cup of tea, or to reach into his rucksack and pull out the water bottle he’d bought with the markers specifically to remind him to drink at regular intervals. But he just… didn’t. And he’s dehydrated, clearly. And he doesn’t care.

“Right,” Jon says, looking like he would rather be anywhere else, “If you’re sure.”

Martin has no idea what to say to that. Jon saves him the effort by clicking the radio back on without starting the engine, and the midnight news drifts from the speakers in a deep, sombre voice that makes Martin feel intensely tired.

Jon clears his throat. “I hope you like cheese and tomato.”

Martin blinks Jon’s shadowed face back into focus. The lights are strange, transient—the orange glow of the streetlights interspersed with violent flickers of white as new arrivals pull into the car park.

“Cheese and tomato toasties, that is,” Jon adds, “That’s what’s in the bag.”

“Oh. Oh.” Martin blinks again, almost dizzy. “Thanks. I—I do. Like cheese and tomato toasties. What do I—how much were—?”

“You really don’t need—”

“I insist.”

“It’s fine, Martin.”

“But—”

“I bought it with the Institute credit card,” Jon interrupts, blunt. “If you would like to thank Elias for the cheese and tomato toastie on Monday, be my guest.”

It’s not really funny, but Martin finds himself giving one of those pathetic, half-formed laughs again. Jon looks momentarily surprised before he smiles and turns away.

Martin eats by rote because what else is he supposed to do? There’s an odd safety to mirroring Jon, following his lead. And so Martin does just that. He doesn’t taste the cheese and tomato toastie, and he can’t even tell if there’s sugar in the tea Jon hands him from the cardboard drinks tray, but it sits warm in his stomach, reminding him he hasn’t eaten anything other than crackers for nearly two days.

When Jon begins to drive again, the radio is playing a reading of a book about a Spanish painter Martin has never heard of. He feels like he owes Jon, in some way, for the cheese and tomato toastie, no matter who actually paid for it, and so he decides to remedy his previous disregard for Radio 4’s programming.

“This book sounds interesting,” Martin announces. There’s not much in his voice—no confidence, no real presence—but at least he’s saying something. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this Velázquez guy.”

“It’s Velázquez,” Jon corrects, although his pronunciation sounds no different to Martin’s.

“It’s a shame it’s the final episode,” Martin presses on, even though it’s painful. “Would have been nice to have a bit of context, you know?”

Jon hums in disinterest. “I suppose.”

This brief attempt at conversation is uninspiring, to say the least, so Martin instead resorts to an even more ridiculous line of inquiry. “Did we just pass a sign for Leeds Castle?”

“Yes,” Jon says, although he seems somewhat more engaged this time.

“But we’re in Kent.”

“Well-observed.”

“So why is it called Leeds Castle?”

“Well, there’s actually some debate as to why. In the Doomsday Book…”

Martin’s not watching the clock, but if he was, he would know Jon talks for a full twenty-three minutes about the etymology of Leeds Castle. It’s oddly soothing. Like a repeat of the emulsifiers at the ice cream parlour, except they’re not sitting across from each other, they physically can’t make eye contact, and there’s distance and darkness enough between them that they can both drop the performance. Martin doesn’t want to be looked at, to be seen, but he feels grounded by Jon’s voice. And Jon doesn’t stop every few minutes to make sure he isn’t being a nuisance, that he isn’t stealing time that others will resent the loss of.

They’ve made it to the Kent Downs. Martin supposes he should ask what it is they’re here to investigate. He manages it, and watches with something adjacent to despair as Jon’s open, almost excited expression falls away.

“Miss Hearne mentioned a chapel in her statement,” Jon says. His voice has dropped down an octave again, into the tone he uses in the Archives. “I can’t find any record of its existence, but I would like to be sure.”

Martin feels suddenly, impossibly cold. Like he will never be warm again. He shivers, and Jon turns up the car’s heaters. “I remember.”

Jon’s hands tighten around the steering wheel again. “You listened to the statement?”

“You—you asked me to transcribe it.”

“No, I asked Tim to transcribe it.”

“But Tim—well, he has an ear infection, he’s on antibiotics and everything, and Sasha’s the only one with access to the hospital records so she was cross-checking those, and I—I thought it was only fair if I transcribed it instead,” Martin says, the words falling out of his mouth in a blurred rush.

Jon deflates, just slightly, with a tired sigh. “Of course. I must have—I didn’t—I’ll apologise to Tim on Monday.”

Martin sits on his hands again. If he was feeling better, he might wonder if Jon has ever considered apologising to him. But perhaps he’s more truthful, when he’s in this place; perhaps he’s right when he thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

Jon sighs again. “So you heard…?”

“Yeah.”

“Brilliant,” Jon mutters, clearly meaning the opposite.

“Do you really think she’s making it up?”

“Of course I don’t—‘making it up’ would imply some kind of fault or, or blame, which is not at all what I was suggesting.” Jon’s jaw is set, tense, even as he spits out the words. “There is nothing made up about trauma and the very real impact it can have on a person’s life. I think Miss Hearne’s experience was significant and, as I told her, she should certainly seek out help from someone more qualified to address the grief of her fiancé’s death. As for empty cemeteries and chapels hidden in fog, well, I’ve read enough statements to know that the point at which they start to sound like an overdone ghost story is the time to deploy a reasonable amount of scepticism.”

Martin stares at the dashboard. The car’s heating is on its highest setting, the warm air blasting from the vents drying out Martin’s eyes, but he’s still shivering. Still so deeply, immovably cold.

“He was…” Martin whispers, but he can’t finish the sentence.

“He was very young, yes, and his loss was unspeakably tragic. That is not what I am seeking proof of, and that is far from Institute’s area of expertise in any case, but—”

“No,” Martin interrupts. His voice still so quiet, but Jon stops to listen nonetheless. “That’s not what I… I was going to say that she sounded lonely.”

Jon’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t seem able to form words. His teeth click as he shuts his mouth and turns back to the road, driving on in silence as the radio idly broadcasts the shipping forecast.

“I—I don’t mean the part with the empty cemeteries and chapels hidden in fog, although I believe her. I do.” Martin pauses, letting himself linger in that realisation. “The loneliest part was when she spoke about him.”

Jon takes a deep breath. He frowns, as if he wants to say something, but he keeps quiet.

The tightness is sitting in Martin’s throat and behind his eyes again, and he wishes he could cry. Maybe if he cried, it would leave him be, he’d be emptied but in the right way.

“They only got two years,” Martin whispers.

“They were…” Jon says, his voice a feeble imitation of comfort. And when his voice fails, his jaw tightens and the defensiveness flashes back across his expression. “Does it matter how long they got?”

“Yes, it matters. Of course it matters,” Martin snaps. He surprises himself with the vitriol behind his words.

“The length of their acquaintance doesn’t change the extent—”

“Their acquaintance? They were in love.”

“I’m aware.”

“They were going to get married.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Martin,” Jon hisses. “I’m not unfamiliar with grief.”

“Then why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why didn’t you tell her what to—how to—to move on, or—I don’t know, couldn’t you just have humoured her? Couldn’t you have dropped the act for one day to help someone experiencing the worst thing that’s ever happened to them?”

Jon stares at the road ahead, exhaustion sitting in the lines of his shoulders, the twitch of his jaw. He hardly moves, aside from occasionally checking the mirrors, and Martin doesn’t expect an answer. The silence is cloying and choking and Martin lets it fester.

“If I knew how to move on,” Jon says, very quietly, after an indeterminable amount of time, “Well, let’s just say that’s not information I would withhold. And as for humouring Miss Hearne’s experience, what would you have me say?”

“You could have told her you believed her,” Martin presses.

“That would be a lie.”

“It would be a comfort.”

Jon’s lips twist humourlessly. “Aren’t those synonymous?”

“Then why are we here? Why drive around the Kent Downs in the middle of the night if you think it was all just a trick of the mind?”

“Because I need proof.”

“Of what?”

Jon doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he snaps: “I shouldn’t have bought you.”

“Probably,” Martin agrees, falling back into his seat.

“I’m pulling over,” Jon announces without preamble, as if this is a natural continuation of their argument. “I need to check my notes. I’m sure we’ve passed that sign for Bredgar at least twice already.”

Martin doesn’t say anything. Jon pulls the car into a cramped passing place on the side of the road and then takes his phone out of his pocket. The radio drones, and Martin stares out of the window at the darkness of the stretching rural road, the few specks of light in the distance where the sparse houses state their presence. He thinks about the process of lighting torches in order to send a warning. Smoke signals.

“No signal,” Jon mutters in frustration, and then he opens the driver’s door, climbs out and slams it behind him with enough force that the body of the car shakes.

Martin curls into his coat. His face is wet, he realises, and when he lifts his hand to his left cheeks, it’s cold with tears. Jon is a silhouette caught in the car’s headlights, shoulders up, body tensed. To Martin’s surprise, he seems to have abandoned his phone in favour of lighting a cigarette. Martin recalls Tim mentioning that Jon had quit, a while ago. He considers getting out of the car, too, and trying to convince Jon not to lift the cigarette to his lips. But he can’t move. He’s frozen in place, shaking with a chill that doesn’t belong to him.

In the silvery-grey plume of cigarette smoke, Martin thinks he sees the outline of the chapel they’ll never find.

Leaning against the car hood, outside a service station near Preston, Jon sneaks a cigarette while he waits for Martin. His hands are restless, twitching, and if he’s being honest, he has played hard and fast with the meaning of ‘quit’ ever since—well, ever since he started working in the Archives. And he needs a distraction because, for the first time since they left the Lonely the day before, Martin is out of his line of sight.

It hasn’t been long. Five minutes, at most. But Martin had insisted on going alone, had told Jon he was feeling car sick and needed a moment to himself to get cleaned up. To brush his teeth, which he had said with an odd smile, like this was a novelty. So Jon had let him go, and regretted it almost immediately, and began smoking soon after to take the edge off his gnawing anxiety.

Now that he’s alone, Jon finds himself thinking about the journey beyond the heart-pounding panic of getting out of London and the slower-burning worry over Martin’s drawn silence.

His lips curl into a humourless smile around another drag of the cigarette, and he huffs a small laugh. When Jon had turned on the radio after they’d finally made it onto the M6, it was already tuned in to Radio 4. He didn’t have the heart to change it, not least of all because he would have to explain to Martin, after all this time, that he doesn’t particularly like Radio 4. It’s not his station of choice by a longshot. The last time they’d been in a car together—a lifetime ago, it feels like—Jon had still been trying very hard to appear older than he was and, in a moment of panic, decided the only way to do this was to listen to a radio station that didn’t even play music, for god’s sake.

Ironically, he has been listening to Radio 4 recently, if only because Daisy insists they both stay appraised of The Archers. Insisted. Jon’s smile falls. Only a few weeks ago, while Jon had been attempting to organise his office while Daisy complained at the latest pastoral plot point, he had found an old, half-folded Post-it note. A jumbled collection of words in Jon’s handwriting: Martin Secret Santa. Velázquez - The Vanishing Man??

“What’s that?” Daisy had asked him. “I can’t read your handwriting.”

Jon had slipped the Post-it back into the drawer, although this time with his rib rather than the jumbled collection of paperwork it had been coexisting with before. “Then I’m not going to tell you.”

“Oh, come on, Sims.”

“It’s nothing important.”

“I don’t think I believe you.”

The Eye had informed Jon that The Vanishing Man was the name of the book reviewed on Radio 4 on January 16th 2016, in the early hours of the morning, when Jon had been driving with Martin around the Kent Downs. Jon had written the name of the book down so that he’d know what to get Martin, if he drew his name for Secret Santa.

In the car park, Jon’s throat tightens with grief. There was never another Secret Santa after Prentiss. It seemed a silly thing, with everything that had happened, to care about. They’d never been a normal workplace, not really. And yet Jon still craves that brief glimpse of ordinariness, of a pointless tradition everyone rolls their eyes at and complains about but which is still repeated every year.

Jon is just about to walk to the bin and put his cigarette out in the tray resting on top when he notices Martin’s slow, almost unsteady approach. He quickly disposes of the spent cigarette and tries to look as nonchalant as possible, like he is perfectly capable of spending five minutes away from Martin without falling apart.

Except that as soon as Martin’s face catches the light and his expression became visible, Jon has no hope of maintaining the act.

“Martin,” Jon says, stumbling forward to meet Martin before he reaches the car fully.

“Jon.” Martin recognises him. It should be a relief, but there’s a dull echo to his voice that reminds Jon far too much of the Lonely.

Jon can see that Martin shivering, even in the too-big knitted jumper Jon had guided him into when they’d woken up sometime after midday, after sitting together on the sofa all night, Jon crying softly against Martin’s shoulder while Martin slept. He remembers the way Martin’s curls had sprung out of the jumper and how Jon had felt like crying again with how much love he felt in that moment, staring at the crown of Martin’s head, wondering what it might be like to kiss him there.

When Jon takes Martin’s hand, it’s so cold Jon feels a bolt of ice shoot up his own spine.

“You’re freezing,” Jon murmurs, pulling gently on Martin’s hand. “Come on.”

Jon places his other hand on Martin’s back, making small, soothing motions as he opens the passenger door as wide as possible and gently encourages Martin back into the seat. He pulls up the fleece blanket in the footwell up so that it covers Martin’s legs, where the worst of the shivering seems to be concentrated, and squeezes Martin’s hand until Martin’s eyes move to his.

“I’m just going to walk around to the other side of the car and get in, alright?”

Martin nods. Jon squeezes his hand again, one last time, before standing up and jogging around the car to the driver’s side. He climbs in quickly, kicks on the engine so that he can start up the heaters, and then re-takes Martin’s hand. Martin stares straight ahead, his eyes cloudy and fixed on a faraway point Jon can’t identify.

“Martin,” Jon ventures, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. “What happened?”

“N-nothing.” Martin shudders violently. “It was nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Jon,” Martin sighs.

“We don’t have to talk about it now,” Jon agrees, trying to keep the reluctance from his words. “But it might… maybe it would help?”

“To see what we’re up against?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Lonely, it…” Martin laughs, a hollow, humourless sound. “It’s not just going to let me go, is it?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. They sit for a while in silence, the only sound the rumble of the engine and the whir of the heaters. In a moment of desperation, Jon almost considers turning Radio 4 back on, and he nearly laughs at his own ridiculousness.

“I—I was in Costa,” Martin says, at last, disrupting the quiet. “I was going to get you some coffee, since you’d been driving all evening. I’m sorry. That I can’t—that I don’t have a—”

“Martin, it’s fine.” They’ve already had this conversation. Jon brushes his thumb over Martin’s knuckles and tries not to well up because Martin thought to get him coffee, when he knows for a fact that Martin despises coffee as a point of pride and refuses to even keep it in his flat.

“I always wanted to learn. To drive, that is.”

Jon smiles, but it fades quickly. “Maybe you can. When we get to…”

Martin hums. “I ordered the coffee, that was… it was fine. A bit awkward, I guess. Haven’t talked to strangers in a while, you know? Or anyone, really. But I got through it. It’s just that when—when the barista called my name, she just—she looked through me, like I wasn’t there.” A brief, bitter twitch of Martin’s lips. “Maybe I wasn’t.”

“Martin.”

“It’s fine. It’s—it has to be—I’m fine.”

“Martin.”

“I just stood there, while she was calling my name. Looking at me, but not,” Martin continues, still staring out of the window. “In the end, she gave the coffee to the person who was cleaning the forecourt.”

“Oh.” Jon tips his head back against the seat. “I can—did you order anything else? Are you hungry? I can go back inside. Or we can go… t-together.”

Martin shakes his head minutely.

“We’ll eat when we get to the house,” Jon says, like it’s already decided. “I can make soup.”

“What kind?” Martin asks, so quietly Jon almost misses it.

“Whatever kind you like.”

“I don’t know. Is that something I—should I know?”

“We can find out.”

Martin doesn’t say anything else.

“Are you ready to move on?” Jon ventures.

At Martin’s minute nod, Jon reluctantly untangles their hands and retakes the wheel. He pulls out of the service station, and once they’ve navigated the helter-skelter of roundabouts and made it back onto the motorway, Jon lets his hand drift towards the radio. Would it be so earth-shattering, to listen to something other than Radio 4? Surely it wouldn’t shake the foundation of their relationship more than everything else that’s happened in the last two years. And yet he feels an extraordinary amount of pressure, like he’s about to expose some vulnerable part of himself to Martin by revealing what sort of music he enjoys.

“Jon?” Martin murmurs.

Jon retracts his hand. It’s ridiculous, it really is, but he’s not ready. “Sorry. Just, uh, just checking I know where the—the hazard lights are in this car.”

Martin doesn’t seem to be in any position to question him. Jon returns his hand to the wheel and stares at the straight, sparse road ahead of them. There’s not a lot of traffic, late at night and mid-week, and Jon loses himself quickly in the motions of driving. It’s strange, he thinks, the way skills stay with you after so much time dormant and unpractised. He wonders if he could remember the cords he used to play on his grandmother’s piano, if he sat down in front of one now, or the lyrics of the song Georgie taught him, his voice matching the gentle strum of her guitar. He wonders if the Eye would let him be bad at it, let him rediscover these half-realised skills or supply him with the unearned knowledge of how to perfect them.

Instead, he thinks about teaching Matin to drive. If the Eye is going to insist on perfection, Jon might as well share it with the person he cares about most. The Scottish Highlands aren’t the easiest place to learn, and they probably shouldn’t attract the attention of anyone nearby by hiring an instructor, but it would be something to do. A reason to spend time together. They’d argue, almost certainly. He can hear it: yes, Jon, I know the highway code and Martin, you’ve missed the turning again and well, maybe your instructions should have been clearer and I resent your tone and I resent your directions and—he smiles. Petty arguments, of course, the kind that don’t hurt, not really. They would laugh about it when they got home.

He turns to Martin, as if this is already a joke between them, already spoke out loud, only to find him fast asleep against the window.

The suspended moment of surprise lasts far longer than Jon would admit to anyone, even himself, and he has to force his eyes back to the road just in time to avoid a large lorry with smiling cartoon produce on its flank. He takes a moment to breath around his pounding heart as he settles back into the speed limit. And then he can’t stop stealing glances at Martin’s sleeping form.

Martin’s head is tucked between the headrest and the window, a position that will likely give him an aching neck later, but Jon can’t bear to wake him. The fleece blanket—yellow with white flowers, Jon remembers, although he can’t see it in the monochrome lights of the motorway—rests atop Martin’s gently rising and falling belly. One of Martin’s hands is hidden beneath the blanket, curled around his knee; the other lies half-up in his lap, fingers twitching every so often. His mouth is open slightly, top teeth just visible. During one stolen look, Jon notices Martin’s nose curling slightly in sleep, his eyelashes twitching. It’s so endearing that Jon has to smothers the urge to cry.

Once again, Jon thinks about the last time they shared an unfamiliar car to traverse unfamiliar terrain. Martin had seemed to sleep then, too, although looking at Martin now, Jon isn’t sure it was actual rest. More just closing his eyes, because there was no real difference between that and keeping them open, staring absently at the road ahead.

When Jon had dropped the hire car off in Croydon around eight a.m. that Saturday morning, Martin bid him goodbye with a hollow smile, assured Jon he could would be fine getting home, and walked—purposelessly, somehow, even though he had a destination—towards the nearest station. Jon had gotten another taxi back to the Institute, weekend be damned, he needed to write up his notes, and picked up his phone at obsessive fifteen-minute intervals, beset with the need to text Martin to ensure he’d gotten home safely.

He never did text. And he still regretted it, even when Martin came in on Monday—still pale, still withdrawn—and assured Jon his weekend had been fine. Even now, two years later.

Worse still, he knew something wasn’t quite right with Martin that week. Tim and Sasha had been worried about Martin, and had come into Jon’s office before leaving for the night and asked that he ensure Martin wasn’t still there when he locked up. Jon had no real issue letting Tim or Sasha stay in the Archives after-hours; he trusted them, and they were experienced researchers, and they both worked best in their own time. Martin, not so much.

But he had noticed that Martin’s quietness in the days since Naomi Hearne’s statement, the way he drifted distracted through the Archives and sometimes seemed to be somewhere else entirely. Perhaps that’s what compelled Jon to invite Martin with him to Kent. To this day, he’s still not sure why he extended the offer. Why he made that decision over and over again, even when opportunities to turn back presented.

He does know how different he feels now. How sorry he is, that he tried so hard to avoid this. How angry he is, that it took him so long to discover this feeling. And he knows exactly why he invited Martin with him to Scotland.

He supposes it’s good, if Martin didn’t—couldn’t—sleep back then, that he is managing to rest now. Jon makes himself focus very closely on the road, on driving gently so as not to disturb the sleep Martin so clearly needs.

It’s not until they’re about half an hour away from the Scottish border that Martin begins to stir, a deep sigh followed by a more discontented murmur. Jon tries to keep his eyes on the road ahead, tries not to think it’s only been an hour, please let him rest just a little longer, but his gaze keeps wandering to where Martin is curling in on himself against the window, beginning to shudder again.

The car’s heating system is already on its highest setting, which Jon discovers when he reaches to turn it up. Perhaps he’s also running cold from their encounter with the Lonely, and the shivery anxiety still gripping him after their escape from London. Jon thinks about reaching across, waking Martin, but just as he wills his hand away from the steering wheel again, Martin sits up with a noise of confusion, the rasping outline of Jon’s name.

Martin stares at the darkness in front of the car, cut through with the white glare of the headlights. He’s stock still, the only movement the rise and fall of his shoulders at pace with his frantic breathing, and the small quivers running through him at merciless intervals. It’s almost reminiscent, Jon thinks, of the time they drove to Kent, except there is something visibly uncalm about Martin’s posture this time.

“Martin?”

Martin just keeps staring.

Jon reaches across the car towards him. “Martin?”

Martin draws a sharp breath, flinching away from Jon’s outstretched hand so quickly he thumps his head against the window. The impact seems to wake him fully, but his breathing gets quicker, if anything, and he hides both his shaking hands beneath the blanket, gathering it up to his chin as he attempts to stop his teeth from chattering.

“S-sorry,” Martin murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Jon replies, trying to match Martin’s voice for gentleness, although his does not shake or warp with almost-tears. “Bad dream?”

Martin hums, but says nothing more.

“Would you like to stop? I think we’ll be coming up to another service—”

“No,” Martin interrupts, a new sharpness to his voice. He takes another breath, slower but still unsteady. “No, thank you. I’m—I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Jon tries to smile, as soothingly as his can, but Martin won’t return eye contact when Jon glances his way. “Alright. We’re not far from the border now.”

Jon drives, trying very hard to focus on the road rather than Martin in the passenger seat. Every time Jon looks Martin’s way, the shivering seems to get worse, accompanied by a blurring at the edges of his figure that Jon attributes, at first, to the late hour, to the fuzziness of the light and the growing exhaustion behind Jon’s eyes. When he tries to focus on it, it gives him an odd, momentary headache—not dissimilar to when he attempts to Know something too big or too abstract.

It’s then that Jon realises this is the Lonely, clinging to Martin like heat haze to the road, except there’s something distinctly sinister and chilling about it. A claws-out, cloying presence in the car with them.

“Martin…”

“I’m fine,” Martin replies, voice as tense as his jaw as he fights down another teeth-chattering chill. “It’s—it will pass.”

Jon swallows around the ache in his throat. “Can I help?”

“It’s fine.”

“Martin—”

“Jon, I’m—”

“You’re not,” Jon snaps, not meaning to sound so harsh, but the worry explodes out of him sounding closer to anger. “You’re not fine, Martin, and I—I can’t just sit here and watch—”

“Then don’t watch,” Martin hisses back. “Would that be so hard? To just. Not watch. For once in your life just stop—stop looking, stop asking to know things that will—that will—”

“That will what?”

“That will destroy you, okay? Stop throwing yourself into—into the eldritch version of staring directly at the sun!”

“Already been there and done that, I’m afraid,” Jon mutters, with no small amount of bitterness.

“Oh, great! And how did that turn out? I’m not some—you can’t—I didn’t ask for this. I’m not a statement, I’m not—you can’t just Know me, Jon, that’s not—not fair. It’s not—” Martin is gasping now, almost gagging on his words, on the tears threatening to implode his facade of distance. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”

When Jon turns to look at him, there is still something blurred and unspecific about Martin, like he is both here and somewhere else. Like half of his image is being left behind by each forward movement of the car. But he is crying, fully crying. And by some cruel twist of fate, Jon can see this more clearly than everything else around them.

“I know what you’re going to say. I know nothing’s fair. I know that’s the—it’s the way our world is now, right? Nothing’s fair, and nothing’s safe, and everything…” Martin coughs miserably, his voice stolen momentarily by the tears. “Everything ends.”

“Martin—”

“Don’t, Jon. Don’t say my name like that.”

“What would you have me say instead?”

“I don’t—I can’t. Not yet.”

So Jon says nothing. He drives. He tries very hard not to look at Martin, who curls against the door, crying in such a quiet, self-contained way that Jon wants to weep with the intensity of grief Martin seems to be denying himself.

By the time they’re nearing the border, Martin is even quieter. Jon risks a glance at him and finds that he is still crying, but sporadically, just tears now, falling silently onto the blanket he’s still holding beneath his chin. His face shimmers when it catches the headlights leeching across the road from the southbound side. The glassy look has returned to his eyes, and Jon wonders if he even knows that he’s still crying.

Up ahead, Jon spots a sign for Gretna Green. It twists a wretched, tearful laugh from his throat.

“What is it?” Martin rasps.

Jon turns to him, not caring if he misses the moment they cross the border—which before had seemed such an important milestone to him, a prerequisite of the journey. Martin is still crying those silent, ignored tears, but his gaze has moved from that absent nothingness to Jon’s face instead.

“I was just—Gretna Green,” Jon says uselessly. “We’re near Gretna Green.”

Martin takes a shuddering breath. It sounds like it could have been a laugh, too, if they were somewhere else, someone else—a perfect twin to Jon’s. “Oh?”

“Did you know that you can no longer get married at Gretna Green without at least twenty-nine days’ notice? In 1856, a law was passed requiring one member of the couple to have resided in the local parish for at least twenty-one days in order to be eligible to marry there. That has since been repealed, but the longer notice period maintained.” Jon didn’t know this until just a moment ago, when the Eye supplied it to him. “The tradition of Gretna Green marriages dates back to at least 1754, although the practice didn’t become commonplace until a toll road made it a more accessible location to those travelling from England. At the time, Scottish law was guided more by Celtic rather than Catholic tradition, and so allowed a couple to be married by anyone so long as there were witnesses, which gave rise to so-called anvil priests—local blacksmiths willing to perform wedding ceremonies.”

Martin swipes at his cheek with the back of his hand. He seems sturdier, more present. “I didn’t know any of that, actually.”

“The most famous anvil priest is Richard Rennison, who was recorded as having performed five-thousand, one-hundred and forty-seven wedding ceremonies before ‘irregular marriages’ were outlawed by the Scottish government in 1939.”

“That’s—that’s a lot of weddings,” Martin murmurs, a hint of humour in his voice. “He must have seen a lot.”

Jon frowns. “Of what?”

“Well, love, I guess. But it can’t all have been good.”

“Perhaps.”

“I mean, I’ve read Pride and Prejudice, for a start.”

“Yes, but Mr Wickham is not a particularly helpful example of a potential husband. Would you hold his entire character against the integrity of Gretna Green?”

“I guess they never actually went to Gretna Green, in the end. But I bet there’s a lot of real-life examples of people manipulating their partners into a shotgun wedding across the border and then—”

“Goodbye happily ever after.”

“I never had you down for a hopeless romantic.”

“I was agreeing with your last point.”

“Yeah, but none of the points before that.”

“Yes, I was.”

Martin makes that noise again, something adject to a laugh that warms Jon’s heart. “No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was.”

“No, you—” Martin stops, shakes his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Fine,” Jon says, lifting his hands momentarily from the steering wheel in a gesture of surrender. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a hopeless romantic, thank you very much. But is it so terrible to imagine that some of those marriages were—well, happy or exciting or—or fairer? Than somewhere else? That there was a great deal of love here for a great deal of time, and that makes this place—unique. You’re right: not all of it could have been happy, or good, or honest. But—”

“But you’re a little bit in love with the idea of this place,” Matin says, and it takes Jon a moment to realise he’s teasing.

Jon feels heat rush to his cheeks, and he’s glad that it’s dark inside the car, that they’re between streetlights and passing vehicles. I’m a little bit in love with you, too, Jon thinks, and feels his blush deepen even further. The thought is so vivid that for a moment, he’s convinced he actually said it out loud. But Martin is just looking at him, his expression still somewhat distant, but there’s something like a smile sitting on his lips. No hint that Jon might have just confessed his love.

“Yes, well.” Jon clears his throat. “Sometimes it’s nice to…”

“Have a little hope?”

Jon nods, just once. When he looks at Martin, his smile has disappeared and there are tears in his eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispers.

“For what?”

“For everything. For—”

“Jon, you can’t be sorry for everything,” Martin cuts in. “It will eat you alive. God, you—you don’t have to be sorry. Not for anything you think you’ve done to me.”

“Martin, I—”

“No, Jon, I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“What an earth for? You haven’t—”

“I have. We’ve both—we’ve both made a lot of mistakes. And that’s… probably why we’re here.” Martin sniffs, curls his hands tighter around the blanket. “But I…”

Jon waits. He thinks they must have crossed the border into Scotland now, with little fanfare. Too absorbed in each other’s words to notice the transition.

“Can we stop soon?” Martin asks at last, breaking the silence.

It’s not what Jon is expecting, but he nods nonetheless. “Of course. We’ll stop at the next service station.”

True to his word, Jon stops at the next service station—which just so happens to be Gretna Green. He asks Martin if he wants to keep going, to bypass this service station for another, but Martin simply shakes his head and doesn’t say anything as Jon finds them an empty space.

They walk inside together, only splitting off into separate cubicles when they reach the toilets. Martin says very little, but allows himself to be guided by Jon through Waitrose, which is open despite the late hour. They’ll have to sacrifice affordability for practicality this time, since they’re only two hours away from Daisy’s safehouse and it seems like a bad idea to risk stopping again. Jon fills their basket with tea bags, powdered milk, custard creams, bread, bananas, baked beans and pre-grated cheese. None of it particularly glamourous, but it will tide them over, and he’s not sure either of them is in a state to do more than microwave what they have available.

Just before they reach the check-out, Jon notices the chocolate Martin likes. He remembers, because Tim had once returned from his lunch break having bought the entire box from the nearby supermarket when Martin had been staying in the Archives. Caramel Cadbury, the contrasting purple and yellow wrapper always showing up in the bins after that, and Jon feeling an odd sense of jealousy that Tim had so effortlessly, it seemed, made Martin’s unexpected stay more pleasant.

Jon places two bars into the basket with the rest of their goods. With the hand not holding the basket, Jon reaches for Martin. Martin closes the distance, taking Jon’s hand, and they cling to each other through the transaction and the return to the car.

“Are you hungry?” Jon asks Martin.

Martin shakes his head. Jon adds this to the list of things to address later, when he isn’t so sleep-deprived he’s sure to say the wrong thing, push the wrong buttons. He places their shopping bags in the boot of the car and reluctantly relinquishes Martin’s hand so they can both climb back in.

Jon doesn’t start the engine.

“I can’t stop thinking about Naomi Hearne,” Martin announces, after a long stretch of silence. “I had a dream about her statement. Earlier. It was… different, though. I think it might have been—I think maybe I was—I belonged to that house.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. His own silence is choking him, and he knows now is not the time to cry, but it’s a difficult thing to wrestle down the onslaught.

“I was so stupid,” Martin hisses. He’s crying again, so suddenly Jon feels like he must have missed something. “I should never have gotten involved with the Lonely. I’m—this is—it’s all my fault. I did this.”

Jon swallows his own tears. “Martin, I don’t understand.”

“The Lonely won’t let me go.”

“It will. It has,” Jon says, quick, desperate.

“No.” Martin shakes his head with a mirthless laugh. “No, it hasn’t, Jon. You remember Evan Lukas.”

“Of course,” Jon replies, although it wasn’t a question.

“He escaped. He escaped, and it took him back in the end.”

“No.” Jon leans back, as if struck. This is—why has he never thought about this? But no, it can’t be true, it can’t be a possibility. “No, that’s—Martin, you aren’t like him. Evan Lukas was—he was born into it. The Lonely was with him for longer than it ever was you.”

“I think the Lonely always had me.”

“Don’t say that. Not again. Not now.”

“But it’s true, Jon! When I listened to Naomi Hearne’s statement—”

“I should never have let you—”

“You didn’t let me. I chose to.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

“It was.”

“No, it—it compelled you, somehow. The statements, they can do that, they can—”

“I wanted to read it.”

“Exactly!”

“No, I wanted to read it because I was doing my job, because I was helping Tim and Sasha. I didn’t know it would—it just seemed like a normal statement. Until I listened,” Martin continues, voice growing in strength. “It called to something inside of me. I recognised so much of myself—”

“No, Martin.”

“My life is—was—it was just like—”

“Stop,” Jon snaps, “Stop. Please.”

Martin stops, but only momentarily. “We have to talk about this at some point. I know I’ve been putting it off, too, but… we have to.”

Jon drags a hand over his face, suddenly so exhausted he could fall asleep. But his heart is pounding and his hands, he realises as he’s lowering them from his face, are shaking. There’s no rest to be had yet. “Alright.”

“Being cut off from the Lonely might kill me,” Martin says, “Like it killed Evan Lukas.”

“I’ll be cut off from the Eye, too. I’ll—”

“Basira is sending you statements,” Martin interrupts, “And you’re going to read them, okay? You have to read them.”

“Then you’ll have to—to find a way to feed the Lonely, too.”

“I won’t do that.”

“That’s the only deal I’m going to make.”

“I won’t sacrifice anyone to that place,” Martin spits. “You saw it, Jon. You were there. How can you think I would ever send anyone there just to save myself?”

“Oh, and you think feeding the Eye is without its sacrifices?” Jon demands, fury rising to meet his grief in a perfect storm. “Is it okay to subject people to nightmares, to reliving their trauma again and again with me drinking it all in, just so I can survive?”

“At least they’d be alive!”

“Martin, this is ridiculous. You can’t—”

“Stop trying to find a way out of this.”

“Stop acting as if this is the only way!” Jon shouts, loudly enough that Martin flinches back.

With a shuddering breath, Jon tries to contain his anger, to hide it until it’s not so raw. He thinks about the last time they were in the car together. The argument then, and how he had pulled over and gotten out and smoked to avoid finishing the confrontation, to avoid letting his true feelings show.

He won’t do that again. He can’t. Not this time.

“Evan Lukas didn’t—it might not have been the Lonely that killed him. We don’t know for certain that it was,” Jon continues. “And if it was the Lonely… did Naomi Hearne’s statement give any indication that he lived his life differently because he knew it might happen? No. He got a job that he cared about. He surrounded himself with friends. He fell in love. You can have all of those things. You deserve all of those things.”

Martin’s tears drop faster and faster, an unstoppable flood, and Jon wants nothing more than to reach across and wipe them away with his thumb. He would, except that Martin is holding himself so tightly, curled with his back against the car door, and he looks so devastated, so far away, so unwilling to be reached.

“He died,” Martin sobs. “He died, and he left the person he loved behind.”

“Oh, Martin.”

“No, Jon, I—I know what that feels like.”

“Martin,” Jon murmurs. Afraid of what’s coming next. But he knows he has to say it. He has to keep going. “Can I ask you something?”

Martin hesitates, wiping at his eyes, digging his fingers into his sockets. After a protracted moment, he nods.

“Do you think Naomi Hearne wishes she never met Evan Lukas?” Jon asks.

Martin stares at him, still crying. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“I don’t…” Martin takes a shuddering breath. “No. I don’t think Naomi Hearne wishes she never met Evan Lukas.”

Jon almost smiles. “Neither do I.”

“But she was lonely again, afterwards.”

“Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she reached out to Evan’s friends. Maybe she realised they were her friends, too.”

Martin stares at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Do you know that?”

“No.” Jon sighs. “No, but I—I can Look.”

“No, that’s not fair.”

Jon steadies himself. Across the car park, he watches a young father bounce a little baby, pacing the length of his sedan as he does so. In the car, the faint silhouette of his partner is just visible; they look peaceful, at rest. Jon’s heart aches.

“Can I ask you one more thing, Martin?” Jon whispers.

“Yes,” Martin rasps, reluctance replaced with resignation.

“Do you wish you had never met me?”

Silence. Jon forces himself to keep watching the father, murmuring now to the fussing baby, giving Martin time to consider the question, all of its sharp angles, its gentle core. He wishes, more than anything, that he could reach for Martin’s hand and hold it. Hold it tight, kiss his knuckles.

“Jon?”

At last, Jon turns to look at Martin. Their eyes meet and then, in a blur of movement, Martin reaches for him, his hands pausing on Jon’s shoulders for just a moment, giving him time to pull away, but Jon reciprocates in full, grabs hold of Martin’s jumper and pulls until they’re a tangled mess, holding each other, crying and clinging and trying to move closer than the small car will allow.

“No,” Martin says into Jon’s shoulder. “I don’t—of course I don’t regret meeting you. God, Jon, I—please don’t—never think that, okay? I don’t want you to ever think that.”

Jon lifts his hand to Martin’s hair, runs his fingers through the tussled curls where they’re fuzzy from sleeping against the door. “Martin, meeting you—it was a gift. It’s always been a gift.”

Martin sobs, his face wet against the seam of Jon’s jumper. “I wish I’d never agreed to Peter’s plan.”

“I understand why you did. And I forgive you, if you need to hear it.”

“But I’ve ruined everything.”

“Nothing is ruined beyond repair, Martin.”

“What if the Lonely calls me back?”

Jon holds tighter, as if the Lonely is already at their backs, creeping closer. “We’ll deal with it.”

“You said yourself…” Martin sobs again. “You said—when we went to Kent—you said—”

“I said it didn’t matter how long Naomi and Evan had. I remember.”

Martin is shaking against him. “Did you…?”

“I meant it. Not because—it’s not because I didn’t care, although I know I was trying very hard to give that impression, at the time. I meant it because no amount of time would have been enough. Love is… it’s outlasting. It makes its own time.”

“Jon—”

“No, please, Martin, I—I need to say this. No matter how long we get, whether it’s days or—or years. It won’t be enough. I’ll always…” Jon laughs, a small, fragile thing. “Well, I’ll always want more. Perhaps you don’t believe me, or you—you can’t, right now. But you, Martin, you are enough. Always. I will spend every moment we get together ensuring you believe that. If you’ll have me, of course. There’s—of course, there’s no obligation, and I would—I’d understand if—but it’s true. It’s all true.” Jon laughs again, feeling giddy. “I want to spend all of my time with you, Martin. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Slowly, they pull away from each other, but not far. Jon moves his hands up Martin’s arms, over his shoulders, until they rest on his cheeks, and he finally allows himself the privilege of wiping away Martin’s tears with his thumb.

“I wish it hadn’t taken—well, all of this—” Martin makes a vague gesture with his hand, which still somehow encompasses everything: tea stains on statements, worms at the door and shoulder-to-shoulder against the wall, trips to the café heavy with paranoia, quiet goodbyes, missed moments. “To get here.”

Jon rubs his thumb against Martin’s cheek. “We can’t go back.”

“I know.”

“Will you…?” Jon takes a steadying breath. There are so many questions, but only one matters, in this moment. The rest will follow, one day. “Martin, will you take it day by day with me? And if that doesn’t work—hour by hour, minute by minute. Together.”

There’s a breathless pause. And then Martin laughs, a genuine smile splitting his face for the first time in—well, Jon can’t remember how long. It’s small and tentative, but it’s there. And it means everything to Jon.

“Yes,” Martin tells him.

Jon smiles, too.

“I’m scared,” Martin murmurs, smile wavering slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I—I want to try.”

Jon feels his smile grow. “That’s enough. Always.”

Martin’s smile finds its feet again.

“Are you ready to keep going?” Jon asks.

Martin lifts his hands to Jon’s and squeezes. “I’m ready.”

In the silvery-grey headlights on the tarmac ahead, Jon thinks he sees the outline of the words he is still looking for the strength to share.

I love you.

Soon. He’ll say it soon. He has time.

The sun is just rising when they reach the safehouse. It welcomes them like an old friend, worn stone bathed in newborn sunlight as if to say hello, as if to smile at their arrival. Jon insists they are safe here, though his heart is unsure. Martin can’t shake the feeling that this is won’t be forever, though his heart wants to hope this might be it.

Maybe they will have a lifetime here. Maybe not.

Love makes its own time, Martin thinks. And Jon smiles and leads them both towards home.

#cw depressive episode #cw panic attack #cw death #cw grief #cw suicidal ideation #cw disordered eating #cw food #cw emetophobia #cw smoking #cw intrusive thoughts #naomi hearne's statement HAUNTS me to this day #i don't even know what to say about the radio 4 discourse #if i could do as much research for uni #as i did looking at the january 2016 radio 4 schedule for this fic #i might just be unstoppable #alas it is not to be 🤣#love and hugs to all who want and need it #have a wonderful day or night or whatever time it is where you are #<3

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fallenfurther · 3 years

Text

I learnt for you

I’ve been working on this fic on and off over the past year having saved a few ideas from @bonsaiiiiiii list of #100 weird AUs post. As a slow writer who had been struggling with a stressful healthcare job, it has been hard to get this one completed, but with my new long commute I decided to try complete it and now it’s finally ready to post.

The prompt that stood out to me the most was #28 I learned sign language to communicate with you!AU, especially as I’d recently started watching Stingray. This is very much an ‘if International Rescue never happened AU’ where I tried to stick to the original series lore, which allowed me to play in the combined universe and bring in Stingray. It’s a Scott centred fic, with a tad of Gordon.

Scott is a coffee loving air force pilot and when he finds out the new cute barista at his favourite café is deaf, he decides to learn a little sign language in order to ask her out. However Scott's exploration into American Sign Language teaches him more than just a few hand movements.

A little note, as a way of differentiating between the two languages used, I used double quotation marks “ ” for spoken words and single quotation marks ‘ ’ for signed words.

It’s quite long, almost 10k, so here is the AO3 and FFN link, in case you prefer to read it on one of those. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

Scott smiled to himself as he strolled off the base toward his favourite coffee shop. He'd been deployed at Minot air base for half the year for some further training, but now he was back at Whiteman it felt like he'd never left. It was great to be back but it'd been just over a week since he'd landed and he hadn't had a chance to leave the base yet. Now he was desperate for some good coffee. The grounds he kept in his locker weren't bad, but nothing compared to the fresh aromatic grounds used at Darcy's. It was a small independent shop that cared about taste and had a relaxed, welcoming atmosphere. Darcy herself, was an outgoing bubbly person, happy to chat to customers as she worked. There were many people who just came in for a grab and go, but Scott enjoyed exchanging pleasantries with Darcy. He liked to sit back and soak in the atmosphere with his hands around a warm mug. He often called his family from the shop, finding more privacy there than on the base. As a young single man he stayed in the cheaper dormitory; his father may be the CEO of Tracy Industries but he didn't give his sons handouts. His father paid for him to fly home for Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. Any other trips home were to be funded from his own money. Some people thought his father was tight, but they didn't know him personally. Scott knew he always had a place at home, that he was always welcome. He had had his college funded, even when he decided to do a further degree at Oxford University in England. That had been one hell of an experience, the culture being so different, yet it had also been where he'd found his love for little coffee shops. A favourite of his had been Hot Numbers Coffee. He'd taken Virgil there for one of their Jazz nights, when he'd visited, and they had both had a fantastic evening.

Darcy's reminded him of those cosy English shops and he loved it. Walking down the street in his civilian clothes, free of the neat uniform he wore almost permanently, he could have been anyone. People passed him without a second glance, not knowing he was someone the media liked to follow. He was the son of famous astronaut Jeff Tracy, first man on Mars, and self-made billionaire businessman. Scott had been to various events with his father because of this and was used to cameras flashing around him. It didn't mean he enjoyed it. He much preferred the quieter life, away from the family business. Flying fast experimental planes was his job. He'd been passionate about planes, flying and going fast for as long as he could remember. Now he was paid to do it. The thought of spending the next day in the air doing drills filled Scott's heart with excitement.

Turning the corner revealed Darcy's, it's yellow and white striped awning keeping the few tables in the small outside space shady. Pushing open the door Scott's nose filled with the scent of fresh grounds and his shoulders sagged. Inhaling deeply, he had a quick look around. No significant changes could be seen. His favourite seat was free and he quickly headed to the counter to grab his usual and peruse the sweet offerings. That's when the small subtle change hit him. On each item tag was a number. Not a price, just a number in the corner within a bubble. Having decided on the delicious looking chocolate cake, he glanced up to see how many were in front of him in the queue. There was only one, but his eyes caught the numbers by the drinks. Every menu item had a number. Scott didn't like it. It made the place feel less homely and more like one of the coffee chains most people frequented. Darcy was behind the counter though, her voice cheerful and loud, just as he remembered. She never seemed to stop, often bouncing on the balls of her feet. She smiled at him when he stepped forward.

"Long time no see! Still want your usual?"

"Yes, please. I got deployed elsewhere for a while but I'm back now. I've been desperate to get some good coffee. It can be so hard to find."

"I totally agree with you on that one!"

Darcy turned around, her braids flying as she did, and tapped the shoulder of the other barista. Scott hadn't noticed her straight away as she had been hidden behind Darcy. She was new, at least it was the first time he had seen her. The woman turned to Darcy, her eyes looking down. Three movements of Darcy's hands brought a nod from the other woman and she got started on making his order. Darcy turned back to him with a smile.

"Anything else?"

"A slice of the chocolate cake, please."

"Of course."

Scott held his watch to the reader that Darcy presented, but his eyes were on the new girl as she worked. Her back was to him but she seemed to know what she was doing, her hands steady and moving with purpose. Her light brown hair was tied up in the same way his foster sister Kayo often wore hers. Simple and functional, she had once stated.

"All gone through."

Darcy turned to the next customer in the line. Scott twisted on his heel and headed to his favourite seat. Sitting down, he got out his phone and checked his personal messenger to see if there was anything new. He smiled at the sight of an email from Gordon, letting them know the dates of his next shore leave and any current plans he had. Scott had been waiting for this email and quickly logged into the human resource system and booked the time off. He'd just pushed submit, when the small clunk made him look up. His eyes brushed over the coffee and cake, his mouth watering at both the sight and smell, but he paused when his eyes continued up to the face of the waitress. To his surprise it was the new woman, and not Darcy, bringing him his order. Her eyes were chestnut and a small smile came to her lips as their eyes made contact. Her gaze quickly went to the tray as she unloaded the cup and plate. Once the task was complete, her eyes returned to his face.

"Is that everything?"

Her voice sounded different but Scott couldn't place it. Her words were slow and a little bit slurred, but her words were understandable.

"Yes, thank you."

Scott was rewarded with another smile and a nod, before she turned and headed one table over to clear away some used cups. There was something different about her. She disappeared out the back as his phone started to vibrate. Alan's face flashed on the screen, his brother probably saw Scott had changed his status to available. After connecting his earbuds, he answered his brother and got lost in Alan's update from home. The hour flew by and Scott was shocked when his alarm went off to tell him he had to be back at base. A quick glance at the counter as he left confirmed that the new girl was back on the coffee machine. He'd made a mental note to find out more about her later.

******

Scott stretched his arms behind his back, mouth wide as he strolled away from the plane. Maxine and Rohan were doing the same behind him. It'd been night drills followed by a lecture on the latest regulations. There were exercise drills scheduled for the afternoon and Scott was going to need something to keep him awake.

"Darcy's?" Maxine yawned.

"Sounds like heaven."

"How about you, Rohan? Unless you're still embarrassed about last time."

Scott turned to Rohan, intrigued. He'd not heard this story. The man in question had straightened up.

"I'm not embarrassed. It was an easy mistake to make."

The Cheshire grin on Max's face as she turned back to Scott matched the mischief in her eyes. She filled him in on the story as they strolled across base to the main gate, still in uniform as there was no point changing.

"Mr Hotshot here, thought he'd have a try on the new girl before you got back. Apparently girls don't give him the time of day when you're with him. Anyway, he's giving the new girl his best chat up line and she's staring straight at his face. After all his spiel is done, she just goes "May I take your order?" completely deadpan. She deliberately over-pronounced every word as if he was stupid. So he orders and I join him at the table where Rohan's planning his next move. I raise my eyebrow at this, but he's set on his plan. The new girl comes over with our order, and he asks her how long she's been in town as she's placing it on the table. She says nothing, only to ask if we need anything else. Rohan here says "Your number". Her response is to look at the board confused, and ask "Which number?". Hotshot says "Yours". Her expression was priceless, it morphed from confusion to shock, before she backed off with a firm "No". I nearly pissed myself laughing.”

Scott was smiling, though he felt like he was missing an important piece of the puzzle. Rohan was red in the face now, arms crossed and glaring at Max.

"What Max had failed to tell you is that the new girl is deaf."

"She's deaf?"

"Yeah," Max confirmed. "I was chatting with Darcy, asking about all the numbers, and she told me. Her name is Lisa, she's an old school friend of Darcy's, who has fallen on hard times and moved back in with her Mum. Darcy offered her a temporary job, knowing how hard it is to get employers to make the changes Lisa needs to help her work."

"Isn't it illegal to discriminate like that?" Scott queried, sure his Dad had to deal with a case similar to this at Tracy Industries. "Also, how does she take orders when she can't hear?"

"Yes, it is illegal, but people find ways around it. All they have to do is find another reason not to hire her or a way in which the other candidate better meets the job requirements. Lisa can lipread, however it's not easy and requires her to have a clear view of the person's mouth. That's why there are numbers, so she can get people to say them if she's struggling."

"It's pretty clever." Rohan chimed in, "though it would have been nice to know before I made a fool of myself."

"Like I'd risk missing out on your fantastic performance."

Max was laughing now, light cheery chirps that would echo around any hanger if you managed to set her off in one. Scott held the door for his friends before joining them in the queue. He felt like he was seeing the shop through fresh eyes. Everything had a purpose. It made him wonder what his Dad would do if someone like Lisa applied for a job at Tracy Industries. Darcy was manning the till, taking orders and chatting away merrily as she always did. Scott watched as Darcy would turn, tap her friend on the shoulder and sign the order to Lisa. Lisa would nod before making it. It worked for them. Simple changes that meant Lisa could work.

With drinks ordered, they sat down in their favourite spot and continued to chat. Scott undid the first two buttons on his shirt. The rules stated they should behave and dress like ambassadors for the Air Force while out in public in uniform. However the stiff collar could be as uncomfortable as it appeared and Scott needed relief from it, currently rubbing his five o'clock shadow. Lisa soon came with their drinks, placing them before each of them correctly. Scott was impressed.

"Anything else?"

Scott was about to reply when Max moved her hands. Lisa smiled, signed back and left.

"You know sign language?" Scott questioned.

"Yeah, we had a deaf boy in my primary school. We all learnt the basics so we could communicate with him. He managed to get implants before middle school, so used it less after that. I'd forgotten most of it, but a quick refresher was all I needed."

"Couldn't Lisa get implants?" Rohan mused. Scott couldn't help wondering the same thing, if the procedure was available, why not have it?

"Not everyone can, it depends on the cause. Current implants still require certain parts of the ear to be functional. Lisa might not be suitable for surgery. Tim had to have multiple scans and some deep implants, then years of therapy to teach him what words sounded like. It did get him out of learning a foreign language though."

"Maybe she can hear something as she can talk?"

Rohan was never someone to beat around the bush. If he wanted to know something, he would ask, with little concern for whether or not he should.

"Intense therapy. Tim had a special teacher who took him out of classes and taught him to talk. It's hard when you can't hear yourself, they have to learn the way words feel."

Scott pondered the information as talk slipped towards childhood friends and memories. He wondered what it would be like to have never heard a word, or to speak and not hear the noise you make. It felt like an alien world to him. He couldn't imagine not hearing the soft notes of Virgil's piano, the splashes of Gordon and Alan in the swimming pool, or the roar of the jet as he raced down the runway gaining speed. A silent world felt devoid of so much joy. Soon he was pulled back into the conversation and the thoughts were pushed to the back of his mind. He did remember to tap his watch against the tip jar as he left.

******

It was a few evenings later while lying on his bed that Scott’s thoughts drifted to Lisa. He'd slipped in his earbuds and had one of Virgil's compositions drifting into his ears. He thought that it was a shame that more people hadn’t heard his brother's pieces, which in turn reminded him that some people couldn't. As he thought about Lisa, he reached for his tablet and propped himself up. A quick search brought up the basics of American Sign Language. Balancing his tablet against his legs, piano still in his ears, Scott practiced saying 'Yes' 'No' and 'Thank you' with his hands. Three sites had videos as well as pictures, and Scott got so carried away he didn't hear Rohan when he called Scott's name. The sudden appearance of a hand moving in his line of sight startled Scott, causing him to pull his head back and meet Rohan's emerald eyes. Instinct made Scott remove an earbud from his ears.

"Hey, Scooter, what are you doing? It's lights out."

Scott's eyes darted back to the tablet and saw the time in the corner. 2156. He had four minutes.

"Shit!"

Scott jumped up, grabbed his wash bag from his locker and darted to the bathrooms. A multitude of laughs from his bunkmates confirmed they'd done it deliberately. He hadn't realised he'd gotten so caught up. Scott hastily brushed his teeth, while relieving himself. He was back in the dorm with just enough time to throw the bag in his locker, put his phone on silent mode and stand at attention for lights out. It was a very old ritual, but for those who wanted the comradery of dormitory life, or to save a few dimes, it was a welcome formality. If warned in advance, then it was possible to remove your name from the night roll call and stay with a friend. His mate Benny would let him sleep on his couch from time to time when Scott wanted a night on the town. The room rang out with the sound of each occupants' name. Straight backed and facing forward, Scott spoke at the correct time. Once complete, the light was turned off and the room was filled with shuffling and squeaking springs. Thankfully, Rohan had put his tablet and other belongings away for him, though Scott was sure there would be some repercussions tomorrow.

******

Breakfast the next day had Rohan sitting down before him.

"Spill. What had got you so engrossed you forgot the time?"

Scott's scrambled egg became very interesting as he felt his cheeks flush. He knew there was only one reason for him to learn American Sign Language. Max joined them before Scott could answer.

"Anything new?"

"Scott was just about to tell me what made him almost miss lights out last night."

Max's eyebrow raised, knowing full well that Scott could get absorbed in work, but rarely in downtime activities. She knew he struggled to relax and let go at the end of the day, and that his friends were the ones that constantly encouraged him into healthy habits. There was no getting out of this.

"I was learning sign language."

Rohan laughed.

"Seriously? You got the hots for Lisa or something? Going all out to get a date?"

Scott tried to keep his cool and his embarrassment hidden, though Max just gave Rohan a dirty look.

"Well, I think it's a fine thing to do. Though if you are doing it for a date and can tell you now, it won't work. Lisa's not stupid, but the more people who know sign language the better."

"Thank Max. I just thought she would appreciate me saying thank you and maybe ordering in a way she'd understand better."

It wasn't a complete lie, his Mum had drilled the importance of politeness into him before she had passed away, and his Dad had always cared about appearances. He didn't see the harm in trying anyway.

"Yeah, well, good luck to you, Scott. I'll give you fifty bucks if you can get her number."

Max rolled her eyes and Scott turned down the bet. He may have a reputation with the ladies, but he'd never stooped so low to bet on them. After finishing up his breakfast, they headed out onto the tarmac ready for the day's drills.

*****

That night, during the quiet downtime before bed, Scott continued with the videos and practice. Rohan rolled his eyes but Scott barely noticed. He gave himself the next night off, lying back with music in his ears after an exhausting day. The gentle tones of Virgil's piano almost had him asleep before roll call.

Scott's sign language lessons continued. He set aside Monday, Tuesday and Thursday night for the task. He felt like he was making progress with every practice session and his fingers started to make the shapes smoothly. After a month, he felt confident enough to try ordering his next coffee with his newly acquired language.

*****

The bell rang as he stepped through the door, tablet in his satchel and mind set on the task ahead. It was a quiet part of the day and Scott had study leave. He rarely studied with people as they often broke his concentration, so the coffee shop was an ideal place to go. No one ever bothered him there. To his relief, Lisa was at the counter, wiping it down. He was there in four strides. She must have seen his movement as her eyes were on his face. Scott turned his gaze down and signed his order, just as he'd practiced for the last three nights. She repeated his order back, both with her hands and voice. Scott signed 'correct' and tapped his watch against the reader to pay. Taking a seat at his favourite table in the corner, he sets up his tablet and keyboard. When Lisa brought over his coffee, he signed 'thank you' and received a smile in return which made his heart flutter. He couldn't help but sneak glances at her as he worked.

The next few weeks, Scott signs his order, getting increasingly more confident with the actions. At night he continued his practice sessions, trying to widen his vocabulary enough to cover the basic small talk. After two months he felt he had it nailed enough to try taking things further.

Lisa was behind the counter as he entered and it appeared to be a quiet day. Perfect. Scott smiled as he approached and received a smile in return. He signed his order, paid and sat at his usual table. He got out his tablet and kept one eye open for Lisa. He saw her coming with his coffee and took a deep breath. She placed the cup down before signing 'Is that everything?'. Scott responded with the question he'd been practicing.

'Can I have your number?'

Lisa blinked before signing 'No' and returned to the counter. Scott watched her back as she went. Her eyes glanced his way briefly before she served the next customer. He was a little deflated, but turned on his tablet and tried to focus on his studies. It wasn't his most productive session that month but he managed to finish reading the articles on his list. He'd circled important parts and made enough notes to help with his essay. When it was time to leave he slipped his tablet away and headed out. As he passed the counter he signed 'Thank you. Have a good day' to Lisa. He may not have gotten her number but he would still be courteous. He was a Tracy after all and he had been raised to respect others. That night he continued to practice his ASL, learning a few new words in the process.

******

"Don't have too much fun without us, Scott." Maxine grinned, slapping him in the back before giving him a hug.

"Don't forget us, hot shot." Rohan grinned as he hugged Scott.

"I'm only going away for six months, nine max," Scott laughed, "I'll be back before you know it."

The three of them started to make their way toward the carrier that was waiting for him to board.

"You never know. They might set up a new squadron or offer you a place in the current one. You've been handpicked to fly this plane because you're one of the best pilots in the force. If they had any sense they wouldn't waste your talent." Max stated, sadness seeping into her words.

Scott gave them a dimpled smile. These two had made it through basic training with him and ended up in the same squadron. It was always tough leaving them behind, but he was also a thrill seeker. Being one of the first to push these new planes to the limits would be exhilarating.

"I'll let you know what Luke is like tomorrow."

He strode up the steps, pausing at the door to turn and wave, before he stepped into the carrier. He slipped his holdall into the netting and sat down on one of the vacant seats. It wasn't going to be a comfortable flight, the worn foam seat already uncomfortable, but it didn't matter. Scott was used to it, and the excitement bubbling up inside him proved just how much this meant to him. He strapped himself in as the door closed.

*******

The Luke research air force base was smaller than Whiteman despite it sharing its grounds with the Army's research facilities. Behind the compound, situated on the outskirts of town, there was a large expanse of desert owned jointly by both forces. Planes flew above it and vehicles rolled over it, able to perform manoeuvres and exercises that would be dangerous elsewhere. It was the perfect playground. Most of the personnel were made of engineers, some permanent, some on short redeployment like himself. There was a small contingency of pilots and substantial barracks suitable for housing multiple regiments for training exercises. The runway used by the Air Force allowed troops to be shipped on easily from various bases across the country. It was a cooperation that worked well.

Within a few weeks he'd gotten to know his fellow test pilots well. Some were too cocky for their own right and Scott tried to avoid them, particularly Trevor and Grace. Those two were constantly trying to one up the other. He'd gotten along with Angela and Donald, who was a more permanent resident of Luke. He was doing his degree at Glendale community college and he'd taken Scott along to some of the evening events. Their second excursion onto campus had them pass a notice board containing the evening class schedule. One course stood out to Scott and he snapped a photo of the details. The next day he obtained permission from his supervisor and signed up.

The next week he attended his first official lesson in the Basics of American Sign Language. The class was already two weeks in but he had studied the material the teacher had sent him so he could catch up. Stepping into the room, Scott didn't know what to expect. There was a range of people all sitting in rows facing a short stout serious looking man. Scott took a seat next to an elderly couple who smiled at him.

"Welcome," the gentleman whispered, holding out his hand. Scott shook it, his skin soft yet calloused in places. The couple grinned at him before turning to the front.

"Welcome everyone to our third lesson," Mr Woodside boomed from the front, "we are moving on to basic communication this week, but before we do let's quickly recap what we've learnt so far."

The man was bouncing on the balls of his feet, full of energy despite his size. The smile that was etched across his face was warm and excitable, and Scott could feel the whole room respond to his demeanour. It was like a wave had passed through them and caused everyone to sit up and raise up their hands in preparation. Mr Woodside listed off various greetings which they all signed. When Scott hadn't quite got it right, he came over, slipped into the seat beside him and showed Scott the correct form up close. When Scott copied and got it right, he received a grin from the teacher. The man returned to the front and continued.

"Brilliant everyone. I can see you've all been practicing at home. Now, when it comes to putting together sentences in sign, it can get very complicated if you start off signing every word. A lot of the time, just signing the main words will get your point across. I always advise that you start this way, then add more words as you get more comfortable with it. As long as you remember your manners, most deaf people will accommodate bad grammar and incomplete sentences. Now, let's start with some basic questions…."

The lesson was intense, yet rewarding. Mr Woodside's enthusiasm made the time fly and before he realised it, the class was over. His brain felt a little overwhelmed but he was glad he had a week to practice what he'd learnt. The pages Mr Woodside supplied were extremely helpful when he'd been preparing for the class. As he stood to leave the elderly couple introduced themselves.

"Hello young man, I'm Gloria Street and this is my husband Kennedy Street. How did you find your first lesson?"

"Hello, I'm Scott. I found the lesson to be excellent, extremely interactive. I had no idea what to expect but I was pleasantly surprised."

"We understand you there, Scott," Kennedy grinned as they started to make their way out, "this is the second course we've tried. The first one just didn't feel right for us and we were struggling with the basics. Mr Woodside has been extremely supportive and has never been condescending."

"That's good to know. May I ask why you're so determined to learn ASL?"

"Our new grandson is deaf so we want to be able to communicate with him however he feels comfortable. How about you?"

"Umm. The barista at my favourite coffee shop is deaf and I learnt how to sign my order and say a few phrases. When I saw the course I thought I might as well continue."

"That's mighty altruistic of you. I'm sure you'll be helpful to someone one day. You never know when such a skill might be needed. How are you getting home?"

"I was just going to take the bus back to the barracks."

"Oh, a military man! We'll give you a lift, it's on our way."

Scott highly doubted it was on their way, but he accepted their generous offer. They were a caring couple and chatted with him the whole ride back. He waved them off and headed inside.

The class became a regular occurrence, with the Streets picking him up from the barracks and dropping him back off. He slowly got to know the other people on the course. There was a young man doing it for extra credit, another as part of a language project and a few people with family or friends who were hard of hearing. It was a friendly bunch, though some had to rush off afterwards, others would stay and chat for a few minutes. The Streets adopted Scott and invited him to Sunday lunch where they would practice their new language together. The afternoon was spent chatting and signing, bringing hours of joy to Scott. It was a fantastic way to unwind after a week of high octane testing and study. Hours were spent in simulators before they were let loose on the actual test planes. Other simulations were done to test theoretical planes or vehicles currently in the design stage. It was exciting being on the cutting edge of the improvements. Every Thursday he would video call Max, Rohan and various other buddies to see how they were doing. It was always hard hearing that he was missing out, or people were moving on, but it was a part of life. He knew he would have to do the same at some point. He slipped into his new schedule, exploring the local area and going on trips with his colleagues when he could.

In the seventh month of his redeployment Gordon invited Scott to his current base. Stingray was in for maintenance and the crew was forced to have some shore leave. Scott got Thursday and Friday off as leave, and he hopped on a late plane on Wednesday night over to the coast. Gloria and Kennedy were due to visit their daughter and grandson that weekend so they wouldn't miss him. It was a short flight to the coast, where his younger brother met him at the terminal with open arms. They embraced enthusiastically.

"Good to see you, Scott."

"Good to see you too, Gordon."

Heading out of the terminal, they jumped on the next bus into town. They headed straight to Gordon's favourite burger joint and started to catch up over food. It was a pleasure to see his bubbly younger brother. Gordon had always been outgoing, but he had often been considered the black sheep of the family. With Virgil being an engineer, John part of the space program and Alan currently studying between races with the intention of majoring in astrophysics, Gordon's desire to swim and his average grades had stood out when they were younger. Their father had been convinced to let him try for the Olympics and he had been so proud the day Gordon had won his gold in the butterfly. Though Scott felt like their father had been overly relieved when Gordon announced he’d joined the WASP. The military had worth compared to athletics in Jeff Tracy’s eyes, though Scott had never shared the same belief. He and Virgil had been the ones to help Gordon get to swim meets and practice, and had cheered from the poolside right from the start. John had helped a few times, occasionally favouring sitting by the pool studying to babysitting Alan. Dad had just continued to grow Tracy Industries. After they had finished their burgers, they headed to a bar before Scott finally retired to his hotel room and Gordon returned to base.

The two days were packed full of activity. They explored the city and also headed down to the beach to do some rock pooling and swimming. That evening, the crew of Stingray joined them at Gordon's favourite seafood restaurant. All the fish was ethically sourced, frozen fresh if needed. Scott met Atlanta, Troy, George also called Phones and Marina. They shared a starter of muscles while Troy took the lead in conversation. He was a little boastful and flirted profusely with their waitress. It annoyed Scott that he was so blatant, especially as he exchanged flirtatious banter with Atlanta and on occasion Marina. Gordon had positioned himself at the far end of the table away from the man. Phones was a little older than the rest of them but was totally down to earth and a great guy. He was an expert in hydrophones with a passion for sound. They had similar music tastes and Phones had a copy of some of Virgil's pieces, which Gordon had gifted him. Marina was lovely, though Scott was only really able to learn about her through the others. She nodded, smiled and shook her head in response to what they said, but the woman was mute. The meal was delicious with everyone clearing their plates and they left a generous tip for their waitress.

They headed to one of the town's clubs, the music so loud Scott had to yell next to a person's ear to be heard. Troy and Atlanta headed straight to the dance floor while Phones offered out earplugs, which everyone left accepted. It made the music bearable. They headed out onto the dance floor and had some fun. Marina was quite the dancer, Troy jiggled from foot to foot and Gordon let everything go. Scott shuffled, occasionally stepping in the way of men who were shuffling too close to Marina. With her being unable to verbalise consent, he thought it better to be safe.

Eventually, Phones beckoned them away from the dance floor and they headed over to a sticky table. Phones' hands moved and Marina responded. At that moment, Scott realised the truth in what Kennedy had said when they had met. He would never know when knowing ASL would be useful. Letting his eyes meet Marina's he glanced down at his hands and signed.

'How are you doing?'

The surprise and delight that lit up her features was priceless. It was Gordon who butted in with his own hand gestures.

'You can sign?'

'Little'

'Since when?'

'Almost one year.'

Scott and Marina both laughed at Gordon's shocked face, his jaw hanging down. Scott ruffled his brother's hair before turning back to Marina.

'Your name?'

She smiled and signed her name. Scott copied until she nodded that he had it. Phones came back with two drinks, placing one before Marina before sliding onto the seat beside her. Gordon was the first to sign.

'No drink for me?'

'Get your own, you lazy fish.'

Scott was only catching the words he knew, but it was enough for him to understand. Gordon turned to him.

'Drink?'

'Yes. Same.'

'Okay.'

Gordon shuffled off leaving him with Phones and Marina. Phones made the first move.

'How come you know sign language?'

Scott thought for a moment, trying to work out how to best answer with his limited signs.

'Coffee girl.'

Phones laughed.

'Did it work?'

'No, but still learning. Good teacher.'

Scott slipped out his phone and brought up his course and showed it to the pair. They both nodded their approval. The next round of drinks was enjoyed over conversation. It was tough trying to keep up with them and Scott often missed some of the meaning, but seeing them including Marina made him realise the value of ASL. Marina was chatting away, completely out of her shell now they were all speaking the same language. Her face was lit up despite the dim lighting. After their drinks they informed Troy they were leaving and called it a night.

The next morning Scott woke up enjoying the lack of tinnitus as he devoured his cooked breakfast. He had his cup of coffee to go and sat in the foyer to wait for his brother. When he glanced up he saw not only Gordon, but Phones and Marina too. His brother approached, signing as he spoke.

"I hope you don't mind, but they wanted to come along too. We tend to speak and sign so you won't be completely left out "

Scott turned to the other two and smiled. There was no inconvenience and it would be good to get to know his brother's friends better.

"No. It'll be good practice."

"That's exactly right," Phones chuckled, "now, Gordon said something about the aquarium?"

"He did, did he?"

Scott had a fantastic day with the group. They helpfully translated Marina's signs most of the time, allowing Scott to understand more of what she was saying. Her insights into marine creatures, the oceans and its unique habitats was incredible. She knew more about some of the creatures than many of the keepers there. The seals had been particularly fond of her, following her and enticing her to play. Unfortunately the keepers had refused to let her swim with them.

By lunch the combined sign and speaking had started to feel normal to Scott, despite him missing words. Over lunch they taught him a few more. Gordon taught Scott a phrase to tell Marina, which made her blush. Phones kindly informed Scott of what he'd actually said, and Gordon received a cuff over the ear. A small brotherly tussle ensued which had them all laughing.

The afternoon was spent at the beach, the boys swimming in their underwear, making Scott thankful he had worn his plane print boxers the previous day. His blue boxers and Phones black briefs were completely overshadowed by Gordon's bright yellow and blue Hawaiian shorts. Marina swam in her green dress, though Phones explained that it was the one she'd worn since they'd first encountered her and was designed for the sea. Even with what appeared to be multiple layers of fabric she was still able to keep up and swam better than Scott. The water was refreshing as the sun shone down on them from high above. The sea sparkled and the spray from his every stroke glistened. Just before four, Scott said his goodbyes to three of them as they all needed to be ready for a formal dinner that evening. Scott headed back to his hotel to shower and relax before heading out to find some food.

The next morning he met Gordon for breakfast in a café in town. The man grinned at Scott as he plonked himself into the seat opposite. The menu was picked up.

"How was the dinner?"

"Oh you know, same old, same old. Lots of procedure and fancy food. Suggestions for the next deployment were thrown around, people suggesting their projects be taken onto Stingray. We've got a meeting next week to discuss which research and manoeuvres should be performed once Stingray is ready for launch, so we'll see who's rubbed the right elbows. The day after that I'll be flying out to meet up with Alan to watch his next race. Can't believe he's so close to taking the title this year!"

"It's been a fantastic season for him. I've been watching the races when I can. Gloria is quite into racing and we often watch them together after lunch."

"Gloria?"

"Gloria and Kennedy are doing the same sign language course as me. They started giving me lifts, then invited me to their home on Sunday's. Their new grandson is deaf so they are learning for him. They see him occasionally but obviously are leaving their daughter and son-in-law to get used to raising the little one. It's their first child so they are learning everything for the first time."

"You really are serious about signing, aren't you? I never would have guessed it."

Gordon sat back in his chair, surveying Scott as if doing so in a new light. Maybe it was out of the original, him learning to sign, but at least it was useful and productive.

"Though you never bragged about learning yourself. It makes sense doing it for a colleague, but you never mentioned it at home."

"Never came up. Marina's fantastic. Troy is such a dick to her though, he's never learnt more than the basics signs and tends to prefer to just ask her yes or no questions. He's really backwards in that way."

Their food came and they started tucking in. There was companionable silence. The gentle sounds of chatter and cutlery around them was cosy. When they had finished, they continued to enjoy their coffees. Gordon's fingers tapped his mug before laying his eyes on Scott. His face was soft but serious.

"Thank you for yesterday. For being so open with Marina and signing as best you could. It meant the world to her, being able to communicate on the same level and feel included. She often gets forgotten. She can hear and understand everything we say, yet no one bothers to let her express herself. It's slowly getting better but it's far from perfect."

Scott gave his brother a sad smile but was happy to hear that Marina had felt included.

"I'm glad she felt comfortable being around me. I thought she was an extraordinary woman."

"Oh, she's from another world!"

The two of them laughed, the sound soothing as the big hand of the clock inched closer to twelve. They paid their bill, before Scott slung his bag over his shoulder and they headed to the airport. They exchanged a long hug, not knowing the next time they would both be able to get leave. Gordon waved him off as Scott headed out of sight.

The flight back was event free with only the usual annoying passengers to deal with. His eyes surveyed the land below as they flew over the clouds. His mind drifted to Marina and how easily it had been for her to fit in when they all signed, but also how she was often overlooked. His thoughts drifted to Lisa and how her experience of the world had been. How willing are the people around her to learn to sign? Does she often get overlooked? He remembered the lawsuit his father had dealt with. He'd tried to ensure policies were put in place to help people, but did they really work? Is that enough to make people's lives better? How inclusive was Tracy Industries really? He sighed. Maybe he'll bring it up to his Dad one day soon. Once he'd made it back to base he sent a quick message to Gordon before heading to the mess hall. He'd arrived in time for dinner and he was starving.

*****

Three months later Scott had to say goodbye to the Streets. It was tough, the couple having been incredibly welcoming, but they promised to keep in contact with a video call every month where they could all practice their ASL. Scott had met their grandson on his penultimate weekend. His mother had brought him to Sunday dinner and she was glad to be able to meet Scott before he left. The child was the happiest little boy, smiling and waving at Scott when he wasn't crawling around. He had hearing aids clipped to his ears, allowing him to hear some sounds, but the child would sign when he wanted something. He'd signed 'book' to Scott, and Scott had scooped the child up onto his lap and tried to sign it to him.

Scott's mind drifted over the memories during his flight. He felt like he'd grown in so many ways. He'd improved as a pilot, having not only gained experience with fast, high-tech prototypes but how to work with engineers to communicate problems and improvements. His feedback had been acknowledged and acted upon, allowing Scott to understand the design process and really learn about the planes he was flying. Yet it was the personal growth that he hadn't expected. He'd integrated well not only into the new barracks but also into the community. His sign language had improved tenfold, and he had a greater understanding of its value. Despite his selfish reasons for learning, he'd fallen in love with the language and it had improved him as a person. He'd already contacted a local course where he'd be able to continue his study and had been accepted with the help of a reference from Mr Woodside.

The plane touched down and Scott waited until he was allowed to leave. Grabbing his bags he descended the stairs to the familiar sight of his home base. Despite the months that had passed, very little had changed. He headed straight to his bunk, quickly unpacked before heading to the mess hall. He joined the back of the line, his eyes scouting the room for his friends. They were all on one table to the left and once his plate was full he joined them.

"Hey Tracy!"

"Long time no see Tracy!"

"Blimey, a stranger has joined us!"

Scott exchanged energetic handshakes and shoulder slaps with the group as he sat down amongst them. They chatted as they ate, sharing stories from the base while Scott let them know what he could about his time at Luke. Despite his adventure, it felt amazing to be back, with the people who knew him best. They introduced Scott to the two new faces, who seemed as comfortable in the group as he was. Once dinner was finished they headed to the common room, where they all settled into smaller groups to relax and unwind.

"Hey bud, good to be back?"

Scott gave Rohan a hug, which slipped into them having an arm over each other's shoulder. Maxine slipped her arm over his shoulder on the other side, sandwiching him.

"Nah, he was probably relieved to get a break from you, right Scott?"

Scott stepped back and tried to push the two together, which only resulted in them breaking apart.

"Yes to the first, no to the second."

They quickly grabbed the last free sofa.

"See, he does like me Max."

"He's been insufferable since you left."

"In what way?" Scott chuckled.

"In no way!" Rohan exclaimed.

"He's been peacocking the entire time. Thinks he's the best pull on base as you were out of the picture. Such a tool."

"You're just jealous."

Scott threw his head back and laughed, receiving an elbow in the ribs from Rohan.

"He also couldn't take no for an answer. Unlike some, he didn't respect that when a woman says no, she means no."

"Seriously Rohan, you gotta do better mate."

"I thought I'd try her language. I learnt a little sign so I could ask Lisa out. I hadn't realised you'd done the exact same thing until Max here pointed it out AFTER I made a fool of myself again."

Scott felt a slight blush in his cheeks.

"How did you know about that?"

Max gave him her 'you're an idiot' face.

"Lisa told me. I already knew sign language when she started and she asked me if I wanted to get lunch one day. We've been friends for ages. You idiots just weren't paying attention."

"Well, you had your little laugh at my expense."

"You brought it on yourself."

"Max is right. You have to do things for the right reasons."

"I learnt more than just 'will you go out with me' and when she said no I respected it."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't matter anymore. She's gone and gotten herself another job. It's Darcy on the counter again."

Max rolled her eyes and Scott smiled. It would be a shame he wouldn’t see Lisa again but Max had said it was only a temporary job. The rest of the evening flew past as the three of them caught up properly. The week continued and Scott slipped back into his old routine, except every Wednesday he took the bus to the church hall where his new course was held. Darcy was indeed serving at her coffee shop again, her warm smile welcoming him. They chatted briefly as he got the usual 'long time no see' comment. It was comfortable. Maxine became a great help in his studies too. They would sit in Darcy's and practice his signs. Max was so impressed with his progress and taught him some outside his classes that would help. They made plans to go to the annual American Sign Language conference in Columbus that year.

*****

The conference had been intense and after a late night drive Scott had a hankering for some good coffee. With the day off he still went through the usual exercise drills, wanting to keep up his stamina, but by ten o’clock he knew it was time to head out. Max caught up with him as he exited the compound.

"Darcy's?"

"Where else would I be going at this time?"

"You're a strange man, Scott. Who knows where you go when no one's looking."

"I'm not strange," Scott responded, knowing it was just Max messing with him.

Despite spending the weekend at the conference together, they'd actually had very little time to talk and compare notes. They had been placed into different discussion groups and gone to different seminars, so each had taken notes which they had planned to share. At Darcy's, Max bounded in and waved at the person behind the counter. To Scott's surprise it was Lisa who was standing there ready to take their order. Max's hands were already moving.

'Good morning'

Scott assumed the next sign Max made was the one Lisa used for her name, 'one Latte, no sugar, one shot of caramel, one Americano, no milk, no sugar and a cheese and salami toastie. Scott, you want anything?'

Scott stepped up to the counter and surveyed the array of treats available. It was his sweet tooth that won out.

'A slice of carrot cake please.'

Lisa grinned and nodded, tallying it all up on the machine. Scott reached out to pay but Max got there first.

'Call this my car hire money.'

'Car cost more than coffee and cake.'

'First instalment.'

Scott rolled his eyes, noticing the grin on Lisa's face during their conversation. They headed to their usual table and grabbed their tablets. Lying them side by side, they pulled up their notes and started to share them. As the files were transferred, they continued their conversation in sign. When it was just the two of them, Max preferred to sign, keen to keep up the skill, though when they were discussing more niche or difficult topics they would do both at the same time. Scott had learnt she was still in contact with Jackson, though he still only uses sign infrequently, his implants and practice meaning vocal communication was often easier.

'Let us start with the lectures as it will be quicker. Afterwards we can go through the discussions and add to each other's notes. I had some really interesting people in my group and I want to know how people reacted to you.'

'Surprised but well.'

'Nice.'

At this point Lisa came over with a tray of goodies. Coffees and food were placed before them. She tucked the tray between her body and elbow so she could free up her hands.

'How are you, Max?'

'Good, day off. How are you? Darcy okay?'

'Darcy had a family emergency. Took the day off to help.'

'That is very kind of you.' Scott signed

'Send our regards to Darcy.' Max added.

'Will do. Let me know if you need anything else.'

'Always will.'

Lisa headed back to the counter and the pair turned to each other.

'Poor Darcy. Hope everything is okay.'

'Me too,' Max responded, 'The next person to see her will have to ask.'

'Right.'

Scott took a sip of his coffee and pondered it over. With their hands full, they ate and drank in silence for a bit. Once the food had disappeared, Scott pulled up the first lecture he attended and started explaining his way through it, with both words and signs. Max added notes to her copy, asking questions every now and then. Scott added additional thoughts to his as they went. The two hours flew by as they took turns to share. Scott headed up to the counter after they had finished the lectures to order their lunch. His hands made the signs automatically, something that the weekend had helped instil. Lisa smiled as she repeated the order back to him with her hands.

'All correct.'

She signed the amount, and Scott paid, tapping the tip box afterwards for good measure. He headed back to their table where they started to examine the topics of their discussion groups. They were deep into it when Lisa arrived with the food. Scott's brain was shaken out of its thought process enough for him to remember to sign 'thank you'.

'You’re welcome.'

They devoured their lunch and finished off their discussion. Scott was surprised by how many notes he'd made and was still in awe of the many people he'd met that were still forced to use a method of communication that was so hard for them. The world had moved on so much, however people were still forced to lipread and undergo therapy to help them talk. Yet the moment they were able to speak their own language they thrived. There had been a business owner in Max's group that had made everyone in the company learn ASL. Half their employees were deaf and the main language of the company was sign. Those who could hear and sign acted as translators in meetings, when required. It was just a small company but it was extremely impressive. Scott knew there were branches of Tracy Industries where the majority of the workforce was bilingual and often conducted internal business in Spanish. There were also the stories of struggles, parents still fighting for the right to access the services their child needed or of children being excluded. There were still battles to be fought and Scott hoped even in a small way, he could make a difference. When they had finished, they packed everything away and headed back to base, signing 'good day' on the way out.

*******

Scott had an hour off for study on Thursday and headed over to his usual spot. Today it was Greg behind the counter, one of Darcy's part-time baristas. He settled down with his usual and got his work done in peace. Another trip at the weekend allowed Scott to say hello to Darcy herself. Upon hearing of her grandmother's passing, Scott gave her his condolences. He still remembered the grief he felt when he lost his maternal grandfather six years ago. Darcy gave him a weak smile, as she took his payment. He knew that being the owner of an independent coffee shop was hard work and if Darcy didn't have cover the only option was to close the shop, thus taking no income. Being around his father meant Scott had picked up a few basic business concepts, though it wasn't hard to understand that a lot of money could be lost each day she wasn't open.

Darcy was very much subdued over the next few weeks, with only the occasional person complaining to their companion about her service. Everyone else was respectful and gave the woman time. The part-time baristas did more hours when they could, keeping the business going and giving Darcy a break. She had a good little team and Scott did his best to come for coffee as a way of supporting her.

It was Tuesday three weeks later when Scott headed into Darcy's alone for some study time. He'd had no inclination to who was going to serve him that day, but it was Lisa behind the counter. It was a pleasant surprise that brought a smile to both their faces.

'The usual?'

'You know me too well. How have you been?'

'Very well. I have been enjoying time off as we just completed a major project at work. Waiting to see what the next challenge is.'

'Sounds fantastic. How's Darcy been?'

'It's the funeral today.'

'Bless her. Thank you for opening today.'

'It's the least I can do.'

'You're a good friend.'

'Thank you.'

Scott finally paid for his coffee and sat down in his favourite spot. He had just finished checking his emails when his phone started vibrating and flashing Gordon's mugshot at him. He linked up his earbuds before answering. His brother was fizzling with excitement.

"Scott, are you sitting down?"

"I am."

"I've been offered the command of a bathyscaphe!"

"And you've accepted?"

"Of course I accepted it! I'll get to command my own vessel. There'll be no more Troy lording it over me, showing off. I'll have a new crew and my own missions. It's a promotion!"

"Surely to get that kind of role you would need someone to recommend you?"

"I guess so."

"That person was probably Troy."

"Anyway, let me tell you about the bathyscaphe operations…."

Darcy came over with Scott's coffee as Gordon enthused about his new command. Scott was proud of his little brother, earning a command so young. There was so much potential in the man, it was good to know others could see it too. The coffee was placed beside his tablet and Scott couldn't help but tell her.

'My brother just got a promotion.'

'I can see how happy you are for him. Your grin says it all. Well done him.'

Scott felt a little heat rise to his cheeks at her kind words.

'Thank you.'

'Got to keep the good customers happy.'

Scott suppressed a laugh, so as not to disrupt his excitable brother. Darcy left with a smile and wave.

"....so I'm going to be heading all over the world."

"Sounds fantastic, Gordon. Well deserved."

Scott slipped his finger into the handle of the mug and brought it to his lips. The rich aroma filled his nostrils as he sipped, adding to the contentment he felt in that moment.

"Thanks Scott. I knew you'd understand."

The call ended and Scott lowered his mug back to the table. He noticed a folded piece of scrap paper. With much curiosity, he picked it up and opened it. His eyes scanned the roughly inked name and email before a smile stretched across his face. Opening his email, he added Lisa Montgomery to his address book before slipping the paper into a zip pocket in his bag. He tapped the keypad and a new message opened up, in which he started to type out his first email to Lisa, not knowing how this exchange would go. Scott had no way of knowing how much Lisa was about to enrich his life and the adventures they would eventually undertake together.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds au #stingray #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #original characters #marina #phones #troy tempest #sign language #asl #learning to communcate #new language #breaking down barriers #learning for the wrong reasons

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thatringboy · 4 years

Text

The Way A Soul Lives (Part Two) - TWST

Requested by @yoruzumy0 that I continue This Story, so I hope you all enjoy! Angst is not something I’m very good at, but I got a lot of positive feedback from part one and it made me want to keep trying!

Word Count: 1,633

Warnings: Cursing, magic, blood mention, Character death, mentioned character death and the angst associated with that, implied relationships between characters

Silver sat on the stone pavement with his head in his hands while Lilia hugged him tight, his eyes widened and unmoving from shock. Malleus burst out of the castle with his large staff in hand and reached his companions. The prince stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the body on the ground and his eyes immediately went up to the stars, searching and scanning like the universe held the answers.

And for once, it did. Malleus had been looking at the wings of the dragon constellation for his fallen friend, but instead found the small star sitting peacefully next to his grandmother in the heavens, now protecting the Draconia family for the rest of eternity.

Despite the morbid situation, the comfort of knowing where Sebek’s final resting place was brought a small smile to his face. After all, what was death to the immortal?

~~~

Yuu had expected a mirror to gate them back to Night Raven College, not a singular Black Carriage to fit themself, Grim, Jack, Cater and Vil all into. Needless to say, they did not all fit.

Yuu wondered if this was some sort of punishment from Crowley for leaving and questioned if it was related to the feeling of dread still welling up inside of them. Magic had transported all of their luggage back to the school, but couldn’t transport them individually as well? The nerve that headmaster had!

Yuu would have complained if they could be heard over the complaining of their companions.

“You are sitting on my coat!”

“Well, you’re on my tail!”

“Guys move, I need a selfie to show my followers that I’m stuck here with you!”

“The Great Grim demands that you stop squishing me against the window!”

Yuu rolled their eyes and moved closer to the window to get away from Cater’s obsessive photo taking. They watched the Pyroxene countryside roll past the window and was taken aback about how snow could still be seen under evergreen trees despite it currently being the middle of Spring.

But the trip was not without faults. Every bump in the road jostled the Prefect and made them wonder if the bad feeling in their gut was about to become everyone else’s problem too. Thankfully, the Carriage passed through a gateway and was soon outside the front gates of Night Raven College.

The sight of the grand castle never ceased to take Yuu’s breath away and the view got their friends to momentarily stop complaining. Cater maneuvered himself in the carriage to snap a selfie that had a blurred image of Jack in the background, which got the sweet silence to break into arguing again.

When the carriage finally stopped and the doors opened, Yuu fell out and crashed into someone. They apologized profusely and felt someone stroke their head.

“Non non, forgive me for not being more careful.” Rook smiled down at them and helped them regain their balance.

Yuu stepped away from the third year and watched as he extended a hand to help Vil out of the carriage. The motion was graceful and Yuu wondered how Vil still looked so magnificent despite the commute. Jack ended up falling out of the carriage with Cater and Grim and the sight reminded Yuu of a clown car.

As their friends got to their feet, Yuu noticed that Rook was already in his uniform. “When did you get here, Rook-Senpai?”

The blonde spun around and tipped his hat. “I simply mirrored back to campus an hour ago.”

“Of course you did.” Yuu frowned and held out an arm for Grim to climb up on.

~~~

For someone with a slight case of narcolepsy, Silver didn’t sleep a minute. If anything, he purposefully made himself busy around the castle.

The image kept replaying in his mind as he cleaned Malleus’ room from the damage caused by the demon. The blood soaked stones, Lilia’s screams and the sound of Sebek slumping to the ground. It replayed in real time, slow motion and sped up. The scene was a bad record set on loop and every time he closed his eyes to try to silence the pounding of his head, the images became more pronounced and more intense.

It got so bad that he had to stop and sit down on Malleus’ half-burnt bed to keep himself from hyperventilating. He knew that Fae usually moved on quickly from death and didn’t typically mourn for long, but Sebek’s death was only a few hours ago and his caretakers had made themselves sparse almost immediately.

The sun coming up through the broken glass of the window made little refracted rainbows dance around the destroyed room. Silver saw the pleasant sight and thought of how the universe mocked him. Of course the sunrise after loosing his comrade would be beautiful, what else would it be? Sebek wasn’t a friend of his by any means - if anything they were bitter rivals - but the thought of going back to Night Raven College without the loud cabbage man made his heart sink further. Silver felt tears welling up in his eyes and moved to wipe them away.

“Glad to see you’re still as human as ever.” Malleus stood in the doorway with an exhausted face. Silver’s first instinct would have been to jump to attention, but his body didn’t move. Malleus came and sat next to him, glancing around the room as the sun came up more.

“Your father has been in the library all night trying to find the origin of that beast. I thought I told you to get some sleep, you need it more than us.”

Silver remained silent. What was he to say? He had left Sebek alone to defend the prince and took too long in fetching Lilia. The image of Sebek’s face before he plummeted out the window still burned in his mind. It was a face of determination and fierce loyalty only the Zigvolt boy could pull off. Malleus reached around the human and hugged him close. “Don’t over think this, none of this is remotely your fault.”

“But I could have--”

“We all could have done something differently. I could have stayed and fought instead of follow protocol. None of that matters now.” Malleus’ voice was barely audible. “What matters is how we move on.”

Silver pulled away. “Move on?! That was only five hours ago and you want to move on?!”

Malleus looked hurt. “No I--”

“I know that life isn’t such a big deal to fairies, but can we at least take a few days to mourn him?” he got up on his feet. “Sebek was by far your most loyal guard and you want to move on already? No, we will not stop mourning and we will not stop searching for who did this until I plunge my sword into their chest! I--”

Malleus was up and hugged Silver close. “I don’t want you to stop, I want you to slow down before you hurt yourself in the process. Revenge is a fickle thing; you think you want it, but what you really need is healing. And where does revenge stop? None of it will fill the hole inside of you.”

The soft voice of the prince made Silver tear up again as he hugged Malleus back.

“Alright, I’ll slow down, but only because you asked me to.”

“That is all I want of you now.”

~~~

Yuu braced themself for the running tackle from Epel and Ace and collapsed to the ground under their short friends, to the entertainment of Grim who just floated above the first years.

“Epel, Ace, I can’t breathe!” Yuu laughed.

“If you can talk, you can breathe.” Epel got up and helped Yuu to their feet. “So, how was the break?”

Yuu’s eyes widened and they began to retell their adventures in Pyroxene, the bad feeling in their gut subsiding for now. When they mentioned spending the week with the Howls, Epel’s mouth dropped open.

“So, what are they like? Jack’s parents?”

Ace elbowed the purple haired boy in the ribs. “Why do you need to know, lover boy?”

Epel turned red and crossed his arms. “Just curious, that’s all.”

Ace and Yuu snickered when Jack joined the small group and Epel flushed even more red. The five - including Grim - made their way inside the school and to the mirror hall where the other members of Heartslabyul that Yuu considered friends loitered. Deuce noticed his friend group and bowed to the dorm heads before making his way over.

“Ace, you shouldn’t just run off like that!”

Ace brushed him off. “Pssh, I was collecting the trash!”

“Trash? What trash?”

Yuu facepalmed and rolled their eyes. More mirrors lit up as more students returned from their breaks. A group from Scarabia chatted away about a new dance they learned, some Savanaclaw boys compared their fitness regimes from the break and Yuu swore they saw a few Ignihyde students slinging around brand new motorcycle licenses. Everyone was so happy to see each other and in that moment, Yuu forgot all about their sick feeling.

That is, until Jack tapped their shoulder and cleared his throat. “So, did any of you see the stars last night? I swore that a new one got added to the Draconia line.”

Deuce crossed his arms and nodded. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Yuu’s sick feeling hit them like a truck and they frowned. “Do you think it was someone we knew?”

Epel shook his head. “The chances of that are too slim, probably some distant cousin of someone we vaguely know.”

His certainty made Yuu feel better. The group continued to talk about something as Ortho approached them with a happy expression. He made the first years shriek when he removed his metal face plate and showed them his real mouth underneath.

Yuu’s attention was immediately drawn to a mirror in the corner of the room. They excused themself from the group and walked over to where Malleus, Silver and Lilia had appeared.

They looked dreadful. Lilia didn’t even bother to use his legs to lazily float around and his uniform was unkept, Silver’s eyes and cheeks were red from crying and Malleus’ had a distant look to him, like he wasn’t even there and his body was functioning on its own. Yuu smiled warmly at them. “Nice to see you three, how was your break?”

They clearly didn’t expect anyone to approach them as the three of them seemed to snap out of a trance. Lilia excused himself quickly and disappeared. Meanwhile, Silver remained glued to Malleus side. The prince looked down at Yuu with a sad smile. “It was... eventful.”

“I, uh, I saw the stars last night....” Yuu trailed off, seeing Silver’s face perk up sorrowfully.

“You did?” Malleus placed a hand on their shoulder. Yuu nodded.

“Then you know that tragedy has struck us.” Silver stood up straight.

Yuu looked around, noticing the unusual absence of the second guard. “Where’s Sebek?”

The single tear that rolled down Malleus’ face made Yuu want to throw up. They looked to Silver, but their eyes didn’t meet.

“You can’t be serious...” They whispered. Malleus suddenly hugged Yuu tightly and the Ramshackle student could hear his heart thumping loudly.

Yuu hugged back, feeling hot tears streak down their own cheeks. “W-What happened?!“

Silver opened his mouth to answer, but his voice became lost in his throat. By this time, Yuu’s other friends had noticed their disappearance and cautiously approached the Diasomnia students. Epel overcame his fear of the large Fae hugging his friend and spoke up. “Hey, where’s Sebek? Isn’t he glued to your hip or something?”

Silver glared at Epel, making him shrink away. Malleus let go and looked at the Pomfiore student with an apologetic face. “I am sorry, little one.”

Epel’s voice fell quiet and his eyes widened. “What?”

Yuu turned to their friends and saw the wave of realization hit them all at once. They wanted to curl up into a ball and cry and scream and wake up from this terrible dream, but all Yuu managed to do was look down at the ground. Their only comfort was the hand still on their shoulder.

~~~

“No... no, no, no no no no no...” Ace grabbed his forehead in disbelief.

“By the time I arrived on scene, both Sebek and the monster were already dead.” Silver crossed his arms and looked at his feet. Deuce cursed under his breath and kicked the ground.

“We’re still looking into how the demon could have been created and--”

“That’s not good enough!” Ace snapped at Silver. “You’ve got a killer out there and you’ve spent the first few hours looking at old books?!”

“Ace!” Jack looked appalled by his behaviour. Silver smiled weakly. “That’s what I said, too, but then I realized that we get no work done running on revenge as fuel.”

“You know, I’m getting tired of this philosophical bullshit.” Ace looked Malleus up and down. “You’re all powerful, get a tracking spell up and slap it on part of the monster’s magic that was left behind from the fight!”

Deuce punched him in the arm. “Please, just shut up!”

Malleus thought for a second. “You may be onto something....”

Ortho, who had stood in stunned silence the whole time, touched his chin. “Maybe you’re looking at the puzzle all wrong. When does anyone try to solve a maze puzzle by starting at the front? (Deuce, put your hand down, this isn’t the time) We find who made the demon and work our way backwards, like solving a riddle!”

“That’s how we deal with infestations at home. You find one bug and trace it back to the hive to eliminate them all.” Jack looked around.

Silver and Malleus stood there taken aback. They had spent every last possible minute until they needed to return to the campus pouring over books and contacting mages all over Twisted Wonderland and not one of them had thought of that.

The guard thought the idea over in his head and raised his eyebrows. “That would take several powerful users of magic to cast, but it could be done.”

Epel’s eyes perked up. “Well, we’ve got some of the most powerful wizards at this school, so let’s do it! For Sebek!”

Malleus let another tear roll down his cheek. Sebek had some truly amazing friends despite what the late guard would say about them. He chuckled, getting the attention of the first years. “Alright then, I’ll see what I can do.”

Jack scoffed. “Seriously? This isn’t all on you. C’mon guys, let’s see if we can find anything in the library! He wouldn’t want us to sit by and let Malleus-Senpai do all the work!”

“Yeah!” Deuce, Epel and Ortho agreed. Silver led the first years to the library with newfound energy, but Yuu and Ace hung back with Malleus.

The prefect looked between the young men. “You know, Sebek wouldn’t want anything but this. He’d be proud of their enthusiasm.”

Ace’s hands turned to tightly wrapped fists. “Yeah... it just hurts. A lot. He hasn’t even been gone a day and I already miss him.”

Malleus sighed. “That’s completely understandable. I suppose Faes don’t hold as much sentimental value over the death of our kin since we know we’ll see them again, but even so my heart aches with yours.”

Ace laughed, some tears spilling out of his eyes. “What did I just say about the philosophical crap?”

Malleus chuckled a bit. “I need to go to the headmaster’s office to inform him of the events of last night. Would you two care to join me?”

Ace and Yuu looked at one another. The prefect slipped their arm in the prince’s. “You need a new bodyguard anyways, so why not?”

The three left the mirror hall together, earning some shocked expressions from their classmates, but not really caring. Now wasn’t time for mourning over their lost friend, now was the time to take action and build each other up. Yuu was sure that the news of Sebek’s passing would be a shock to the student body, but deep down they knew that Sebek was still with them. Even if his spirit was in the stars.

After all, in the minds and hearts of others is the way a soul lives.

~~~

Cold...

I feel cold...

I can’t move...

I don’t remember anything...

What am I trying to remember?

His eyes opened in total darkness. He spun his head around frantically, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings, but discovered that he was simply floating in some sort of abyss.

“Well, you certainly slept like the dead.” A deep voice chuckled in his mind. His throat was dry and no sound came when he opened his mouth. Clammy hands seemed to take hold of his mind and hold his head still, looking forward at nothing.

“I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did, young man. It’s not every day someone of your age has the skills that you do.” The voice continued. “Seeing that you were not the original target, but still worth the effort we put into the operation, I’m sure we can make use of you here.”

“After all, service is in your nature. Isn’t it, Mr. Zigvolt?”

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fantasticstoryteller · 3 years

Text

Adopt Me

“Because you’re pathetic!” roared the man.

Wade blinked rapidly at his (former) boyfriend.

{I told you we should have killed him.}

[We still can.]

No. Wade had fought the voices for a long time. There were only a few people he refused, no matter what, to kill. The voices didn’t like that; they didn’t like restrictions.

But he had to draw the line somewhere. It was his body, and they were just sharing it with him. He had the final say—even if he did, sometimes, wonder if they were right.

{Ha!}

Wade had apparently been silent for too long. He looked up into the rage filled face of the man in front of him before he was grabbed, towed to the door, and flung outside. “You useless piece of shit,” snarled the man. “Get out! See if you can find someone else to take care of you.” He slammed the door.

{Now can we kill him?}

[Forget that. We need a place to stay. A base. Those pretty little weapons of yours that are still in the bottom of that bastard’s closet.]

White had a point. Whatever happened in the future, Wade was going to need those babies—they were how he earned a living, after all. So Wade, ignoring the boxes, waited for his (former) boyfriend to leave the house before slipping in, grabbing his gear and some clothes (not a lot of clothes; he had a lot of gear), and slipping out again.

{So…where are we going to go? Weasel’s?}

[The fucker does still owe us.]

He did—but he wouldn't be happy to see Wade. He always knew that Wade coming around was a bother. In fact—in fact Wade couldn't think of a single person who would actually be happy to see him.

[Why would anyone be happy to see you? Everyone knows what you do for a living.]

{And you’re hideous. Seriously—think about all those poor people who recoil at the sight of you. It’s sad.}

Wade sniffed. It was sad. It wasn’t like he’d asked for this (well, certainly not the fucked up appearance part). Was it wrong to want someone to just—want him around? An image flashed briefly in his mind.

[I didn’t quite catch that.]

Wade ignored White as he scrambled to find some cardboard. And a marker. Definitely a marker.

[This is a bad idea…]

***

Peter fought to keep a blandly amiable expression on his face as the host of the show apologized—to the other guest. Not a word of apology to him, and he was the one who’d been insulted. Of course, he was merely an author on this week’s top-selling list. (Actually, every top-selling list for the last two years, but that would require admitting to his other pen names.) The other guest was the lead of whatever the parent-group-of-the-week was called now, and had gotten four shows canceled in the last month. Of course she was fawned over.

And Peter was very, very careful not to take his temper out on the poor people who were responsible for actually getting the talk show to run. None of this was their fault, and he cordially said his goodbyes (to them, and not the host) before he left. Without the “security” that the studio thought he needed (honestly, did they think he was five?).

Peter was smart enough to realize that most of his irritation came from his loneliness. Sure, moving had seemed a good idea at the time—he was closer to the publishing agency, had a more central base for these stupid publicity rounds his agency forced him to do to “brand” his image. (Seriously, most of his books didn’t even have his name on them, and they were selling perfectly well. Why was the “brand” so important?) So, in the interest of having a much shorter commute, he’d moved to a condo (soundproofed which—actually hadn’t been needed, but he was forever hopeful), and left his home behind him. Not entirely behind him; he still had video chats with Aunt May every weekend, and got phone calls—occasionally—from his old friend MJ (who was now in Paris managing her own brand)—but he had no one here. He couldn't even have a pet; the condo didn’t allow it.

He passed the usual bunch of people on the street with cardboard signs—begging, playing music, the usual—when a new one made him stop. He backtracked and read the sign again. In bright, shiny letters (not sure what it was written with), were the words, “Adopt me.” His eyes tracked from the sign to the large, scarred man behind it.

“All right,” said Peter looking at the sign as wheels turned in his head. “What does it mean to adopt you?”

“Well, you take me to your home, and we spend time together, and you’re happy to see me,” the scarred man said. A pause. “Well,” he growled, “it’s not like you had a better plan!”

Someone else might have cut and run—but no one had ever accused Peter of making smart life decisions. Not twice anyway. “Are you talking to yourself?” he asked curiously.

“Just the boxes,” the scarred man said cheerfully. “I have two,” he admitted. “One’s white and one’s yellow, so I call them White and Yellow.”

Not the strangest thing he’d ever heard. Back in high school MJ had sworn that Peter had a soft, silky voice, so he figured that assigning a color to a voice wasn’t that strange. And the guy was entertaining. “My name’s Peter,” he said. “Peter Parker,” he added as he picked up the cardboard sign.

“Wade Wilson,” introduced the strange, intriguing man. “Eee! We’re alliteration buddies!”

Peter gave the happy man a lopsided grin. “Is that a good thing?” he asked.

“It’s a great thing!” enthused the man—Wade.

“Great! Grab your bag,” Peter said as he noticed the duffel bag behind the man, “and let’s go.”

“Go?”

“I’m adopting you,” said Peter with a smile. He couldn't have a pet—but there was nothing that said he couldn't have a human.

The large man scrambled to his feet with surprising agility as he slung his duffel over his shoulder. “You’re taking me home?” he asked with an odd, pained hopefulness in his voice.

“First I was going to take you for something to eat,” Peter admitted as the large man (almost twice his size) fell into step beside him. “I don’t have a lot of food at home,” he admitted.

“I can make pancakes,” Wade offered.

Peter felt a grin stretch his face. He was not going to be lonely, and his new roommate (adoptee?) was offering to make pancakes. Life was good.

***

[I still think this is a mistake.]

{Yeah, why’d he choose you? You’re not exactly cuddly.}

Wade tried his best to drown out the voices by talking. True to his word, the guy (Peter) had taken him to a diner. It was a strange, hole-in-the-wall place, but Wade was not complaining. The food was good. “And you would not believe how many people just glare, or kick at, or pretend they don’t see someone on the street—holy cow! These are great! What nut got the bright idea of putting eggs on nachos? They don’t even sound like they should go together, but holy fuck these are good!”

Instead of being grossed out, or complaining about his terrible table manners, Peter just smiles. “I know,” he said. “I asked Mary Anne, the woman who owns this restaurant about it the first time I had them and she told me she first had them Down South.”

The waitress, a blond young woman about the same age, came over and refilled both their drinks. “Yes,” she said. She turned to Wade who froze mid-bite, wondering if he was going to be thrown out of the restaurant. It had happened before. A lot. Instead the woman simply jerked a thumb towards Peter. “First two weeks we were open he was here every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Worked his way right through the whole menu.” She snorted. “Had questions about every dish. ‘What made you decide to make this?’ ‘What was your inspiration for that?’ ‘Can I please have some tea that doesn’t taste like someone dropped half a gallon of sugar into it?’ Drove us all crazy.”

Peter simply smiled. “What can I say? I used to work for Foodies Unite.”

Wade gave a low, appreciative whistle. “That magazine that tracks the best food across the city?” he asked impressed.

Peter flashed a grin. “I put the really good ones,” he said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, “on my blog.”

Wade burst out laughing as the waitress gave him a friendly swat. “You,” he said waving an egg-crusted fork at his dining buddy, “are an absolute trip.” Peter simply grinned and sipped his coffee.

[Careful Wade. You’re going to make him run.]

{We could kill him first. Then we won’t have to see the disgust later.}

No, thought Wade firmly, desperately. No killing.

{Not yet…}

Wade shoved the voices back as he realized that Peter was speaking. “… so there should be plenty of room in the closet for your clothes,” Peter said.

“I—uh, don’t really have clothes,” admitted Wade sheepishly. He had what he was wearing and his work suit—but nothing else. Peter’s gaze drifted to the huge duffel on the seat beside Wade.

[Still can’t do anything right. He’s going to ask, be horrified, and then what?]

{Out on the streets again!}

Yellow sounds obnoxiously cheerful about that. To his surprise Peter—doesn’t ask. Instead he simply nods. “Then,” he said with a sly smile, “it’s my job to get you clothes.” He paid for the food and the next thing Wade knew he was in a store with lots of mirrors, a plush couch that Peter was reclining on (with the duffel bag to his left) wearing a small smile as Wade was swarmed by what he swore were midgets.

[I don’t think that term’s politically correct.]

{Can we call them Munchkins? I mean, they’re about the same size.}

“I think the deep azure,” one Munchkin said to another.

“Violet,” argued the other.

“Azure will bring out the eyes.”

“Hmm.” Both little people turned to stare at him with a clinical expression Wade was more used to seeing on the other end of a scalpel as more of the little people swarmed around him getting measurements.

“Peter,” said Wade anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” reassured the other man. “You’re doing great.”

The first little person smacked Wade on the arm. “Come,” he ordered. “Time to try on clothes.” The tiny humans lead him off to a room, shove clothes at him, and leave him to change. He does, shakily, and then looks at his reflection in the mirror.

The deep blue shirt does bring out his eyes—and stands as a stark contrast to his mottled skin.

{Ask for a mask. A mask might help.}

[Oh, he’s beyond help.]

Shaking slightly he walks out to see Peter standing, pacing, and talking on the phone. “I just told the truth.” A pause and Peter sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tony Stark,” he said viciously, “is an alcoholic womanizing vampire having issues with his sexual identity. There is no part of that description that says, ‘Hey, I’m safe for kids, bring the whole family!’” Another pause. “Well, maybe it’s high time someone did.” He hung up, turned, saw Wade and—unbelievably—smiled. “You look good,” he said approvingly.

[He’s lying!]

{Aw! He cares enough to lie!]

Peter turned to the dwarf in charge. “I want four of those, another two in short sleeves, and—”

“And the dress suit will be ready in three weeks,” finished the dwarf, “all billed to your account.”

Peter grinned. “You know me well,” he said. The dwarf snorted as another one of its kind handed Peter a series of bags. Peter took the bags, slung them over his shoulder, and then hoisted the duffel in the air and towards Wade.

[Holy—twig-boy here is stronger than he looks!]

Peter smiled at Wade. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

***

Peter couldn't help but grin at how enthusiastically Wade ran around the condo, poking his head into almost every nook and cranny as he almost knocked the flat screen off the wall. “Baby Boy, you’ve got everything here!” the large man rambled as he wandered. “TV, state-of-the-art kitchen, bookcases and The Spider!” he exclaimed suddenly as he grabbed a book off the shelf. “You’ve got The Spider series!”

Peter chuckled as he pulled up and booted his laptop. It was an older model without internet capabilities, but it worked and he didn’t have to worry too much about hackers. “I have the whole series,” he said to Wade’s obvious delight as he settled down to work.

Wade gasped as he pressed the book to his chest. “Even the first three? No one has the first three!”

That was because no one had believed The Spider would be popular. Peter chuckled at the irony. “The early issues on the shelf to your left,” Peter said as he brought up the relevant file. Nothing soothed Ned like a new chapter.

Wade slammed himself down on the couch, hooking his legs over Peter’s lap. He managed to get his laptop out of the way just in time. “Oh, man, I’ve loved these since they came out,” Wade babbled. “There’s just something so wholesome about a guy working among killers and not killing anyone, you know?”

Peter smiled as he got to typing, words coming faster now that they weren’t stifled by loneliness. “Glad to hear it,” he said absently working on the newest chapter of his Stark novels. Wade’s constant commentary was soothing to hear in the formerly empty apartment.

The knocking came a shock. Even more shocking, was the way Wade was suddenly tense, in front of Peter, and pointing a gun at the door. Peter saved his work, printed the latest chapter (he was well into the next one), and gently pat Wade’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s probably just my agent.”

“Okay,” said Wade, gun not wavering in the slightest.

“That I should probably let in now,” hinted Peter.

“Sure.”

“Wade? Put the gun away.” The man blinked and obeyed and only then did Peter get up to let Ned in.

“You’ve really done it now,” Ned said as he came into the apartment. He fiddled with the edges of his scarf in agitation. “You’ve gone and upset the entire group! They’re calling for your head Peter!”

“And in doing so bring my books to the attention of whomever hasn’t heard of them yet,” Peter said as he walked over to the printer. He picked up the chapter and then walked back.

Ned came to a stop as he saw Wade, leaning against the couch with a book in his lap and the gun to his right. “Who are you?” he asked with a little trepidation.

“Ned, this is Wade, my new roommate. Wade this is Ned, my agent.”

Wade waved a single finger. “Hiyas,” he said cheerfully.

“Um. Hi.” Ned turned to Peter. “Where’d he come from?” he demanded.

Peter sighed. “I adopted him.”

“What?”

“Well, he was on the side of the road with a sign that said, ‘Adopt Me,’ so I did,” Peter explained.

“Peter,” sighed Ned as he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, “you can’t just take random people home. It’s irresponsible. It’s—what’s this?”

Peter grinned as Ned finally took notice of the typing paper. “My latest chapter,” he said smugly. “Unless, you don’t want it?”

Ned glared at him before snatching the paper and beginning to read. His expression quickly changed as he flipped through the pages. “Ugh! What? Oh…” The muttering sounded almost similar to Wade’s muttering as he flipped through The Spider books. “Holy shit!” Ned whirled to look at Peter. “For real?”

Peter smiled. “See what happens when I’m not lonely?” he asked mildly.

Ned turned to Wade. “I’m sorry for every bad thing I thought about you,” he said earnestly.

“Uh—”

“I see you have a gun, do you know how to use it?”

Wade was clearly on firmer ground. “Guns, knives, swords—if it can kill people I can use it.”

“Excellent,” said Ned with satisfaction before jerking a thumb towards Peter. “That idiot pissed off the head of Parents First this morning.”

Wade, to Peter’s surprise, winced. “That bitch?” he asked.

Ned reached over and pat Wade’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you to keep him alive. The new book must be published.”

“Hey!” protested Peter.

“I will do my best,” said Wade. “What? No, I wouldn't do that!”

Ned sighed. “Only you, Pete. Only you.”

***

After Peter left to go do Author things (it’s just an interview—they’re not going to tie me to a stake and watch me burn on live television unless the stake and flames are metaphorical Wade, and I can handle that) Wade decided to take it upon himself to make sure that his new bestie didn’t get killed.

[I’m not sure you can call the two of you “besties.”]

{He certainly doesn’t seem to have a lot of self-preservation. In one day he pissed off one of the most dangerous fanatical non-religious groups in the world and took us home with him. It’s almost like he wants to die.}

Wade frowned as he paused outside his old haunt, back in gear. Did Peter have a death wish? No, the guy was too happy for that—but he did seem rather lonely. Wade shrugged. He was just going to have to make sure that Peter wasn’t lonely, that was all. He waltzed into the bar and ducked as several knives were thrown at him. “Oh! Mean!” he complained as he made his way to the bar. “Gosh,” he said as he levered himself into a stool, “you’d think that people wanted to kill me!”

Weasel, the bartender, snorted. “Everyone wants to kill you Wade,” he said calmly as he filled someone’s liquor order before putting the glass on a tray for the waiter to take to a table. “It’s just that no one can.”

Wade nodded. “True that,” he agreed as Weasel slapped a beer in front of him.

“New micro-brewer,” he said. “I’m thinking of signing a contract with ‘em.” Wade made a show of tasting the beer by taking a sip and swishing it from cheek to cheek, even going so far as to gargle with it. “And?” asked Weasel.

Wade burped. “Tastes like beer.”

“Fuck you Wade.” Weasel calmly continued to make drinks. “Heard Nate threw you out. Surprised you didn’t come crash on my couch like usual.”

[I know I keep saying the whole thing with Peter is a bad idea, but not crashing with Weasel was a good one.]

{Why didn’t we kill the ex again?}

[Because Wade has limits, and he’s one of them.]

Wade ignored the voices as he glanced up at the bounty board. Most places had a digital website. Weasel insisted that was too easy to hack, hence the blackboard. (Everyone else called him cheap.) There, at the top of the list, was the name Peter Parker. The bounty was, of course, insanely huge.

Wade hummed before he grinned at Weasel. “Well,” he said brightly, “I got tired of people not wanting to see me, so I got a cardboard box and wrote ‘adopt me’ on it!”

“Sounds like the crazy kind of shit you’d do,” admitted Weasel calmly. “Then what?”

“Then someone did!” said Wade cheerfully. “A sweet, innocent little guy named Peter.”

Weasel paused in what he was doing. “Wade—” he said half in warning, half in fear.

“Peter Parker,” continued Wade. The bar was suddenly silent as he kept talking. “And if anyone,” he sang, “tries to lay a hand on that sweet, naive piece of ass, I will destroy theirs with a cheese grater.” A soft snort got his attention and he turned to look at the young woman at the bar next to him.

[Oh. My. God. Is that who I think it is?]

{Kill her! She’s after Peter!}

Karen Wishstone. The weirdest, strangest person he’d ever met. She was almost invisible—until she wasn’t. Her skill set would have made her a good assassin if she hadn’t made it a point not to kill.

{Oh! You think The Spider was based on her?}

Weasel sighed. “What are you doing here, Karen?” he asked warily.

Karen rolled her eyes as she swished the liquid in her bottle around lazily. “Relax Weasel,” she ordered. “I’m just in town to visit friends, and I thought I’d take a look at the bounty board while I’m here. See if there’s anything small to Stalk while I’m in town.”

“And?” demanded Weasel warily.

She held out placating hands. “It’s all too grand for me. This isn’t my town.”

[She could be lying. You know what they say about her. The first you know she’s there is when you wake up in Retrieval.]

{Kill her!}

Wade paused. Everyone knew that Karen was so good at what she did because no one saw her coming. If someone knew she was in town, that person was safe. “How do you feel about meeting my roomie?” he asked.

“Peter Parker?” she asked. He nodded. “The writer?” He nodded again. She sighed. “I’m not sure he’d want to see me,” she told him. “Last time I was in town we didn’t—exactly part on the best of terms.”

[Wait. She knows Peter?]

{I don’t like that she doesn’t want to see him. Can we kill her now? Please?}

“Why don’t I ask?” Wade thought the request was reasonable, but was checking to see how she took it.

To his surprise she seemed to mull it over. Then she smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know what he says. I’m sure Weasel here’s already found out what hotel I’m at, how long I’m booked to stay, and where my dog is.”

Weasel doesn’t deny it. “I still haven’t forgotten what happened the last time you were in town,” he growled.

“And if you had proof that was my fault; I would be banned,” said Karen with a grin and a salute of her bottle.

***

Peter tried not wince as Wade mentioned Karen. He remembered the last time the two of them met. It certainly could have gone worse—but not by much. He looked over where Wade was shredding lettuce for their tacos. “I remember Karen,” he said evenly.

Wade chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s how she said you’d react, but I thought you’d want to see the person who inspired you to write The Spider.”

Peter paused. “You know I wrote that?” he asked looking at Wade in surprise. His name wasn’t the one on the spine of the books.

Wade instantly looked bashful. “Well—it fits,” he said nervously.

Peter grinned. “I’m shocked,” he said. He gave a low, happy hum as he sliced the olives. “You’re the first one to figure I wrote them,” he said. “I don’t think Ned even knows.”

“Who publishes them?” asked Wade as he grabbed a block of cheese and began to scrape it against the grater.

“Same people,” admitted Peter. “They’ve just never met me, as the author of The Spider. As far as they know the author of those books is a weirdo freak that always mails in his manuscripts.” He paused. “Actually, from listening to the gossip opinions seem pretty split on whether the author is male or female.” He reached over for some of the cheese and his hand brushed Wade’s.

Peter wasn’t sure what he was expecting—but it wasn’t Wade’s reaction. The man paled between his scars and then flung himself in a corner as he tried to use his shirt to cover all his exposed bits of skin. “Wade?” he asked as he looked at the shivering figure in confusion.

“—rry. Sorry,” whimpered Wade.

“What?” asked Peter. He gentled his voice as he turned off the stove burner before going over to Wade and crouching by him. “For what?” he asked softly, gently.

“Know it’s bad,” Wade whispered.

“Wade?” Peter reached out and the other man flinched. He paused, not certain of what the best thing to do was. His instincts told him to comfort the man—but how? He reached out a little further and rested his palm—gently—on Wade’s scarred cheek. “Wade? Are you okay?” Wide, frightened eyes looked up at him. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, Wade.”

Wade blinked as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Suddenly he threw himself into Peter’s lap, gripping the smaller man as though he was about to disappear. Peter, hoping he was doing the right thing, gently rubbed Wade’s back. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “See? Everything is all right.”

“…not,” Wade’s voice was soft, fragile—hurting.

The change in attitude bothered Peter more than he let on. He kept rubbing Wade’s back as Wade pressed his face into Peter’s stomach. “Everything is all right.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” said Wade a little more clearly. He held Peter just a little tighter.

“For what?” asked Peter. Wade mumbled something. Peter could only make out a single word. “Wade? What’s disgusting?”

“Me,” whined the man.

If Peter hadn’t been on the floor already, if he hadn’t been holding Wade, he would have stumbled in shock. What had happened to make this cheerful, happy man think so little of himself? Peter’s mind flashed back to finding Wade on the street with the cardboard sign. He should have asked more.

“Wade,” said Peter gently, “you’re not disgusting.”

“I am,” cried Wade. Peter was startled to see that the larger man was actually crying. “Disgusting, revolting, horrifying.”

“No,” protested Peter. He stroked the back of Wade’s head, fingers running along the scarred tissue. Wade didn’t even look up. “You’re not,” Peter said again.

Wade gave a dry, broken laugh. “I know what I look like,” he said bitterly.

Peter’s heart broke for the man. “Hey, Wade. Look at me. Hey,” he said as he pushed Wade’s head up to force the man to look at him. “Look at me. I don’t think you’re disgusting. I don’t think you’re revolting.” He snagged one of Wade’s hands and interlaced their fingers together. “You’re wonderful just the way you are,” he said firmly.

Wade looked into Peter’s eyes and the smaller man would swear he was trying to find the lie in the words. Suddenly he chuckled—but it sounded at lot less broken. “You must be blind,” he said wearily.

“No,” argued Peter firmly. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Wade’s head. “I just see better than other people,” he said. As Wade slowly calmed down Peter wondered: just who had taught the man to hate himself so badly?

He also wondered if he had enough to put a hit out on the person responsible.

***

“So this is where you get off to.” Peter turned, not particularly surprised to see Karen behind him. She shrugged. “Between books.”

“Karen,” he said warily as he faced one of two people who knew all his secrets. He wasn’t worried about it; Karen probably knew everyone’s secrets. She didn’t talk much.

Karen pat the seat of the bench next to her. “Have a seat. Jogging isn’t going to help,” she added knowingly.

About to ask how she knew he was trying to jog some sense into what happened with Wade, Peter sighed. She’d never tell. And she might not even be talking about Wade. “What brings you to New York?” he asked as he took a seat.

“Seeing old friends. Meeting new ones. Watching a familiar idiot get a bounty of almost four million put on his head.”

Peter didn’t assume the sentences were unconnected. “No one’s going to Stalk me, Karen,” he said wearily.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. “No, they’re not. Wade got in front of the whole bar and told them all they’d have to go through him to get you.” She chuckled. “No one can get past Wade, so it doesn’t matter how big the bounty gets; no one will be willing to try.”

“Wade did?” asked Peter. He felt a confusing combination of flattered and worried.

“Wade has his own secrets,” Karen said simply. She looked at him. “You might consider sharing some of yours. He’s one of three people who won’t judge you about what happened, Peter.”

Peter snorted. “You don’t judge me.”

“I don’t count.” When Peter opened his mouth to protest she added, “I don’t count, because you don’t care what I think.” She smiled—small, knowing. “You care what he does.” She stood up. “Keep it in mind,” she advised before walking off.

Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. There was really no point in asking more questions of Karen. Not only was she gone, but she wouldn't answer. He’d have to figure out what she meant on his own.

***

Wade was worried. It was one thing for Peter to be okay with seeing his skin on a daily basis—

[The horror show that it is.]

—but it was another for the guy to actually have to touch it.

{Why do you think he was apologizing? It wasn’t his fault our hands touched.}

[Because Peter’s a nice guy and we were upset. That’s the only reason he said we weren’t disgusting to touch.]

{How far do you think that niceness goes? I mean, he did kiss us.}

[On the FOREHEAD Yellow. The same place parents use to check if their kids are running a fever.]

“Yo, Wade!” impact to the back of the head made it impossible to ignore. He turned to see—Karen?

“What’s up duck?” asked Wade curiously.

She rolled her eyes. “You wanted to introduce me to your author friend,” she reminded him.

[Didn’t she say that wouldn't go well?]

“I thought you said he wouldn't want to see you,” said Wade.

“One way to find out,” said Karen as she poked him again. “So? Where do the two of you lovebirds live?” she asked.

Wade and the boxes sputtered. “They’re—we’re not lovers!” he protested.

“And I’m not a spine,” said Karen agreeably.

{… Was that supposed to make sense?}

“I don’t understand,” complained Wade as he walked towards the condo building.

“Clearly. Have you told Author Boy what you do for a living yet?”

{Tell the writer of those sweet little books that we kill people for a living? I don’t think that would go over well.}

[I hate to agree with Yellow, but why don’t we kill this bitch?]

“Because I’d kill you and then disappear while you were fixing yourself,” she said calmly.

Wade paused. That was new. “You didn’t use to be able to hear the boxes,” he said slowly.

She shrugged. “I didn’t used to be able to do a lot of things. Now hurry up; my time in New York is coming to an end and I want to get this done.”

“You’re not Stalking Peter, are you?” asked Wade nervously as they entered the building.

“No, I’m applying the Hammer.”

“What?” They reached the condo and went inside.

Karen ignored him. “Hi, Peter,” she said calmly. She shut the door behind them, pulled a gun and blew Wade’s brains out.

***

Peter stared in shock before staring at her. “You don’t kill people!” he hissed shrilly.

She shrugged as she pocketed the gun again. “And I didn’t,” she replied calmly. “But this was taking too long.” She met his eyes as wet noises began to emanate from Wade’s prone body. “Both of you have secrets, Peter. It’s time to tell them.”

“Holy fucking shit-turds!” snarled Wade as his head visibly knit back together. “That hurt.”

Karen gave him a nudge with her foot. “Stop whining,” she advised him. “We both know you’ll be fine.”

“That hurt!”

“And you were dithering. I don’t have much time left in New York. And now,” she added firmly, “that the Hammer has been properly applied, I have a woman to see about a dog. Oh,” she said pausing before she opened the door, “there’s a chance the woman responsible for the bounty on your head might be dead tomorrow. Do with that what you will.” She turned and left.

Peter, watching the man he had just watched die get up from the floor and start muttering about bloodstains, collapsed to the couch. “What?” he asked, confused.

Wade began pacing. When Peter could see his back he could see that the back of the other man’s head was literally knitting itself together before his eyes. “No, that’s a terrible idea!” Wade complained as he rubbed hands over his head in agitation. “He’ll hate us!”

And again, Peter’s heart broke for the man. He got up, got into Wade’s way, and hugged the larger man. “I won’t hate you,” he promised.

“Peter, you can’t say that,” Wade protested. Despite his words his arms went around the smaller man and Peter quickly hugged him back. “You don’t know.”

“Then tell me,” Peter challenged. “Tell me everything.”

Wade took a deep breath. “After the Dark War,” he began, “my unit was called for some—some experiments.”

Peter could feel how Wade was shaking. “What kind of experiments?” he asked.

“They said they could make me unkillable. Impossible to defeat. Immortal.” He clutched Peter tighter. “I was young and stupid and didn’t ask—” He took several deep breaths as Peter began rubbing the man’s back, trying to soothe him. “It was—I’ll just say it was Hell. Every step of the way and when it ended—when it ended I looked like this.” Suddenly Wade gave a dry, broken laugh, eerily similar to the one he’d voiced before. “I killed them all,” he admitted flatly, no emotion coloring his voice. “But—I was trapped like this. Forever.”

“Oh, Wade.” Peter pressed his face into the man’s chest, feeling the rough scars beneath the thin fabric of the shirt. “I’m sorry you feel trapped,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added.

Wade hugged him tighter and pressed his face into the crook of Peter’s neck. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

***

[I can’t believe he’s still here.]

{I can’t believe we’re still here. The stick boy didn’t kick us out! We don’t have to crash with Weasel and hope the bastard forgives us!}

[We should kill him.]

{That’s what I’ve been saying!}

No, Wade thought firmly, careful not to speak. Peter had (miraculously) fallen asleep in Wade’s arms. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had. Peter was a lot of firsts for Wade. The first to purely enjoy his company, without any monetary incentives. (Even the ex had demanded partial payment of Wade’s bounties—but Peter didn’t care.) The first to make someone else happy to see him. (He still remembered the happy, accepting look on the agent’s face after thinking that Wade was a danger to Peter to realizing he would protect Peter.

{The first not to think we’re disgusting.}

Yellow seemed to be coming to like Peter just as much as Wade was. As much as Wade did.

[There is something seriously wrong with this man. We should never leave.]

Wade blinked. Those two statements didn’t seem to mesh. Before he could try to interrogate White, Peter stirred gently. “I’ve got an idea,” the smaller man said.

“What is it?” asked Wade curiously.

“Wade, exactly what happens when a bounty is brought in to Retrieval?”

[I take it back. Ditch him. Ditch him now. This is a bad idea!]

“Why?” asked Wade curiously.

Peter shifted his head so that he could grin up at Wade. “Because I’ve got an idea,” he said smugly.

***

Peter grinned as he looked around the noisy, messy room. There was a high number of corpses, but that was to be expected. People were watching the two of them warily, but that was also to be expected. After all, it wasn’t every day that the most famous (notorious) Stalker in New York brought a living bounty into Retrieval. Even rarer that the bounty and the Stalker were flirting.

The woman working the desk sighed. “Deadpool,” she said wearily, “what are you doing?”

Peter looked at the costumed man next to him with curiosity, which was fairly normal, and no fear—which, given people’s reactions, was not normal. “Deadpool?” he asked his red leather-clad friend.

“Aw it’s—it’s just a nickname,” Wade said bashfully.

The woman at the desk snorted. “He,” she said pointing at the Stalker, “once filled a pool with dead bodies. Claimed he wanted to see if it really was possible to fill a pool with blood.”

“They deserved it!” protested Wade as he remembered the incident.

“What happened?” asked Peter curiously.

Wade stilled completely for a moment. “Something bad,” he said grimly. “Trust me—death was the least they deserved.”

“They were traffickers,” the woman at the desk explained. “I don’t know the full details, but Deadpool here killed them all, piled them into the dry pool at one of their homes, and got his moniker.”

Peter nudged Wade with his shoulder. “So you were protecting people,” he said.

“Kind of. Maybe. Almost?” said Wade. “They just—all three of us were really pissed off.”

All three of them. Wade and the two voices in his head, White and Yellow. Peter leaned against his friend again. He couldn't see through the mask that the other man was wearing, but he was willing to bet that he was nervous. He wanted Wade to know that it was okay, that Peter wasn’t going to abandon him.

And, once again, Peter felt a surge of rage at whomever had.

His musings were interrupted as a woman, the woman, sauntered over to where they were. He could tell, from the smug look on her face, that she was expecting to be identifying his corpse. She was about to be in for a big shock; it was high time she learned that the world wasn’t hers to run. Peter was more than happy to be instrument teaching that particular lesson.

The woman came to a shocked stop as she looked at Peter, still breathing, sitting on the bench next to one of the most infamous Stalkers in the city—maybe, if what the woman at the desk had been hinting at all afternoon was correct, the world. Her eyes began to narrow and she opened her mouth to speak.

Peter spoke first. “Hi,” he said brightly, in the over-the-top tone that most people (stupid people) used on small children and animals. “I’m Peter. This is my boyfriend, Wade,” he said gesturing to the costumed man to his right. Wade froze again. Calling him a boyfriend hadn’t been part of the plan, and Peter would figure out if he’d offended the man later. Right now the problem was that he had to do something about this woman. Peter stood up and put his hands in his pockets as he rocked from the balls to the heels of his feet. “You know, he told me that someone had put my name on the Bounty Board and you know what I said? I said, ‘Why don’t you collect it, Wade?’ And here we are.” Peter gestured to the Retrieval warehouse that they were in. “And you know what? Each and every single time that someone puts my name on that board, we’ll be here. So he can collect his payment.”

He knew; of course he knew, that it was impossible to insist that the person on the board being brought in be dead when they arrived. She knew, and he knew that she knew, that he now had a plan in place for when that happened to him. She couldn't use the Bounty Board to kill him.

She paled, paid, and left.

Wade and Peter left shortly after, giving her a little bit of a head start on them (they didn’t want to risk running into her). Wade walked in uncharacteristic silence for a moment. “You called me your boyfriend,” he said softly.

Peter peered up at him. He wished that Wade wasn’t wearing his mask; he would like to see the expression on his face. “Do you mind?” he asked anxiously. “If you do, we don’t have to—”

“Mind?” asked Wade. He hugged Peter close. “Of course I don’t mind! I’d love to be your boyfriend!”

Peter grinned and hugged back. A slight tingle of his spine had him throwing the two of them to the side as a large fist slammed into the ground where they’d been. Wade leaped away and pulled one of his swords (was that one of the things that had been in the duffel bag?) as Peter ducked another punch and landed on a tree.

The man glared at Wade. “I see you’re keeping busy,” he snarled.

“Had to leave,” said Wade.

Peter frowned. Wade didn’t sound happy, or quippy, or sarcastic—but defeated. He glared at the large man. Was this the reason why Wade had been on the street in the first place? Why he’d been so terrified of being touched?

The man opened his mouth to growl something—and his face went slack as he suddenly toppled over. Karen popped out of the bushes behind him and pulled a dart out of the man’s butt. “You still don’t have any survival sense,” she said calmly as she tied the large man up. A puppy, it looked young but came up to her knees, danced out of the bushes and towards them, yapping. “He’s been following the two of you since you left the condo this morning. Probably thought now would be a good time to make a move.” She tightened the leather restraints.

Peter looked at her. “Being a hammer again, Karen?” he asked. He still wasn’t entirely certain what she’d meant by that.

“No,” she said absently as the puppy danced around the man as if it was showing off a kill. “If I was, I’d point out to your shiny new boyfriend there how you’re sticking to the side of an oak tree by your hands and feet.”

A chill rushed through Peter’s veins as he realized that she was right. The danger had been familiar and the move so natural that he hadn’t even thought twice about it. Of course not. Why would he? He hadn’t been in that position for a long time now. He turned wide eyes to Wade to see the whites of the mask staring at him. He assumed Wade was looking at him behind the mask, but he wasn’t sure.

Especially since Wade addressed Karen. “So—are you taking him to Retrieval? What do you get out of it?”

Karen turned to grin at the two of them as the dog lifted a leg and peed on the unconscious man’s face. “Bragging rights,” she said smugly. “I was in the bar last night, trading verbal spars with Weasel, when this idiot came in bragging about how no quote, ‘prissy little bitch who can’t even properly kill’ could get him.” She wrapped the man’s legs with another leather strip. “Best part is, I won’t even have to stay in town. No one in that bar will let him forget it—he might even end up infamous on the ‘net if he’s not lucky.”

“And you hope he’s not lucky,” said Wade with insight.

Karen looked up at them again and Peter could see the amusement glinting in her eyes. “He’s an ass,” she said bluntly before pulling something from her pocket. It unrolled into a contraption with wheels and she maneuvered the large man (almost twice her size) onto it. The puppy jumped onto the body and sat, wagging its tail.

“Who’s the dog?” asked Peter as he climbed down from the side of the tree.

“Brucie. I’m training him to replace Brutus.”

“Ah—”

“He retired.” She grabbed a handle of the folding wagon and then waved at the two of them. “Nice to see you got your relationship stuff sorted out. Have fun you crazy kids.” She pulled the wagon and left.

Wade waved back and, without turning to look at Peter again, asked, “You—do you want to talk about it?” The words were tentative.

Peter sighed. It looked like it was his turn to talk about his past. “Wade I—you know The Spider?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, he wasn’t based on Karen.” There was a moment of silence and Peter sighed again. He wondered if Wade would decide to leave after this revelation. Not that Peter could blame him. “Everything in the books are true.”

“So, there really was an evil scientist trying to recreate the Dark War?”

Peter winced. He’d looked up to Norman as a father for years and it still hurt to hear the man called that. Norman hadn’t been evil—but he had been insane. “Yeah,” he said wearily. “When—when it all happened I had to write it down. I changed the names,” he added. He hadn’t thought changing the names would be enough to fool people—but he’d been wrong. “And I wanted everyone to know what had happened so I pulled three jobs and paid to get the first three volumes published. Everything after that was older stuff, remembered stuff.”

“Oh.” Wade sidled a little closer to Peter. “Are we—are we still boyfriends?” he asked.

Peter looked at the larger man and then smiled. “Only if you want to be,” he said with a smile.

***

No one knew why Deadpool suddenly joined The Spider on his adventures in the world of fiction. And, unlike his Stark novels and despite Deadpool’s attitude, they were still made for children. They were also, to no one’s surprise, popular.

#Spider-Man #Deadpool #Spideypool #Stalkers

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tamakiamajikistentacles · 3 years

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Disappearance 2: The Sighting {Katsuki Bakugo}

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated! Thank you all so much for your support with this story so far, I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Disappearance Masterlist

He dreamt of Chiasa often.

On bad nights his mind created terrible scenarios about who she was with and where she was and what was happening to her. Other better nights let him fantasize about finding her and bringing her back to his agency with a smug grin as he reunited with the love of his life.

Most nights, though, his dreams were memories. Soft around the edges and sometimes fuzzy in detail, but as real as he could remember.

That night he had a dream about finding their first apartment for just themselves. It was going to be a far cry from sharing a townhome with Kaminari and Jiro, mostly because it wasn’t going to be as cluttered and full of ridiculous pranks but also because it would finally be theirs.

He could vividly remember coming home from one of the early meetings with the Hero Public Safety Commission about starting his own agency and seeing her in the sitting room practically vibrating with excitement. She’d pulled him down beside her and all but shoved her tablet into his face to look at what she’d found, declaring that their search was over.

And it had been. The building had twenty-four security and desk staff, keycard resident entry, and was in a safer neighborhood with a low crime rate. He could see it was a short walk to the nearest train station and if he got the approval for his agency and secured the building he wanted, it wouldn’t be a long commute at all. Two bedrooms was well within their budget and would allow her to have a dedicated office space for her work from home position instead of her current setup at the foot of their bed.

He didn’t realize he’d been grinning until she poked his cheek and asked an impatient, “Well?”

“Let’s apply.”

She let out a happy squeal as she threw her arms around his shoulders, kissing his face repeatedly as he tried to keep a hold on her tablet. Her grip only seemed to grow tighter the more he weakly fought her embrace.

“Katsuki, this is going to be amazing!” she laughed, kissing his temple one final time as she pulled back slightly to cuddle against him. This time he didn’t fight the embrace, instead wrapping an arm around her to keep her close.

He’d scoffed. “’Course it’ll be amazing. It’s you and me.”

“You and me,” she agreed with a smile.

He could hear her saying those words as clear as day in his memories. It had started as a joke about the first time they’d gone out alone without friends; he’d asked her if she wanted to go to a new mochi shop and she immediately went to text the rest of their friends before he stopped her, grunting, “You and me.”

After some time it just became theirs. Three words with just as much weight as I love you. It was a simple way to say more important things—“I’m here for you” and “We’re in this together” and “The two of us cannot be broken.”

It was a part of how their bond became as strong as it did, and he missed hearing it in person.

Cool, early September air was left behind as the door to his agency closed behind him. He wasn’t thrilled with the weather beginning to take a turn towards lower temperatures, knowing his quirk took longer to build up its power. As much as he hated being called a “slow starter” in the winter it wasn’t entirely untrue.

Hikari greeted him with a curt good morning as he passed her desk and slid a few papers his way without looking up. He grabbed them and in their place set down a travel mug of peppermint tea and a small blue bento, his own low mornin’ barely audible.

Making his way to his office he looked over the patrol routes for the day and the notations about the current goings-on of the areas. It was fairly run-of-the-mill with little suspected villain activity, a perfect time to allow some of the newer sidekicks and interns to tag along with his people for the day.

Surprisingly this was one of the things he enjoyed about running his own agency. Planning and strategizing were some of his strong suits despite how much he did enjoy blasting headfirst into battle when he could. But as the man in charge he liked being control of where his people were posted a lot too.

He had already decided who would be taking which patrol by the time everyone was gathered in the large conference room in their hero costumes, some more bleary-eyed than others. Mugs of coffee and tea billowed steam above the table and Kirishima’s branded shaker bottle stood taller than all of them.

Kaminari yawned lazily and Sero elbowed him in the ribs at the stern glare of their boss.

“Three sectors, little activity save for the corner tea shop on route 2B,” he started as everyone turned their eyes towards him. “Cellophane and Pinky, you two are taking the sidekicks to sector 1. Route A to Cellophane, B to Pinky. Choose your sidekicks and report it before you leave.”

The two heroes fist bumped and shot grins and thumbs up towards the sidekicks across the table from them. They were the best to get collaboration on the brain when it came to the newer recruits.

“Sector 2 goes to Red Riot and Chargebolt. Red, you’re on route A with the two interns and Chargebolt you’re taking route B so make sure that shitty shop isn’t getting worse.”

He knew that Kirishima was the perfect option for guiding the wide-eyed interns through some of their first tastes of the hero life. Plus, he was the best defense if trouble arose and backup would take time.

“I’m taking sector 3 myself. Questions?” When no one responded, he concluded, “Alright, get out there.”

Kaminari shot a smile to everyone he came across on his patrol. Chargebolt was a well-liked figure and regarded very highly as a personable hero when spotted in public. He was proud to have cultivated that good will with the people and was oftentimes the one who handled the media for the Dynamight agency alongside Kirishima, Red Riot’s popularity one of the only heroes higher than himself.

Quieter times to stop and chat with his fans were always his favorite but days like this that required more vigilance he did what he could with smiles and waves to those he saw. Even if there was only suspected villain activity at the tiny tea shop across from the mall he had to keep a close eye on it.

He tried to spend as much time as he could with the shop in view while still patrolling the rest of the route. Nothing of note caught his attention all morning and well into the afternoon.

Then the afterschool crowd and post workday crowds filled the area. He began to see a few suspicious characters that he reported back to the agency when he had a chance, but none of them gave any other indication of wrongdoing. He preferred to be thorough, though, just like Bakugo liked.

Half a dozen notes later, as the sun was low in the sky, he started to plan his evening once he got home. Jiro had the day off which meant she would spend most of it in the studio and bring home their favorite takeout. She was always in a great mood after a day in the studio too, and he loved seeing her so happy.

The tinkling bell of the tea shop’s door opening brought him from his thoughts and his gaze fell on a scraggly-haired brunette stepping into the evening air. From where he was down the street, he could see her pull the hand of a small boy to come stand by her on the sidewalk. Dark, matted hair sat atop his head and he scratched at the arm the woman held.

The closer he got the more he noticed about them—the woman’s ill-fitting dress and oversized sweater in much warmer contrast to the boy’s too short jeans and short sleeved tshirt. The boy shook from the cold and he quickened his pace, everything in him ready to shrug off his jacket and wrap the child in it while giving a few choice words to the mother.

As he approached he saw the woman’s eyes darting furiously as she hurriedly crossed towards one of the mall’s department store entrances, the boy shuffling along beside her as he went from scratching his arm to scratching his neck. Her grip on his arm looked tighter than it should be, and she walked quickly with no regard for if he could keep up with her longer strides.

Kaminari took in as many details as possibly as he began crossing too before stopping dead in his tracks in the crosswalk when the woman turned and said something to the boy. Her profile fit all of his observations in place and he tried to make himself move forward to confirm what he thought he was seeing.

By the time his body started to cooperate the duo had disappeared into the crowded department store and he was left at the door with only startled suspicions and half-formed what if scenarios in his mind. He had to tell someone, someone other than Bakugo who would surely fly off the handle on him for losing sight of the woman.

As he went to radio Kirishima, his comm came on with an incoming message from the redhead instead—“Charge, rendezvous in twenty at our starting point to head back to the agency?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed breathlessly. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

Kirishima nudged him in the side, concerned for his usually loud blonde friend who had barely said a word on their journey back to the agency. “Are you okay, man? You’re never this quiet.”

Kaminari chewed the inside of his cheek as he pulled on his street clothes. With a sigh he ruffled his hair with his hand before rubbing his face.

“I saw something weird on my route at the tea shop.”

“Oh damn, what happened? Did you let Bakugo know yet? You know he needs those villain updates as soon as possible.”

He waved his hands to stop the questions. “No, I didn’t tell him yet but it wasn’t… I don’t know if it was villains.”

The redhead’s eyebrows knitted together. “Then what was so weird?”

“Right before you radioed me near the end of patrol I was finishing notes on some shady people around the shop when this lady and kid stepped out. They both looked, I don’t know, greasy? And she was dressed warm while the little boy she was with was shivering in just a tshirt.”

“That’s not exactly our kind of suspicious, dude, but we can—"

“But the fact that she looked like Chiasa is suspicious!”

Kirishima froze, whispering, “What?”

He nodded. “She looked like Chiasa with longer hair.”

“With… with a kid?”

“Yeah, little dark-haired kid that kept scratching at his arms and neck. I felt so bad for the little guy, he looked so cold—”

“Kaminari, focus!” Kirishima said harshly, cutting off his rambling. “We need to tell Bakugo. Even if it’s not her, he needs this lead. He has to see it through. On the off chance it is actually her… I don’t even know how he could react.”

“Plus she has a lot of explaining to do about where she’s been,” Kaminari sighed. “It’s been so long.”

Kirishima nodded sadly. “It has, but we need to let Bakugo lead on this. Whether or not it was really her and will get him closer to finding her, I don’t know. But he needs to do this. It’s the only way for him to move forward.”

Closing their lockers, they gathered their bags and made their way to their small shared office. The day being fairly quiet aside from the two brunettes being sighted allowed them to finish their patrol reports quickly and send them to Bakugo for his review.

They knew he waited until all reports were received to begin looking them over and they had never been more grateful for Mina’s inability to focus, knowing for a fact that she was always the last person to submit her reports. Passing her still in costume talking animatedly to the sidekicks about their day let them know that this time wasn’t going to be any different. It allowed them to speak with Bakugo before he had to read the information and hopefully let them do damage control too.

Hikari was just leaving his office as they came to the doorway, a tired smile on her lips as she shuffled the papers in her hands.

Kaminari knocked on the doorframe as she passed them to head back to her desk and without looking up was called in by their friend and boss.

“What?” he grunted, continuing to loosen his gauntlets to set them aside. Unlike the rest of them he preferred to write his reports before changing completely.

Kaminari cleared his throat awkwardly, feeling Kirishima’s hand on his shoulder for support. As long as he’d known Bakugo and been on the receiving end of his temper and explosions, this had to be one of the most nerve-wracking conversations he was going to start.

“I’ve got some news from my patrol today.”

Red eyes snapped up to meet his. “Villains at the tea shop? What happened? Was it in your report? You never called for backup and I know we didn’t have anyone detained in any of our sectors.”

He spoke quickly, his shoulders tensing with each word as he prepared himself to don his gauntlets once again to find whoever was stirring up trouble in his agency’s territory.

“No, no, it was just an observation but I wanted to tell you about it in person—”

“Then spit it out!”

“I think… I think it’s possible that I saw Chiasa come out of the tea shop with a little dark-haired boy. I’m not one-hundred percent sure if it was her but it sure as hell looked like her.”

Bakugo stood rigid behind his desk. Over four years of not a single clue as to where she was or if she was safe and now she reappeared right in his agency’s backyard. If it was her.

He would pull all the surveillance he could find in the area based on Kaminari’s report and go through it with a fine-toothed comb. He would know if it were her. There was no one he knew better.

If he decided it was her then their patrol routes were about to get a shakeup and he was about to get answers years in the making. But that was for him to know, at least for now.

“I’ll review your report. Send Hikari back on your way out and I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said evenly.

The two other heroes exchanged surprised looks, expecting a much bigger reaction than a few long moments of silence. They watched him sit down and start his computer, his body language tense but not to the level they had anticipated.

“You don’t want to—”

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” he repeated, eyes flicking up to see their stunned faces. He watched them blankly until they seemed to take the hint ad turned to leave.

He sat alone typing his report after making his request to Hikari to go through the proper channels for the surveillance footage he wanted and warning her that he would likely need more after reviewing Kaminari’s report. She didn’t seem to mind, letting him know that she would tell him as soon as the requested film came in.

So until then he sat in his office allowing himself to grasp onto this small straw of hope, holding tight to the first real evidence he’d had in years that he might be able to use to bring her home.

A/N: Please be sure to reblog, comment, review, and like if you enjoy! Feedback is what keeps me motivated!

Disappearance Masterlist

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