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itneverendshere · 1 month ago

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LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - NINE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of leukemia; death; pregnancy; abortion.

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe had been through a ton of traumatic bullshit by the age of fourteen.

His mom had been battling leukemia since he was ten, it started off as an infection—but it turned into one of those long, drawn-out wars that tricks you into thinking there’s hope when there isn’t.

It would go away for a bit, just enough to make everyone think the fight was over, and then it’d come slamming back worse every time.

When he was fourteen, it finally took her for good, when he’d been silly enough to believe she might pull through.

To be fair, he was only a little kid waiting on a miracle, praying she’d wake up one day magically cured.

Now, when he looked back on it, he hated himself for being so naive. The signs had been there all along, the nurses whispering in the hallways, Ward turning into this void of a human, who looked at him like he didn’t know how to fix it anymore. The talks his mom would have with him about how “no matter what happens, you’ll be okay.”

That phrase haunted him for years.

Her death didn’t wreck him; it tore him apart and left him in tiny pieces that didn’t fit together the same way. He wasn’t the same kid afterward, not even close.

He got angrier, distant.

He didn’t recognize who he’d been before it all—some kid who really believed in happy endings.

He didn’t believe in much after she died, people let you down, life ripped everything good out of your hands. Why bother holding on to anything at all?

It wasn’t just the grief; it was the guilt.

He’d get mad at her, sometimes, for being sick. He’d slam his door and cry into his pillow because he just wanted a normal life, a mom who wasn’t always tired or in pain or hooked up to some machine.

He hated himself for that.

The day of her funeral, he remembered everything, even though he wished he didn’t. The church smelled like old wood and lilies, that smell that never left you once it sank in.

People kept coming up to him, patting his shoulder, saying things like, “She’s in a better place now,” or “Stay strong, buddy.”

He wanted to yell at them, shake them, make them shut up. She wasn’t in a better place. A better place would’ve been here, alive, laughing at his dumb jokes, or rolling her eyes at him for leaving his shoes in the hallway. It wouldn’t be six feet under, locked in a box, shoved into a hole in the ground like she never existed.

He didn’t cry, not when they opened the casket for everyone to say their final goodbyes, not when his dad stood up and choked through some half-assed speech that was mostly apologies and memories, not when they lowered her into the ground, the ropes creaking as her casket disappeared into the earth.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead, as if he wasn’t even present. Inside, though?

His his chest was on fire.

He refused to let even a single tear fall, it felt pointless, it wasn’t going to bring her back. It wasn’t going to fix anything. And deep down, he thought he didn’t deserve to cry, if he’d been stronger if he’d prayed harder, or been a better son, she’d still be alive.

The sound he remembered the most was the thud of dirt hitting the coffin after the service. It was final, loud, the earth itself mocking him. People around him sniffled, hugged each other, wiped at their eyes, but Rafe just stood there, staring down into the hole, fists buried in his pockets until his nails dug into his palms.

He kept thinking about how wrong this all was, this wasn’t where she was supposed to end up, and none of this was fair.

She should’ve been there.

She should’ve been standing next to him, arm around his shoulder, telling him to stop slouching, whispering something to make him laugh in the middle of all this sadness. Instead, she was in there, soon the dirt would cover it up, and that’d be it.

Gone. Just like that.

After the service, Rafe didn’t try to stick around for the house gathering, he wasn’t going to survive that. All those people crowding the living room, balancing paper plates of casserole, acting like they gave a fuck about his mom. It was fake, all of it.

They’d forget about her in a week.

He slipped out when no one was paying attention, cutting through the side yard and heading to the only place that felt halfway normal—the old skate park behind the rec center. It was run-down as fuck, but he and his friends used to hang out there all the time, sitting on the busted ramps, talking trash, or just doing nothing.

When he got there, it was empty, which was exactly what he wanted. He climbed up on the old half-pipe, sitting cross-legged with his elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked pavement below.

He couldn’t stop replaying the day in his head, the casket, the dirt, the stupid better place comments. His chest felt like it was breaking in a million tiny pieces, but he still couldn’t cry, his body just wouldn’t let him.

Instead, he just sat there, wishing the world would leave him alone for five minutes.

That’s when he heard footsteps behind him.

He thought about running—didn’t need anyone seeing him like this, especially not now. But then you spoke.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

He didn’t look at you right away, just exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah? Well, congrats. You win the prize.”

He wasn’t in the mood to be nice, even to you.

But you didn’t flinch, you never did. That’s one of the things he liked about you—you didn’t get scared off when he got like this. You just climbed up next to him and sat down.

You didn’t try to say all that comforting bullshit people had been feeding him all day, and he was grateful for that.

“You okay?” you asked eventually.

He snorted. “Do I look okay?”

"Sorry, stupid question."

He sighed, hating that he was being asshole to his best friend, "It's fine."

When he finally glanced at you, you were watching him, trying to figure out what to say. It made him nervous, the way you looked at him. You always did that—you cared about what was going on in his head, you saw more than what he let people see.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I know what you’re feeling,” you said finally. “But you don’t have to do this alone, Rafe. You know that, right?”

If only you knew what you would be going through just three short years later.

He wanted to snap at you, tell you to leave, he was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just stared down at the pavement again, “Feels like I do.”

You didn’t say anything, just moved closer, close enough that your arm brushed against his. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel…something, less alone.

Rafe didn’t know how long you both sat there, could’ve been ten minutes, could’ve been an hour. Time didn’t feel real anymore, you didn’t push him to talk, which he appreciated more than he’d ever admit, you didn’t throw out any of those awkward “it’ll get better” lines. You just sat with him.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

He shook his head without looking at you. “There’s nothing to say.” His voice was rough, flat. “She’s gone. That’s it.”

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t suck."

He clenched his jaw, staring at the pavement like if he looked at you, everything would break.

“What’s the point?” he muttered. “Crying’s not gonna change anything. It’s not gonna—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to force it back.

“Rafe.” You sighed, and this time “You don’t have to hold it together for anyone, okay? It’s me.”

That broke him, actually broke him. His chest felt tight, suddenly he couldn’t keep it in.

His breath hitched, his shoulders shook, and before he knew it, tears were sliding down his face. He tried to stop it, to hide it, scrubbing his hands over his face, but it was no use.

“Shit,” he choked out, his voice cracking once more.

“Hey, hey,” you said quickly, and before he could pull away or do something stupid like tell you to leave, you scooted over.

He froze for a second, unsure what to do, but then he remembered the funeral, the whispers, the dirt hitting the casket, all the things he couldn’t stop thinking about—he just let it all out.

The first sob ripped out of him so suddenly it startled him, he hunched over, elbows on his knees, hands gripping his hair, as if he could physically stop himself from breaking. But it didn’t work.

Another sob followed, and then another, and soon they were pouring out of him—loud, messy, completely out of his control. He couldn’t stop it, and he hated it.

He leaned into you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, and just cried. When he felt your arms instantly wrap around him, pulling him into a hug as if you’d been waiting for his permission, he shattered completely.

“She’s—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to stop, gasping for air as the tears kept coming. “She’s gone. She’s gone, and I—” He broke off.

It was ugly and loud and nothing like how he’d pictured himself breaking down, but he didn’t care. You didn’t tell him it’d be okay or try to make him stop, just held him, your arms tight around him.

“I miss her,” he whispered, his voice so small it barely sounded like him. “I miss her so much, and I—I don’t know what to do.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this, and part of him hated how exposed it made him feel. He hated crying in front of people—anyone. But right now, with you, he didn’t feel embarrassed.

“I know,” you nodded, your hand moving in small circles on his back. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I—” he choked out, his voice breaking. “I can’t—this isn’t—it’s not fair.”

“It’s not,” you didn’t want to scare away the fragile pieces of him that were finally surfacing. “It’s not fair. None of it is.”

He couldn’t stop shaking or gasping for breaths that hitched in his chest. The more he tried to push it all backdown, the harder it fought to claw its way out. For years, he’d kept it buried—buried so deep he thought he’d never have to deal with it.

“I hate it,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a jagged mess. “I hate that she’s gone. I hate that I didn’t—” He stopped, gripping his hair harder. “I didn’t do enough. I should’ve been better, done something—anything.”

“Stop. You can’t do that to yourself.”

He shook his head violently, “But I did. I gave up on her. I stopped believing she’d get better, I—I got mad at her for being sick. What kind of son does that? I didn’t even say goodbye the way I should’ve. I just—I left the hospital because I couldn’t take it anymore, and then she—” His voice cracked again, and his hands dropped from his hair to his lap, clenched into fists “She’s gone, and I left. I wasn’t there when she—” His breath hitched, and he buried his face in his hands.

“You’re a kid. It’s not your fault, okay? None of this is.”

“But it feels like it is,” he shot back, “I should’ve done something, anything. I just feel so—” He stopped, letting out a shaky exhale. “Empty. Like nothing I do matters anymore.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way you said it, so certain—He didn’t know why, but it cut through the noise in his head just enough to let him breathe again.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” he admitted, “I don’t know how t-to live without her.”

Growing up, Rafe had always been a momma’s boy.

She was his safe place—the one person who didn’t make him feel like he had to be someone else. With her, he didn’t have to try so damn hard to be tough, or perfect, or whatever the hell his dad wanted him to be.

Ward wasn’t the kind of dad who let his kids cry on his shoulder or told them he loved them every day. No, Ward was the kind of dad who believed in rules.

Men didn’t cry. Men didn’t show weakness. Men didn’t mess up—or, if they did, they sure as hell didn’t admit it.

He expected Rafe to follow those rules like they were gospel.

The worst part? His rules about what it meant to be a man stuck with Rafe, even when he didn’t want them to. When his mom got sick, he found himself choking back tears in the hospital bathroom, staring at his reflection and hearing Ward’s voice in his head: “Crying doesn’t solve anything. You’ve gotta be strong, for her, for your sisters.”

He had this idea in his head of what Rafe was supposed to be—strong, dependable, successful. He didn’t yell or lose his temper like some dads back then, he just made him feel like shit in this fucked up way.

Rafe tried, shit, he’d tried, but it felt impossible.

Every time he looked at his mom, pale and tired but still managing to smile at him like he was her whole world, he felt like he was dying too, then he’d feel guilty—for being so weak, for wanting to break down when she was the one fighting for her life.

It didn’t help that Ward had always had a soft spot for Sarah. Everyone could see it, even Rafe. She was the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, the one Ward went out of his way to protect.

If Rafe screwed up, it was a lecture or a punishment, but if Sarah did? Ward would just shake his head and say, “She’s still young. She’ll learn.”

It used to piss him off more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t that he hated her—she was his sister, and he loved her. But how could he not resent her? He felt invisible when she got all the attention and the understanding, while he was expected to man up and deal with it.

After her funeral, things changed.

Rafe became quicker to snap, to walk away from anything that felt too hard. He was only himself around you, behind closed doors, never for preying eyes. Sarah grew colder, retreating into her own world where everything was controlled and distant.

Every time they spoke, it ended in shouting matches, slamming doors, or long stretches of silence that neither of them attempted to solve.

Except when you were there.

Ward got even colder, the grief had frozen whatever part of him used to care. He threw himself into work, making sure Sarah was okay, and barely even looked at his son. When he did, it was usually to tell him to pull it together, or to stop being so “moody.”

Rafe started to wonder if he even cared that he was falling apart, if he ever noticed the nights Rafe stayed out too late or came home smelling like booze. If he saw the way he avoided talking to him, how he flinched whenever Ward brought up his mom. But if his dad noticed, he never said anything.

He thought it was just Rafe being Rafe—angry, unpredictable, a disappointment.

Fast forward to the present, and he hadn’t felt this helpless since that day at the funeral, not even when Ward’s died four months ago.

You weren’t in his life anymore—hadn’t been for a while and you were possibly pregnant.

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but it made sense, everything lined up with that possibility. He thought back to everything you’d been through together, the times you’d been there for him when no one else was, how you’d seen the pieces of him no one else cared to.

Now, you were having his kid—and he was hearing about it from Topper?

Rafe spent the first hour after Topper dropped the news pacing his bedroom like a caged animal, his heart wouldn’t stop racing and he felt like a ticking time bomb.

The Rafe—the one who flew off the handle, yelled, broke things, and pushed people away—was begging to get out. But Topper’s voice kept replaying in his head, he had to act right, be calm, for your sake. To prove himself.

The problem was, that staying calm wasn’t his strong suit.

He’d spent years burying every emotion he couldn’t control under layers of anger, and now he was supposed to sit with the hurricane in his chest and figure out how to make things right.

For the first time in a long time, he realized he didn’t even know where to start.

That night, he locked himself in his room, ignoring his phone, his friends, everyone. None of it mattered anymore, the only thing he could think about was you—and the baby.

He spent hours pacing, running his hands through his hair, trying to think of what the fuck he was going to say.

What was he gonna say after everything he’d put you through? After the fight, the distance, the way he’d shut you out when you’d been nothing but good to him until that point?

He sat down on the edge of his bed, head still in his hands, and let himself feel everything he’d been avoiding. The fear, the regret, the anger at himself. He thought about you—how you used to look at him like he wasn’t just a mess of a person, you’d stuck by him even when he’d given you every reason to leave.

You weren’t here anymore.

He’d pushed you so far away you hadn’t even told him about the situation yourself. Why would you anyway? He ghosted you and the next time you saw him he was with someone else. He could still see the look on your face when you saw him that night—arms slung casually around Sofia, while you sat in your car, eyes wild, you hadn’t tried to step outside, hadn’t yelled or made a scene, you simply drove off.

It wasn’t until an hour later and terrible text message to you, that drunk and pissed at himself, he realized just how badly he’d screwed up. But by then, the damage was done, and he’d been too much of a coward to fix it. What followed was a sea of bad decisions and nights he couldn’t remember, trying to drown out the ache of losing you.

He’d been drinking for Ward’s death until that point, now he did it for you.

Everything was catching up to him—the way he let his dad’s voice in his head drown out his own, making him let you slip through his fingers.

He didn’t deserve you—he knew that.

By sunrise, Rafe was still wide awake, sitting on the floor of his room surrounded by half-crumpled pieces of paper. He’d been trying to write down what he wanted to say to you, but everything sounded wrong. He’d never been good with words, not the kind that mattered.

He wasn’t a dad, wasn’t even close to being the kind of guy who could be a dad.

What the fuck did he know about raising a kid? Changing diapers? Teaching someone right from wrong? Being patient? But the thought of you—of you carrying his kid—hit him differently.

At first, it had been pure panic. You hated him, what if you didn’t want him involved? What if he was just like Ward—cold, distant, always expecting too much? What if he screwed the kid up the same way he felt like he’d been screwed up?

He pictured it without meaning to: you holding a tiny bundle in your arms, your face soft in a way he hadn’t seen in so long. A kid with your smile, your laugh—but his eyes. Or his messy hair. It scared the shit out of him.

What if she doesn’t even want to keep it?

Rafe hadn’t let himself go there at first, it was a lot to wrap his head around, the idea that there might not even be a child to fight for.

The thought of you going through this, struggling to make a choice that he couldn’t help with, made him feel useless.

Frustrated, he grabbed his keys and headed out, needing to clear his head. The island was silent this early, the kind of calm that used to make him feel trapped, but now, though, it was a relief. He drove aimlessly for a while, the salty air whipping through the open windows, until he found himself parked at the beach.

He didn’t know why he’d come here—well, you’d always bring him here when he spiraled. He sat there, watching the waves crash against the shore, feeling a weird sort of clarity that he hadn’t felt in months.

Perhaps it was the silence, or the way the ocean didn’t care about all the fucking mess in his head, but something about it made him stop spiraling for a second.

He started to think about what Topper had said—not just about staying calm, but about proving to you that he still cared. That wasn’t something he could do with words alone, not after everything. He’d have to show you, he’d have to be the version of himself you used to believe in, the one who wasn’t ruled by his worst impulses.

Rafe knew the first step before he could even think about talking to you: he had to end things with Sofia. They weren’t official, but they might as well have been.

People talked, made assumptions, and sure, he’d let them. It was easier that way—less explaining, less having to deal with the uncomfortable truth that he’d only been with her to fill the empty space you left behind. It was cruel, but at the time, he hadn’t cared.

Sofia wasn’t you, but she was there, and more importantly, she didn’t expect anything from him. Keeping things going with her wasn’t just a bad idea; it was disrespectful. To you, to her, to himself. He couldn’t pretend he cared about her like that—not when his heart had never really left your orbit.

When he showed up at her place that morning before work, she didn’t seem surprised—not even a little. She’d seen the writing on the wall for weeks now, but tonight, seeing him standing there, just confirmed what she already knew.

She watched him like she was waiting for him to get to the point, but not impatiently—just resigned, she already knew what he was about to say.

“Can I come in?”

She let him in without a word, she wasn’t mad, not really. If anything, she felt sad—mostly for him, a little for herself. How the fuck was he supposed to explain this without sounding like the worst person alive?

“You okay?” she asked quietly, she wasn’t being polite—she was trying to read him, figure out where this was going.

Rafe didn’t sit, didn’t take off his jacket. He stayed standing, hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to find the words that wouldn’t make this worse. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I need to talk to you about something.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing together in a tight line. “Be honest.”

“This...this isn’t fair to you,” he started, his words tumbling out fast, “I should’ve been real with you from the start, but I wasn't," He swallowed hard, “You deserve better than me using you to forget someone else.”

Sofia didn’t say anything at first, just crossed her arms loosely, not making it easy for him, but she wasn’t making it harder, either.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” he continued, forcing himself to look at her. “It feels wrong and it’s not because of you. You’re great. You’ve been...you’ve been more patient with me than I deserve.”

Her lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile, one that wasn’t quite happy but wasn’t cruel either. “But you’re still in love with her.”

He didn’t know why it shocked him—Sofia had always been perceptive—but hearing her say it out loud made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“I—” He hesitated, but there was no point in denying it. “Yeah.”

“I knew,” She nodded like she’d been waiting for that confirmation. “I figured. I told myself it didn’t matter because—because I thought maybe you’d move on. Maybe I could help you move on. But you didn’t, and I—” She pressed her lips together, shaking her head as her arms tightened around herself.

Rafe’s brows furrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged, the movement almost casual.

“Because I really like you,” she admitted, “I knew. The party? When you got blackout drunk after seeing her leave? Or the country club, when you nearly started a fight defending her? I know you drove her to the hospital too. I kept hoping—God, I kept hoping you’d see me, that you’d let me be enough.”

He’d known she cared—he wasn’t blind—but hearing her saying like that made him realize just how he fucked up. She wasn’t wrong. He had been trying to numb himself, to drown out the reality of losing you, and she had been the collateral damage.

He looked away, guilt twisting in his chest. “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. That wasn’t fair to you.”

“No,” she agreed, her tone firm but not unkind. “It wasn’t, but I don’t think you meant to hurt me either, you were trying to hurt yourself. It's still stupid of me to try, knowing you need to figure your shit out, but you don’t have to end things. I know what I signed up for, Rafe. I’m not asking you to choose me over her—I’m just asking you to try."

There was no anger in her voice, no bitterness—just exhaustion. It made him feel like a piece of shit because she deserved to feel angry, to lash out at him. But instead, she was still trying to give him a way out, a way to make this easier on himself.

“I’ll take whatever part of you I can get.”

It wasn’t desperate or pleading—it was resigned. She already knew the answer, but she couldn’t help saying it out loud.

Rafe shook his head, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep his composure. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You deserve someone who can give you everything. That’s not me.”

“Why not?” she pressed, her tone insistent.

“Because all of me already belongs to her,” Rafe admitted, his voice breaking at the end. “It always has, it always will.”

Sofia blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but she didn’t look hurt—just...sad. She nodded slowly, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

“I hope she knows what she has, and I pray you show her," She stood up and motioning toward the door. “We both deserve better than a guy who drinks himself to death after seeing her at a party. So do you.”

Rafe didn’t move right away, unsure if he should say something more, apologize again, explain himself better.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

“Don’t thank me,” she replied, “Just do better.”

“I shouldn’t have let it go on this long,” he confessed, “I just—I didn’t know how to stop.”

Her expression softened just enough to show the tiniest sliver of empathy. “For what is worth, I think she still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now.” She paused, her hand resting on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn around, “Next time, please don’t do this to someone else, and don’t do it to her again, either.”

She still loves you too, even if she hates you more right now. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it. The faint possibility, that you might still love him, it meant he had a chance but it also meant he could screw them up even worse.

He stood slowly, “Thank you,” he repeated,“For...everything.”

She didn’t look at him, but she nodded, opening the door and holding it for him. “Take care of yourself,” she said, and it wasn’t cold or angry—just sad.

By the time he got back to his car, he knew she wasn’t wrong, about any of it.

She hadn’t screamed or cried or made him feel like the asshole he knew he was, that made it worse. If his mom was here, she would’ve smacked him across he head for hurting two amazing women at the same time.

He hadn’t been ready to deal with his feelings for you—not when he started whatever the fuck it was with Sofia, not when he ran into you at that party, not when he defended you at the country club.

He’d been running, hiding, trying to bury everything under distractions that only made him feel emptier.

He leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes, and for a moment, it was like he was fourteen again, sitting on the edge of his mom’s hospital bed while his mom teased him.

“Come on, sweetheart” she’d said, her voice playful, even through the weariness. “You’ve been talking about her birthday for weeks. I think you like her more than you’re letting on.”

Rafe’s head shot up, and his ears burned red. “Mooomm,” he groaned, dragging out the word, “it’s not like that, she’s my best friend.”

“She’s your pretty best friend,” she’d corrected, smiling at him in that knowing way only she could. “You’re gonna pick out something nice for her, right?”

“I already did,” he mumbled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and holding it out like it was some great secret. Inside was a delicate bracelet he’d saved up for, something special, something he thought you’d like.

His mom’s smile had softened, the teasing fading into something more tender.

“She’s lucky to have you,” she’d said, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Even if you are a little knucklehead sometimes.”

He’d ducked away, embarrassed but secretly pleased, tucking the box back into his pocket.

“M’m not a knucklehead,” he complained, but she just laughed, and it was one of the last times he remembered hearing her laugh like that—free, unburdened, just his mom.

“She’s a good one. You’ve got good taste.” Her smile softened, and the teasing faded into something gentler. “I hope I’m still around when you get married. I’d love to see you happy like that.”

The words were a punch he hadn’t expected. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What could he even say to that? He wanted to argue, to tell her she would be, but the look in her eyes stopped him.

She knew. She always knew.

He just nodded, biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Me too.”

She squeezed his hand. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said without thinking because he meant it.

“When you find that person—really find them—don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

He nodded again.

Years later, standing in a stupid fucking car alone, those words haunted him. He’d found that person, he’d had her and he’d let her go.

“God,” he muttered, the self-loathing reaching a new high, “I’m so sorry, mom.”

As terrifying as it was to think about being a dad, to think about raising a kid when he was still trying to figure out his own life… the idea of losing this chance—of losing you, or the baby, or both, for good —scared him even more.

For the first time in a long time, Rafe Cameron felt something close to hope, but it was tainted in so much fear and uncertainty, that he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

The rest of the day, he forced himself to slow down.

He went back home, cleaned up the disaster of a room he’d been holed up in, and tried to think like a normal guy instead of a walking disaster. He even let Topper come over, though his patience for his relentless commentary wore thin fast.

“You’ve got one shot at this, dude,” Topper said, perched on Rafe’s desk like he owned the place. “If you go in there guns blazing, she’s just gonna think you’re the same old Rafe. And honestly? You can’t blame her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he didn’t argue, Topper was right, as annoying as it was to admit.

He spent the evening coming up with a plan—just enough to make sure he didn’t go in blind. He practiced what he’d say in his head, pacing the kitchen while the sun sank below the horizon. Every time he started to panic, he forced himself to breathe, to remember why he was doing this.

By the time 24 hours had passed, he didn’t feel ready, but he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. The thought of you sitting somewhere, thinking he really didn’t care or that he wouldn’t step up?

That was worse than any fear he had about facing you. So he grabbed his keys, and headed out, this time, he wasn’t running away.

Rafe stood by your door, he’d gotten in the property using the gate’s code, one he’d hoped you had changed to keep him out, but you hadn’t.

He’d never been good at patience, never needed to be—not when he could push his way into anything. But this was different, you were different, always had been.

The wood under his hand was cool, in a way that pissed him off because it reminded him that there was a barrier between you and him, again, always.

He wanted to scream, kick the fucking thing down like the old Rafe would’ve, or instead use the keys you’d given him years ago. Instead, he stood there, swallowing his pride because you were worth it, even if it was tearing himself in half.

His knuckles dragged down the frame, fist clenching as if the pressure would ground him, keep him from losing his shit. He wasn’t here to fight, wasn’t here to make your life harder, no matter how much you thought he was.

The door rattled slightly when he pressed his forehead against it, eyes squeezing shut. “Five minutes. Please.”

Nothing.

His jaw worked, teeth grinding against the words he wanted to say but couldn’t, not if he wanted you to open the door. He couldn’t do this anymore—the back-and-forth, the lies. He wasn’t sure what broke first—your resolve or the knot in his throat.

When you didn’t answer again, he sank to sit on the porch, back against the door like he could still feel you on the other side. You were there—close enough to touch if there wasn’t this fucking door between you.

That was his fault.

He used to be the guy you’d let in without thinking twice, shit, there was a time when he didn’t need to knock.

He was in, part of your life, part of you.

Now, you were holed up, scared of him. Yeah, that ate him alive. He’d earned that fear—every cold shoulder, the slammed door, he deserved it.

He should’ve been different, been better, been someone you didn’t have to lock out. You were scared, and it killed him because it wasn’t just fear, it was him. He was the reason you didn’t feel safe enough to let the secret out, the reason your voice cracked when you told him to leave.

He had put that look in your eyes, the one he couldn’t unsee, no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He could almost hear you breathing, shakily, like you were preparing yourself to outlast him.

He wanted to push. Fuck, he wanted to shove the door open, make you look at him, make you tell him everything—but that was the old Rafe, he took what he wanted, and bulldozed through whatever stood in his way.

Where had that ever gotten him? Nowhere but here: on the wrong side of a door, the wrong side of you.

He exhaled, long and slow, hand falling limp to his side.

What the hell was he doing? Forcing his way in, forcing answers—that wasn’t going to fix this. It never did. You’d push harder, build the walls higher, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of you hating him more than you already did.

“Okay,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “I get it.”

He didn’t know if you could still hear him, perhaps you were blocking him out completely. Maybe you were curled up with your hands over your ears. He hoped you weren’t crying, though the thought twisted and turned something deep in him.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he said, hating how defeated he sounded. “You don’t owe me anything.”

He ran a hand down his face, swallowing hard, trying to keep it together.

“I just... I just want you to be okay.” He hesitated, then pressed his palm flat against the door, wishing he could reach you somehow, without scaring you, “Baby or not.”

He waited, hoping for something—a sound, a movement, anything, but the silence was absolute.

His heart clenched as he pushed off the door and took a step back, his shoes scraping against the porch. He didn’t want to leave, he never wanted to leave, but this wasn’t about what he wanted. Not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, almost to himself, "I'm so sorry. I’m sorry it took me this long, okay?”

He stopped halfway, looking back, hoping—praying—for some sign. A light flicking on, the sound of the door creaking open, your voice calling his name, anything.

But the house stayed still, it had already moved on from him.

He didn’t remember deciding to drive to Poguelandia; he felt it in his gut, in the pit of his chest, this pounding certainty that Sarah knew something he didn’t. You wouldn’t tell him—but Sarah? You’d chosen her to drive you home from the hospital just a few days ago.

She was the only person that could lie to his face properly, he couldn’t fucking figure her out, she was always deflecting shit wherever they talked.

By the time he pulled up to the pogues’ little hideaway, the sky had darkened, the place lit only by the glow of string lights and the hum of voices inside. He sat in the truck for a second, staring at the house, willing himself to calm down.

Barging in—loud, pissed, impulsive—wasn’t going to get him what he needed. But fuck, it was hard not to.

He climbed out, slamming the door behind him with just enough force to feel better for half a second. The screen door creaked as he stepped up to the porch, and he could already hear them inside—Sarah’s laugh, JJ cracking some dumbass joke, the rest of them chiming in like they didn’t have a care in the world.

He hated this, hated how they all looked at him, as if he was some ticking time bomb ready to explode. They weren’t wrong.

Rafe knocked, hard and sharp, the laughter inside cut off instantly. Footsteps approached the door, hesitant. A second later, it swung open, and there she was, his sister, looking at him like he was the last person she wanted to see.

“Rafe,” she said, one hand still gripping the door. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “We need to talk.”

Her brows pulled together, suspicion creeping into her expression. “Now? Seriously?”

“Yeah, now,” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice low enough to keep from drawing the others’ attention. “Don’t make me say it in front of them.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder toward the voices in the living room. “Rafe, I don’t think—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off, his tone sharper than he meant. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to soften, to keep it together. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

She glanced back again, then sighed, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. He was already pacing, hands twitching at his sides, hardly able to contain the energy inside him.

The way she looked at him—wary, guarded—only made it worse.

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked, crossing her arms, like she was already bracing for a fight.

“My problem?” he barked out a laugh, sharp. “You really wanna play dumb right now? You’ve been keeping something from me, Sarah. I know you have.”

Her brows knit together, feigning confusion, “Dude. What’s this about? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” he hissed, stepping closer, “Don’t lie to me. I already know, okay? I know about the baby.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t confirm a thing, just stared at him like he was some wild animal.

“Where did you get the idea that she’s pregnant?”

His mouth opened, then closed. It felt wrong to snitch on Topper when he’d been one making him pry a little more.

“Well?” she pressed, “Answer me. How did you come up with that?”

Saying it out loud felt like admitting he’d been just as reckless and intrusive as everyone expected him to be. His hand ran over his face, trying to stall.

“I didn’t just make it up.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her patience waning. “No shit. So where, Rafe?”

He glanced away, then back, his voice defensive. “Topper said something, okay? He heard—he thought—” Rafe stopped, knowing how weak it sounded.

“Topper? You’re taking life advice from Topper now?”

“He didn’t mean anything by it!” Rafe was quick to defend him, “He just... he mentioned some things, and it got me thinking. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Sarah repeated, “You barged over there because Topper mentioned ‘some things’ ? Jesus Christ.”

His hands flew up in frustration. “What was I supposed to do? Pretend I didn’t hear it? Ignore it and hope it went away? I needed to know!”

“No, you didn’t,” Sarah shot back. “You wanted to know. There’s a difference, and it’s the difference that keeps getting you into this shit.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rafe pointed a finger in his direction, “Like I’m crazy or something. I’m not stupid.”

"You’re just not worth the energy right now."

Instead of crying like he wanted to, he let out a dry laugh, pacing back and forth in front of her.

"Right. Sure. I can see it all over you, just say it."

She shook her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. Neither does Topper.”

“Stop lying!” His voice rose, loud enough to echo into the dark yard. “Just stop. You know something.”

Sarah’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Rafe thought he’d finally cracked her. Except instead of giving him what he wanted, she just let out a slow breath, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made him feel like a child fighting for his favorite toy.

“You want to know the truth?”

“Yes,” he bit out, his chest heaving.

She stepped forward so they were only inches apart. “The truth is, you don’t deserve to know. Not yet.”

Everyone kept telling him the same thing, couldn’t they see he was already trying?

He staggered back a step. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means, that whatever you’re looking for, whatever answers you think you deserve, they’re not yours to take. Not until you can handle them without breaking everything you touch."

He flinched, her words striking something inside him, “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he said, almost desperate.

“I’m not deciding anything,” she replied, her eyes never leaving his. “You’ve spent these last few months making everything about you. Your pain, your anger, your needs.”

He glanced away, “So, what? You don’t trust me?”

Her silence was louder than anything she could have said.

“You don’t,” he murmured, the realization bitter in his mouth.

"I don’t," she agreed, “You’re still not the person she needs you to be, and until you can prove you can do that—without me, without anyone holding your hand—you’re better off not knowing.”

“I’m trying. I swear to fucking God, I’m trying. I don’t know how to fix it.”

“She’s scared you’re going to hurt her again—whether you mean to or not. You’re dating someone else, for god’s sake.”

“I ended it. This morning.”

Sarah’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “Doesn’t change the past, Rafe. And it sure as hell doesn’t make everything better overnight.”

Rafe flinched, the words sinking into him like stones. "Why the fuck do you think I’m here? I don’t want to hurt her—I can’t do anything if she won’t even talk to me."

Topper still had that number.

You hadn’t hidden it well enough, he hadn’t done anything with it, but it was tempting. All he had to do was call, just to confirm, he told himself. Not to pry, simply to know for sure.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t. This isn’t something you can force your way into. She would never forgive you, please be smart.”

His first instinct was to lash out, fire back some venom-laced retort that would sting as much as her tone. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“Okay,” He dragged a hand through his head, “I know that, I know. But I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I need to... I need to show her I can do better. That I am better.”

“You need to crawl through hell to understand a fraction of what she’s going through; you need to stop thinking about what you want and start thinking about her.”

His hands fell to his sides, limp, the fight suck out of him. She was right—he hated that she was. This wasn’t about him anymore; it never had been.

“What can I do?”

Her expression softened, not with forgiveness but something sadder—she wanted to believe he could. “You start by fixing yourself, then you wait. Until she’s ready, if she’s ready. You’ve got to mean that, Rafe, you screw this up again..."

"I won’t," he said firmly, cutting her off. "I can’t."

“Okay.”

“What if she’s not ready?”

He had no right to demand more.

“You keep going, keep trying. Not for her, not for anyone else—just for you.”

By the time he got back in his truck, the hurt in his body hadn’t lifted. His mom’s words echoed in his mind one more, “When you find that person, don’t let them go. Not for anything.”

Maybe that started with learning to be the person who deserved to hold on.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

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zillychu · 1 year ago

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I’ve gotten a WAVE of asks about this AU, so I decided to flesh it out some more and answer some of those questions!

I’ll probably polish this extended summary up at some point and submit it to AO3. But for now, here’s a rundown of my thoughts–please feel free to send more questions! I’ll update this post if I get any more. But if you’re someone who wanted to write fic for it, don’t worry, you don’t need to take my headcanons as gospel. It’s a pretty basic AU honestly lol

Summary:

The portal accident results in a violent explosion that wipes out the whole block, and condemns all of Amity Park. Danny haunts the city for 100 years, before Sam and Tucker find him.

Setup:

In the 1920’s, 19-year-old Danny went into the incomplete portal on his own, hoping to help out his parents. Ripping the portal open through unnatural means created a huge burst of energy that resulted in a massive explosion. A good portion of the Amity Park population died, many were injured, and the ones on the fringes relocated–Amity was quickly deemed too dangerous due to the excess ectoplasm in the area that attracted ghosts.

While the disaster was in Amity, the fallout was seen around the globe. Before, natural portals were rare, short-lived, and rarely allowed ghosts to fully slip into our realm (the most severe cases being on par with poltergeists that most people didn’t believe in). Now, natural portals pop open frequently around the world, large enough to allow the entirety of a ghost into the physical plane. They’re more common the closer you get to Amity, but they happen enough elsewhere that this change was something of a small apocalypse before people settled back down and found out how to combat at least some of their new, permanent neighbors.

Danny is unaware that he’s only half-dead, believing he’s a full ghost. He ends up sticking around Amity, unintentionally making it his haunt. His grief and guilt over causing the death of his loved ones (and many others) makes him isolate and avoid human contact. Though he has, at times, scared nosy people away from the city in a mix of territorial instinct–and to get them to leave before a less friendly ghost finds them.

Ghosts are much more of an uncontested danger in this AU. Lesser ghosts are practically mindless, and while stronger ghosts are capable of reason, their interests are limited. They’re highly territorial, possessive, and often destructive. Most worrisome is that they also like to snack on the life force of anything alive. No one is sure what dictates a ghost’s propensity to attack or hunt the living for their life force since ghosts don’t exactly experience hunger. At least, not the way we do. If a human is rescued before their life force is fully drained, they can make a full recovery–though humanity has still not yet found what this “life force" is.

And since the Fentons’ research died along with them, there aren’t many tools available to the public to protect them from ghosts. Most homes have standard ghost shields and some weapons are available on the market, but certified ghost hunters are required to take care of anything more powerful than your average spook.

Sam and Tucker met in high school, and are now rooming together for college very close to the Amity border. Rent is surprisingly cheap when you’re a stone’s throw away from a condemned area crawling with ghosts. Sam is the one who drags Tucker along with her fascination over finding out more about the city, and its largely mysterious demise. Sam is aware of the danger, but feels ghosts have a place in this world just like everything else, and does exercise caution–like one would while foraging in the woods with a known tiger population.

What she and Tucker weren’t expecting was to run into a ghost that felt almost human. One that hasn't hurt them, not for lack of trying–while being powerful enough to walk past ghost shields without so much as a flinch. The long white hair is familiar in the whispers of the ectobiologist community, but there’s no way it could be the rumored ghost king Phantom, right?

About Danny:

He has very long hair, claws, and black sclera. His hazmat suit is more torn and ragged, with exposed hands and feet that fade into a burnt black.

His hair tends to float a lot on its own. It can start morphing into fire under duress.

He does still technically have gloves and boots, they've just charred and melted into his skin towards the ends. He can't take them off in his ghost form. His hands and feet have a leathery texture that's tougher than the rest of his skin.

The white of his hazmat suit is both supposed to look like flames, and also a battered look representing his more violent, explosive death.

Overall, he appears rather listless and sad, with an unnerving air of danger around him–even for a ghost.

Danny’s “ghost sense” comes out as white smoke.

He does breathe black smoke at times, usually when agitated.

He's already fought and defeated Pariah Dark by the time Sam and Tucker find him, technically making him the Ghost King. This is heavily speculated by ghost experts, despite there being no real proof beyond a massive battle that scarred Illinois. He has not donned the Ring or the Crown, and captured sentient ghosts are hesitant to answer questions surrounding him. Danny basically has the throne but doesn’t do anything with it, and finds it meaningless enough to routinely forget he has the title. He only fought Pariah because he knew otherwise, humanity would have perished. A lot of ghosts are scared of him because he's so hard to figure out, and he's strong.

Danny is usually very quiet and speaks softly, because his lungs were damaged in the blaze that half-killed him. He's technically healed since becoming a ghost, so it's more of a compulsion due to the traumatic memory. That, and he’s just… very forlorn and distant, shy around humans who don’t seem to understand how dangerous it is to keep hanging around him.

His memories pre-accident are extremely fuzzy. He knows the very basics of who he was, but specifics have been muffled due to trauma and isolation. He routinely forgets human habits, etiquette, etc. and tends to act more like a full ghost with some odd quirks.

He does try to scare Sam and Tucker off numerous times. Unfortunately for him, they realized they shouldn't have been able to escape a ghost that strong–but they did, because he let them.

Sam and Tucker think he's mute at first! He doesn't speak a word to them until several encounters later, when he fumbles his whole scary act and saves them from another ghost.

He’s still half-ghost, though he doesn’t figure this out until Sam and Tucker come along trying to unravel the mysteries behind the Amity catastrophe. Physically and emotionally, he’s been stuck for 100 years–so his human form is still 19. It’s unclear at this point if he can age normally like a human as long as he stays in human form, or if he’s immortal.

Danny's family did not turn into ghosts, though he sometimes worries he'll find them in the afterlife as shells of their former selves. He doesn't know if it's better or worse that he's not sure he'd recognize them.

(Danny also still has some living family. Take a guess.)

Yes, he knows how to Wail. Understandably, he very rarely uses it. You do not want to witness this.

Danny :) is not immune :) from the allure of eating a human's life force :)))

#danny phantom #au #zilly art #I just wanted to draw a boy with long hair and claws how did this happen #fire core au

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autistichalsin · 4 months ago

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Analysis of each character's final words in the new Dark Urge evil ending

If you are romanced to a character, you have the option, when taking the new version of the Sins of the Father ending, to kill your partner in front of the others in your party, killing them with one last kiss. They then give their last words and pass away. I love each and every one and feel they are incredible characterization moments.

So let's break these down!

Lae'zel:

I... I am glad it was you. No other blade would have sufficed.

This is something that hammers home that, Vlaakith or no, Lae'zel deeply believes in all the ideals of a Githyanki. Life is a privilege for the strong, and death is the price of weakness. Further, if romanced, Lae'zel will affectionately call you "the source of my bruises" many times. If she has to die, if she has finally found the one person stronger than herself, then she is "satisfied" that it is you- who she both loved and admired. The only one she would ever consider worthy of besting her.

Karlach:

Fuck you.

Short, simple, and to the point, just the way Karlach does everything else. She's already gone through all her stages of grief with her engine- well, almost all of them. Anger still remains. She burns hot until the end.

Wyll:

I... I forgive you.

This isn't just Wyll being a good guy. This is heartbreak, and guilt. Guilt for not saving you from Bhaal's influence when he was so sure he had. Heartbreak that after he gave his literal soul to save as many people as he could, he couldn't save you- and couldn't save others from you, either. All he sacrificed, negated in an instant by the person he loved and trusted most. Of all the characters here, Wyll (tied with Halsin) sounds the most obviously broken, and it's easy to see why, given that he is self-sacrificing to a fault.

There was a set of scenes datamined from the game, where at the Morphic Pool, the Netherbrain would have taunted the players, causing them to hallucinate things related to their fears and insecurities. Wyll's would have been a vision of himself talking about how he was never a hero, how the Blade of Frontiers was a farce all along. One can't help but think about that scene here, wondering just how much blame, bordering on self-loathing, he might feel here.

Dark Justiciar Shadowheart:

I... I'm coming to you, Lady Shar.

Another short and simple one. By becoming a Dark Justiciar, Shadowheart has fully embraced the nihilism of Shar's teachings. Why be saddened or angry at her own death when this is just what she's embraced with all her sacrifices?

(Sidenote: this does also answer a question I had, namely, what was going to happen to everyone Durge kills. Thankfully it seems they aren't actually going to be sacrificed to him as such, and will indeed end up in the realm of their deities. This makes Bhaal's plan even DUMBER, because deities in DND lore need worshippers to have enough power to exist. Killing everyone at once just guarantees that soon after Durge dies as the last person alive, so too will Bhaal fade from existence.)

Selunite Shadowheart:

I... I thought we were going to save each other...

This Shadowheart rejected everything she knew. She was scared to defy her goddess, but worked up the courage- thanks to you. She thought you would have a new life together. She believed in you. She thought she would get to return the favor, and help you turn the page on Bhaal, too.

She's not just heartbroken for herself; she's heartbroken for you, too. Heartbroken at the life you denied both her and yourself.

Gale:

You made me want to live...

From the moment the orb entered Gale's chest, he knew he was at risk of dying. Then Mystra all but marked him as a dead man walking. But despite that, he finds love with you- and for the first time thinks maybe there is a purpose for him beyond Mystra. That he isn't more useful to the world dead. More than that, he wants to live to be with you, to enjoy your company and companionship. And then you kill him, and do the one thing WORSE than what would have happened if he'd never been pulled from that rock.

It almost would have been kinder to just hack his hand off the first time you met him, though Gale may or may not agree.

Spawn Astarion:

I should have killed you when I had the chance...

The angriest, most bitter response out of all the romanced companions, a step beyond Karlach's "fuck you." This is beyond "fuck you" and even beyond "I hate you." It's "I regret every moment I spent with you." You made him believe he could have better. That he could recover from what Cazador did. You even convinced him to spare the 7,000 spawn and that he could be something better than Cazador.

And now you reveal it was all a lie. Astarion is probably thinking that you talked him out of completing the ritual solely so he'd be easier to kill right here and now. How many regrets are flashing through his mind, how many moments where he wonders if things could have been different if only he'd done this or that, even aside from killing you?

All he wanted was to live as a free person. And then the first time he thinks he has that at last, he loses it as the world ends.

Ascended Astarion:

No... no, this can't be... I can't- you can't- no...

In contrast to spawn Astarion, ascended isn't angry, because he doesn't have the clarity, the ability to process what's happening. Spawn Astarion could tell he'd been betrayed.

But Ascended? Ascended, who went through so much to become one of the most powerful beings in the world, only to STILL lose without fanfare? And by you, his own spawn who he thought he had under his control? It isn't betrayal, because he is bluescreening; he can't comprehend what happened or how or why. How could he have been killed, and by you of all people? Was all he went through killing Cazador really for nothing? How could it be when he was supposed to be the most powerful? Was power actually meaningless all along?

He doesn't say anything of substance because he can't understand what's happening here.

Halsin:

Thaniel... goodbye...

Halsin is the oldest of all the companions. He's experienced the most loss of anyone; his birth family, his fellow Druids, and, for a time, Thaniel. He has had more than enough time to contemplate his own mortality, because he's already lived multiple lifetimes.

So here, two things are happening. One, he isn't expressing anger or betrayal at his murder- because he is more than wise enough, and humble enough, to understand that there are worse things than what has been done to himself. Instead of himself, he is thinking of the world he's leaving behind that is about to fall- and most of all, of his most important person, the one who gave him a purpose, who was there when no one else was, who he failed once and only just got back. The closest thing to a child he'll ever have. In his last moments, instead of himself, Halsin is thinking of those he loves.

And second, it's an almost deliberate snubbing of Durge. He willingly walked into that kiss, knowing full well it would be the last thing he ever did. He gave you his death, he pleaded with his own god to forgive you and him both. He gave you everything he felt he owed you, and no more- no begging or sobbing. Instead, he comes as close as he ever gets to selfishness, and spends his last moments thinking about the thing that makes him the happiest- which could have been you, in another life, if you hadn't done this.

Minthara:

No... we were meant to do this together...

Heartbreak, disbelief, and betrayal. You spent so many nights planning this out. She had been cast aside by her people, her goddess, and she was going to get the last laugh. She was going to crush them personally under her heel and prove she was the best (or second best, behind you) of all of them. She's devastated she won't get to help you torture all those souls and take what she feels was owed to her. But interestingly enough... no anger. Probably because it was overshadowed by the sheer heartbreak, but also a sign that even in those moments, she still admires you for your ruthlessness.

#halsin #shadowheart #astarion #gale dekarios #karlach #lae'zel #minthara #wyll #wyll ravengard #jenevelle hallowleaf #halsin silverbough #astarion ancunin #karlach cliffgate #minthara baenre #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #dark urge #the dark urge #spoilers

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umbrellajam · 6 months ago

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ok sorry I just have to yell about this real quick -

Nightwing (Vol. 2) #139 - The Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul, part 6 Dick: "I let you make the choice for yourself...because I knew you'd make the right one."

Dick didn't know shit, lmao!! "Because I knew you'd make the right one" my ass lol.

Let's rewind two minutes shall we:

Dick: "Tim... Listen... There are no easy answers... But you have the right to make the choice for yourself." || Dick (internal narration): "No-win. If I stop him, I don't trust him. If he goes through with it, I shouldn't have trusted him. C'mon, Tim..."

He doesn't know what choice Tim is going to make, whether his grief will overcome him and he'll take the Lazarus water or not, and has in fact been physically fighting Tim this entire issue to stop him by force. But ultimately he knows it's Tim's right to choose for himself, and decides to hope, and have faith in his brother.

And he has that faith rewarded, and reaffirms it afterward, despite the fact that he wasn't sure.

And paralleling that moment of "yes of course I knew you had it":

Red Robin (2009) #12 Dick: "How'd you know? How did you know I'd be there to save you?" || Tim: "You're my brother, Dick. You'll always be there for me."

TIM DIDN'T KNOW SHIIIIIIIIT HGKLJDKFLSD

At least not consciously! Being caught by Dick is certainly not something he planned for, as he seems to be trying to imply.

Again, rewind:

Tim (internal narration): "I did it. I saved the people he loved. I saved everything he worked so hard to build. No compromises. He won't say anything, he never does. But I know. I know that Bruce will be proud of me. Not a bad day." || Tim: (in the midst of pASSING TF OUT) || Dick: (swoops in and catches him)

Tim may not have actually known that Dick would be there. But that catch... A falling Tim being caught by Dick is a motif that occurs over and over and over across the years of their relationship. Why do I feel like there's a part of Tim, faint as he faded out, and much stronger when he woke up, that went, "Oh, it's Dick - of course if it was anyone, I knew it would be Dick"?

After their conflicts and miscommunications in this arc, after Tim sweeping back into town and explaining not a single thing as he races to thwart Ra's, despite Dick's frustrated pleas, after cutting Dick off with a simple, "Batman...trust me," and Dick's responding, "Of course"....

Tim feeling like he knew, even if he didn't know, or plan, or expect. Because that's his brother. And choosing to express that trust, after Dick chose to trust him...

Just. Dick and Tim. Verbally reaffirming their faith in each other, even after in-the-moment doubts. BROTHERS. My emotions.

#Dick and Tim #Dick & Tim #Dick Grayson #Tim Drake #dcu #batfam #Resurrection of Ra's al Ghul #Red Robin #Nightwing #Batman #hmmmm should I have a tag for Dick!Bats?#Dick!Bats #DC Comics panels #DC meta #post tag #comics reading tag

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casino-lights · 2 months ago

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so. the thing about Illario and Lucanis.

I don't have the screenshots but somewhere in Lucanis' mind, you hear Illario's voice saying "If I was in charge, you wouldn't have to do this anymore." as far as I can tell, all the other lines in his memories are from the game, but this one is from The Wigmaker Job. the story that took place over a year (probably more) prior to the events of the game. it's referring to a scene where Lucanis comes back from their contract, injured, and Illario, worried about his cousin, says that Lucanis wouldn't have to do Caterina's bidding anymore if Illario was First Talon. so now we know Lucanis still thinks about that conversation, even though it happened so long ago.

two other things about The Wigmaker Job: 1) Illario is a lot different in it and in some ways he seems more competent than the Illario we get in veilguard; and 2) we see Zara Renata at the end, and she already has Lucanis in her sights. depending on how much time passed between that contract and Lucanis' kidnapping, she could've been setting this up for months to years.

in the concept art/storyboard frames that were recently released, Zara is hardcore giving siren in the first image and it almost looks like she's straight up controlling Illario via blood magic in the second (imo)

now imagine if Zara was looking into Lucanis, started with the people closest to him, found Illario, and said all the right things. imagine she said he should be First Talon, Caterina never loved him, Lucanis doesn't believe in him and is secretly just tolerating him, he can save Antiva from the Antaam (or whoever else), he can lead the Crows to their long-awaited unification and make them even stronger, he's the smartest prettiest most super special boy in the whole wide world, etc. (if you give this man an ounce of praise and he actually believes it, he will crumble, I know it.)

now imagine Zara, having successfully sunk her claws into Illario - Lucanis Dellamorte's cousin, the only person closer to the Demon of Vyrantium than the First Talon herself - manages to convince him to let her kill Lucanis. he doesn't have to do it himself so there's less guilt. there's no way Caterina would make him First Talon if Lucanis was alive. and then Illario would be in a position to protect his beloved Antiva because if there's one thing the Antivan Crows are, it's patriots. I think Zara played Illario like a fucking fiddle and the game was just really bad at showing us that. I think when her spirit says "he fooled us both," she means he fooled her by being less of a coward than she thought and straight up killing her.

and maybe this is the Illario apologist in me, but I also think he realized the whole thing was a doomed plan after he was defeated. I mean, he shows up to the final battle to help, at risk of his own life. maybe he's trying to atone, maybe not, but still - he is there, and he sounds more like the Illario we see in The Wigmaker Job than whatever we got through the rest of the game. with his quippy little "was that suitably self-important?" line, he's closer to himself than he was this whole time, and that makes me wonder if maybe he wasn't fully Illario. maybe that was grief and guilt and a shaky sense of self and Zara's manipulation and the feeling of losing his grip on the power he never quite had to begin with, all bundled up into a new, bitter, resentful man. I think he was used like a pawn in Zara's chess game, and that doesn't take away from his agency in this situation or lessen the blow of his betrayal, but it does make it easier for me to swallow the fact that the Obvious Traitor Illario I was immediately skeptical of in-game is not the Illario I immediately loved after one scene in Tevinter Nights where he shaves a single hair because it was uneven with the rest of his five o clock shadow.

I think ultimately, Illario realized Lucanis would forgive him anyway. I think it's because he realized he would forgive Lucanis too.

#illario dellamorte #lucanis dellamorte #dragon age: the veilguard #datv spoilers #gracelogs #it's 11 pm i haven't eaten and my head is heavy with thoughts of a boyfailure #yes i am biased but you know what i am free

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lovebugism · 2 months ago

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📼 ; ONCE BITTEN, TWICE SHY | 1/2

summary: by the summer of 1987, eddie munson has mastered the art of dying and coming back to life again. but worse than that: he can't seem to stop running into the pretty lifeguard from hawkins community pool. the grumpy ol' vampire slowly learns to love sunshine in the afterlife. (23k)

pairing: vampire!eddie munson / ditzy!sunshine!reader

contents: fem!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, hurt/comfort, extreme canon divergence (most of the events of st3 and st4 still happen but starcourt is still standing, some people aren't dead, etc.) (i'm just here to have fun, honestly) cw for mentions of grief and ptsd, mentions of blood

( best listened with headphones, full fic playlist here )

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

she lives in the place in the side of our lives

where nothing is ever put straight . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Being a vampire sucks.

No pun intended.

Eddie Munson’s too tired for puns. He’s too tired for most things, really.

That’s what they don’t tell you about being a vampire — it’s not nearly as cool as The Lost Boys make it seem. He isn’t any stronger now than he was the night he died. He isn’t any faster, either. And if he’s capable of shape-shifting into a bat, he hasn’t tried because the thought of becoming the thing that killed him feels like more of a purgatory than what he’s been doomed to already.

He didn’t even get a cool cape out of it, which is more of a bite than anything, honestly.

No pun intended.

All Eddie’s got to show for his death are the patches of marred skin on his stomach to prove it. And a couple of pointy teeth — which, so far, have only tasted his own flesh because he’s bitten his lip with them more times than he can count. And, yeah, maybe he’s got a heightened sense or two, but that’s it. It’s not nearly as cool as it sounds, either. Enhanced hearing and sense of smell are just code for being constantly overstimulated.

Eddie misses being alive. He misses not knowing what blood tastes like. He misses forgetting to eat all day and accidentally having ice cream for a first meal — which he’d then scarf down like a man starved until it inevitably made him sick, so that he could then complain about how sick he felt.

He misses the consequences of humanhood because now he’s half-corpse, half-god — a dizzying mixture for a boy who used to just be somebody’s kid.

And what does Eddie do to cope with it all? He gets his weekly mint-chip cone at Scoops Ahoy.

Steve passes the ice cream over the counter with a kinder smile than Eddie’s used to. His skin is freckled and golden against the dark navy of his uniform. So full of life. The child’s sailor outfit hasn’t stopped being funny, but Eddie scowls at him ‘cause he’s jealous. He’s never been anything but pale, even before death, but he can’t exactly catch a tan now, can he?

“You look good,” Steve Harrington observes, distant but meaningful.

The wild-haired boy ahead of him doesn’t seem nearly as poorly as he did a day or so ago, when he looked somehow more like death than the day he actually died. He’s got his usual color back now. A telltale sign of a recent feeding.

Eddie flashes the boy a dubious, brown-eyed glance. “Are you flirting with me?” he jokes with his ringed fingers curled around the waffle cone, too monotoned to sound as playful as he means.

Steve’s face screws. “No.”

“Damn.”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about!” the brunette proclaims proudly, waving an accusatory finger in the other boy’s direction. “Eddie from yesterday wouldn’t have made that joke. Eddie from yesterday wouldn’t have said anything, actually.”

“Well, Eddie From Yesterday, hadn’t eaten in two weeks,” the boy deadpans. (He isn’t talking about food, either). “And Eddie From Yesterday was so exhausted and filled with an inhuman rage that death was funnier than making stupid jokes.”

Steve tries not to cower at his faux-seriousness. “Touché,” he nods.

Eddie hands the boy the last bill in his wallet. Steve makes out his change and, like a total idiot, dumps a dime onto his palm. The silver hits his skin like a drop of acid rain or molten lava. Eddie winces at the burn, hissing through his teeth as he jerks his singed hand back.

“Why are you giving me dimes, man?!” he shouts over the sound of clattering coins.

“Shit!” Steve grimaces. “Sorry, dude— I forgot.”

“Oh, you forgot?” Eddie bites in a mocking tone.

“Yeah! Sorry if I can’t remember everything about—” Steve pauses his rant to peer around the shop with cautious eyes. He quietens. “—Vampires, alright? Sue me.”

Eddie watches the boy scramble to gather scattered coins –– coth hat askew on his head, scarlet tie in his way. The sight alone makes him laugh. A sharp exhale through his nose, but a laugh nonetheless. “You know what? How ‘bout just keep the change?”

“You keep the damn change,” Steve grumbles under his breath.

“Nice one.”

“Shut up.”

Eddie takes a big bite from his fresh scoop. He lets the sharp peppermint and deep chocolate concoction melt in his mouth. The strange combination was always the best distraction from the coppery tang of blood lingering on his tongue.

Distracts because the metallic taste never quite leaves him, no matter how often he washes his mouth out. The taste of death always persists. Not in a poetic way, though. It’s more like a mouthful of old pennies.

Only problem is, he can’t really taste it now — the tart mint-chip or the pint of blood he’d choked down yesterday afternoon. The sensuous scent of hibiscus lilts along an otherwise still breeze, sudden and very overwhelming. It’s powdery and floral, rich and fruity. A fragrance sweet enough to make him ill, and it’s accompanied by the rhythmic flip-flop, flip-flop of rubber sandals.

Eddie glances mindlessly over his shoulder, then nearly breaks his neck at the force of his double-take. The candied scent, he finds, belongs undoubtedly to the pretty face behind him.

You saunter into the ice cream shop like a rolling summer cloud — with a walk that’s as soft and delicate as you look. There’s something thaumaturgical in the honeyed atmosphere that follows you in, still unceremoniously punctuated by the flip-flop, flip-flop sound of your shoes against the linoleum.

You are, unsurprisingly, as pretty as the raspberry, marshmallow, lily-of-the-valley scent radiating from your sunkissed skin. There is much of it on display now, and what little is covered is hardly left to the imagination.

Straight from a shift at Hawkins Community Pool, your mandated uniform clings perfectly to your torso — a pretty, scarlet one-piece that scoops deeply at the chest. Stamped on the center is a pool floatie and two surfboards that make a more summery skull-and-crossbones shape. ‘Lifeguard’ is written just beneath it, right over the swell of your breasts.

You wear a pleated skirt on your lower half to match. The bouncy fabric rests scandalously, and perhaps unintentionally, low on your hips. A faint sliver of your skin is showcased in a way that drives him hopelessly wild. And you’ve paired it all with a pair of too-big sunglasses on your head and a cherry sucker in your mouth.

Effortless. A total cakewalk of perfection.

Eddie Munson and Steve Harrington have never known much about either.

The latter is still trying to dump change into the tip jar when he goes to greet you. Your eyes link, the words get stuck in his throat, and the coins scatter to the laminate all over again. Steve tries to catch them at first before realizing how utterly uncool he must look. He makes a bigger fool of himself by just letting them fall.

“Hey. Hi. Wel—Welcome to Scoops Ahoy,” the brunette clears his throat. He props his hands along the countertop and feels a rogue penny stick to his clammy palm. “You’re not lost, are you?”

Steve forces a lopsided smile at his sorry excuse for a joke. Eddie rolls his eyes. You blink at him and pluck the cherry sucker from your mouth — which has left your lips softly swollen and tinted a rosier shade.

“This is where pretty boys in tiny sailor outfits sell ice cream, right?”

Your deadpan expression makes it difficult to gauge whether or not you’re joking. Steve’s face glows red at the sort-of compliment. He nods rapidly until the words catch up to him. “Yeah— Yeah, it— It is, actually.”

You smile at him, tightlipped and warm. It fills the windowless shop with glittering sunbeams. “Then can I have a scoop of rainbow sherbet, please?”

Steve raps his knuckles against the counter and nods again. “Yep. Coming right up.”

Eddie takes another hearty bite of his ice cream while you linger at his side — a couple of feet away but feeling much closer than that. As the minty chocolate melts slow on his tongue, all he can taste is the fruity-floral scent of you.

It makes his head go all swimmy because he knows your blood must taste the same. Like velvet. Or an expensive red wine people spend half a fortune on. He can hear the soft wooshing of your heart, too. Soft and unhurried. Gentle like an ebbing and flowing tide.

He shouldn’t be thinking this way, he knows. He fed yesterday; he should be feeling halfway normal by now. But your scent is dizzying still, and much stronger than Eddie figures it should be. If he’d met you a day or more ago, when the need for a feeding was quite literally eating him alive, he’s not sure he would’ve been able to contain himself.

He doesn’t think he would’ve hurt you, per se — because he hasn’t actually hurt anyone yet. Not in this stage of his afterlife, anyway. But it would’ve taken all the waning strength left in him to stop himself from doing something unthinkable. And that thought alone is somehow more terrifying than death.

Neither, however, is as scary as your gaze meeting his.

Your eyes lock, and only then does Eddie realize how long he’s been staring. His blood runs cold. Cold-er. An eon blinks as he tries to recover from his hopeless leering. (He’s just as useless as Steve The Hair Harrington, turns out).

“Hi…” he murmurs through a mouthful of mint-chip once he realizes he’s got nothing else to say. How’s a freak like him meant to talk to someone like you? A walking fairytale of ethereal chaos?

You move the cherry sucker to the pocket of your cheek with your tongue. Through it, you mumble, “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Eddie laughs before he means to. His pink lips curl into a smile, and the inside of the delicate skin scrapes the fangs threatening to poke through his gums. They fit just perfectly over his canines, typically veiled by his gums until it’s time to feed. Or until he’s faced with a pretty girl who smells like Heaven and looks just the same, apparently.

He hides his grin behind his fist and scoffs a breathy laugh.

Your face twists in a delicate look of confusion. “Why’s that funny?” you question once you’ve plucked the piece of candy from your mouth.

His smile ebbs instantly. “Oh. It’s… It’s not— It’s not funny, actually,” he stammers, chocolate eyes wide and round like a pair of buttons.

Your frown deepens. “So you don’t think I’m funny?”

“No, it’s— it’s not that I don’t think you’re funny, I just— I think that—” Eddie stumbles over himself trying to get the words out. He inhales deeply through his nose and swallows hard. “I’m a little confused, honestly…”

There’s a brief moment of silence that passes like minutes.

There’s something distinctly wild in your unwavering stare. It possesses a sort of magnetism that makes it impossible to look away from — though Eddie desperately, desperately wishes he could. But because he can’t take his eyes off you or the fire swimming laps in your irises, he catches a flicker in your gaze. A flame. A spark.

A smile quirks at the very corner of your mouth before a brighter beam blooms there. A sunshine sort of giggle sputters past your lips. “Oh, gosh— You should see your face right now,” you manage through a fit of laughter, swatting his shoulder with your free hand (a little harder than he thinks you mean to.) “I’m just kidding! Seriously. You can laugh now. It’s okay.”

Eddie doesn’t find it all that funny anymore, but your gaze is pretty and expectant, so he forces out a faint laugh just to appease you. He gapes in confusion the second you look away.

You’re a strange thing. Pretty, yes. But still very, very strange.

When Steve passes you a rainbow scoop on a waffle cone, you fish a crumbled bill from the chest of your swimsuit. The boy takes it with a trembling hand — like touching the cash is touching you in some way — and struggles to recall basic arithmetic when he makes out your change.

Eddie watches you savor one last taste of your diminishing sucker, lips curled around the lolly before popping audibly off of it. “Is there a trashcan—” you ask and glance around the shop.

“There’s one back here,” Steve offers mindlessly. “I can chuck it.”

Your hands brush when he takes the paper stick between careful fingers. Silky sunkissed skin sweeping against silky sunkissed skin.

Eddie’s almost jealous. He wishes he could touch you in such an innocent, accidental way — or anyone, really. But his blood stopped circulating about a year or so ago, and he’s had a glacial disposition about him ever since. Sometimes, when he’s just freshly fed, he feels sort of warm. Sort of normal. But that only lasts about an hour or so before his skin goes wintry and grey again.

“Thanks,” you lilt with a kind grin, sandals squeaking as you step back from the counter. You arch a brow, and the sweet smile turns suddenly mischievous. “And don’t worry about the change. I’d hate for you to make a bigger mess.”

You tilt your head and take a kitten lick of your scoop, fighting back a giggle when the sailor boy gapes at you. You spin around and flip-flop, flip-flop out of the ice cream shop — back to whatever fairytale you came from.

The scent of ripe fruit and freshly-cut flowers leaves with you, along with the lavender haze Eddie had been swimming in since he saw you. Drowning in, more like.

Steve laughs at your sort-of joke until the mist passes. Only then does he seem to notice the coins still scattered across the countertop and the half-eaten sucker in his hand. His fluffy brows pinch together in a very evident confusion — like he’s just woken up from a dream.

“…What the hell was that?” he muses after a few long moments.

Eddie shrugs and takes another bite of his half-gone scoop, tasting it for the very first time now that you’re gone. “No idea,” he answers through the mouthful.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

once you get it, you never wanna quit (no, no)

after you've had it, you're in an awful fix. . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Eddie finds you again several minutes later. Not between the pages of a fantasy book, but on a lone bench by the bus stop.

You finish your rainbow sherbet in silence, people-watching behind a big pair of Sharon Tate-style sunglasses. The sight of you alone makes him trip over his feet, like you’ve got your own gravitational pull that makes him stumble on thin air just to be closer to you.

“Oh—” The huff spills accidentally from his mouth when his sneakers scuff the pavement.

It garners your attention accordingly as you turn slowly towards him. You lift your sunglasses to your head again, just to squint at the vividity of the golden hour. You flash the boy an ice-cream-stained smile, tight-lipped and warmer than the setting sun — like he’s one of your old friends who deserves to be looked at so kindly. (He’s neither.)

“Hello!” you greet brightly as you lift the waffle cone to your mouth. You take another bite and add through the mouthful. “Again.”

“You’re still here?” Eddie squints, ‘cause he’s not sure what else to say.

“I’m on lunch—” you answer, slightly slurred through the melting ice cream on your tongue. A milky drop of pink and orange falls to the side of your thumb, and you lick it away mid-sentence. “—Late shift.”

Eddie hums with a slow nod, squinting one eye to block the sun.

His pale skin buzzes, even under his leather jacket and dark thrifted tee. It isn’t because he’s hot, though. He hasn’t broken a sweat — not even swaddled in the ninety-degree evening — because he lost the ability to somewhere between getting eaten alive and rising from the dead.

The sunlight just makes him feel a bit weaker than usual. Hungrier, too. And he hates being hungry because it makes him feel viciously ravenous. Like a total barbarian. Cruel and angry and inhuman. So he tries to stay out of the sun when he can.

He knows he should start plotting his way out now, but talking to you is like getting caught in a spider’s web. He gets all tangled in his words, netted in his want to impress you. He ends up superglued in a trap he isn’t totally sure he wants to get out of.

“Must be a slow day then, huh?” Eddie jokes dryly.

Your face twists. “Hm?” you wonder wordlessly as your tongue darts to the corner of your mouth.

“I just meant that— You’re a lifeguard and everything, right? And you— You’re dry, so… There must not have been a ton of lives to save today,” the boy explains, gesturing wildly with ringed hands. He laughs at himself and sticks the trembling limbs into his jacket pockets. “That’s… That’s what I meant.”

You don’t seem to notice his sudden floundering, or the way he can hardly make out an intelligible sentence when you’re looking directly at him. He can’t tell if you’re just kind enough to ignore it or if you’re just totally aloof. He hopes for the latter.

“It’s a lot less swimming than you’d expect, honestly,” you confess as you analyze the melting cone in your hand. You twist your wrist with your face pinched in concentration — like deciding whether to bite into the pink, green, or orange bit is that intense. “It’s just a lot of, like, blowing whistles... And walking around…”

You choose the raspberry pink side in the end, crunching as you bite into the waffle cone.

Eddie nods in response — not because he’s really heard you, but because he feels like he sort of understands you in some way now. You were sweet raspberry in the flesh. The color pink incarnate. Gold and glittering, like the sunset was fashioned in your likeness.

But then you smile up at him, with crispy wafer crumbs clinging to the raspberry-lime-orange concoction on your mouth, and the moment feels a lot less poetic than that.

“Sometimes I just wanna be like, ‘Jeez— Can’t one of you fuckers at least try to drown or something? God,” you mock in an accent that’s hardly your own, giggling at yourself halfway through.

You flash Eddie another expectant smile. Grinning with all your teeth as you wait for him to laugh with you.

It takes him a second too long to force another chuckle — still trying to gauge how serious you are — but you don’t seem to mind. “Right. Well, uh… Here’s hoping, right?” Eddie quips with a crooked smile, lifting his right hand to flash his crossed fingers.

You giggle louder at that. Laughing with him, and not at him, for the first time since he started making a fool of himself in front of you.

His chest swells like he’s still got a functioning heart hiding there. It’s sparkling and warm, full of pride, almost like he’s alive again. Truly alive. He realizes, then, that he never wants to stop making you laugh.

When your giggling ceases, you hum a contented sigh and take another sloppy bite of your ice cream cone.

Eddie watches you — unblinking, like a total freak — and tries to figure out if he made you up in his head.

You were like a fairy-tale princess come to life. An enchanted form of imagination, slightly childlike and effortlessly romantic in a way. You were the kind of girl who held butterflies on the tip of her finger, who reached out to touch the stars at night, who shared her secrets with the moon when no one else would listen.

You’re the kind of thing that only exists in dreams. You have no real sense of reality, accordingly, which Eddie thinks only proves his point.

With sunshine glittering in the strands of your hair, your eyes flit back to his. Eddie averts his gaze suddenly (and very obviously) from yours, but if you’re perturbed by his leering, you don’t show it.

Instead, you look at him the same way you’ve been looking at him this whole time — like you’ve got a world of magic secrets hidden in your eyes. Like you want him to come searching for every single one of them.

“Did you— Did you walk here, or…?” the boy trails off, eyes falling to your rubber sandals.

He hopes you hadn’t. It’s far too hot, and the pool is quite a few blocks from here. From what little he’s learned about you, though, he figures you’re probably crazy enough not to care.

“Bus,” you answer plainly, pausing mid-bite.

Eddie blinks. “The buses stopped running a half hour ago… You know that, right?”

You freeze. Melted ice cream pools at the edges of your mouth. A very loud answer, even in its silence.

There’s a very audible crunch-ing sound as you chew through the too-big bite. You bring your palm to your chin to catch rogue crumbs and blink up at Eddie with wide eyes.

“…What?” you wonder pitifully in response. Though, with your mouth still full, it sounds more like a deep, muffled, and utterly pathetic, “Wah—?”

“They stop running here at six-thirty.”

You swallow, face screwed.“Why?”

Eddie shrugs. “Beats me.”

You turn away — staring far off at the parking lot but looking at nothing, really. Eddie feels like he can finally breathe now, without your eyes strangling him.

He watches you go deep in thought and wishes he could see what the inside of your mind looks like. He imagines it’s full of confetti. Wild, glittering thoughts and a handful of sparkling confetti.

“Well…” you huff after a few moments, a deep and whimsical sigh. You look down at the melting cone in your fist and try to find a silver lining in the swirls of pastel colors. “‘Least the ice cream’s good.”

“Are you gonna walk?” Eddie wonders aloud as his chest pinches with misplaced worry. He crosses his leather-clad arms over himself in a feeble attempt to soothe the ache there — to smother his palpable empathy, which makes him feel like your burden is his to carry.

He doesn’t have to. Carry it, that is. It’s not like you’re not asking him to. But he can’t ignore the overwhelming urge to help you — this strange, elven princess who needs rescue by a lowly bard way out of his element. It’s an instinct that borders on primal.

“Do I have a choice?” you respond rhetorically. Eddie shrugs and you shrug back, unfazed. “I can walk. The sunset’s pretty… And there’s a dog park on the way there, so… That’ll be fun, I guess.”

Eddie’s dark eyes flit to the sky, where the sun’s slow descent paints the wispy clouds in vivid colors of blush and honey. He understands the simple beauty of it but rarely ever gives it a passing glance.

He spends most of his sunsets inside, hiding from the pretty golden hour behind closed curtains. He cowers under his blankets like a child (‘cause his tiny square window is west-facing, painfully so) and tries to tell himself that he’s not as hungry as he feels.

That he’s not hungry at all.

That he’s still normal.

Eddie looks back to you a moment later, features twisted with uncertainty. “I’m pretty sure the park’s gated after sunset…”

You don’t ask him how he knows that, and he’s grateful. He figures you must assume that he’s got a dog of his own, which is a lie he’s happy to stick to.

It’s better than admitting that Jim Hopper nearly caught him dealing a couple years back and had to make a quick escape through the park — where he then had to hop a locked fence he didn’t know was there. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if he hadn’t rolled directly into dog shit when he fell to the ground. That’s a secret he’ll take to the grave.

If the Chief takes mercy on him, anyway.

“Well… The sunset’s still pretty,” you conclude with another sigh, because at least that can’t be taken from you.

Eddie watches you take another bite and makes a very pointed decision not to tell you that that’ll be gone soon, too. By the time you walk back to work, the sky will be a muddy mixture of orange and lilac and navy. Hardly a thing worth looking at.

He lets you revel in your little nothings anyway.

“I should— I should probably go. I have a… thing to get to, so…” he trails off, chuckling at his own hopelessness. His worn sneakers scuff the pavement when he steps back from you. He scratches at the small curls twisted at the nape of his neck and tries to find the words to say goodbye. “Uh— Have a good rest of your shift, I guess. Hope it’s more… eventful.”

You smile at his stammering and his poor excuse for a joke.

“Thanks,” you nod. “Have fun with your… thing.”

Eddie nods once. His smile wavers only slightly when he turns away. His cheeks puff as he exhales a deep breath — which he hadn’t realized he’d been holding until now.

He stops short at the edge of the sidewalk. Doesn’t even make it off the fucking curb before his guilty conscience catches up with him. It stops him like a force field and weighs heavy on his chest with a similar strength.

He turns quickly again, curls whipping around his face. “Do you… Do you want a ride?” he blurts with a squint in his deep chocolate eyes.

The offer is hardly from the kindness of his unbeating heart. He just wants to make himself feel better, if he’s honest. He wants you to decline, actually — so then he’d be alone, and his conscience would still be clear.

Your eyes widen softly at his offer. You shift on the hard bench. It squeaks quietly under your weight.

“Well, I— I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t wanna intrude,” you tell him, stumbling over your words for the first time in front of him.

Something about it, how shy you’ve suddenly gone, makes you feel a bit more human compared to the glittering creature Eddie made of you in his head.

The boy shrugs. “You wouldn’t be.”

“No?”

“No. It’s just… on the way…” Eddie insists, sighing to himself, because Hawkins Pool most definitely is out of his way. “So, you know… It’s no problem.”

There is a beat of fleeting silence, filled only by a whispering summer breeze and muddled conversation from distant mall-goers. Eddie’s eyes dart over your features, twisted softly with a faraway look of worry.

The anticipation has his heart in his throat. He isn’t sure now what answer he wants to hear. Both might equally break his heart. A double-edged sword.

Your chest deflates with a dramatic sigh of relief. A lazy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “Okay. Good. ‘Cause I didn’t wanna be, like, too eager, you know? But that would be… super duper nice.”

“Good thing I’m a super duper nice person then, huh?” Eddie jokes with a tightlipped smile, which ebbs into a scowl the moment he turns away from you.

He becomes a storm cloud of annoyance as he stalks across the parking lot. Less so because of you and more so because of his deep-rooted sensitivity, where everyone else’s emotions demand to be felt by him and him alone.

It’s a very strange thing, indeed: to be dead and yet still carry the crushing empathy of a person with a bleeding heart.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

real to real is living rarity, people stop and stare at me

we just walk on by, we just keep on dreaming . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Eddie doesn’t look back to make sure you’re following him. He knows you are. He can tell by your lingering strawberry-vanilla scent, and your rhythmic footsteps in rubber sandals that trail just behind him. The incessant flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop quickens as you rush to keep up with his longer strides, trying hopelessly to finish your ice cream and talk at the same time.

“Adam— my manager— he’s such a hardass. Like, if I was late today, he definitely would’ve fired me,” you ramble and crunch hard into your cone. “Well… maybe not fire me… ‘Cause we’re kinda short-staffed right now— But he definitely would’ve given me a lecture! Like, dude, just because your dad owns the joint, doesn’t mean you have any actual authority over me, you know?”

You giggle loudly at yourself. Eddie just nods in response, barely listening, and not bothering to glance back at you.

You continue anyway, through a mouthful, no less. “Except, he kinda does have some authority, I guess. Since, you know, he’s the one who signs my checks and everything, but… You know what I mean.”

The boy ahead of you stops suddenly in place. Your sandals scuff the pavement to keep from running into the back of him. He turns to face you, brunette curls flouncing, and your heart skips at the proximity. He’s much too pretty for anything else.

You can smell the cologne spritzed on his neck from here. A high-pitched and very boyish cedarwood that makes him somehow more endearing. There’s something floral in it, too — perhaps from the conditioner making his hair all shiny. And the subtle powdery scent, you figure, comes from his old Back Sabbath tee. An evident hand-me-down of some sort.

You can see more of him like this without having to ogle like a creep. His brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, but you can see flecks of gold in them, too. His pronounced nose is dotted with pores and faint freckles you think you could count if he let you. There are a couple of spots on his jaw, too — some still red, others already scared over — that make his scowling face more youthful.

He’s got a couple of dark circles under his eyes, which you think means he doesn’t get as much sleep as he should. He’s got a pair of perpetual smile lines beside his mouth, too, which must mean he laughs a lot (even if he isn’t now). And he’s got a subtle furrow between his bushy brows ‘cause he’s totally the quiet, observant type.

You’d like to think you’re taking a closer look at him than anyone else in Hawkins ever has. Where they see a freak with crazy hair and a dangerous attitude, you see an old soul with young eyes and a wild mind.

“Is this you?” you wonder aloud, with ice cream clinging to the corners of your mouth.

Eddie lifts his hand and taps the key fob twice. The rusted tin can behind him unlocks with a hearty ca-chunk. He fakes a tight-lipped smile, “Yep.”

You rush around the hood then, hurrying for the passenger seat and struggling to finish the rest of your ice cream. Eddie eyes you expectantly as he lifts himself onto the chipped pleather of the driver’s side. His deadpan face twists with amusement as you inhale the remaining bits of your ice cream.

Your eyes go wide when you catch him staring, cheeks jutted like a chipmunk’s. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, then swipe your palms together. “Sorry— Sorry, I didn’t—” you swallow hard and try not to choke. “I didn’t wanna get ice cream all over your van.”

A laugh sputters from Eddie’s mouth, a more boyish sound than you thought he was capable of, and he hurries to cover his mouth with his fist. He can feel the sharp stinging of his fangs as they stab slowly through his gums, more prominent now that you’re so close to him — smelling as sweet as you look.

“Well, this isn’t exactly a sports car,” he scoffs. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

You swallow down the rest and hop in beside him. The faux leather of the passenger seat has grown distressed with time, sticking to your sunkissed thighs where your skirt doesn’t reach and poking you in places. The smell of his cologne stains the interior, along with a more subtle, skunkier scent.

You have to tug extra hard on the seatbelt — once, twice, and then a third time — before it gives.

Eddie sticks the key into the ignition and twists. A heavy metal guitar solo blares suddenly through the speakers, rattling the old van and making both of you lurch with a momentary panic.

“Shit!” the boy curses as he reaches for the blasting radio. He turns down the volume with pale, lanky fingers, wide eyes flitting from the console to the pavement as he peels out of the Starcourt lot. “Shit… Sorry.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “It’s okay. I listen to my music loud, too. I’m pretty sure I’ve blown out the headphones to at least two Walkmans by now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie hums with a lazy smile. “What kinda stuff stuff do you listen to?”

You purse your lips to the side and avert your gaze as you ponder the question. “Van Halen, definitely… Dio and Def Leppard occasionally— oh, and don’t even get me started on Ozzy Osbourne.”

Eddie feels like his heart’s in his throat. It settles there and makes it hard to breathe while his anxious hands fidget on the steering wheel.

You can’t be this pretty and like all the music he likes. It’s just not fair. It’s like the universe is trying to kill him. (Even though it kinda already did that once.)

“Are you joking?” he wonders aloud, laughing with furrowed brows. His chocolate eyes dart from you, to the winding road before him, and back again. The soft smile on your lips blossoms into a more mischievous thing, and he nods slowly to himself. “You’re… You’re joking, right?”

“I might’ve been looking at your cassettes, yeah.”

Eddie’s gaze flits downward to where he keeps his tapes stacked in a cubby beneath the console. His chest aches with a distant embarrassment. “Right…” he huffs.

“Real answer?” you offer with a twinkle in your eye, spinning in the seat to face him more. You tuck your feet beneath you and count each name on your fingers. “Cyndi Lauper, Madonna, ABBA, and Blondie. That’s my top four— Not in that order, though! I love them all equally.”

“That makes… a lot more sense.”

“Do you have any of their tapes we could listen to?”

Eddie scoffs a faint laugh until he realizes you’re being serious. His tightlipped smile ebbs as he answers, “I can’t say that I do. No.”

“That’s too bad,” you huff and slouch further in the passenger seat. You gaze out the window with a faraway look in your eyes and start rambling before you mean to.

“I’ll let you bum one of mine, if you want. You can borrow my copy of Arrival, that’s one of my favorites! My most favorites. Or Super Trouper, maybe. I love that one, too...” You deflate with a heavy sigh. “Shit. I can’t decide— Which one do you prefer?”

Eddie stammers for an answer. He feels like you’re barely speaking his language.

“Screw it. I’ll just make you a mixtape,” you decide firmly. “It’s impossible to pick just one.”

Eddie nods wordlessly to himself, unconvinced that he’ll ever actually see you again — like this, anyway. With you making a home in the passenger seat of his van, which has never known a pretty girl like you before now.

“You could always swing by the pool if you want,” you offer with a hopeful grin. “Adam lets me man the radio sometimes.”

“Does he?” Eddie hums indifferently.

“When I wear my bikini, yeah.”

His face screws at the thought of someone taking advantage of you in that way, with you perhaps too gullible to understand. “Well, Adam sounds like a dickwad,” he grumbles and shifts his grip on the steering wheel.

“A massive dickwad,” you giggle like it’s your first time ever using the phrase. “One time, I played my Billy Joel tape, and he called it pedestrian. Pedestrian! Not only is that, like, totally sacrilegious or whatever, but it’s also extremely pretentious. Just call it lame or something, you sound arrogant.”

When your rambling ceases, you can hear Eddie laughing. Really laughing. Not just that weird breathy sound he keeps making. It spills from his mouth like sunshine, though he tries to stifle it with a fist pressed to his mouth. And even though you don’t remember saying anything particularly funny, you laugh alongside him.

“Why do you cover your smile when you laugh?”

“Why do I do what?”

“You always put your hand over your mouth when you smile,” you observe with a curious squint. “Did you know that?”

Eddie’s tongue darts over his protruding fangs, which peek in faint slivers from his pink gums now. You would only see them if you checked his mouth like a dog, but he gets self-conscious about it, anyway.

“No. I didn’t. Must be an old habit, I guess,” he stammers, lying through his teeth as he turns into the parking lot of Hawkins Community Pool.

The crowd there has seemingly ebbed with the setting sun, which he’s grateful for. He stays on the far edges of the property still, lest he draw any unwanted attention. ‘Cause the only thing more recognizable than his wild hair is the tin can he rides around in.

His ringed hands curl around the gear stick. The van jerks softly when he puts it in park. Eddie clears his throat. “We’re, uh— We’re here.”

You get distracted easily, and he’s grateful for that, too. You drop the conversation entirely as you reach for the seatbelt. The buckle clicks when you unfasten it. “Thanks for the ride, Eddie,” you chirp with a pretty smile.

His head snaps in your direction with enough force to give him whiplash. His mouth opens and closes like a fish as he gapes at you. He struggles to find the words to say. He thinks he’d rather face a hundred demobats (again) than have this conversation.

“You…” he swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “You know my name?”

You shrug, oblivious to his otherwise very palpable fear. “‘Course I do.”

His heart would stop if he weren’t already dead. He thinks the force of his current shock could jolt it into beating all over again. Though, he figures he has no right to be so surprised. He is Eddie Munson, after all — the town freak who didn’t murder Chrissy Cunningham but left her to die instead.

No one knows that she’d been long in the dying before Eddie ran like a coward. No one knows that there was nothing he could do to stop the dark wizard from killing her. No one knows that he died trying to avenge her death despite all that. And no one ever will — save for the handful of teenagers who saved Hawkins alongside him.

Eddie knew, from the moment he rose from the dead and made it out of that godforsaken hellscape, that he would never be seen as the hero. He didn’t want to be. He just wanted to be a kid.

But here he is now. A half-dead and hated thing. A creature not worth loving.

And here you are, smiling at him like you intend to love him back to life.

“So… So you know what happened with… With the…” He talks with his hands and struggles to make the words out. He always has. He always will.

You nod before he has to. “Yeah. I think I just… I figured that wasn’t something you wanted to talk about with strangers—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he insists.

“Then me not bringing it up was a good thing, right?”

“I mean, yeah, but—”

“Well, I’m hearing a lot of talking for someone who doesn’t want to talk about it,” you mock, not totally unkind, just a little bit strange.

Eddie almost laughs at that. “I’m just— I’m confused.”

“About what?”

Now, he really lets himself laugh because the answer’s rather obvious.

“Because most people are scared of me!” Eddie blurts with a cynical chuckle, gesturing wildly with his pale, ringed hands. “Everyone thinks I’m some— psycho-killing murderous freak.”

“Well, I don’t,” you insist, all pretty in your way, as you shift on the worn pleather seat beside him. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

You unlatch the glove box ahead of you and help yourself to its contents. The junk inside clatters together while you search very obviously through it, rambling mindlessly to yourself as you do so.

“You like mint-chip ice cream cones smothered in sprinkles. And your initials are sewn onto the waistband of your jeans— like you’re gonna lose them or something. And… there’s a Blondie tape hiding in here.” You giggle to yourself and flash him the cassette.

Eddie blinks at you like an owl. “That’s not mine.”

“Secret girlfriend?” you tease with a scrunched nose.

“Secret tape,” he confesses before plucking it suddenly from your fingertips.

There’s a whole story behind it that he’d tell you if he could. About how he couldn’t leave the house for some weeks after he came back to life and how his friends brought him things to pass the time. Robin Buckley had an elaborate assortment of board games that bordered on concerning, and Dustin Henderson had brought an entire library to his trailer.

The rest of them put together a selection of tapes for him to listen to. He can’t be sure now if Nancy Wheeler really gave up her prized Blondie cassette or if Mike Wheeler did it without her knowing.

You struggle to bite back your laughter as you sort through the center console next.

“See! That doesn’t exactly read psycho-killing murderous freak to me, Eds. Honestly, it kinda reads as someone who’s never hurt anyone in their whole life, who probably wants everyone else to stop hurting them—” You cut yourself off with a gasp. “Ah! Here it is.”

You dig a rogue ink pen from the depths of the console. A bright smile tugs at the edges of your lips. Eddie’s still struggling to breathe when you reach for him. “Can I have your hand?”

“Why?” he wonders with pinched brows.

“You’ll see,” you lilt mischievously and take his ringed hand in your smaller one.

He worries, briefly, that you might comment on how cold he is for the middle of summer. But if you notice it at all, you don’t mention it as you scribble your number onto the back of his hand.

Eddie grimaces when the tip presses hard into his pale skin. “Ow…”

“See? You’re just a big baby,” you joke, giggling quietly to yourself. You click the pen with your thumb as you part from him. “There. Now you have my number.”

Eddie flashes you a dubious glance, unsure of what he ever needed your number for.

You answer his silent question like it’s obvious. “So I can give you the mixtape.”

“Right,” he hums with a slow nod.

“Well, I’m gonna go clock back in before I get a total earful from Adam,” you sigh and reach for the metal door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Eddie.”

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs nonchalantly as you slide out of the van. The back of your pleated skirt rises softly in the process, flashing a glimpse of your ass. He swallows hard and stammers. “Just— Just, like, be safe, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” you mock with a lighthearted chuckle.

“Well, this is a crazy world we live in, haven’t you heard?” Eddie jokes to cover up his blunder. He tilts his wild head to his shoulder as a pink smile forms crooked on his mouth. “I hear psycho-killing murderous freaks are roaming the streets these days.”

He expects you to laugh, but you grow strangely serious instead, furrowing your brows as you mumble to yourself. “Crazy World... That’s a good song, actually. I should put that on the mixtape—”

You forget to say a proper goodbye as you close the door behind you. The rusted metal hinges screech before slamming shut. You walk off towards the pool house without another word, flip-flopping the entire way to the front gate. Eddie watches you go with his features twisted in a subtle mixture of shock and awe.

Steve Harrington was right. What the hell was that?

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

oh, how could i ever refuse?

i feel like i win when i lose . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Three days pass before Eddie sees you again. Not that he’s counting, anyway. He debates, however, calling you on the second one — but by then, your number had long disappeared from his hand. He decided, then, to count his losses and pretend he wasn’t as boyishly heartbroken as he felt.

Missing you was a double-edged sword. He never wanted to see you again, but he mourned for you always. He prayed he’d never run into you like before but searched for you in all the faces he met. It was agony.

When he drops Dustin off at Scoops Ahoy after a long afternoon of campaigning, Eddie tells himself it’s not with intent to run into you there. He tells himself it wouldn’t be the worst thing, but not to get his hopes too high. That he’d only make a fool of himself. That it’d be better if he didn’t see you at all.

He’s left grieving anyway when he doesn’t immediately spot your face in the dwindling crowd of the ice cream shop.

“If it isn’t the man of the hour,” Robin lilts from where she sits at one of the tables, obviously on her break and eating from a bowl of the rainbow gummy bears they use as toppings.

“You dweebs talking about me?” Eddie scoffs as he shoves Dustin light-heartedly ahead of him.

As soon as he crosses the threshold of the small shop, you come very suddenly into view. You sit ahead of Robin, in your usual uniform, and with your usual rainbow sherbet cone. You steal a few rogue gummy bears from her cup and dip them into your ice cream, which has started to melt with your distraction.

He stills in place, struck with a bolt of blue. Your pretty, summer scent hits him full force, then — slaps him in the face and demands to be noticed. You flash him a small smile, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“Not at all,” Robin answers with a knowing smirk.

Steve scoffs from where he wipes down the counter, tendons flexing in his golden arm. “Only for ten straight minutes.”

“We were talking about how I gave you my number. And how you never called,” you explain to the poleaxed boy, tilting your chin to your shoulder to peer at him from beneath your lashes. A mischievous smirk hints at the corners of your lips. “A girl could start to wonder, you know?” you tease, only partially playful.

Eddie stammers for an explanation. He feels like his heart’s in his throat, like it’s closing on him, and like he can’t really breathe.

He blinks rapidly as his head starts to swim. He zeroes in on your heartbeat, though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s a soft and rhythmic whoosh, whoosh, whooshing — like that of an excitable baby deer. His hands ball into fists until his dull nails leave crescent shapes in his palms.

Dustin gapes at the sight of you. “You’re real?” the strange, curly-haired boy blurts.

“Me?” you ask with pinched brows, motioning to yourself with the ice cream cone.

“Dustin!” Eddie scolds, nudging him pointedly on the shoulder.

The boy cowers. “Sorry. It’s just… I thought you were, like, an imaginary person Eddie made up or something,” he admits, squinting his hazel eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. You flash him a dubious look until he elaborates obliviously. “‘Cause Gareth was making fun of him for not having any friends outside of Hellfire and stuff—”

“Hey,” Eddie snaps to get the rambling boy’s attention, tapping the brim of his Thinking Cap. “Shut up.”

“What’s Hellfire?” you wonder aloud.

“Book club,” Eddie lies.

You grin with furrowed brows. “You talk about me at book club?”

“I mentioned you. Once. ‘Cause Gareth asked— And I didn’t call because the pen smudged,” Eddie answers all at once, swallowing hard when he feels bile building in his throat. He can’t get your heartbeat out of his ears. Or your scent out of his nose. It’s suffocating, all of it. “Does that clear everything up, or…?”

Steve hisses through his teeth. Robin scoffs. You blink at him with wide eyes, hardly expecting him to be so short with you. “Uh-huh,” you nod with a forced smile.

Eddie would apologize for it if he didn’t feel so sick. But now he teeters on the knife’s edge of nausea, unsure if he’s going to faint or vomit or both. So he fakes his own smile and inches towards the exit. “Great. I’m gonna— I think I’m gonna go—”

“And leave us with babysitting duty?” Steve scoffs. “How nice of you.”

Dustin frowns and flashes the makeshift sailor his middle finger.

Eddie fumbles to come up with an excuse. “I just remembered, uh— Wayne wanted me to record Cheers tonight, and I totally forgot. The ol’ geezer’ll kill me if he misses an episode, so… I gotta run.”

He ducks out without another word, grimacing at himself because he’s usually a much better liar than that. The others can surely see right through him. They know that he’s unwell — that he’s just hungry and impossibly overstimulated.

But you don’t. You don’t know him at all, and maybe that’s exactly why you rush out of Scoops behind him.

Eddie shoves the glass exit of Starcourt Mall with trembling hands. The summer breeze rushes over him immediately, billowing through his hair and clothes. He takes his first good breath and the swimmy feeling of nausea starts to fade.

The hunger remains even still. The ravenous thoughts remain, too — of your heart between his teeth, beating on his tongue, and your blood tasting of sweet red wine.

When he starts to scare himself, his mind tells him that he’d never hurt you. That he hasn’t yet, and that he never will. But still, the thoughts are there, and they hardly ever leave.

Your fresh berry scent covers him like a shroud as he rushes to his casket (his van, really, but the symbolism fits.) You struggle to keep up with his longer strides, pleated skirt flouncing as you hurry behind him — a kicked puppy who doesn’t know when to stay back.

“I don’t mean to annoy you, you know?” you call after him.

Eddie stills and spins sharply around to face you. You stumble back on rubber sandals to keep from running into him, trying not to cower when he towers suddenly over you.

“What?” he asks with his features swirled in confusion and distant suffering.

Your wide eyes dart over his pallid features, more sallow than you remember. You forget everything you were going to say as concern drips from your pretty features. “Do you feel okay?”

“I feel— fine,” he stammers, less than convincingly.

“Okay…” you nod, unconvinced, then repeat yourself. “I don’t mean to annoy you, by the way.”

Eddie shrugs. “What makes you think you annoy me?”

“I dunno,” you answers, sheepish in a way he hasn’t seen you before. You shift your weight on your scarlet sandals and talk wildly with your hands, looking everywhere but at him. “I kinda talked your face off a few days ago, and then I made that stupid joke about you not calling, and I just… I realized you don’t know me all that well. And that I can be kind of a lot sometimes. Or, you know, a lot of the time. But it’s not like I mean to be, you know? I don’t mean to be a burden or to—”

“You’re not a burden,” Eddie blurts.

Your breath catches as you blink at him with wild, glassy eyes. He gets the feeling no one’s ever said that to you before and tries to ignore the stinging in his chest.

“No?” you echo in a mousy voice.

“Not even a little bit,” he answers instantly.

You inhale a shaky breath that leaves through your mouth in a sigh of relief. “So you’re not upset with me?”

“No,” Eddie scoffs. “You haven’t done anything to upset me. So far, anyway.”

You nod to yourself at the reassurance. “Okay. Good. I just— I thought you ran off in such a hurry ‘cause you didn’t wanna be around me or something.”

You chuckle to yourself, feeling silly about it now.

Eddie shifts awkwardly ahead of you ‘cause you’re not too far off.

“Do you… Do you want a ride?” he offers despite himself — despite his overwhelming feelings for you and despite the fact the buses are still running for another fifteen minutes.

He chucks his thumb over his shoulder and flashes you a sheepish look. Because he isn’t sure of what to say now, or if he wants to leave you at all.

You duck your chin and scrunch your nose, too pretty for your own good. “If it’s not too much trouble?” you lilt.

Eddie only grins. “Who says I don’t like a little bit of trouble?”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

under those white street lamps,

there is a little chance they may see . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

He survives the golden hour, but just barely. Eddie hides from the setting sun underneath the covers, writhing on the thin mattress as he waits for the ravenous feeling of insatiable hunger to pass. It never does.

Instead, he feels the absence of you most ardently. He withers away as he grieves for you, like a wilting flower craving sunlight. But he’s nothing but a pale, gray, and exhausted thing now — an unloveable creature aching for a feeding.

“Wayne…” Eddie grumbles tiredly, half muffled into his pillow. When he receives no response from his uncle, he musters the strength to shout. “Wayne!”

Footsteps trudge down the hall, bulky work shoes heavy on thin carpet. His bedroom door creaks slowly open, and his uncle stands beneath the frame of it — wearing the thick navy coveralls that has his name sewn in cursive on the chest. His weathered hands work at the buttons below the collar.

“What is it, Ed?” Wayne wonders in a gravelly drawl.

Eddie takes in a rattling breath, peeking one eye open to look at his uncle. His vision’s too swimmy for anything else. “Can you call Hopper?” he slurs like a sick child.

Wayne’s graying brows furrow in worry. He squints at his nephew across the bedroom, languishing beneath his covers and growing more waxen by the second. He’s typically only this miserable when he hasn’t fed in weeks.

“You hungry again? It’s only been a couple days.”

“I know,” the boy grumbles, squirming on the mattress like he can’t get comfortable. “I just don’t feel good...”

Wayne can see that much from here, so he doesn’t put up any more of a fight about it. He fastens the cuffs of his sleeves with wise and suddenly anxious hands. “I’ll give him a call before I head to work… You gonna be alright without me?”

Eddie nods against the pillow, curls frizzing around his head. He responds in jumbled slurs, “Mhm. ‘M alright. ‘M just… real tired…”

“I’ll call Hopper,” Wayne repeats, firmer this time, before shutting the door behind him.

Eddie spends the next half hour rotting away in the lonely trailer.

Jim doesn’t bother to knock when he arrives, but it’s not like he needs to. He makes enough deliveries of the riboflavin kind to Forest Hills that he deserves his own key.

Besides, Eddie could smell him when he pulled into the driveway — the pint of blood he carried with him, more so. It’s a deep, rich, and powdery scent. Nowhere near as sweet as you. But then again, he doesn’t think anything could be.

“What’s the special this time, Chief?” Eddie jokes with a small huff as Hopper helps prop him against the headboard.

The mustached man is still clad in his khaki work uniform, gold badge glinting in the lamplight. His hardened face remains in its usual deadpan frown, though his bushy brows furrow in a subtle confusion. “Do you really wanna know?”

Eddie thinks for a moment, then sighs. “No…”

Jim opens the brown paper bag sitting on the nightstand. He pulls out a plain styrofoam cup topped with a lid typically used for coffee. The thing looks innocent enough, save for a few drops of crimson staining the white of it, likely from an overfill.

There was a time when Eddie could do it himself. Where he could puncture the blood bag Hopper delivered and pour it into one of the mugs he and Wayne have been collecting for years.

He stopped being strong enough for that a while ago, though. The sight of blood makes him queasy now, which is ironic for very obvious reasons.

The chief does most of it for him now, though Eddie thinks Hopper likes it best that way.

“Here you go, kid,” Jim says as he passes the boy his cup of liquid scarlet. He holds the lid of it in his other hand, face screwed at the coopery smell engulfing the small bedroom. “Try not to think about it too much, alright?”

Eddie takes the cup in a trembling fist and squeezes his eyes shut so he can’t see its contents. He forces himself to down it in one go — equal parts because it’s easiest that way and because he doesn’t want to be too much of a baby in front of the chief.

The blood tastes like a strawberry milkshake as he swallows it down, but that’s always the easiest part. It’s the after that’s so ruthless. After the overwhelming bout of starvation passes. After he’s half normal again. That’s when the blood starts to taste like blood — all metallic, like a bunch of old pennies. That’s when he feels like a monster.

Eddie groans when the cup is fully drained. He passes it back to Hopper with his eyes still shut. The man takes it with one hand and pats him on the shoulder with the other. “Good job, kid,” he mumbles, dropping the empty cup back into the bag.

The boy relaxes against the pillows with a shuddering breath.

Jim waits until then to interrogate him.

“What happened between now and four days ago?” he asks with his arms crossed over his chest, towering over the boy’s bedside. “This is the first time you’ve needed to feed more than once a week. Hell, it took Wayne and me almost a year to convince you to feed more than once a month.”

Eddie shrugs lazily, lips jutted and eyes lidded. “Nothing happened.”

“I need to know, kid. So I can keep you safe.”

And so I can keep everyone else safe, too, but he doesn’t say that part.

“It’s just— This girl,” Eddie confesses, then grumbles with a sigh. “I don’t know, alright. It doesn’t even matter.”

Hopper squints. “What girl?”

“No one,” Eddie insists, then cowers under the man’s glacial stare. “Fine. Some-one. She just— makes me go all weird or whatever. I don’t know.”

Jim hums, nodding softly to himself and trying not to be too amused at the thought of Munson having a crush. He scratches at the coarse hair underneath his chin. “And is… staying away from this girl an option, or…?”

Eddie ponders the question for a moment, then exhales a chest-deflating sigh. Just like he did when questioning the origins of the blood in his cup. You were a lot of the same in that way — a thing he needed to survive but wasn’t strong enough to face.

“No… I don’t think it is…”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Hawkins Community Pool is strangely liminal after dark. The property itself is illuminated by only a few amber streetlamps, with most of its light coming from within — from inside the wooden pool house and beneath the sparkling cerulean water.

Eddie parks his van on the darkened edges of the parking lot and tries to find the courage to leave it. The crowd is minimal now, having lessened significantly since he dropped you off some hours ago.

There are only a few stragglers left, most of them teenagers soaking in the last few minutes before closing. He’s grateful for that much. The fewer eyes on him, the better.

If he wasn’t being ogled at with gazes hardened with disgust or softened with pity, people weren’t looking at him at all. Their attempts to keep from staring were perhaps more blatant than they realized.

Maybe they didn’t want to be rude, or maybe they wanted to pretend he wasn’t there at all. It made Eddie hyper-aware of himself either way, which is why he often preferred to stay hidden.

He idles by the chain-link fence, swaddled in the humid summer air that smells overwhelmingly of chlorine and dewy grass. It takes several agonizing moments to catch your attention.

You dance softly in place and mouth the lyrics to a song Eddie can only make out vaguely from here, while the girl beside you stands perfectly and unenthusiastically still.

You freeze when you catch Eddie’s gaze. Confused at first, then surprised. It takes a matter of seconds for both emotions to mix together and leave you a bumbling ball of excitement.

The boy raises a ringed hand in a curt wave, which you reciprocate with a much more enthusiastic one. You turn to your co-worker and mouth something Eddie can’t hear before rushing to the parking lot to meet him. The flip-flopping of your rubber sandals grows as you make your way to him, along with the rustling of the windbreaker you wear over your bikini.

It’s a modest scarlet two-piece, with a high waist and a halter neckline — but much more of your skin is on display than Eddie’s used to. (If there was any time he needed to be grateful for a recent feeding, it was now.)

“Hi…” you greet, panting heavily as you stand before him.

“Hiya,” Eddie grins cheekily.

“I… I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I didn’t either, honestly.”

“Did you, uh— Did you and Wayne get to watch Cheers?”

It takes Eddie a moment or more to recall his earlier lie. He nods rapidly in response, perhaps too quickly to be truthful, but you don’t seem to notice. “Uh, no. Not yet. He’ll watch it when he gets back from the graveyard shift.”

“Okay. Cool,” you beam, eyes sparkling as they dart over his features — which have seemed to gain a bit of their life back. He’s still pale, but his eyes are less sunken in than they were. The dark chocolate of his irises swim with a melted honey color. “You look a lot better, by the way. Than you did when I left, I mean. I was scared you were getting sick.”

“Nah, I just… Needed a breather, I guess,” Eddie admits with a breathy chuckle. “I was with Hellfire all day, and… Babysitting’s a tough gig, turns out.”

You laugh alongside him, noticeably less forced. “No, I get it. I basically spend all day babysitting, so…”

“Right. I shouldn’t be complaining.” Eddie scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck and grimaces when his rings get caught in his hair. It takes a very noticeable moment for him to gain the courage to ask the question on the tip of his tongue. “Can, uh— Can I see your hand real quick?”

Your brows pinch. “Why?”

“You’ll see,” he lilts with the same mischievous smile you used on him some days ago now.

He holds a ringed hand expectantly out for you. Your gaze glimmers with intrigue as you put your fingers in his paler, colder ones. You watch him dig in his jacket pockets for a moment before pulling out the same ink pen you’d rescued from the depths of junk in his center console. He clicks it with his thumb, and you jerk your hand out of his.

“Wait!” you blurt.

Eddie flinches, feeling like he’s done something wrong, like he must’ve hurt you in some way.

Your features screw in a pinched look of concentration as you stick your hands in the pockets of your windbreaker. “I’m pretty sure I have a marker in here somewhere— Ah! Here it is!” You’re smiling all over again when you pass him the black Sharpie. “So it won’t wash off before I get to call you.”

“Right,” Eddie hums with a slow nod, taking the marker from you. He bites back a smile when he catches you shoving a pack of sparkly stickers back into your pockets. “What are those?”

“Stickers,” you answer, then grimace when you realize that much was obvious. You rush to elaborate. “For the younger kids that have older siblings. They usually get dragged here, and nine times outta ten, they haven’t learned how to swim yet, so… I try to make ‘em feel better with sparkly things.”

The grin Eddie tries to hide blooms very suddenly across the expanse of his pink lips. His chest swirls with a warmer feeling because you’re sort of his sparkly thing, in a way. A bright and glittering thing that makes him feel whole without trying.

You offer him your hand again, shier now. He wraps it in his larger one with fingertips that border on glacial. You fight back a shiver while Eddie uncaps the marker with his teeth. He mumbles through it while he scribbles his number on your wrist.

“Don’t let this scrub off before you get to call me like other idiots do, alright?” he jokes, flashing you a sparkling stare beneath his lashes.

“I’ll call you the second I get home,” you promise with a firm nod. “I’ll write it down, too, so I won’t forget.”

Eddie caps the marker with a lopsided grin sitting lazily on his mouth. “And it’s only for emergencies, alright? Like, if you need a ride or… A spare Blondie cassette that I may or may not have in my glove box.”

You nod again, this time with a giddy and very poorly hidden smile. “Emergenicies,” you parrot, so he knows you really heard him.

(You call him the second you’re back from your shift, though Eddie expected nothing less from you. The emergency in question? You missed him too much.)

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

this is stranger than i thought,

�� six different ways inside my heart . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

You decide to visit him that weekend, unannounced and unexpected — which is basically how you entered his life in the first place.

You’re a smiling thing on his doorstep. A rival to the early morning sun beaming in rays behind you. Eddie squints one eye and grimaces at the brightness of each.

“Morning!” you chirp like a songbird.

“What are you doing here? How’d you even find me?” Eddie grumbles tiredly, rubbing his sleep-swollen eye with his fist. He wears his slumber all over — in the wild curls, and in the wrinkled shirt that used to be Wayne’s, and in the baggy plaid pants sitting low on his waist.

The complete and utter opposite of you: an angel kissed with the summer season.

The sun sparkles in your hair. The warm breeze billows in your clothes. The scent of something sweet clings to your skin — of fresh cherries, vanilla cake, and swathes of dewy grass. Each is tantamount to your bone-crushing beauty, which borders on whimsical and intimidating now.

It’s weird seeing you out of your uniform. A strange, but welcomed sight. You’ve traded the mandated bathing suit for a flouncier dress. The thin cotton fabric clings to your torso and drapes over your thighs like summer rain. It’s a scarlet number, gingham-patterned, with two white bows for sleeves.

Eddie’s tired eyes rake over your pretty form despite himself. He gapes when he finds the raging scrapes you wear on both knees, a bright crimson color to match your strawberry aura. “Jesus Chr— Are you okay?!”

You follow his gaze, bending softly at the waist to peer down at your legs. You press the skirt of your dress down with your palms, and your chest pinches at the sight of your raw knees.

Your eyes flit from the fresh scratches to the concerned boy ahead of you. “Which question do you want me to answer first?” you wonder with wide, sheepish eyes.

Eddie repeats, firmer now, “Are you okay?”

“I’m totally fine,” you shrug with a beaming smile before rambling an explanation, talking absentmindedly with your hands. “I decided to buy a bike after I got my paycheck, but I don’t really know how to ride it yet, so I’m trying to teach myself, and I… kinda accidentally swerved into a ditch on the way here.”

Eddie’s chest flares with a primal feeling. He can’t stand the thought of you hurt — can’t stand the thought of you hurt and him not being there to help you. “Okay…” he wavers with his face still screwed.

“I wasn’t stalking you, by the way! Scout’s honor!” you blurt, holding up four fingers instead of three. “I just knew you lived at Forest Hill’s, and, I mean, the van is a dead giveaway, Eds.”

“Fair enough,” he huffs.

“Besides, I really wanted to bring you something, and I couldn’t wait until I saw you at Scoops because the anticipation was driving me crazy—” You lose yourself in thought and slide past him in the doorway without thinking.

Eddie just blinks and shuts the door behind you. “And… What is it… Exactly?” he wonders cautiously, only partially fearful of the answer.

It takes you a moment too long to answer him, as you get lost in the sights around you. The trailer was bigger than it appeared on the outside, not messy by any means, but very lived in.

There’s a folded cot in the corner beside the recliner and a small square TV across from it playing morning cartoons. Vintage baseball caps line one wall, and a collection of mugs line the other. Everything feels like a self-portrait of the Munson family.

“The mixtape I promised,” you answer finally, spinning around to face him again. You pull a plastic cassette from the pocket of your dress and gesture with it in a nervous hand. “I was starin’ at this thing all night, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you— about giving it to you, I mean.” You correct yourself with a nervous laugh and rush to move on. “I’ve always been super bad with gifts— I can’t keep ‘em a secret to save my life. I’m good for, maybe, five seconds, and then I’m just like, gosh, I can’t wait anymore, you know?”

You realize you’re rambling and trail slowly off. You swallow hard, muster a wavering smile, and motion for Eddie to take the cassette. You watch as he studies it with a careful hand — pale and lanky and devoid of his silver rings.

“You made this for me?” he mumbles after a few moments.

“Well, I told you I would.”

“Yeah, but… You made this? For me?” he repeats, with a different inflection. ‘Cause he doesn’t know who else to put it. Doesn’t know how to tell you he doesn’t feel half deserving of anything you could give him.

You giggle in response. “You said you didn’t own anything ABBA. Or Madonna. Or Cyndi Lauper— so obviously, I had to make you an entire compilation of their discography. I’m not an asshole,” you laugh. “And I put a few of my favorite songs on there, too…. And songs that made me think of you and stuff…”

Eddie smiles before he means to. It’s a strange thing, he finds, to be thought of in such an innocent way — to be looked for in the places where he couldn’t physically be. He ducks his chin and peers at you with glimmering eyes. “Yeah? Like what?” he humors.

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s so shy!”

Eddie flinches at your singing — the volume of it, more so. Your voice rings across the quiet trailer, and a laugh sputters past his lips. “Yeah. Alright.”

“That sweet little boy who caught my eye!” you continue and reach out for him, digging your fingers into the junction of his neck and shoulder. His skin is milky white, smooth, cold to the touch.

“Okay!” he chuckles and swats you away with a playful hand. “I get it!”

“It’s the Pointer Sisters,” you grin.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

His chocolate eyes dart back and forth between both of yours, momentarily lost in the way you’re looking at him — with your eyes all squishy around the edges. He’s not used to being looked at so softly. Or being noticed at all.

He swallows hard and averts his gaze. Your scrapped knees enter his vision again, weeping a bright scarlet that threatens to drip down your shins. He ignores any instinct of hunger.

“You’re bleeding pretty bad, by the way.”

You only feel the ache when you’re reminded of it. Your stomach gets all swirly at the sight of your bruised knees, rubbed raw and stained with the grass that partially cushioned your fall.

“Gosh…” you mumble to yourself, clutching the skirt of your dress in your fists. You flash Eddie a sheepish look and a wavering smile. “Any chance I could bum a bandaid?”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

The bathroom is a tight fight, but you make it work.

You sit on the counter, per Eddie’s instruction, while he retrieves the first aid kit collecting dust in the medicine cabinet. He sits on the edge of the bathtub across from you, way out of his element (in more ways than one), as he cleans your cuts with trembling hands.

His throat is tight with nausea. His head swims with it, too. White stars speckle his vision that he tries hard to blink away. The sight of your blood, diluted and pink on the white tissue, makes him weak.

He isn’t sure if it’s instinct or desire that makes him want to swallow you whole, but the primal urge to consume you is there — in the figurative sense, of course; to bury his teeth in your neck and have a piece of you forever.

Being between your legs in such close confines is ample enough distraction, though.

You push the skirt of your pretty gingham dress up the expanse of your thighs to give him space to work. You sit with them slightly spread, too — enough to reveal a sliver of your underwear, he thinks. Eddie isn’t sure if it’s intentional or not, so he fights the boyish urge to catch a glimpse of the most private part of you.

“Jesus…” he huffs and chucks the napkin into the bin. With the blood and the grass stains now wiped away, he can see the scratches more clearly. Your delicate skin is abraded and raging with it. Like you fell and kept on falling. “Did you get mauled by a bear or something?”

“In the knees?” you quip.

“Looks like it.”

“I just wanted to match my dress,” you shrug. “That’s all.”

Eddie opens an alcohol swab with his teeth, then meets your pretty smile with a scowl. “You’re hurt. It’s not funny,” he deadpans after spitting the package from between his teeth.

“It is a little bit, though,” you argue just to argue, scrunching the bridge of your nose. He presses the damp wipe to your knee, and you flinch at the sudden stinging feeling. “Ow!”

He smiles at your pouting. “Maybe a little,” he concurs.

“That was mean!”

“You told me to distract you, so I distracted you. Sue me,” the boy shrugs, feigning innocence, as he reaches to toss the swab in the trashcan beside the counter.

The sight of wadded tissue, all stained with your ruby-colored blood, makes his breath catch in his throat. The ground starts to sway beneath his feet. His eyes go lidded and heavy. His mouth waters with need.

Eddie shakes his wild head in a feeble attempt to remove the ravenous thoughts from his brain, but all it does is make him dizzier.

He blinks wildly as he reaches for a bandaid in the opened container beside him. It slips from his clammy, tremoring hands. He fumbles to grab it again and slaps it to the counter beside you.

“You okay?” he hears you ask, sitting right in front of him but sounding much further than that.

He sits up again and clears his throat, gaze dim and glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, just— Just give me a second…” He breathes hard through his mouth. Eyes squeezed shut. Knuckles going white around the edges of the ceramic tub.

You watch with a wide, inquisitive stare as you smooth the bandages over your knees yourself. Your concerned gaze flits from the pallid boy ahead of you, to the plasters on your skin, and back to him again.

“If blood makes you queasy, you coulda just said,” you joke, trying to make him smile, ‘cause you hate seeing him so ill. “You didn’t have to torture yourself just to help me.”

“Blood doesn’t make me queasy,” Eddie tells you, though he’s still slurring his words.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to hurl?”

His glazed-over eyes are slow to open. “That’s just my face,” he deadpans.

“No. You have a pretty face, Eddie,” you insist as your giggling swells like sunshine in the tiny bathroom. “It’s just all scrunched together, like you’re gonna be sick or something— like this.”

You swirl your features in a manufactured look of drama and pain. Brows furrowed, nose scrunched, mouth snarled. Eddie chuckles before he can help it. The sick feeling still lingers, though not as obvious now.

“You are bizarre. Did you know that?”

“I did, actually,” you giggle.

Your entwining laughter fills the bathroom’s close quarters. The glittering noise echoes through the small trailer and finds Wayne at the doorstep. He toes off his work boots and pauses at the sound of giggling — one familiar and lower in pitch, the other foreign and sparkling.

His socked feet pad down the length of the carpeted ground until he finds the door between Eddie’s bedroom and the kitchen’s edge, already ajar. It creaks loudly under the man’s calloused palm when he pushes it slowly open.

His tired eyes widen at the sight before him — a pretty girl on the sink with a pair of scrapped knees, and Eddie sitting on the tub ahead of her with bloodied tissue in the bin beside him.

Wayne’s heart falls to ass like a steep drop on a rollercoaster.

You smile brightly at the strange man. “Hello!” you greet with an enthusiastic wave.

He blinks slowly at you for a moment, then nods politely. “Hi there,” Wayne says in a deep and gritty drawl before turning to his nephew. “What’s goin’ on here?”

“Nothing,” Eddie blurts, all wide-eyed and fidgeting. He struggles to be casual as he swipes his clammy hands over his thighs. “We were just, you know, hanging out…”

“Everythin’ alright?”

Eddie nods quickly, then stops when it makes him queasy. “Yeah,” he answers, clearing his throat. “Yeah, she just— fell on her bike on the way over, and—”

He flinches when you gasp.

“Wait! You’re Wayne!” you shout with a sudden recollection.

The man tries not to recoil at the volume of your voice — much too loud for so early in the day, like a chirping bird outside his window. He forces a tightlipped smile and nods again. “I am,” he tells you.

You smile so wide your eyes squint at the edges. “You have Eddie’s nose!”

Wayne laughs, a single scoffed breath. “What can I say? Big noses run in the family.”

“Well, I happen to like ‘em that way,” you insist with a casual shrug, kicking your feet back and forth from where you’re perched on the counter. Your heels meet the cabinet in several rhythmic thunk, thunk, thunks.

When you look down at your bandaged knees, Wayne and Eddie share a look without you.

The older man raises his greying brows. This girl is bizarre, Eddie can hear him saying.

He nods wordlessly at his uncle’s silent observation, as though to say: I know she is, and I happen to like her that way.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

i guess you’re just what i needed,

i needed someone to bleed . . .

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

The plastic case of the cassette you made him clatters on the dashboard of his van, filling a silence that would otherwise be occupied by you.

Eddie’s passenger seat, cracked and worn with age, feels strikingly empty without you in it. Which is strange, ‘cause your presence used to frighten him once. It does, still, he thinks — but now he mourns the haunt like an old, empty house.

He drives his rattling tin can across town to Hawkins Community Pool, with a cup of rainbow sherbet rattling in the holder at his side, like an offering for a ghost he no longer wants to exorcise from the home behind his ribcage.

“It’s gonna melt before you get it to her,” Robin remarked with a smirk as she scooped ice cream with an expert hand. “You know that, right?”

Eddie bowed his head and tried to hide behind his curls. “Not if I run real fast,” he joked sheepishly.

The pastel sherbet softens quickly in the summer heat. (Not even the van’s middling A.C., pointed right in its direction, could keep it sufficiently cool.) The muted hues of pink, green, and orange begin to swirl together as the milky concoction undulates in his ringed fist. He hopes you don’t mind and prays you see past his feeble attempt to be kind.

“Well, well, well…” Billy Hargrove lilts with a pretty pink smirk at the sight of Eddie Munson’s familiar face. He lifts his sunglasses to the top of his mulleted curls and rests his magazine on his lap. “The dead has risen…”

The poor boy sticks out without trying, despite his desperate attempts to stay hidden — all but swimming in his leather jacket, baggy jeans, and wild hair. He’s a pale, death-touched thing floating in a sea of golden life.

But, unlike the contemptuous leers from the other patrons, (some who are still certain Eddie killed Chrissy, and others who have always seemed to look at him that way), Billy Hargrove only smiles. A fake, sardonic grin that shows none of his teeth and shines mostly in his eyes.

His squinted ocean gaze glimmers like he knows all of Eddie’s secrets — which is only half-true. Billy knows what the end of the world did to him, because it almost killed him too, once upon a time.

So, no. He doesn’t know all of Eddie’s secrets.

Just the biggest one, maybe.

Despite being largely immune to the summer heat, Eddie still feels the burn of embarrassment stinging his chest. Clawing behind his ribcage like a thousand ravaging demobats. The hot-cold aching of wishing he were dead ebbs when you turn to look at him over your shoulder — when your wide eyes of sparkling hope lock with his darker, dead-er ones.

There’s an undeniable spark of delight in your irises, though Eddie doesn’t know what for. No one’s been this happy to see him in a year. No one’s been this happy to see him ever.

Something about it makes his stomach hurt. Or maybe it’s just the way you and Hargrove are sitting behind the front counter together, like a couple of old friends, with glowing sunkissed skin hugged tight in scarlet bathing suits.

In that split second, Eddie feels like he’s in high school again — a loser, not yet dead, pining for the pretty girl way out of his league and praying the basketball jock doesn’t shove him into the bleachers.

If you notice the momentary fear in his eyes, you don’t show it.

And if you care that he’s a loser, you don’t show that, either.

“Eddie! Hi!” you greet, giggling as you push yourself off the countertop. Your pleated skirt swishes around your thighs as you rush to him. Your matching sandals pad rhythmically along the stone floor. The flip-flop, flip-fop sound echoes through the shaded breezeway.

Eddie doesn’t know how wide he’s smiling when you’re finally standing ahead of him, but he can feel it burning in the apples of his cheeks.

“You haven’t been around for lunch,” he says in place of a greeting, fidgeting with the cup of melting ice cream in his fist. “I was scared that you keeled over or somethin’.”

“You were worried about me?” you wonder aloud, voice a few octaves higher than he’s used to. You purse your smile to the side of your mouth and scrunch your nose. “Aww…” you croon and dig two fingers into the junction of his neck.

Your touch is soft and warm and less than gentle.

Eddie cringes, effectively set aflame by the electricity of you. He shrinks back with a wavering smile and finds himself grateful that he’s too dead to blush these days — or else you’d see how hopeless he is.

You ramble an explanation while his skin buzzes.

“I’m a little slow on my bike, turns out, and I couldn’t make it back here in time,” you tell him, which rests his anxieties a little.

Eddie’s been worried about you ever since he patched you up in his bathroom. Everyone’s been worried about you, in truth, ‘cause it’s a well-known fact that you’re a total klutz.

“And after being late for the third time, Adam got kinda mad at me…” you continue, shifting on your feet. “He got really mad at me, actually. I wore his favorite bikini, and he still threatened to fire me. I was, like, oh shit, I’m actually in trouble—”

You giggle to yourself, but Eddie feels like there’s a knife between his ribcage. A sharp, burning, and pulsing urge to get you away from all of these assholes. To get you out of this town. God knows it doesn’t deserve you.

He swallows hard and tries to joke. “Must’ve been real bad then, huh?”

You exhale a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, so… I’m kinda trying to get back on his good side and everything. It’s easier to just stay here. I would’ve called, but I— I didn’t think you cared that much.”

“I care!” Eddie scoffs, pale face swirled with offense.

“You’re the one that said emergencies only!” you mock through another pretty giggle.

“Abandoning me for a week is an emergency.”

You light up like a goddamn Christmas tree at that.

“See! I knew you were worried about me!”

Eddie scoffs again and looks away. He focuses on the crowd bustling outside the breezeway because it’s easier than meeting your eyes. Until one of them catches his gaze and flashes him a leery look, anyway. Then he feels like he might puke.

“Not at all,” he answers in a playful deadpan, clearing his throat when his voice shakes. “That’s definitely not why I decided to bring you a… half-melted cup of rainbow sherbet.”

His chocolate eyes avert to the plastic container in his fist, swirling the milky pastels again for good measure. When he looks at you again, it’s through his lashes and with his head bowed sheepishly.

You smile with your lips curled under your teeth — obviously giddy and trying hopelessly to hide it.

“I thought it was for me, but I didn’t wanna assume,” you admit quietly, cheek squished into your shoulder.

“It’s basically a milkshake now,” Eddie mumbles and extends his arm. His voice shakes as much as his hand does. “Sorry…”

You beam at the pinched look of worry on his face. “I like milkshakes, too, silly,” you giggle and take the cup of melted ice cream from him.

Your fingers are gentle and strikingly warm as they brush his colder, paler ones. Warm like dragonfire, or an old house bathed in candlelight, or a freshly sharpened blade through the heart.

Eddie bleeds out on the pebbled concrete as you turn away.

You rush back to the counter you leapt from, balancing the container in one palm as you bend over the top of it. A satiny summer breeze rolls through the shaded shack and billows through the pleats of your skirt, lifting the thin fabric to reveal the thong of your one-piece — a sliver of soft scarlet running between your thighs.

Eddie’s undead heart lurches into his throat. He turns his gaze to the ceiling until the wind passes.

Billy looks up from his magazine to smile at you with his teeth. “This your boyfriend, sweet thing?” he asks as you pluck your straw from the styrofoam cup you were just drinking from.

The nickname floats on the humid air and strangles Eddie accordingly. Your mouth curls around the end of the bendy straw before you give him a proper answer. You blow hard to dispel the remnants of room-temperature water before sticking the plastic into the milky concoction in your fist.

“Yes,” you answer plainly, then take a long sip of the softened ice cream. You shrug with the raspberry-orange taste on your tongue. “He’s a boy. And he’s my friend,” you lilt. “Jealous?”

Billy laughs. Loud.

“Of Munson?”

You nod quietly, straw caged between your teeth.

He laughs louder and slouches in his swivel chair. The golden muscles of his toned chest flex as he flashes you a quieter smile — one that might say he knows a lot more than you do if you cared enough to read the signals.

“I can’t say that I am, no,” Billy hums, faux sympathetically.

“Well, maybe if you were a little nicer, he’d be bringing you food, too,” you tell him, very matter-of-fact about the whole thing, as you spin on the heel of your rubber flip-flop and saunter away.

Eddie grimaces when you’re ahead of him again. “Please tell me this isn’t the only thing you’ve had today.”

Your face screws as you take another sip. “No,” you answer with a firm shake of your head, though the word comes out garbled from the fruity concoction in your mouth. You swallow it down and confess, “I had half a Poptart for breakfast, so…”

“That’s… not breakfast,” the boy monotones, then motions his wild head to the cup cradled in your right hand. “And this isn’t lunch.”

“Well, I told you I don’t have time to get lunch,” you argue like a child, soft and sheepish, head bowed to avoid his unwavering stare. You stab at the softened ice cream with the plastic straw, leaving holes in the pastel swirls, as you mutter to yourself, “And I can’t make it for myself, either. I’m not adult enough for that yet.”

Eddie feels it again. The sting of empathy in his chest. The primitive need to help you that makes it hard to breathe most days.

He shrugs his leather-clad shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his trembling hands under his armpits.

“Well— Maybe— Maybe I can, you know, bring you something?” Eddie offers, stumbling over himself the entire way through. He shifts on his feet and swallows through the frog in his throat. “Like, when I have the time, or whatever.”

He doesn’t tell you that he always has the time. (‘Cause he only works nights at The Hideout now, and spends the rest of the day’s many hours rotting in bed.)

Your face pinches into a girlish pout. Something soft, but sterner than he thinks he’s ever seen you before. “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” Eddie argues. “And I’m not doing it outta the kindness of my own heart, either— It’d just make me feel better to know you’re not totally withering away whenever I’m not here.”

You try hard to keep your scowl. But then your chest starts to glitter like a thousand sparklers in July, and you’re beaming before you can stop it. Eddie watches the pretty smile curl slowly on your lips despite your futile attempt to hide it.

“What’s that look for?” he cautions.

“Nothin’,” you shrug, smiling with the straw between your teeth. “I just like you.”

Eddie forgets to breathe and dies all over again, right at your feet.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

only boys who save their pennies

make my rainy day!

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

Most Tuesdays, some Wednesdays, and every Friday — (the mornings after his late night shifts at The Hideout) — Eddie Munson buys you lunch.

He stands at the counter of Benny’s Burgers and pays with the rogue quarters and crumpled bills he finds in random pockets of his jacket. The bearded man looks on in slow-blinking bemusement while the boy counts out the $4.89 your sandwich costs.

Benny ends up throwing in free fries for the effort.

It takes Eddie an embarrassing amount of time to realize you were sneaking money into his pockets every time he visited you, even though he told you not to pay him back. Even though you swore you wouldn’t. (He’ll never believe another one of your stupid Scout’s Honor promises again).

Saturday comes, and Eddie’s cleaned out ’til his next shift on Monday.

He thinks he’s handling it pretty well — the very palpable lack of you — but the contrary is written all over his face.

He’s sprawled out on the sunken-in couch in the living room with the headphones of his Walkman around his neck. Madonna plays muffledly (and far too happily) as he stares up at the ceiling, trying to make constellations of your face from the cracks and water stains.

Dustin watches his best friend grieve from the other side of the coffee table and sighs. “It’s the sandwiches, right? You guys hate the sandwiches?” he wonders aloud, but to no one in particular. “God, I knew I put too much jelly in them—”

“The sandwiches are amazing, Dusty-Bun,” Robin insists from Wayne’s recliner, with a mouthful of PB&J jutting out her freckled cheek. Her chipping maroon nails are stained with crumbs as they flash an ‘ok’ symbol in his direction.

With grape jelly on the corner of his mouth, Steve mumbles from the floor in front of her, “Doesn’t explain why Eddie’s still sulking over there, though.”

“Exactly!” Dustin huffs, flailing his arms.

Eddie rolls his eyes. He exhales a heavy breath that makes his chest deflate, then turns to face the eyes staring back at him. “I’m not sulking,” he grumbles like a rain cloud.

“Yeah. It’s the pouting that’s so convincing,” Max scoffs from Dustin’s other side, blinking at him from behind her glasses as she fakes a tight-lipped grin.

Eddie just squints at her. She’s not nearly as menacing as she used to be. Not when her ocean eyes are bugged out from such thick lenses, anyway. Now he finds her sort of adorable, in a subtly intimidating way — like a kitten holding a pocketknife.

“I’m not pouting, either,” the wild-haired boy retorts, features scrunched in a soft pout.

Lucas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “He just misses Barbie,” the boy croons playfully.

Eddie blinks at him with a flat face. “Barbie?” he echoes.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, voice high. “Barbie.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is, or…?”

“Oh, you know who she is,” Lucas nods with a boyish chuckle. “Very well.”

He keeps on laughing about it until Max elbows him hard in the shoulder. Steve misses the silent cue as he tears off a piece of bread crust, snickering to himself at the inside joke.

He pops it into his mouth and meets Eddie’s gaze, emotionless and expectant. His eyes widen as he stammers for a response.

“The girl— Your girl— She was at Jazzercise the other day,” Steve explains, then swallows hard. “She was with that pretty lifeguard, too. What’s her name again?”

He looks instinctively up at Robin for an answer. Eddie beats her to the punch.

“Billy Hargrove?” he monotones.

“Ha-ha.”

“Heather Holloway,” Robin tells him.

“Heather!” Steve exclaims, snapping his fingers. “I’m pretty sure I dated her freshman year, actually… Or was that Heather Hart?”

The boy loses focus quickly as he goes deep in thought. Fluffy brows pinched, honey eyes squinted. A heavy silence lulls over the crowded living room, and Madonna’s muffled voice grows louder. ‘Cause we are living in a material world, and I am a material girl!—

Before Eddie has time to be embarrassed, Steve shrugs at himself.

“Doesn’t matter. Anyway. She was at Jazzercise with Heather just, like, dripping in pink. Pink leg warmers, pink leotard, pink tights…” Steve trails off again, stare glazing over like he's imagining you all over again. “It was crazy…”

Eddie’s face swirls in disgust. Not at the thought of you, of course, but at the notion that your beauty is perceptible to others. That he isn’t the only one who can see you, admire you. He is not the only one you’ve threatened to kill with your piercing stare, and the thought alone makes his stomach twist.

“You’re such a boy,” Eddie scoffs.

Robin leans forward, freckled face solemn and serious. She rests her elbows on her denim-clad knees and slowly shakes her head. “No… It was crazy,” she echoes more earnestly.

It sounds different coming from her. It means something different coming from her, too. Eddie’s brows raise and disappear beneath his curly bangs. “Oh, yeah?” he hums with bated breath.

“Yeah,” Robin answers with a disbelieving sigh.

“Hence, the nickname,” Lucas nods, seemingly missing the meaning ‘cause the only other girl he’s cared to notice besides Pheobe Cates is the redhead sitting beside him.

The girl with magnifying glasses over her eyes and legs that don’t work as well as they used to. Despite the circumstances (involving dark wizards and a certain death), Max hasn’t changed at all. And neither has the way Lucas’ teenage boy heart beats for her.

Eddie scoffs a tired laugh. He turns back to the ceiling and throws an elbow over his eyes. “I’m gonna tell her you guys call her that behind her back, by the way.”

“It’s a compliment!” Dustin defends, a few octaves higher than normal.

“Or you could tell her to her face,” Max offers with an absentminded shrug, folding her napkin into a weird shape in her lap — only ‘cause she’s fidgeting, of course, not because Dr. Owens said it would help ease the stiffness in her fingers. (Being dead might’ve taught her some things, but listening to figures of authority is not one of them.)

“She’s working today. Billy said so.”

Eddie peeks at her, flat-faced. “Did he?”

“Yeah. Means you can go visit your girlfriend instead of bitching and moaning about how much you miss her all weekend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Mayfield.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“No. That is entirely the point,” Eddie argues, laughing more sincerely now. “Other than the fact that the sun will literally kill me.”

Max’s light eyes narrow into thin slits behind her clunky glasses. She says the hard thing out loud, without blinking. that the rest of them are already thinking, anyway.

“You’re already dead, Munson.”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

hey, you, with the pretty face,

welcome to the human race!

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

No wonder the streets seemed so apocalyptically empty, Eddie thinks to himself as he walks through the front gates of Hawkins Community Pool. Because every goddamn person in town has chosen to spend their Saturday here.

Benny from the diner sits by the kiddie pool next to the entrance, watching his daughter wade in the shallow water. He looks like a different person without his grease-stained apron on. His swim trunks are bright red and slightly too short for him, his Hawaiian shirt is unbuttoned to reveal his beer belly, and his face is burnt everywhere but under his sunglasses.

Jason, Andy, and all the rest of their goons hog the picnic tables while pretty girls sit on the tops of them — wearing their expensive bikinis and basking in the sun like it’s shining just for them. The boys laugh and shove at one another, trying to pretend like they’re far too cool for it all.

Familiar faces fill the blue water, but it’s hard to make them out in the crowd. Everyone’s swimming and splashing and stuffed within the chain-linked fence like cattle. They all go blurry, like a bunch of indistinct shapes before a backdrop of bright colors. Like a Claud Monet painting, if he ever cared enough to paint uninspiring Midwestern towns.

It’s far too packed to feel self-conscious ‘cause this is the kind of horde you drown in. But that just means it’s catastrophically overstimulating. For Eddie, most of all, who’s sorely out of place in his leather jacket and baggy jeans and dirty sneakers.

The boy cranes his neck to search for you, dark eyes flitting wildly over the crowd — once, twice, and then a third time.

You’re nowhere to be found, and he knows this because your face is far too pretty and not easily missed. Your sweet hibiscus scent is equally absent, drowned out by the overwhelming smell of chlorine, sunblock, and sweat.

If you were around, he’d know it.

“She’s not even here!” Eddie huffs, lifting his arms only to drop them dramatically at his sides. Any arguments about his pouting are surely moot now. Even he can feel the petulant scowl pinching his features.

Max, equally confused, stands at his side and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Billy said she was working today. I heard him on the phone. He definitely said it,” she observes, mostly to herself, ‘cause she can’t stomach being wrong. “Well… He said he was opening with the two prettiest girls in town, so I figured one was probably Heather and the other was—”

“Barbie?” Eddie finishes flatly.

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s obviously not here, so… Let’s just go back home and do— literally anything else.”

Eddie spins on the heel of his worn sneaker with the intention of going back the way he came. His van is parked crooked, anyhow. Steve complained as much when he parked his shiny new BMW right beside him. He figures he should probably get back before someone slashes his tires. Again.

He nearly runs into someone the second he turns around. Someone standing far too close for comfort, in a bright red bathing suit and matching skirt, with too big sunglasses on the top of her head.

“Who’s not working today?!” the person shouts loudly in his face, with the evident intent to scare him.

Eddie stumbles back into Steve, who promptly shoves him forward again. It takes him approximately that long to realize it’s you.

You guffaw when the rest of them jump in fright — a loud and heavenly sound that refuses to be drowned out by the droning of a million different conversations.

“I totally got you guys!” you exclaim, giggling so hard your head tilts back.

Eddie laughs with you, mostly in shock, as he clutches his chest where his heart isn’t beating.

“Admit it! I got you a little?” you say, pinching your thumb and forefinger and squinting through the sliver of space between them.

“Yeah,” the boy huffs a forced laugh. “Yeah, a— a little bit.”

Visibly delighted by his words, you beam brighter than the golden hour sun.

“I knew it!” you grin before your eyes flit over his shoulder, to the group of friends gaping wordlessly behind him. You scrunch your nose sympathetically. “Sorry… You guys were just collateral.”

“You know I have a bad heart,” Steve complains for the sake of complaining, clutching his chest over his short-sleeved button-up. He flashes you a stern look and gripes, “That shit’ll kill me.”

Your eyes narrow in a challenging squint. “You’re twenty-one years old, Steve.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs. “And being around you ages me five years.”

“Well, then, I guess we’re gonna have a very long, very happy life together. Aren’t we, Stevie?” you retort with a sickly sweet smile that Steve meets with a scruffy-faced scowl.

Eddie watches the brunette boy roll his eyes like he wasn’t getting half-hard at the thought of you at Jazzercise an hour ago. It makes him only partly jealous.

He could never dream of being so casual around you. ‘Cause when your eyes find his again, it feels like his stomach’s doing backflips. It’s like he blinks, and he forgets how to speak.

“So!” you chirp. “Family trip?”

Eddie opens his mouth and doesn’t realize until that moment that every word in the English language has left his brain. Robin shoves him hard in the back to put his head back on straight. The words fly from his mouth like a pull-string doll.

“I didn’t wanna bother you, but these idiots forced me into it.”

“Good. You need to get out of the house from time to time, Eds— You’re getting so pale,” you ramble and reach suddenly for his face. Eddie freezes when you take his chin by your thumb and forefinger. The warmth of your velvety touch sets his skin aflame; more so when you look directly into his wide-eyed gape and say, “There’s nothin’ wrong with needing a little sunshine, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Weird,” Max muses with a sarcastic lilt. “That is exactly what we’ve been trying to tell him, too.”

Eddie shoots her a glare — the best he can, anyway, with your hand still cradling his jaw. He can only see the redhead from the corner of his eye, but the smug smirk on her freckled face doesn’t go missed.

Your fingers slip from his face, and Eddie feels like he can breathe again. He feels strangely empty, still, without you touching him — like he’s starving, or like he’s never been touched before now. Sometimes, it feels like both are true.

He wonders if that’s just the price he has to pay. If being near you means feeling like he’s dying and coming to life all at once. There’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that tells him he’ll pay it, with your pretty fingers strangling his neck and all.

“You’re MADMAX, right?” you wonder aloud to the girl with auburn plaits draping her freckled shoulders.

She’s mostly a stranger to you now, but you think she must mean a great deal to the rest of them. They talk a whole lot about the redhead with chunky glasses who acts like she’s way too cool for it all but defends her Dig Dug high score like her life depends on it.

The girl nods and crosses her pale arms across her chest, flashing you a suspicious, tightlipped smile. “Yeah. Which means you must be Barbie?”

“Barbie?” you echo.

Eddie chimes in then. “That’s what these freaks call you when you’re not around,” he says, nodding his wild head to the group of aforementioned freaks behind him.

Your face twists as you bring your hand to the center of your chest. “That is the nicest thing anyone’s ever called me before,” you respond, strangely sincere.

Lucas smiles from over Max’s shoulder, nodding like he’s proud. “You’re welcome,” he tells you.

Dustin stands just beside him with a conspicuous paper bag under his arm. You squint past Eddie and over to the curly-haired boy. “What’s that?” you blurt.

It takes him a second too long to answer. “Oh. Uh. A sandwich—” he stammers vaguely, extending his arm towards you. You take the sack from him without thinking twice and rifle blindly through its contents.

“PB&J?” you guess with an inquisitive arch to your brow. Dustin nods, looking pleased by your assumption. Your arm stills suddenly within the crinkling brown sack, and your eyes narrow into thin slits. “With the crust cut off?”

“Uh… no.”

“Good. That’s obviously the best part of the whole sandwich,” you respond, almost to yourself, as you pluck the snack from the bag.

You unwrap it from its plastic seal and take a hefty bite in one fell swoop. Your eyes flutter shut like it’s something gourmet, and not just something Dustin slapped together on his kitchen step stool at home.

“Thank you for this,” you mumble through the wad of food in your cheek. “You’re officially my new best friend, Dusty-Bun.”

“Rude,” Eddie scoffs.

You swallow hard and fight back a smile, like you were hoping for that exact response. “And who said you were my best friend in the first place, hm?” you argue playfully, waving the half-eaten peanut butter jelly sandwich in his face. “That is very presumptuous of you, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Your pleated skirt flutters at your hips when you spin on the heel of your plastic sandal. You flip flop, flip flop out of the shaded shack and towards the sunshine and unadulterated chaos. The rest of them follow behind you — save for Dustin, who migrates to Eddie’s side with a far-off gaze.

“Sure she’s not your girlfriend?” the kid wonders, never once taking his eyes off the back of you.

Eddie looks down at him with a flat face. “I’m sure,” he monotones.

Dustin grins wide, likely forgetting that other people can see it, too. “Good,” he hums to himself.

“Don’t get any ideas, Henderson,” the older boy blurts before he means to, then tries not to cower under the expectant glance he gets. “You’re obviously way out of her league.”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

The group fits in pretty well despite being the self-proclaimed outcasts of Hawkins, Indiana.

Steve most of all, but that usually goes without saying. He looks like small-town royalty in his brand-name polo and too-expensive navy swim shorts. He’s lost his touch since high school, though, as he tries and fails to flirt with Carol Perkins’ sister.

“So, Amber— What’d you say you were studying again?” you hear him ask as he lingers awkwardly by the longue chairs.

“My name is Autumn,” she corrects in a drawl that’d give a valley girl a run for her money.

Steve, oblivious to his blunder, only smiles. “Oh, cool. That’s, like, definitely in my top four favorite seasons—”

Robin, in a strange turn of events, is much more casual in her flirting than her co-worker-slash-best-friend. She spotted Vicki the second she walked in, sitting with a few girls from yearbook and rubbing sunscreen onto her supple skin.

She pretended she didn’t, though, which only made it that much more obvious that she had. Vicki waved at her once, then again to invite her over, and Robin was far too awkward to decline.

Now, she sits gracelessly with a bunch of half-strangers and her biggest crush, looking only slightly out of place in her frayed shorts and Steve’s baggy tee. She nods politely in conversation and thanks the universe for making it so damn hot today. At least now she can blame her burning freckled face on the golden setting sun.

Dustin and Lucas, meanwhile, stuff their faces with ice cream sandwiches in a feeble attempt to consume them before they melt. The softened vanilla leaves messes on their fingers and faces, making them look somehow more boyish than their respective Spiderman and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle swim trunks.

Max sits off to the side of them in her own chair, partly overstimulated, and trying to let the piercing sunbeams ground her again.

Eddie Munson, however, in his attempt to blend in, only draws more attention to himself.

He sits beside your post, shaded beneath a wide umbrella, in the same attire you’d see him in on any other day. The baggy jeans, and the thick leather jacket, and the Corroded Coffin merch. He’s dripping in black and silver but hasn’t yet broken a sweat. You don’t know how, though. ‘Cause you’re hot just looking at him.

You pluck your plastic whistle from your mouth to ask, “Are you sure you’re not burning up over there?”

Eddie laughs before he means to because the answer’s obvious to him.

The last time he felt an ounce of heat was when he was bleeding out on the dirt floor of an alternate universe — when crimson blood ran warm over the mangled skin of his chest and ribs. He’s been colder than ice ever since. And he keeps forgetting you don’t know about any of that.

“Yeah. I’m sure,” he answers, angling his head to face yours.

There’s a white cast on his grey face from sunscreen deliberately not rubbed in. It feels like a shield in some way. Not in the warm-blooded human kind of way, of course, but in the vampiric curse kind. The kind that would otherwise make him debilitatingly weak sitting outside like this. Now, he feels somewhat normal.

The golden hour sun sits like a halo behind your head. He squints one eye to see you better. “If you wanna see me shirtless, you can just say that,” he jokes. “Instead of beating around the bush and everything—”

“I wanna see you shirtless,” you blurt in a strange monotone that makes it hard to tell if you’re joking or not.

The boy falters. Tries not to choke on his own spit. There isn’t a world where he can flirt with you where you don’t immediately snatch the upper hand. It’s like you’re immune to that sort of diffidence. Eddie wishes he was, too.

“Wow,” he scoffs after the few long moments it takes him to recover. “Way to be blunt, sweetheart.”

“You told me to say it!”

You give him a lazy shrug and a lazier smile as you swap the bright red lifeguard buoy to your other arm. Eddie shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as though physically affected by the way you look at him, and the plastic pool chair makes a weird squeaking noise beneath him.

“Yeah, well, most people tend to be more subtle about it.”

“I’ve never been subtle about anything in my life.”

You turn back around to scan the busy pool, and Eddie feels like he can breathe again. A laugh rattles through his tight chest as he quips, “I’m starting to realize that about you, actually—”

“God. Stop flirting,” Max groans from your other side, who has otherwise been so silent that Eddie was starting to forget she was there. She doesn’t turn to look at either of you from where she lazes on the lounge chair. “Sitting with Steve would be more bearable than this.”

“Yeah, Eddie. Stop flirting with me,” you grouse, obviously playful, and without missing a single beat. You glare at the boy over your mostly bare shoulder and try hard not to smile. (He can’t see it in your eyes, anyway, though.) “I’m trying to talk to my new friend MADMAX. Gosh—”

You spin on the heel of your plastic red sandal, and your matching skirt twirls with you. Eddie can’t take his eyes off the back of you. He forgets how to blink when the fabric swishes to give him a brief glimpse of your ass.

He’s always hated the sun, but he loves the way it kisses your skin — leaving you glistening and mouthwateringly supple.

His fangs threaten to make an appearance when a warm breeze carries your cotton candy cloud scent to him. His gums start to burn with the sharp ache.

“—Hi, MADMAX,” you singsong to the scowling girl, grinning with your cheek pressed to your shoulder.

“You can just call me Max,” she deadpans. “You know that, right?”

“But MADMAX is so much cooler. And it suits you way better.”

“Does it?” MADMAX wonders with an unenthusiastic hum.

“Yeah. Maxine is a name for an old woman. Or, like, one of those ridiculously expensive French poodles,” you ramble and turn back to the pool again, head bobbing as you scan the crowd. “But MADMAX? Now, that is a name for a badass with really cool hair and a sick pair of reading glasses.”

There’s a beat of silence, filled only by the sound of splashing water and the buzzing of a thousand distant conversations, as Max tries to bite back a laugh. It sputters past her anxiety-bitten lips before she can stop it — a strangely airy giggle from such an intimidating girl.

She shakes her head, still, to pretend she’s above the childish giddiness.

Your face screws in feigned offense. “Don’t laugh!” you scold.

Which, of course, only makes her laugh harder.

Eddie lifts his head, finally taking his eyes off you to gape at the redhead across the aisle, who hasn’t laughed like this since the world ended.

It must be something strange you alone bring out of them, he realizes. Something special in you that the end of the world didn’t steal like it did everyone else.

“These guys bothering you, newbie?” you hear your manager call to you, only partially drowned out by the surrounding laughter and shouting from the bustling crowd.

His voice is annoyingly distinct. It’s deep and articulate in a way that makes him seem smart. You don’t know if he really is, but you do know that he’s really a raging asshole.

Adam stands before you, gold and glittering under the setting sun like God’s first creation himself. He’s got veins up and down the length of his muscular arms, and a bulging chest that he waxes every two weeks like clockwork. He’s Steve The Hair Harrington pretty without an ounce of the charm.

“Huh?” you call back, brows raised and eyes wide, just to make him repeat himself.

“I asked if these guys were bothering you,” Adam repeats, flicking his cleft chin back to get the blonde curls out of his eyes. “You look distracted.”

“What guys?” you wonder with an innocent furrow to your brows.

The man’s emerald eyes flit instinctively over your shoulder at Eddie, who everyone has been trying and failing not to stare at this whole time.

You wonder if Eddie notices it, too — if he’s gotten immune to the constant leering or if he’s bone-crushingly aware of it all. Either way, no one deserves to be ogled at like that. Like some kinda zoo animal.

Everyone always walks on eggshells around him, refusing to look him in the eye out of fear he might bite. But you know he doesn’t have the teeth for it.

Despite that, you look at Eddie over your shoulder like he’s a stranger. His eyes are wide and swimming with apprehension as the chocolates of them dart between you and the man made out of chiseled marble.

Adam knows that you know him. You know he knows it, too. Which makes lying to him all the more fun.

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” you shrug.

Adam squints and crosses his too-big arms over his chest. “Doesn’t change the fact that he’s loitering. Along with the rest of these kids—” He looks around him with a visible disgust.

Max pretends he isn’t there. Dustin and Lucas, meanwhile, forget to be casual as they cower under his stare with their ice-cream-stained faces.

“It’s a public pool, Adam. Everyone's loitering. Duh.”

You turn away and stick your whistle back in your mouth. You chew absentmindedly at the plastic and scan the pool for any reason to use it.

Adam’s neck twitches. An angry sort of tic he didn’t know he had until he met you. “You’re still on the clock, newbie. If I see you gettin’ distracted again, I’ll—”

You blow the whistle. Loud. And for far longer than you probably need to.

The high-pitched chirping rings in Adam’s ears from the close proximity. He flinches away accordingly.

“No running, please!” you shout sweetly to the pudgy middle school-aged boy on the other side of the pool. (His babysitter always brings him here so she can sunbathe, and he’s always roughhousing in the deep end. Billy’s developed a personal vendetta with him over the summer.)

The suddenly quiet pool returns to its deafening chaos a second later.

You flash Adam a cheeky smile. “You were saying?”

“I was saying that I’ll take it out of your paycheck,” the man bites, angled jaw clenched tight. “You’re already on thin ice. Understand?”

Your lip juts in a feigned pout. You nod slowly, eyes wide like a puppy he’s just kicked.

“One more strike, and you’re cleaning toilets, newbie.”

“Ah, I knew that’s what this was all about…” you lilt seductively, lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “You just want to see me bending over—”

You lean closer toward him until your spearmint breath fans across his chiseled jaw. Your bottom juts out in Eddie’s direction, until he can see the very bottom of your ass from beneath your pleated skirt. It makes him as flustered as Adam the Asshole, who stalks off on long legs quickly after, sufficiently embarrassed.

You laugh at the back of him until he disappears into the crowd again. The bubbly sound ceases the moment he’s out of earshot, and your smile ebbs into a girlish pout. “Dickwad,” you mumble under your breath.

You recover from it all rather quickly while Eddie struggles to remind himself to breathe. His mind reels as he, for the first time ever, grapples with the very real possibility that he might actually be in love with you. Or that you’re not real at all, and that this is just Vecna’s doing — long gone but still putting visions in his head somehow.

He doesn’t know which is worse.

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

oh, what a strange magic!

oh, it’s a strange magic!

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

The golden-orange sky turns a milky pink and lavender. Eddie’s friends, sunburnt and sufficiently pruned, don’t leave until the first star blinks faintly in the sky. The rest of the crowd goes with them, bustling bodies spilling out in a swarm.

It takes the rest of the gang several long moments to realize Eddie isn’t behind them. (You told him you forgot your sunglasses, and he offered to get them for you, ‘cause he’s nice like that and everything.)

(He doesn’t know the sunglasses are currently hiding in the pocket of your windbreaker.)

“What, where’s Eddie?” Dustin wonders aloud to the rest of the group, head flitting wildly in search of the misplaced metalhead.

“He went to the bathroom, I think,” you blurt the first lie you can think of. “He was talking about a nervous tummy or something. I don’t know.”

Steve scoffs like he senses a non-truth. “So, he’s leaving me with babysitting duty again?” he quips with a cynical, lopsided smile. “How predictable.”

“You say that like we’re the spawn of Satan or something,” Lucas jokes.

“You aren’t?” the oldest boy deadpans.

Dustin flips him off with a chubby finger and a flat face.

They bid their leave tangled in mindless arguments and lanky limbs. You watch them leave with the understanding that Steve’s 733i will be a tighter fit than it should be, crammed with a bunch of rowdy teenage boys. You feel sorry for Max and Robin most of all.

Steve’s car peels out of the parking lot one moment, and Eddie returns the next.

“I couldn’t find your sunglasses anywhere,” he confesses sheepishly, face twisted like a puppy’s as he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I think some asshole might’ve stolen ‘em—”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” you shrug with a tightlipped smile. “I found them in the, uh— In the lost-and-found bin.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool,” Eddie stammers, nodding slowly, just before a smile tugs at his lips. You watch from beneath your lashes as the subtle realization curls on his face. “You had ‘em the entire time, didn’t you?” the boy wonders in a low voice that makes your stomach do whirl.

“Yes,” you squeak in a mousy voice, then ramble before you can stop it. “But only ‘cause I wanted everyone else to leave! You know, so we can have a real date and everything…”

“As opposed to the fake ones we’ve been having?” he jokes with pinched brows.

“Exactly,” you nod, strikingly sincere. ‘Cause the constant carpooling and melted rainbow sherbet dropoffs had to have meant something.

“As tempting as that sounds, sweet thing,” he humors, scrunching the bridge of his nose. “I do think I might be actually coming down with sunstroke.”

You turn your head wordlessly to the entryway of the shack. There’s only a sliver of the night sky visible from here, but it’s navy blue and sparkling with so many little stars. You look back to Eddie with a dubious glint in your eye. “The sunset twenty minutes ago, Eds.”

“Yeah, but… I’m still sick.”

He removes his hand from the pocket of his leather jacket and balls it into a fist over his mouth. He coughs once, trying hard to make it believable ‘cause he hasn’t been truly sick since the winter of ’84.

That’s perhaps the only cool thing about being a vampire — he’s basically got Superman’s immune system now.

“Well, I actually learned how to treat sunstroke while I was in training,” you lilt with an air of mischief in your voice as you take a daring step closer. The scent of sunscreen and cheap musky cologne clings to his skin. Something about the combination of the two is maddening.

You’re filled suddenly with the primal urge to bite into him like an apple. But you refrain, lest you scare him off.

Eddie’s caught in a similar dilemma, but with perhaps realer consequences than that. Your natural marshmallow-passionfruit scent suffocates him like a pillow to the face. His fangs threaten to force their way through his gums as his head starts to swim.

He ignores every vampiric instinct swirling in his mind and focuses, instead, on the pretty smile curling at your lips.

“Bet ya didn’t know that, did ya?”

Eddie swallows hard and shakes his head. “No, I— I don’t think you ever told me that,” he stammers, then clears his throat when the words get stuck there. He puts both hands back in his jacket pocket, balling them into fists until his nails bite into his palms.

“First, you gotta take off your clothes—”

“You’ve been trying to get in my pants all day,” the boy laughs. “You realize that, right?”

“—And then you gotta cool off in a very luxurious community pool.”

Eddie gets what you’re playing at, then. His smile ebbs almost instantly. “No,” he dismisses with a stern shake of his head. His deep chestnut curls, frizzed with the late-summer humidity, sway around his jaw. “No. No way.”

“Oh, c’mon! Please,” you whine. “The pool closes in, like, half an hour— Then it’ll just be us! We can swim together!”

“I don’t know how,” Eddie whines back, head tossed and face screwed. “Seriously. I grew up in a trailer park. No one ever taught me how to swim, alright? I’ll drown.”

Something about that seems to please you, as your pout curls slowly into another smile. You meet the boy’s wet brown eyes with a gaze that glitters something wicked.

Eddie can see your head spinning with a thousand bad ideas from here. His heart would race at the thought of getting into trouble with you if it was beating still.

You’ll bring him back to life yet.

“Don’t worry, Eds,” you shrug with a sure grin. “I’d give you mouth-to-mouth in a heartbeat.”

꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦ (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ) ꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷

The pool glows a vibrant sapphire color. It makes the surrounding amber streetlamps seem dull in comparison. The water is as blue and crystalline as an early summer sky. Eddie figures you must be the sun, swimming in the center of it all.

You wait patiently in the shallow end — out of both your windbreaker and pleated skirt for the first time in front of him — and swipe your hands over the water, letting it drip like liquid diamonds from your fingers. You hum quietly to the slow song playing on the boombox across the way, which now houses the mixtape you made that Eddie seems to take with him everywhere.

The boy shifts uncomfortably at the head of the pool, feeling awkward in the pair of swim trunks you found for him in the break room.

You’ve never seen so much of him before. His paper-white legs are a lot longer than you expected, ‘cause his baggy jeans hardly do him any favors. And his arms are a lot muscular, too — likely from moving band equipment and bussing tables.

He’s already so pretty to begin with. You don’t know what he’s got to be such a Nervous Nelly about.

Eddie knows he’s making it harder for himself. It’d be a lot less awkward for the both of you if he just took his shirt off and jumped in the water. But he’s paralyzed by the misplaced panic that strikes that lightning in his chest. And by you, ogling at him like he’s a pretty thing that deserves to be ogled at.

“Stop staring,” he calls to you, pretending to be playful but meaning every bit of it. “It’s makin’ me nervous.”

“Would it make you feel better if I closed my eyes?”

“Much.”

You put your hands over your eyes, to make him feel better and all. Though, you can’t help but peek between the slivers of your fingers as he strips himself of his Corroded Coffin tee.

His torso is as long and lean as you imagined, with sprinkles of hair on his chest and the pudge of his tummy that trails into his borrowed trunks. You try very hard not to stare too long at the gray scars embedded in his pale skin.

Everything seems to come easier to him when you’re not looking at him. He slides the black fabric off his pale, pale torso, tosses it to his feet, and hurries to hide in the water in one fell swoop.

The chlorine makes his nose burn, but the water feels like satin on his skin. It’s soft and warm and smooth against the cold, sharp edges of him.

“You can open your eyes now,” Eddie scoffs when he notices your hands still over your eyes. He can see you blinking at him through the slits in your fingers. “I know you’re peeking.”

“I was not!” you gasp, mouth agape with a playful offense.

“Well, you weren’t exactly being discreet about it, sweet thing.”

“These are very nefarious accusations you’re making, Eddie Munson…” you scold with arched brows and wide eyes. The water ripples faintly around you as you stalk towards him like a predator to prey, eyes narrowed in a challenging squint. “Are you prepared to back them up?”

The boy cowers slightly under your unwavering stare. “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me right now—”

And he was right not to. ‘Cause you’re lunging suddenly towards him in a flash.

The water splashes violently around you as you wrap both arms around his neck and sweep him off his feet. Literally. You kick his legs out from underneath him, then catch him before he can fall completely backward. Both his downfall and his savior, ironically.

“Ha!” you shout in his face, the tip of your nose brushing his.

“Jesus!” Eddie gasps in response, still heart lurching in his chest.

“I asked if you were prepared!” you defend like you’re innocent, like you aren’t still cradling him in your arms — the only thing keeping him from going under.

“Not for this!” he yells back.

Only then is he able to take a good breath in. He can smell the velvety scent of your blood from the achingly close proximity. He can feel your heart beating in his own chest from where you’re pressed so intently against him. It makes him instantly dizzy.

He fights back the primal urges that would otherwise drive him mad.

“Jeez…” he huffs, fangs burning. “You’re a lifeguard— You’re supposed to stop people from drowning.”

“Yeah, but no one ever needs saving,” you whine. “It’s so boring.”

His chocolate button eyes flit back and forth between both of yours. “You tryin’ to save me, sweet thing?” he jokes.

You squint. “Is it working?”

“Yeah, actually… If you let me up now, at least.”

He’s grateful when you do, though he mourns the lack of you when you step back a few paces.

His damp hair sticks to his skin when he rises to full height. He shakes his head like a dog, and you giggle when a few rogue droplets fly your way.

“You have freckles on your shoulder,” you observe distantly, eyes darting across the faint amber spots on his pale skin as you try to make constellations out of them. “I didn’t know that ’til now.”

Eddie’s lips jut downward as he peers at his arm from the corner of his eye. “Not really,” he shrugs.

“You do!” you insist. “There’s not many, though. I could probably count ‘em if I wanted.”

“Maybe on our second date.”

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo here, either—” You poke him in the chest, a little harder than you probably mean to.

Eddie winces and rubs his palm over the fading black widow under his collarbone. “Well, you don’t know everything about me,” he quips. “I like it that way. It keeps you on your toes.”

Your face pinches into a girlish pout. “Only ‘cause you never tell me anything.”

“I tell you loads of things,” Eddie laughs.

Your frown deepens. “You never told me about the picture of Ozzy Osbourne you keep in your wallet.”

“…How do you know about that?”

“Dustin told me.”

“Of course he did,” Eddie huffs. “Remind me not to tell that little shit anything ever again.”

“You never told me about how you got those scars, either,” you blurt, eyes trained on his milky white torso. Beneath the clear, rippling water, you can see the parts of his supple stomach that are marred and turning pink.

You don’t realize what you’ve said until your gaze flits back to his startled one. Your eyes widen as you ramble quickly, “You don’t have to! I’m not trying to… I’m just— I’m just saying. ‘Cause, you know, Steve has the same ones… On his ribs…”

“I’m not even gonna ask how you know that,” Eddie jokes with a (mostly) feigned jealousy.

“Billy does, too. He’s got the same lookin’ scars on his chest,” you continue. “And then I started thinking, you know? I thought, since you all know each other and everything, maybe something happened to you guys. Like, in the earthquakes or something.”

Eddie swallows hard and debates on spilling his guts.

He swallows his secrets down like bile, in the end.

“Yeah. You’re— You’re not too far off, actually,” he answers with a breathy, bitter laugh. He scratches at the back of neck, if only to busy his anxious hands, and flits his gaze to the velvety night sky.

The blinking white stars there ground him when the world starts to swim — reminds him that he’s on Earth, in Hawkins, and not in the hellscape he died in.

That was his final thought as he took his last breath that spring. How strangely fitting it was that there were no stars in the Upside Down.

“We, uh… We kinda went through hell and back, but, uh… ‘Least lived to tell the tale, right?” Eddie scoffs at himself, then remembers Chrissy — how young and full of life she was one moment, and how her wide blue eyes were sucked out of her skull the next. He recoils then, feeling like he’s said the wrong thing. “Wait. That was— That was insensitive. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“What are you talkin’ about? You’re right,” you assure him with a quiet, emotionless laugh. “You guys survived. You got lucky. We all did.”

Eddie peeks at you beneath his lashes, through the wild curls sticking to his face. “Where were you?” he murmurs. “When… When everything happened?”

“Crying into my milkshake at Benny’s Burgers,” you answer without missing a beat. The memory’s far too vivid for anything else.

A laugh sputters from Eddie’s throat. He’s sure you must be joking. You blink at him like an owl, and he goes solemn all over again. “Oh. You’re… You’re serious?” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I was… feeling sorry for myself over something stupid, and then the ground started shaking outta nowhere— like the universe was trying to say, ‘Hey, this could be soooo much worse, dude,’” you ramble quietly to yourself, skimming your fingers over the water’s surface. “…But then I found out people actually got hurt and everything, so I was like, ‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t make this about my stupid broken heart, actually.’”

Eddie’s tight chest deflates with a wavering exhale. He didn’t know you back then, but something about knowing you were okay makes him feel better. ‘Cause, yeah, he died and all, but he couldn’t stomach the thought of Vecna taunting you.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” the boy confesses in a honeyed whisper.

A soft smile quirks at the edges of your lips. “I’m glad you’re okay, too, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Your hand reaches out for him. Almost instinctively. Like he’s a whole universe with his own gravitational pull.

Your palm settles soft and warm on the outside of his torso. Your thumb grazes the marred skin over his ribs, and Eddie tenses at the foreign feeling. You jerk back instantly.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” you stammer, face twisted apologetically. “I didn’t— I should’ve asked first.”

“No. It’s— It’s okay. Seriously,” Eddie assures with a rapid nod. There’s a faraway look in his chocolate eyes, almost like he’s daydreaming. He feels like he is, anyway. ‘Cause he’s never let anyone this close before.

“I just… I wasn’t expecting it. That’s all.”

Do it again, he says in so many words. Please, I think I might need it.

You reach for him again, more hesitant this time. Your hand settles over his scars again, and you breathe hard through your nose.

Your stomach twists with a phantom sort of ache, like you can feel every ounce of the pain he surely experienced back then. Thinking about how hurt he must’ve been makes you hurt, too.

Eddie can see it written all over your face. How much you ache for him.

He can’t stand it.

He cups your cheeks between trembling, unsure hands. His touch is softly calloused and colder than ice. He tilts your jaw gently upward, urging you to meet his gaze once more. Your eyes are wet and glittering when they lock with his heavily lidded ones. Your mouth parts to say something, anything. But your brain doesn’t work fast enough.

‘Cause Eddie's kissing you before you can blink.

He tastes distinctly of nicotine and boyhood. Of midnight, full moons, and neon lights. You can feel every groove in his bottom lip from where he picks at it with his teeth. Every sensation is new to you, like cool sparkles of excitement in the pit of your tummy, but it’s strikingly familiar all the same. Nostalgia for something you’re experiencing for the first time warms the center of your chest.

You breathe hard through your nose. The gust of air tickles Eddie’s cupid’s bow as he parts from you, lips smacking apart in protest.

Your eyes, still yet to blink, remain wide and glazed over. “Whoa…” you sigh to yourself.

Eddie’s unsure of how to gauge your reaction. His face swirls with horror.

“What?” he mumbles, still cradling your face between worried hands. He can’t tell if your cheeks are heating or if he’s just colder than usual. Perhaps both are equally true.

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, still slightly faraway. “I just… I got a weird sense of deja vu just now…”

The boy forces a quiet laugh. “Who else have you done this with?” he quips.

“No one!” you blurt. “…But I think I might’ve dreamt about this once.”

“Really?”

“Definitely.”

“Was it better than you expected? Or should I just see myself out now—”

You lean forward to chase his mouth. The cerulean water ripples faintly around you. Your lidded gaze never wavers from his rosy lips, which you’re realizing now are all but begging to be kissed. You don’t know how you never noticed it before.

Eddie’s smiling too wide to respond appropriately.

“Why are you laughing?” you frown.

“I’m not!” he responds through breathy chuckles.

“You are—”

Eddie leans forward in a flash, pressing another chaste kiss to your pout.

You’re all smiles again the second he pulls away, bursting at the seams with a sort of giddiness that could give the sun a run for its money.

He knows, somewhere deep down, that he shouldn’t make you this happy. He doesn’t even deserve the chance. But here you are anyway, smiling so wide at him that your eyes are starting to crinkle at the edges — showing him that there’s still sunshine in the dark, reminding him what it means to be living.

“Does this mean we get to do this forever?” you wonder in a mousy voice.

“What?” he chuckles. “Kiss?”

You nod wordlessly, blinking up at the boy with wide, wet eyes.

Eddie nods quickly back.

“Then yeah…” he wavers, chest aching and gums burning.

He loves you so much he’s gone hungry for it. For you.

He longs to devour you, in every way imaginable, and you want to devour him just the same. He can tell in the way you stare at him when you think he isn’t looking — in the way you stare at him even when he is looking — and in every one of your movements that urges him closer, closer, closer.

Your gaze is debilitatingly intense. Your attitude is mind-bendingly strange. You’re ruining his life, and Eddie can’t believe there was ever a time he wasn’t kissing you.

“Yeah,” he repeats, firmer now. “As long as you want.”

if you made it this far: i love you. so sorry for making you read something so long. i'd kiss you on the forehead if i could. also pls consider reblogging! this took me so so long to write, and it really helps a lot! thank u, love u (▰˘◡˘▰)

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cryptictongues · 2 months ago

Text

Tiny Dots on an Endless Timeline

pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Mutant!Reader rating: Explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 28.5k summary: "It’s been a few years since you'd passed, dying in one of the earlier Sentinel raids. He watched you die. He watched you beg and plead for him to get everyone to safety as you used your gift to keep the Sentinel’s away. It’s his last memory of you; a memory that makes these missions harder. But the idea that stopping all of this from happening could save you, could give him more time with you, gave him something he too hasn’t felt in a long time: hope."

warnings: slow burn, angst/smut/fluff, pining, grief, death, panic attacks, intimacy, unprotected vaginal sex, nipple play, grinding, making out, overstimulation, aftercare

Author’s Note: In this fic, there is some dialogue from the movie used and lyrics from Roberta Flack's "The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face". I do not own the rights to either and they are only used to help the plot of the story.

Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

[AO3 link]

Abandoned Chinese Temple; Shanxi Province, China; Year 2023

Logan didn’t have any high expectations when it came to missions. He has learned time and time again that every mission in this war creates loss. It seemed like every time they had a chance, that chance was quickly vanquished. He would convince himself for the longest time things will get better. They have to get better. All wars end eventually. It’s just a matter of when and what the casualties will be. But right now, the end is nowhere in sight.

They were safe for now, hiding out in an old temple that has aged and weathered away with the times. Being back with everyone, seeing who is left of them, sits heavy in Logan’s chest. Having people he cared about ripped away like they were nothing, no proper burial or goodbye, aged him like nothing else. While physically he was still in his proper form and shape, mentally he was struggling.

Charles is giving a history lesson on the Sentinels, giving information many of the younger mutants were not fully aware of. Logan is aware of what this is leading up to, a plan Charles and Erik conjured up as a last resort. It’s smart, but even when it seems too good to be true, he must remind himself the same thing: do not have any expectations.

Logan notices Charles is quiet, and everyone’s attention is on Kitty. She had been talking and even though Logan had zoned out for a minute, the look on her face says it all; it’s impossible.

“You have the most powerful brain in the world professor, but the mind can only stretch so far before it snaps. It would rip you apart. I’m sorry.”

The gears in Logan’s head were turning. He doesn’t quite know the limits of his mutation, especially in regard to traveling back in time. However, he has taken multiple bullets and slashes. He has been through some of the worst experimentation imaginable and his body always recovered. If his body could bear all of that, what’s to say he wouldn’t survive going back a few decades?

It’s not long before everyone agrees that Logan going back was the only solution left. Charles and Erik walk him through what needs to be done the minute he wakes up as his younger self. Patience is what Charles keeps telling him, but of course he knows that will be challenging alone. Not to mention all the bullshit they were doing in the early 70s. Bastards.

“I do apologize, Logan. But I have the utmost faith that you can do this.” Charles chuckles, obviously hearing what Logan called them.

“There is nothing left to lose.” Logan sighs.

“But there is plenty to gain.” Charles smiles, the hope on his features stronger than it had been in a long time. “To bring our loved ones home. To bring her home.”

Logan sucks in a breath, holding it for a second before releasing slowly. His hand goes to his neckline, pulling the chain from his suit to look at it and there it was. The engagement ring: a symbol of good things to come that will no longer come to fruition. A lifetime that was stripped away from him, a life with you no more.

It’s been a few years since you’d passed, dying in one of the earlier Sentinel raids. He watched you die. He watched you beg and plead for him to get everyone to safety as you used your gift to keep the Sentinel’s away. It’s his last memory of you; a memory that makes these missions harder. But the idea that stopping all of this from happening could save you, could give him more time with you, gave him something he too hasn’t felt in a long time: hope.

“It’s good to see that spark in your eyes again, Logan.” Charles says.

Logan huffs under his breath. “I guess my emotions are starting to show on my sleeve, huh?”

Charles laughs, before moving on into the other room. “You’ve grown a lot since I’ve first met you, Logan. And I have her to thank.”

Logan looks down with a smile, reminiscing only a little bit. You really were something else.

It isn’t long before he is lying down on the stone table with Kitty explaining everything to him. It all makes sense, but he can’t shake the fact he will be the only one to remember this war: the trauma, the anger, the dread, the grief. Even when this war will have no bearing on the new world he hopes to come back to, he will still live with that pain.

“Alright, Logan. Calm your mind and think peaceful thoughts. This may sting a little.” He can hear the uneasiness in Kitty’s voice, but he is ready. There is no pain he can’t endure.

He closes his eyes and thinks about the happier times. Some of his fondest memories are of him simply waking up to watch the sun rays glide across your body in the morning. How you would curl more into his chest and mumble words with no connection whatsoever. How you would wake up, kiss his chest and keep going until your lips met his. He would always ask you to use your gift in those moments, wanting to hold you just a little longer before the day started. You were his little piece of heaven.

Even as he feels Kitty’s hands beside his head, he thinks maybe before he wakes up, he’ll dream as his mind travels. He’ll dream of better times and that alone would hold him over during the impending pain. Because what he wouldn’t give to have you in his arms again. That’s all he wants.

His hand grips onto the ring attached to his dog tags, holding it close as he prepares to enter a different time full of the unpredictable.

This is for you, baby. I will save you this time.

And with that thought, the hot pain scorches his temples and sets fire to his mind and then he is gone.

The Algonquin Hotel; New York City, NY; Year 1973

Music. Soft, calming music enters his conscience. It greets his mind, carefully shaking him awake. Then there is the sunlight. It is warm against his skin and he can feel it greeting him, telling him it is time to start the day. It all felt too familiar, and he thought he was dreaming. He felt something draped over his neck. It wasn’t heavy but there was a weight to it. He lifted his hand to touch and the moment he felt another hand, he smiled. Yes, I am definitely dreaming because here she is. He brought your dainty hand to his lips, kissing it gently as he intertwined his fingers with yours.

But the moment is short lived as his other senses kick in. He took one inhale and knew immediately something wasn’t right. He turns to lay flat on his back, and he can’t help but curse under his breath. He feels like he is waking up to the pre-walk of shame as he looks at the woman beside him. He recognizes her, someone he had bodyguarded for a period of time and occasionally let her warm his bed. Well, he let her do a lot more than that.

If only he had the foresight to have kept it in his pants.

He sets her arm to her side and attempts to get out of the bed. He feels the water hold him back, and he groans deeply. Whoever invented water beds can fuck off.

He stands to his feet, taking in his surroundings. He recognizes the room and knows he’s in the Algonquin. The room has its signature set up, with its warm tones on the walls and floor, the plant hanging from the ceiling. He’s been in this room before, or at least another copy of it. He sees the mirror between the two windows, and he walks up to see his reflection.

Holy shit…

He looks the same, but the differences are prominent. The gray that was once at the corners of his hair and beard were gone. His head of hair looked fuller and was back to his original brown state. His body didn’t look much different, but he felt rejuvenated. It looked like his body hadn’t endured much. He looks down further and can’t help but smirk. Heh, still got it.

His sights go to the window, and he peeks through the blinds, only to once again let expletives fall quietly from his lips. He knew it had worked, but seeing Times Square without its vast array of screens made him take a step back. There is a strange emotion forming in his chest, and while he can’t describe it, he can tell it’s good.

“Holy shit,” he mutters in awe, taking in all the minute details. “It worked.”

He feels relief, as well as curiosity as he scans the city in its older form. Charles had said he was a very different man during this time. He wonders what he will be walking into, and how he will prepare for the moment where Charles will think he’s full of shit.

But his mind drifts as he looks down onto the street, street musicians on the side playing their instruments for spare change. He remembers you telling him that was something you did for a while with empty storage containers and food bins as makeshift drums… right here in the city.

His heart aches at the thought that you are out there somewhere, living your life day by day like nothing was wrong. You had told him you had a bit of a rebellious streak in the 70s, especially when you were playing music with a bunch of punks most nights and living out of a van. It reminded him a lot of himself, how he would have some kind of gig to make money and then go home to his trashy, beat up trailer.

He always told you how he would have killed to see you in those times, and now that he’s here he’s tempted. Maybe he could leave right now and take a quick peak around the city. He wouldn’t even interact with you. He just wants to see you breathing and alive. He wants to see you living your life to the fullest, even if it pains him to not interfere.

He scoffs at himself, shaking his head and releasing the blind shade. No. He came here to do one thing, and that was to find Charles and Erik. He knows that if he plays his cards right, everything will turn out okay. The mutant population will continue to thrive, his friends will be alive, and you will continue to be by his side. Logan knows good things come to those that wait, so he will wait for you. Even if it fucking sucks to do so.

He goes to put on his pants, deep blue jeans with a big belt buckle, something he wore often. Some things really don’t change, do they?

He finishes covering himself, and the second his belt is strapped into place, he hears the door open. He turns to see three men standing by, talking loudly at the woman to get dressed as they stare him down.

Fuck.

Alleyway off of East 17th Street; New York, NY

“Fuck!”

You shoot up from your van seat, the thumping on the door startling you awake. You groan, holding your head as you blink slowly. You turn and see a cop at your window, signaling for you to roll the glass down. You grab the lever, rotating it slowly before squinting up at the man.

“Ma’am, you cannot park nor sleep here,” he emphasizes, snark laced in his voice. “You need to get moving.”

You see him whip out his ticket book, a quick scribble before he rips it and hands it over to you.

“What? No warning?” You say defensively. “You gotta understand I was drunk last night. No points for not drinking and driving?”

He looks you up and down, grimacing at your attire. “For cretins like you, absolutely not. Unless you want to dispute the ticket in court, pay the fine.” He turns away, no consideration or anything.

You scoff as he turns to leave, and you roll your window up quickly. You watch as he walks away, and you bring your hand up, curling your fingers in. Everything slows down before freezing all together, only to then reverse in swift motion. You watch the cop rework his steps as time turns back, and you keep going until you see him drive back from which he came. You continue to let time go, so you’d have enough of it to get the hell out of the alley, before releasing your fingers. Time slows again and then it goes on like nothing has changed. You glance at the ticket, noting he had filled the ticket out prior before to scaring the daylights out of you.

“Fucking pig,” you jeer, crumbling the ticket up and throwing it to the back.

You start up the van, pulling out of the alley slowly before turning onto the busy street. There was high traffic per usual, people pushing to get to their jobs. You glance at the clock to see it is nine in the morning, and hum at the amount of time you have before your gig tonight. You are tempted to find another place to park, to sleep off the dreadful hangover plaguing your head. You knew taking all those shots the night prior was a terrible idea, but the drinks kept coming after such a good show. It helps too that your mutation keeps everything in check, a fact that makes you grin.

Being able to control time, rhythm and pace come naturally to you. You are always able to keep a perfect tempo and can change it up at your will. While punk music has never been about perfection, it always helps that you can pull everyone back in if things get too out of hand. People tell you you’re a prodigy, but if only they knew. Your bandmates don’t even know, and while you know they would embrace you, you felt it was always better to keep things hidden. Especially since you tend to use your power to save your ass far too often.

You decide to drive to central park, thinking some fresh air would stop your head from pulsing. You make a turn onto 44th Street, wanting to get to the main road for a straight shot to your new location. However, as you drive down, you start to feel strange. Your head was pulsing more, like your mind was trying to break down a door to give you a warning. It becomes borderline painful, and you can’t help but pull over onto the side of the street.

You put your hazards on, opening the door before getting to the sidewalk. You squat down, dry heaving a little as you work to calm your mind down. You shut your eyes, rubbing your temples to ease the ache. And then as quickly as it came, it stopped. Your eyes open, looking around to see you are in front of the Algonquin.

What the fuck?

“I must have really outdone myself last night,” you mutter under your breath, standing up fully to get back into the van.

You get in and go to turn the hazards off, but you stop when you notice a man walking out of the hotel. You watch as he walks with purpose, getting into what looks to be a green 1970 Buick LaSabre. Your brain glitches, trying to process something that doesn’t exist. You don’t know him. You’ve never seen the man before. So why is your brain acting like you do?

You watch him drive off with a screech, and you watch until he is no longer in sight. You stare off into the distance for a minute, thinking what the hell just happened. It was new, and it isn’t like anything you’ve ever experienced. The aftermath settles in your chest with a weird sense of longing and it makes you even more confused.

I definitely drank too much last night.

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters; Westchester, NY

Logan knew the peaceful thoughts wouldn’t come easy, but god damn the entire morning has been far from peaceful.

The altercation at the hotel ended with the three men on the floor, dead or alive he wasn’t sure. He could’ve handled it better, but the shock from seeing his old claws and the excruciating pain from the bullets sent him into a frenzy. He had truly forgotten how painful bullets felt when his bones weren’t covered in metal.

Driving from New York City to Westchester didn’t help his mood. He’d rather suffer a thousand stab wounds than drive in traffic and deal with dumbass drivers. The only upside was he had time to think about his approach with Charles, and how he was going to convince him that he was serious. He had a pretty good idea of what he needed to say and was feeling confident. As long as there were no obstacles, he could get this done.

But that all shattered when Hank opened the damn door. He hadn’t even considered his presence, but Hank was a pretty understanding guy. He’d understand, right?

Boy was he wrong.

He definitely underestimated how strong Hank was, especially after seeing him as a younger man. Their tussle had landed him onto the marble table in the center of the foyer and with Hank roaring at him from the chandelier. It was no surprise that the one person who still lives here came out: Charles.

Logan’s first thought after looking at Charles was how much of a bum he appeared to be. He wasn’t one to judge, but to see his mentor in such rough shape was perplexing. It looked like the optimism he always held so close was far gone, which was made clear when he laughed in Logan’s face.

Charles did say he would need to be patient with him, but fuck he was a pain in the ass. Logan understood, as he wasn’t much better when he arrived at the mansion, but if he was this much of an ass as Charles is now, God help him.

At this moment, he was working answers out of Hank, trying to piece something together that would convince Charles that what he was saying is true. Then he heard footsteps from the stairs.

“I’ll help you. I’ll help you get to Raven.”

Which now leaves them all in Charles’s old office, discussing plans on how to retrieve Erik without getting caught. Erik had explained where he was before Logan got here, but now knowing what he did to get there makes this more complicated. Not that it already wasn’t, but it is for certain that his cell will be guarded to hell and back.

Once again, fucking bastards.

“What resources do we have?” Logan asks, hoping that Charles or Hank know someone with an ability to get them in and out.

“Well…” Charles draws out. “I may know one person who could do it, but she will need some convincing. If we can find her, that is.” Charles chuckles, his hand rubbing his face in disbelief.

Hank’s eyes go wide. “You don’t mean…”

“She’s the only person that could pull it off, with her mutation and all.” Charles goes to stand, taking a swig of his whiskey in the process.

“Who is she?” Logan asks curiously, the odd mix of dismay and confidence in their tones intriguing. However, the second he hears your name, he freezes.

“What?” Logan says with uneasiness, something the other two don’t pick up on.

“She was a recruit back when Erik and I were forming a team to fight against Sebastian Shaw.” Charles explains.

“She can control time,” Hank jumps in enthusiastically. “Move it forward, backward, stop it all at once.”

“She left shortly after Cuba,” Charles takes a drink with that. “She said she didn’t want to be at odds with Erik and I.”

“Is there anyone else we could use?” Logan interjects quickly. The idea of seeing you is oh so tempting, but there is a fear that any sort of interaction with you will tear you away from him. To see you is one thing. To interact with you is another.

“There are mutants that can stop time telepathically, but she can do it all, which is why she is our best bet.” Charles adds, waving his hand like he is explaining something complicated. “The only problem is I have no idea where she went. I haven’t seen or heard from her in over a decade.”

Logan can’t help but scrunch his face, biting the inside of his cheek in contemplation. He knows he can’t let his selfishness get in the way of the lives at stake. If you really are the best bet to get Erik out, then so be it.

“Fine, but we just use her to get Erik. After that, she is done.”

“Well, we have to find her first.” Charles shrugs. “I can’t use my powers, so we will need to find an alternative.”

“We have a phone book.” Hank suggests, already walking to the stack of books behind the sofa.

“That is not going to help, but she was in a band around this time right here in New York.” Logan says, looking at Hank as he grabs the phone book. “She was playing gigs most nights in 1973.”

Charles and Hank look at one another, seemingly perplexed by this new knowledge. “How do you know this?” Charles speaks for them both.

“Let’s just say she becomes a protege of sorts for you in the future.” Logan leaves out the rest. This wasn’t the time to get into the details of his relationship. “I know the band name. We can call popular hole in the wall venues around the city to see if her band is playing tonight.”

“I’ll start looking through and making calls,” Hank offers, and sits down at Charles’ desk.

“Let us know if you find anything. The minute we know something, we leave.” Logan says.

Logan leaves before a response is given and goes outside. The sun is bright, surprisingly not too cold for this time of year. He leans against the old brick, taking out a cigar he magically had in his pocket along with a lighter he had snatched off the desk. He cuts the end with his claw, and lets it sink back in as he puts it to his lips. He goes to light, his hand a little shaky but he eventually gets a good burn going, the taste entering pleasantly into his mouth and lungs.

He puffs out some smoke, sighing at how the events of today have turned. He had made the decision not to see you, and now he is going to have to. It’s a double-edged sword; he gets to see the beautiful woman he fell in love with, while also taking the risk of altering his and your future together. So many what if’s: what if something bad happens to you? What if you all get caught and you get sent to prison? What if you somehow realize you don’t like him in this timeline?

What if you die and he can’t save you again?

That thought alone makes him choke a little, lost in so much thought the smoke overwhelmed him. No, he can’t think like that. There is too much on the line for his emotions to play games. Besides, maybe in the end, regardless of if he ends up miserable, you’d wake up in the future safe.

He just wants everyone he loves safe.

Max’s Kansas City Nightclub; Manhattan, NY.

Logan has been to many different nightclubs. Having been a bodyguard for hire, these types of places were nothing out of the ordinary. There were plenty of young women he was hired to watch, ones that wanted to rebel a little, that would come to these clubs to have a taste of freedom. They all had the same shit: drugs, alcohol, sex, and bad decisions.

He was starting to feel the latter.

It isn’t that he disagrees with Charles. Your mutation is powerful and would create easy access to Erik’s hold cell. You are the obvious choice. However, he can’t stop debating with himself on if dragging you into this will change the future; one where you and him are never to be. The thought alone makes his stomach turn.

Along with that, just seeing you in the flesh is enough to send him into disarray. Logan is far from a nervous man, but it has felt like an eternity since he’s seen your face. One look at you and he may not be able to hold it together.

Him and Charles are sitting at the bar, nursing their shitty whisky. It burns the same, and by this time Logan is finishing his fourth glass, waving down the bartender for a fifth.

“Listen,” he hears Charles yell over the loud crowd. “I know you can hold your liquor but you should probably slow down.”

“Trust me, bub,” Logan shoots the fifth round down his throat, swallowing quickly. “You’ll want me as loose as possible for this.”

“What is with you? Is this about her?” Charles nods to the empty stage. “You acted very strange when discussing her today. Were you two close?”

Logan looks down into his glass, his mouth opening and shutting not knowing what to say. It doesn’t matter, however, because before he can make a decision, drums are starting to beat down heavily.

“1, 2, 3, 4!”

Drums start bumping, along with guitar and bass chords. The crowd starts running to the back where the stage is located, jumping and vibrating to the music. Logan looks to the stage, and lo and behold there you are on the drum kit.

Even when you were no longer playing with a group, you played a lot at the mansion. You often taught music classes for students who just wanted to have some fun. It was also your way of releasing some steam. Charles had to soundproof the music room so your constant drum smashing wouldn’t cause a disturbance.

But here you are, keeping perfect tempo as you keep up your rhythm. Seeing you in your element was so much more than he thought. You were an animal on those drums, totally submerged in your performance. You were smiling, interacting with other band members during each song. Whether it be adding vocals, doing theatrics with your drumsticks, or silly banter, you looked like you were meant to be up there.

“She’s really good!” Charles yells over the music, and Logan can only nod. He is immersed in you, his nerves gone as he takes you in. He missed you so badly that seeing you again has given him some grace. He needs to be careful, but right now it doesn’t matter. He just wants to enjoy seeing you happy and alive.

The set goes on for another twenty minutes, the songs short and quick. The crowd was getting more rowdy as the set continued. They were shouting lyrics back, heads rocking and popping as they jumped around. He sees you looking out into the crowd, only for your eyes to meet his own and then to his right. Your eyes went wide, and he turned to see Charles lifting his hand with a small wave.

“Well, the cats out of the bag.” Charles mutters, not leaving eye contact with you.

Logan sees the shock in your features, and can sense you picking up the tempo slightly. Your bandmates didn’t seem to mind, however, as they picked it up as well and the crowd seemed to love it. The last cord plays, and the crowd cheers.

“We’d like to thank y’all for coming. Goodnight!” The vocalist said before the band walked off the small stage. You, on the other hand, didn’t follow.

He watched you make your way through the throngs of people. The look on your face is unclear, but the moment you are in front of him, it’s like it’s just you two.

He fully takes you in. You looked about the same, maybe a little younger. You were wearing jeans with holes at the knees, beat up converse, and a white v-neck that revealed your collarbones quite nicely. A black leather jacket, that has seen better days, pulls it all together. There was a sheen of sweat at your temples, creating a shine in the baby hairs. Logan only had two thoughts in his head: that he desperately wishes he could pull you into his embrace and that you looked so sexy like this.

So incredibly sexy.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” You smirked, hands on your hips.

“I must say this is a pleasant surprise.” Charles laughs, standing up from his seat. “It’s so good to see you, darling.”

“It’s good to see you too, and walking for that matter!” You pulled him in, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheek. It makes Logan shift slightly, a little jealousy lingering even though there is nothing he could do about it.

You let Charles go, and you look at Logan, quirking your head as your eyes scan him up and down. He keeps his eyes on you, not budging.

“So Charles, who’s your friend?”

“Ah, yes, well this here is-“

“Logan.”

Logan’s eyes go wide when your hands shoot to your head, gasping as you grip your head. He reaches out, wanting to do something to ease whatever is going on, but as soon as it starts, it stops.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I must have really overdone it with the drinking last night.” You mumbled.

Logan smirks. “A real party animal, huh?”

“More like don’t know when to quit,” you sigh. “So, how did you know that I was playing here tonight? Or better yet, how did you even know I was doing this? Keep tabs on me up there?”

“Actually, Logan mentioned it. He-” Charles starts, but Logan is quick to hit his back, making him double over from the impact.

“What he means is it is a long story, and we should go somewhere else to discuss it.” Logan says with urgency, hoping his tone takes your attention away from how he’s acting.

“Why not talk about it here?” You shrug, going to the bar to order a drink. “The night is still young.”

“This conversation needs to be for your ears only. It is highly confidential.” Charles interjects.

“Hmm,” you don’t look at him, finally getting the bartender’s attention. “Trying to drag me back into some bullshit, Charles?”

“Bullshit that could save everyone’s life, sweetheart.” Logan says. He isn’t used to your slight indifference, but it is something he is going to have to get used to. You are a different person during this time, after all.

You turn back to them, sighing before you lift your hand up, middle finger and thumb pressed together before snapping. Everything stops instantly. Drinks that are being poured freeze. People talking with others go still with mouths open trying to get the next word. The lights stop flickering, some looking to be out while others keep the light.

Time goes still. Except for the three of them.

His eyes go to look at you, where you are wearing a smug look.

“My ears only, right?” You say, lifting your drink like you are cheering for something. “So start talking.”

The Pentagon; Arlington, VA

The Pentagon was incredibly crowded, which was to be expected. Tours were taking place. People were rushing to get to their posts. Security was at each corner of the building. There is a lot of commotion, yet you knew this would be a piece of cake. And yet, you couldn’t believe you had agreed to do this.

When Logan had explained he was from the future, a future where everyone will eventually become slaughtered, it took you aback. It was hard to think about. You knew the U.S. Government has an aversion to mutants, but to create a weapon to wipe them clean with Raven’s DNA? You shouldn’t be surprised, not with everything currently going on, but you are.

The plane ride was fairly quiet. Hank and Charles were in the cockpit, leaving Logan and you in the main lounging area. You had noticed Logan looking at you quite a bit throughout the quick ride. It was like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. You could’ve sworn you saw something akin to pining in his eyes, but you brushed it off. You didn’t know if it was his way of figuring you out, or if there was something else.

You wondered if you and him are connected somehow. With the headaches coinciding around Logan, you couldn’t help but wonder if your mutation is doing something new, something it couldn’t do before because you have never met a time traveler. Not until now.

Maybe you will get answers later. Right now, you have a job to do.

You are standing in the middle of the Pentagon’s main sector, mentally preparing yourself for this. You would have to hold time for thirty minutes, enough time for Charles and Hank to reach and retrieve Erik from his cell. This only gives them fifteen in and fifteen out.

“Are you sure about this?” You hear Logan say from beside you. “We can find another way if it is going to be too much.”

He sounds so sincere, and it oddly does something for you. Here is a man you don’t know much about caring about your wellbeing. For someone of his apparent nature, it is endearing.

“I’ll be fine, but I appreciate you caring enough to ask.” You smile at him, and the smile he gives back makes your stomach flutter. Just a little bit.

“Alright here goes nothing.” You turn to look at Charles and Hank. “The second everything stops, grab an authorized personnel card off of one of the security guards and go quickly.”

“And you’re sure we are the best people to do this?” Charles mutters, looking torn.

You smirk at him. “Oh, Charles. You may not realize this. but he cares about you. Maybe this is the reunion you need.”

“I doubt it,” he grumbles but nods at you to go on.

You look forward, hands slightly in front of you before snapping your fingers. It isn’t instant like it usually is. It travels, people coming to a stop before everything is completely still and silent. It takes a lot of focus and precision on your part. You’ve never had to freeze an entire building, let alone one that runs so deep.

As told, Charles and Hank make quick work, grabbing a card from a guard right by the door they needed to go through. Once the door shut, it was just you and Logan, who had insisted he stay in case something happens.

You sense his eyes on you again, just as he had on the plane. Minutes pass, and you think maybe he will say something, but no. It’s just radio silence. You could handle it on the plane, but right now? Absolutely not.

You roll your eyes at his behavior. “You psychoanalyzing me or something? I can multitask, you know.”

Logan moves so he is facing you, and he is only two steps away from you. You notice he is much taller than you, maybe by a foot. His attire is oddly fitting for someone from the future. The brown leather, the feather pattern on his shirt, and god the big ass belt buckle with blue jeans that fit his legs so nicely. You had to ask.

“So, if you are from the future, I gotta ask: did you come dressed like that?”

He looks down at what he is wearing, inspecting himself. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”

He looked so self-conscious. It was cute. “Not at all. Just not something I expected someone from the future to wear.”

“Well, technically I am in my younger self’s body. This is how I dressed in 1973.” He chuckles. “I guess I still dressed like this though, before everything went to shit.”

“So, you an old man now or something?”

He smirks at you. “I’m probably older than your great grandfather, sweetheart.”

Your eyes widen at that statement. “Is that your mutation? Being immortal?”

“Amongst other things,” he holds out his hand, and within a blink of an eye claws are coming out from in between his knuckles. You tilt your head in awe, admiring the bones that are tinted yellow. He then lets them sink back in, the wounds healing instantly.

“Regenerative healing. That’s pretty neat,” you say. “Still must hurt though.”

“Every time,” Logan hums. “But you get used to it.”

“I see,” you murmur, not knowing what to say after that. Luckily, Logan keeps going.

“You must practice a lot for you to stop time in a place like this.”

You can’t help the chuckle that slips your lips. “I wouldn’t call it practice. I just get myself into stupid situations.”

Logan grins, taking a step closer to you. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, a few weeks ago we got into a tussle with the police. They decided to start some shit at another club we were playing at. Gave me a black eye even.” You answered, oddly making light of the memory.

“Bet you still looked just as pretty,” Logan joked, but with the way he was looking at you, you’d think he was being serious.

“Y-yeah,” you stutter. “But then they started making arrests. That’s when I shifted time back. Warned my bandmates before they came in. They were confused about the black eye though.”

This made Logan laugh, and you swear your heart did a double take. Why was this man affecting me like this?

“I like the idea of you getting a little rough. It’s very different.” Logan purrs, and before you can ask what he means, you feel your powers start to weaken.

“Shit,” you curse, hands clenching in front of you.

“What’s wrong?”

You grunt in response, trying to pull yourself together. “How long has it been since they’ve left? Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

“It’s been about thirty minutes,” he confirms. “You are certain time has stopped in this entire building?”

“I’m very certain. I wouldn’t be struggling right now if it weren’t.” You say with gritted teeth, getting lightheaded. “Logan, I told them thirty minutes. If I hold on any longer, I’ll pass out.”

Logan is looking around, searching for something before he takes off in a path you can’t see. You are breathing heavily, trying hard to focus but you can feel yourself slipping. It’s like you are on a cliff holding onto loose rocks waiting for them to slip.

“Okay look at me, baby.”

Baby?

You look to see he is holding a key card. He holds your attention, nodding to the door Charles and Hank went through. “We are going to walk over to the door. I’m going to open it with this. When I do, let go.”

“Fuck, what if we get caught?” You whimper, the mental pain starting to get stronger.

“I won’t let that happen again.”

Again?

Before you could contemplate his words, he’s got his arm wrapped around your torso. His left hand holds your leather clad wrist, keeping you steady as two start to walk.

“Small steps, small steps. That’s right,” Logan encourages, keeping pace with you as you walk slowly.

He’s holding you gingerly, like you will break if he lets go. It’s strange but you welcome it. You've never had anyone hold you with such care before. You were rough around the edges. Most people think you can handle anything, but it’s almost as if Logan has done this before; a common feeling you’ve had ever since you laid eyes on him.

He stopped at the door, pulling the keycard from his left pocket and scanning it. The light blinks green and he pushes it, keeping it open with his foot as he looks at you.

“You ready?”

You nod slightly. “Just tell me when.”

“Now!”

You immediately drop your hands, and Logan is shoving you through the threshold. You gasp holding onto your chest as Logan keeps his grip on you so you don’t fall. You take a deep breath, calming yourself down enough to keep going.

“We need to get moving. We will get caught if we stay here.”

Logan nods, letting go of you to look at the map beside the door. You miss his touch already.

“We need to get to this elevator,” he points to the elevator in the south wing. “It’ll take us to the kitchen that leads to the lower cell.”

Without another word, you two are running. You put your hands up again, freezing time again but only in the areas you two are passing. It makes your brain fuzzy, but you push on. Logan looks back at you from time to time to check on you, worry evident on his face.

“I’m fine, keep going!” You press.

Before you two know it, you are both at the elevator. Logan is clicking the button repeatedly like it’ll come faster, and within a few seconds it opens. You both rush in there, and Logan repeats his treatment to the closing button before the doors ultimately close.

You lean against the metal wall, taking a deep breath and praying to whatever God is listening that no one gets on this damn elevator. You don’t know if you have it in you to protect you and Logan if someone gets on.

Luck was on your side, however. The elevator dinged, and when you looked up you saw it was listed as the floor you were getting off on. A sigh of relief escapes your lips, but it gets sucked back into your throat when you hear alarms. The elevator doors open and a multitude of men with chef kitchen attire run in completely drenched.

Before either of you get crushed by the masses, you grab Logan’s hand and yank him out. You hear more commotion coming from down the hall, yelling and crashing. You walk past Logan, jogging towards the noise. You make it to the door, hearing the voices loud and clear, and you bust in to see the insanity.

The kitchen was a wreck. The water is still coming as the alarm blares on. You see Hank trying to pull Charles off of Erik, but he won’t budge. Everything is a mess, and something about it sends you spiraling.

“Oh fuck no!”

You are hurling yourself at these men. You grab Charles’s jacket, and with the help of Hank yank him off of Erik. Hank flies to the floor, and you slam Charles to the wall. He looks so pitiful, and it makes you sick.

“I said thirty fucking minutes,” you seethe. “My power has limits, and this is the reason you all pushed them today? Because you couldn’t help yourself?”

Charles is silent, looking at you with complete guilt. Good, you think. He should feel fucking guilty.

“I could have passed out. You are so lucky I had Logan, or your ass would be going to prison.”

You let go of him, shoving him more into the wall as a warning, and turn to the other two knuckleheads. Hank and Erik are standing, looking at you in shock. They are really about to be in shock, however, because you weren’t done.

“You,” you pointed at Hank. “I know you hate your mutation, but your self-hatred almost fucked us all. I know you aren’t that fucking weak, especially to pull his scrawny ass off of that dumbass.”

“Well, it’s good to see you too-” you hear Erik start. You don’t let him finish.

“And you,” you shout, walking up to him and gripping the white prison uniform at the collars. “I know you are probably very shocked to see all of us. However, and understand this clearly, you do as we say. I am not about to have my future or anyone else’s fucked up because of you. You hear me?”

Erik smirks at you. “Yes, ma’am.” God, you wish you could wipe that look off his face.

You huff, shoving him away from you. “Let’s get out before we get caught.”

“It might be too late for that.” You hear Charles say, and you turn to see five Pentagon security members, plastic guns drawn.

“Charles,” Erik calls out. “Do something, Charles.”

“I can’t,” Charles says under his breath.

“Hands up or we will shoot!” One of the security officers yells, their fingers right on the trigger.

You groan at how worthless everyone is acting, and using your anger, you snap your fingers and immediately clench your fists. The cops freeze in place, and you are panting as your muscles suck up all the oxygen in your body.

“Someone better knock them out before I give out and-“ you are cut off by the sound of a pan connecting to skulls.

Logan was knocking these men out with ease, his strength apparent as the metal clangs. He is moving like a natural, arm swinging precisely to hit each man standing. It was captivating and watching him breathing in and out in his drenched clothes was very hot. You could feel your underwear start to cling to you, and you knew it wasn’t just from the water coming from the sprinklers.

You let go, hands going to your knees as you catch your breath once again. Logan is immediately by your side.

“Let’s get out of here,” Logan commands, and he wraps his arms around your torso to sit you straight up.

“I got you, sweetheart. Just hold onto me,” Logan says in a low tone, like talking any louder would disturb the already broken peace.

Without a word, you grip onto him and you two walk out of the kitchen to the elevator. The others are waiting for you two, keeping the elevator open and soon enough you are all in.

It’s amazing to you that you all made it out. Charles was smart enough to know to go through a back exit, and luckily Erik was able to move the cameras to face a different direction. It was as if none of you were ever there, other than the fact those security officers saw you. You’re hoping Logan hit them hard enough for them to forget.

Charles had parked the rental car close by, shoving yourselves in before going off onto the road. You are in the middle in the backseat, with Logan still holding you close. Erik was to you right, working to put on the jacket and hat Charles had brought to make him less recognizable.

Well, less recognizable to fucking idiots maybe.

“Alright, where to now?” Erik asks, still trying to get the jacket on in the packed backseat.

“We need to get her home.” Logan replies.

“What?!” You shout, feeling complete disbelief. “Why am I going home?!”

“Listen, thank you for your help. But this is dangerous, and you shouldn’t get mixed up in it.” Logan continues, his tone a lot more serious than it has been today.

“I just fucking infiltrated the Pentagon and now you are worried about dragging me into this mess?”

Logan is quiet, and you only get more pissed off. Who the hell does he think he is?

You push his arm off of you, twisting your body so you are looking directly at him. “I don’t know if you noticed, but if I weren’t there today, you all would’ve been fucked. I care about what happens, and y’all need me. So, I apologize but I’m fucking coming.”

Logan’s shoulders drooped, his hand going to rub his face. He breathes out, as if he’s trying to calm himself down, before turning to look out the window.

“Fine.”

“Good, so we are in agreement.” You say, before laying back against the middle cushion.

You let your eyes close as the sounds of the cars and bumps of the road lull you to rest. The chill from the water sets in, and subconsciously you find yourself wishing those strong, warm arms that had held you so much today would wrap around you once more.

The Atlantic Ocean

Fucking bastards.

Logan doesn’t understand how Charles and Erik were ever friends. Imagining them as anything but seemed easier. Maybe it’s the full rage of testosterone in their younger bodies. It would explain the extreme yelling, bickering, anger, grief. He understands the need to release all of that, but he already hates flying. Getting the man who can control metal upset isn’t a great idea in an aircraft.

Things eventually calm down, but what’s left is now a mess of broken glass and ceramic. Charles exits the lounge to go to the cockpit, and at the angle Logan is at he can see Charles with his head in his hands. He feels bad truthfully, seeing him so broken down and beaten up isn’t easy. It reminds him a lot of himself. Looking at Erik, who looks like he hadn’t been in a prison for almost a decade, irritates him slightly. But what irritates him more is that he almost crashed the fucking plane.

“So, you were always an asshole.”

As if on cue, he hears the door to the backroom open and you walk out. You are rubbing your eyes, holding onto the wall as your eyes double take on the view.

“Looks like I missed something eventful,” you yawn, walking over to start picking up broken glass.

“Hey, don’t do that. Let him do it,” Logan says, pulling a cigar out and putting it under the lighter’s flame. “He did this. Let him pick this shit up.”

Erik puts his hand up, letting you know he’s got it. As he starts cleaning up, Logan watches you carefully walk over to sit across the table from him. You lean across it, crossing your arms as you leave your eyes on him. “Give him a break. He’s been through a lot.”

Logan looks your way, taking another puff of his cigar. “Yeah, and he could’ve killed us.”

You shrug, leaning back into the seat while keeping eye contact. “Couldn’t have been that bad. I woke up to the plane flying smoothly.”

Logan takes another puff, a grin wanting to desperately pull onto his lips. Still a heavy sleeper.

“I think you just sleep like the dead,” Logan jokes, leaning forward with his elbows settling on the table.

“I guess.” Your head turned to the window, eyes closing and opening in slow succession. “But seriously, what did we expect? They may have similar ideals for mutant kind, but they are different sides of the same coin. I’m sure seeing one another after a whole decade makes it hard to keep everything bottled up.”

Logan nods in agreement because he can relate. When he saw you for the first time after what felt like a lifetime, it took everything in him not to pull you in. Even now, watching you as the light reflects on your face, he wishes he could seat you in his lap like he would after a long day of training. Having his arms around you as you curled into his side, feeling your warmth against him, made everyday worth living.

There was some reprieve when he was helping you after you stretched your powers to your limits, but he longs for you. He longs for your body, your kisses, your comfort, your love. He longs to show you how much you mean to him, to tell you he loves you. It is too much sometimes, especially in the kitchen at the Pentagon. Seeing how aggressive you were and smelling your scent change to something of want is making everything so much harder. He was already so worked up, he could have easily snapped, but he didn’t and it hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

There is a part of him that wishes you weren’t here, so he could finally focus, but in reality he is thankful you chose to stay. He knows it is for selfish reasons, but at the same time he knew they’d be lost without you. You give him the strength to keep going; the strength to push forward, even when it’s painful to keep everything he wants to do and say inside. So, he gets it. He gets it so much.

Logan notices you looking at him, and realizes he was staring. He coughs, trying to hide his embarrassment as he puts the cigar to his lips.

“So, is that why you didn’t join either of them after Cuba?”

Your smile is small, like you were reminiscing. “Both had very good points, and it makes sense why they believe the way that they do. Charles tends to see the best in people and Erik sees the worst.”

“So, you couldn’t pick a side?”

“I was only seventeen at the time,” you say. “I wasn’t about to let two grown men tell me what to do, and I’m glad I didn’t. I’m not their keeper.”

“Smart girl.”

You laugh at this, and it feels like dopamine is being injected into his brain. This is the first time he has felt… Joy? Happiness? He could listen to it for days.

“You said they sent you here together. Do they actually become friends again?”

Logan sends a small smile your way, but shakes his head. “It’s complicated.” And it really is. Logan is sure that if the Sentinel’s never came to be, they would still be at some sort of odds against each other. “Like you said, same coin, different sides.”

“I see,” you start to tap your fingers against the table, a nervous habit Logan had picked up on when you two met the first time. “Since we are talking, you never answered my question.”

Logan lifts an eyebrow in confusion, not realizing anything was asked.

“The other night at Max’s. Charles said you knew where to find me. How did you know?”

Logan only hums, taping his cigar to let the ash pool into the crystal tray. He feels like revealing anything about the future is a bad omen, but his restraint is wearing thin, and he can’t help but relent.

“You told me.”

“So, we know each other in the future?”

Oh, you don’t even know the half of it, sweetheart.

“We do,” Logan breathes out.

You leaned in closer, your jaw in your hands. “Are we friends?”

Not quite. “Sure, yeah. We’re friends.”

“Are we close?” You are smiling big, teeth showing. He missed that smile.

“Very close,” he leans in towards you, faces a few inches apart. “So close that I know everything about you.”

“Yeah?” Your eyes flash. “Like what?”

“Ask me something.” He is feeling cocky now.

“Okay,” you draw out, looking around as you contemplate, before your eyes shine back at him. “What’s my favorite band?”

“They don’t exist yet. Not for another couple of decades.”

“What? Really?” You gasped.

“The genre doesn’t even exist yet,” Logan grinned, seeing you surprised going right to his head. “But right now, it would probably be Velvet Underground.”

“Wow, you’re good.” You compliment. “Okay, how about my favorite color?”

“Really?”

“Should be easy if you know me so well.”

Logan vibrates, loving the back and forth happening between the two of you. “It’s blue. Dark blue especially because you love how the sky looks after the sun has set.”

You look down, and Logan wasn’t having any of that, lifting your chin with one finger. He moves forward just an inch more. “You’re going to have to ask something a little harder, sweetheart.”

You shy away from him, still staying close, a rush of pink added to your cheeks. Fuck, you are so beautiful.

“Okay, well,” you say, still looking away from him. “There is something else I can do with my mutation. What is it that I can do?”

Logan knows this answer far too well. It’s the only reason he was able to be with you as he is, even though he truly believes he would’ve fallen in love with you regardless.

“You can stop yourself from aging.” Logan whispers, not wanting the others to hear. “You use time to stop the clock in your body. You did it for a year after Cuba to try and gain back the time that was lost.”

“I wanted to finish high school, as crazy as that sounds.” You chuckle.

“More like you wanted to continue doing marching band,” Logan says, laughing as you smack his arm.

“Oh God, you must really know me if you know that!” You cackle. “I started aging again after I graduated though.”

“Why is that? Didn’t want to stay seventeen forever?” Logan tries to make light of it, but he knows why. He always knows why.

“Well,” you paused, leaning back into your seat with your hands still on the table. “The war in Vietnam got worse. There were a lot of boys I went to school with that got drafted, and they didn’t make it. If they did, they came back completely altered. Made me realize this isn’t a world worth living in for too long, I guess.”

“I get the feeling,” Logan responds, to which part he isn’t sure.

“And now that I know that the future's so bleaker, is there really a reason to want to keep living for longer than you need to?” You were looking at him so genuinely, and it broke his heart.

He sets his cigar down in the tray and goes to take your hands into his with a squeeze. He looks right at you, hoping what he’s conveying reaches your ears with sincerity and hope. “We can change that tomorrow, and when we do, you will have a reason to keep going.”

The conversation continues for a while, going back to answering questions for you and seeing your face light up when he guesses correctly, and he does every single time. It’s dark out now, the new day counting down to start. Logan can feel himself getting tired, but you? You were dozing off fast with your head against the plane's wall.

“Hey,” Logan reaches over the table, shaking your shoulder. “You should go lay down. We have a long day tomorrow.”

You yawn, stretching your limbs before blinking a few times. “Are you sure? I slept in for most of the day. You should take it.”

“I insist. Besides, I’m sure you don’t want to sleep in here with these bozos.” Logan looks in the direction of Erik and Charles, one sleeping in the chair and the other sprawled on the couch.

“I suppose you’re right, but will you be okay?”

“I’m used to sleeping wherever, so this is nothing. Please, get some sleep.”

Logan watches you get up from your seat, walking over to him before leaning down to his ear. “Goodnight, Logan. Sweet dreams.”

He feels your lips against his cheek, and he inhales sharply. He turns to watch you go into the backroom, and after a long few seconds he releases in an exhale. He puts his head in his hands, rubbing his temples in some poor attempt to calm himself, but his thoughts run fast and there is no stopping them.

He can feel himself close to snapping. It’s like everything you do is calling him in, daring him to do something. He knows it is insane. You don’t know him. If he were to do something, confess everything, what would that do for the future? Everything he says and does can change what the future holds, and a selfish part of him doesn’t care. When it comes to you, he is a selfish bastard.

He leans back in his seat, closing his eyes. Tomorrow is the day things will be set right. When that happens, maybe he will wake up to a world where you are still there. He just needs to hold on a little longer.

Hotel Majestic; Paris, France; Day of the Paris Peace Accords

Getting into the hotel was surprisingly easy. You thought security would’ve been on a high alert, but it was oddly empty. Everyone is able to walk around freely without worry, yet you are still on edge.

You don’t know why, but you’ve had an uneasy feeling ever since the plane landed. You keep relaying it back to nerves, but you know you are lying to yourself. Something isn’t right, and the lack of security here is only making you feel worse.

“Not much security here for a big event like today,” Logan says.

“It’s still a hotel. Anyone can still stay here.” Charles responds. “We still need to be careful though. Stay alert.”

You all make it to the staircase, and you see a map of the hotel. You point to the eastern wing, seeing how the third floor has a section for conference rooms. “Their meeting is most likely happening somewhere here.”

“Okay, let’s get there quick. We are running out of time.” Logan says urgently, and with that everyone is running up the stairs.

Logan is ahead of everyone, and you take notice how much his demeanor changed. He is ultra-focused, his mind only on one thing, and you can’t blame him. You’re sure he is under an insane amount of pressure to ensure he pulls through given the future circumstances. However, you’ve taken notice of how he keeps glancing at you with every chance he gets and it makes you wonder if there isn’t something else going on in that head of his.

Before you can ponder more on it, you hear yelling. You hear things moving harshly and what sounds like bodies hitting the floor. You all take a turn and see a flood of Vietnamese, Russian, and American military personnel running out of a room you can only assume is where your target is: Raven.

You all enter the room, and everything happens so quickly. Raven’s body hits the table, Charles is at her side, and Erik takes the tasers that latched to her body and gets them onto the man to the right of the table.

You hear a rapid beeping and to your left you see a man holding a device, red lines blaring as it goes off. You realize it is Trask, recognizing him from the papers.

You walk up, and before he can probably comprehend what is happening, you snatch the device from his hand. “I’ll take this”

You aren’t scared of him but you back away slowly, ensuring he cannot do anything behind your back. You hear another thump, and turn to see Logan against the wall breathing heavy with eyes screwed tight.

“Logan,” you speak up, walking towards him, but with a few steps in you feel a rush of pain to your head.

You collapse onto the floor, hands holding your head as you start to shake. The pain is sharp and static, forming at the base of your neck and wrapping around your head suffocatingly. You can hear someone calling your name, but it sounds distant.

“Erik…” you hear the fear in Raven’s voice, and with all you can muster you look to see Erik holding a gun. The same one Raven had to kill Trask, now pointed at her head.

Your brain isn’t comprehending anything Erik is saying, but his face is stone cold. Any hope that you were missing something was lost because you knew what he was going to do. It doesn’t take a clear head to see that.

You try to put your hand up, attempting to stop Erik in his tracks. The second your fingers touch his ankle, he kicks it off and places his foot on your wrist. You moan in pain, his weight pressing down enough to bruise.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I’m afraid you are out of commission.” Erik says calmly without taking a peep at you.

Everything happens in slow motion. The pressure is off your wrist, a gun shot sounds, and glass shatters. Your vision is blurry, your head feeling as if it’ll pop off. The people in your vision blur together like paint bleeding in water. Voices are muddled and slow, but loud. You are in agony, and you just want everything to stop.

You start to hear more noise from the other side of the room, and you see Logan’s blurred silhouette on the floor with his back against the wall. His hands clenched in his lap with claws out, breathing rapidly like someone would when they are having a panic attack. You grunt, pushing yourself up on your hands and knees with your jaw clenching tightly as the pain spikes. You crawl towards him with intent, and all you can think is Logan helped you when you were growing weak. He needs someone, and you will help him. Even if it fucking kills you.

“Logan, please say something,” you grit through your teeth, biting back against the strong pulse in your head.

He is unresponsive, and your own panic rises. You both can’t be down, not now. The fate of the world is happening at this very moment, and you aren’t going to let this new ailment weaken you. You grab his left hand, being careful not to freak him out, and quickly change to have a grip on his wrists. You position yourself so you’re hovering over him, knees on either side of his thighs. His eyes are closed shut, his head shaking. It seemed like he was having a nightmare while still being awake.

“Logan, can you hear me?” You say with fast breaths, your head only getting worse, but still there is no response.

Fuck, I have to do something.

You decide to think fast. Maybe, just maybe, you can stop his internal clock, keeping him in place until you can figure out how to get him out of this. You are a little afraid to do it in his current state, not knowing if he will react before everything settles in, but you have no choice. Not unless you want him to cave in on himself. You will stay in pain if it means helping him.

“I got you, Logan. I got you,” you whisper with a tremor and put your hands to his temples, letting your power weasel its way through his mind. Your head clears instantaneously, the throbbing ebb dissipating, causing a sigh of relief to wash over you. However, that relief takes a turn into something startling.

You aren’t sure what’s happening. Logan wasn’t freezing like you were anticipating, but something else was occurring. Your power feels different, like it was searching for something. Whatever you were doing, it seemed to be working. His breathing had slowed down, his claws retracted, and his body became lax against the wall.

The oddest part of all of this though is that you can see everything. It’s like your mind has become a VCR, and a VHS tape of his best memories has been inserted. It’s kind of nice to witness, seeing that even with all he’s gone through, things got better. However, the next thing you see makes your heart stop.

Everything is subdued, but you can tell he is outside on the lawn of Charles’s mansion. It’s bright out, and you see trees. You see young children running around playing, some using their mutations to get the upper hand in their games. And then he shifts, his eyes going to his side to see a figure beside him. His hand reaches out to them and the image clears.

It’s you. Holy shit, it’s you!

You looked older. Not by much but maybe by a few years. The way you’re presented is more mature, but still has that edge. You honestly liked it, and liked the idea of who you would become.

His hand goes to your face, stroking the skin of your cheek and you watch as both of your hands go to the one lingering. You pressed a kiss to his palm, eyes closing and staying that way until you open them and pull your lips away.

“I didn’t know you had come home.” You said, but it was playful.

“Got back early this morning. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You can always wake me up, Logan. I missed you so much.”

“You have no idea how much I missed you, sweetheart.”

You watch his arms pull you in, but before you watch it happen your mind forces itself away. You feel tears dotting your face. And from the looks of it, Logan had tears on his face too.

What was all that?

“Is he okay?” You hear Charles coming from behind you, a slight edge to his voice.

“I-I got him,” you stutter, shock still in your system. “You and Hank stop Erik.”

There’s no response except for feet pacing away and out the door. You look around and see everyone is gone, most likely getting out during the chaos. You hear a grunt, and turn to see Logan’s eyebrows scrunched up. His lips are quivering, and he is starting to shake again. When you see more teardrops form, you let go of him.

“Shit, I overdid it,” you say under your breath, even though you have zero clue on what you did.

His eyes shoot open, causing you to almost jump off of him if it weren’t for him pulling you back to him. His hands are on your face, thumbs pressing into your cheeks like he doesn’t know if you are really here or not. He says your name softly, a hint of disbelief in his tone.

“Logan, are you okay?” You say, hands going to his wrists to steady yourself. In that instance he pulls you in, gripping you tightly in his hold and rocking back and forth with you.

“Oh God, you’re alive. Fuck I thought I lost you.” You hear the pain in his voice, but it confuses you.

“Logan, I’m right here. I’m okay,” you reassure, arms wrapping around his head. You try to comfort him, but he just grips you harder.

“I’m sorry,” he says but it’s muffled with his face buried in your neck. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

There is a dampness from his tears, along with the feel of his lips on your skin. His kisses are bruising, like he is trying to convince himself. You, on the other hand, are experiencing so much. You don’t know Logan, but it is very apparent he knows you. He says you two were close friends, but the more he continues to kiss your neck, the more you think there is something else he isn’t telling you. You can take a pretty good guess to what that is.

You are starting to think you’re going to be in this position forever, until you hear footsteps enter the room.

“We need to get ou-“ you can hear that it’s Charles. “What’s going on?”

Your mouth opens to say something but shuts when nothing comes out. You don’t know what to say and you don’t want to say anything that may set Logan into another fit of unrest.

“Charles, go pull the car around discreetly. Make sure you have Hank. We will be down shortly.”

Once again, Charles leaves with no response. You turn your attention back to Logan, who is still weeping against you. You keep holding him tightly, thinking about how you are going to get him up to leave. As luck would have it, however, it is like something snaps back inside him because next thing you know you are being pushed away.

“What are you doing?”

You quickly hop off of him, standing up in the process to provide some distance. You observe him, and see the shift back to how he was before he started to spiral. Still, there is something wild in his eyes, and you have yet to determine if that’s a good or a bad sign.

“Oh thank God,” you sigh in relief. “You had me worried for a second.”

He groans, rubbing his head as he gets his bearings. You should wait to ask; you really should. But you need to know what he saw, and more specifically if he saw what you had seen.

“What happened? What did you see?”

“I saw someone that is going to bring me a lot of pain one day.” Logan looks to the side, and you follow his gaze to where that military man once was.

“I also saw…” he starts, only to look around and notice you two are the only ones in there. “Where is everyone? Where’s Raven?”

“She’s… she’s gone.”

“What?” His head snaps to you, eyes blown wide.

You look down, a sigh leaving your lips at today’s turn of events. You feel the room shift, a tension building that feels foreign to you. You feel guilty, even though you know you shouldn’t, but you feel like you’ve failed him. He is here to fix things, and now no one has a clue if what happened will make things better or worse. From how he is reacting, it can only be the latter.

“We need to leave.” Logan mutters, already walking towards the exit. “Let’s go.”

He isn’t looking at you but waits for you to move. You nod, even though there is no recognition to come, and you walk ahead with him trailing behind you.

Yep, definitely the latter.

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters; Westchester, NY

The trip back felt like it had taken years off your lifespan, the stress that had surrounded the jet almost unbearable. Everyone had feelings of failure and guilt, as it took no telepath to see that, but what made things worse was how much Logan was distancing himself.

You had thought after what happened you would get to know more, but there was none of that, not even a word. It’s like you had burned him with the way he kept his distance. Even on the jet, a space with little room, he stayed far. You had purposely moved closer, and he made an excuse to get up only to sit at the opposite end of the jet. It upset you, and you hate that it did. You shouldn’t feel anything about him, yet after that stupid memory you saw, you do. How could you not?

You didn’t realize it at the time, but feeling how far he is from you makes your body ache in a way that’s unfamiliar. The way your body had felt against his, how solid he was, had you yearning. The way he had held you like you were the most precious thing he possessed had you wanting. If you are interpreting his memory correctly, then why is he holding you from such a distance?

Does he feel like it would be cheating? You know that’s you but that isn’t you now. You are different but how different? Different enough to warrant him to see you as a completely different person?

To be fair, you don’t know his past or even his future, but your heart is starting to want to go where he is. It’s like there is a red string connected between you two that stretches far and wide. You can’t help but think you harbor these feelings because no matter what, you were destined to be with him and he was destined for you. Nothing can cut that string, but it can stretch tightly and that string is losing its thread.

Currently, you are sitting at the top of the stairs, waiting for someone to come out of Charles’s room. Logan and Hank had taken him there, his legs having given out and his mind going off the rails as the effects of his medicine wear off. You chose to distance yourself so as to not overcrowd.

You could hear them talking, sometimes with voices raising and then going soft again. You couldn’t make out what they were discussing, only hearing certain words that have no meaning without context. It isn’t until you hear the door click open that you stand, seeing Hank leaving the room quickly followed by Logan.

“Is he okay?” You ask, watching Hank come towards you fast.

“He’s going to try and find Raven using Cerebro.” He says walking fast past you down the stairs. “Getting his wheelchair!”

Logan follows him, not glancing at you or saying a word causing you to frown. You are hot on his heels, having more questions desperate for answers.

“Logan, is he going to be alright?”

“Yep, just fine. Hank and I will be right beside him.” Logan says curtly, walking towards Charles’s old office.

“What about me?” You ask, but it falls on deaf ears as he starts to look for something.

“Logan.” You were starting to get frustrated. What the fuck is his problem?

He finally finds what he’s looking for, and you see him slam a phone book onto the desk. He is flipping through it just a touch too aggressive, pages cringing as he flips the pages. He then stops and puts his finger down on a number before picking up the phone and clocking in the digits.

“Seriously, Logan. Who could you possibly be calling?” You ask him, only to get fucking pissed at his next few words.

“I need a cab for 1407 Graymalkin Lane-”

“What the hell are you doing?!” You storm towards him, getting more irritated by the second.

“Calling you a taxi. You are going home.” Logan growls out, about to continue speaking before you snatch the phone from him and slam it back down.

“Like hell I am!” You yell. “Just as I told you a couple days ago, I am not going anywhere. You all need me.”

He slams his hands down against the table, making you jump back. “Listen here, princess. I don’t care how much you think we need you because it doesn’t fucking matter. We need to focus. I need to focus. I cannot do that with you here, so you are going to take a cab back to New York City. Do you understand?”

The daggers in his eyes are sharp, trying to make you give in to his demands. You know better and you can see right through him. “Is this about what happened in Paris?”

He scoffs, turning away from you to walk away. “It was nothing you need to worry about. Just saw someone that is going to make my life hell. I am fine.”

“That isn’t what I am talking about. When I was trying to calm you down, I saw something.” You say, and it stops him in his tracks.

“What do you mean you saw something?” He turns, facing you. “What could you have possibly seen?”

“I was trying to stop your panic attack by stopping the conception of time in your brain, but I did something else. Something I didn’t know I could do.” You explain, and his face softens from anger to confusion.

“I think I somehow moved your consciousness forward in time,” you continued. “I was able to see where I was moving it. It was how I was able to get you to settle down.”

He is in front of you instantly, hands on your shoulders in a tight grip. “What did you see?”

“I saw myself through your eyes.” You breathed out. “We were out on the lawn behind the mansion.”

“What else did you see?” Logan shakes you a little, causing you to squeak. He is starting to scare you a little bit; the way he is behaving is very irrational.

“That was all I saw, I swear.” You say honestly.

Logan sighs deeply, tilting his head back with eyes closed. He lets go of you, taking steps back until he’s against the wall. You are growing worried with how he is acting. You wish he would just tell you everything. Tell you what you two really were. Tell you what is running through his head. Tell you what is scaring him so badly. Seeing him so vulnerable has shaken you, but you can’t back down.

“We weren’t just friends,” you whisper. “We were far more, weren’t we?”

Logan’s breath hitches, and his mouth opens to speak but no words come.

“It explains everything. The way you’ve been acting since we met. I can see the longing in your eyes. I can see it in the way you look after me. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Logan laughs but it isn't playful. It sounds like a laugh that comes to cover the hurt and is full of self-pity.

“It matters to me!” You lament. “I want to know why.”

“Listen,” Logans says, his tone becoming solemn. “Whatever I say or do here affects the future as we know it. Me even being in the same vicinity as you these last few days has made everything extremely difficult for me. If say or do one thing wrong, that’s it. The future I have with you ceases to exist and you cease to exist.”

“What do you mean I cease to exist?” You ask, taken aback by his confession.

Logan’s face pales, quickly turning to go back up the stairs. “Fuck, I’ve said to much.”

Your hand grabs his, yanking him back enough to keep him still. “Logan, what do you mean I cease to exist?”

Both of your emotions are running high, bubbling to the point of overflow; the edge you both were teetering on, about to fall over. You shouldn’t push it, but rationality is no longer home; only frustration.

“Logan, I swear to God if you don’t tell me what the fuck it is you mean I-“

“You die in the future! Is that what you want to hear?” Logan shouts, and everything goes quiet.

You are stunned. “What?”

“You die during the first few Sentinel attacks.” Logan rips his hand away like he’s having an adverse reaction.

“So,” you start, not knowing where you want to go with this question. “So you’re afraid I’m sealing my fate by being here?”

“I’m afraid I once again won’t be able to save you.” Logan says with a pained expression.

“You don’t need to worry about me. If something happens, I can just shift time back and we can prevent it.”

“God, you are still so stubborn,” he heaves. He is now face level with you on the steps, and he takes your face in his hands.

“You don’t understand how hard it is for me to stay away. The first time I saw you at the nightclub, all I wanted to do was pull you into me. It is taking everything in me not to hold you like I want to. To kiss you, to love you. But the more I let you in, the more I am close to giving in. I will not divulge my desires at the risk of everyone that is counting on me, especially you.”

You can see his torment, and all you want is to comfort him. You want to kiss him so bad. You want to pull him by his shirt and never let him go. You understand his love for you, but you want him to understand that you would go to end with him, no matter what.

Your hands go to his wrists, keeping his hands in place. “Have you considered that you coming back here and me being here with you was meant to happen? What if me being here helping you all saves me? What if it extends our lifetime together?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way he is looking at you makes you weep. His lip quivers, his eyes start to shine, and his jaw is clenching hard enough to break teeth. Your hands slither up his arms to his shoulders. You feel magnetized, your face inching closer to his to see if he will have a change of heart. You are close enough to feel his breath shutter against your lips, and your heart is beating so fast you are sure he can hear it. You feel slight contact, a ghost of a kiss before full impact, but it never comes.

“Logan!” Charles yells from upstairs. “We are getting ready to go.”

Logan is quick to pull away, sending a wave of hurt towards you. He breathes out a stuttered breath before yelling a response and heading upstairs, but before he goes up he turns his head towards you. “There is money on Charles's desk. Please leave while you have the chance.”

He goes upstairs not looking back and you watch as he disappears from your view. You stand there for a while, deep in thought as you weigh your options, but you knew what you were going to do. Even though Logan was afraid, and rightfully so, you had a gut feeling everything would turn itself around.

So, with heavy steps, you walk up the stairs and down the hall, picking the second to last room on the right. It is barren aside from a bed and a dresser, and seeing the bed made you realize how exhausted the day's events have made you. You shut the door, and flop onto the bed, letting sleep take over and dreams manifest.

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters; Westchester, NY; Four Hours Later

20 Text Messages.

10 Missed Calls.

3 Voice Messages.

Voice Message 1: Hey baby, just calling you to tell you goodnight. Don’t worry about waking me when you get home. I wanna see you as soon as you get in. Get back safely. I love you.

Voice Message 2: Logan, something is wrong. There are a bunch aircrafts above the mansion. Not sure what is happening. Myself and the others are getting the kids together. I’d rather be safe than sorry. Please be cautious when you get home. I love you.

Voice Message 3: Logan. Logan! Whatever you do, please do not come to the mansion! It’s under attack! Those Sentinels are here and- oh God Logan it’s a slaughter. Please do not come! I’ll find you once I’m safe. I love you!

Logan is running like hell to the mansion, and he can see them. They swarm the building like flies, crawling along the brick. There are fires, giant gaping holes in the wall, and bodies… so many bodies.

He gets in, staying close to the wall as he listens. He can hear the Sentinel bodies grind and creak as they move, hunting down any mutant that hasn’t been vanquished. He sniffs deeply, trying to find you in the building. He hopes you made it out already, but that hope is lost when he gets a strong whiff of you and blood.

So much blood.

He enters the foyer, and dead center he sees your body, a hole pierced into your stomach. He sees your mouth open, trying to breath but your chest stammers as it goes down.

No. No, no, no!

He is at your side, pulling you into his arms. He cradles your head, his hand going to the hand holding your wound. Your eyes are slitted, a dazed look looking right back at him. It’s haunting how dull you are starting to look, and every second adds to his panic.

“Baby, I’m here. I’m here.”

Your free hand, the one not stained in your own blood, clutches onto his shirt. You pulled on it so lightly, strength slowly fading away.

“I told you not to come,” you whimpered. “It’s not safe here.”

“I wasn’t about to leave you here to deal with this alone. We gotta get you out of here.”

“No, you do.”

“Don’t say that,” he said sternly. “You are coming with me.”

He lets go to take his belt and shirt off. Balling up the shirt, he moves your hand to put the fabric against your stomach.

“Fuck!” You screamed.

“I’m so sorry, baby. Bear with me, please.”

He is crying, holding his sobs in as tears break over the dam. He takes his belt and wraps it around your torso, keeping the pressure so more blood doesn’t come out. There is already so much around you.

“I’m gonna lift you up, okay?”

He wraps your arms around his neck, getting a grip under your legs and your back before lifting you up.

“I got you. I got you.”

He starts walking back from where he came, but he wasn’t so lucky this time. He sees them on the ground, making their way up from where he entered. He turns quickly, thinking the only other way out is through the tunnels.

He hits the secret door, and just as it opens he hears one coming their way. He shoves you both through, getting it shut before he starts making his way down. He is making multiple turns, his mind spinning in a haze as he goes to find the exit. He feels your breathing slow, and for the first time in a long time he is scared. You are everything. Without you, he is nothing.

He makes one final turn, the exit at the end, but he halts in his spot. All he sees is carnage. There is blood on the walls, bodies of students, and marks from where their gifts were used. The exit door had been beaten down, the walls cracked and gone along with it.

“Good God…” He shouldn’t have come down here.

He turns to go back, but from the shadows comes one of them. It blends in with the concrete, and makes itself known once it’s in reach. Its arm shifts into something sharp, and once formed it draws down to where he stands, but just as quickly he dodges with you in his arms.

“We’re not dying today, bub.”

He starts to run like hell towards the exit, only to see another one pop up at the opening. He takes a sharp turn, getting the runaround to make it back to the entrance. It’s a maze of turns, feeling like it’ll take an eternity to get to safety, but with one final turn he has it.

And then he doesn’t.

Rubble had fallen from the flooring above and made its way down creating a massive blockage. It’s a fucking dead end.

The two Sentinels approach, both opening their mouths to burn you two alive. He crouches down with his back facing them, preparing to take anything they give him. He will suffer. Good God, he will suffer. But if he can fake them out enough to leave, you will be safe. That’s all that matters.

But the pain never comes.

“Logan.”

He looks down to see you holding your arms out, and his eyes widen when he realizes you are using your powers. He turns to see the Sentinels, but they are still moving. Just incredibly slow.

“Logan, you need to leave.”

He turns back to you, and sees your body shaking. The work he had put into keeping the blood from spilling was fatal. You were hemorrhaging.

“I’m not leaving you here. I won’t do it.”

You let out a pitiful cry, your tears streaming down your cheeks. He can see his too as they mix with yours.

“There is no saving me. Let me save you, please.”

“Baby, I-“

“Do not let me die in vain, Logan. They need you.”

“But I need you!”

“I know, and I’m sorry I can’t give you what you need. It’s selfish, I know.”

“You’re damn right it is.”

“But please, let me be selfish. Let me save you.”

He can start to feel the heat, the Sentinels mouths setting wide enough to set this tunnel ablaze. Everything is telling him to stay, but the way you are looking at him breaks him and it makes him cave.

He can never say no to you.

“Go. Find the others. Make sure they are safe. God, please make sure they are safe.”

“I love you, sweetheart,” Logan chokes, holding you just a little tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too.”

He kisses you. It’s soft yet full of sorrow. It’s a kiss of death, he knows it.

“I’ll see you in the next life.”

You smiled at that. It’ll be the last smile he sees from you. “Go quickly. I can’t hold on much longer, Logan.”

He lets go, gently setting you down, before he runs past the Sentinels and makes his way back to the exit. The second he was out of sight, he heard it. The roar of the flames, the mechanical sounds from their armor, and your screams.

All he can hear is your screaming.

Your screams.

You are fucking screaming.

Logan shoots up from the bed, a yell cutting off from his lips as he enters consciousness. He is breathing rapidly, swallowing nonexistent spit as he works to pull himself together. His claws were all the way out, a common side effect of his trauma response. He feels how cool the air is in the room due to the sweat that coated his body.

He didn’t think he could dream in this current state. He hasn’t had that dream in a while, even though he wishes it was simply that. He used to have it so often, a constant reminder that he failed you and let you suffer just so he could get away. Having to relive the worst day of his life over and over is his own form of hell.

He hears a knock at the door, startling him from his state of being.

“Logan?”

He freezes up, knowing that voice from anywhere. He really doesn’t want you in here, not with him like this. Not with him feeling so exposed.

“I’m fine!” He calls out, hoping you would take the hint, but he knows better.

He watches the door open and you appear. You are still in your beat up clothes, leather jacket and dirty shoes forgotten. Nothing has changed, but you look even more beautiful than you have since he’s gotten here. Maybe it’s because his senses are heightened. Maybe it’s the way the floodlights from outside shine on you in contrast with the dark room. Simply, maybe it is just you.

“I thought I told you to leave.” He says, trying to sound annoyed, but failing miserably.

“Yeah, and I told you I wasn’t going to let grown men tell me what to do.” You responded, shutting the door behind you.

“Hmph,” he groused, looking down at his hands as his claws sink back into his flesh.

He hears you get closer, feet pattering against the wooden floors. “I could hear you in your sleep. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” But am I really? “Just a nightmare.”

He looks out the window, the night in full effect. The bed dips, and he looks to see you sitting down at the end. He sees it in your face that you don’t believe him, which isn’t surprising. You’ve always been able to read him no matter the circumstances.

“Did you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he says quickly. He doesn’t want to relive it twice in one night.

“Okay, okay,” you say calmly. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

Please stay, so I know this is real.

That’s what he wants to say, but he feels like he will choke. His silence is deafening, so much so he sees your face twist in reaction.

“If you want to be alone, I understand.” You got up from the bed. “Goodnight, Logan.”

There was a time when he didn’t need to be strong or to carry the weight of others. With you as his anchor, he could be exposed. He has had to be strong for so long in recent years, but with you right here in front of him, he feels himself caving. So many emotions are rushing to his head, a battle between the Devil and God raging. He knows it’s wrong to interfere with the past, especially when there are consequences, but after tonight his sanity is slipping. Before he knows it, his hand grabs your arm to keep you from taking another step.

“Stay,” he whispers, a hint of a crack that is only noticed by him. “Please.”

“Okay,” you say with ease. “Where do you want me?”

The angel on his shoulder is telling him to not give in, yet the little, conniving demon on the other side is telling him what he wants to hear. He wants you close; needs you close.

“Will you let me hold you?”

He thought there may be some hesitation, but there is none. You walk back over to the bed, and he lays back as you climb onto it. His arm is out to invite you in, and you situate yourself to him. Your left arm is cradled into your chest and your right curls so your hand is where his heart is. Your head settles where his right arm and shoulder connect.

“Is this okay?”

It’s more than okay. “Yes, thank you.”

You both lay there for a while, and he lets his senses completely take over. The first thing he senses is your smell. There is something so sugary sweet about your scent. He equates it closely to something he’d smell in a candy shop with housemade confections. It’s intoxicating, and makes him hungry.

You fit into his arms just right. The skin from your cheek laying on his exposed shoulder brings a comfort he hasn’t had in so long. It made him realize how touch-starved he’s been. He hasn’t touched another woman since your passing, and the thought of doing so makes his stomach turn. He only wants to feel you against him, in every sense of the word.

The most shocking thing for him is to hear how calm you sound. Your breathing is deep and slow. Your heartbeat is sounding its soothing rhythm under your ribcage. It’s the opposite of how his heart was reacting; hard and fast pumps of blood rushing. He feels your hand rubbing circles over his heart, and he wonders if you can tell how much you are affecting him.

“Tell me something about me from the future.”

Logan looks down at you, and you look so peaceful as you lay with him. Does he do this to you?

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Something good.”

There are so many good things about you. It’s hard to divulge into just one thing, but even then he knows where to start.

“You teach music at the school.”

You perked your head up at this. “I teach?”

“Mhmm,” he hums, smiling to himself. “You do a lot of the extracurricular activities for the younger ones, but music is one you do a lot of. You’re really good with kids.”

You move your body, hands on top of one another on his chest. Your head lays on them, looking at him with a smile that makes his heart beat faster.

“Sounds like I’ve become a lot more patient in the future.”

“Trust me,” Logan chuckles. “You are still quite stubborn, but you are different with them.”

Logan loved seeing you with the kids. He remembers how nervous you were to teach the younger students, but he knew you would do well. Seeing how you interacted with them during class, how you encouraged them and gave them the will to work hard. So many of the kids came from families who despised who they were. You became a mother-figure to a lot of them.

He thinks about the time he woke up to kids laughing and looked out the window to see you running around with them. You were carrying on with them, laughing with them, looking at them with care and love. It was the moment he realized he would love to start a family with you. Watch you grow with his child, see you love them like you love the kids at school. It makes his heart twist.

“Did they like me?”

“Oh, sweetheart. They loved you.” Loved. God, you were so loved by them.

“Can I ask something?” You ask.

“Anything.” He can feel himself getting lost in you, his hand subconsciously caressing your hair.

“What I did in Paris,” you start. “You seemed genuinely confused when I explained what I did earlier. Was that something I couldn’t do in the future?”

When you told him you brought his memories to the forefront of his mind, shifting time in his brain, he was shocked. Your mutation is special, and the control you had over it is simply astounding. He isn’t surprised that your powers can do more than what was discovered originally, but it now begged the question: what triggered it and why now?

“No,” Logan says with the shake of his head. “What do you think caused it?”

“Logan, I think you did.” He hears you hesitate.

“What do you mean?”

He watches as you sit up, crossing your legs. Your hands grab his right hand, thumbs pushing into his skin right where his mutated bones come out. It is strange how different you are acting in comparison to the last few days. You are acting like the you he gets to know later, the edge in your attitude completely gone. Maybe this is who you are or maybe… you are only this way with him.

“So, the day we met, earlier that day, I saw you come out of the Algonquin.”

He sits up at this, heart picking up more. “You were there?”

“I pulled over because I started to get a terrible migraine. It was so bad I thought I was having a stroke or something, but then it stopped like it was never there. Next thing I know, I see you and I can't look away. I felt like I knew you and I didn’t know why.”

“Has it happened more than once? The migraines?” Logan is pulled into your direction, back hunching slightly to get closer even when he doesn’t realize it.

“It happened again at Max’s when you introduced yourself.”

His eyes widen, the pieces coming together. “That’s why you looked like you were in pain.”

“I chalked it up to having drank too much,” you huffed out a laugh. “It didn’t make sense at the time, but after Paris I can’t shake the feeling.”

“So what are you saying? That I opened your mind?”

“If I didn’t have access to this part of my mutation from the future you are from, what if that means this was all meant to happen?” You brought his hand to your chest where your heart lies and he can feel directly where your heart beats.

Where it beats for him.

“I wasn’t even the one meant to come here,” Logan says in denial. “It was supposed to be Charles.”

“But what if it wasn’t?” You grip his hand harder, pushing it further against you. “What if you were meant to find me to make things right? To save everyone. To save us. Maybe this is fate trying to tell you something.”

He is becoming weak. Your words are so honest and it is taking nothing to believe you. Maybe you are right, maybe you are wrong. You haven’t seen the bloodbath the future becomes, but maybe you don’t need to have seen to know. Your words, your reasoning; both make his resolve crack and there isn’t much left. Having you here in front of him, being so reassuring and confident, he isn’t going to last.

“What are you thinking right now, Logan?” You ask gently, and if he is seeing things correctly, he sees how much you want him to give in. And that’s all he needs.

“I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you right now.”

His hand on your chest is pulled lower, down to your left breast where you curl your fingers over his to squeeze the flesh. “Then do it.”

To say the dam has broken would be an understatement. The dam has vaporized, mass flooding reaching the heavens. Those three words were enough for him to snatch you into his arms, pull you on top of him, and get his lips onto yours. He has your thighs on either side of his own, holding you so close that your crotch is pressed tightly against his. Your hands are holding onto his shoulders with nails digging into his skin, and fuck he loves it.

His hands are all over you; going from your hips to your ass to the small of your back to your head. He wants to touch every part of you and memorize every inch of your skin. His fingers bundle up the bottom of your top, pushing it up with his fingertips to let his palms glide along your waist. You gasped against his lips, giving him the opportunity to let his tongue fondle yours.

He unclasps your bra as his hands reach the middle of your back, giving him the chance to take both items of clothing off your body. He pulls away from you, back leaning against the headboard as he takes you in. Your body is just as he remembered it, and he could weep at how stunning you are.

“Do I look okay?” There is a hint of uncertainty in your voice, and it sends his hands to gently bring your face down to him.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on.” His eyes bore into yours as he tells you, needing you to know how much he means it.

Before he can say anything else, your lips are back on his. He lets you take the lead, your tongue leading him in a dance. It gives him the opportunity to focus his hands on your breasts. You whimper against his mouth and he feels you push your chest into his palms as he massages them, which causes a little smirk to form at the corner of his mouth. You had always loved when he played with them as it turned you on like nothing else.

“Good to know your tits have always been so sensitive,” he murmurs against your lips, thumb and pointer fingers going to pinch the puckered buds.

A high-pitched moan is pulled from you, your hips involuntary grinding against him in response. Your lips let go of his, and they end up going to his cheek. “I guess you know how to get me going, don’t you?”

“Oh baby, I know your body like the back of my hand,” he hums with a rumble. He can play your body like an instrument, the song being your sweet noises. He is going to show you just how well he makes you sing.

He is quick to flip you over, removing his white wife pleaser in the process before his hands go to your jeans. He yanks them down with your panties and you help kick them off before he tosses them aside. He goes to take his own off, stripping everything away until he is as naked as you are.

He crawls up to you, moving your thighs over his hips. His hands reach under your back and he pulls you into his lap. Your legs wrapped around him, and he groans as your wet cunt sits against his cock. His left arm stays wrapped around you, and his right hand holds the back of your head with fingers at the roots of your hair. Your hips start grinding up onto his erection, mewls so sweet that he can’t help but consume them.

He pulls your head to the side by your hair gently, tugging just enough to get a reaction from you. Your eyes flutter, and he hums as he lets his lips ghost over your ear.

“I have every little spot of yours memorized,” he kisses behind your ear, his tongue peeking out for a little lick before kissing in the same spot. “Even if you think you know what they are, just know I know all of them.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you say with a shiver, making your body press further into the heat he is projecting.

“Mmm that’s right.” His lips go down to the underside of your jaw where your pulse is, kissing it gingerly to prepare you for his next act. “Keep that up.”

He bites down slowly on the crevice, letting his teeth sink in far enough to leave his mark. Your hands are on his head, cooing softly at the distinct pressure. He releases, licking the indents he left in your skin to soothe the ache.

“You sound so pretty, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me see if you know this one.”

His mouth trails down, sucking marks into your skin until he gets down to your sternum. His back hunches down, leaning you back to get the angle just right. He sets his tongue to work, letting the tip trail a stripe up until he reaches the notch between your collarbones. A little gasp followed by a hushed curse falls from your lips. The sensation causes you to squirm in his lap and it makes his dick twitch against your folds. Logan isn’t a patient man in most regards, but he could spend an eternity exploring your body. Your reactions fuel him and they send blood right down to his cock.

“Didn’t know about that spot, did you?”

“No, ah!” Logan pulls another gasp from you as he nibbles around the edges. “Getting me addicted to you early, aren’t you?”

“That’s right, angel.” Logan can’t help himself, thrusting his hips up a little to let his length rub into your pussy; so wet and so good. “I’ll have you yearning for me for decades to come.”

As he proceeds the motion of his hips, tightening his hold on you, he allows his right hand to come up to your left breast. With his tongue and cock being a distraction, he pulls at your taut nipple at the same time his teeth bite down on your collarbone. You cry out his name, his hair being fisted and pulled. He can’t help the wanton moan that spills out, riling him up to no end.

Your breast feels so at home in his hand, but looking at how pretty your nipples look, flushed from his treatment, he gets a craving. His tongue makes a path down, making its way to the left and up until it slithers to your erected bud. His mouth latches, encircling the peak as he sucks earnestly. He continues rutting into you, feeling his and your fluids coating his appendage.

Logan feels himself becoming drunk. With you in his arms reciprocating his intentions, it’s like he is weightless. Something deep in his scarred heart is healing. Years of trauma from seeing and experiencing the unthinkable transform into the better things in life. He thinks of the future he could have with you. A future where you take his last name. A future where you two live in a little home decorated however you choose. A future with your belly big with his kid, where he can kiss your stomach every morning and every night. A future where you and him raise a child. He wants that. He wants that so bad.

In his drunken haze, he feels one of your hands leave his head. Your fingertips send his nerves alight as they trail down his arm. You are tracing the veins that are bulging out, and he grunts as they go over to his chest. He has switched to your other breast, and as he starts, he feels your palm against his cock. You are pushing it more into your cunt, thumb running over his fat tip as you rub it.

“Fuck,” he curses with a pop. “You are such a greedy girl.”

“What can I say?” You jest. “I know what I want.”

“And what would that be, sugar?” He thrusts against you, cockhead rubbing up and down your clit.

You smiled at him, and your other hand goes from his head to his jaw. Fingers slightly scratching his beard with your thumb on his bottom lip, you lean back into him with knees shifting. They are on either side of him now and his tip is being lined up against your hole. Your eyes seek out his, and he can’t look away as he admires you. You are beautiful, an angel sent down for him. Every version of you is perfect, and for every version of you he will sacrifice everything.

“I want you to make love to me,” you say with a shuttered breath. “Show me how you love me. Show me what I have to look forward to.”

Logan’s tip is enveloped by your heat by the time you finish, and your words were the full confirmation he needed to seat you fully onto his shaft.

It’s like gasping for air with how intense his reunion with you feels. You fit perfectly around him. It’s almost too good to be true. Part of him is wondering if he is still dreaming, but with how warm and snug you are, it has to be real. This has to be happening.

You lift your hips until all that’s connected is the head before dropping back down. His cock glides right in and he grunts as you work yourself on him. He guides your movements with his hands, both on your plush ass and giving a squeeze with every bounce. Your arms have since wrapped around his neck, head hiding in his neck. Your hot breath fans across his skin, your teeth nipping at him every time he fills you up.

He loves how you are taking what you need, letting you keep the pace to get used to his size. Normally during an intimacy session, he would prepare you more thoroughly. He’d pleasure you with his mouth, letting his spit coated tongue lubricate your pretty pussy. He’d finger you open, getting you nice and relaxed for his heavy cock. He would add another when your little noises got rowdier, a tell-tale sign that you needed more. He did everything to ensure you were ready for him, the enjoyment of your pleasure and taste a perk in the endeavor. With how you are riding him, however, it feels like you are preparing him. Taking it slow, letting him savor you, letting him know that this is real and you are his.

“You feel incredible, Lo,” you whimper into his neck. He just about mimics you after hearing you call him by that little nickname.

“I can say the same to you, pretty girl.” He lifts your head by your hair, putting your forehead to his as he rocks up into you. “Taking my cock so well. You were made for me. Ain’t that right?”

“Mhmm,” you hum. “I’ll always be yours. In every lifetime, I am yours and you are mine.”

He chokes out a laugh, completely overwhelmed with emotion. He kisses your swollen lips with ease, his tongue flicking out to savor your taste. Every moan that comes out is captured by his mouth, swallowing the sweet sounds desperately. He notices your hips start to slow, and your whining gets more consistent. He knew you were tiring, but that was okay. He has enough energy and greed to take over. You make him greedy, and he needs more.

“Did you want me to take over, baby?”

“Please,” you mumble against his lips. “Take me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He shifts himself, keeping you two connected as he gets you onto your back. He situates you so your legs are wrapped around his torso, legs pushed down so your thighs are almost to your chest. The angle he has you in gives him the chance to push in just a little more, his tip putting pressure onto your cervix.

“Oh God, you are so deep,” you mewl, clenching down on his cock causing him to groan at the grip.

“That’s right, baby. Damn you look so beautiful like this.”

“Yeah? I look beautiful with your big cock in my pretty pussy?”

“Fuck, you got a mouth on you.” Logan thrusts shallowly in response, a whine ripping out from your throat. “But to answer your question, you look beautiful no matter what.”

He starts thrusting long, deep strokes into you. He lets one hand stick to your hip, and the other has a gentle grip on your jaw to keep your head in place. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and in an instant your tongue latches to it. It draws it in, getting it so your lips close around it and suck on it as your tongue lathers it. Your eyes shut, and you hum happily like you are savoring the musk from his skin. It enraptured him, making him pick up the pace, hips starting to slam against you.

He’s on the cusp of his release. He doesn’t want this end, not by a long shot. But tonight will become tomorrow. A new day will start where the stresses of his mission will come to light. All he can do is savor this last little bit of happiness and hope sometime soon he will wake up with you by his side.

“Lo, I’m close,” you grunt out.

He takes his soaked thumb, bringing it down to your bundle of nerves. “I’ll get you there, baby. Cum whenever you are ready.”

He swirls your clit at an easy pace, a contrast to how he is slamming into you. He is battering into your pussy, hitting that spot he knows all too well. Your moans grow louder, more accustomed to his hard hitting movements. The sounds of wet slapping with moaning and grunting fill the room, and with the slightest bit of added pressure to your clit he gets you there; right where he wants you.

Your back is arching off the bed, nails finding purchase on his thighs. Your moans are breathless, the wind knocked out as he continues the fast pace of his hips. He looks down where the two of you are connected, watching the white fluid flow down between your ass and drip onto the bed. He can smell it and something snaps in his brain where he wants more.

He can tell you are coming down from your high, but he isn’t having any of that. His length stills, fully seated in you, and starts rutting the tip against your g-spot.

“Fuck, it’s too much,” you cry out. “Logan, please!”

“I got you, pretty girl. Just need you to cum on my cock one more time.”

You nod, and he pushes his hips harder, and it isn’t long before you are wailing with another release. This sets him off again, and he pulls almost fully out before pistoning his cock in and out rapidly as he prolongs your orgasm. You are wailing his name, and he can see tears falling down the sides of your eyes from how good he was making you feel. He is on top of a hill about to roll down, and before he releases, he pulls out.

Your legs try to shut, but his thighs prevent it. He takes two fingers and sticks them into your cunt to continue riding your release out. His other hand fists his cock over your stomach, and with a growl he is cumming in ropes. White paints your tummy until it’s pooling down into your belly button, drenching the skin and making it sheer. He is breathing heavy, orgasmic bliss fading into something more peaceful. He sees you are on the same boat, chest going up and down. It isn’t until he hears a sob crash out from your lips and more tears forming that he snaps out of his daze.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” He is urgent as he gets off the bed, getting closer to you from the side of the bed. His hands are immediately on your face, thumbs wiping away the new droplets trailing down.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, staggered breaths coming from you with a mixture of sobs in between. “I’m okay. It was just a lot.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I got carried away.” He goes to kiss the apples of your cheeks where the tears have stained, before standing up fully. “Let me get you cleaned, okay?”

He turns to go get a towel from the bathroom when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist, stopping him completely.

“It was a lot, but in a good way.”

He goes to kneel on the ground beside the bed, hands going to yours to kiss your knuckles. “Are you sure you are okay? I wouldn’t dream of hurting you,” he murmurs into your skin.

“Logan, I have never experienced pleasure like that before,” you say hiccuping, causing a laugh to bubble out after. “I never thought I could experience something like that with someone ever.”

It dawns on him that this is technically your first time with him, meaning once the future sets to the right course, this moment will become the first time he made love to you. His mind goes back to the very first time, both coming back from a night out with a need so deep that it was said and done too quickly. This time, he got to cherish you. He got to make your first time with him feel special and adored. It is surreal, and it is everything.

“Why are you crying?” He hears you whisper, a hand escaping his grip to wipe away his own tears.

He didn’t even realize it, but he didn’t care. He didn’t hide it. He lets you wipe them away, mirroring how he tended to yours. “I’m happy. Happier than I have been in a long time.”

He brings his head down to kiss your lips, a light peck that leads to a few more on your face. A giggle leaves your lips, and he swears his face grew more wet.

He looks to see the cum starting to dry on your skin, and he places one more kiss before standing up. “Let me get you cleaned up, and we can rest for a while.”

He rushes to the bathroom, steps heavy, and emerges with a warm, wet towel. He sits on the edge of the bed, taking the fabric to your heat to clean the fluids lingering. He is gentle, not wanting to rub the towel anywhere that’s still sensitive to the touch. He kisses your knees and the inside of your thighs, the fabric now on your tummy as he wipes you clean. Your skin is cleared of any fluids, and with one last kiss to your flesh he pulls away.

He tosses the towel into the sink before going to the other side of the bed, pulling the sheet and comforter back to get under. He reaches over to you, pulling you into him as he adjusts the blanket from under you. He settles with you on his chest, just like you were earlier, with the bedding now over your forms. You snuggle up to him, your fingers twirling around the hair on his chest. His fingers brush through your hair, admiring the afterglow you are giving, and thinking about how lucky he is right now.

You are his baby. His life. His soul. He was miserable without you, but he didn’t realize how bad off he was until now. Having you back in his arms, even for a moment, made his soul come to life. It had been rendered useless when it was severed, and now his sense of purpose is strong. The love he is feeling in this room wraps around him snuggly, and he doesn’t want to leave its embrace.

Your left hand pokes out from in between your bodies, and his free hand goes to twiddle with the fingers. He thinks about how big his hands are compared to yours. His whole fist could cover the entirety of your hand, yet your hands are on the rougher side like his. There are some calluses from what he assumes is drumming. They form along the top of your palm where your fingers connect. He stops where your ring finger lies, and he subconsciously sighs.

He remembers how Storm had helped him find a ring for you. You had said how you would love anything he chose because it was from him. However, he wanted it to be a ring that made a statement for his love. He wanted a ring where every time you looked at it, you would know how much he adored you.

He thinks about how back in the future, it is still around his neck like a virtue. It makes him wonder if in the near distant future, when things become sane and good, if he will still have that ring. Will he, who may become a different man after he returns, have the guts to propose to you? He regrets so much, but that is something he regrets greatly. Not proposing before the world fell apart. Not proposing to let you know that he is ready to take the next step, and to let you know he is committed to you even past the point of death. Death do us part doesn’t apply to you or him.

“What’s on your mind?”

He looks down to see you looking up at him, a smile forming on his lips as he takes you in. “Just thinking about how I could go for a cigar right now.”

You smacked his chest, making him grunt out a chuckle. “I’m guessing that’s a common occurrence after these kinds of things.”

“That or we go for round two,” he smirks, laughing as you smack his chest again.

“Horndog,” you mumble into his side.

“A horndog for you, baby.” He goes to kiss you again but then he hears rapid knocking on their door.

“Are you two decent?” Hank asks loudly from behind the door. “This is urgent!”

“Just come in, Hank.” Logan pulls the covers further up on you, a slight possessiveness taking over as Hank comes in. Your body is for his eyes only.

He thought Hank may feel a little embarrassed seeing the two of you like this, but there is none of that. Hank marched over; any social cues forgotten as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Listen, bub, what could possibly be so urgent that you are sitting on the bed I just fucked my girl silly on?”

“Logan!” You scowl.

Hank rolls his eyes. “Raven is going to Washington. Trask is going to be at the White House tomorrow, and she plans to strike. We need to leave tonight.”

“What is happening at the White House?” Logan asked, sitting up on his elbows.

Hank shakes his head in a way that tells Logan it isn’t for anything good. “They are presenting the Sentinel Program tomorrow.”

“Oh God,” you mutter. “Trask is already that far along? Does that mean they could be unleashed sooner?”

Logan shutters at the thought. The idea of the Sentinels starting their massacre whole decades earlier makes him uneasy. It scares him. He wonders if this means things are now going to be worse than they already were, which is hard to imagine. He doesn’t want to imagine it.

He wishes he had more time. He doesn’t know when he will get to be like this with you again. It could feel like a matter of seconds, minutes, hours, days. He could wake up to a world where you and him don’t coincide. But at the end of the day, he needs to pull through for you and everyone else. His main priority is that he wakes up to a world where everyone is alive.

This is his last chance.

“Alright, we’ll get up and get stuff together.” Logan says, and with that Hank gets up with a nod.

As he makes his exit, Logan starts to get up, but not before he feels your arms wrapping around his torso trying to pull him back.

“Sweetheart, we need to get up,” Logan says softly, not wanting to disturb the peace in this room. Not wanting to unveil their reality.

“Just a few more minutes,” you wager. “I’ll freeze time if that means I can stay like this for a few more minutes.”

He can’t deny you. God, he can’t. He lays back down to his original state, and before he can help himself the words are out in the open.

“I love you.”

You didn’t respond, and that’s okay. He already knows you love him too.

The White House; Washington D.C.

“Yes, I am with the marine band.”

“You are late, Sergeant. Get into position with the others.”

“Yes sir!”

You move past the metal detectors, jogging towards the rest of the marine band members. There was an empty spot where the snare lies and you get into position, harness going over your shoulders. You fall into play, Stars and Stripes Forever sounding throughout the set up.

It’s perfect really. You are in the best position to see everything. You will be able to see Trask, the President, and other high ranking officials. If things fall into complete disarray, you will shift the time backward and have a complete do over. In the meantime, the guys will look for Raven before she can strike.

It was a string of luck thanks to Charles’s willingness to use his powers again. Hank had told you he had a change of heart, and while you had no proof of what convinced him, you had a feeling it had to do with the man who completely bared his soul to you last night.

Just the thought makes you blush. You aren’t one to let someone you barely know in your bed, giving yourself to them completely. You’ve been there, done that, and it never stuck or felt right. With Logan, it felt different. There is a bond between you both that’s inexplicably there. You have felt it from the start, and it was only confirmed after last night. The way he took care of you, made love to you; you could feel the love he felt for you and while scary to admit, you love him too.

He looks at you like you are the center of his universe. He looks at you like living isn’t worth shit unless you are by his side. It pains you but only because whatever happened in his future has scarred him deep. You could feel it in the way he kissed you, and left marks on your body. He was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t dreaming; that you were there.

You don’t know what will happen after today, but what you do know is you will find him. You will find him, learn every detail about him until he is like a second skin, and love him like he deserves. You will make sure of it.

You look towards the metal detectors and see them passing through. You see Logan look in your direction, a smile shining towards you that you mirror right back. He looks you up and down, sending a wink your way before turning back to Charles and once again your face feels hot. His effect on you is absolutely outstanding.

You can see Charles scanning the crowd, undoubtedly looking for Raven amongst the thousands of people. You keep your eyes on him, reading his expressions as he continues lurking. You aren’t sure what time it is but it’s only a matter of time before President Nixon makes his speech. Even then, that doesn’t mean Raven won’t strike before that.

“I haven’t found Raven yet. Be prepared.”

You felt Charles rattling in your brain. You look in his direction to see everyone looking towards you and you nod to signal the message was clear.

The conductor cuts off the song, signaling the event is about to start. You focus your attention to the stage, looking for any kind of sign of Raven. Everything seems pristine, Secret Service covered at every point.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” You hear someone speak through the microphone on the podium. Your attention goes to the man, someone from Nixon’s advisory team surely, standing before everyone. “It is my utmost pleasure to welcome Mr. President Nixon!”

You see the conductor wave his baton, signaling to start playing, and quickly you are rolling your sticks once the first beat drops. You watch, trying to look in your peripherals for anything weird, before you hear a gunshot.

Your eyes snap to the stage, and you see Trask lying there with a bullet to his head. People are losing their minds, standing erratically to get away from whoever the shooter was. You drop your drumsticks, quickly snapping your fingers to stop the commotion. Everything freezes, and you take the opportunity to walk away from your post. You make observations, needing to be quick, and it doesn’t take long for you to see Raven. Or at least make the assumption that it’s her.

You see she transformed into a man from the Secret Service. The gun has since been lowered and you can see two other Secret Service officials running to tackle. You walk to look at the man’s face, and it makes your lips purse slightly.

She is smiling. There is genuine joy in what she just did. Before time froze over, it was obvious she saw the other men coming to take her down, but she didn’t care. You see it in her face: she won. It didn’t matter what happened afterwards. She saved her kind, your kind.

Except she didn’t, and that’s what kills you as you look at her. Her actions kill so many, and leave so many people without their loved ones. Your future livelihood is dismantled by the Sentinels, so deep down you understand Raven’s hatred for Trask. You hate him too, but you believe all will come to the light. Trask will get his due diligence, and hopefully it’s something worse than death.

Humiliation. Defunding his work. Life behind bars. For a man like him, death would be too easy.

You pass her, heading towards the rest of the group. You get to Logan’s side, and release a breath you didn’t know you needed to release. You lift your arms up and move them down slowly. As they descend, time rolls back like it’s a moveable force. People that swarmed like ants are back in their seats, high security are back at their stations, the President makes his way back behind the stage, and Trask is back on his feet. Your hands clenched tight, holding everything in place before releasing and things continue on completely reset.

You lean down to Charles, making sure he hears you clearly. “She’s right there to the left of the stage. Act fast.”

Charles looks in that direction, focusing with an urgency as he sets his sights on Raven. You watch the scene unfold again, and see how Raven goes to pull the gun from her jacket but she halts. You see her grow stiff, and her lips move like she is talking to someone.

“I’ve got her,” Charles says with relief. “I can only hold her for so long.”

“You two go get her,” Hank says as he gets behind Charles. “He is right. Charles is still not as strong as he was before. You both need to be quick.”

You nod and the two of you start trekking over to where Raven is. The President is talking, but it’s muddled as you focus. The two of you walk slowly, but with urgency, not wanting to cause any alarm that would halt any progress. That didn’t matter, however, because right as you two are on her, a Secret Service agent is in front of you both.

“I’m sorry, but this is as far as you two can go.” He has his hands raised in front of him to prevent any further steps.

“Behold! The world will never be the same again…” The National Anthem kicks in, and you turn to see the American flag drop. What you see makes your jaw drop.

Eight large robots. They couldn’t be more than twenty feet tall. Hell, it looks like they could stomp the average person out. The sheer size of them makes you uneasy, knowing what they can and will do makes your stomach churn.

“Is that what they look like?” You say quietly, your back now pressed against Logan’s front.

“This is just the start.” Logan's right hand grabs yours, squeezing tightly. “But we can change that.”

You squeeze back just as tight, hoping it conveys that you are with him. “Let me stop the time so you can get her.” You go to snap your fingers, but Logan squeezes your hand again as if to hold off.

“What?”

“Do you hear that?” He yells over the cheers. “Something’s coming.”

Logan keeps looking around, and in his search is when you see something moving from the corner of your eye. You turn, and a lump starts forming in your throat.

“Good God…”

It is clockwork with how things evolved. The Sentinels, with their yellow eyes and shiny polymer, are no longer on their feet. They are in the air, carefully looking down on the crowd like they are Gods. They look so much bigger off the ground, and it unsettles you to no end.

You see Trask and the Major talking, a look of frustration on the scientist's face. It confuses you because he is the one that has control over the giants. However, your question is answered when the sun seems to go away and only shadows linger in the shape of a ring. Rubble and debris fall from the sky, and once you look up you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

A whole fucking stadium. Rows and rows of seats and cement foundation floating in the sky. It moves over the White House like a storm, slowly but surely coming with impending coverage. It is only as the inner circle enters your vision that you see Erik, carrying the weight of it like it was nothing.

The Sentinels rise higher, going up towards the floating anomaly as it surrounds it. You think for a second that maybe they were activated because they detected the threat. However, as you watch them reach the top, taking places like they are guarding a post with arms drawn, you know it wasn’t anyone commanding them from the ground, but from the sky.

“Holy shit Erik…” you whisper to yourself, some disbelief edged into your voice. Erik was a powerful mutant, that you knew, but this? This was next level.

“I’m getting Raven!”

Before you can say anything, Logan is running to tackle Raven down, but it doesn't matter. The minute he is on his feet, bullets are raining from the sky in droves.

“Logan, get back!” You yell, running to pull him back before the mass array of bullets hit him.

“I’ll be fine! I can take them!” Logan yells over the madness of crowds flocking away. “We need to get her!”

“Look around!” You grab his shoulders, shaking them. “It doesn’t matter if we get her now. We need to get Erik and we can’t if we are both down!”

You don’t wait for him to answer, dragging him to rubble that had made its way to the ground. You look around it, trying to get eyes on Charles and Hank before the ground shakes. Logan has his arms around you, covering your body with his to protect it from any kind of blow.

It’s quiet for a moment as the dust settles. You peep out again, trying to locate the other two again. The field was a ghost town, the crowd able to escape before the stadium trapped them in. The President, Trask, and others were gone, assuming they went into some sort of hiding place that only they know about. It is only then that you realize Raven is no longer to be seen, which makes you think she went into hiding… with them.

“Oh no…”

“What?” Logan whispers, his eyes trained elsewhere.

“I think Raven is with Trask.”

“Unfortunately, I think we have a bigger fucking problem now.” Logan curses with eyes unmoving.

You look to see where he is staring, and you see Erik walking towards the White House before stopping. His hands go out in front of him, moving them like he is scanning for something.

You feel something in your mind move, and you gasp when you hear the voice in your head. “Charles?”

“My dear, we are running out of time.” You hear Charles echo in your head. “If you or Logan can get Erik’s helmet off of him, I can stop him.”

“Okay, on it.” You turn in Logan’s hold, back now against the rubble. “We need to get the helmet off him. I will stop time while you grab it.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Logan grunts, crouching in front of you.

“Alright, here we go.” You focus all your energy on your surroundings before snapping your fingers. Your fists are secured, and you look at Logan before nodding his way. “Go on.”

He goes to get up but stops for a second before coming back down. His lips are on yours, a long peck before releasing you. You’re stunned, not expecting such a romantic gesture. “I’ll be back for you, baby.”

He’s off, running towards Erik. You watch as he makes it up to him, carefully removing the helmet and putting it under his arm. He is on his way back, holding the helmet close as he gets back to where you stood. You both crouch back down, and you unclench your fists letting time continue its course.

“Charles, he’s all yours,” you say with the hope he can hear you.

It’s quiet for only a moment when you hear something heavy fall to the ground. You hear a yell, one that sounded exactly like Charles, and you shoot up. You see some particles in the air to your right, steel and concrete a heap on the ground. You see brown hair, and then you see Hank, fully in his true blue form, trying to lift the heavy weight off of Charles. Panic sets in, not really sure how bad the damage is but it stirs you to stand up and release the alarming catharsis that bubbles to the surface.

“Charles!” You scream, your fight or flight response taking the former as you run towards them. You sense Logan right behind you, following your trail as you approach the mess. You almost make it, ready to stop time again but then you feel something graze your arm and then a stretch of pain that takes you out.

You fall with a grunt, holding your left arm as you curse to yourself. Blood is making its way down your arm, and you work to put pressure on it but it continues to seep through the cracks of your fingers. Shit, shit, shit!

You hear more bullets go off towards you, and your heart is in your throat as you expect to be battered, but they don’t come. They don’t come because Logan is in front of you, body jerking as he works to pick you up as wounds form from his back.

“Holy shit, Logan!”

“Hold on!” He seethes in pain, holding you close as he gets you both behind another pile of rubble.

You both have your backs to the scene unfolding, but you know there isn’t much time to stay here. With haste, you unbuckle your belt, flinging it out of the jean loops and wrapping it below the bullet wound. Your teeth sink into the leather, pulling it tightly before securing it.

You look over at Logan, who is surrounded by the pellets he pushed out from his back. He grunts as one more falls to the ground behind him, and he turns to you with an alertness you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Are you okay?” You ask stupidly, because of course he is.

He doesn’t answer at first, looking at you and then looking back at the destroyed lawn. It causes you to look too, and you can see Hank clobbering one of the Sentinels as he yanks out its wiring. But he’s outnumbered and it’s only a matter of time before they gang up on him.

“We need to help Hank,” you say, getting ready to stand up before Logan’s hand grabs you by your jean loops.

Logan’s hands are on your face, holding it still as to keep your focus on him. There is conflict in the way he looks at you; a conflict that says you won’t agree with what he’s about to do next. You can read him so easily, and what you are reading makes you uneasy.

“No, Logan…”

“Sweetheart, I need you to stay right here.” His eyes are saying so much more in relation, telling you why he’s asking you this. You know he has lost too much, and to lose it all before it’s even started isn’t in the cards for him. Still, you can’t help the stubbornness that begs to fight with him.

“I’m not leaving you defenseless out there.”

“Then defend us from here,” Logan says firmly, mind unchanging. “I will not lose you here. I am not going back to a future where you don’t exist.”

It’s quiet for a second, words processing in your head. You knew he loved you, but to see it run so deep at his declaration made you want to cry. How is it a man that you haven’t known for long, can have such an effect on you? How is it that a part of him already runs so deeply inside you? It leaves you with the conclusion that if you are feeling all of this after a few days, then what he must be feeling is tenfold after a lifetime.

Your hands go to his face, mirroring him as you two stare at each other. He’s waiting for you to accept what he is asking, eyes moving back and forth slightly like he is trying to read your response. You sigh deeply, swallowing the pill he wants you to take before you pull him down to your lips to seal your acceptance.

He grunts in surprise, but shortly after melts against you. It’s a kiss molded into words, one that says “thank you” and in kind says “I’ll see you after this is all over”. It’s a kiss that says even when there truly is no time left, there is always time for this, for you, for him.

You pull away, eyes watering as you look at the man who will ultimately become your world and your savior in ways you can’t begin to fathom. You give him one more good look, one more stroke of your thumbs against his facial hair, before dropping your hands to surrender.

“You come back to me safe,” you assert. “I will do as much as I can from here.”

Logan responds by kissing your lips again, placing three quick kisses in succession before standing up to run off towards the mess. You peek over from your hiding spot, and you see two of the Sentinels on the ground in its robotic guts. You hear Hank roaring to your left, seeing him fly to the ground onto his back. The Sentinel he was fighting approaches, armed and ready to fire.

You clench your teeth as you put your arms out, the wounded one shooting signals to your brain that it aches terribly. However, you push through, focusing on the Sentinels mechanics and the timely energy around it. You watch it slowly come to a stop, and you see Hank look your way before you nod your head to tell him to get the job done.

You watch him spring into action, hands digging into the skull before ripping the head off. You let go, with the Sentinel now inactive, and turn to see Logan with his claws out digging into the chest of another one. His clawed fists go in and out over and over, the automaton down.

You go back and forth between Hank and Logan, ensuring them the time they need to defend themselves safely. It’s a smooth rhythm, and you think things are going well, but then you see Erik appear a few feet away from Logan with metal pieces floating in the air. You go to stop Erik in his tracks, but then you hear running in your direction.

“Run!” You hear Hank yell, and you turn to see him sprinting away from two Sentinels.

“Shit!” You curse, and in the blink of an eye you are running with him, bullets hot on your trail.

You run with purpose, dodging whatever the Sentinels sent your way, but your attention was focused on Logan, who was cutting away at any metallic pieces Erik threw at him. It was a dance, every step forward meant a step back, and from what you were witnessing Logan was the better dancer. However, Erik has always been good at catching up.

The Sentinels are gaining ground, and you knew something had to give. They were doing what they were created for, and they wouldn’t stop now, not at this rate. You look at Hank as you both push on, and he looks back at you as he feels your eyes on him.

“We need to split off!” You yell at him. “You go towards that car over there, and I’ll go the opposite way.”

You both diverge, running away from one another in the hopes of confusing the Sentinels. You don’t hear bullets in your space anymore, but it causes you to look and see Hank surrounded. You go to stop them, but then a gasp shoots from your lungs as you feel metal wrap around your wrists. Next thing you know, you are hanging in the air.

You are thrashing, wrists bound tightly. You see Erik approaching you, and you panic but not because he is approaching you. It’s because you don’t see Logan.

Fuck, where’s Logan?

“I’m sorry, my little timelord,” Erik says with a hint of an actual apology. “This is what happens when you don’t choose a side.”

“I did what was best for me. No one else,” you grit out. You can feel blood start to trickle down your arm, the stretch opening your wound further.

“I guess you’ll see how that turns out for you.” Erik sets you onto the ground with a thud, and suddenly you feel metal coil around your neck. You start to feel the pressure against your throat, making your eyes bulge.

“No need to be scared, my dear. Just need you out of the picture for a few hours.” Your airways are getting crushed. Your hands are desperately trying to remove themselves from the makeshift cuffs, but to no avail.

The coughing fits start, lungs eager for some relief, but they cry out when none comes. It’s strange to feel your lifespan waning, yet have your mind linger elsewhere.

Please be okay. God, please let Logan be safe.

As if your prayers were answered, you hear him in the distance. You can hear him shouting your name, and you ache at the sound. You are relieved, yet there is a sadness that sticks in your foggy brain. It almost makes you think that soul bonding is an actual force within the universe because you can tell what he is feeling. You can tell he feels like he is witnessing your death a second time.

The bondage of metal weakens, air filling your lungs at full capacity. Your hands automatically go to your throat, rubbing the raw skin as you inhale and exhale. Your bearings are dispersed, and you work to gather all the pieces so you can see what is happening. It isn’t until you hear Logan yelling in pain, followed by grunts that rip from his gut, that you shoot up. Your eyes focus and what you see burns your chest as you let out a scream that processes faster than your mind can.

Metal rods pierce Logan’s body, curling into his legs and up his chest. They enter and exit like thread, and his facial expression is one of agony. His head turns towards you, his eyes screaming for you to look away and to run and never look back. However, your fears, your anger, your love for him is overcoming and it doesn’t take long for you to snap.

Your body screams as you move to your knees and throw your arms up, the aches telling you to stop wearing yourself further. Your power is straining, but your emotions are fueling the fire. No amount of pain will ever amount to the pain of losing Logan.

You slam your fists to the ground, a ricochet from the impact spreading. Time stops in motion, the waves of your power spreading and catching everything in its wake. The pain increases, but you don’t care about that. You only care about Logan.

Everything is still aside from Logan’s body shakes. You run to him, falling to your knees to get closer. Your energy is depleting as you hold onto time, making your mind race to figure out what to do to help him. Your hands keep going to touch the rods, but back away every time he shudders with discomfort.

“Logan, tell me what to do,” you plead. “Tell me what I need to do to get these out.”

“Fuck…” Logan is working his jaw, seemingly trying to calm himself down. “Try pulling on one.”

You nod, placing both hands on a rod buried in his back. You counted down from three, and with a deep breath you pulled as hard as you could. The second Logan started yelling though, you let go.

“Shit! Please stop!” Logan shouts, the metal rods excruciating.

“Logan, we need to get these out of you please.” You were starting to sob; your hands running over his neck and face to try and soothe him.

“Sweetheart, please,” Logan grunts, trying not to move too much. “I promise you this won’t kill me.”

“But you are suffering,” you whisper, tears staining your face as new ones form. “I can hold this just please. You have to push them out or something.”

Something changes in Logan’s face, a sense of realization as you watch his eyes widen. A broken laugh leaves his lips, eyes glossing. “I finally understand.”

“W-what?” You stutter.

“I desperately wanted to save you, and I couldn’t. You had begged me not to, and I couldn’t fathom it.” He starts to cough, groans filling the cracks. “But I understand now. I’m sorry for not understanding before.”

“Please don’t,” you choke. “That doesn’t matter. What matters now is getting these out of you.”

Your hands go to the rods again, but his hand grabs yours before you make contact. You are sure you look pitiful, especially as you aren’t one to beg. You guess when feelings get so strong, it doesn’t matter. Your heart is fully on your sleeve for Logan to see, and what you are showing is reflected in his pretty, glossy, hazel eyes.

“I need you to promise me something, sweetheart,” Logan says gently. “I need you to promise me that you will find me.”

“Where? Where will I find you?” Your voice wavers, unable to keep your emotions at bay.

“You know I can’t say, baby.” Logan’s hand squeezes yours, trying to be reassuring. “But you have before. I know you will find me again.”

You don’t know what to think of that. It could be years before you find him. Will it be right before the world goes to shit? Will it be in a decade or two from now? How can you go on living your life as normal when you don’t know when you will find him? Or how can you live knowing he isn’t right beside you?

“Don’t overthink this. Everything will be okay.”

You sniffle as you look at him, a tired smile on his face. A small laugh passes through your sobs. “Not very in character for you to be optimistic.”

“And it will be the last time you see me so optimistic for a long time,” Logan smirks. “But you can change that.”

You get on your stomach, moving so your face is level with his and kiss him one last time. It’s bittersweet, tasting him on your tongue. You hope you are conveying the answer he is looking for, one that tells him you promise to move heaven and earth for him. One that tells him you promise you are his, and no one will ever have you for as long as you both live. A promise that tells him you will find your way home to him, and you will bring him home to you.

You let go, breath wavering as you know what you are about to witness. Even with his reassurance, it will be hard to watch, and you know the tears will fall. It is inevitable.

“Baby, go find Charles. Make sure he is okay and stick with him. Once you find him, let me go.”

You nod, pecking his lips one more time before getting up to your feet. You look at him, taking in every detail that imprints your memory, making sure to never forget that the man before you is your soulmate for life.

“I love you, Logan.” You say with teary eyes.

“I love you. I’ll see you soon.” He smiles, before closing his eyes, preparing himself.

You quickly run off, afraid that if you didn’t you wouldn’t allow yourself to. You run over to the giant terrain of rubble where Charles was, and you see him lying there frozen like everything else. You maneuver into his spot, a tight fit with enough room for you to situate yourself. You look back out onto the field, and you quiver as you see Logan lying there just waiting as he suffers in pain. You look down, eyes squeezing tight before you snap your fingers, a heavy weight off your shoulders as you suck in a deep breath.

“Oh darling, when did you get in here?”

You open your eyes to see Charles, breathing heavier than usual as he lays in discomfort. You work to prop him up, holding onto him so he can sit up right. It is at that moment you hear yelling, and you look back out to see Logan in the air with Erik holding his metallic weight. You want to look away, unable to bear the sight, but they stay glued to them. Then, you see Erik flex his fingers.

As you watch Logan fly away, your lungs urge a cry to curl out into the atmosphere, but you suppress it. After everything, you have faith in him. He gave you the faith you needed to believe everything will turn out alright. Even as you watch Erik yank the bunker up from the ground and out the White House, you have faith that the future will be safe, because you won’t let Logan down. You have a promise to keep.

Logan has become your Orion; your guiding star. He has become your alpha and your omega. He is your sole mission in this life, and he is not a mission you plan to fail.

You will set things right, and you will find him.

Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters; Westchester, NY; Year 2023

The first time ever I saw your face…

Music. Soft, calming music enters his conscience. He’s heard this melody before in the same fashion, but that was forever ago, right?

I thought the sun rose in your eyes…

Logan stirs, his brain doing a leap and a jump from REM sleep as it tries to wake up. He has lived this moment before, as the music says he has. Is he back to where he started? Or is it something else?

And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave…

Where is he? The last thing he remembers was drowning. Metal pierced his body so deep he could taste it with freshwater. It should linger, but it doesn’t. He doesn’t taste anything abnormal. He’s on a bed. Did someone save him? Whose bed is this?

To the dark and the endless skies…

His eyes open, sunlight shining brightly as they adjust. The room is familiar, and it dawns on him that it’s because it is his room. Their room.

He turns to his side slowly, his body still adjusting to whatever the fuck it was he’s waking up to. He sees the little radio on the bedside table, the holographic globe spinning as the words “Golden Oldies” glide around it.

And the first time ever I kissed your mouth…

Holy shit… he did it.

Suddenly, the door opens, and nothing could have prepared him.

“Hey, sleepyhead!”

There you were in all your glory. You were dressed for the day: a tight and long black velvet skirt with a short black sleeve shirt and black combat boots. There are little crow's feet and bunny lines by your eyes and your hair has grown out. He is starstruck, and his heart is threatening to leap out of his chest.

You walked up to him, your legs touching the bed as you looked down at him. “I know I look good. No need to let the flies in.”

Logan shuts his mouth, moving to sit up. There are so many things he wants to say, do. But nothing will come out. All he can do is stare and bumble like an idiot.

“You know it’s nine, right? You missed your first class.”

His class?

“What?”

“Don’t worry, Lo. Your students got a little lesson from me about 70s music culture, so they weren’t totally out of a history lesson.” You say with a wink.

He doesn’t respond, eyes mesmerized as you walk over to the desk, putting away folders from what he assumes was the previous class.

“Can you believe these kids know nothing about the Ramones? Or even ELO or Fleetwood Mac? It’s blasphemous.” You shut the drawer, and go to lean back against the desk, smiling at him.

“I’ll get up, baby. Don’t you worry about me.” You say in a mock deep voice, pushing yourself off the furniture. “Last night must have really worn you out for you to sleep like the dead.”

You are giggling and Logan is on edge. You are here. You are alive. He was hopeful that would be the case, but to see everything come to fruition was a lot to process.

“Lo, baby, are you okay?” You are in front of him, moving in between his legs.

He can’t help himself. He has his arms around your thighs, pulling you onto his lap. His hand secures itself at the nape of your neck, bringing your head down to his so his lips can intercept yours. Your skirt has ridden up, scrunching up at your ass giving Logan the chance to mold his hand into the flesh. He kisses you with ferocity, needing everything from you.

“Logan,” you laughed between his kisses. “I can’t believe you want to go again after last night, you dog.”

“You’re here,” Logan groans against your lips. “My baby, you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here. Why wouldn’t I be?” Your hands scratch his head, and he simpers as his mouth attaches to your neck, sniffing your pulse point as he keeps you firmly against him. You smell so good, so much so he wants to soak you into his skin.

“You are acting so strange right now, baby. Are you sure everything is okay?”

Logan lays his head against your chest, listening to your heart flutter away. He could cry listening to it, the comforting sound creating a lullaby that will lull his sore head to rest. It’s different hearing it now, knowing that when he wakes up once more, you will be here. You will be by his side when he goes to sleep at night, and when he wakes up. He will share every sunset and sunrise with you, something he will never take for granted for even a second.

He feels your hands cradling his head, keeping it steady as he starts to rock you in his arms. “What are you thinking, Lo?”

He lifts his head to look at you, your eyes full of warmth. You are looking at him with such patience and poise. Your hands are still on his head, and he goes to move them to his temples.

“Shift my mind.”

“Logan,” you say, taken aback and unsure but he quells your worry with another slow kiss.

“Trust me,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I need you to understand what I am feeling right now.”

He shuts his eyes, hoping you will indulge him and he smiles when he feels the warmth at his temples spread. He thought his mind going back to his last memory of drowning would cause panic, but he is calm. Maybe it’s because you are able to keep him afloat as you rewind what played out.

It is short lived, but soon he feels your hands go down to the scruff of his facial hair. He opens his eyes and he sees the tears welling in your eyes with a smile.

“My God, you did it. You remember,” you choked out. Logan can’t help but smother your lips again before kissing your tears away.

“You did a lot of the heavy lifting, sweetheart.” Logan chuckles against your skin. “But most importantly,” he pulls away, hands going to your face to make sure you understand how sincere he is. “You found me. Just like you promised me.”

“I said I would,” you say through tears. “I was determined to find you. To share this life with you.”

This life. A life with all the good things and even the bad ones. A life that he gets to live with you. This new life: a second chance. With this second chance, he isn’t going to waste it.

“Close your eyes,” Logan says with a peck.

You shut them, and he carefully sets you on the bed for him to stand up. He rushes to the bookshelf, hoping that in this new timeline he was smart enough to have gotten the one thing that showed complete and utter devotion. Even more so, he hopes he hid it where he originally had.

He finds the royal blue spine, pulling it out to open to the first few pages before the hole within the book is revealed. His lips turn with a quiver, seeing the ring just as it was before. He picks it up, holding it out in the sunlight to watch the diamond sparkle and the gold ban shine. It’s simple but you were never one for extravagant things. After a life of running free, you wanted the simple life and that is exactly what he will give you.

He walks back around the bed, getting on his knees to settle between your legs as he spreads them. Your skirt rode up again and he can’t help but kiss your left thigh and give the other a squeeze. The sweetest noise comes from you, and it only makes him nip at the skin.

“God, you are such a tease.”

“I can’t resist,” he hums before lifting his head. He holds out the ring and with care takes your left hand in his right.

“Go ahead and open those pretty eyes for me.”

He watches your eyes flutter open, a gasp falling from your lips when your eyes fall onto his palm. Your fingers instinctively went to it, and Logan held it more towards you to let them grace the ring.

“I’ve thought about how I’ve wanted to do this so many times,” Logan starts. “So much so that I pushed it off until it was too late. I will not make that same mistake twice.”

“Logan,” you say with your fingers trailing to his face, as if telling him nothing is his fault. He knows.

“I know I have so much to catch up on and learn. There will be things I am not aware of. You may be different, and I may be different,” He takes the ring and your left hand, holding it near but not quite enacting the officiality. “But the one thing that will never change is how you will always be at the forefront of my mind because I am nothing without you. At the end of the day, I want to come home to you as your husband and you as my wife if you will have me.”

This is such a vulnerable moment, and there was a time where it would eat him up alive. However, being right here with you, proposing to you in this shared room under the light of the morning, encourages him like nothing else. Vulnerability with you gives him strength.

You are biting your lip, eyes watering again as you nod your head profusely. “Put that ring on my finger, handsome.”

He slides the ring onto your ring finger, settling into place perfectly. You held it up, and he watched as you admired the piece, the sparkle of the diamond reflecting in your eyes. It sparks you to look back at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and he notices you shift until your lower body pushes him onto the floor. Your arms bring him in, his head meeting yours as lips reconnect once more.

“I love you so much, Logan. I am truly the luckiest woman alive.”

All he can think is if you were the luckiest woman, then he is the luckiest man. One decision could have led to a world in which you didn’t exist or one where you two would just be specks living completely different lives. To have woken up in a new world, one that’s more promising, is luck after the hell he had experienced. Having you here in his lap, kissing him like he is the center of your universe, makes him weep with joy.

You are his world, and in this new life, rather than the world stopping, it continues to spin forward.

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