#guess who's alive and well fed?! it's my muse!

[g-luztrash]

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[joz-yyh]

Acta Est Fabula - Ch. 5

SUMMARY: Crimson Court AU. Tardif reports back to the Order to protect the one he holds dear. It goes just as horribly as he expected. No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Bounty Hunter x Flagellant / Crusader x Highwayman / Vestal x Hellion

RATING: M (violence / swearing)

WORD COUNT: 2,857  

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Lots of characters introduced in this chapter as well as some lore! There's a reason behind every action and mysteries will be revealed in time. Comments and questions welcome~

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Tardif ascends the marble church steps with a burdensome trudge, the sentries waiting up ahead a familiar pair.

Missandei whistles at his arrival, surprised to see him, “Well, look who it is! We were starting to take bets on whether or not you were dead.”

“Feared the worst had happened,” William concurs, talking with his hands, drawing an invisible arch, “The great Nighthawk finally meets his match, slain at the top of his prime.”

“Teh, ye guys wish,” Tardif badgers, setting the rumors straight, “Ain't no one alive who can beat me.”

“Told you, man,” the female sharpshooter smirks, making a grabby motion with her glove, waiting for the other to pay up.

“Taking money straight outta the dog's mouth, you are,” William sighs, sticking out his lower lip, rummaging through his gear.

The houndmaster finally digs out a small coin purse, but is hesitant, looking down at his canine companion in morose consignment.

“Yeah right,” the arbalest growls, snatching up her winnings, “you know how many scraps I sneak Fergus from under the table? She’s getting fed plenty.”

“Explains why I've had to adjust her harness,” the houndmaster muses, rubbing his chin whiskers in assessment.

With a swivel of her floppy ears, the armor clad pet gives a guilty whimper.

“Serves ye right,” Tardif says, brushing the blonde man's shoulder in a mock punch, “Shoulda never bet against me.”

He takes a step back, eyeing the vanguards expectantly.

“Why do they got you two out here guardin’ the door fer, anyway? Thought ye guys would have better things to do.”

“I definitely do,” Missy adds before jabbing her thumb at the other, “don't know about kibbles and bits over here, though.”

William sighs, his posture a perpetual slump from moping too much, “Enough of your horrible dog puns.”

“But they're so good! Fergus loves my dog puns.”

The shaggy wolfdog barks in reply, making the pony-tailed girl grin.

“Told you!”

“Ignore her,” mumbles William, “I know I do.”

“Hey!”

The brute does just that, blocking out her bravado of puffed cheeks and sore green eyes.

“Ye were sayin’?”

“Right. Guess, the powers that be sent out a battalion while ye were gone. We're just filling in.”

“Hn,” Tardif muses, “Wonder what fer?”

“They didn't say,” the houndmaster drawls, crossing his arms in thought, “Not high enough on the ladder, apparently, strictly ‘need to know,’ but I could find out for you, for a price.

“Tryin’ to earn yer gamblin’ debt back, I see.”

“Any way I can.”

“Nice catchin’ up with ye,” Tardif says, patting them both on the shoulder, stepping past their vigil and into the great hall, “but I should get goin’. They’re expectin’ me.”

“You too,” the arbalest smiles, “good luck in there.”

“I'll be here if you change your mind,” William shrugs, mourning his empty pockets.

Tardif takes a deep breath as he enters the long corridor, ignoring the whispers and stares of those lining it, eyes focused solely ahead. It’s a wearisome walk, one of prejudice and judgment that makes him miss the company of his friends.

Lowly hunters like himself were not as well-received as those who were considered of higher rank. A ass-backwards shame considering others of his caliber had the most to lose, doing the dirty work none of the “purer” folk wanted to sully their hands with.

Another series of guards impede his path, blocking his access to the throne room, a poignant caduceus of axes that nearly clip his nose.

“Halt!”

“You must wait to be announced.”

Tardif swallows down the urge to argue that useless code of conduct. There were far too many stupid rules for his liking.

“Send him in,” Reynauld commands, standing from the dias further inside, “He's late.”

The guards remove their barrier, but sneer at Tardif, thinking him too irreverent for an audience with the knight superior, but Tardif returns their malice, leering right back as he traverses beyond their jurisdiction.

Reynauld seems too preoccupied with the scroll in his hands to pay him any mind, the length of it unfurled around his feet, trailing longer than his cape.

The church of Hamlet was governed by joint authority, Reynauld the decisive hammer of fire and action while Junia had a reputation for healing, a passive, merciful ruler that cherished goodness and virtue.

Tardif strides up to the set of twin thrones, kneeling before them to submit his findings.

“Hunter Darkwing reporting back from codename Rapture.”

“‘bout time,” Dismas barks from the shadows, leaning against one of the long red drapes, “Didn't think it would take ya four whole days, but then again, I was betting on the other guy.”

Of course the crusader’s personal body guard would criticize his work. He and Tardif never did get along, always at each other's throats, this undoubtedly causing more strife.

“That'll do Dismas,” Reynauld advises, looking up from his correspondence, tone gentle despite the scallywag who it’s reserved for.

“Teh, if you say so boss,” he growls, crossing his arms, staring out the window into obscurity.

“Well, I never had a doubt,” Boudica retorts, side-eyeing the ex highwayman, standing proudly with her glaive.

The brute can't help smirking in return, knowing at least the reformed hellion was rooting for him.

“Tardif, how nice to see you again,” the vestal smiles, awash in robes of white gold, the ever present warrior woman by her side.

Just as Reynauld has his right hand man, so too does the vestal have her honor guard, each their own inseparable match.

“I take it the threat has been neutralized,” the knight ventures, skipping past the pleasantries, eager to finish this unsavory business.

“More than that,” Tardif answers.

That earns him the holy crusader's undivided attention. “More? How can it be more? Explain.”

“Got a good reason fer takin’ as long as I did. Not only is the target neutralized, I dispatched the baron along with him.”

The room goes silent, Reynauld stiff as always, Tardif unable to discern his reaction from the narrow gaps in his helmet.

Junia and Boudica waver between shocked and impressed and Dismas is well … Dismas.

Tight-lipped as they are, waiting for the knight to share his verdict, the prodigal messenger instigates it.

“C'mon, don't leave me hangin’ in suspense. Tell me yer impressed.”

“He gotta be shittin’ me with this guy,” Dismas scoffs to himself, trying to hide his laugh of pity, “What an idiot.”

Junia's halo of Light glows brightly, reprehensible of such foul language, but it seems to have the opposite effect on Reynauld, the crusader reconciled for the moment.

"Taking down the entire brood is beyond you, Tardif,” the knight finally speaks, as if preaching to a child, “It does not fall to one man, but to all of us.”

“Didn’t ye hear wot I said,” the huntsman snaps, resentful of Reynauld’s lackluster reception, ”I killed the baron.”

“Yes,” the knight begins, throwing his precious scroll upon the ground, stepping up to the pretentious upstart with self-righteous fury, “I heard you defied orders, took authority beyond your rank and you’re being entirely smug about it, feeling entitled to our praise.”

Despite the knight superior standing before him now, garbed in all his shining, mantled glory, Tardif does not feel the distinction of status, addressing him as he would any other man.

“Who cares ‘bout all that,” the brute argues, doubling down, “I just took out the guy no one else could. Hell, ye should send me out again. Betcha I could slay every last one of ‘em wit’ an arm tied behind my back.”

The knight takes a moment to steel himself, gauntlets gripped into fists, pacifying his enraged tone. “Tardif, while I admit you are an exceptional warrior, you are also arrogant, insubordinate. You fail to grasp what is not your place to decide.”

Tardif can hardly stand the hypocrisy.

“Wot diplomacy is there in killin’ beings already deemed unfit to exist?”

The caped crusader does not entertain this, ignoring his underlings' words, a segway for his own victimized tangent.

“I knew it was a risk choosing you for this task,” the knight laments, bowing his head, “A grave disappointment I now regret. And though it pains me to do so, you’re hereby relieved of your hunter status.”

“Like hell I am,” Tardif barks, done with this charade, turning his back on the injustice, intent on storming out.

A steadfast grip reigns him in by the arm, the apprehender none other than the long-haired wild cat Boudica.

“Do not resist,” the warrior woman advises, a tinge of sympathy in her voice, “you know I have to bring you in.”

“Listen to the lady,” mocks Dismas, striding up to his left, enjoying his fall from grace a bit too much, “wouldn’t want to see ya get hurt.”

“Don't worry,” Tardif smirks, “I won't.”

In another horribly brash decision, the brutish delinquent suckerpunches the scarf-wearing bandit, an elbow jab delivered swiftly between the eyes.

The rebellious Tardif is feeling rather proud of himself, much better once he sees Dismas stagger backwards, blood pouring down from his crooked nostrils.

“Makin’ yer little lap dog do everythin’ fer ye as usual I see,” the axeman taunts, an insult aimed at Reynauld, but he stares at his dark-haired lackey, the injured man snarling, his scarf hanging around his neck to reveal his gruesome face scars.

The ex-highwayman wipes his lip, red droplets speckling the stone floor, drawing his firearm in retaliation, shoving the barrel against Tardif's back. “Go on. Say it again. I dare ya. ”

“Insolent savage,” Reynauld roars, demanding obedience from his flock, “can I teach you nothing of humility?”

“Oh, there is one thing I’ve learned,” Tardif intones, raising a middle finger, “Fuck ye!”

“Tardif, please,” Junia begs, breaking her silence, unable to watch this descent into madness any longer.

“My lady,” the persecuted hunter beseeches, “is this how I am to be repaid for all my years of devoted service? Being stripped and unmade? How many times must I lie naked before ye?”

Junia had been like a mother to him, as much as she could be before being coerced into the tireless position she wields now. A part of her will always see Tardif as a frightened little orphan boy, will seek to protect him above all else, hoping to one day absolve her own sins.

“Reynauld … ,” Junia councils, turning to face her fellow bishop, a chord struck within her, “is this punishment not too harsh? Surely, there must be another way.”

“You are too soft on him,” Reynauld decrees, knowing what angle his disciple was playing, “Let us see how he behaves after a few fastidious nights in prison. Perhaps, if he is remorseful of his actions, I will reinstate his title. Until then, get him out of my sight.”

—-

Dismas shoves Tardif forward, leading him down the stairs, further into the dungeon below.

He’s still sporting his pistol, poking it against the captive’s spine every chance he gets, Boudica’s escort trailing behind them, bottle-necked in such a tight space.

They’re underground, the seedy basement just as historic as the church itself, the old layout left unrenovated since it was built, but then again a prison didn’t have to be inviting. Tardif had visited this place a few times in the past, almost desensitized to it's eeriness.

“That's far enough,” the ex-bandit calls, halting their progress just shy of the empty cell, “Boudica, strip him down.”

Once more, the redhead gives her comrade an emphatic look, the brute raising his arms up in surrender as she moves to relieve him of his weapons.

His belts are unclasped one by one, feeling less like a man and more like a thing, a tool robbed of it’s usefulness, a blade dulled and discarded. The hellion hefts his possessions around her shoulder, hooking his weapons onto her own series of straps while he endures this demeaning penalty.

“That should be everything,” the refurbished warrior announces, taking a step back, dressed to the hilt in his gear, signaling her task complete.

Dismas moves to inspect her work, noticing she's missed one item in particular.

“Forgot this,” Dismas says, ripping off the brute’s scouter.

“That stays wit’ me,” Tardif says, eyes forthright and stern, schooling his tone.

“You growin’ attached to the bloodsuckers or somethin’,” Dismas snickers, raising a brow, dangling the parasite's cage around by the clip, “wouldn’t that be the scandal of the century.”

“Don’t like people takin’ wot’s mine,” Tardif growls, putting on his best poker face. If they take Pierre from him now, the highwayman would probably squash him out of existence or worse.

“Teh, s'pose you two can keep 'nother company,” the ex-highwayman says, tossing the tiny creature at him, “Fine, take it. Don’t say I never gave ya nottin’.”

Tardif catches it, clutching the cage tight to his chest, masking his relief as Dismas shoves the brute inside his cozy new home. The gunslinger means to trip him, but the braided man is too big and his balance too practiced. At most Tardif stumbles, keeping his footing.

“Always knew you were destined for a grimy prison cell,” Dismas smirks, eagerly latching the door closed, locking it with a clatter.

“Always knew yer were destined to take it in the ass,” Tardif parries, face a vindictive glower.

Dismas is understandably incensed by the accusation, snarling as he aims his gun, intending to blow the lips right off his wise-cracking tongue.

“Enough,” Boudica shouts, knocking his gun away with her glaive, the firearm discharging against the bars. The bullet ricochets, missing it’s mark and Tardif silently thanks the Light for the hellion’s quick-thinking reflexes.

She leers at Dismas, anger notched across her nose, hurling a harsh reprimand, “He is our comrade at arms. He deserves some respect.”

“Ain't no more, remember,” the bandit sneers, tearing away from their confrontation to retrieve his pistol from the floor. He curses when he spots a nick in the metal casing, an imperfection caused by her meddling, one he’ll have to grind down if there’s any chance of buffing it out.

“That has yet to be seen,” Boudica says, watching the trigger happy hostile carefully.

Dust filters into the air, the side-shaven bandit following the trail of smoke to track where the pellet struck mortar and stone, prying at the hole with his finger.

“If you ask me,” he drawls, rife with ire, blowing against the debris, “He should rot in here. Better yet if we watch him hang.”

“Only if ye join me there,” Tardif quips.

“You wish.” The gunslinger laughs, twirling his pistol around before holstering it, “Maybe that lil’ bloodsucker there will do us all a favor and drink ya in your sleep.”

He spits at ground near the cell, taking his leave, whistling a funeral march, a trait usually customary of the knight superior.

With him gone the hellion can finally relax, her outward visage finally giving way, allowing her true self to shine.

She strides up to the thick-headed ex-hunter, scolding him through the palisade.

“What were you thinking,” Boudica urges, a grimace upon her face, wrinkling the war paint on her eyes, “You knew your actions would displease Reynauld.”

As much as Tardif trusts the hellion with his life, he cannot burden her with the truth.

“I was thinkin��, ‘ey, if I wipe out all the monsters, then we get a much needed vacation.’”

Her expression eases into a frustrated sigh, shaking her head of dreadlocks, “You are brave, *Kló (Talon), like myself. I admire that, but also very *þrár (stubborn).”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

“I would expect no less,” Boudica says, her blue eyes serious despite the more light-hearted tone, “I will speak with lady Junia, see what I can do for you. Until then, keep your head down.”

Her words are reminiscent of the shrewd disciplinary lessons Junia would often instill in him, but Boudica had the fierce wild heart to back it up.

“Can't cause much trouble from in here,” the axeman shrugs, looking around the lame accommodations. Bits of straw are scattered about the cell, iron manacles nailed to the wall, a questionably stained bucket positioned in the corner. Well, at least there was a bed, though it wasn’t much more than a weathered slab of wood suspended by chain.

Her dark lips curl into a smirk, recognizing Tardif as the resourceful kind, an underdog never to be outwitted for long.

“Sure you could. I know you.”

“Heh heh, yer right.”

The well-meaning hellion reaches her painted hand through the bars, offering assurances, “Be strong my friend. I will visit again when I can.”

He accepts the gesture, their palms sealing together tightly, making a vow of his own.

“Ye better, else I'll hunt ye down myself.”

A flex of muscle is shared between them, his and then hers, their arms swelling with combined effort.

“If it ever comes to that, I will meet you head on,” she nods, shaking on it before letting go.

The two friends part ways, Tardif watching as her tabard disappears behind a wall of pewter, headed back the same way she came.

[norcumii]

for the ask meme: Rex/Obi or pairing/characters of choice - Werewolf/vampire AU / Sick/injured / Stranded Due to Inclement Weather / Huddling for warmth

For this trope mashup meme.

This was CLEARLY influenced by seananmcguire's Newsflesh series, which was the last zombie related media I interacted with, and I regret NOTHING.

(Meanwhile, much worldbuilding was done by Dogmatix, who I was foolish enough to let near the plunnies again ^_^)

*****

The problem with zombies, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but muse, was that they stopped thinking. Oh, there was some low-level intelligence left in there, but it was mostly focused on consuming the living. Not tactics, for the most part, not unless the bastards were very fresh or in large enough groups, but that also meant that when some brilliant asshole declared “oh, the zombies wouldn’t/couldn’t ever do that,” no one consulted the zombies.

Thus, an early morning patrol in an area that “never saw more than one or two zombies” turned into a clusterfuck retreat. Though ‘patrol’ was rather a gross overstatement for just the two of them taking an idle walk because some days, Rex was too jittery for sleep and too damn self-sacrificing to admit that he missed early morning runs.

There was always enough fog coming in from the river that they should have been fine.

There also shouldn’t have been an entire pack of at least a dozen, dozen and a half zombies in the area. Where the fuckers had even come from was an unpleasant mystery.

“Rex?” Obi-Wan murmured into the man’s ear. “Are you with me?” he asked as if he couldn’t make out the glacially slow beat of his heart.

Rex groaned, head lolling to nestle further in the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck. He mumbled something that was probably a curse, which left Obi-Wan in the unenviable position of having to close his eyes and take his own steadying breath. Yes, on the one hand he did have an unfairly attractive boyfriend draped across his lap, straddling his hips and feeling like he was several seconds away from some serious necking.

On the other, they were also treed a good thirty feet above a pack of damned zombies, which had already tried seriously munching on Rex, and ‘necking’ could have serious consequences when one of them was an actual vampire.

Speaking of. Obi-Wan shifted in the cautious little jig in an attempt to nudge Rex more to the left. If he could just free up his arm enough, then he could move around while not tossing them off the tree stand or dislodging the thick emergency poncho that was the only thing keeping Rex from turning into a charred crisp. It was not sized for two, but there hadn’t been time to be more careful and drape it over just Rex instead of just plonking it down over the two of them.

“If you refuse to leave base again without your entire damned armor because of this, I’m going to be very put out,” Obi-Wan informed him, getting another incoherent unhappy noise. The armor was good at keeping the soldiers bite free – not that they needed to worry about the zombification business, but it still hurt them and fed the damn undead. It was also effective at keeping the soldiers touch starved and isolated in ways Obi-Wan had difficulty standing.

Another careful shift, and he could just barely dig out one of the small, squishy packs he kept in his jacket for emergencies.

Since his luck was shit, as soon as he pulled it free, the bastard caught on a loose thread, and with his claws he didn’t dare grab too hard for it, and down it tumbled. One of the zombies lunged, snapping at it, and blood exploded all across the remains of the bastard’s face.

Not being too intelligent, the rest of the pack turned on it immediately. Obi-Wan tried to tune out the disgusting carnage, being much more careful on his second attempt. He didn’t have many packets to spare. This one, he managed to juggle up in front of Rex’s face, jostling it a little. “Here. Drink,” he ordered, hoping that would be sufficient. He hated trying to insert the little sippy straws – Anakin had loved juice pouches back as a child, and they’d had similar fiendish straws. Anakin had learned how to insert the little bastards without a problem, but he always asked Obi-Wan to do it for him – because Obi-Wan had never quite managed to master the process, and Anakin was a damned brat.

Bad enough when it was juice.

One way or another, Rex was conscious enough to shift and bite down on the plastic packet. It was always a wonder to watch the soldiers’ regenerative powers at work. As the level of mostly artificial plasma lowered, color drained back into Rex’s face, the nasty burns along truly unfair cheekbones fading as muscle and skin reknit. He could smell the distressing blood-and-raw-meat stench fading, and only then did he start to relax.

When things had started to go to hell around the globe, the powers that be had huddled together around their failing infrastructure and went looking for fantastical solutions to unnatural problems. Obi-Wan could only imagine the levels of exhaustion and terror that had led someone to the conclusion that vampires might be immune to the infections that spread the zombie virus. The sheer potential of that going horribly wrong was at least one movie franchise long, if not several, yet somehow they’d dedicated enough science to make artificial vampires. Oh, technically it wasn’t vampirism, but ‘drank blood, super fast and strong, sunburn to death within minutes, resting vitals dropping down far enough to pass as dead’ was close enough for everyone but petty bureaucrats and pedantic assholes.

Even at the time, Obi-Wan had cynically noted how that meant both a short leash, and a strong vested interest in keeping as many people from going zombie as possible. He’d also noted the infuriating demographics of those who were selected for and survived the process of becoming vampires.

He tried not to think on that much nowadays, because the heightened blood pressure and carnage bothered Rex.

The packet slurped dry in a way that always raised Obi-Wan’s hackles, then Rex blinked up at him a few times in confusion. “You’re fuzzy,” Rex accused.

“That’s called a beard, dear,” Obi-Wan drawled in his most obnoxious tone, pretending he didn’t also have fur sprouting most places, nor the partial muzzle of a transformation enough to give him speed and jumping ability enough to get to one of the safe perches they’d set up weeks ago.

The Powers That Be might have created vampires, but they had also somehow missed the small but stubborn population of entirely naturally occurring werewolves (and affiliated were-creatures) around the world. Some, like Obi-Wan and his pack, were doing their damndest to both keep a low profile and help the poor bastards trying to protect the last of humanity.

Some, like Obi-Wan, might have become unwisely open to certain non-lycanthropes due to unfortunate feelings – not that Obi-Wan was ever about to complain about that.

Either his sarcastic tone or the guttural noises of thwarted zombies sank in, because Rex stiffened and glared down. “Fuck!” he hissed, thighs clenching in a way that Obi-Wan both very much did and very much did not appreciate. His eyes damn well crossed at the wiggle that followed – he could only guess that Rex was going for a weapon that he didn’t have.

“Stop that!” he snarled, letting the wolf out a little more. He needed the muscle and mass to keep Rex in place, longer paws digging into the tree trunk for a slightly more secure hold that was notgroping his idiot boyfriend.

His idiot boyfriend leveled a flat, unimpressed look at him. “Really?” Rex grumped. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “Right now?”

“So sorry, but some of us don’t need to ingest extra blood to get it up, and under less fraught circumstances this might be my idea of a good time.” He tried for a drawl, but it was much more strained than he meant. Oh well, it wasn’t like Rex didn’t know he could be ridiculous. And it really wasn’t intentional.

“Less fraught meaning less zombies?”

“And less daylight.” Obi-Wan didn’t mean for his tone to turn sharp, either, but it did even as he very carefully wrapped his arms tighter around Rex. He made certain not to disturb the poncho, but he, at least, wanted the reassurance. He still wasn’t over the terror of having to go mostly wolf to grab Rex from the pack he was trying to slow down, nor the horror of slinging him over a shoulder to go pelting through the trees. Madcap desperation to find a tree stand before a foggy dawn was not his idea of fun. “Your life is worth a hell of a lot more than an inconvenient hard on.”

Rex huffed a laugh, leaning in to rest his cheek against Obi-Wan’s. “Stop being charming.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to happen approximately never. So sorry.”

For a moment, it was just them – two idiots cuddled together, healthy and alive on a genuinely beautiful, bright Spring morning.

Then a terrible gurgling noise broke the moment, and Rex glanced down at the pack still mingling around the tree, groaning their displeasure at not remembering how to climb. “Was that a zombie?” he asked, as if he damn well didn’t know the truth.

“Shapeshifting burns calories,” Obi-Wan reminded him primly. “As does marathon sprints lugging around idiots like potato sacks.”

“That explains the bruises on my stomach,” he muttered, shifting about to rummage in one of Obi-Wan’s pockets. “Jerky?”

“Please.” All in all, now that matters were calmer, Obi-Wan almost hoped that a rescue would take its sweet time. This was almost nice – all things considered.

~end

[chaoticpuff17]

Something Wicked

part 12

masterlist

Warning: major character death, yandere behavior, violence

Hello, my darlings. This is unfortunately the last chapter of SW except for perhaps an epilogue, but I’m still undecided on that. It’s been a ride. Thank you all so much for reading! Enjoy!--- chaotic puff

Much like everything else in her life, Jin chose her dress for the evening and embarrassingly enough, her undergarments as well. She had to admit though that the dress was flattering. Should she have expected anything less though? Nothing in the closet was particularly unflattering. Jin had picked everything so that she would match the image of the dazzling Kim Seokjin. She was long since unsurprised by any of it though. Weeks under Jin’s thumb had left her a shell of herself. She didn’t even have the dog to keep her company anymore. Jin had sent him out to a kennel in preparation for their honeymoon a week in advance. He wanted all of her focus to be on him and the wedding. The dog was deemed an unnecessary distraction. It was just another little thing that made her resent him on an ever growing list.

It was more was becoming more and more of a struggle just to keep herself together, but no one ever would have guessed from looking at her. That was what it meant to be a part of the Kim family, unending grace and poise, never a hair out of place. She had to assume that this was why the heads of the family had even gone along with Jin’s decision to marry her. Not only was he their golden son, but she was perfectly matched to their image of a daughter-in-law in all but family background. They could overlook her lack of background when she was suitable in all other categories and Jin, their most darling son, had chosen her.

She stared at herself in the mirror trying to reconcile the woman before her with the memory of who she had been before everything had happened. This woman was elegant, refined, empty, nothing more than a puppet on a string. The color of the dress made her ill. Red. Red dress. Red shoes. But it was not the bright red that was associated so commonly with weddings. No, this was a deep wine red closer to the color of the bruises so carefully hidden all across her body.

The bruises that marred her wrists were only highlighted by the color as was the hickey that Jin had so meticulously placed on her neck. The halter top of the dress did nothing to distract the eye from the offending mark, and neither did the earrings that Jin had provided her with. A thin string of diamonds fell from her ear ending at her jaw in a perfect pear shaped gem. He had even instructed her to wear her hair up. The simply pony tail she had chosen over a bun provided some cover, but it still left her neck and the mark there exposed for all to see.

Jin didn’t need to hide the marks on her body though. This was his family, and they wouldn’t question his actions. Why would they? Jin could do as he pleased. He could probably even get away with murder if he so chose. He already had if her suspicions about Minseok were correct.

The thought of her love made her heart ache. She couldn’t help the guilt that swept through her at the thought of him. If it hadn’t been for her, he would still have been alive. If she had never agreed to that first date, Jin would have had no reason to act against him. She could only hope that whatever Jin had done with him had been swift, though she doubted it. The Jin she had come to know was anything but merciful. He was many things, a narcissist being among them, but he was not merciful.

“Y/N?” He called walking into the closet where she was getting ready. “Darling?” he called again stopping with a smirk in the middle of the room as he took in the sight of her through the mirror. “You look lovely, darling. Absolutely beautiful.”

Her answer was robotic, ingrained. “Thank you, Jin.”

“Are you ready, darling? I don’t want to keep my parents waiting.”

“Yes, Jin.” She nodded turning to face him though keeping her eyes downcast in submission. He liked her submissive. It fed his ego. “I just need to grab a coat, and I’ll be ready.”

He hummed instructing her to stay where she was as he began to rifle through her side of the closet. Of course she wouldn’t be allowed to choose her own coat. How silly of her to ever think she had a choice.

He returned moments later with a black coat in hand carefully draping it over her helping her into the soft material before stepping back so she could fasten the garment around her. If there was one thing she was grateful for, it was that Jin’s fashion sense never drifted to the risqué in anything other than the array of lingerie he provided. Everything else was demure, fitting for the wife of such an important man. None of her dresses and skirts were shorter than the tops of her knees, and her necklines were always modest with only the barest hint of cleavage being revealed if any at all. Even the coat draped around her was demure. It fell down past her knees stopping at the tops of her shins. The collar was high providing coverage to her neck and half hiding the mark Jin had left there, and like everything else in her wardrobe, it was high quality.

“You look lovely in Dior, darling.” Jin murmured placing a kiss just under her jaw as she finished fastening the belt around her waist.

It was cinched more than it would have been before all of this. The stress of living under Jin’s tyranny had seen a drastic decline in her weight. She never stepped on a scale. She didn’t know where one was, but she wouldn’t have been surprised to find that she had lost twenty pounds or more over her weeks with Jin. Even her hair had suffered. Clumps of it would come out in the shower as it had in her college days during exam weeks or during times of extreme stress. She could barely recognize herself in the sharp angles and hollow eyes of the woman that stared back at her in the mirror.

“Shall we, darling?” Jin grinned offering her his arm, which she reluctantly took allowing him to lead her out of the penthouse for the first time since he had taken her.

One of the hardest pills to swallow was the look of surprise on Jin’s driver’s face when he saw her. She had known Suho for years. They had commiserated on more than one occasion on the harsh realities of working for a perfectionist like Jin, but he looked almost as though he had seen a ghost. Perhaps he had. She certainly felt like one.

“Mr. Kim.” Suho stuttered opening the door of the car for them his eyes still wide with shock.

Jin ushered her into the car first throwing Suho a harsh glare as he did. She was his to look at, not some lowly driver’s. Jin didn’t like other men staring at her, but Suho had been a loyal member of staff for years and quickly averted his gaze without another word as soon as he felt Jin’s glare upon him. He liked Y/N, but not enough to risk Jin’s wrath by attempting to speak with her or take any further notice of her.

The ride out to the family estate was silent. Jin fiddled with his phone while resting heavy hand on her thigh as they drove through the city. There was nothing for her to do but stare at the city as it went past. The path was a familiar one. She’d been to the family home before on multiple occasions. She had never suspected that it would be under these circumstances though. If someone had asked her a few months ago if she could see herself marrying Kim Seokjin, she would have laughed in their faces. She would have given anything to go back to those days, to go back to the day she had first entered Kim Seokjin’s life and turn and run for the hills. There was no use lingering on such thoughts though. This was her life, retched as it may be. She had to survive even if it meant submitting to someone as vile as Seokjin.

The house looked much like it always did, grand and imposing much like the people who inhabited it. She had never been fond of Jin’s parents. She’d always felt out of place in the large house. Seokjung was really the only member of the family that Y/N liked, but it wasn’t as if she knew him very well. That didn’t matter though. It wasn’t as if she got a say in who her in-laws were. She didn’t get a say in any of it.

When they exited the car, Mrs. Kim was standing there ready to greet them, well to greet Seokjin at least. She was an accessory on her son’s arm.

“Jinnie!” She cooed rushing forward to hug her son a smile stretched across her painted lips. “It’s been too long!”

“Eomma.” He greeted hugging her back. “This is Y/N.” He stepped back pushing her forward and bringing her to his mother’s attention.

“The assistant.” She mused staring down her nose at her. “She’s pretty at least.” She huffed taking her son by the arm and pulling him into the house with Y/N trailing behind. “Your father and I have been looking forward to seeing you. I can’t believe that my little boy is all grown up and getting married.” She sighed dramatically stopping in the foyer so that a maid could take both of their coats.  

“Son.” Mr. Kim walked into the room greeting his younger son in the stoic way that he always did. “This must be Y/N.” He nodded looking her up and down critically. “You picked well. She’s beautiful.”

“She’ll give us beautiful grandchildren.” His wife agreed looping her arm through his. “Don’t you think so, dear?”

“There’ll be plenty of time for talk of that later.” He hummed leading his wife towards the parlor for drinks as he and Jin began to talk business. Y/N trailed along her head bowed and arm looped through Jin’s.

She couldn’t help but wonder where Seokjung was. Surely he would be at a family dinner. He was her only saving grace in this nightmare of a dinner. She knew full well that he was the only one that would talk to her like a person and not just the pretty bimbo that their son was marrying. Jin certainly wasn’t going to make this evening any less awkward or her, but so far he was nowhere to be seen.

“Will Seokjung be joining us?” She dared to ask drawing the attention of the entire family to her.

Both Jin and his father stared at her with disapproval, but Jin’s mother pasted on a condescending smile. “Aren’t you sweet?” She hated the sickly sweet tone of the woman’s voice. “I’m sure he’s somewhere, maybe in the kitchen. He does so love to bother the staff in there.” She chuckled the sound grating against Y/N’s ears. “If you’re worried, you could go check on him, but I’m sure he’d be much happier eating in the kitchen than with the rest of the family.”

Y/N had to bite her tongue to keep her temper in check. It had always bothered her how the family treated Seokjung after the accident. He was paralyzed, not a pariah. “I think I will.” She pasted on a smile of her own ignoring the way look of slight annoyance and disapproval that Jin was giving her.

“Hurry back, darling.” He murmured placing a kiss on her cheek as he let her go.

She shot him a strained smile, but didn’t say anything else as she made her way towards the kitchen. It was where she normally ended up when she went to the Kim’s home. Much to her relief, Seokjung was inside when she entered the room which was oddly empty of staff.

“Hey, busy bee.” He greeted and she couldn’t help but smile at the fond nickname. It had started out mockingly when she had first met him, but it was an affectionate term now. “I see Jin finally got to you.”

“Not by choice.” She scoffed coming to take a seat across from him at the breakfast nook. “Can I ask you something?” Seokjung raised a brow taking a sip of his tea but making no move to stop her from asking. “Did Seokjin do this to you?”

The man froze something dark flashing in his eyes before it left again. He set down his cup and leveled her with a serious gaze. “And why do you ask that?” She raised a brow of her own waiting to see if he could piece things together on his own. Seokjung was by no means a stupid man despite how the rest of his family treated him. “I’m guessing the bruises on your wrists are from him.” He sighed leaning back in his chair. “How long?”

“Since this started.” She whispered staring down at the marks on her wrists. “There’s something very wrong with your brother.”

“I’m glad someone else is willing to recognize it.” He scoffed chuckling bitterly. “Yeah. This was his fault.”

“Your parents didn’t do anything?”

“Why would they? They always liked Jin better. Mother’s precious boy.” He shook his head as though clearing his thoughts before steering the attention back towards her. “How did he rope a sweet girl like you into this, bee?”

“Would you believe me if I said kidnapping?”

“He put his own brother in a wheel chair. I’d believe you.” He chuckled humorlessly. “Sweet kid like you doesn’t deserve this.”

“And you did?” She scoffed staring him down from across the table. “Your family is seriously fucked up.”

“I’m aware.” He rolled his eyes though a slight smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “How long do you have before Seokjin comes looking for you?”

“Not long.” She shudder hating the thought of going back to sit through dinner with Jin and his parents.

“Perfect.” The smile that overtook Seokjung’s face was vicious, his eyes too bright, too manic.

“What are you…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. Jin had entered the room immediately zeroing in on her. “There you are, darling.” He walked over a frown on his face as he looked between her and his brother. “We were wondering what was taking you so long.”

He reached for her wrist only to freeze as a harsh thud sounded through the kitchen sending Jin crashing to the floor. Y/N watched in horror as Seokjung raised a pipe she hadn’t even been aware that he had up bringing it down on the disoriented Jin’s head with a sickening crack.

There was an odd sense of satisfaction that filled her as she watched a puddle of red almost the color of her dress form under Jin’s head.

“What…why?” Her gaze flitted back to Seokjung who was staring down at his brother with burning hatred.

“It’s time he got what was coming to him, rotten bastard.” He spat bringing the pipe down on his brother’s head again, Y/N flinching at the sight of it.

“Oh god…” She whispered her gaze flitting back to the growing puddle on the floor.

“Bee… bee!” Seokjung’s voice pulled her attention back to him before she could begin to spiral. “Do you wanna get out of here or not?” he asked his serious gaze keeping her pinned in place.

“What?”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

“More than anything.”

Seokjung nodded pulling a two bags out from the next to him at the breakfast nook and setting them on the table between them. “There’s a change of clothes in that bag. The tote has passport and a ticket on a flight leaving Korea later tonight as well as all the paperwork you’ll need to start a new life.”

Her head was reeling try to make sense of what was going on. “I don’t…”

“If you stay here my family is going to try to pin this on you. They can’t do that if you’re not here.”

“What are you… You planned this.” She breathed out in quite awe tinged with a little horror at the thought.

“You’ve given me the opportunity I’ve been looking for for ages. He’d never come visit me on his own, but he does so love to brag, and you’re the only one that would come looking for me in this hellhole.” He nudged the body with the pipe. “You’ve done me a favor, busy bee.”

“You killed him.”

“An eye for an eye.” He shrugged. “I’m just taking back what he took from me. Now do you want to get out of here or not?”

“More than anything.” She whispered pulling the bags towards her. “What about my dog?”

“Go to the states. Start fresh. I’ll send him along once you’re settled.” He ordered humming in approval as she began to move. “I have my driver waiting outside waiting to take you to the airport. You’re home free, bee. There’s even a phone in there. It’s got my number if you need anything.”

She stood up carefully avoiding the body and the blood as well as she could. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“You’re a sweet girl, bee, and you’ve always been kind to me. Don’t rat me out, and we can both be living the good life.”

She nodded letting the realization that he was giving her an out, a real out, settle in. “Okay…. Okay.”

“What will your parents say?”

He scoffed rolling himself back from the table. “You leave them to me. Now get out of here before they come looking for their precious son.”

She nodded resolutely making her way towards the door leading to the back entrance to the Kim house. “Thank you.”

“Good luck, busy bee.”

She made it to the door before turning back to look at Seokjung one last time before she left behind his crazy family for good. He nodded urging her to leave, a manic gleam in his eyes. He was enjoying this far too much, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. He’d set her free, and she’d take his secret to the grave.

She smiled, her first real smile in weeks. “Give them hell.”

“I plan to.”  

 epilogue....

[szynkaaa]

I more or less watched The Boy!!! And by watching, I mean I skipped more or less through the jump scare parts because I cannot do horror movies at all. I haven’t watched one since 2015 and The Boy was like the first horror movie after five years

Full disclosure, the ONLY reason I started watching the movie was because someone posted a gif of Greta standing close to Brahms who was all sweaty and breathing heavily n I was like “oh shit who dat he hot” and here I am 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her?

I did some digging for interviews and generally what people have been saying about the movie, took some screenshots from youtube to put my thoughts and musing together too! 

Can anyone explain the sandwich scene to me? So Greta was scared shitless and locked herself in her room, but why did Brahms make her favorite sandwich for her? 

So first of all, let’s start with a low resolution photo I found on IG of James Russell without mask:

which brings me to my first musing/thought/question? 

It’s all under the cut, very screenshot and text heavy, you can find more Brahms drawing at the bottom though  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So at the end of the movie, we are shown a Brahms with a broken mask and his face being burned, indicating that he was in fact in the fire.

I assumed first that the fire was created by the parents to fake their sons death and then he had to live hidden inside the walls? 

But I’ve also heard apparently it was Brahms who set the fire to fake his own death or maybe an eight years old kid really was trying to burn himself down?? 

My other theory is that his parents made the fire and tried to kill Brahms and it did burn him but he survived, and the parents didn’t wanna go to jail sooo to hide everything they made their son live in the walls

i mean the responsible thing would be to turn their kid in and have him treated and stuff;;; listened to a murder podcast about two cases where kids murdered enough kids and how they are doing now interesting read Brahms made me think of those two cases 

I also do not think that the previous nannies were killed. Like, c’mon. You’d report a person missing and sooner or later it would go back to the Heelshire mansion and if the body counts piles up? Can’t look good and I doubt that the Heelshire wants the police investigating them close up. 

Also, when the mom was like “He’s chosen you if you’ll have him” to Greta? Is it just me or the wording or does it sound like a marriage proposal/arrangement xD 

Brahms is a brat and he sees the people around him as his possession or to toy around. But I also do think that he has some abandonment issues but not in the sad tragic kind of way lmao. Even if he was the one controlling and manipulating his parents from behind-the-scene (quite literally I suppose?), he was still told as a kid to live in hiding and that no one can know he is alive. I don’t know much about the human brain, but I can imagine how damaging that must be to his mental growth and set him back in some way? We don’t know too much about his relationship with his parents - but I assume that he must have still loved them in his own twisted way. Can’t imagine that he would have been indifferent about his parents suicide. 

The scene before Greta manages to back out - first he uses the child voice to beg her to come back and promises he will be good. That’s his manipulating Greta, but when that doesn’t work and she tries harder to open the door, he becomes more desperate to keep her there and then completely loses his temper and threatens to kill Malcolm if she doesn’t return. I’m pretty sure homeboy would have killed him anyway. And then later when she returns and he is all heavy breathing and smelling her hair and then jumps up when she shouts Brahms? Idk I def think there is some sort of abandonment issue going on. 

I don’t think he is a child stuck in a man’s body or manchild or whatever. I think that he does know how to take care of himself - but he just chooses to manipulate people with the facade of a kid to do his bidding and cater to his needs. 

Anywhomst, but clearly Brahms is also a very manipulative and controlling person based, based on how the mother was reacting on the destroyed bedroom, she really seemed to be at the end of her wits and just breaking down with her “you promised you’d be good”. It was very heartbreaking to watch and also scary because it really makes you realize just how much power Brahms holds over them?? idk maybe it was just me.

Next point: the CGI mask  + the burns 

So according to some interviews with the director stated that at the first test streaming, people weren’t really scared of Brahms because he was too handsome so they had to slap a mask over his face. The face was done after everything was filmed. I’m thinking the face burns were also added post-production when they were adding the cgi mask. Otherwise, James would have needed to go through the makeup department for some wicked face burns and it would have been visible during the filming and test screening too? Which would imply that at first the fire was supposed to be just  a cover story that their son is dead and it was changed later

Observation/thoughts on Brahms Heelshire

Love how he stands there with his hands behind his back and then nods when Greta tells him to go under the cover

James Russell is 191cm tall. So like. Brahms is really fucking tall. But I notice that most of the time he stands with a slight hunch. Could be due to him crawling through the walls and crawling out of places that requires him to do a lot of crouching. His bed in his hideout made me really sad, I’ll get to it later. 

Since James didn’t get many lines in the ten minutes that he appeared, I do think that his eyes did all the acting. They stand out even more with the mask on, there is just this crazy look on it. I also noticed during my rewatch that he doesn’t seem to blink much or at all. 

Oh yeah, he also peeped on Greta and Malcolm making out on the bed and then cockblocked them. We been knowing that he made a Greta doll and very likely jerked off to it. We also been knowing that he very very very likely wanted to bone Greta at the goodnight kiss scene still waiting for the maskeless kiss scene gimme gimme. I also highly doubt that Brahms has much first-hand experience with kissing n stuff. High key thinking he was trying to do copy Malcolm and do what he observed lmao

When I first watched the scene, I assumed that the hole behind the mirror has always been and it’s just another one of the hidden passages Brahms to slip in and out, but now that I’m looking at the shape of the holes, it seems to me more like the mirror and brick wall were broken at the same time?? If that is the case holy shit boy is s t  r o n g. I mean, he also punched through the closet door like no big deal so really what have the parents been feeding him. 

I’m also leaning toward the fact that he ran there because Greta screamed loudly. I don’t think he was in the room as them when everything went down there, it seemed more like he heard the scream and had to nyoomed over and then punched a way through to get out of the wall. And then went on to attack Cole. He must have known that Greta wanted Cole gone, since that what she whispered to the doll before going to bed. 

Tbh, I fully expected him to murder Cole in his sleep, but Brahms wrote a warning message in blood to tell him to get out soooooo like. Cole you were warned and now you gotta live with the consequences ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Brahm’s sleeping corner

This scene was shown at the end after Greta and Malcolm escaped. We also see them briefly during the part where Greta and Malcolm are trying to find a way out and stumbled into Brahms’ hideout. I’m not sure why the rules are slapped on the walls. It seems to me that Brahms is very very very set on that the rules / routine should be followed. In the movie, he called Greta and suggested to her that she should follow the rules, to which she then started doing it.

I headcanon that that’s the routine that he grew up with as a kid and it’s just very very very very very hard to break out of it - not that he is trying to break the routine. 

I’m failing to find a good way to put my thoughts into words, but I guess the rules and routine is sort of his coping mechanism? 

I suppose if you had an OC that you ship Brahms with and want to change stuff around the house, the OC would have to very slowly introduce new rules and routines. Baby steps, yknow.

Brahms has a violin hanging there! Honestly I would be surprised if Brahms didn’t know how to play at least one instrument. The family also has an old ass piano/clavichord (?) and Brahms loves classical music soo yeah. Love me a boy who appreciates classical musical hehe

I suppose the egg boxes are there to soundproof the room more - maybe so he can play the violin? 

There’s also music sheets hung around his attics, it’s not clear on the screenshots but when you rewatch the scene and shove your face close to the screen. Some are hanging next to the violin and there are some taped on the wall next to his bed and porn too

nice to see he has a fridge and microwave, I was concerned that he wasn’t well fed and that leftovers might not be enough, but then again. Dude is 191 cm so clearly he has been drinking his milk

Didn’t take a screenshot of his vanity, but there is a crocodile magnet stuck to the mirror hehe. I do think that he shaves and stuff, otherwise his beard would be much longer??

We can see more music sheets stuck to a pillar on the right. 

Loving the christmas lights that he has hanging there above his bed. It’s cute. 

On the shelf he has a bunch of tupperware and empty bowls. Most of hte things are neatly organized. We can also see some books and a pen

There’s some sunlight streaming inside - I do hope that Brahmsy stays warm during winters.

Here we can see more of the food that he has there - there is also a sink but I didn’t snatch a screenshot of it. I think those are potatoes in the pot? Maybe he does know how to cook some basic stuff, I do wonder if he has a functioning kitchen up there. Probably not for fire safety reasons lol

Yall see that thing on the note sheet covered pillar? Ngl, that’s a whole ass aesthetic right there.

He got a few potted plants up there. Took a closer look at them and it seems like they were healthy. So he knows how to take care of plants, which is nice to know I suppose?

Yes, we all know what he was doing with the doll and what the tissue balled up tissue implies. However, has anyone noticed the size of the bed??? 

If you scroll up a bit to the screenshot of Greta seeing the doll, it looks t i n y. The make shift doll takes up more than half of the space. 

Yall. this breaks my heart. Dude is a beanstalk. I’m pretty sure the bed is from when he was a kid shoved by his parents to live inside the wall, does he have to sleep there in his adulthood too??? 

Even though Brahms strikes me as someone who probably doesn’t sleep much or during normal times, that bed must be so tiny for him. He must be sleeping with his knees bend and shit unable to stretch out :((( 

Brahms: is a psychopath that smashed the skull of a girl and very abusive tormented his parents and then Greta Me: omg he needs a bigger bed that poor thing :(((

Brahms’ DIY corner 

Ah yes, Brahm’s little DIY/creative corner. 

Homeboy got lot of animal traps, cages and taxidermies hanging around, pointing strongly toward that it’s a hobby of it? 

Also at the end where we see him fixing up the doll, we can get a better shot at his desk, and I gotta say the threads and stuff are all very nicely organized. Brahms’s table looks more organized than mine does lmao. 

So we know he is a crafty boy. Not sure how difficult taxidermy is but I imagine it does take a lot of time to learn? Well he had all the time in the world anyway.

So yeah, that’s a wrap. Congrats if you made it to the bottom of my incoherent thoughts and ramblings, have a bonus drawing of Brahms wearing different masks: 

[jonspurpleskirt]

An Unlikely Befriending

Summary: Jon gets kidnapped. Jon gets bored. And Jon makes very unlikely friends because of it. Aka: Pen and Paper saves the day (world) and Jon finally gets to have a band. A/N: This is pure fluff, no warnings apply I think. ___

The worst thing about being kidnapped by a crazy mannequin murder clown monstrousity and sitting in a cold, room with creepy wax works, tied to a chair was not the ever present terror. True the fear of Nikola finally deeming his skin good enough and skinning him alive was quite potent, but it wasn't as bad as boredom.

Jon had never taken well to waiting. His mind needed to be occupied 24/7, needed something to latch onto, to obsess about. It's why he became a researcher in the first place. Having most of his freedom taken from him made occupying himself very hard.

At least they still let him eat and drink here and there. Nikola always visited personally, her overly cheery voice bubbling forth as she chattered away while slathering him with lotion or shoving bits of take out food in his mouth. His diet those last two weeks had been very varied and healthy and he had never drank so much water before.

He still probably looked a mess, what with no access to a shower and barely being able to sleep at all. And the constant terror. Oh yeah and the boredom.

Oh the boredom.

Jon was currently sitting in his chair as he was wont to do. Thankfully not nailed down despite all the nagging from Sarah Baldwin. The coffin was singing or moaning with a slight melody behind it, depending on who you asked. And somehow Jon found himself humming along, trying to find a good melody to go with the haunting tune. It wasn't like he had anything better to do and if he didn't start doing something creative his mind would start eating itself soon.

So he hummed, experimenting with the notes, twisting them into something that was reminiscent of circus music and airships. And then he kept humming the melody over and over, forming words in his mind to go with the tune. Once the spark was lit a fire started to burn, the story branching out and out into a twirling mass of chaos and fire.

He had gotten lost in his imagination, hadn't noticed how loud he had become, hadn't heard Nikola approach. Jon screeched when she leant down over him and grinned at him upside down, nose nearly touching his.

Nikola had the gall to laugh at him, no breath fanning over his face as she did so.

"Awww Archivist! I didn't know you had such a nice voice!"

"Hrmph."

"Yes your singing was also quite good!" She straightened herself, back cracking in several places. Striding around his chair she towered over him, tattered, bloody ringmaster uniform filling his field of vision.

"I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to sing, of course! And the broken repeat is lovely."

"Hm."

"Anyway water time!"

With gleeful cackling she ripped the tape from his mouth, amused enough to not immediately shove the bottle between his teeth.

"There are words to it, too." Jon rushed to say, not exactly sure why. What was he offering her here? A solo performance?

"Oh?" she at least didn't tape his mouth shut again. For now.

After waiting several beats where both stared at each other and nothing else happened Jon dared to speak up again.

"I ah... well I wrote it myself? Not wrote, of course. My hands are tied at the moment-" He was rambling. Nikola had given him the freedom of speech and he was off like a shot, telling her everything about what he had been thinking about before she had interrupted his impromptu jamming session, terror completely terminating his brain to mouth filter.

Nikola, for her part, took it all in stride. She even settled on the floor in front of him, blinking every now and then to indicate that she was still present.

"It's such a shame." she finally spoke, holding the water bottle to his mouth, letting him drink of his own volution for once. "You would have made a perfect piece for the choir. Hm maybe what will be left of you will do."

"I could sing for you now." Jon offered as soon as his mouth was free again.

Nikola startled at the offer and Jon just shrugged as much as he was able to. He'd rather sing to a creepy murder doll than spend one minute longer alone and bored out of his mind. And if he could delay the Unknowing (and the violent removal of his skin) by keeping Nikola entertained than even better.

That sounded like he almost had a plan. Which was untrue. He only had a very strong desire for entertainment.

"No sneaky questions." Nikola warned.

"Promise. I can't guarantee good quality rhymes, though. I'm still workshopping."

Singing out loud what had been in his head was always an awkward affair. He had wanted to start a band with Georgie in uni. But it was exactly because of this that he had never bothered.

"That was fun!" Nikola screamed after he was finished nontheless. Clapping her hands in delight, which created a horrible cracking noise.

"I'm glad? I also DM."

She tilted her head at him. "What's that?"

Jon explained the concept of pen and paper games to her while she rubbed lotion into his skin and had her hooked immediately.

Later that day (or maybe the next day, really Jon had no concept of time anymore) Jon was for the first time allowed out of his chair, carefully rubbing circulation back into his hands. Nikola had only briefly left him alone after watering and lotioning him. They had hashed out what kind of world and system they wanted to use (a horror setting, of course) and then Nikola was off and dragging Breekon and Hope back into the room so they had enough people to play.

Either Breekon or Hope sat down behind Jon, large hands lightly clasping his arms, squeezing every once in a while to remind him that should he try and escape he would only end up in pain.

Jon shifted awkwardly in the grip, unused to gentleness even if it was supposed to be threatening.

"Alright. First, character creation. Who do you guys want to play?"

It became a daily thing. The three beings in his group quickly became addicted to his story telling and to the characters they were allowed to play. Nikola tore through characters, trying on different personalities like pieces of clothing. She had a beautiful eery singing voice, Jon was surprised to find out when she had decided to play a member of a steampunk band.

Breekon and Hope were less manic, too attached to their twins to play anyone else. They changed voices and accents every session, though. Jon deigned to ignore their shenanigans, scared to make them angry. He hadn't had this much fun in ages, he didn't want to loose that.

The two delivery men took turns holding him down while they played, Hope holding onto his arms and Breekon using him like a child would a Teddy bear.

Eventually the three lingered after their sessions had ended, the ropes that tied him to his chair less tight. Jon tried to keep the conversations casual, to not ask all the questions that burned at the tip of his tongue. He found that he didn't need to. Tongue loose from goofing around Nikola was often chatty, Breekon and Hope throwing in their two cents every once in a while.

Eventually the topic about Tims younger brother came up.

"Danny Stoker? Grimauldi skinned him? Hm..." Nikolas head nearly dislodged as she stared at the ceiling in thought. "Noooo." She giggled. "We didn't skin anyone that night, silly! We were scoping out locations for the dance! Danny's little group stumbled into us and got a little confused~"

"But Tim saw Grimauldi rip Dannys skin off of a puppet."

Nikola shrugged. "An illusion. We're good at making you people see things that aren't really there. Yet."

"So Danny is alive?"

"I believe so!~ If he didn't die in a ditch somewhere."

Jon was very careful to keep his voice as soft as possible with the next question. "Could you find him again and bring him to the Institute? To Tim and... I don't know... maybe that's a stupid idea given that he can't be sure it's really him..."

"If I track him down do I get inspiration for my character next session?"

"That's cheating." Breekon complained under his breath behind Jon.

"I... yes?"

Nikola grinned. "Wonderful! I see what I can do!"

Days went by like that, Nikola or Breekon or Hope updating him on Dannys search, which had turned out to be harder than they had thought. Well at least Jon was keeping them busy.

They were in the middle of racing a burning train into the central bank of London when a door creaked behind Jon, bathing the room in technicolour and spiral shapes.

"That is not what I thought I'd find here." A voice that wavered between confused and gleeful mused.

Jon twisted in the grip Breekon had on him. "Hello Michael."

"Hello Archivist. You've found yourself in an interesting situation." The grin Michael shot him was a knife glinting in the light before striking.

"Yes. Why are you here?"

Nikola had let him practice after Jon had explained his lack of training, much more lax with her hostage now that he fed her fascinating stories of blood and gore. So there was no trace of compulsion in his voice when he asked the question.

Michael answered truthfully anyway. "I came to kill you of course!"

"I have dips on that!" Nikola said, voice pleasant and grin feral.

"I'm sorry about that. Would you like to join the game instead?"

Michael stared at him as though he had grown mad. Impressed, curious and lightly terrified. Then it laughed that horrible, headache inducing laugh.

"There's a lot of lies and delusion." Jon coaxed, heart beating out of his chest with nerves.

"He's a good storyteller." Hope added, Nikola and Breekon nodding along.

"Hm alright. I guess I can play for a bit."

It didn't stay just for a bit. Michael stayed through the finale of the story and then demanded to start another, their little ragtag group of definitely not heroes causing more chaos than any other player group Jon had ever DMed before. And that was saying something. Hours upon hours passed, Michael disappearing and reappearing to get Jon coffee and tea to keep his voice from giving out.

In the middle of it all Michael began twitching and twisting, glitching in and out of sight before slumping to the ground with a groan, form for once near comprehensible. Another door opened and out walked Helen looking down at the Distortion in disappointment.

"Oh that didn't destroy you. Shame."

"Helen?"

"Hello Jon! I was coming to rescue you given that Michael got a little distracted. Do you want to come to the archives with me?"

Honestly Jon should have been shocked, probably angry. He was definitely sad. And yet the most he felt was just an overwhelming sense of whelp.

Jon vaguely gestured towards Nikola, as much as Breekons hold allowed him to. "Ask her."

"We're not done yet."

"Later then?"

Nikola considered Jon for a long moment, both staring unblinking at each other. "Give us an hour."

To Jons great surprise Helen just nodded and delicately sat on the chair Jon usually frequented in his "freetime" all prim and proper except for the long sharp fingers curling at the edges like corkscrews.

"Now where were we?"

Michael groaned from the floor for once not smiling. Jon felt a twinge of sympathy for him.

"Are you alright?"

"Been better. Been worse. Let's burn this village down!"

There was no end to the tale they had been playing, not with just one session of playtime. Jon felt a bit bad about that, especially because he had left it at a cliffhanger. No one seemed to be angry at him for it, though. Michael had recovered fast and was again his usual ominous cheery, albeit lightly aggressive self. He poked and prodded at Helen like a curious cat while Nikola massaged lotion into Jons skin for the last time and handed him several expensive looking bottles, rattling down a step by step skin care routine he was to follow to the t or else she would break into his house and do it herself.

Hope patted him on the head. "See you around, Archivist."

"You're really letting me go? Just like that?" Jon still couldn't believe it.

Nikola shrugged. "I found another option. And I'd like to keep doing this after the Unknowing."

"Will that be even possible?"

The grin he got from was not at all reassuring. "I don't know~"

Well that was probably the best he would get from her. Jon gave a hesitant tiny wave and, flanked by both Michael and Helen stepped through their door.

Back at the archive no one had even questioned his disappearance. A fact that made Michael and Helen laugh, even though they both refused to leave as Tim, Melanie and Basira questioned him about his whereabouts.

Martin was the only one who took Jons forced vacation in stride. Maybe he even was a little too happy about a group of mannequins harassing him to take better care of himself.

"You're not compromised now, are you?" Basira asked when Jon had settled back into his office after a long shower.

"No? Because I still don't want the world to end?"

"Good."

Somehow Jon knew that she would still keep an eye on him from now on.

~~~

When the day came to blow up the ritual site Jon hadn't slept a wink in three nights and was overcome by guilt. Despite how aweful his initial time at the circus had been and despite him knowing what horrible things Nikola and her kin did in their freetime, Jon still felt bad about probably killing her.

He tried to rationalize his feelings away, connecting his rising anxiety with the fact that Danny still hadn't been found. It was a flimsy denial.

Tim stayed by his side the whole time, resolute in his burning desire for vengeance. Jon was scared that he would loose him to this, too. Had confessed as much to Michael and Helen, who had taken to keeping at least one door manifested somewhere in the tunnels at all times. The two had started to get along well after some initial disagreement. The Spiral, split as it was between the two of them, was weaker in its influence now, leaving more of Michael Shelley and Helen Richardson to make decisions.

They weren't here now. Daisy, Basira and Tim were, setting up explosives and arguing about rescuing people that were already long dead.

And then Nikola appeared and the dance started and nothing made sense anymore.

Jon woke up six months later, Georgie calling him a monster and Basira giving him a statement to "eat" catching him up on everything he had missed. Tim had miraculously survived, having been dragged through a door by either Helen or Michael. Daisy and Basira had encountered Breekon and Hope, who had argued about what they should do with "Jons feral friends" and in the end had led them savely out of the building before it could go boom, muttering about possible inspiration points.

The only one who hadn't been saved was Jon. He tried not to feel too hurt about that.

Coming back to work was as anti climatic as it had been after the kidnapping. The only one who seemed happy to see him was Martin. He had apologized profusely for the hug and promptly stopped doing so when Jon dashed forward and back into Martins warm embrace, finally breaking down.

He had been too caught up in his crying to make a note of the little kiss Martin pressed into his hair.

They all were a little lost after averting the apocalypse, normal everyday life eluding them. Elias might have been out of the picture for the moment, but Peter Lukas had taken over and fighting against the isolation was taking its toll on everyone.

They were all huddled in the breakroom, faces grim and stewing in silence so as to not break into an arguement when they got their delivery.

Breekon and Hope stepped into the small space with their usual nonchalance dragging a scared young man between them, who had a lot of resemblance to Tim.

"Delivery for Jonathan Sims. Nikola says hi."

Tim was the first one up. "No... No no nononononono that can't be. He's dead. Jon. Jon tell me is that really him?!"

Jon looked at the scared man, who had his gaze locked on Tim, recognition slowly dawning on his face. He Looked and he Knew.

"Yes. No one was killed the night Danny disappeared. His group encountered Nikola and her troupe during a rehearsal, got confused and then lost. And was lost ever since. Nikola told me of this. She promised to find him for me, for you."

That was all Tim needed to rush forward, catching his brother in his arms and hugging him close. "Danny!"

Danny clung back just as tightly, awareness barely back. Still obviously shaken and confused.

Jon smiled at the two delivery men. "Thank you. Will he... will he be alright."

Hope shrugged. "Dunno. Nikola said to make him remember bit by bit. Been not Danny for a long time. Might need to get used to it again."

"We'll take it slow." Tim promised, silent tears streaming down his face.

"Good luck. Hey Archivist, do we get inspiration, too?"

Jon laughed, incredulous. The others in the room watched the exchange with varying degress of exasperation and outrage.

"You know what? Yes. Yes you have. And I'll give you all advantage on your rolls next session. Only that one session, though! Same for Nikola. How is she, by the way?"

Breekon made a so-so sign. "Restless. We've waited over six months to find out what happens after  that cliffhanger you gave us."

"Right." He still couldn't believe it. "Tonight 8 o'clock, my flat?"

Twin grins, the most excited he had ever seen them. "See you then, Archivist."

Tim was still gently hushing his brother, rocking back and forth on his feet to try and calm him down a little. And he still had tears streaming down his face, looking like an absolute wreck. But he still managed to join the unimpressed stares that were thrown his way by everyone but Martin, who at this point had just started to roll with the punches.

"You really befriended the clown club and made them rescue literally all of us?" Basira asked in a deadpan voice.

"I kind of feel cheap now." Daisy muttered. "As though those clowns let us win."

"Look, what can I say? Pen and Paper games are fun. I can't blame them. And Nikola did want to start a band."

"Oh my god." Melanie groaned, her head thunking onto the table. "I can't believe it."

"A band?" Basira asked, suddenly much more alert. They really had gotten quite desensitized to the whole monster thing, hadn't they? "What, you can sing?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. But really. Shouldn't we... I mean shouldn't we focus on Danny? There's a cot-"

"I know." Tim interrupted. "We all know there's a cot. I'll take him home, you keep talking about your weird band plans. Monster boss? We talk later, but... thank you."

Silence reigned long enough to follow Tim out of the Institute before Martin piped up, cheeks reddening before he had even opened his mouth. "Could we... Could we have a taste?"

"A taste? Of what? My voice?"

"Hold up, if Sims is going to sing I'll have to record it." Melanie tapped on her phone and held it into the room as one would do a microphone. "Alright go."

Jon sighed, what he didn't do to keep up the group morale.

"Aww shit." Was Basiras conclusion when he was done. "What kind of music were you thinking of playing?"

"Steampunk."

"Count me in."

~~~

Today had been weird, Jon thought, mind reeling from the whiplash of... kindness? That had happened after the delivery of one Danny Stoker. Granted the last month, no

year

had been weird. But this had topped it all. At least it had been a nice weird.

Jon had nearly forgotten about his appointment with a certain group of Strangers when he got back to his flat, overworked, hungry and still processing. So he should be forgiven for the scream he let out when he saw three large figures huddling on his too small couch.

"You haven't been taking care of your skin at all!"

There was no time to duck away from the cold, hard hands that fluttered all over his body. Nikola squished his cheeks like a proper grandmother, clearly unhappy about their elasticity.

"I was in a coma for six months."

"And awake for a few weeks now." A cheerful male voice said from behind him, bringing the smell of pizza with it.

"We were there he didn't take care of himself at all!" Helen added, putting down several cans of soda and what looked to be instant coffee.

"You're horrible!" Nikola wailed, manhandling him until he was squished between Breekon and Hope. "All my beautiful work! Ruined!"

"Uh... sorry?"

"You can make it up to us with weekly sessions." Michael suggested with a grin.

"Both on Saturday and Sunday!" Helen added.

"I actually planned for Sunday to be band day." Jon lied. "Basira wants to join, by the way."

They were all settled around the small coffee table now, food and drink on the floor so they had enough place to roll their dice.

"Wonderful! What did you think we'd name it?"

Jon tilted his head given the illusion of thinking it over even though he had known what to name his band since highschool.

"The Mechanisms."

[slothgiirl]

the trash pile: alex turner x reader

The cybernetic augmentation juts out from her temple, leading down to her chin, the metal a dull grey. Nothing says belter more than slap job augmentations, Alex thinks as she smiles at him, reaching out with her hand to him.

He takes it.

She's pretty from what he can see from the dim yellow lights in the club. The augmentation somehow complementing her already well formed cheekbones. A mess of bleached blonde hair falling down her shoulders.

And she's already offered, dragging him out onto the floor shamelessly. He'd rather dance with a beautiful woman than stand around drinking and having to listen to all his friends talk about people, things, he's unfamiliar with.

They've moved on.

The floor flashes bright blue to the beat of the music. Too loud to carry a conversation. Too loud to think. Alex can finally stop overthinking, what he's done since he landed on Tranquility base six hours ago.

Her touch is solid and confident, hands on his shoulders as she laughs, one hundred percent in the moment. He doesn't think he's ever been like that. Her ease is as natural as Alexa's charm.

His gaze flickers back to the table they'd been sharing, but they've dispersed into the club. He can't see a trace of any of his friends. Matt had long since left, having a ceremony to wake up for. "Tomorrow," he'd grinned, promising a night of debauchery.

"Hey," Taylor calls into his ear, bringing his attention back to her, blue eyes like the sky back on earth. None of the gaudy recreations of sky broadcasted through the colonies. Mars was said to not even bother, letting it's people grow up with an orange sky.

She smiles, tilting her head, before leaning in.

And wow, Alex really has been alone for too long, as her lips on his send his heart beat into a frenzy. Blood rushing in his ears like a teenage boy all over again. It isn't real, but he thinks in that second he loves her.

Alex always has been a romantic.

They leave the club together. The corridors are still red for the night. The one thing he hadn't missed. Even Ceres had better artificial lighting mods.

"I've got to go to work," Taylor tells him bluntly, "but you should give me your number. I think we could have a lot of fun together." She looks at him with hopeful eyes, biting her lower lip. He wants to kiss her again.

But, he'll be gone the day after tomorrow. The entire base holds too many ghosts for him to feel entirely comfortable. It makes him keep looking over his shoulder, expecting Josh or Julian. Two people he's long since lost touch with.

"I'm actually not staying that long," he admits as she leads them through the corridors. Alex can still recognize the alcoves he and Matt would take smoke breaks in. Which turn would lead them back to the lifts. Another life.

"That's a shame."

He chuckles. Before his mind catches up with his tongue, "wait, did you say you're going to work now?"

"Yeah. Its so fucking boring," Taylor says, stopping besides the lifts. "Coms graveyard shift." She rolls her eyes.

"I don't blame ya," he admits. Alexa had worked the coms. She'd always complained about having to go thirty seven floors below, bundled up in jackets. Since it was less populated, the government enacted more energy saving features.

"Maybe we'll see each other again in the drift," she grins suggestively, right as she steps into the lift.

Alex watches the doors closed, before he turns around, deciding to go find an open store. He could go for some more coffee while he's here. Maybe even stock up on it. It shouldn't be hard. The Base wasn't a residential area. Tourists were coming and going as well as SFN members.

There was the launchpad.

He lets himself wander. Too buzzed to be as tired despite the early call time he has in the morning. It would be just his luck to miss Matt's big promotion because he'd overslept after having traveled a month to be here.

It's not hard to find an open bodega. The open sign flashing green in the dim of the night.

Maybe he should've gotten the night vision implants after all. Miles never shut up about it. How easy it was to make his way about different colonies even during night cycles. And you could only tell if you were looking for the little silver ring around the iris.

Alex slips inside, making a bee line for the food. It's been hours since he last ate. At this point a cup of noodles and instant coffee sound like a dream. He gets the little powdered donuts as well. Then goes for the liquid milk creamer.

Who knows when he'll next have that option. No one had yet to figure out how to increase cows milk production in space. And powdered never tasted the same.

He looks at the fruit. Incredibly overpriced since it's a bodega. But apples and oranges. . .Alex could still remember the taste of fresh squeezed orange juice his mother would make. She'd cut them all open, let him squeeze the juice out before sucking on the pulp.

Alex grabs the smallest oranges.

There's no reason not to splurge. He has the money for it. And work is never hard to come by with his skill set. There's a large market for the skills SFN ensigns have, but most of those ensigns just stay with the navy.

He turns to go pay for his small haul, but the sight of a woman staring out of a faux porthole stops him in his tracks.

Her profile could not hide how beautiful she was, her gaze caught by the live feed of the earth on the other side of the moon. Romantic dark eyes gazing into the side of the bodega, her questionable egg salad sandwich forgotten in her hand. The bump in her prominent nose only served to make her profile more striking.

"That's not actually the earth," Alex starts gently, catching her attention. "Ya know." She turns to him, trying to hide the fact that she'd jumped, startled by his presence. And doing a damn good job at brushing off the surprise.

He was right. She's beautiful. Well formed full lips. Her dark hair tucked a braid, looking better in trousers and patched up hoodie than most people could dressed to the nines. Her shoes stick out from the casual ensemble, patent red leather with a split toe. There's the hint of dark circles under her eyes, probably from a missed nights sleep.

And a scattering of light scars like stars by her left cheekbone.

"I know," she responds, "I just never thought I'd ever be this close to the earth."

"You could take a trip to the other side and see the real thing," he muses, unable to hide the longing in his voice. Alex knew in his bones he'd never step foot on earth again. Never walk the streets in Sheffield or London again. But he couldn't help but wish for a miracle.

She shakes her head, the warmth in her eyes receding as she closes herself off. "Can't. Have to meet with a friend and then go back."

"Must be a good friend if you've come all this way."

She shrugs noncommittally, "He's more of an acquaintance of a friend. I've never actually met the man. But things being as they are," she explains, "it's best done in person."

Alex is now intrigued, a red flag raised in the back of his mind that still flies away information happening in the corner of his eye just in case. It makes him a damn good private investigator. "Mysterious."

"Forgive me for not spilling all my secrets to a stranger," she notes, arching a brow.

He can't help but chuckle. "Ya got me there love. Let's try something else."

"Like what," she asks, the corners of his lips turning up.

"How are you finding our moon?" The moon might not think it was the earth's, and the government sure wasn't, but the moon still spun around the earth the way it had for millions of years.

"Disappointing," she admits, frowning, "Ceres is livelier. And would it kill them to use brighter lighting?"

"Austerity measures," Alex shrugs. It had been the answer for as long as he'd been alive.

"From what," she asks, tilting her head, a smirk forming on her lips, "there's no war or reason for shortages."

"Just repeating the party line," he admits.

"Well," she raises her sandwich like a sad little white flag, "I've got to get going. It was nice meeting you."

"Can I get your number?"

Surprising him, she shakes her head, "No. I doubt we'll ever meet again. I don't plan to stay on the moon for long."

"Lucky for you," he counters, following her to the sales woman, built like a rugby player, "I'm not from the moon. So there's hope yet for our paths to cross."

She snorts, digging around her pockets for money, slowly building up a pile of change to pay with. "Let me guess," she says knowingly, as her eyes look him over, taking in his hair now curling past his ears, the navy blue sweater and white shirt combo that had felt smart earlier but had wrinkled in the course of the night. "you're from earth."

Alex answers bashfully, "born there." He always felt like apologizing for having been born on Earth. For having spent his childhood breathing in air without a care. For not knowing how precious an atmosphere was.

"Well I don't plan to go to earth," she trails off, waving her receipt away.

"Neither do I." He hands the lady a bill too large for what he's bought and follows her out the door, not bothering for his change. "But I take it there's no way I can convince you to give me a number?"

"None."

"How about a name," he offers. Alex had not seen one person that he'd bothered to chase in years. And here she was, indulging him as though he was a stray puppy she had fed once and now followed her around in hopes of more scraps.

"Yours first," she snipes back, not missing a beat.

"Alex." He doesn't ever bring up his last name. Too much weight. A famous family. And an infamous past. Being just Alex was a luxury.

"Tisiphone."

A name fitting for someone born in the jovian system. Maybe even Dione. But Dione, while a newer colony, wasn't bloody awful for someone to want to leave. It had to be-"Titian," he guesses. The wild west of space. SFN cadets hated getting assigned there. Johanna had said the worst part was the perpetual twilight.

Too many crevices to hide in.

"Yes," she responds, "and hopefully never again."

"If we ever meet again," the romantic in him already imagining them crossing paths in a Callisto settlement, planting trees for the rest of their lives and learning to work wood, "can I take you out for a cuppa?"

Tisiphone laughs, smiling tight lipped, "If it happens then I'll say yes earth boy."

** ** ch 2

The ceremony drags on.

They all sit, gathered around the Kennedy Hab, the first large permanent building on the dark side of the moon. The benches are as uncomfortable as ever, as Alex gazes down at a sea of navy uniforms all with various ranks on their right shoulders. He's seated right next to Alexa. The boys down there somewhere with Matt.

It's an SFN event so Alex's paranoia is right for once. The second glances the captains and commanders threw his way were knowing. They recognized him.

It sets his teeth on edge.

Alexa pats his knee, comfortable around him despite their shared history. Johanna besides him with her fiancé. They both keep glancing at each other, infinite in their whispering. He wants that.

"I'll throw hands at anyone who says anything," Alexa reassured him. Looking especially nice in a long red dress. She's not single. But it clearly isn't serious enough if she didn't bring him along to celebrate her friends.

"That would make it worse," Alex responds, keeping his gaze forward, careful to keep his face neutral. It usually wasn't a problem. That being his default expression. But this was bringing up events from his past he's long since buried.

"Derek was supposed to be here," Alexa says to try to distract him, "you would've liked him. Life of the party. Miles and him had a one night stand and now we're all friends."

"Well that's not saying much considering Miles will sleep with anything."

She laughs, "True. But even Nick gets jazzed to hang out with him and you know how hard it is to get close to Nick."

"He's just careful about who his friends are," Alex acknowledges. Unlike Nick, Alex was just terribly bad at opening up.

Nick was just picky. "That says something good about little old me." Alexa twirls her hands over her head. Sticking her nose in the air. "Not such a mess after all."

"You've never been a mess," he tells her, watching as they begin to call up all the newly minted commanders. Matt shouldn't take long. H being closer to the front of the alphabet.

"Yeah but I've never been particularly good at anything but charming my way into things," she shrugs shamelessly. Alexa wasn't the type to lose sleep over her insecurities.

The Admiral present at the ceremony, Marcus Kapoor, speaks clearly over the microphone, "Commander Matthew Helders."

Alexa and Johanna both stand up, yelling, "congrats!" Alex claps as loud as he can for a beat longer than the rest of the room as Matt shakes hands with the Admiral.

Alex remembers his own ceremony seven years ago now. It had been a smaller affair. His entire career accelerated by his talent.

He swallows back the bitter lump that forms in his throat. There's no reason to cry over spilled milk, his father had often told him back on earth.

Try telling that to anyone who doesn't live on earth: most milk is powdered in space.

He finally lets his eyes search through the crowd, trying to spy the man who'd once been his great mentor and friend. But if Julian is present, Alex doesn't see him among the uniforms. He's sure that he'd know Julian anywhere. His hair perpetually sticking out wildly like he'd just woken from a nap, streaks of color running through.

It was a welcome sight from the mandated navy and neutral colors the SFN preferred. Everything was done to keep the SFN neutral, trying to avoid any conflicts between the colonies. And especially between Mars and Earth.

Unable to wait, Alex asks Alexa, "did Julian come?" Julian and Matt had never been as close as Alex had been to the older man, one of the rare people to turn down a promotion. But Alex thinks Julian still would've come and cheered Matt on.

Drinking at bars until morning talking about life and chatting about their mutual obsession with vintage terran music cemented friendship like nothing else.

She frowns, lines forming between her brows. "Captain Casablancas?"

"Yeah," Alex nods, a nervousness creeping into the lining of his stomach. Julian had also been the only person present during the incident that had chosen not to testify. If he had, Alex had agonized long hours over that large IF, he'd probably have been given a far harsher sentence.

And it looked like the man had finally accepted the rank of Captain.

Alexa places her hand on his arm, doe eyes settling on his, before gently attempting to break the news, which given what she was saying, was impossible to break gently. "You haven't heard?"

"No."

"Julian's dead Alex," Alexa explains, her hand anchoring him to reality, even as his world lurches, "some accident with a faulty seal."

Fuck.

What the bloody hell!

Alex clenches his jaw. Julian deserved more than dying in a preventable accident. He was, and remained the only person to have jumped tracks at the SFN, going from maintenance to exploration.

"I'm sorry," she tries, patting his arm with her hand. "I know you two were close. This is sort of the worst way to hear the news isn't it?"

"How long ago," Alex asks in lieu of responding to her. Julian. Alex could hardly call him a friend anymore.

By the time he'd worked up the courage to message the man, Julian hadn't bothered responding at all. A cold message that Alex could understand.

He hadn't tried to contact him again.

"Three weeks."

Alex nods, fixing his gaze on the stage. The names being spoken, called up on stage, meaningless now that Matt had gone.

He'd been traveling to the Base.

No one had bothered to tell him.

They make their way down to Matt, navigating the crowd who are also here to celebrate their relatives and friends. Alexa led the way, cutting through the crowd like a knife through butter.

Jo and her fiancé hold hands. His eyes never leave her form as she leads on.

Alex frowns.

He'd thought. . .he'd thought, when Matt had first met him upon arrival at the base's landing pad, that he could slide back into his old life. Pick up where he'd left off. Maybe get a job here permanently.

Alex hadn't realized how lonely he'd been until he'd sat around and watched all his friends eat and drink. Easily communicating with each other they way only tightly knit groups of friends could. Finishing each other's sentences.

They had once been like that with Alex. But years in between meetings left him out of the loop. It didn't help that he had chosen to self isolate. Choosing to take jobs that left him without a permanent home, spending his free time tucked into various hotel rooms.

"Alexander Turner," a voice calls out.

He turns, faced with a black woman in a sleek khaki green suit, a moon police officer uniform. Her hair is as sleek as the press of her suit. Dark curls dusted with grey hairs.

"Yes," he asks, halting with great hesitation. The last time he'd dealt with the moon police, they were ensuring he was under house arrest during his trial. For his safety they'd told him over and over.

"I'm Major Gabriela Moss," she tells him, sticking her hand out with great formality. "If you'd please come with me," she continues, as he shakes her hand. "There's a job I'd like to discuss with you."

Swallowing any nervousness he has, he nods. How bad could it be? Probably some white collar crime that the police don't want to deal with. Alex could stock up on lots of coffee with the money. "Lead the way."

She takes him to the precinct, located next to the base. Tranquility Base fell under SFN jurisdiction. But the residential areas ringing the building were left to the MP 505 precinct.

Her office is just like every other police office. Bright disorienting lights. Cream walls, with no decor. A desk bolted down to the floor, in case the artificial gravity malfunctions. And a photo of her wife and kids tilted just out of his view.

"What's the job?" Alex wonders if some idiot tried to rob the casino that was right within the base’s building. Trying to steal from SFN was asking for it.

"A man was found murdered in residential bloc 571 this morning," she explains, lighting up her monitor. A photo of an older man with a walrus mustache came up on the screen.

"Isn't homicide your department," Alex asks, twisting his ring around his finger.

"Usually," Major Moss admits, back straight, hands on the desk. "But this man had a false identification bracelet. According to our records he was born on the Moon. But when my officers requested his file from the Bloc listed, nothing appeared."

"You think he was hiding?" Only criminals bothered to falsify ID bands. But why the moon? He could see why a fugitive from the law or a crime boss would come to the moon, but to stay here this long?

Even earth was easier to get lost in, among billions.

"Yes," she surmises, "and for quite a few months. How he's gone undetected this long is a mystery."

"So you'd like to save your skin and sweep this all under the cover." Alex can see a coverup as it happens. The MPs would be humiliated at having let a fugitive run wild for this long.

But, he probably wasn't a criminal if he spent this long without so much as a word. Probably fleeing loan sharks back on some asteroid. Maybe from Titan.

The murder must have landed yesterday. Within the week at most.

"Will you take the job on," Major Moss asks, "there's more information I have if you agree to take on the case."

Alex sighs. He's intrigued. But taking on this case would mean spending more time on the moon which is both a good and bad thing. He hasn't had a proper chat with any of the lads since he last saw Matt on Vesta nearly two years ago now.

But he isn't exactly at ease this close to SFN. At least in the belt, there's lots of stations with little to no navy presence. Callisto's base was generally isolated from the rest of the population due to the way in which the colony on Callisto had developed.

A man's dead.

And from what he can tell, Major Moss would be more than happy for the case to go cold and never have to explain to her superiors how a man went undetected for so long.

But why bother?

Alex can't understand why the man needed to falsify his identity only to sit around. Unless he wasn't a criminal but innocently caught up with the wrong crowd.

It happened easily enough.

"Why me," Alex asked, still considering how suspicious it looked that the MP were giving away a case just because of the implications the man's murder had. The IDB read Sidney Trojan which made Alex laugh a little inside. Whoever had made the ID had a certain sense of humor. "I'm sure you've read my record by now."

Major Moss nods, leaning back in her metal chair, "Mutiny and treason are certainly high charges. But Mr. Turner, If I am being frank, I am more concerned right now with keeping the peace in my precinct. The last thing I want is any belter extremist to start making baseless accusations about how someone who is more than likely one of their own was treated."

"I'm not a belter." Alex had spent enough time among belters to know, no matter how much time he spent on Vesta or Pallas, he'd never be one of them. Being born and raised there was what made you a belter for the rest of your life. Johanna never bothered to hide the augments along her spine, jutting out like filled out ports. Held her chin up proudly despite the harassment she got, and proceeded to destroy them all in combat training.

"But you have spent time among them," the woman argues, revealing how little she knows and understands about belters. Major Moss had probably never left the moon. Never spent time amongst people in the belt, in the places the SFN never went. "My men are mostly from here or earth. You're my best option."

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. It didn't seem like a trap to lock him up after all these years. Just a very ignorant MP major trying to do her job. "Alright," Alex nods. "Show me the surveillance tapes."

The older woman smiles, but no warmth reaches her eyes, a picture of cold professionalism, as she ignites the screen. The tapes start playing almost immediately. The night vision casting everything into grayscale in the corridors. The older residential buildings hadn't anticipated the amount of people that would live on the moon, the walkways connected the blocs only fitting three people at a time, a nightmare in an emergency. They were colorless concrete slabs, the metal having long gone dull.

Time stamped to 05:46 am.

A single figure appears, walking into bloc 571, looking like any person would after a long shift. In jeans and a loose hoodie, holding a very sad convenience store sandwich. A profile he wouldn't soon forget, complete with split toe boots.

Tisiphone.

Alex tries to justify her appearance. The death hadn't happened until 7 am. She must've been meeting her friend in one of the habs in the bloc. But he'd never been one to discount a coincidence.

It seemed that they would be having a chat sooner than anticipated under less than favorable circumstances. He just had to track her down.

His eyes watch the screen as the time ticks by, creeping closer to the time of death.

She claimed to be here to visit a friend which could very easily have been a lie to cover up meeting her potential victim. Tisiphone hadn't been here for very long, no one would willingly choose to eat convenience store sandwiches if they'd spent time here to get other food. Alex wasn't discounting the possibility of her commitment to looking inconspicuous at 5 in the morning, but then, if Sidney Trojan had feared for his life there would've been a struggle.

Someone would have heard in those older habs.

The time stamp reads 6:24am.

Tisiphone leaves the bloc, taking the passageway leading back to Tranquility. Mr Trojan would still be alive. Did she have an accomplice? Or is Alex making the wrong connection.

The time stamp reads 7:46 am. Mr Trojan would've been dead by now.

7 am was hardly the time for a murder to be committed. People going to work. So many witnesses. They must have been desperate. But the tapes proved useless to narrow down any suspects. Too many people, a perfect crowd to hide in. So there was that advantage. As well as, "I need all the records of the passenger manifests arriving for the last three days on the dark side of the moon and today's departures."

"Alright," she replies, holding out her hand.

Alex hands over his com. Letting her synch it up to her system and sending the files over.

"Good luck Mr. Turner."

This time, Alex does roll his eyes as he leaves her office.

Tisiphone had claimed to be from Titan, so that's the first thing he checks. Three days sound about right. He also highlights any belter arrivals. But apart from one family two days before, no one has come from the belt.

He finds the name he's looking for. Tisiphone Velazques, arriving from Hygiea the same night he had. Born on Titian twenty two years ago according to her IDB. It said a lot about how pathetic Alex was that he was currently finding a potential date on a suspect list.

She might still be innocent. But she was the only lead.

If she's a criminal, she'll be staying off grid, not wanting to leave her IDB just anywhere. But, being through, Alex checks Tranquility Hotel anyways, sending a message.

Want to surprise my girlfriend T. Velazques. It's our anniversary and I got back from a trip into Tethys four sols early. Has she checked in yet?

People were really stupid and easily fooled. Alex had learned that in the last few years.

Then he checks his messages. Twenty seven texts from his friends. Two missed calls from Matt. Shit. He'd forgotten all about Matt.

** *** ch 3

Matt clasps an arm over his shoulders, "I'm sorry I didn't say anything about Julian. I thought you knew and didn't want to talk about it."

Alex considers coming clean, but decides letting Matt think this is about Julian is easier. "No one tells me anything anymore."

The taller man sighs, "you must think I'm a wanker for not even telling you. Julian always asked me how you were doing you know."

Alex shakes his head. "I tried-It doesn't matter anymore. I just think it's bloody awful to have died so young in an accident of all things."

"The idiot engineers better have been court martialed," Matt comments, as they follow behind their friends to a bar in the casino. They've all been casting looks towards Alex when they think he's not looking, like he's a bomb about to go off.

Things can never go back to the way they were.

They get a few pitchers of beer. Singing Matts praises at every sip, taking the piss about how he's going to be the worst commander ever. Alexa's boyfriend, looking tall, dark and handsome, slips into the conversation with ease while Alex, drinks and checks his phone for a response.

"Alexa's boy toy," Johanna mutters under her breath to Alex. "Does the books for one of the gambling halls."

Alex nods. But finds he doesn't care. All that earlier anxiety about his leftover feelings for Alexa, his first love, gone when he realizes there's no sting as she turns to kiss her boyfriend.

He looks down at his com, refusing a refill of beer when he realizes the hotel's written him back. With a digital key and their congratulations. There goes the supposed privacy and protections hotels were supposed to offer their clients.

But this meant he was now leaning to Tisiphone being innocent. But he could tell she was connected to Mr. Trojan somehow. A gut feeling that t9ld him he was barking up the right tree. She might be able to tell him who would want the old man dead and why.

Alex excuses himself from the celebration, pointedly ignoring Nick's suspicious gaze as he leaves.

He stops and picks up a bottle of wine and a quart of strawberries, each the size of his smallest nail with a hint of red at the tip, just in case anyone in the hotel decides to verify any of his information. He can play the part.

Alex presses the elevator up to floor 10, brings up the key on his com, when the machine asks for verification.

The doors slide shut and Alex tries to formulate a plan.

He can't frighten his only suspect-link to the crime. A man was murdered and if he doesn't solve it, justice will never be served. It's his good conscience that's going to get him in trouble all over again.

The hallway is empty.

A tacky red coat of paint that's made worse by the orange lighting. The crimson hue edging towards black. Hardly a happy atmosphere.

Alex runs his hand over the rail, a vestige from the days before antigravity, as he makes his way to room 1004.

Unlike the lobby, the floor is still metal plates welded together. Shiny compared to the rest of the place.

The casino had seen better days.

And more occupied days.

Hesitating outside the door, he places an ear near the seal, hoping that Tisiphone isn't there. It would give her the advantage if she turns out to be the murder.

Better for her to be out. Gives him a chance to look around.

He takes a deep breath and unlocks the door with the key. It slides open smoothly, revealing mustard walls and a plush navy carpet flecked with gold. There's a small bed on one side of the wall, a black backpack laying carelessly on it.

The small cabinet looks untouched, but Alex still goes through every drawer, making sure he misses nothing, peaking into the bathroom and combing the medicine cupboard.

There's a needle and dental floss. A complimentary bottle of toothbrush tabs laying in its side.

Needle and floss.

For an injury, Alex surmises. Perhaps a fresh one that Mr Trojan had managed to inflict while defending himself? It wasn't the easiest way to treat an injury, but it was the way to go if you didn't want to draw any attention.

He slips back into the small main room, and begins to go through the backpack. It looks standard issue, the fabric a vegetable leather nylon mixture that wouldn't be out of place in an SFN pack. But he doesn't recognize it from any planetary police force.

Inside there's a plasma gun with two full charges. Shrapnel in a jar. An extra shirt along with a lined jacket, also black. And a small copper data box.

He checks the jackets pockets, finding two extra IDBs. Both blank.

It's all very incriminating.

And he didn't think to bring a gun along himself.

Alex removes the charge from the plasma gun, using the pillowcase to ensure he doesn't wipe away any fingerprints, tossing both of the charges into the bottom drawer of the cabinet. And leaves the gun on top of the blanket.

Then he takes a seat and waits.

No one would leave a gun with no plans to come back and get it. Plasma guns were hard to come by. Especially for civilians on the right side of the law.

It was just his luck that the first woman he feels any connection with, ends up tied up in criminal activity.

The whoosh of a door sliding open jolts him out of his thoughts.

Alex sits up straight, deciding he looks less confrontational if he's sitting down. Besides, years of training haven't left. His body still remembers combat maneuvers. He still wakes up at 0600 and goes through basic training like clockwork.

Even when he goes back to sleep right after.

A red boot steps inside.

Tisiphone holds a brand new pair of ear pods, still in their case. The moment she spots him sitting casually in her bed, her almond eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her grip tightens on the case, before she schools her features carefully blank.

In better lighting, the scars marring her cheekbones are more prominent. Flecks of silver against honeyed skin.

"'ello again," Alex says, giving a small wave, strands of his hair falling into his eyes with the movement.

She frowns, crossing her arms defensively in front of her. "Why are you here? Who even let you in?"

"I asked nicely," he explains, "terrible hotel service if you ask me. But as for why I'm here, you wouldn't happen to know who Sidney Trojan is?"

Tisphones lips form a tight line, her stance edging dangerously close to someone expecting a fight. Weight distributed well between her legs. "He's dead isn't he. Someone killed him."

" 'fraid so," Alex nods.

"Who do you work for?" Her eyes scrutinize him, as if waiting for him to strike.

Alex raises both his hands up in the air. "No one. The MP of the precinct where Mr. Trojan lived asked me to take the case on."

She doesn't move. "Earth then? Or some secret division of the SFN?"

It was a popular belief that the SFN held a secret military division. Especially among belters and martians.

"You don't seem surprised to hear he's been murdered," Alex observes, not missing a thing, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

"Lots of people wanted him dead."

Tisiphone must have decided he wasn't a threat. She takes a step closer, waking into the bathroom and grabbing the meager supplies, tossing them into her bag, unbothered by Alex's presence right next to her. He's incredibly aware of the small distance between them as her hands make quick work of packing, ignoring the wine and fruit he'd brought: the small distance between her hands and his thigh.

But he doubts that there's a chance in hell she'll go out with him after today. She has the same determined look on her face Johanna had right as she'd punched him day 1 of hand to hand combat. A woman who doesn't take anyone's shit.

Alex snorts, "mind telling me who wanted him dead?"

"SFN. Earth. Mars. The Children of Prometheus. Park Vader's cronies back on Titan. Maybe even Park himself. Take your pick."

"Why," Alex can't help but ask, standing up as she slings her bag over her shoulder. If he lets her walk out now, he'll likely never set eyes on her again. And she has become his only connection to this man's murder.

He can't just let her go.

"He knew too much," Tisiphone shrugs.

"I can't just let you disappear," Alex tells her, sliding between her and the door. It was a dangerous position to be in. He keeps his hands up, trying to reassure her.

"Whoever killed Ivan is going to be after me too," she states, weighing her options.

"Let me help you."

She laughs humorlessly, "I'm long past help. I’ll only drag you down. And you seem like a nice enough man despite everything."

"Despite being born on earth," Alex guesses. War hadn't touched the system in a hundred years, yet there was a lot of bitterness from the colonies over earth. Over the imagined bountiful resources. The air, breathable unlike in so many other places.

He'd lived in enough places in the system to know that it was hard living in every corner of the solarium federation.

"Good bye Alex." Her dark eyes hold his gaze, waiting for Alex to step aside. He isn't sure how long her patience will last.

"If you leave the moon now," Alex threatens, "I'll have no choice but to find you suspect under the circumstances."

Tisiphone glares at him, "are you an officer? Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"Then you have no jurisdiction," she counters.

"But I was able to find you. I'm the only person who could've made that connection." Her shoes had given her away. Too distinctive for anyone trying to hide out, Alex notes. "Everyone else would've written you off. You played the part of a tired commuter perfectly. Your face isn't visible enough for facial recognition. And the timing is wrong."

"So you have to know I didn't kill him," Tisiphone observes.

"I do." Alex nods. "And I also know that you came here for a reason. I'm willing to bet it's why Ivan is dead now. Help me catch his killer and get some people off your back."

“Why do you care so much about him? He’s just another nameless belter to you people.”

He shakes his head, “because a man’s dead. He deserves justice.”

"How do I know I can trust you," Tisiphone asks, her knuckles relaxing their grip on her bag.

"I could've arrived here with the MP," Alex states, "but I'm here all on my own. Because I believe you're innocent."

She sighs. "Alright. I'll stay. But only for another twenty four hours. That's all I can give you."

He can work with that.

"Okay now let's get out of here. If I can waltz right in so can whoever killed Trojan."

"Ivan," Tisiphone corrects. "His name was Ivan Schlossberg."

"And is Tisiphone your real name," Alex asks.

She doesn't meet his eyes.

** ** ch 4

His hotel room is on the top floor. A half circle window looks out into the expanse. The grey panorama, flattened by robots, is broken up by the tops of other bloc, jutting out of the landscape like hills. The sun is the only recognizable feature in the sky. All the other stars and planets are too distant to be visible.

But Alex has the map of the system imprinted into the backs of his eyes. He could tell where earth and mars fall, navigating by stars like explorers of old, even with the slight changes that arise depending on where you were in the system.

Tisiphone looks out into space, eyes full of stars, as Alex interrogates her.

"Why would the UN or Mars be after Ivan?"

"I already told you," she responds evenly, her gaze still fixed on outer space, a melancholic quality that held none of the wonder people usually had when staring into the stars, "he knew too much."

"About what," Alex presses. Earlier she had named all the major players in politics. That which all SFN members despised because it made doing their job a nightmare of red tape.

Tisiphone looks over at him, turning her whole head towards him. "He was involved with the children of prometheus. Selling information. And Park doesn't like when his people decide to leave him."

It didn't take a genius to know what kind of information would be of value to the children of prometheus. "And your mutual friend."

She swallows thickly before answering. "Told me to find Ivan. That he could help me. I don't know anything more than that. Ivan was going to leave the moon with me and explain this later."

Alex doesn't believe that for a second. Tisiphone wouldn't have left so easily that morning if Ivan hadn't given her something. But he also knows when to let things go. "And why would they also be after you?" The usual targets for the children of prometheus were high ranking UN members or members of the Martian Presidium: the operating companies on the belt that treated their workers as expendable.

Tisiphone was none of those.

She takes a seat on Alex's current bed, her knuckles white as she grips the covers, studying the much more pleasant purple carpet. Not as matted or stained as the one in her room.

Her now shoeless feet revealing mismatched socks.

"I saw something I shouldn't have seen." She bites her lip as her eyes water. Alex forces himself not to look away, wanting to give her privacy. "Someone killed my friend and covered it up. And now they want to kill me."

He takes a step towards her, kneeling down in front of her seated figure, "I'm going to help you."

"You can't help me." Tisiphone shakes her head, looking straight at him, "you can only buy me time."

She flips through the stations as Alex combs through the flight records once more. He's isn't looking for random thugs. If this is a high profiled cover up the way she is alleging, then he needs to find a slicker cover.

He checks for any terrans that've landed here in the last few days. Any native mooners with no permanent address on record: the types of people that would easily fly under the recons. The least likely to be scrutinized.

Alex finds three profiles that fit the description. Two had arrived together under the IDBs Gemma and Nick Ryan. Siblings on vacation from earth.

They were passingly related, the same brown coloring. But Alex's searching gaze found no similar features. The bone structure was all wrong. Gemma's strong, squared. While Nick had a delicateness to his features that was absent in Gemma's.

They had the look of UN division operatives. A learned blankness that helped them slip from memory.

The third was on a flight from Ceres. An older asian man: Hugh Shen. There was no way he was born on the moon and had no records of living here. Alex knew most people born on the moon didn't chance leaving.

Opening for new immigrants were few and far between.

Then there was an oily quality that reminded him of many UN cogs that surrounded his mother like gnats.

In order to be sure that they are division members, Alex'll have to go to the scene of the crime. He knows the UN’s playbook. The methods that division uses. Growing up around his mother, he couldn't not have learned something.

Though Penelope Turner was an idealist, she was willing to do what was necessary to get the job done. It's why she was such an effective politician.

He coms Major Moss, letting her know he'll need access to Ivan's hab.

"Stay here," he tells Tisiphone. "Help yourself to anything I've got."

"Anything," she asks archly, "because I could run a bath. Never had one of those."

"Then by all means," he shrugs. The water bill was bound to burn a hole in his pocket, but going through life without knowing the laziness that baths inspired was no life at all.

She rolls her eyes, shamelessly combing through Alex's meager possessions As meager as hers really. Though he didn't have the excuse of being in hiding.

Alex takes the plasma charges with him.

Major Moss, along with another woman of medium build and asian descent, meets him at the entrance to bloc 571, the white paint having long since peeled off the metal walls. The orange lights flickered, needing replacement, as he walks beside her into bloc 571. He can hear the pressure seals around the door, as it slides open, letting them inside.

While the oldest blocs on this side of the moon, their shortcomings in cramped corridors were nothing compared to the space of the older habs.

Unlike Tranquility base, and the rest of the blocs on the moon, the lights inside bloc 571 were LED and white, the costliest to maintain. A knot of tension eased up in Alex's shoulders. His mind, despite the years in space, always unconsciously yearned for earth's natural light.

"This is officer Cong Xi," Major Moss says blandly, "she'll be taking you through all our available evidence. We're receiving pressure to wrap things up as quickly as possible. There are lots of people who want to move into a hub as spacious as this."

Alex snorts. That's what they cared about.

Cong nods, smiling warmly at him as she drinks coffee from her hot pink tumbler. "Nice to meet you Alex Turner."

Which meant she'd been briefed and knew all about him. There was probably a non-SFN version of his file on her com as they spoke.

Alex had never gotten the chance to read his file after the trail. His dishonorable discharge had left him without any credentials to ask for his file without heavy redaction if he got any response at all. He'd have asked his parents if he hadn't been a coward and taken the first ship to Vesta, hell bent on drinking himself to death.

"Likewise," he responds, realizing he's waited a beat too long to respond.

With that said, the Major turns on her heel, and leaves.

"Shall we," Cong asks him, waiting for him to follow. How did such a pleasant person end up working for the MP? Had to be an idealist. Or hadn't been working for long.

He nods.

Alex takes in the bloc.

The floors dull from nearly four centuries of feet walking over it. Not a scrap of white paint left. But the walls are covered with green plexiglass, an attempt to make up for the lack of actual greenery that hadn't been planned for in old models. Even Pallas had some weeds growing among the tangle of wires.

Each door is painted a different color, giving the neighborhood character. Ivan's hab is red, with a pattern of florals overlaid.

Officer Cong hands him shoe covers and a pair of gloves, "standard procedure," she tells him with a tinge of apologies interwoven in her voice, before she unlocks the door, letting them both inside.

Like most crime scenes, the place is covered with tape and plastic to preserve the integrity. But Alex can see the coziness that Ivan Schlossberg had built inside his hab. A glass top table with mismatched but colorful plastic chairs. Books covering a side table ranging from subjects like "Bloom: a guide to space plant maintenance," to "Catching Fire."

His desk is covered with bits of computer parts. Motherboards and processor chips. Different size screens, some with cracks.

This was the picture of a man who believed himself to be safe. He wasn't planning on running at the drop of a dime. So how had they found him?

Tisiphone had entered first.

Why not kill them both at once?

Or had they believed them both to be inside and cursed themselves when they realized the girl had gotten away?

As Alex looks about the room, noting no signs of struggle, Officer Cong studies him. Her gaze curious.

The mess of computer equipment makes Alex guess that Ivan tinkered with it to communicate with whatever group he was working with, likely using it to hack information from earth and mars. The rudimentary nature of his devices would have confused the much more advanced systems Earth relied on, massive data banks in the tundra chugging along. Ivan would've also had the flexibility of pulling the system apart and rebuilding it with different bits of code each time.

A waste of time, unless you were an old man with lots of time on your hands.

His collection of parts would've been written off as eccentricity.

"You can ask," Alex finally says, when he gets tired of the awkward silence.

"Are you really the mutineer?"

It was much better than being asked if he was that traitor. Particularly bitter belters had taken the liberty of making his days hell in the beginning, knowing he wasn't about to go get help from the SFN.

He nods, looking back at the door. Division wasn't above using chemical weapons. The seals on older habs built with the care of spaceships, no one outside this hab would've noticed. "The one and only," he finally says.

While there were lots of people who had problems with the SFN, it generally wasn't seen among rank and file members.

Cong hums, slurping her coffee.

Alex peels back the plastic over a particularly large pile of electronics, his eyes searching for something small, like a computer chip or drive that would be overlooked to the untrained eye. Toxic gases needn't be in large doses to pack a punch.

"I remember the trial on the net," she comments, "it was all my parents could talk about. My whole family really . . ."

A glint of copper catches his eye. Alex keeps his face neutral, letting Cong ramble on as he plays at looking at the body outline on the couch, as if he could magically find a guilty dust bunny, slipping the casing into his hand for later.

"-guess I was too young to care about that. Too caught up with boys and the latest hairstyles."

Alex nods, trying to pay attention. But with that casing, he's sure it was division. Certain mixtures created the same symptoms in the body as a heart attack. Given his age, it created the perfect cover.

But why come in and stab him after?

Who were they trying to frame-

They were after Tisiphone.

She had led them to Ivan, Alex's thoughts come together, each piece falling into place. They had watched her since she arrived. Which meant they knew she was headed to the moon, hence the two early dispatched division agents, purposely waiting for her to leave before killing Ivan, making sure she'd be the only suspect.

But their plan had gone to the pits.

They hadn't planned on Major Moss trying to burry the case. Or that Alex would be called on.

Instead of an easy frame job, it was a cold case waiting to happen. An MP officer would've just taken Tisiphone in. Assumed that the time of death was off due to some lab error and closed the case. But their plan had gone sideways.

"Find anything," Cong asks him suddenly, having given up trying to chat when it became obvious he wasn't listening. Though why he would make small talk about the event that had sliced his life into two distinct parts, he didn't have the foggiest idea.

Alex shakes his head, "thought the scene might hold a clue." He stands up straight, faking the appearance of disappointment channeling his mother's face when he'd come home with an F. "Whatever crime boss hired the hit must've hired a couple of top notch lads."

"Oh well them," Cong continues, holding up her com for him to read, "Major Moss needs us to come in. Apparently there's been a new development in the homicide."

Alex's chest tightens. God he hopes they haven't found Tisiphone dead. Or arrested her.

No. There's no way. He'd already be under arrest for harboring a criminal. No amount of goodwill would keep him out of prison this time.

Alex had to continue under the impression that she was fine. Because no one else had linked her to this case. No one had any reason to suspect her of anything at all. "Led the way then love."

Cong, like most girls (and some boys) since Alex had turned sixteen, blushes pink, before stepping around him and leading him back to the precinct--and to Major Moss's office.

The division agents who had landed on Tranquility base as siblings named Gemma and Nick, introduce themselves as, "Agents Barnes and Khan." They're already seated in front of Major Moss, only confirming Alex's conclusion.

The capsule in his pocket feels like a block of lead, weighing him down.

There's no way they know he knows.

Except they've been tailing Tisiphone since she landed. They might already know she's sitting in his room.

He needs to get off the moon. Alex had promised Tisiphone he'd keep her safe. And this case had just gotten much bigger than a homicide.

It was the type of cover up that required a neutral party to uncover. A High ranking SFN member that would do the right thing. Unfortunately Alex had learned the hard way that organizations were never as impartial and righteous as they claimed to be.

Bloody hell.

In between two impossible choices, giving Tisiphone up or calling his old mentor Vice Admiral Homme, he wasn't sure which was worse. Would Josh Homme even care?

Or was the UN's influence great enough to buy Homme's cooperation?

"I understand that Major Moss has made the mistake of handing a homicide to a private investigator," Agent Barnes says, smiling brightly as if she hadn't just flung shit at Major Moss, who to her credit, didn't even flinch.

"I'm the private investigator," Alex responds evenly.

"They've just finished informing me," Major Moss interrupts, smoothing down the lapels of her pants suit, "that they've identified the culprit."

Agent Barnes nods, then proceeds to do the very Earth thing of pulling out an actual paper file from a jacket and displaying it on the desk. "A career criminal from Titan named Tisiphone Velasquez. We believe her employer to be some drug lord that Mr Trojan was a long time customer of. When he got clean and moved to the moon, well. . ." Barnes trails off leaving a dramatic pause before clearing his throat, "Titian didn't forget his debts."

Ivan's hab was not the home of a drug user. Or a recovering drug user. He'd never been to Titan, to the city under the ocean, but he knew enough about drug lords to know that they had more to deal with than a customer with lots of debts on a colony as secure as the moon.

But Alex can see Major Moss eat up the story, her eyes gazing over as there's one less problem for her to deal with.

"Well Mr. Turner," Major Moss turns to him, "It looks like your services are no longer needed. I'll wire you the payment promptly. Meanwhile I'll circulate the perpetrators photo and have my officers be on the lookout."

"We will be taking custody of Miss Velasquez," Agent Barnes interrupts, "she has insider knowledge of a crime ring we have been monitoring for years."

"Of course," Major Moss responds, already typing out the paperwork.

He has to get off the base. He has to take Tisiphone far from here.

Alex turns to leave, reaching the door before he hears Agent Barnes mutter pointedly under her breath, "It's a wonder Ambassador Turner hasn't resigned out of shame. No clue how he can show his face in public."

Agent Khan coughs to hide a snigger.

A muscle in his jaw twitches. It's bait. And an obvious one at that. He has more than a few scars to prove how stupid responding to it would be, but they did just insult his mother.

"What did you just say," Alex asks through clenched teeth, not turning back to look at them, robbing them of the satisfaction. Mentally, he counts to ten.

He's not going to give them an excuse to place him under arrest.

Tisiphone is counting on him.

The fact that they're baiting him instead of just following him back to the hotel room is a good sign they don't know he's hiding Tisiphone. He tries to concentrate on the and not the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Tisiphone.

Her petite figure sitting on his bed, scrutinizing everything with an arched brow. The look in her eyes as she'd stared with a refugee's longing for their ancestral home at the image of earth, the green returning to the land after hundreds of long reclamation projects initiated by the UN.

"Nothing to trouble yourself with Alexander Turner," Agent Barnes replies patronizingly, "There is no further use for your services here."

Alex clenches his jaw, and walks out the door.

He lights a cigarette as he makes his way through the dim corridors, the orange fading into scarlet, stopping only to pick up supplies he imagines needing as they travel to space together. Not all at the same store.

Alex will have to get everything out of her, if he's going to throw in his lot with her and hope they get to the bottom of the conspiracy before they're arrested and killed. Or just killed.

What could be bad enough that the UN felt it necessary to send division agents after a woman?

The problem is the IDB has been made.

He's going to have to hope she can get another one quickly. Tisiphone, whose name is more than likely not Tisiphone as all, wouldn't have survived this long is she was stupid.

Fuck.

He really should just turn her in. Or give her a heads up and be on his way. Alex could be on Pallas in four weeks, having the most questionable weed in the system, laced with the hell knows what. Take a case every now and then. Finally make his way out to Titan.

Logan had been his favorite western growing up. Right after The magnificent Seven. He'd made Matt have stand offs against him for days after seeing it, pretending he could manipulate metal. And Titan was the new wild west of space. And still people flocked out to carve their little piece of real estate.

Humanity is ever expanding.

Alex has to press the lift button twice, cursing and lighting another cigarette when the lift's lighting system dies as he ascends up, connecting with Tranquility's passageways.

More than once, he has to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder, sure he'll see an Agent following him. Hugh Shen had been absent from their little meeting. But that didn't mean he wasn't still skulking about.

Even the air changes from the corridors to the base. It's drastic compared to Ceres where the air quality is shit everywhere you go. The base has crisp clean air that didn't leave you all cotton mouthed for the wrong reasons.

From there it's easy enough to head to his room. Alex is already flicking through the net, looking for tickets to the belt. Or maybe they should go to Callisto. It was famous for being a no extradition zone: refusing to acknowledge any authority other than theirs and SFN's by extension. The relative safety was tempting, but he couldn't plan until Tisiphone told him everything she knew.

Alex wasn't stupid enough to think she wasn't holding something back. Her earlier explanation had been as vague as she could manage given the circumstances. He had no clue who her friend was. What she had seen other than a wrongful death.

There had to be a reason behind the coverup after all.

No government went around coverup murder for no reason. It just wasn't economical.

"You have to tell me everything you know," Alex tells Tisiphone in what he hopes is a commanding voice, as he tosses his bags on the bed, plopping down. His only shortcoming as a commander had been the complete and utter lack of confidence he had when giving orders. "Division has just shown up and thrown you under the bus."

Tisiphone's hair hangs down, damp as she listlessly scrolls through the catalogue of music offered by the hotel. She flinches at his words. "I should've left when I had the chance," she tells him harshly, uncurling from the settee and moving to grab her things. She jams her feet into her boots in one swift motion, clearly having been ready to make a run for it at a moment's notice.

"You're right," Alex tries, taking out the gas casing, ensuring the glint of metal catches her eyes. "It's a coverup."

"Obviously," Tisiphone scowls.

"I'm sure they've circulated your IDB by now," he continues, "they wanted to frame you for Ivan's death. I want to know what you saw so I can help you."

"Why so they can kill you as well," Tisiphone shakes her head, "No. . .no."

"What's so important that Division would risk breaking the treaty of Schiaparelli for," Alex asks, rubbing his temples. He wasn't a politician. The inner workings of government fell to the wayside of his thoughts.

There had been no major battles fought in a hundred years but relations between colonies were always fraught with tension over resources. Those skirmishes were usually fought in the Solarium Federations regulatory body, but Alex wasn't naive enough to discount the darker talk of division--their tendency to enhanced interrogation.

"Why do you want to help me so badly," Tisiphone counters, hands on her hip, glaring down at him as if he was the reason that Division had found her at all.

"Someone should," Alex shrugs, peering up at her. The line of her body fell naturally into a defensive stance, something that could only be so natural if she'd started training when she was very young. Tisiphone wasn't an innocent civilian, but she still didn't deserve to be disposed of. "And if I don't, they'll probably kill you and throw your body in some incinerator."

"Or they'll kill us both," Tisiphone replies archly.

"I'm offering you my help if you want it."

She peers down her nose at him, her lips pressed into a flat line, the slim line of her jaw fitting in perfectly with her feline features: a cat deciding if batting the toy was worth it. Turning on her heel, stepping into the bathroom, Tisiphone orders him to, "strip."

Smart girl.

It doesn't keep the burn from making its way up his neck as she turns the refresher, the low static drowning out any background noise as she takes a seat inside the fogged glass.

Alex kicks off his boots, gratefully that he'd actually kept up with his fitness all these years as he pulls his shirt off. There's still bruising in the crook of his elbow. He doubts she misses it as she stares up at him. It's a rush of relief when he notices the scarlet on her cheeks. This is embarrassing for both of them then, as he unbuttons his trousers, before taking a seat in front of her.

"Division blew up my crew." She starts with, staring at a spot behind him, her eyes welling up with tears. "They launched a missile and it tore their ship apart." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking her head, "I'm sorry I just. . .let me start over."

"It's okay."

"Shut up Alex and let me tell this in a way that makes sense." She swallows thickly. Taking a deep breathe during which she closes her eyes before continuing. "My name is Vera Albaicin. I'm an agent of the Guoanbu. Sixty eight sols ago my crew was handpicked to participate in an interplanetary task force with the UN. It was supposed to be an easy retrieval mission. We met up with the other crew. Everything was normal."

T-Vera closes her eyes, her hands closed tightly by her sides, trying to suppress the shiver that runs down her spine. Alex wants to offer comfort, but he isn't sure there is anything he can do to make things better in this situation.

"I took an EMU suit to-it was a strange ship. More like a capsule or probe. I had just made contact when my ship was hit." She shakes her head, a desperation in her eyes at the helplessness she must keep on feeling. Not having been able to do anything to save her crew. "Space. They died in seconds. The thing is. . .the only people who would've known about the mission were the UN and MPC. Earth and mars."

Alex nods, trying to probe her as gently as possible because there is still one unanswered question, "how did you know to find Ivan."

The UN and MPC must have decided that the knowledge was better off lost after having sent a retrieval team. Something they didn't want anyone to know about it. That fact that mars and earth had cooperated at all was throwing Alex off. Weapons would make sense if it was just mars or earth. But together?

Vera shakes her head slowly, her gaze meeting his, an intense anger to their depth he had not seen before. She was digging because she was fucking mad. This was a woman seeking justice. "I can't."

"Vera," Alex utters, unable to look away, trying her real name out on his tongue. "My name is Alexander Turner. I'm kind of famous for breaking the law," he finished with a self deprecating smile.

Usually, the last thing he wanted a potential date to know was his past.

Her eyes widen, her whole body freezing up as she takes in the new information, pursing her lips in an attempt to suppress a telling gasp. But instead of recoiling in disgust as he expects her to, Vera reaches for her neck, revealing a necklace obscured by her hoodie. It's a cheap metal thing that must be of sentimental value.

She doesn't stop there, thumbing the ring at the end of the chain before meeting his gaze once more. This time there's no hard glint to her cognac eyes, but a woman at last having caught on to a life preserver. "Julian-Captain Casablancas told me to find Ivan. Trust no one-trust no one but Alex Turner," Vera admits, unable to hold his gaze. "He must have known what was coming."

It's a ring he recognizes well, a twin to his own commander ring. The classic exploration insignia: the atom. Every detail identical for Julian and Alex had received their rank at the same ceremony, only Julian had been eight years older. Already the man Alex wanted to be: wanted to be with. The man had inspired camaraderie the way a good leader should, and clearly he had managed it in a martian girl as well if she had come all this way on his word alone.

"Can I," he motions, aware of the closing distance between them. Between him and Vera. Vera. He had to get his head around that one. Same woman, different name.

No. Not the same woman.

This woman was a martian secret intelligence agent. Not some naive little girl.

She nods, closing her fist around the ring before yanking the chain in a quick motion. It snaps off. The sound like the hull of a ship nearing the end of its lifetime, creaking. Then drops the ring into his outstretched palm.

Without Alex having to prompt this time, still caught up in seeing Julian's ring, still warm from Vera's body heat, in his hand. Julian hadn't responded to Alex's messages. He'd assumed it was because of Alex's past, but now he was left to wonder if Julian had wanted to protect him by keeping away from him. Keeping whatever he'd gotten caught up in that had killed him away from Alex. Vera adds, "I was confused why he'd told me that, given me his ring as I got into the EMU suit but. . .Ivan told me that he was just the messenger. He'd worked for so many sides not asking questions. Earth, Solarium, Mars. They were all the same to him. So he decided that the children of prometheus had a point and got in contact with them. Relaid information. Ivan-he was going to tell me more."

But he'd died.

Vera looks at him meaningfully, "but he did manage to give me the coordinates that he was given by his CoP contact. In case he ever needed a safe house or extraction."

"He never-," Alex begins to ask, not taking his eyes off the ring. In his hand was proof that Julian had been killed.

"He never met his contact," Vera confirms. "But they're on Callisto. Some hippie hub." She rolls her eyes and what a martian thing to do. Look down on every colony not hell bent on terraforming.

Alex turns his gaze on her once more, seeing her in a different light for the first time. Trying to spot what made her a martian. As if he could spot in vitro augmentation just by looking her over.

But all he saw was a petite woman with a hollowness under her eyes. Her full lips pressed into a grim line. Hair slowly drying into waves, catching the light like oil on water. Despite Alex's new information about Vera, he was no less drawn to her.

There was no sadistic edge that spoke of oprichnik operatives who the Martian People's council refused to acknowledge existed despite all the mounting evidence about their methods.

His gut was telling him that Vera was telling the truth.

"One thing though," Alex points out, taking off his own ring for the first time since he'd first received command rank, a command long since stripped from him, and sliding Julian's ring on his finger in its place as he stands up. His mind was made up. He was going to help Vera uncover this conspiracy. Clear Julian and Vera's name. And maybe, just maybe, reclaim some respect on his name.

"What?"

"You said earth and mars sent you," he says gently, having encountered enough martians to know how loyal to their colony they were otherwise known as having bought into the propaganda, "but Division killed your crew.. ."

"Yes," Vera nods, tapping her foot on the floor.

"Then wouldn't both earth and mars have sent the missile that killed your crew? Or wouldn't have mars already used this as an excuse to advance their agenda?"

"No," she supplies, refusing to even contemplate the idea that Mars would've been complicit in such an act. "The Guoanbu wouldn't have killed their own. We're-they're not like that."

“Vera," he sighs, "there's nastiness under every corner, no matter how nice everything is on top you know."

She shakes her head again, averting her gaze, There wasn't much to look at on the walls, but she was making due.

"Let's just find ya another IDB and get to Callisto-"

There's a knock at the door.

Alex and Vera trade wide eyed looks, having taken the plunge off the same cliff with nothing but a string of brand new fucking trust between them. A dead man's word to go on.

Fucking hell.

Matt and Nick flank each side of the room's door. Nick's stone face offsets the mixture of parental concern Matt's features contain, sighing at Alex's appearance, sticking his head out the door. Vera hiding next to the door, alert to every word.

He has to wonder how good her hearing is. Martian's always messed with embryos biology, designing the next generation to be fitter. Could she hear down the hall? What the people in the next room were saying?

Matt steps forward, "jesus fuck mate," he shakes his head. "Can't respond to a bloody com now Alex."

"I told you I got a job," he protests, trying to remember if that was true. His friends had fallen to the bottom of his priorities quickly. Alex had a habit of self absorption with whatever obsession came his way. It had made him a terrific ensign, practicing the same maneuver for hours until he could do it with his eyes closed.

"No," Nick corrects, not bothering to move the curls out of his face, watching him carefully, "you didn't."

Alex sighs, but doesn't budge. They mustn't see Vera. Soon her face will be plastered all over the net as a manhunt begins. Her IDB must already be flagged for travel.

He had to make his rightfully concerned friends go away and quickly.

"Al," Matt levels with him, "I asked you to be here because you might as well be my brother. I knew when I did that it would mean coming back to the moon. That it would bring up a load of shit for you."

"We're worried about you mate," Nick explains. "You're still here. You won't talk to any of us."

" 'm fine," Alex mumbles, unable to hold eye contact with either of his friends. He looks at his shoes as he realizes how unfair he's been to them both in the last two days.

This trip was supposed to be about Matt.

He shouldn't be here worried that Alex finally went off the rails.

"Alex," Matt utters, placing his hand on the door frame, leaning in close to Alex. "You know you can talk to me. I don't care what you did or why."

"Really," Alex tries, because as much as he'd like to have this long overdue discussion, finally get to explain why--no one had ever asked him why, they'd just condemned his actions as w r o n g--he has to get Vera off the moon. "I'm fine. Just been in me head."

"That's what I'm worried about," Matt responds, eyes locked onto his, as if Alex could disappear at any moment. "You've always been in your head too much Al. And it didn't matter when I knew you were looking after yourself. Had me and the lads with you but-Alex you looked like utter shit back in Vesta last time I saw you, hopped up on who knows what."

Alex swears internally. They really knew when to pick the worst moments. He was actually doing good. "I know. . .," he tries to find the words that don't require him to have an emotional breakdown in Tranquility Hotel, aware Vera's listening in, "it's been rough. Some days worse than others but Matthew," he whines, "I really am good."

"For how long though," Nick counters, crossing his arms against his chest. It was a good point but Alex really hadn't been in the dark lonely place in months. Maybe closer to a year now. Progress.

Something about waking up missing shoes and jammed into the seediest by corners of an asteroid had lit a fire under his arse about moving on.

He hadn't even hit the agents earlier. They would've deserved it but who gives a shit. Alex will always be a mutineer but at least his hands were clean. His conscience is a white pearl like a meditating bodhisattva.

"Can we just go inside and talk man," Matt pleads, his shoulder resting against the door, clearly seconds away from shoving his way in.

Guilt wells up in his mouth. Despite having every reason to say no, Alex wants to say yes, the word making its way to the tip of his tongue at Matt's insistence.

It was Matt and he was Alex and he couldn't just deny him like this after everything.

Terrans were only allowed one child.

The law didn't keep Matt from being his brother any less.

"I can't," Alex sighs. "I just-you've given me a lot to think about."

Matt rolls his eyes, hurt flashing through his features as he takes a step back, "bullshit."

"Just open up the damn door Alexander," Nick tries, clearly having had it with trying to do things the nice way, realizing Alex wasn't going to budge on his own. "We're ya friends."

"It's been six years Alex," Matt added. "I thought you'd want to talk by now."

Alex shakes his head, "it's not always a straight line."

"Let's have this conversation inside," Nick insists, "who knows when you'll be around next Al. And now Matt has a command. . ."

Matt shoves his way in.

Alex had forgotten how hot headed he could be. The foil to his cool and calm temperament: translating Alex's lit to others. Not that Alex had much trouble verbalizing, necessity being the mother invention. He no longer took hours to get a sentence out of his mouth.

"Matt!"

"Don't Matt me Al," Matt retorts spying Vera in seconds, who's already fallen into a defensive stance.

Matt brings a hand to his face, pinching his nose bridge, before heavily sighing, "You've got to be kidding me Al. You're hiding a murderer now."

"She's no-"

"I didn't kill anyone," she tries, folding into herself, trying to appear smaller and innocent than she actually is. Vera tries to play at being Tisiphone once more. "It's all a misunderstanding!"

"Then turn yourself in," Nick challenges, closing the door behind him.

"Al," Matt says, placing his hands on Alex's shoulders, "what the hell are you thinking mate! They're going to lock you up for this and not even-"

"Matt," he interrupts, "trust me. I'd love to have a nice long chat but things have gotten. . .complicated and-it's safer if ya don't know. Just. . .trust me."

Matt stares back at him, mouth drawn. An entire childhood together on earth, their toes digging into the soil, tracking mud all over the floors. Later a shared adolescence, their accents charming the girls and boys at school, Matt doing all the talking and never leaving a painfully shy Alex behind.

He nods. "You better come back because we're having this talk even if I have to go visit you in prison."

"There are things far worse than prison," Vera unhelpfully points out, tugging on her jacket over her hoodie, the collar lined with actual animal fur. Given the martian rationing system, it was an untold luxury for Vera to own a leather jacket with fur at all. "I'd even take death over enhanced interrogation."

She pretends to tremble with fear, "anything but gravity."

Alex snorts in spite of the dark subject matter. "Not helping."

Ignoring the other two men in the room, Vera hands Alex one of the spare IDB's he'd seen in her bag earlier. Had it really been only hours ago? "Here's your IDB now. Alexander Collins. Born on Pallas. Married to Morgana Collins," she points at herself, already dispatching the old IDB off her wrist and throwing it in her bag. "Came to the moon to get married. Off to Callisto to make a living," she explains calmly.

"Short and sweet," Alex notes, looking down at his own wrist, the IDB a second skin. He hadn't taken it off since he'd left earth. Many colonies like Callisto chose to implant the ID chip.

It was the key to getting on any ship. His passport and last link to earth. His last hope at ever stepping foot on the big blue planet again, however slim.

Visas for foreigners pretty much nonexistent.

Nick hands him a swiss army laser, "I implanted mine." It's news to Alex who hadn't even noticed, Nick having always been a bit chilly, wearing long sleeves year round. " 's nice actually."

Matt dramatically covers his eyes.

Alex slices through the metal, leaving a band of unblemished creamy skin.

It doesn't last long, as Vera easily replaces it.

"You should keep it," she tells him, patting his arm like a parent half heartedly consoling their child after a pet fish dies. "We are planning on fixing things."

"Yeah," Alex answers, running his fingers over the band. He already felt less confident without it.

[serendipitystation]

Wesper with cats

They would climb them both but especially Jesper n they would eat wylans hair. The cats take Jespers spot on the bed beside wylan it’s very funny

"Why is there a cat in here?" Jesper looks up at a confused Wylan while the tabby cat in question paws at Jesper's lazing hand. The sharpshooter sits on the floor of the Van Eck residence, his gangly legs stretched out the door to the back garden and looking entirely unfazed by the situation.

"That is a great question, one I actually posed to the cat himself," Jesper says cheerfully. "Unfortunately, he doesn't speak Kerch."

"Jesper."

"I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when the cat appeared. He must be a stray- he's got no collar and he's pretty skinny." As Jesper pets the cat, he mocks sticking his nose in the air. "I can't help that I have natural magnetism." Wylan rolls his eyes.

"Just make sure he doesn't stay. We don't need a cat," Wylan says. It's no lie, either- with the pair's comings and goings for the Dregs and Marya in no state to care for an animal, having a cat would be a hindrance. Jesper frowns.

"But we can't just leave him outside. This isn't like the Slat- we have food and shelter enough for a small army. Besides, cats are self-sufficient, like us crows." Jesper picks up the cat and holds him at eye level. The cat meows in response and Jesper turns to Wylan with a pout.

"See? He wants to stay- he just said so." At this, Wylan crosses his arms.

"I thought he didn't speak Kerch," says Wylan accusingly. Jesper just shrugs.

"He knows a few words."

Evenings in the Van Eck household are when the stuffy house is most alive. It feels emptier these days without Inej, who's off on the high seas, but, between Jesper's antics, Wylan's music, and the gentle bustle of the housestaff, there's plenty of energy to go around. Their new housemate, however, might just best both of their efforts.

"What in the- ouch!" Wylan grimaces as the tabby digs into his shoulder with a yowl, seeking higher ground atop Wylan's armchair. Upon reaching the top, the cat meows and spreads out. Wylan doesn't mind animals, cats included and Alys's terrier excluded. He's fed scraps to strays before and stopped to pet the muzzle of many a friendly dog. But he's never owned a pet. Now, he knows he was right not to. Were it not for the look on Jesper's face, Wylan would have long found another home for the tabby currently batting at his curls.

"Are you being mean to Olivier again?" Jesper's voice pipes up from the kitchen.

"I thought we agreed to pick a name we both liked," says Wylan with a frown, trying to focus again on his book. The tickling of the paws was making things difficult.

"You said you didn't mind Olivier," Jesper says as he comes around the corner.

"It was supposed to be a joint decision."

"Well, what did you want to name him?"

"I liked the name Jak."

"Jak? That sounds like too roguish. Our son will not grow up sounding like a criminal," Jesper says firmly. Wylan's head shoots up.

"Our son?" He asks incredulously. He rolls the word around in his mind. Even only in reference to a pet, the word feels odd. Jesper quirks his eyebrow.

"Well, what else is he? "Roommate" and "pet" are too formal," Jesper says. Begrudgingly, Wylan has to admit that he has a point...but only kind of. He's still not as fond of the cat as Jesper is. As if on cue, the creature under discussion nips at Wylan's head. Wylan yelps and turns to glare at the cat.

"If he's our son, then he has your strange appetite," Wylan mutters, rubbing his head.

"He doesn't eat that much," Jesper replies. He frowns, eyeing the cat for a moment. "Come to think of it, he has gained a lot of weight." Jesper reaches past Wylan and picks up the cat. The sight of him holding out the cat as if in interrogation is amusing. Wylan watches as Jesper mulls things over. Then, out of nowhere, his mouth gapes.

"Are you an Oliviera?!"

---

"How in the world did we miss it?" Wylan scratches his head. The afternoon sun sends their shadows stretching like giants on the cobblestones of the government district as he and Jesper walk home after a day's work. "We should have guessed when we realized how possessive she gets when she takes up residence on the bed."

"Didn't you study biology at one point? Like animals and such?"

"Not cats. What about you- you're the one who grew up on a farm."

"It's a jurda farm. Not much by way of cats."

"What are we gonna do about all the kittens?" Wylan says with a sigh. As much as it would delight Jesper to have a house full of creatures with as much energy as himself, it's not practical. Then again, not much about their life up until now could be framed as such.

"We could sell them- rich people love purebred pets." Jesper suggests.

"As much as I'd love to do more illegal things than usual, I'd prefer not to hoodwink our neighbours." At this, Jesper gives a nonchalant wave of the hand.

"Fine, fine, nothing illegal. Do people even have pet stores in Ketterdam?"

"I think so. I'll ask the staff to look into it." Wylan says as they exit an alleyway and the familiar house comes into view. It's a good feeling to see the house and know that it's been put to better use than it ever has been before. Were his mother recovering faster, Wylan thinks she would agree. Beside him, Jesper muses in silence.

"Y'know, there's room in the house for more than us." His voice is light, teasing- it matches the mischief in his eyes. Wylan laughs as he reaches the front door.

"There's only so many times you can get your way, Jes," he says as he lets them into the front hall.

"Mmmm, don't speak too soon." Jesper winks. Before he can see Wylan blush, he turns and heads for the stairs. Wylan barely gets to the living room before he hears Jesper's voice from the bedroom.

"Oh, so now that's your side of the bed, Olive? Great."

---

"Absolutely not."

"A cat could be very useful, Dirtyhands. Keeps away all the rats."

"Not the ones that do real damage."

"With Inej gone, surely you need something to cuddle with-"

"I will cut out your tongue if you say one more word, Jesper."

---

"You can say it, it's okay," Wylan can hear the smile in Jesper's voice. "'The cat was a good idea, Jesper.' Just a few words, but plenty of gratitude."

Wylan peers in his mother's bedroom, watching the smoke-colored kitten cuddle in his mother's lap. Marya strokes it contentedly, her face dreamily calm. Wylan signs in assent.

"It seems promising," Wylan admits.

"And you said you didn't want a cat," Jesper teases. Wylan just smiles.

"At least Jak is quieter than his mother."

[mimirexx]

Breakout

An AU where Jean is a shifter and got caught by Zeke and his men. Beside the torture he was receiving, Pieck visits him and the two start to get closer. They want to escape together - but at what costs?

TW: torture, beating, rape (no explicit rape, not between Jean and Pieck!), blood, violence, angst

Read it on AO3 or under the cut!

Chapter one - Chapter two - Chapter three

Later that day, Floch decided to give him a visit. The evil, mischievous glint was already in his eyes before he even unlocked the cell. “I heard you finally regained consciousness. You know, banging a limp body isn’t as fun as it sounds like.”

Jean rolled his eyes, feeling disgusted by the idea of Floch having his way with him while he was passed out. That man was just as sick in the head as Zeke.

“Will you finally talk?” He questioned, stopping in front of Jean and eyeing him up and down.

“Zeke is getting impatient. If you think that little bit of acid was bad, you don’t wanna know about all the other things he will do. He will make you talk one way or another.”

The brunet blinked a few times before looking away boredly. “Whatever. I have nothing to tell either of you.” He stated matter of factly. after the things they’ve already done to him, he didn’t think it could get any worse. He had nothing to lose.

Floch suddenly grabbed Jean by his neck, drawing a groan from the brunet. Just breathing hurt, so someone squeezing the sensitive area like that resulted in bolts of pain shooting through his body.

He was pressed back against the wall, panted, and shot Floch a glare. First he would have to kill Zeke for the greater good, then he would kill Floch with his bare hands.

“You’re acting all tough. We will get the information out of you. Not only the position of your people but everything that’s ever gotten through your head.” One hand came up, stroked Jean’s cheek. “If worse comes to worse, we will just feed you to someone. That’s also a way to get the information we need, in case you didn’t know yet.”

Truthfully, that didn’t surprise Jean too much. He actually expected to be fed to someone in the first few days. It seemed like Zeke had a different plan. If he fed Jean to one of his soldiers, his memories would be accessible like an open book and they could just do as they wished.

Why Zeke hasn’t done that yet was a mystery. He wondered what was going through Zeke’s head after so much time passed and Jean was still alive.

“Fuck off, Floch. You’re just Zeke’s dog, you’ve got nothing to say.”

That comment earned Jean a hard punch to his face. “Nothing to say? Hah! I’ll be the one inheriting your titan, then it’s gonna be an easy task to guess where your people are and what your plan is.” Floch’s lips stretched into a big grin and he punched Jean again. “We win, no matter how you look at it.”

Jean coughed and felt the throbbing pain on his cheek. “Even if you inherit my titan,” he coughed a bit and moved his eyes up at Floch, “you won’t get any information from me.”

“Tsk. We’ll see about that.” The redhead spat and threw another punch at Jean’s face, then another one.

He let go of Jean’s neck to start kicking him. First his face, making him fall to the ground. Then Floch began kicking and stomping on his stomach and groin.

Jean attempted to shield himself as well as possible but he still wasn’t fully healed from the acid attack and therefore didn’t have all his strength to protect himself. However, he was determined to at least shield the more sensitive places.

He bit back his groans, not wanting to give Floch the satisfaction of hurting him enough to make him cry out. Jean always had been good at hiding when something hurt him and this was nothing different. So he kept his voice down in hopes Floch would get bored of it and leave again soon.

~

The next day, pretty late at night, Pieck came and sneaked into Jean’s cell. She entered and walked closer to him, kneeling down in front of the brunet. He mentally was glad the bruises on his face healed pretty fast, that way he didn’t need to explain what happened.

“How are you feeling?” Her soft voice could be heard, filled with concern, as she reached out and gently brushed some strands of hair out of Jean’s face.

“I’m fine.” He smiled at her tender touch. Somehow, he was enjoying these touches more and more each day. “Did you get what we need?”

Pieck nodded and reached into the pocket of her coat, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Jean. “I tried to draw it as well as possible from memory, Zeke’s not letting anyone get anywhere close to his things lately.”

Jean took the paper with the map on it and looked it over with furrowed brows. He needed to memorize it in order to get out and think of backup plans if one way is not accessible. Pieck also marked the places where the guards stood and he soon caught a blind spot. It was a small path at the back of the building where the soldiers would only turn and spot them if they were noisy - so as long as they didn’t make a sound, that path was probably the safest.

“We can go from here. If we’re quick and quiet enough, we can make it to the forest right here.” He pointed at the paper, “from there on, our chances are much better. If this way won’t be available, we will go from here,” he pointed at another that went straight through one group of guards.

Pieck nodded along. “What if we arranged some commotion on this side of the building. The guards would have to go and see what’s wrong, that’s our chance to make a run for the forest.” She suggested, pointing at the map to show the path Jean mentioned.

“That’s a good idea,” he agreed and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “But how can we cause a common here,” he pointed at the north side of the building, his other finger pointing at the south side as he added, “and get out here without being caught midway?”

The ravenette looked up and smiled. “I’ll take care of that and distract Zeke. Later, I’m gonna go after you and we-“

“Wow, that doesn’t even sound like that much of a bad plan.” A voice came from the other side where the hallway was. From the dark emerged Zeke with a grin on his lips. “As expected of you, Pieck. That could’ve actually worked, I’m impressed.”

Pieck tensed and stared at Jean, her eyes wide. Her back was still facing Zeke and Jean could tell she was in big trouble now. He narrowed his eyes at the tall blond and stood up.

“Zeke, I can explain.” Pieck said as she stood up as well and turned around. “It wouldn’t have came down to this if you-“

Zeke lifted a hand. “Nah, I’m not interested in your reasoning. Knowing you, I’m sure it was a right decision.”

Jean blinked, not having expected Zeke to just take it like that. It seemed too bizarre, so he stayed cautious of his every move.

Pieck didn’t break eye contact as Zeke began walking closer step for step.

“However,” the blond shook his head, “it’s still considered treason to work with the enemy on an escape plan.”

Pieck narrowed her eyes a little. “I know, but you went too far, Zeke. I understand keeping someone captive to gain information but you’re just being cruel to satisfy yourself. That’s not the Zeke I decided to follow. I don’t plan on staying here any longer than necessary.”

“You want to go with him? You think what I’m doing is cruel? Wait until you see what his people will do with you once you go with him. They killed Berthold, Annie is still taken hostage and Reiner barely made it back alive. They’re living up to their title of being devils.”

“You need to stop seeing them as devils. They might be better than us. They’d surely treat me better than you treat Jean.” She pointed out.

“Maybe,” Zeke hummed and stopped once he stood right in front of the short woman. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”

Before Pieck had the chance to ask, Zeke took a handful of her hair and yanked on it to get her closer to himself, making her hiss in pain. “You’re not gonna make it that far. You didn’t really think I wouldn’t punish you only because you’re a strong soldier or my friend, did you?”

Jean clenched his teeth and, without thinking about it too much, grabbed Pieck by her coat and pulled her behind him, kicking Zeke’s stomach so he would stumble back and let go of her. “Don’t you even dare to lay a single finger on her, bastard!” He growled.

If Zeke went as far as to execute Pieck - which he didn’t doubt anymore at this point - there was no way he could make it out by himself. He needed her.

Plus, Jean wouldn’t just let someone like Zeke hurt a woman.

Pieck rubbed her head and frowned at Zeke who chuckled in amusement at the scene before him. “Oh, how sweet. Is this some kind of Romeo and Juliet love story?” He adjusted his glasses. “What a waste of potential.”

“Listen. Just stay away and I won’t have to kill you yet.” Jean said, making sure to keep Pieck behind himself so Zeke couldn’t get his hands on her. “You wouldn’t dare to fight me anyway, you’d stand no chance.”

“Jean, the hell are you doing?!” Pieck whisper-hissed in irritation.

“Oh? Is that so?” Zeke mused and stroked over his beard. “Interesting… But I’m not dumb enough to fall for your trap. You know what? Keep Pieck, you won’t make it out anyway and this way I will know that you two are right here where I can keep an eye on you.”

Jean was slightly surprised to hear that Zeke was not planning to take Pieck by force. This was so strange and the expression on his face was hard to read. Jean had no idea where Zeke was going with this but he knew one thing for sure: they had to make it out as soon as possible. Who knew what sick things were going through Zeke’s head.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like Pieck to give me everything she has before I take my leave.” Zeke took a few steps closer and Jean immediately shielded the shorter woman behind him, though, Zeke made no move to actually hurt any of them. All he did was hold out his hand.

After making sure it stayed like that, Jean glanced back at Pieck who just sighed. She reached into her pockets and pulled out her pocket knife, dropping it into Zeke’s palm together with her set of keys.

“That’s all I have with me.” She stated simply, seeing how he was still staring at her.

“You know the rules for prisoners. I want everything you have and I’m asking nicely because I’m a gentleman, but I don’t like repeating myself.” He emphasized with a far too innocent looking smile.

Pieck narrowed her eyes in return to Zeke’s words. “Fuck you,” she spat and began undressing.

It was the first time Jean heard Pieck swear and, judging by her expression, it was better to not mess with her. She looked really mad and it made Jean even angrier in return. She was one of Zeke’s people, there was no reason to humiliate her this way. But it seemed Zeke didn’t care much about it.

He surely wasn’t a person who cared much for his people in general .

So, Pieck pulled off her clothes and quite literally threw them at Zeke’s face. “There, you can leave now.” She snapped, now only standing there in her undergarments.

Zeke caught her clothes with a deep chuckle. “Better. I’ll think of something nice to do with you two.” With that, Zeke walked out of the cell and locked the door behind him before he left.

Once Zeke was gone, Jean sighed deeply and picked up the blanket to drape it around Pieck’s shoulders, both to cover her up and to not make her freeze too much.

“I’m sorry, that’s my fault,” he mumbled, looking up into Pieck’s eyes. He didn’t really notice before but Pieck was really short, especially now that she stood right in front of him. Jean decided not to comment on that.

“What do you mean?” The corner of her lip tugged up into a grin. “It couldn’t be better. Just as planned.”

Jean was dumbfounded, to say the least, and stared for a couple of moments to try and make sense of what Pieck just said. No matter how he turned it, he just didn’t understand.

“...What do you mean?” He asked carefully.

“Dummy.” She chuckled quietly and reached inside her bra, pulling out a single key. “You thought I wouldn’t think of worst case scenarios? That’d be irresponsible.”

The action made Jean blush involuntarily. However, his eyes were big in awe. “What’s the key for..?”

“It’s a copy of the one for your cuffs. We’re still going with our plan, we will just have to change a few minor things and we’ll be out by tomorrow.” She explained, putting the key away again and pulling the blanket better around herself for warmth.

Jean had to grin as well. “You’re one hell of a badass lady, you know? You could work as an actor, I totally believed all of it.”

“Oh, Jean. That’s too nice.” She chuckled and walked over to sit on the mattress. Jean joined and sat next to her while still keeping a proper distance- they were both only in their undergarments.

“I have some people here who I trust and who will help us,” she began explaining, keeping her voice low for the sake of privacy. “There will be a commotion but we two will have nothing to do with it. It’ll look like an attack, enough to make Zeke come to check on us.”

“Oh,” Jean sounded, nodding along, “he sees that we can’t be the cause of that and leaves to see what’s happening.”

“Exactly. He expects your people to attack any day now, so that’ll be his first thought. They’ll use the thunderspears you had when we captured you to attack this base. Once he’s gone, we’re leaving. The others will make sure he’s distracted for long enough to give us a head start.”

“I see.” Jean nodded again. “That sounds good. But how will we make it out of this cell?”

“Like I said, one of my friends will help us not to get caught on our way out.” She looked up at Jean and scratched her cheek. “He’s getting himself into danger for us and I hoped you could, like, capture him the next time your people attack? He feels the same about this matter and doesn’t want to stay with Zeke longer than necessary.”

Jean was quiet for a moment. It’d already be hard enough to convince the others to keep Pieck with them but a second person? It’d be difficult. “I can’t promise you that they will risk an attack to capture your friend- or risk taking in anyone from here. I can talk with them but I can’t promise anything, just so you know.”

“That’s all I want. Thank you,” Pieck nodded and pulled her legs closer to herself. “He’s also a shifter, maybe that will convince your people more. But we can talk about this when it’s time, for now we just need to get out of here first.”

“Right.” Jean nodded. It’d be already a huge step to even get away from that place. Once they made it, they could start planning other things.

The brunet glanced down at Pieck and saw her body trembling. He was already kind of used to the cold after weeks of being locked in there. That poor excuse of a blanket couldn’t possibly keep her warm in any way.

“Hey, are you freezing?” He felt dumb right after asking that question. Of course she would be freezing.

Pieck let out a small chuckle and nodded. “Yeah, it’s pretty chilly… Would you mind if I came closer?” She looked up at him.

Jean had to swallow but decided to keep a clear mind. This wasn’t the time to act like a hormonal teenager, especially not when they were both half naked. So he lifted his arm as an invitation for her to get underneath it. “I think we need to be in good shape if we’re leaving by tomorrow. I don’t need you to catch a cold or anything, so come here.”

Pieck didn’t need to be told twice. But instead of moving under Jean’s arm like the brunet expected, she crawled onto his lap and wrapped her arms and legs around him, pressing their bodies together.

“That’s the best way to share body heat and stay warm,” she explained in her soft voice.

“Ah…”

Jean was taken aback, staring down at Pieck with wide eyes and pink cheeks. She was very… driven. Did whatever she pleased with such confidence. Didn’t even ask him if he was okay with it. It was sassy, in a way, but Jean didn’t have the heart to tell her to get up. And he couldn’t help but like how straightforward she was.

The way Pieck was curled up around him reminded him a lot of an affectionate cat. If she really was that cold, he would let her warm herself. It didn’t mean anything. This was just to ensure she would be alright the next day so there wouldn’t be any complications.

“Your heart is beating pretty fast.” She stated absentmindedly.

Jean’s blush deepened. Not knowing what to say, he just looked away quietly.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” She took one of his hands and guided it up to her chest to let him feel her heartbeat. “Mine is fast too. But that’s no wonder if I’m around you.”

The brunet stared down at Pieck while he felt the fast pulse underneath his fingers. It was a good feeling to know he wasn’t the only one in that situation.

“Yeah… thank you.” He drew back his hand and cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly.

Pieck cocked her head to the side as her arms stayed wrapped around his neck. She played with some random strands of his hair and gave him a sweet smile. “You’re thanking me? What for?”

“For…” Honestly, Jean didn’t know. Thanking her for letting him feel her pulse sounded awkward but that whole situation was already awkward enough as it was. “Nevermind,” he muttered quickly.

“Dummy. You’re too much.” She chuckled and lowered her head onto his shoulder.

The short ravenette went back to hugging Jean, keeping their bodies pressed together to keep the warmth trapped between them. Jean raised his hands to place them against her back and gave her a little pat.

It wasn’t even that uncomfortable, apart from the obvious. Pieck was very small so it almost felt like he was holding a child on his lap. Well, a child with boobs and a big ass. He tried not to think too much about it.

Eventually, as some time passed and after they’ve discussed some more details about their escape plan, they both dozed off in each other’s arms.

~

Jean woke up a couple of hours later. Sleeping in a sitting position wasn’t the most comfortable but he couldn’t deny the fact that it had been the best sleep in a while. He had Pieck as a source of warmth and as a second person with him in the cell, both things he didn’t have even once during the time he was imprisoned.

He slowly opened his eyes and looked over at the bars. Someone was standing right in front of the cell and Jean blinked quickly a few times to see better. Since it was so dark, all he could make out was a vague silhouette, most likely a man but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure.

The person slid a piece of paper underneath the bars and was gone before Jean had the chance to open his mouth and question them. His lips were parted but no word came out. It was too late anyway.

His eyes moved down to the paper on the ground instead and he eyed it with suspicion. Could it be from someone who wanted to help them? That friend Pieck mentioned? Or someone completely different? What if his comrades came to save him?

All the answers to his questions could be on that paper.

Jean glanced down at Pieck who was still sleeping in his arms. She looked so peaceful. He carefully maneuvered them until he could set her down onto the mattress and pull her arms and legs off, being gentle to not wake her.

Once that was taken care of, he quietly moved over to grab the paper and unfold it, trying to hold it in a way that allowed him to read what was written. The little bit of light coming from a torch in the hallway was helping.

We’re getting you out at sunset, Hanji and Armin got a plan. Hold on until then.

- C & S

PS: You should get rid of this paper

PPS: Writing a letter was Connie’s dumb idea, I wanted to tell you personally. He’s an idiot. ➞Sasha is the idiot!

Jean couldn’t help the smile that grew on his lips. His friends came to get him, he never doubted it. They were such dorks but they were awesome soldiers nonetheless. He trusted them with his life and never once regretted it.

They would get him out soon and he never felt happier in his life. Hanji usually had good and well thought out plans, and if they worked together with Armin he had no reason to worry about it working out. All he had to do now was being a little patient.

The brunet sighed softly and quietly made his way back to the mattress Pieck was now laying on. He didn’t have any place to hide the letter, so he decided to keep it underneath the mattress and keep a close eye on it in case someone entered the cell.

His gaze moved up at Pieck’s face next. Seeing her peaceful and calm expression made him smile. She was so beautiful, it was unbelievable. He couldn’t but admire every little thing about her face- from her eyes to her nose and lips, it all looked so... aesthetic.

Jean’s hand came up to brush back some of her hair so he would get a better view of her face. “So beautiful…” He whispered to himself, blushing when he caught himself saying it out loud. Lucky for him, Pieck was sleeping and nobody heard him.

He quickly laid down by her side and wrapped his arms around her petite frame, feeling the tremble of her body. The cell was really cold, especially at night. So Jean held the much shorter woman close to his own body in hopes to offer each other some much needed warmth.

It didn’t take long for him to fall back asleep.

~

The next day wasn’t any different than usual.

Floch came in the morning to ask Jean yet again about the location of his people. The redhead was definitely uneasy, impatient and rough. The fact that he didn’t even give Jean any chance to speak before beating him up was proof enough.

Though, Floch didn’t dare to do anything to Pieck. While he did cuff her hands in the morning, he didn’t hit her whatsoever, which actually surprised Jean. Floch looked a little lost at the moment anyway and Jean really didn’t care enough to ask him why.

After Floch left - without getting any hints from Jean - the brunet sat against a wall and used the back of his hand to wipe away some blood from his nose. He couldn’t wait to get out and finally take a shower again.

“Something’s off.” Pieck commented, turning Jean’s face towards her to take a look at his nose.

“Yeah, it’s most likely broken. But it’s gonna heal, no big deal.” He hissed a little when Pieck touched his nose.

She shook her head. “I know that. I was talking about Floch…”

“Mh… Dunno.” Jean shrugged slightly. “Now that we’re alone again, I need to tell you something important anyway.”

Pieck’s gaze moved from his nose up to his eyes. She met his gaze with a small smile. “Yeah?”

Jean sighed and gave a glance towards the hallway. Since he couldn’t know if someone could be hiding and eavesdropping on them, he decided to cover it up with a small lie.

“I... really like you.”

Well, that wasn’t even that much of a lie.

It made Pieck smile. “I like you too. I wanna cuddle, there’s nothing else we can do here anyway.” She hummed softly.

Jean pulled her closer onto his lap for a hug, letting her wrap herself around him in a similar way she did the night before. He rubbed her back up and down in a calm rhythm and rested his chin onto her shoulder.

Pieck twirled a random strand of Jean’s hair around her finger and stayed close and pressed up against Jean’s chest.

“Now, what did you really want to tell me?” Pieck questioned in a low voice.

She understood Jean’s intention without him needing to say a word. God, she was so smart.

“I got a letter at night. My people are coming tonight to get me out, so we need to change the plan we’ve made with your friend.” He whispered to her, drawing random shapes on her back.

Pieck nodded along but remained silent for a few moments longer. It seemed she was in thought.

“That’s not optimal… but I think we can use that to our advantage if I get to speak with Porco.” She pointed out.

“He could completely keep out of this, that way he’s less suspicious towards Zeke. I think it’s best if he acts like during a normal attack.”

“What if we took him with us today?”

“...To be honest, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m already bringing you along, they won’t take that many risks,” Jean admitted.

He could hear Pieck sighing and pulled away to face her, looking into her big beautiful eyes. “You understand that, right? They don’t trust you, so this is gonna be really tough.”

“Of course I understand how they feel. I just feel bad for Porco…”

“We’ll get him out too, just give it some time. We’re gonna take care of everything.”

Pieck’s expression softened at Jean’s words. She gave a nod and leaned closer to leave a light kiss on his bruised cheek. “I have no doubts about that.”

Jean’s cheeks heated up a little. Her kiss made him feel bold, so he cupped the back of her neck and clashed their lips together. He only realized what he really had done when it was already too late.

He quickly pulled apart again and cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “I’m, uh… I-I’m sorry.” He stammered.

Pieck turned his face towards her again and cupped it in both of her hands tenderly. Her thumbs rubbed over the stubble on Jean’s jaw and chin, her eyes lingering on his lips.

“Dummy,” she breathed and brushed their lips together. Then she connected them in a passionate kiss, careful not to touch his nose or other bruises too much, not wanting to hurt him. The steam was showing the healing process and Pieck didn’t want to irritate it.

After a moment of hesitation, Jean returned the kiss and tightened his grip around her waist. He caressed her bare skin and noticed that the temperature of her skin was cold, judging by her goosebumps and little shivers.

So Jean pulled away from the kiss to hold Pieck closer to himself, wanting to warm her the best he could. He reached over to grab the blanket and draped it around her before wrapping both arms around her as well. He held her close for warmth but he couldn’t help but feel protective of her too.

Pieck let it happen and curled up on Jean’s lap, greedily taking all of the warmth she was offered. She buried her face into the crook of his neck and smiled.

“I hope everything works out… This cold sucks.”

“I hope so too.” He murmured, rubbing soothing circles onto her back.

“Didn’t expect you to be such a good kisser, that’s quite a surprise.” She chuckled.

He rested his head against hers and muttered, “oh, shut it.”

[missskzbiased]

The Three Lessons (2)

Genre: Angst, Romance, Fluff (Hm…), Witch! Au, Love Triangle

Pairing: Chan X Fem! Reader X Seungmin

Word Count: ~7,8K   [I’m sorry]

(The First) (The Second) (The Third)

Warnings: (Mild) Mentions of (Hunting and deboning [Literally just the word, I didn’t describe anything], burning witches)

Notes:  Well, I won’t lie... I’m quite sad because I really liked to plot this and I don’t think many people liked it but as I liked to write it, so I just shrugged it off USHAHUSAUHSHUAUHS That’s my ninja way. 

I really hope those who read and enjoyed it like this one too though LOL and I’ll warn you that I may have thrown some things around but it’s because I intend to write some spin-off for this au with the other boys. It’s not random! USHAHUSAUHUASH It just looks like it is

Tagging: Please, send me an ask/DM me if you wish to be tagged

                                                      ////

  CHAPTER 2: The Second Lesson

    Yerkir ─ The Earthy Elder ─ scoffed as soon as you stepped in the haven.

    You glanced at her, watching as she shifted to a new position on the stump ─ left leg bending to rest her foot on the woody surface while her right foot twisted to plant itself firmly on the ground ─, letting her arms resting sloppily on her knees; eyes directed to the woods. You averted your eyes to look straight ahead, ignoring her, and the reassuring squeeze you felt on your shoulder made you fix your gaze on your Grandma.

    “So… How was the hunt?” Yerkir asked in a knowing tone, clearly aware that you didn’t have anything in your hands but still choosing to mock you. She tapped her foot on the stump while groping her dress, searching for something through her pockets. She finally found it ─ some kind of dried root that looked like a stick ─, chewing mindlessly with her eyes still fixed on the horizon.

     “Why don’t you go look for something better to do, Yerkir?” Grandma muttered, rolling her eyes as she let go of your shoulder. She stopped, fixing the staff on the ground before leaning on it, eyes fixed on her old friend ─ which was promptly returned. The Earthy Elder fixed her gaze at your grandma for a few seconds, a blank expression almost flattening her wrinkles, her blinking showing her astonishment.

     “Maybe because I’m blind” The Elder pointed out, grimacing obnoxiously. She turned her eyes to you ─ as if she knew you were about to giggle ─, studying you for a moment before clicking her tongue and pursing her lips, sending a shiver down your spine under the intensity of her gaze.

    Yerkir's milky eyes always had the power to terrify you; her icy-bluish eyes seemed to be capable of diving into your soul and exposing all your deepest secrets to the world. You didn’t have anything to hide but it still scared you. Her gaze was stern, unwavering, and it had the power to freak you out; studying you slowly as if she just knew whatever was going inside your body and mind.

     “We had some… Issues” Your Grandma waved her hand dismissively “The animals preferred to retire themselves” She added, getting a snort as an answer. Yerkir leaned back on her palms, throwing you both an amused look before tilting her head, lips quivering in a silent mockery.

     “Yeah, I could tell this much” She nodded, her amusement morphing into a serious frown “I guess Nature wasn’t so satisfied with you for helping out a… Man” She spat the last word with disgust as if just the mention of it twisted her stomach “You should have let him die” She muttered darkly, averting her eyes to the cottages on her left expectantly, prompting you to do the same.

     “What was it?” The Airy Elder came out from her cottage, voice sounding like a soft breeze, a gentle huff that tinkled in the air “Has someone called me?” She inquired, eyes attentive as she swiveled her head to look around the place.

    The open space ─ a simple circular terrain with a bunch of stumps and rocks randomly arranged around a campfire ─ was surrounded by The Four Elders' cottages and The Tent in a placement that resembled slightly a pentagram but not really. The other’s cabins could be easily seen from there, scattered around the clearing, which made the small place just perfect for all the sixteen of you to hang out. The few of you who stood there at the moment, though, had to shake your head, getting a confused frown from the elder.

    “The voices are getting more chaotic each day…” She complained under her breath, fixing her gaze on her friends “Are you two fighting again?” She scolded, hand to her hip as they looked at her with arched brows.

    “Go talk to the wind, airhead!” Yerkir sneered, fighting back a smirk “Let me fight wet-pants in peace!” She rolled her eyes, waving her hand dismissively. Your Grandma rubbed her temples, sighing before looking at you, holding your gaze for just a little bit before averting her eyes to the sarcastic elder.

    “Look, it wasn’t his time” She stated, speaking slowly so Yerkir would pay attention to her words “I can’t ignore what Nature wants because you hate mankind” She rolled her eyes, fed-up with the woman “Caeli, please blow some sense into her mind” She pleaded, averting her gaze to The Airy Elder.

    “Some people don’t have anything inside their brains” She shrugged, giving a judging look to Yerkir “The earth magic is solid enough to block her ears… Have been like this for years now” She sighed, shaking her head in disappointment “She just can’t listen to us”

    “Next time try saying something smart” She spat angrily “I have a lot of things inside my brain! One of those is a fucking head trauma! Thank you very much for asking” She sat straight, getting up from her stump and glaring at the other two “Should I remind you that this solid magic was what kept your child safe?” her eyes buried imaginary holes into Caeli’s brain.

     If you tried hard enough, you could cut the tension with a knife.

     “That’s enough!” The Fiery Elder interjected, voice spreading like fire on dry grass before vanishing suddenly, getting everyone’s attention. The Tent entrance’s fabric rustled, giving way to the old lady to come out; stern eyes darting between the other three elders, a frown wrinkling her face, casting shadows over her eyes “We should be handling The Coven issues, not fighting over silly things” She added, crossing her arms.

     “Issues?” Grandma asked surprised, looking to the other ones “Something happened while I was out?” She added, furrowing her brows with a serious expression, dropping the taunting. Yerkir mumbled something incomprehensible, casually sitting cross-legged on the ground in a rapid motion, fingers gripping her chin in a pensive way.

    “Something has been messing up my vision” She began, resting her elbow on her knee and curving her back forward “There is too much magic permeating the woods, I can no longer see clearly…” She admitted, letting go of her chin and straightening up again, gaze fixing on you “What did you do in the woods? I suddenly lost track of you before you got to the… Boy” She scrunched her nose to the last word.

    “Nothing?” You answered unsurely “I mean… Something strange happened…” You glanced nervously to your Grandma, biting your lip before continuing, “I think the wind talked to me” You admitted before looking at Caeli “Maybe my powers are awakening?” You suggested, uncertain, and she pursed her lips, nodding in wonder.

    “Well, you’re seventeen… Months away from your eighteenth birthday” She mused “It’s quite possible… It’s about time for your powers to show up anyway” She shrugged, looking at Yerkir “It could be magic enough to mess your senses… The Winds were quite agitated earlier” The Earthy Elder hummed, tapping her chin before tilting her head in deep thought.

    “And you, Wiha?” She asked, staring at your Grandma “What was that? A memory spell? You know far too well it’s not your specialty” She pointed out, arching her brow “Last time I checked, your earth magic was bullshit” She scorned, and your Grandma grimaced at her in discontent.

    “Well, last time I checked your lazy ass didn’t want to help me out so I had to do it all by myself” She sneered, glaring at the old woman. They held each other’s gaze for a while, a silent battle for dominance; pursed lips and fierce eyes determined to win their competition.

     “Not the point here” Isati reminded, sighing tiredly “There is no doubt other witches are alive and enchanting the woods along with us… The mixed signals we’re receiving must be from this” She mused, averting her gaze to Caeli “The voices sound familiar? Do you think they are trying to locate us as well?”

    “I can’t discern the voices that well anymore… The enchantments are getting in the way somehow” She sighed, lowering her head “I have been sending messages around, though… None of my whispers were answered until now… I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful” Isati hummed, waving at her to dismiss any concerns.

    “It’s the same for me” Yerkir agreed “The ground is too embued with magic… It seems like they have been planning something… Maybe an attack? There is just so much I can see now, so I can’t locate them for us… The other Covens were well hidden before but never like this” She sighed, averting her eyes “It’s like they took my vision all over again”

    “The boy had other enchantments beside mine” Your Grandma added “They know we are close to them… It would be impossible not to sense my magic in the river” She pinned her chin, thinking deeply about something “Did they choose to ignore us, or are they challenging us?” She raised her eyes to Isati, a serious frown taking over her features.

    “There is no reason for witches attack each other” Isati stated firmly but Yerkir scoffed, nodding sarcastically.

    “Are you kidding me? We don’t know what they have been through… There are twenty years behind us! This is enough time to change someone” She pointed out, skeptical “It will be safer if we make sure they don’t want any trouble… Imagine fighting some old hags with a bunch of useless kids” She gestured to the witches and warlocks around “Most of them didn’t even get their powers yet! They will die on spot”

    “What if they attack us when we find them?” Isati arched her brows and Yerkir scoffed.

    “Well, what if they attack us when they find us?” She retorted “It’s better to be attacked out there than giving away our location to them… What if they track us without magic? We don’t know anything about them! It’s better to show ourselves and actively try to reach for them and talk this out” Everyone nodded in agreement, a heavy silence falling upon all of you.

    The Elders exchanged a look, concerned about the worried expressions all of you held at once, the tension building to a point that it was impossible not to feel uncomfortable. The Earthy Elder cleared her throat, tapping her feet on the ground in a calming rhythm while The Airy Elder whistled, both of them trying to ease your mind and soul. One by one, each one of you seemed to finally calm down, releasing the withhold breath in your chest and relaxing your bodies.    

     “We’ll need a plan” Isati announced, eyes roaming around “We can have a private meeting later… For now, we should keep our activities” She decided, throwing you a look “We should increase your sessions if your powers are beginning to show up” She suggested “Meet me at the tent when you’re ready” And that being said, she turned around, arms crossed on her back before she walked out.

    You stared at her hands.

    To be more precise, to the lack of them.

    “Didn’t your Grandma teach you that staring is impolite?” Chan whispered in your ears, his warmth suddenly registering in your mind. You let out a yelp, turning around to meet his playful eyes, a thin smirk adorning his lips. How could he be so beautiful? “I see you’re keeping my coat to yourself… You didn’t need to hide it, you could just ask me for it” He joked, and you widened your eyes.

     Oh, Mother Nature! His coat…

     “Oh, yeah! Haha…” You forced a smile, your fake laughter being way too obvious to him. He raised his eyebrow, curious “Well, about that… I may have given it away to the boy Grandma saved” You looked away, ashamed to admit it.

     “Oh” He said in realization, brows arching up in surprise “That’s okay… It wasn’t really special or anything” He shrugged “It was just an old coat, I can live without it… Maybe you can help me buy a new one when you turn eighteen” He said shyly, looking away “We can buy it at the village or something” He concluded flustered.

      Was it just you or Bang Chan was asking you out on a date?

      “Wow… This must be the most awkward flirting I have ever witnessed” Minho spoke up, carrying a bunch of sticks to the campfire “It amazes me how you guys managed to spend seventeen years of your life being gross” He decided to add, dropping the sticks to the ground and dusting off his hands, eyes averting to you.

      It would be impossible to ignore his resemblance with The Earthy Elder.

      “It amazes me how you managed to spend eighteen years of your life by giving opinions no one ever asked” You retorted, grimacing at him. Chan chuckled beside you, looking at his friend in amusement, while Minho feigned a laugh, hands going to his hips.

      “Sixteen to be more precise” He corrected “I’ve only learned to speak at the age of two”

      You just rolled your eyes at his antics.

                                                                              /////

     The sessions with The Fiery Elder wasn’t helping at all.

     The blurry scene flipped over and you could feel the hard pang on your stomach ─ as if someone carried you like a sack of potatoes ─, pain increasing as said someone trotted, jerking your body up and down and making the trip too uncomfortable. The next thing you distinguished was some kind of fabric falling over your head, muffling all the sounds around and rustling on your ears, prompting you to shake your head eagerly to drop it.

      The first thing you noticed when the fabric fell to the ground was the casting glows on everyone’s blurred faces ─ a stunning dance that distracted you for a brief moment, drawing you to roam your eyes around to discover its source. The second thing that got to your senses was the increasing heat that emanated at your back, enticing you to turn around, and the burning feeling that hit your cheeks disturbed you.

     But not as much as what you saw.

     The nameless figure was consumed by the flames right before your eyes, and you could swear she looked right into them before shouting her lungs out ─ the most vivid sound you ever heard. The screech seemed to engrave itself on the back of your mind; the contradictory effect that it had with the stunning flames overwhelming you to the point you felt your soul getting out of your body before it struck back to you.

       The screech that slipped from your lips morphed into hers.

     You shoot your torso up ─ gasping for air as if your life depended on it, chest going up and down with the heavy breathing ─, eyes roaming around the place bewildered, trying to make sense out of the wall right before your eyes instead of the burning flames. You blinked rapidly, taking a few seconds to realize that the intense noise that filled your ears right now had nothing to do with the crowd but with the constant slamming of the windows and the door caused by the boisterous wind.      

      Chan stormed in, eyes darting around the place and hands raised to protect himself from the random objects that flew in every direction, crashing on the walls with loud thuds that startled you even more. You met his eyes for a second, and he must have noticed the horror in them because he rushed in your way, hunching his shoulders to avoid being hit, while you returned your gaze to the gale forming inside your house.

      “What happened?! Are you okay?” He yelled for you to listen, hands wandering around your arms, groping them to look for bruises “I heard you scream… What happened?” He shouted when you didn’t answer him, eyes too focused on the ruckus caused by the wind. You felt the mattress sinking, his body beside yours as he cupped your face, guiding your gaze to meet his; eyes diving deep into yours “Y/N? Answer me, Sweetheart… What happened? Are you okay?” He asked softly.

     This time you actually focused on him and the twirling wind dissolved into a calm breeze just like magic; the silence that followed it quickly broken by all the clattering and thudding from the objects falling to the ground. You ignored it all, focusing on his eyes and your uneven breathing, letting yourself get lost in his gaze for a moment before your eyes darted to his lips ─ his pink and plump lips that broke apart to gasp ─, returning to dive into his eyes once more.

      He tried to focus his eyes on yours but you noticed how he darted them to your lips twice before he bit his own, blushing profusely and adjusting his hold on your face with trembling fingers; head tilting slightly to the side as if he would lean for a kiss. You felt your heart race into your chest, ramming into your ears as you withheld your breath, spreading some kind of warmth all over your body as you felt yourself blush, all flustered and expectant.

    The moment was broken by a sudden burst that made you yelp, hundreds of sparks crackling from the ground to form a shaky translucent figure in the middle of your room: The Fiery Elder’s concerned spiritual projection, looking around the place with a frown before finally fixing her gaze on you. The way that Chan jerked away from you ─ stumbling backward, trying to straighten himself before bowing respectfully ─was nothing but comical, and you had to fight back a chuckle as you got out the bed, bowing to the elder.

    She raised her hands to dismiss the formalities.

    “W-We didn’t do anything!” He stuttered, floundering his hands in the air anxiously “I heard her scream and rushed to see what happened! That was it! I wasn’t going to ki—“ The Elder snorted, interrupting his rambling, shaking her head in amusement.

    “Calm down, son” She arched her brow, eyes glinting playfully “I sensed something wrong… I was just checking on her” She looked around the place, studying the untidy floor for a bit, humming “Was it your powers?” She asked, and you nodded when her eyes laid on you again “This kind of manifestation is not a good sign… We’ll need to fix it” She sighed, glancing at him.

    “Yes, Ma’am?” He asked promptly, crossing his arms behind his back and fixing his gaze on her, pursing his lips.

    “Bring her to me, Mr.Bang” She requested, looking at the ceiling “Vivi, can you please tidy this up? We don’t need Wiha whining when she returns from the village” She added, getting the vines to slowly untangle from the beam “Also…” She smirked, figure beginning to flicker “Try to keep your hands to yourself, son… It’s just a few months” the mocking grin was followed by the crackling sparks consuming her projection before bursting in the air, letting both of you alone once again.

                                                                          ////

    The spear crossed the air like an arrow, sticking in the trunk behind you.

    You widened your eyes ─ body pressed against the tree as if you tried hard enough you could pass through it ─, knees giving away as soon as the beast hissed, as startled as you, running away instead of attacking as it intended to do just a few seconds earlier. You slid down, trembling and groping the trunk as you sat down on the grass, raising your glossy eyes to meet an upset Chan striding in your way.

     He gripped the spear filled with anger, yanking it out and throwing you a look.

     “What the hell?” He fumed, clenching his jaw before scoffing “Do you think it’s a game or something?! You could have died, Y/N!” He yelled, sticking the shaft to the ground “What were you thinking?!” He asked in a demanding tone, eyes burying into yours.

      You shrunk under his tone, gripping the grass and lowering your head, ashamed.

     “I heard someone…” You muttered, risking a glance at him “They called my name” You added, bringing your knees closer to you “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” You felt the tears coming to your eyes, the sudden faltering on your tone getting his attention immediately.

    “Don’t cry” He sighed, letting his shoulders relax and squatting next to you, hand trailing to your jaw, inviting you to look at him “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that” He brushed your cheek, letting go of your face and supporting himself on the shaft “You can’t get distracted like this on a hunt, Y/N… It could have costed your life” He took a deep breath, exhaling heavily.

    “I know… You’re right, I should be more careful” You agreed, sighing and adjusting yourself to get up. He was faster than you, standing up and extending his hand for you to take, helping you out “My Grandma would kill you if I died on your watch” You chuckled, and he snorted nodding.

    “My mother would have killed me on spot” He joked “The first lesson to the new witch would be murdering young handsome warlocks out there” He added, smirking when you shot your head to look at him, arching your brows in amusement.

    “Murdering a young handsome warlock?” You scoffed, playfully shocked “You’re flattering yourself again…” You shook your head in feigned disappointment, mocking him.

    “I’m just saying what is inside your mind” He teased, and you brought your hands to your hips, letting out an offended gasp “What? Your head is filled with me” He sang, poking your forehead fondly.

   “Well, I wasn’t the one trying to kiss you earlier” You reminded him, grimacing.

   “You weren’t stopping me either” He retorted, smirking smugly at you, making you roll your eyes and pull your hand away from his grip.

   “Stop flirting with me, Channie” You poked his cheek “I’ll be eighteen soon enough” You teased, and this time he blushed, looking away “Oh? I see… Is Channie’s head all filled with me?” You mocked, poking his cheek again, laughing when he didn’t retort you “Looks like the young handsome warlock is whipped” You hummed, smirking.

    “You’re the one to talk” He chuckled, tilting his head and taking your chin between his fingers, leaning closer to your face. You felt your face burning, looking everywhere but his eyes before he scoffed, prompting you to look at him “Just a few more months before I can finally—“ He couldn’t finish his sentence, knocked to the ground suddenly by someone crashing into him. The violent impact startled you but the yelling followed right after it and the grip on your wrist, yanking your body, was even more baffling.

    “Run!” The stranger demanded, sprinting with you.

    You followed his call, too surprised to think straight, sprinting with him for a few seconds before the realization hit you. You looked back, glancing over your shoulder to see an enraged Chan tugging his spear from the ground and preparing to shoot it your way, cold-steel eyes focused on the guy that dragged you with him. You returned your gaze to the stranger, his warm brown hair flew in the wind, whipping his cheeks, and you caught a glimpse of his widened dark eyes and red lips, a frown on his face suggesting that he was as scared as you.

    Kim Seungmin.

    “Wait!” You yelled, trying to dig your feet on the ground but his fear was enough to give him the strength to haul you “Stop!” You tried again, struggling to overpower him before the sudden sharp noise got to your ears. You didn’t even have the time to register what it meant, eyes snapping to the spear crossing the air as fast as an arrow, curving just enough to miss you and impale Seungmin’s head “Watch out!” You shouted, jolting your body to take away his balance, throwing both of you to the ground.

     The next few moments were a blurry mess.

     You could tell you were rolling down a knoll; body jerking on the ground as the bunch of confusing and spinning images unraveled right in front of your eyes, making you dizzy and nauseous. A mix of muffled sounds reached your ears ─ partly from the leaves you crunched and partly from the rustling fabrics of your clothes ─ along with your hissing as the roots and shrubs in the way hit you both mercilessly, bruising your skin. The bewildering moment fogged your senses but you could still feel Seungmin’s arms wrapping around you, trying to protect you from further bruising.

     “Ouch!” You whined as you hit something particularly hard in the way, feeling that, finally, the speed seemed to decrease by the second. You raised your eyes, catching a glimpse of a focused Chan running your way, spear on hand, and prepared to throw it once more, studying the best opportunity.

     The opportunity he was looking for came sooner than you wanted, the rolling ceasing with Seungmin’s body hovering over yours, not giving you enough time to think of a plan. The mysterious boy tried to lift his body, bracing himself on the ground, unaware of the danger that he got himself into, checking to see if you were okay. You sensed the spear getting closer ─ enchanted to go straight to Seungmin ─, and before you could even think of what you were doing, your hand shot to the air while you embraced the boy, trying to protect him mindlessly.

     “No!” You shouted, a blast of air coming out of your hands, formed right from the thin air that surrounded you, projecting the spear away. You felt the boy tensing up, glancing at him with wide eyes as his head snapped to the side to verify if he wasn’t seeing things. He let his mouth fall agape, eyes landing on the spear before slowly trailing to you, terrified.

    “A-A witch?!” He stuttered, jerking away “Holy –“ He rolled to the side, getting away from you, trying to get up but stumbling over himself. You stood up, hands rose so he could see that you were harmless, cautiously stepping ahead to get closer to him “Don’t come near me!” He shouted, grabbing a random stick on the ground to threaten you, wobbling it in the air.

    “This is ridiculous…” Chan sighed, utterly done with the situation, flickering his hand to jolt the stick out of Seungmin’s hands, letting the boy flabbergasted, blinking repeatedly as he tried to understand what had just happened.

   “H-Holy cow…” He paled, one hand shooting to his mouth as the other rested on his stomach “H-He… He’s a witch… Holy mother of God” He gagged like he was about to vomit, a nauseous expression taking over his features “I didn’t mean to upset you guys! I-I thought he was harassing you... I-I mean! I didn’t mean to interrupt your… Mating?” He floundered, eyes darting between you as he tried to explain himself.

     “We’re not mating!” You interjected, offended “Look, Seungmin –“

     “How do you know my name?!” He asked high pitched, voice wavering like a string, hand trailing to his heart as his lips quivered in utter shock, and eyes as big as saucers fixed on you filled with horror. The way he wobbled ─ as if he was about to pass out ─ amused you, and you had to fight back a smile as you watched him shaking in fear, pinching the bridge of your nose and closing your eyes for a moment to concentrate.

    “Magic” Chan mocked, flourishing his fingers in the air as a joke, and you burst out laughing, pushing him lightly to scold him “Are all of you dumb like this?” He asked in contempt, and Seungmin didn’t find the courage to answer him right now, so he just stood frozen there “Just like I thought…” He sighed, rolling his eyes.

      “Seungmin, you can’t tell anyone about this” You warned, getting closer to him “Do you understand it?” You asked to make sure, looking deep into his eyes and squeezing his shoulder, tugging him out of his thoughts.

     “Wait! What?!” Chan blurted out, surprised “He won’t say anything because we will kill him, Y/N” Chan declared, confused by your phrasing, getting a questioning look from you; arched brows challenging him silently “He knows” He pointed out, raising his hand to evoke the spear from the ground, not disturbed by your outrage.

     “No, please!” The boy begged, tearing up “Please, spare me! I won’t tell it! I swear!” He kneeled on the ground, hands clasping together in a desperate plead as tears streamed down his face.

    “You can bet I’ll spear you” He spat, raising his weapon.

    “Wait, you can’t just kill him like this!” You protested, rushing to be in front of the boy, arms wide open “Grandma saved him yesterday! He’s not supposed to die yet!” You defended, and this information seemed to perk up the boy, who shot his head up, staring at you dumbfounded before getting up, grabbing your arms excitedly.

    “I knew it wasn’t a dream!” He chirped, hands sliding to your hands to hold them “You sang to me, didn’t you?” He asked flustered, squeezing your hands “The River is flowing… Flowing and growing…” he chanted in a hurried tone, eyes shining as he looked at you “I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to offend you!” He widened his eyes, realizing his mistakes, and you shrugged him off, chuckling.

     “That’s okay” You reassured him, squeezing his hands back “Now you know we won’t hurt you—“

     “We?” Chan asked riled up “There is no way I will let him out alive” He said, grabbing your hands and tugging them away, a frown on his face as he glared at the boy “I don’t trust you” He hissed, pointing the sharp metal to Seungmin’s throat, prompting him to gulp down; the boy’s eyes darting to you before focusing on Chan again, cold sweat running down his face.

     “He won’t betray us! He owes us his life” You assured him, gripping his wrist “I know he won’t say it! I just know it! I can feel it in my guts!” You continued eagerly, and for a split of a second Chan glanced at you, wondering.

      “You’re being naive… We can’t trust him” He decided, returning his gaze to the boy.

      “The Wind itself guided me to him!” You insisted “He is the reason why my powers woke up! Nature wants him alive! Please, listen to me” You pleaded, and he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

     “This is ridiculous, you can’t know that for sure” He grumbled, frowning but loosening his grip on the spear “He’s just a human… Nature doesn’t have anything to do with him” He concluded, tightening his grip again, pressing the weapon against the tender skin.

     As if on cue, the wind blew through the trees.

     “It’s just a coincidence” He muttered, averting his eyes to the twirling breeze that swept the leaves around “Also, if we were letting him go alive, we would have to take away his memories again and neither of us knows how to do this…” He pointed out “The bare minimum would be taking him to Yerkir” He stated matter-of-factly.

     “You know far too well that she would kill him!” You accused, pointing your finger at him.

     “If we let him go alive with his memories, she’ll kill us” He reminded you, and you rolled your eyes at him.

     “Listen to me just this once, Chan” You pleaded, cupping his cheek to guide his eyes to meet yours “You are connected to Nature… You have wind running through your veins… Please, make an effort! I know you can listen to it too” You continued, and he sighed under your touch, looking at you in defeat.

      “I can’t believe you’re making me consider it” He complained, retracting his spear from his throat and inhaling deeply before closing his eyes, exhaling slowly. The silence fell upon you three as he took deep breathes ─ a blank expression on his face, as if he was meditating ─ before he extended his hand to touch Seungmin’s face “What the—“ He shot his eyes open, gasping as he looked flabbergasted at the boy, hand jolting away.

     “What? What is it?” You asked curiously, and he threw you a quick look before clearing his throat and fixing himself, hand combing his hair nervously.

     “He’s fine… You can go, mate” He mumbled, nodding to the wood’s entrance. The boy frowned, confused, glancing at you before returning his gaze to him questioningly “What are you waiting for? Just go” Chan growled, and the boy’s curiosity seemed to fade away immediately, prompting him to walk in your way.

     “Thank you so much” He said as he grabbed your hands again, looking too deeply into your eyes for Chan’s taste “I owe you my life” He kissed the back of your hand, making you giggle “Again” He added, chuckling before kissing your knuckles.

     “Stop flirting and go away” Chan rolled his eyes, throwing him a disgusted look.

     The boy trotted away, turning back a few times to wave at you ─ which made the warlock scoff each time, obviously filled with jealousy ─, to what you gestured back, smiling to him. You chuckled and arched your brows, studying how Chan seemed to relax when Seungmin couldn’t be seen anymore, letting out a puff of air that he didn’t realize he was holding in. You nudged him before grinning teasingly, watching as he pursed his lips, averting his eyes from you and resuming his hunting, ignoring the way you looked at him.

     “Jealous, aren’t we?” You asked playfully but he didn’t answer “Hey, why are you acting like this? He’s fine! You saw it yourself! He won’t tell anyone and hopefully, he won’t come back to the woods” You whined, and he sighed, stopping in his tracks.

     “What if I am?” He muttered under his breath, and you tilted your head in confusion “What if I’m jealous?” He clarified, looking directly at you “Why didn’t you tell me that you guys were synchronized?” He asked displeased, averting his eyes ashamed “I’ve heard of it before but… I never met one myself” He sighed, hurt painting his face.

     “What are you talking about?” You asked, bewildered, looking at him as if he had grown a third head.

     “You’re synchronized…” He repeated himself, looking away “There is no way that he would betray you. Ever. Simply meant to be into each other’s life” He mumbled unwillingly.

     “Like a soulmate?!” You blurted out, eyes widened in shock.

     “Yeah…” He bit his lip, uncomfortable “Something like this”

                                                            /////

      The wind brought more voices.

      You stopped your motions for a moment, the knife buried into the meat as you deboned your hunt, wiping your sweat away with your hand and looking around to make sure that no one was talking near you. The indecipherable whisper seemed to increase ─ thousands of voices sounded in your mind at the same time, blabbering in your ears, echoing like leaves rustling in the woods ─ until they morphed into clearer patterns, the voices sounding incredibly clean inside your head.

    She met the boy again, The first understandable sentence echoed like sand falling in an hourglass. Don’t blame me when everything goes down the drain!

    The Earthy Elder.

    It will all be fine… The second voice sounded like a flowing river, calm and determined. Neither of them knows anything.

    Your Grandma.

    I had to tone down her energy again, Wiha… The crackling voice was warm and worried, a warning hanging in the air. I can’t push it away forever and you know it… Her powers got out of control today.

   The Fiery Elder.

    The way her power is manifesting is a bad sign, The soft twinkling voice agreed. If we keep her memories away like this, her powers will keep unstable… At least with a spell of that level.

    The Airy Elder.

     You frowned, pursing your lips as you tried to make sense of their conversation. The Elders were gathering on the tent right now, supposedly discussing the failed attempt to bring back a witch they sensed earlier in the village… The talking didn’t seem to be about it, though. Was it too much of a coincidence that the missing witch met some boy again and had lost control of her powers on the same day as you? The Fiery Elder herself had just said she helped to control this witch’s energy and she wasn’t even in the mission….

   There was no way they weren’t talking about you.

    If Yerkir wasn’t an asshole, she would fix my spell! Your Grandma hissed. You’re egoistic! You know far too well that it is dangerous for her to remind things! Especially since we’ve been lying to her all her life!

  They’ve been lying to you?

    We?! I didn’t want to lie to her! It’s all on you! It’s not my fault you were a coward! Yerkir barked. The girl should know her mother was murdered! You shouldn’t have taken this memory away from her!

   You let your shoulders drop, widening your eyes as you snapped your head to the Tent; mouth falling agape as you registered what they just said. The memory spell… She had used it on you! She had taken away your memories… She has been lying to you all this time… Your mother didn’t die giving birth to you.

   She was murdered.

   She wasn’t prepared! Your Grandmother yelled, and you could even hear the scorn on Yerkir’s voice when she scoffed. And she’s not prepared yet! We can’t have her wanting revenge! She’ll expose us!

   Really? Because I think you are too scared she can hate you now! Yerkir retorted. Her mother was a human, Wiha! They shouldn’t have killed her! She has the right to hate them all! You should hate them too!

   Your mother was a what now?

   You didn’t even know how you got so fast to the tent ─ gale following you closely as Yerkir’s voice hissed a “She’s coming! Everybody quiet!” ─, arms fluttering the entrance’s fabric before you shoot all of them a betrayed look, eyes filled with rage. The wind turmoiled into the place, sending chairs and blankets in a twirl in the air, startling The Elders for a second before Caeli forced everything down with her powers.

   The Elders stood up, attentive to your outburst but clueless, watching as you stormed in to point accusingly to Wiha. You heard some members mumbling behind you, close enough for you to feel them with your energy but not loud enough for you to understand what they were saying, though it was clear they were curious and puzzled.

  The Watery Elder held your wrist, confused by why you were acting like this, looking into your eyes in search of answers that she couldn’t find. You looked back straight at her, eyes watering as you felt your face twisting in a pained expression that baffled her for a moment before you finally decided to speak up.

   “You lied to me!” You growled, tears streaming down your face.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sweetheart” She said calmly, fueling your rage. You yanked your hand away from hers, shooting her a glare before looking to the other elders, lips twisted down in a displeased frown “You should calm down” She suggested, glancing at the others so they could try to soothe you with their magic.  

  “I heard all of it! All of you! You’ve been lying to me my whole life!” You bawled, pressing your eyes for a moment to try and stop the tears “When would you tell me?! When would you say to me that my mother wasn’t a witch?!” You inquired, demanded her to answer you, and she let her mouth fall agape, taken aback by your question.

  “It’s not what it sounds like” She guaranteed, and you scoffed, grimacing at her “You’re a witch, it’s just that—“

   “I don’t want to hear it!” You growled, “I don’t want to hear your lies anymore!” You wailed, turning away “What about the second lesson?!” You asked, stopping in your tracks, face twisted in hurt as she tried to mumble something “What is the second lesson, Wiha?!” You yelled, turning to look at her, catching a glimpse of her disappointment as her name came out of your lips.

   “You’re home here… You don’t know the whole story” She said in a pleading tone, trying to get closer to you “Let me show you… I will give it all back to you” She promised, “You don’t understand…” She continued in a small voice, and you let out a humorlessly chuckle.

   “There is no way I can understand you… I don’t belong here, right?” You smiled bitterly “     Stick to your kind… There is where you will be welcomed and truly loved” You recited, lowering your head for a second “What is it? Something you made up after her death? Something you made up because you were afraid that someone like me would expose you all?” You snarled, resuming your striding.

   “You’re not a human! She wasn’t a witch but—“ She reached for you, grabbing your shoulder and forcefully turning you around to meet her, eager eyes looking to explain everything to you.

   You yanked your arms away from her, the sudden whipping motion blasting air out of nowhere and projecting her body back, knocking her down. The following scenes seemed to run in slow motion, and you stood there dumbfounded as you watched her head hit violently against the stump before thirteen heads snapped at you. The weight of twenty-six eyes filled with fear and perplexity crashed you as you noticed how her limbs went limp, neck wobbling before letting her head fall to the side, unconscious.

   “What is going on?” The Earthy Elder gave some lost steps forward, looking around in confusion, rubbing her feet in the ground and digging them a little, a frown on her face indicating that she couldn’t see anything; probably blinded by the magic running free out of you, “What happened?! Who was it?” She asked again when she met no answers, voice trembling as if she was about to cry.

    The shock gave away to shame.

    The shame gave away to disgus

     The disgust prompted you to run.

      And run you did.  

     You ran for dear life, hoping that somehow you could run away from yourself too as you left the haven behind you to go into the woods. The gale followed you closely, almost morphing into a storm as the sky seemed to darken above you, throwing shadows ahead that suddenly confused you to the core. The so well-known path felt like a maze right now ─ trees seemed to jumble together and the soil seemed too soft for your feet, dragging you as you tried to make your way through it ─, and you were quite sure it didn’t have anything to do with your teary eyes.

    The woods were being enchanted.

    I can’t see anything! I can’t track her! Yekir yelled to the four winds, clearly frustrated, and you could almost hear the way she punched the ground out of frustration, letting go of her pain on each blow.

   Yerkir! Caeli! Enchant it all! Boys! Track her down and bring her back! Isati ordered around like a general, burning in despair. Everyone else into the tent! Now! I need help with Wiha… She finished with a whisper, and you gulped down, filled with guilt, returning your focus to the woods ahead of you.

   The wind suddenly shifted to the left, as if it was calling you there, guiding you through all the magic that fogged your senses, and you followed it gladly, grateful though disoriented. You ignored how everything seemed to drag you down, to bind you and force you to stay. You ignored how you could listen to the boys ─ Chan, Minho, and Changbin ─ screaming your name from somewhere behind you, close enough for you to be sure that it wasn’t the wind anymore. You ignored how your heart faltered when you finally reached the entrance, the village right before your eyes.

     It was beautiful.

      “Y/N!” You closed your eyes, pursing your lips down as you breathed deeply “Y/N, please… Come with me” You turned back to see Chan getting closer to you, eyes so desperate that you almost agreed with him without thinking “They’re waiting for you… I am waiting for you… Please” He pleaded, tearing up.

     “I don’t belong there” You smiled sadly, getting closer to him to cup his cheek, making him lean for your touch “We don’t belong together, Chan” You muttered, fighting back your tears.

     “I love you” He blurted, holding your face with his hands, almost too afraid to touch you, as if he could just shatter you to pieces “I love you… I know we can’t be together yet but it will be just a few months… You will be eighteen and it will be alright… We can be together…” He mumbled, tears rolling down his face as he tried to convince you.

     You were sure that his powers showed he couldn’t.

     “We can run away!” He offered, voice trembling with despair, thin and fragile in the air “I’ll run away with you… We’ll be fine… I—“ He choked on his tears, and you caressed his cheek slowly, lovingly.

     “Stick to your kind, Chan…” You rested your forehead on his, sighing “I can’t truly love you… You said for yourself, didn’t you? I have a soulmate… You were right… We’re not meant to be after all” You grazed your thumb over his bottom lip, diving into his eyes “I’m sorry” You brushed your lips on his, blowing into his mouth before he fell to the ground, asleep.

     Not a real spell but it would have to do for now.

      You turned your back to him, looking up to the dark sky above you; the night already casting your shadows around, prompting people to get inside their houses. You inhaled deeply before exhaling slowly, trying to get all your feelings out of your chest. You resumed your running, following the wind and sliding through the houses, being as stealthy as you could even if you didn’t really think that people were still awake by this time.

      The wind suddenly stopped ─ right in front of a small house where a boy held a lamp right before his face, the flames dancing around and casting some lights on him, revealing a blurry figure that you knew to be Seungmin ─, so you just knocked on the door, expectant, waiting for a few moments before the confused boy opened his door to meet you with startled eyes.

      “What are you doing here?” He asked perplexed, studying you from head to toe.

       “I need a favor” You confessed.

       It was time for him to pay his debts.            

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Spitting Venom (Supernatural x Criminal Minds)

Word Count: ~10,300 yikes

Warnings: Non-explicit violence, nothing more than you’d see on either show. More cursing though. Don’t even try to tell me Emily Prentiss doesn’t swear like a sailor. 

A/N: This is for @stunudo​ and her “Lie To Me” Challenge! My prompt was the Modest Mouse song “Spitting Venom.” Thanks to @fookinghelljensensthighs​ for reading and exclaiming and also just loving Sam and Spencer with me. 

This is part of the “Coffee & Psychopaths” series. It follows the events of Quitting, but you don’t need to read that to understand anything that happens here.  

This centers around (and steals dialogue from) the events of “Slash Fiction” (SPN) and “Proof” (CM). In order to smoosh the timelines together right, I had to do some wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, so don’t think about it too hard. You should be able to tell from context clues, but for reference, the flashbacks (in order of appearance) correspond to “Shut Up, Dr Phil” (SPN) / “It Takes A Village” (CM), “To Hell... And Back” (CM), “My Bloody Valentine” (SPN), “Amplification” (CM), “With Friends Like These” (CM) / “Unforgiven” (SPN), “Appointment In Samarra” (SPN), and “Memoriam” (CM). Seriously, wibbly-wobbly. So much canon juggling. Just go with it. 

“Just for the record, the weather today is partly suspicious with chances of betrayal.” 

― Chuck Palahniuk

-

“Strap in, folks, we’ve got a weird one,” Garcia says cheerily, handing Spencer a paper folder as everybody else opens their tablets. 

“I thought the Winchesters were dead,” Hotch says. 

“That is part of the aforementioned weird, yes. Okay, for those of you who weren’t paying attention four years ago…” 

Spencer opens his file, and Garcia’s words stop making sense, because that’s Sam in the mugshot. 

His first instinct is to shout, This is a mistake. 

Spencer’s stomach churns. He’s cold all over. 

This feeling (betrayal, his brain supplies helpfully) is becoming a little too familiar, lately. 

Garcia is showing a video: a bank, a group of people scared and screaming, two men opening fire. That’s Sam. His expression is stone-cold, maybe even satisfied, as he empties the clip into the crowd. 

That’s Sam. 

Garcia’s talking about M.O. now, or the total lack of a consistent one, and Spencer can’t listen. He forces his features into the bland, neutral expression that has made people underestimate him for years, and he takes slow breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“Spence?” he hears, and when he looks around the table he realizes that it wasn’t the first time somebody said his name. They’re all staring. 

“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks, brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine,” Spencer insists, with a shrug. 

“No you’re not, I know that face. Are you feeling okay?” Emily prods, and Spencer hates her for a moment, hates that she can still read him. 

He tries to force a smile, but it feels stiff on his face. 

“I know him,” Spencer blurts out. “Sam. Sam Winchester. He’s… he was my friend. Or I thought he was.” 

There’s a moment of stunned silence all around the table. Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling a pen idly, instead of looking any of them in the eyes. 

“Reid,” Hotch says quietly. 

“We met at a… meeting,” Spencer says. He looks up at Hotch to make sure he understands, and Hotch nods. “About two years ago. He was only here for a couple weeks. We got along, though. We… he left. We kept in touch.” 

“When did you last speak to him?” Hotch asks, frowning. 

Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat. It’s taking his best effort to maintain his mask of composure. 

“It was eight days ago.”

Hotch nods. “I’m assuming he’s already using a new number, but just in case, we’ll need you to give Garcia any contact information you have.” 

Spencer tries to smile. “Of course.” 

Emily asks, “And he didn’t say anything that would…” 

“That would, what, tip me off that he was planning a massive murder spree?” Spencer says. His voice cracks.  

“Anything that might be helpful,” Morgan interjects diplomatically. “Locations, names.” 

Spencer shakes his head. “No, it was… we didn’t talk about that sort of thing. It was random, mostly. When something was on my mind that I couldn’t… couldn’t talk to you about, or - when I couldn’t sleep. But there wasn’t much small talk.” 

“And you never suspected?” Garcia asks, wide-eyed. 

“Do you really think that if I suspected -”  

“We know that if there were any hints, you would’ve seen them. Nobody is suggesting that you should’ve known,” Hotch says firmly. 

“I should’ve, though,” Spencer insists, with a hysterical edge in his voice. “There were so many things that he just… avoided talking about. He looked familiar, even! I kept wondering where I recognized him from!” 

“Enough, kid,” Rossi interrupts. “Getting angry at yourself doesn’t help anybody. It was before you joined the Bureau, there was no reason for you to remember his face.” 

“This is a good thing, right?” Emily points out. “The better you know him, the easier it’s going to be for us to catch him.” 

“Apparently I didn’t know him, though,” Spencer says hoarsely. “I didn’t know him at all.” 

“Are you going to be able to work this case objectively?” Hotch asks. “We’ll all understand if you want to sit this one out.” 

Spencer stares at him helplessly. He’s not sure he knows the answer to that question.

“I remember Gideon talking about the Winchester case,” Rossi muses. “Couldn’t make head or tail of it, no apparent connection between victims, witnesses who kept changing their stories…” 

“Your insight will undoubtedly be useful,” Hotch adds quietly. 

Spencer grits his teeth, shock turning quickly to anger. 

“I want to find him,” he says. He wants to know. He wants to hear the confession. 

Hotch gives him one more steely, appraising look before nodding. 

“Very well. Let’s talk victimology.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

September 2011 (eight days earlier) 

“I don’t understand how she could do that,” Spencer says bitterly. “If I saw one of my friends hurting like that, and I knew something that would stop them hurting…” 

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry.” 

“Did they not trust me to keep the secret? Did they not think I could handle it? We’re a team. We’re not supposed to keep things from each other. Not important things, not like that.” 

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

Sam leans against the kitchen counter, watching Dean through the window. Baby’s hood is open and Dean’s wrestling with something inside, and Sam wonders, for the thousandth time, whether he’s imagining the wariness in Dean’s face whenever they talk these days. He can’t shake the feeling there’s something Dean’s not saying. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Spencer says quietly, and his voice cracks on the last word.  

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, except give it time.”

“I hate that answer,” Spencer says flatly, and Sam laughs. 

“Yeah. But… I think hearing the truth is the hard part, sometimes. Or saying it. Right? It hurts like hell, and it’s going to hurt for a while, but now that it’s all out in the open… now it’ll start getting better. It has to.”  

“I guess.” 

“She thought she was doing the right thing,” Sam repeats. “Do you really think she’d do that, if she didn’t feel like she had a choice?” 

Spencer sighs in a rush of static. “No,” he says begrudgingly. “But I think she had a choice. And now it’s my choice whether to trust her or not.” 

“You’ll get there.” 

“How do you know?” 

“A very smart man once told me that’s what friends do,” Sam says wryly. “They trust each other.” 

“Quoting me back to me doesn’t seem fair,” Spencer grumbles. 

“Doesn’t make it wrong,” Sam retorts with a grin. 

Sam watches Dean slam the hood shut, and he wonders why his brother has such a hard time trusting him. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“Are you kidding me right now?” Dean snaps, and the sneer in his voice makes Sam feel all of six years old again. 

“No, Dean, I’m not kidding,” Sam says stubbornly. He leans against the doorframe and watches Dean pace back and forth, like a wild animal on a too-short leash in the tiny living room of Rufus’s cabin. 

“Dead or alive, Sam. We’re wanted dead or alive. You try to talk to a Fed, which one d’you think it’ll be? They’ll have you pumped full of bullets before you can blink.” 

“He’s got a point, Sam,” Bobby says quietly. 

Sam rubs his eyes, feeling a headache building. “I trust him.” 

“Yeah? Well, I don’t,” Dean retorts. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway? When’d you make a friend I don’t know about?”

“Is that what this is about?” Sam asks bitterly. “You’re pissed there’s something about me that you don’t get to control?” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a great track record here,” Dean spits, and Sam’s throat clogs with anger even before Dean says, “Whenever you’ve made a friend on your own, how’s that gone for you, huh? Meg, Ruby, Amy… two demons, a monster, and now a fucking Fed?” 

Sam balls his hands into fists to fight the urge to start swinging. “Why can’t you just trust me? You don’t know Frank, either.” 

“I trust Bobby,” Dean says. The I don’t trust you goes unspoken. 

Sam clenches his jaw, breathing until he knows he can talk without shouting. 

“Just go, then, Dean,” he says, quiet and venomous. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want. I’m going to call Spencer.” 

Dean’s frozen for a moment, stone-faced. Then he whirls around and heads for the door. “Fine. I’ll check in when I get to Frank’s.” 

Sam sits down on the couch, resting his head in his hands for a moment. He hears the dim rumble of the engine starting outside. 

“I’m gonna use the landline, if that’s okay,” Sam says quietly. 

“I sure hope you’re right about this, boy,” Bobby growls. 

“So do I.” 

He finds Spencer’s number on the worn slip of paper in his wallet, written down with the five or so others that he doesn’t want to lose, and holds his breath as he dials. He has a feeling Spencer might not pick up on the first try, if he picks up at all. For all he knows, Spencer’s on the job already, in Colorado with his team looking for clues that aren’t there. 

He closes his eyes and thinks, please, and then Spencer picks up.

“Hi, Sam.” His voice is icy. 

“Hey,” Sam says. There’s a long, weighted pause before he continues, “It’s not me.” 

“You’re kidding me, right?” It’s clipped and robotic and forceful. 

“No, look, I - it’s not me, okay? That’s why I’m calling. I’ll turn myself in.” Another weighted pause. Sam clears his throat. “Not to the police, ‘cause I’m pretty sure they’ll shoot me on sight, but. To you. It’s hard to explain, but I’m innocent, it’s someone else pretending to be me, so if you can get to Montana -” 

“Montana?” Spencer interrupts incredulously. 

“Montana,” Sam repeats. He hesitates. “I figured you’d be tracking the call, I used a landline to make it easy for you.” 

“She’s working on it,” Spencer admits begrudgingly. 

Sam feels a twist of guilt, wondering how Spencer’s coworkers are reacting to this… even worse than Dean, probably. 

He hears a faint female voice in the background, too quiet to make out more than, “...not sure how, but…” 

“Fine, then,” Spencer says quietly. “Montana.” 

“Wherever you want, okay? I - I won’t put up a fight. Just…” Sam can’t help but laugh. “Don’t let them shoot me, okay?” 

There’s a crackle of static as Spencer sighs. “We’ll call you with details when we land.”

A voice in the back of his head that sounds like Dean is shouting, this is a terrible idea. 

Sam ignores it. 

“I trust you,” he says. “And Spencer?” 

“Mmhmm?” 

“Thanks for picking up.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

May 2010

Spencer feels like he’s choking on the thick stink in the air. He looks around the packed dirt yard of the farmhouse and can’t find any relief; he’s surrounded by ugly raw grief, and he can’t stand it. Emily is consoling the crying girl. Hotch is talking to the locals, tying up loose ends. Morgan is staring numbly at the rows and rows of muddy shoes on the ground.  

He knows he’s not the only one dealing with the weight of what they saw today. He should find Penelope, give her a hug, face this together, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Sharing this would make it a little too real.  

Maybe it’s all the practice he’s had at being alone; his first instinct is to hide, when things start to get overwhelming, and to maintain a certain level of clinical detachment until he can make sense of what he’s feeling. He can dissect his own feelings. When his friends are hurting, though… that’s a different story. When he sees his friends hurting, he hurts too, hurts in a way that chokes him, hurts in a way that crowds everything else out, and all he wants to do is fix it. Even when it’s not something that can be fixed. It’s illogical. 

Love doesn’t leave any room for logic, he’s learning. 

He slips away, into the barn. 

Dust motes and chaff drift in the scattered beams of light that cut through the empty space, swirling around him as he climbs the ladder to the dark drafty loft. Spencer sits down on the floor in front of the wall of drawings. He hugs his knees to his chest and looks, committing the clumsy crayon strokes to memory, because it doesn’t seem right to let all those empty shoes live on without also remembering this: bright color, crushing loneliness, constant fear. 

The loneliness is too much, after a few minutes. He pulls out his phone and closes his eyes. 

“Hey, Sam,” he says. His voice cracks and wobbles. 

“Hey. What’s up?” 

“I’m just not having a great day,” Spencer says, aiming for casual, falling short. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“Not really,” Spencer says. His voice is thin and scratchy and small in the darkness of the barn, lost immediately in the blanketing silence. 

Sam hesitates, and Spencer waits, hoping he’ll understand. 

“If you could have one object from a fictional universe, what would you want? Has to fit in your pocket.”

Spencer lets out a grateful little huff of a sigh. “Obviously the -” 

“TARDIS doesn’t count,” Sam interrupts, laughing. “It has to be portable in its normal everyday form, not just temporarily shrinkable.” 

“Sonic screwdriver, then. Obviously.” 

“Right? That’s what I said.” 

“What else would there be?” 

“Dean would go with a lightsaber,” Sam says, and Spencer can practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

It’s the first time Spencer’s really smiled all day. “Based on what you’ve told me about your brother, that doesn’t actually surprise me.” 

“Yeah. That’s Dean…” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

There’s a dial tone. Spencer closes his phone and tries to breathe. 

“Do you believe him?” Hotch asks quietly. 

Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling his pen again, feeling claustrophobic with all their concerned gazes pinning him in place. There’s too much going on in his head, too many things trapped and buzzing inside him with nowhere to go, and he wants to start running but all he can do is shrug. 

“I don’t know,” he says, voice strained. 

“Even if he is telling the truth, there are parts of this case that just don’t make any sense,” Morgan says. 

JJ adds, “If it’s a ruse, it’s a bizarre one.” 

“Gut feeling, kid,” Rossi says softly. “Are we walking into a trap?” 

Spencer wants to scream. Instead he says, “I don’t think he’d hurt me, but…” 

“If you trust him, that’s good enough for us,” Emily says fiercely. 

Spencer can’t help it; he looks at JJ before staring stubbornly down at the table again. The words burn on their way out: “This wouldn’t be the first time I trusted the wrong person, though.” 

“We need to make sure we’re prepared for all eventualities, but I think it’s worth the risk,” Hotch says. “We can discuss it more on the jet. Wheels up in thirty.” 

Spencer refuses to meet any of their eyes as he gathers up his folder and his bag. He gets out of the conference room before anyone can try to talk to him. His cheeks are burning, and his hands are shaking, and he’s already jittery but he really needs coffee; beyond that singular thought, his brain is stuck between stations, all white noise and useless static. 

The coffee pot in the break room is empty. He’s glad; it’s good to have something to do with his hands, a ritual, a tiny piece of his life that he can still count on. Filter, measure grounds, fresh water… 

“Spence.” It’s JJ, of course, and Spencer’s first petulant instinct is to ignore her. “Spence. Look, we gotta talk about this.” 

“About what? The fact that one of the few people I still trusted turns out to be a serial killer?” Spencer says sharply. “It’s becoming a pattern, me trusting the wrong people. I’m getting used to it.” 

“You know what I mean.” Her voice is low and soothing, like she’s talking to a victim’s family. 

“I don't want to talk about it.” 

“I get it, okay?” she says, still in that calm, professional voice. Spencer wishes she’d scream instead. He wants to scream. “You're disappointed with the way we handled Emily.”

He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, focusing on the steady drip of coffee into the pot. 

“Listen, I have a lot going on, all right?” he says coolly. 

“You know what I think it is?” He doesn’t look at her, but she continues anyway: “You're mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital and you weren't able to detect our deception.” 

It hurts. Her words bite down somewhere deep, venomous needle-sharp fangs that sink in and sting, and the toxic ache spreads through his system before he can take a breath. 

“You think it's about my profiling skills?” he spits back. “Jennifer, listen, the only reason you were able to manage my perceptions is because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.” 

Her expression is hurt, confused, and she says quietly, “I couldn't.” 

“You couldn't? Or you wouldn't?” he snaps. 

“No, I couldn't,” she insists. Her eyes are brimming with tears now, and Spencer feels a sick rush of satisfaction. 

He knows it’s cruel, but he lashes out anyway: “What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?” 

She recoils. “You didn't.” 

“Yeah, but I thought about it.” It’s petty and it’s unfair and it’s vicious, and he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. 

It stuns her into silence for a moment, and he turns to pour coffee into his travel cup, hands shaking so badly he almost spills. 

“Spence,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.” 

He whirls on her, almost shouts: “It's too late, all right?” 

“Reid,” she says, but he’s already brushing past her, and he doesn’t stop. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

February 2010 

He’ll never forget the look on Dean’s face. He knows it a little too well, by now: disappointment, disgust. I expected better. This isn’t who I raised you to be. You’re not the person I thought you were. 

“You know I couldn’t have gotten out of that bathroom on my own,” Sam says. “You know I wouldn’t have - I wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.”  

Dean doesn’t trust him, though. He’s not sure Dean will ever trust him again. 

Sam lets Dean lock him in the panic room. He doesn’t protest; he goes without complaint, head down, like a dog with its tail between its legs as it waits for a kick that never comes. Detox will hurt. It always does. He feels like he deserves that, though. 

Dean almost says something, before he closes the door. The words catch on his lips and die on his throat, and he just shakes his head as he slides the deadbolts into place. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, but Dean’s already walking away, and the hallucinations are already creeping in around the edges of his vision: his mother sighing sadly, his younger self shaking his head in contempt. 

Sam sits down, curls up, and looks around at the bare walls and the locked door. The floor is cold under him, and he can already feel the chill sinking into his skin, down to his bones. He leans back against the wall and tries to breathe through the panic. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, over and over again, but he’s not really sure who he’s talking to any more. 

The hallucinations fade. The bloodstains won’t, not really. Dean will see those forever. 

He can barely look at Sam when he finally unlocks the door. 

Sam’s still itchy and wired, that night, even though the worst of it is over. Dean’s not even trying to pretend he’s doing anything other than keeping watch outside. He’s sitting in the hallway with a bottle of whiskey for company. Sam can’t leave, and he sure as hell can’t sleep, so he calls Spencer, and he doesn’t realize until it starts ringing that it’s two in the morning. 

“Hi, Sam,” Spencer says, staticky and distant. 

“Hey.” 

“You okay?” 

Sam sighs, stammers, stops, tries to start again. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Not really,” he manages. There’s another long pause before he can admit, “I fucked up. I keep fucking up.” 

“Oh,” Spencer says softly. “Okay.” 

Sam exhales. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know. I believe you.”

“You’re the only one who does.” 

“I trust you,” Spencer says. It’s so matter-of-fact, so easy, and it’s been a long time since someone trusted Sam like that. He didn’t realize how much he missed it. 

“Why?” Sam asks. He tries to laugh, but it comes out wet and choked. 

“That’s what friends do, right?” 

Sam takes a deep, shaky breath and swallows down the lump in his throat, trying not to wonder if Dean’s still standing guard outside his door.  

“Thanks for picking up,” Sam says, barely a whisper. 

“Any time.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

They cuff his hands behind the back of the uncomfortable metal chair. Sam didn’t expect anything less, but he still hates it. They had the entire team except for Spencer there to take him in, and that was a few too many guns trained on him for comfort, but he’s alone now. It’s cold, and the walls are blank, and he shivers. 

He’s spent too much of his life locked in cages of one sort or another. 

When Spencer finally opens the door, Sam can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, even as his stomach twists with nerves. He’d worried they would insist on sending someone else in. 

“Hey, Spencer,” he says quietly. 

Spencer doesn’t answer. He avoids eye contact as he sits down, settling in with his posture stiff and his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He looks like a different person from the one Sam first met; the jittery, fidgety, chattering Spencer is gone, and there’s an actual Fed in his place. Even when he meets Sam’s eyes, his expression doesn’t give anything away. He’s ice-cold and completely closed-off. 

Sam tries to breathe. 

“Where’s Dean?” Spencer asks bluntly. 

“He’s at a friend’s, trying to figure out how to clear our names.” 

“Why isn’t he here with you?” 

“He didn’t think this was a good idea,” Sam says. “We haven’t had great experiences with law enforcement, but… him even more than me. I trust you. He doesn’t.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You trust me.” 

Sam shrugs helplessly. “That’s what friends do, right?” 

Spencer’s face goes stormy immediately, and he leans closer, glaring at Sam with startling intensity. “Let’s get one thing straight. You and I are not friends. You’re a murderer, and the only reason I’m here is that I want to see what you look like when you’re telling the truth… because apparently you’ve been lying to me since we met.” 

It’s not unexpected, but it still hurts. Sam hesitates for a moment before saying softly, “I’m not a murderer, and I haven’t been lying to you.” 

“There’s video.” 

“It’s not me.” 

Spencer stares at him incredulously. “All that stuff you never wanted to talk about. All those times you talked about… being scared of yourself, worrying what you could do. What was that, then?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Sam says. He feels exhausted, suddenly. 

“You’ve never even told me what you do for a living!” 

“I can’t.” 

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Spencer asks. He’s starting to lose his composure, an agitated edge creeping into his voice. 

“Look, remember when you called me, and told me you might be dying?” 

“How is that relevant?” Spencer hisses. 

“I figured it out, afterward. Anthrax. Right?” 

“How did you…” 

“And you told me that you couldn’t give me details, and the details weren’t important anyway.” 

“That’s right.” 

“And I accepted that, because I trust you, and I trust that if you’re not telling me something, it’s for a damn good reason,” Sam says determinedly. “They tried to keep it out of the news, but later, once I knew you were okay, I did some digging, and I figured it out. Why didn’t you alert the public?” 

Spencer looks utterly baffled. “Because people would panic. There’d be mass hysteria.” 

“There you go. It’s the same thing.” 

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Spencer exclaims. “I work for the federal government!” 

“Look, I know you, okay?” Sam says desperately. “I know that your job is to notice the details that don’t make sense. Even when something seems obvious, you and your team pay attention, and you make sure everything fits, and you figure out the truth, not just whatever bullshit explanation seems easiest.” 

Spencer nods slowly. 

“That’s why you’re here, and that’s why your team didn’t shoot me on sight,” Sam continues. “And I know you’re good at your job, so I know you’ve noticed that there are things about this case that don’t add up. Okay? Why would I be here talking to you, if I was guilty? Did you ask yourself how I got to Montana so quickly? Did you talk to any of the witnesses from the old cases? Diana Ballard? Rebecca Warren? Did you try to profile us? Find any similarities in m.o. between all those murders? No. None of it made any sense then, and none of it makes any sense now. You know why? Because it wasn’t us,” he finishes.  

“Sam. Maybe there are details from the old cases that don’t make sense, but…” Spencer trails off, shaking his head, like he doesn’t even know where to start. Then he stops himself, sets his jaw, refocuses, and when he looks at Sam again, there’s nothing but pure clear anger in his face. “Look me in the eye, right now, and tell me you’ve never killed anyone.” 

Sam instinctively goes to tuck his hair behind his ears, but the cuffs cut the movement short. Spencer sees it. His face falls, bitter and disappointed. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters. 

“I’ve never killed anything that didn’t deserve it,” Sam insists. 

“Any thing? Really? Or any person?” Spencer asks. Sam doesn’t answer, and Spencer continues, rushing, like he can’t stop the words from coming out: “Do you know how many times I’ve heard a serial killer say that? Everybody thinks they have a reason, Sam, whether angels told him the guy was guilty, or… Satan was possessing them, or… a talking dog told them the meaning of life.” 

Sam lets out a borderline hysterical laugh, and Spencer just stares like he’s completely crazy. Sam can’t blame him. He’s starting to feel crazy. 

“Okay, here, look,” he says, in a sudden burst of inspiration. “Go through the old case files, look at the dates. Every one, I guarantee you, people were dying before we got to town. There’s gotta be a way to prove it, right? The murders started happening before we got there. Everything you’ve told me about Penelope, I bet she can do it, easy.” 

“What, so now you’re telling me you’re some sort of vigilante?” Spencer half-shouts. 

“Not exactly, no.” Sam’s starting to run out of ideas. 

The door opens abruptly, and a stern-faced agent says, “Reid. A word?” 

Spencer gives Sam one last look before he gets up. It’s a familiar expression: disgust, disappointment, you’re not the person I thought you were. Then he turns his back, and the door slams shut behind him. Sam can hear the click of the lock. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

April 2010 

He writes to her every day, pages and pages of words. He hopes she realizes that they all boil down to “I love you,” because right now, he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Hi, Mom, this is Spencer,” he says, “I just… I just really want you to know that I love you. And -” when he blinks away tears he can practically see her, her smile swimmy through the salt water, same as it looked when he was small and crying over a scraped knee, and if he keeps thinking like that he’ll never make it through this message. He pauses, gulps for air, steadies himself. “I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.” 

She hasn’t taken care of him since he was small. Right now, though, he feels small and scared, and all he wants is for his mom to tell him that she loves him, and that it’s going to be alright. 

“Reid?” Penelope whispers, and then he hears Dr. Kimura, and he doesn’t get to be a child right now; there’s nobody there to take care of him. 

“I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up before Garcia can ask questions. 

“Doctor Reid?” 

“You look nice,” he jokes, with a watery laugh, and she smiles. “How are the patients doing?” 

“Let’s worry about you,” she says smoothly. 

Spencer forces a smile and shakes his head. “I actually… I feel fine.” It’s one of the most obvious lies he’s ever told. 

“If you feel any pain, I could give you something,” she offers. 

“No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.” His hands are shaking, but at least his voice sounds strong. 

She looks concerned. “We can at least make you feel more comfortable.” 

“I am comfortable, and I don’t want to take any narcotics,” he says fiercely. It’s not easy to say the words, but he feels better once he does; he feels proud. 

There’s someone else he needs to call, Spencer realizes. 

“Tell me how I can help,” Dr. Kimura says, and Spencer nods. First things first: if the poison is here, so is the antidote. 

“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says, ignoring the way his chest aches.  

“Well, shall I start here?” 

“Yes, just… I just need a moment.” 

Spencer looks down at his phone. He could call Garcia, again, have her save the message as a contingency plan, but he’s not sure he could handle her questions right now, and he can trust Sam not to push for details; he’s always been good about that. 

“Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey, so, I can’t explain, but I’m not sure I’m going to make it out of this,” he says, stumbling over the words. “Don’t interrupt, I can’t - I just wanted to say thank you. In case I don’t get to say it again. Recovery was… I don’t… you helped. Thanks for always picking up the phone when I needed you.” 

“Right back at you,” Sam says quietly. 

It’s getting harder to breathe, and the panicked hammering of his heartbeat isn’t helping. 

“Thanks,” he says again, and closes the phone without saying goodbye. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“Reid, you need to calm down,” Hotch says, as soon as the lock clicks behind them. 

“I know,” Spencer says, rubbing his eyes, agitated. “There’s just… there’s so much that doesn’t make sense.” 

“It’s more than that.” Hotch gives him one of those piercing glares he’s so good at. “You’re allowing your anger with JJ to cloud what you’re seeing in Sam.” 

Spencer can’t really argue with that. He just nods. 

“When this is over, I want you to take a couple days,” Hotch says. “You need some time to process.” 

Spencer’s instinct is to argue, but one look at Hotch’s face tells him it’s pointless. He nods again, reluctantly. 

“Garcia is checking into the pattern that he talked about,” Hotch says, as he leads Spencer back into the observation room. “She may be able to pin the Winchesters’ locations at the times of the original murders. JJ’s talking to old witnesses. There has to be something Henricksen missed.” 

Emily, Morgan, and Rossi are clustered in the small, spare room, watching Sam through the one-way glass. Emily cuts herself off mid-sentence as Spencer and Hotch walk in. 

“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks again, looking at Spencer like he’s a bomb about to go off, and Spencer tries to smile for him. 

“All my time in the Bureau, I’ve never seen a case that made less sense,” Rossi comments. 

They all look at Sam, who’s frowning down at the table, deep in thought. 

Spencer clears his throat and asks, “Do you believe him?” 

“I believe that he’s telling part of the truth,” Hotch says. “It’s what he’s not saying that concerns me.” 

Inside the interrogation room, Sam starts, eyes wide, and looks from the door to the one-way mirror. 

“Hey,” he barks. “Hey, I know you’re listening! It’s St. Louis. I figured out the pattern, and they’re going to St. Louis next.” He tugs at the cuffs, clearly agitated. “Come on. Can anybody hear me?” 

“He’s genuinely distressed,” Emily says, frowning.

“If it’s a delusion, it’s a complex one,” Morgan adds. 

The door swings open, and JJ starts talking before any of them can ask: “That was Diana Ballard. She swears up and down that it’s all a big misunderstanding, but she’s not clear on any of the details; she just said that she’d trust the Winchesters with her life. Rebecca Warren said the same. There was someone impersonating the Winchesters, back then, and she swears up and down that someone’s got it out for them now.” 

“How did Henricksen not have that statement in his file?” Morgan asks. 

“Maybe Sam’s right, as much as I hate to admit it,” Emily says. “Maybe this is a case of agents just wanting the easy explanation.” 

“You guys are gonna want to see this,” Penelope interrupts, hurrying through the door as fast as her hot pink heels will allow, holding out her tablet. 

“Another one?” JJ asks. 

“Unfortunately, yes, and it’s a doozy. This just came in from -” 

“St. Louis,” Hotch fills in grimly. 

“How did you know?” Penelope asks, but she presses play without waiting for an answer, and they all cluster together to watch the grainy cell phone footage: Sam, leaning in close, giving the camera a smug smile before he opens fire. 

“Is that really…” Spencer says numbly, looking from the screen to the window, where Sam is tapping his foot, impatient, undeniably solid and real. 

“It’s real,” she confirms. “And to top it off, I found a call that the local brass dismissed, but I just talked to him a couple minutes ago and it sounds like the genuine article. A guy thinks he saw the older Winchester just a couple hours after Sam originally called us. He was at a gas station in, you guessed it, Montana.” 

There’s a stunned pause, while everybody tries to digest that news, until Emily breaks the silence with a succinct, “What in the ever-loving fuck is happening.” 

“I’m going to talk to Sam,” Hotch says. 

Spencer’s acutely aware of everyones’ eyes on him again as he moves closer to the window. His reflection in the glass looks masklike and composed, but he doesn’t feel anything of the sort. 

He’s kind of starting to believe Sam. That’s his first instinct, at least. Something deep in his gut is telling him to trust, but it’s being strangled by the suspicion and twisted fear that have been poisoning him slowly since Emily came back. Now that it’s in his system, Spencer’s not sure how to flush it out; it’s just in him now, like some sort of chronic infection. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

March 2011

“I hate how often we see it,” Spencer says quietly. “It’s the first thing everybody thought of, with this kid, even though it wasn’t just schizophrenia, but… what’s the difference, between him and my mom?” 

“Your mom has you,” Sam points out. He can hear the murmur of Dean and Bobby’s voices downstairs, constant and comforting. 

“The headaches haven’t stopped.” 

Sam grimaces. “No answers, still?” 

“They all say there’s nothing wrong with me, physically.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “That’s… kinda harder, isn’t it?” 

“I hate not knowing,” Spencer fumes. “I hate that there’s no test for it. Even if it was a positive diagnosis, I’d rather have that, you know? I mean, that’d be awful, obviously, but… ” 

“At least you’d know,” Sam finishes. “Yeah.” 

“It’s like my brain may or may not be a ticking bomb. No way of knowing what’s hiding up there,” Spencer bites out, with a warped attempt at a laugh. 

Sam can’t help but think of his flashback: coming back to reality with Dean pale and wide-eyed above him, the disorientation of feeling the solid floor under his back, the way his skin still burned. It felt so real. 

He pushes those thoughts away. 

“Like you can’t even trust yourself,” Sam says softly. 

“Exactly.” Spencer’s voice is small and thin, and he sounds very young, suddenly. “My mom’s counting on me. What if… if something happened - I don’t know who would take care of her. Of us.” 

“Your family,” Sam says, without hesitating. 

“My team? Yeah, I… I guess so.” 

“Your family,” Sam repeats. “Even if you can’t trust yourself, you’ll be able to trust your family.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sam’s heart leaps at the sound of the door opening again.

“They’re going to St. Louis,” he says, all in a rush, before the stern-faced agent from earlier can even sit down. The guy doesn’t bat an eye, just sits down calmly, pinning Sam with a stare that could strip paint. 

“Sam, I’m Supervisory Special  Agent Aaron Hotchner.” Sam’s heard Spencer talk about “Hotch,” and it all makes sense now. “What makes you think St Louis is next?” 

“They’re retracing our steps,” Sam answers. “Dean and I, when we started working together. They’re hitting each town we stopped in. Jericho, Black Water Ridge, Manitoc. St. Louis is next.” 

Sam holds his breath, hoping he won’t be pressed on his definition of working. He can see the moment Hotch comes to a decision with an infinitesimal nod. 

“We’re too late,” he says. “We just got the news.” 

“Shit,” Sam can’t help but mutter, and he tugs instinctively at the handcuffs, frustrated, done with sitting still. 

“This means you’re innocent,” Hotch points out, clearly watching Sam’s reaction. 

Sam can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, but I already knew that. It’s… Iowa next, then. Ankeny, Iowa.” 

“Very well,” Hotch says flatly, giving Sam a critical, evaluating look. “It’s very clear that you’re not what we thought you were, and you may be able to help us end this. Are you still interested in accompanying us?” 

“Yes,” Sam replies impatiently. 

“First, I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth about what’s going on here,” Hotch says, in such a low, dangerous voice that Sam’s almost intimidated. “Otherwise, if one of my agents gets hurt because you withheld information, or if there’s even a hint that you’re leading us into a trap, I will shoot you without hesitation. Do I make myself clear?” 

Jesus. But if the FBI can help him get to Iowa in time, with enough firepower to put a dent in the Leviathans, this’ll all be worth it. 

Sam leans forward, as much as his cuffs will allow, meeting Hotch’s impenetrable glare with a determined stare of his own. 

“Look, I could tell you more, but you’re not going to believe some of it until you see for yourself,” he snaps. “So as far as I’m concerned, the only truth that matters is this: people are dying, and we both want to put a stop to it. Now, are you going to waste time asking for irrelevant details, or are you going to choose to trust me?”  

Hotch holds his gaze for a moment before nodding tersely. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll go get the keys.”

He gets up and Sam grimaces at his retreating back, twisting his wrist uncomfortably to get the bobby pin at the right angle. Then the cuffs fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, and Hotch looks back at him in disbelief. Sam smiles at him, equal parts sheepish and smug. 

“I told you, full cooperation,” he explains, and Hotch shakes his head like he might just be a tiny bit impressed. 

The rest of the team is waiting out in the hallway, some looking skeptical (tall, dark, handsome, eyebrows; Morgan, if Sam's guessing right), others nervous (pink pom-poms in her hair; that’ll be Penelope), but almost all with some degree of confusion written across their faces. Sam can’t exactly blame them. Spencer’s staring at his shoes, avoiding eye contact. 

They’re a very clean, professional-looking bunch, and it’s making Sam incredibly uncomfortable, even aside from the obvious awkwardness inherent in the situation. 

“I’m Sam,” he blurts out, and then winces. “Um. You knew that.” 

“Yep,” Penelope squeaks. “This is weird.”  

“Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi,” Hotch says brusquely, pointing to each in turn. “Jennfer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and you know Spencer. There’ll be time to talk more on the jet. Everyone, grab your things, meet outside in five.” He’s already pulling out a cell phone and striding away as the team scatters, and Sam feels sort of windswept in his wake; the guy’s intense.

Sam and Spencer are alone in the hallway. Sam’s stomach twists. This is familiar. This is another person he’s let down, and the bitter voice in the back of his head whispering you fucked up again is familiar too. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but… I’m sorry.” 

Spencer looks up at him with a quizzical frown, head tilted. “I was going to apologize to you.” 

Sam blinks. “Why?” 

Spencer presses his lips together in a funny little grimace. Sam had forgotten that face, the weird things he does with his mouth when he’s not sure what to say.

“For not trusting you.” His voice is scratchy and uneven and honest, now that there isn’t any anger keeping it strong and sure. “I wanted to believe that you… that it couldn’t be you. When I saw the first video, that was my instinct. But my instincts haven’t been great, lately.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No, you have nothing to apologize for.” 

“I think maybe I don’t trust myself right now?” Spencer barrels on. “But there’s video, and... I trust Hotch. If Hotch believes you... yeah. I’m sorry.” 

Sam’s not used to being forgiven so easily. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak. 

“You gave me a chance,” he says. “Most people wouldn’t have even picked up the phone. And there’s still… I still haven’t told you everything, why would you -”

“There are a lot of things going on that I don’t understand, and I want answers, don’t get me wrong.” Spencer looks frustrated for a moment. “But… knowing that you’re not a murderer goes a long way. The details can wait.” 

“When I start sharing details is when most people start running in the opposite direction,” Sam admits. 

“I think that’s sort of a universal human experience,” Spencer offers. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, now. “Or at least, the fear is. Nobody likes telling the full truth. It’s uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh and swipes a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. Got me there.” 

“I’ll trust that you’re not lying if you trust that I won’t run,” Spencer says, and he’s not smiling now. He’s dead serious, determined, maybe a little scared. 

“Okay,” Sam says hoarsely. “Deal.” 

There’s an awkward moment where they both just look at each other, but then Spencer jerks his head in the direction of the front doors. “C’mon, we should go.” 

Sam nods and lets him lead the way. “Should we - do you know where my phone is? I need to call my brother.” 

“Garcia will have it.”

They walk out into the bullpen, where the team is bustling around, collecting their things, and Sam’s reminded again of how much they’re risking on his word. It’s overwhelming. His throat feels too tight. 

“So, that handcuff thing,” says Rossi, tossing his bag over his shoulder and falling into step next to Sam. 

Sam laughs. “Yeah, I can teach you. It’s just a bobby pin.” 

“Might help next time I get kidnapped,” Spencer says, with alarming nonchalance. 

“Would’ve come in handy a few times during college,” Rossi comments. 

“You mean as a party trick?” Spencer asks him. 

“Yeah. Sure, kid. A party trick.” 

“...oh.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

November 2010 

“Spencer?” 

“I… is that you?” Spencer asks, so shocked he feels dizzy. It’s been six months. 

Spencer’s first thought had been, ‘Weird, that's the second “just in case” call in a month,’ when he got the voicemail. He’d almost laughed.  

Spencer had called Sam from the hospital, though, after the anthrax thing, when the antidote worked and he woke up. 

Sam never called. Spencer assumed he never woke up. 

“It’s me,” Sam says. “I’m so sorry, I -” 

“What happened?” 

“I was… sick,” Sam stammers. “Really… really sick. I’m sorry.” 

Spencer has to pause for a moment to digest that. His head is spinning. 

“What -” he starts, but he cuts himself off. He has some idea of what kind of sickness might cause someone to go away for six months, and it’s not physical. “Oh,” he says softly. 

“Sorry,” Sam says again. He sounds miserable. 

“No, don’t apologize,” Spencer protests. “You shouldn’t - it’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re okay. I thought…” 

“Yeah.” 

All Spencer can say is, “I’m really glad you’re alive.” 

“Me too,” Sam says quietly. 

Spencer’s been wanting to talk to him for six months, but now he can’t think of anything to say. Eventually he just goes with the first thing that comes into his head: “You missed some really good episodes of Doctor Who.” 

Sam laughs. “Yeah, I’ve got some catching up to do.” 

Spencer closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe. He’s never been so happy to be wrong. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Emily says flatly, as Spencer brandishes the Super Soaker in her direction. “Of all the stupid fucking ideas.” 

“Yup,” he says, popping the p and maybe kinda enjoying the way her eyes have gone all buggy. In a low voice, he adds, “Play along, remember?” 

She casts a glance over to where Sam is busying himself with the rest of the water guns and a box of Borax. “As long as he doesn’t try to take my fucking Glock.” 

“Nobody is taking your Glock, Emily,” Spencer says dryly. She shakes her head and goes over to join Morgan, Hotch, and JJ, who have already been outfitted and are standing at the other side of the parking lot. Garcia is sneakily taking a picture of them. 

Admittedly, when Sam insisted that they make an emergency stop between the airstrip and the police precinct, Spencer wasn’t expecting Toys R Us, but he was also pretty gobsmacked when Sam started talking about monsters. He’d waited until they were in the jet to do so, which was probably a smart move. This isn’t the first time they’ve played along with a delusion in order to get answers, but it’s definitely the strangest. 

Funniest, also. Spencer hopes Garcia got a lot of pictures. 

Sam will definitely be headed to an institution, when all of this is over, and Spencer’s having trouble processing that, but… well, it’s not like Spencer’s unfamiliar with that sort of facility. Spencer’s just glad Sam’s not a murderer, and he’s ready to get Dean, arrest whoever’s framing them, and get some answers. He can deal with the rest later; there’s only so much he can handle right now. 

It’s been a weird day. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” Sam announces, passing the last Super Soaker to Spencer. “Bobby didn’t know where they’re keeping Dean, but I’m guessing the cells. I’ll lead the way. Don’t trust anyone, we have to assume the local cops are Leviathans, at this point. Stick together, don’t let them touch you. Clear?” 

“And I’ll be right here with the emergency radio,” Garcia chimes in cheerily. “Thank God.” 

Sam tucks his own water gun into the back of his jeans, hefting the fire axe he’d somehow stolen from the cockpit of the jet without anyone noticing. “Let’s go,” he says authoritatively. 

“We’re right behind you,” JJ says, in her warmest, most soothing “placate the crazy man” voice.

Sam leads them around the corner and through the front door of the station, easing the door open without a sound, and they follow, entering the oddly quiet precinct quickly and efficiently. 

Spencer can see his teammates starting to draw their real weapons; luckily, Sam’s too focused on what’s in front of him to notice what everyone is doing behind him. Spencer hooks a finger on the Super Soaker and lets it dangle from his left hand, drawing his gun with his right, and most of the team is doing the same, for the sake of appearances. Emily and Morgan just set their water guns on the floor. 

“Dean?” Sam calls out. 

“Sammy!” 

Dean walks jauntily out into the bullpen like it’s a very normal thing to find a team of federal agents aiming their guns at him, but he does a double take, disconcerted, frowning for a moment at all the neon plastic toys on display. Then he recovers and turns a wide grin on Sam, who’s hanging back, wary. 

“You brought backup,” Dean says, laughing. “Good, I’m hungry. I’m very glad you made it.” 

“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, low and certain. 

“No, I am not,” the man says, almost gleeful. “Close enough, though! I have all his memories, and I wanted to chat for a moment, before I eat you. I like my meat a little bitter.” 

“What the almighty shitfire,” Emily breathes, but neither Sam or Dean pay any attention to her. Spencer has a hysterical urge to laugh, but he swallows it, heart pounding, not daring to look away from the insanity that’s unfolding in front of them. 

“Dean thinks you’re nuts, you know.” The man’s eyes flick behind Sam, taking in the team fanned out behind him. “So do your new friends.” 

Sam reaches behind his back to grab the handle of his water gun, but he holds it out of sight, still. Spencer keeps his finger firmly on the trigger of his real gun.

“Where’s my brother?” Sam snaps. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll get to the point.” He’s wearing a smug, nasty smile, and this isn’t going the way Spencer expected at all. “Dean killed Amy.”

Sam seems frozen, completely paralyzed. 

“There it is,” the man who isn’t Dean says, laughing. “Now I can eat you.” 

Sam draws his water gun so quickly it’s just a blur of neon orange, and then the man (thing, Spencer corrects himself frantically) is smoking. He’s smoking and sizzling wherever the water touches, and he’s screaming, looking just as stunned as Spencer feels in the split-second before Sam swings the fire axe and chops off his head with one powerful blow. 

There’s a moment where everything seems to slow down, like Spencer’s moving underwater, as he takes in the black goo pouring from the stump where the creature’s head used to be. 

“What in the almighty motherfucking shitfire,” Emily says again, into the momentary silence. 

“More incoming,” Sam snaps. “Heads up.” 

Then everything speeds up, too fast for Spencer to process, and it all blurs together: he’s holstering his gun, spraying water at something that’s wearing Sam’s face, as someone screams. Glass shatters, somewhere. Out of the corner of his eye Spencer sees Morgan pulling the station’s fire axe out of its case, whirling around without hesitation in a spray of black goo, and he keeps getting caught in the water pistol jets but it’s better than all those goddamn teeth, what the hell, in the massive mouth that just appeared, so he shoots, what, how, and then - 

And then it’s over as suddenly as it began. 

It’s over. 

Spencer’s heart is racing. He’s surrounded by puddles of water and puddles of oozing black, Morgan’s clutching an axe like it’s a life raft, and everyone is okay. Spencer looks around frantically, double-checking, but everyone is okay; they’re still standing, at least, although JJ, greenish-pale, looks like she’s seconds away from keeling over in shock. 

“Back here, Sammy!” comes a muffled voice from the back of the station. Sam casually wipes the blade of his axe on the side of his pants, expression unreadable. Spencer watches him clench his jaw and take a deep breath. 

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Rossi mumbles. 

Sam’s face is blank as he looks around, taking in the mess and the team. 

“I told you so,” he says mildly. Then he steps over the headless remains of a monster and goes to get his brother. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

November 2009

He doesn’t bother trying to go back to sleep after the second nightmare. He goes outside instead, sits on the curb in the parking lot, looks up. The stars are barely visible with the Vegas light pollution, but it still helps to be outside. He can breathe a little easier. 

There’s this tightly-knotted mess of rage in his chest, sitting on his ribcage like a tumor, poisoning him slowly. 

It’s almost four in the morning, and he has no idea where Sam might be, or what time it is there. He takes out his phone anyway and fires off a text. 

You awake? 

The phone rings less than a minute later. 

“What’s up?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound like he was sleeping. 

“I’m in Vegas,” Spencer says softly, and then realizes that doesn’t mean anything to Sam. “It’s where I grew up.” 

“Win big on the slot machines?” 

“I guess. I won two thousand dollars today, actually. I… I gave it to a prostitute,” Spencer admits. He adds hastily, “Not for sex.” 

Sam laughs. “Right.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Spencer could make small talk, now; he could pretend he called for no reason in particular. Sam wouldn’t believe him, but he wouldn’t question it, either. 

He takes a deep breath and spits the words out fast, before he can regret letting them loose. “Apparently my dad lived really close by my entire life, even after he left my mom and me. I didn’t know. He never told me.”

“Shit,” Sam says. 

“He was keeping tabs on me my whole life,” he says. His voice gives him away, breaking and rasping, and it hurts to keep forcing the words out. “He read all my articles, my dissertation, everything I ever had published. My friends seem to think I should be happy about that.” 

“That’s bull,” Sam says firmly. 

“Why wasn’t it enough?” Spencer whispers. He’s been holding that question in all day, and it’s been choking him. 

His lower lip is wobbling. He’s glad Sam can’t see him. This is the sort of honesty that’s much easier from a distance; Sam might hang up right now, but at least Spencer won’t have to watch him walk away. 

“Do you think they know?” Sam asks. “How badly they messed us up, I mean.” 

“Do you think they care?” It comes out more bitter than he intended. Spencer makes a face and looks down at his feet in their mismatched socks. “I think that’s the important part. If he cared, I could probably forgive him, but… I don’t think he does. Not really.” 

“Yeah.” 

Spencer takes a breath. The anger is gone now. He doesn’t like how hollow he feels in its wake, but he does feel lighter. He feels better. 

“Thanks for listening,” he says. “It helps.”

There’s a long pause, and Spencer thinks maybe he should hang up, now, try to rest even if he can’t sleep. 

“Want to hear a joke?” Sam asks. “I tried to tell Dean, but... I don’t think he got it.” 

“Sure.” 

“How many existentialists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” 

“How many?” 

“Two. One to change the light bulb and one to to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness.” 

Spencer laughs, grinning up at the stars. “That’s good. I’m gonna steal that.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sam sighs as he closes the door of the precinct behind himself. They’re not totally done with cleanup, but all Hotch’s wild-eyed muttering about paperwork is starting to make him anxious. 

Also, every time he looks at Dean, he feels sick. 

He sits down on the bench that’s out front, under a little awning. The sky is dark with clouds, and the air is thick, threatening rain, so humid it seems hard to breathe… but maybe that’s the shock setting in. 

He barely gets a minute of peace before Dean comes out to find him. 

“Hey,” Dean says cheerfully. “Ready to go? I’m starving, and I don’t want to be here when that bunch starts asking questions. Pretty cool, though, having an in with the FBI. Definitely makes life easier, bein’ dead again.”

He’s standing there on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, grinning like it’s just another day. Sam’s chest hurts. 

“Don’t,” he says quietly. 

“What’s up?” Dean asks, frowning. 

“You killed Amy,” Sam says, and he watches Dean’s face as he realizes, the way he shifts his weight uncomfortably. 

“Listen, Sam...” he says.

“No, you know what, don’t,” Sam spits. He knows the drill. Dean thought he was doing the right thing, he made a choice, he had to take responsibility if Sam couldn’t. Sam looks at his feet and says, “I don’t think I can be around you right now.” 

“So… what, you -” 

“You should go,” Sam says. He looks up and searches Dean’s face for some sign of guilt, remorse, empathy, but Dean just looks resigned. Sam wishes he would just start screaming, or throw a punch so Sam could hit him back. It’s not fair that Sam’s the only one in pain right now. 

“Okay, Sam,” Dean says, and he turns to go. Sam watches him walk away. 

He’s not sure how long he sits on the bench, watching people pass. The sky is getting darker by the minute. 

Spencer doesn’t announce his presence when he comes outside, just sits on the bench next to Sam and waits quietly. 

“He killed my friend,” Sam mumbles, without looking at him. “She was a monster, but she didn’t… she didn’t mean to. She didn’t want to hurt anybody.” 

“Let me guess, he thought he was doing the right thing?” Spencer says wryly. 

The lack of pity in his voice makes it easier for Sam to keep talking, and sarcasm feels better than grief. “Shocking, right?” he says. There’s a low rumble of thunder overhead, and they both look up at the sky. “I didn’t have many friends, but… I liked her.” The grief seems to be creeping in whether he wants it or not. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks.” Sam’s throat feels tight. “He’s my brother, I just… I’ve fucked up in the past, I know I have. But I always feel like I have to earn his forgiveness. It feels like I’m always asking him to give me another chance, to trust me again, and… and he still doesn’t really look at me the same way. Then he pulls something like this, and I know, one way or the other, he just doesn’t trust me. He thinks it’s okay to lie to me, because I don’t deserve the truth.” 

Spencer doesn’t say anything, just makes an unhappy, understanding sort of sound. The first fat raindrops start to fall on the concrete in front of them, and they’re both quiet for a moment. 

Sam smiles in spite of himself, remembering. “She changed her name, since I met her. Her name was always Amy, but she changed her last name to Pond.” 

“Cool,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah. I mean, no, she wasn’t cool, neither of us were, but… yeah.” 

Sam can breathe a little easier, now. 

“What are you going to do?” Spencer asks. 

Sam looks sideways at him and sees the way his mouth is twitching. “Don’t.” 

“Nothing you can do, is what I seem to remember you saying,” Spencer says innocently. “Give it time. Right? Does that make you feel any better?” 

Sam laughs, burying his face in his hands. “That was fucking useless advice. Fuck, don’t ever listen to me.” He wipes his eyes. “This just sucks.” 

“Yeah, it really does,” Spencer agrees. It’s pouring steadily now, rain streaming off the sides of their little awning. “Apparently Hotch thinks I should run away from my problems for a little while, give myself time to process, so I’ve been ordered to take a couple days off.” 

“JJ, still?” 

“Yeah. I think maybe he’s right. But… I was going to rent a car and drive back to DC, instead of taking the jet. Make a couple detours. Get some space. Give it time. You could come, if you want.” 

Sam turns to him, surprised, but Spencer looks sincere; he’s giving Sam one of his trademark anxious not-quite-smiles. 

“I was just going to hotwire a car,” Sam blurts out, and then winces. “That might be a better idea.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“I guess you probably have some questions,” Sam says reluctantly. 

Spencer grins. “Harder for me to run away if we’re in a moving vehicle, right?” 

Sam laughs, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Yeah, guess so.” 

“After today, I’m not actually sure I want to know all the details,” Spencer says, wrinkling his nose. “But I do have some questions.” 

“Anything you want to know,” Sam promises. “The truth. I promise. I should’ve… I should’ve told you sooner.” 

Spencer shrugs. “No, I’m pretty sure you were right, I would’ve run away screaming.” 

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes, and they sit there in silence for a moment, watching the rain start to slow. The clouds are already starting to blow over. 

-

“Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it.” 

― Mark Twain

-

You can now read about the road trip right here!

[aspenflower17]

Finding You (Part 11 of ??)

Hey everybody! I am back with another update! This one’s a bit shorter, but with the holidays coming, my brain’s been a bit fried lately 😅

I also have two other wip’s that have been trying to grab my attention, so keep an eye out for those! I do want to say that the angel event never happened in this story. My Simeon, Michael and Diavolo never did that. That being said, I want to write something for the angel event to try to... finish it and explore it a bit more.

For people who might be stubbling across this here is the link for Part One.

Tags for le people:  @simpingforsatan @naimena @hachimochi @wrathandgreed @magi-minminxiii @rensphilia @a-dream-at-night @chloelikesobeyme @getbehindme-satan @theuglypugling

Satan/F!Mc

Word Count: 1,390

Mc yawned, eyes zoning out as she stared at her scrambled phoenix eggs. She had stayed up way too late at the ball, and when she had finally been able to sleep, she had another dream about Satan, this one about helping him make dinner for all of his brothers. While it had been pleasant, she was still feeling a little melancholy from it.

Michael sighed, Luke rolling his eyes a bit before asking, “Michael, is everything okay?”

“Well, I’m trying to figure out how I offended Satan last night.”

Mc perked up a bit at the mention of his name as Luke continued, “What’d you say?”

“Well, someone pointed him out as the Satan, so I decided to go over and talk to him, and just wanted to confirm his identity, so I asked if he was Lucifer’s son.”

All sounds stopped at that point. Mc looked up to see everyone else in the room staring at Michael. Even Barbatos raised an eyebrow.

“And you’re still alive?”

Mc wasn’t sure who asked the question because no one had moved when she tried to figure out the source.

“Am I wrong about it?” Michael asked, genuinely confused.

“It’s… difficult to explain,” Diavolo said, looking a bit uncomfortable.

“Why?” Mc asked.

“Well, he was born from Lucifer’s wrath. Satan, from what the others have told me, feels like he owes his existence to Lucifer and Lucifer’s pride doesn’t allow him to say otherwise, which just irritates Satan even more. Whenever someone reminds Satan of that connection, he… Well, let’s just say that demon was in a coma for a month. So, we don’t bring it up here. I’m amazed we didn’t have a fight break out last night honestly.”

Michael’s eyes widened in understanding as Diavolo spoke, “Seems I was very fortunate last night,” then, after a moment, “Should I apologize to him?”

“I would probably suggest against it, unless you have a good opportunity to. It could come across as even more demeaning.”

“Seems I have a lot to learn about how to properly interact with demons,” Michael chuckled uncomfortably.

“Did you ever end up being about to speak with Lucifer?” Diavolo asked.

“No. He ended up evading me the whole night,” Michael sighed.

“Well, maybe I’ll have to invite the brothers over for dinner sometime,” Diavolo mused, then after thinking for a bit and pulling out his DDD, “Yes, I think I’ll do that. Though… Mc, would you be willing to play something for us? I know you’ve been working on that piano piece.”

“I will definitely for you all. It probably won’t be that piece since it’s not finished yet.”

“Whatever you can do should be fine. Sometimes I just need to give them a good incentive to come,” Diavolo smiled, typing away on his DDD.

A bit further into dinner, Diavolo’s DDD dinged, “I have a date set for dinner! We shall have it in three days!”

“Isn’t that a little soon?” Michael asked.

“Of course not! All that needs to be done on my side is make sure there’s enough food for everyone plus Beelzebub.”

“Ah, he still eats a lot does he?” Michael asked.

“Well, as the Avatar of Gluttony, I’d say he eats more than “a lot”,” Diavolo laughed.

“... How much does he eat now?” Michael asked, looking concerned.

“Well, let’s just say Lucifer and I have had serious discussions before about if the Devildom can sustain his level of hunger.”

“He always had an appetite in the Celestial Realm, but…” Michael sat back looking concerned.

“Don’t worry. Lucifer and I have a couple different plans on how to keep him and the rest of the Devildom fed,” Diavolo smiled.

“What about the others? How have they changed?”

“Well, you’re just going to have to find out in three days.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc stared at the envelope on her desk. She was going to save the letter for later, not quite ready to read the contents yet. Her thoughts drifted back to part of her conversation with Mammon.

“I got ta go ta ya art show with Satan. I was really impressed with ya art. Satan was explainin’ a lot of it ta me since it was my first show.”

“He was?” Mc asked, the disappointment from their first meeting still fresh.

“Yeah. I know he’s really impressed by ya art, and all.”

“Ah. Good to know,” Mc said, tone noncommittal.

“Yeah. He’s actually a pretty good guy. Well, for a demon anyway. He just struggles a bit expression’ himself sometimes.”

“He does?”

“Yeah. I know he’s been havin’ a rough time lately with… everythin’ goin’ on.”

“Is that right?” Mc could feel some of the worry she’d been holding to dissipate with his words.

“MmmHmm,” Mammon smiled at her, but he blanched seeing something happening behind her, “Uhh, I’ll be back, ‘k? I gotta take care of somethin,” and with that he disappeared into the crowd for a bit.

Mc picked up the letter, and opened it:

Dear Jane,

I am so glad you decided to read my letter. I would like to apologize for my behavior the other day. Though there’s really no excuse for my rude behavior, I’ve been dealing with some personal issues lately, and I ended up making those your problem.

I wanted to tell you that I do remember you from before. I remember you called the fleeing demons a stampede. I remember you had a large leaf stuck in your hair. You also mentioned feeling very lonely sometimes. I don’t remember what I put in that letter, I wanted to let you know your thirst for knowledge really impressed me, and reminded me of myself. If I was able to help you on your quest for knowledge I will consider it a job well done. If it is not too much of an imposition on your time, I would love another chance to talk at length with you about art, literature, or anything really. Maybe over coffee sometime?

I will be looking forward to your answer,

Satan

Mc sat back, feeling most of her tension leave her body. He didn’t hate her and actually wanted to talk with her again. She smiled, and reached for a piece of paper to pen her response.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc poured over the Devildom encyclopedia she had found. It had started as a way to figure out what kind of flower she had seen outside in the castle garden, and had just turned into learning all about the Devildom in general.

“What are you doing Sis?”

“Hmmm… Oh, hey Luke. Did you know the climate here is much like a high altitude desert in the human realm? Super cold in the winter, but really hot in the summer?”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“Also, most of the plants here grow from moonlight. Many of the weeds in the Devildom are those that metabolize the moonlight the fastest and most of are actually edible.”

“You found an encyclopedia, didn’t you?” Luke asked.

“Yup. There’s also a lot of reference books here, so everytime I find something I want to know more about, I just write it in my notebook.”

“How many pages so far?”

“Well, this notebook is new and it’s already halfway full…”

“How are you going to look up all of those?”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ve heard the InterWeb is useful, though I’m not great at using it yet. Oh, there’s also this little-”

“Okay, I think that’s enough research for one day,” Luke said, taking the encyclopedia.

“Hey!”

“You need to go outside or something.”

Mc huffed a bit, “I was outside already today. That’s what caused me to come back in. I had a question about a flower I saw.”

“Well, go eat something. You haven’t eaten since breakfast have you?”

Mc was about to argue when she realized she was actually very hungry, “That might be a good idea.”

“Come on silly. Let’s get you some food.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mc sighed, starting the song over. She hadn’t been able to get any further in her composition, not getting any inspiration. Despite telling Diavolo she wouldn’t be able to perform it, she had still tried to finish the piece. It really was lovely. She just wasn’t sure how to finish it.

She played up until the last note she had composed again, and sighed, lowering her hands from the keyboard.

“That was beautiful,” a deep voice called from behind her.

She turned around, “shocked, “Satan?!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, fun fact, I live in a high altitude desert, and if the climate here isn’t Hell, I don’t know what is 🙃

As always, likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

Chapter 12

[xanican-exile]

Interview the Muse

Do all of them

Long post under the cut

- What is your Full name? Include any maiden names, aliases, or nicknames.

”Venix Savreux. My last name is Mornese, I guess that must be where my mother was from. Its a country a bit to the east of Xanica.” - When is your birthday? Do you know where you were born and at what time?

”I’m actually not sure. I know that my birthday is a few weeks before the first snowfalls, but rangers didn’t really have calendars out in the Wyrmswood.”

- What is your star sign? Do you know your Chinese Zodiac too?

“I don’t know what that means.”

- What is your earliest memory that you can remember?

“My... Mother wiping a bloody scrape on my cheek. I’m really young, can’t be more than 4 or 5? It hurts a lot but I won’t let myself cry. Babies cry, but I won’t. She’s chiding me for getting in a fight, especially with two boys that are bigger than me. But I think a little part of her is proud. They were making fun of me for being a whore’s son.”

- Where was your childhood home? Was it more urban or rural?

“I was born in docks quarter of Esklay, one of the big port cities in Xanica.”

- How was your childhood in general? Did your parents treat you well? Did you have a lot of friends?

“My mother and I didn’t have much. She was a whore, no idea who my dad was, and I wasn’t exactly around there long enough to make friends.”

“Things got a lot better when I joined the rangers though.”

- How was/is school? What is your favorite and least favorite subjects? What were your grades on average?

“I didn’t go to school, but I was trained to be a ranger from the time I was... 8, 9? Something like that. I know I was ranked pretty high among the cadets, I was the top in sword skills, but everyone else that would join my pack was better than me in at least one thing.”

- Did you have a best friend growing up? What was their name? Are you still in touch?

“No, no I’m not in contact with any of them. Vex, Rand, Mako, Velite, Ilia. They.. They aren’t around anymore.”

- Were you in any cliques?

“We were encouraged to become close to small groups, they would become our pack once our training was finished.”

- Best childhood memory you can recall?

“The day my pack became full rangers.”

- Worst childhood memory you can recall?

“... My mom dying.”

- Name an event in your childhood that has shaped you into the person you are today

“Probably the day I was found by the rangers. After my mom died I ran from home, didn’t know where I was going, too young to think beyond getting away. I think it was a few weeks of being on my own, barely surviving on scraps. I guess I was going north, because I eventually ended up in the Wyrmswood. I don’t know how, it’s hundreds of miles from where Esklay is on the coast, must have ended up in one of its southernmost reaches. I.. I ended up passing out around a ranger campfire, barely noticing the people watching me. A lot of lost kids, orphans, bastards, and street rats end up as rangers, but I’ve never heard of any others stumbling on them like I did. Its probably happened, Xanica is pretty big, but I’ve never heard of it. Anyway, when I woke up they fed me, tended to my wounds, and teased my story out of me. I remember one of them asking me if I would like to be strong enough to never let something like this happen again. I took his offer without a second thought.”

- What is the dumbest thing you have ever done to impress someone? Were they impressed or was it all for naught?

“I guess there was a couple times when I was still training that I tried to go off on my own, hunt things I wasn’t ready to to impress our masters. Only took a couple beatings before I stopped doing that though.”

- Did you ever have any sweethearts or lovers? Do you have a boy/girlfriend?

“Not really. I’m on the road a lot, going from place to place. I don’t get time to get close to a girl like that. There is this one bard I seem to keep running into though..”

- Are you a virgin?

“No.”

- Do you ever plan on getting married in your life? Do you want kids?

“I’ve.. never really thought about that. I guess no. Having a family or getting married doesn’t sound like something I can do.”

- Would you rather have your own kids or adopt? How many kids would you want?

“I don’t really have a preference, its hard for my to imagine doing either.”

- Do you think you'd be a protective parent or a relaxed parent?

“I don’t think I’d be a very good one.”

- How would you prefer to pass away? Surrounded by loved ones and at peace, or while doing something heroic?

“Definitely fighting. I want whatever takes me down to remember how much of a struggle it was to kill me.”“

- Generally, how healthy are you? Do you get sick or injured easily or are you fit?

“I do everything I can to stay in peak physical condition. Doing otherwise would mean I end up dead in my line of work.”

- Have you ever been badly injured before?

“Several times. You don’t fight monsters for over a decade without collecting a fair share of scars.”

- What is the worst injury you have ever gotten? What was it and how did it happen? Were you ever close to death?

“This one right here. Those three slashes across my chest? Those are from a Wyrmling. Its like a wyvern but flightless and with four legs. I had to hunt one on my own once. Those claws destroyed my armor, but I would have been turned to paste if I hadn’t been wearing it.”

- How many times have you been to the hospital/doctor's?

“I haven’t been to many hospitals. Those are for sick people, but I’ve had to visit a lot of surgeons and healers over the years to get stitched up or have other wounds treated. I’ve never tried counting how many times I’ve been to those.”

- Have you ever had a concussion or brain injury? Have you ever had amnesia?

“I’ve had more than a few concussions, but I don’t think I’ve ever had amnesia or a serious brain injury, thankfully.”

“...I should really get a helmet.”

- What was the worst illness you ever contacted? Do you know what it was? How long were you sick?

“I don’t know what it was, but there was one time that I was stuck in bed for over a week as a child. It happens sometimes to cadets, they weren’t sure I’d survive, but I proved stronger than they expected.”

- Ever had any extended hospital stays? What for?

“Didn’t I already answer this?”

- Have you ever had to give yourself or someone else emergency first aid? What happened?

“Multiple times. Sometimes they lived, sometimes they didn’t.”

- Are you employed? Where do you work and who do you work for? What do you do?

“I guess you could call me a mercenary. Since leaving Xanica I’ve made my living going from place to place dealing with bandits, poachers, and monsters. Once or twice I’ve been hired to stay on a noble’s estates for a season to keep it guarded. Those jobs are boring, but pay best.”

- Are you happy with your current job?

“...No. Most of it is just busywork. I do it because its what I know, because its closest to what I used to do. But I wish I had something more meaningful to use my skills for.”

- Did you have any previous jobs? What were they and what did you do?

“I was raised to be a ranger. Its what I did until leaving Xanica about 2 years ago.”

- Most dangerous thing you have ever done?

“That’s hard to say. I’ve been involved in a lot of dangerous things. The expedition into the Divide might be at the top though.”

- Do you consider yourself a more active person or a more relaxed person?

“Definitely more active. I’m not good at sitting around doing nothing for than a day or so.”

- What is your dream come true? How about your worst nightmare?

“My... My nightmare already happened. My dream would be for my pack to be alive.”

- What is the biggest and most important goal you have set for yourself?

“To never let what happened to the rangers happen to someone else.”

- How persistent would you say you are? How much does it take to get you to give up on a task?

“I’d like to say I don’t give up easy, but I guess I’ve already given in on the stuff that matters.”

- Would you surrender yourself to your enemies or fight to the very end?

“Fight. I won’t run again, not while there is something I can still do.”

- When do you usually do your shopping? What is currently on your shopping list?

“Usually between jobs, or right after I finish one. Right now I need to get myself some new rope, hardtack, my cloak stitched, and a pan for cooking.”

- Top three things on your wishlist?

“Wyvernhide leather cuirass, a pair of those new glyph inscribed boots that resist water, and a warm chocolate mint drink.”

- Currently, what is something you want but do not need?

“A warm chocolate mint drink “

- Do you like shopping? What is your favorite thing to shop for?

“I don’t know if I like shopping, but I don’t dislike it either, its just something I have to do.”

- What is the most expensive thing you have purchased? Was it worth it?

“My mail shirt. Absolutely worth it, saved my life more than once.”

- What would you do if you were suddenly given one billion dollars out of the blue?

“I’m not sure. I don’t really buy a lot of luxuries. Maybe I would purchase a keep or something? A place to winter at when the roads get snowed over.”

- What would you describe your style of clothing as?

“Practical.”

- Do you have any hobbies? Name all of them if you can.

“I can make simple woodcarvings, I play the flute, and I guess I’ve dabbled in falconry.”

- Do you like and appreciate art? What is your favorite piece of artwork?

- Do you like music? What is your favorite style of music?

- Have you ever seen any musicals? What is your favorite?

- What are your top three favorite animals? What would you say your "Patronus" or "Spirit Animal" is?

“Eagles, Hawks, and Bears. Most rangers would probably say our spirits are most like wolves.”

- What are your top three favorite colors?

“Red, white, and I guess yellow or amber, though that last one is really just with eye colors.”

- What is your favorite season? Do you prefer hotter or colder weather? Do you like snow at all?

“Spring. I can’t stand the snow, it makes it easier to be tracked, and the work always slows down during the winter.”

- What kind of flavors do you prefer: Sweet, Sour, Bitter, Spicy, Dry, or Umami (savory meat taste)?

“Savory is my favorite. I’m not really a fan of sweets aside from fruits. I like mint a lot as well, but I don’t know what that falls under.”

- Can you cook at all?

“Yes. Everyone in the pack took turns cooking. So we all got pretty good at it.”

- What is your favorite dish? Can you prepare it? Do you have the recipe handy?

“I don’t know if I have a favorite, but I do like going to new places and trying their foods.”

- What is your favorite fruit and vegetable?

“Strawberries and onions.”

- What is your favorite dessert? What is your favorite type of candy/treat?

“Choclate is just about the only sweet I enjoy.”

- What is the best thing you have ever had the opportunity to eat? What is the worst?

“Xanican haggis is always a treat.”

- Do you like to drink tea or coffee? Any favorite flavors?

“Both are good, as I said earlier I like mind a lot.”

- Describe your sense of humor.

“Sarcasm.”

- What is one thing you are justly proud of?

“My skill with a sword. I’ve always been good with a blade. The best of all the rangers in my age group.”

- Do you have any religious beliefs? If not, have you ever been to a church service?

“Everyone pays respect to the gods, but I wouldn’t say I’m really religious. I’ve had to go to a few services when going to priest or nun healers. They usually make that their payment.”

- What would you say is the worst thing someone has done to you? What is the meanest thing someone has ever said to you?

"Tricking my pack into helping stoke the fires of a civil war and then getting them all killed. Anything that’s been said to me doesn’t even come close to that.”

- What is the worst thing you have done to someone? What is the meanest thing you have said to anyone?

“I’m not really sure. I tend not to talk much unless I have something really worth saying, insults are usually not worth the effort.” “Worst thing I’ve ever done to someone is definitely kill them. I’ve had to kill quite a few people.”

- Share the latest entry in your diary/journal.

“I can’t write.”

- What is the most precious thing you own? Is it valuable at all?

“Garmr. My sword. Over a thousand years old. I’ve heard some people say that its worth a kingdom, I wouldn’t know, and I don’t plan to sell it.”

- Talk about someone you know. It can be someone you either like or dislike.

“Rubio. He’s just a kid, got a lot of heart but a chip on his shoulder too. He’s had a rough start to his life, and I’m hoping to teach him a few things so he can make the rest of it better.”

[one-boring-person]

Who's Side Are You On? (Part Eight)

The Terminator (1984) reader insert.

Warnings: injury, mention of death, mention of torture

Context: (Y/n) reveals her secret to Sarah.

A/N: sorry this is late, I was too tired to write last night 😅

Masterlist

My features are sallow and drawn as I climb off of the motorcycle, my breathing shallow and uncomfortable as I try not to wince, my head spinning in the heat of the day. Perspiration coats my brow, each of my steps slow and uncoordinated as I hobble over to Sarah and Kyle, who have just exited the truck they hitchhiked in, my brother shooting me a worried glance as he notices my clear discomfort, eyes swiftly taking in the haphazardly concealed pain behind each movement I make, only looking away again when I make eye contact. Averting my gaze, I scan the area, taking note of the sign, glad that we stopped at a motel off the beaten track, somewhere where it'll be harder to find us, though knowing the Terminator on our trail, this won't necessarily work for too long.

Sarah leads the way over to the front desk, where a dog is chained to the outside of it, which Kyle and I instinctually hold our hands out to, letting it take our scents without really needing to. I stand back behind the two of them, trying to keep my unwell appearance out of sight, aware that I look terrible, and totally out of place. After some quick negotiation, Sarah has booked us a room with a kitchen and shower, something Kyle and I specifically requested, my wound urgently needing cleaning and re-bandaging, a damp sensation having surrounded the area from my constant movement and strain when riding the motorcycle, though I'm glad I took it, as it is much faster than I thought it would be.

Leading the way inside, Sarah takes us to the correct room and opens the door, at which point I instantly go to the table and sit at one of the chairs, leaning back in it as I take the weight off of my wound, gritting my teeth in pain as the hole stretches and tears again, the rudimentary stitches Kyle put in the night before pulling apart. I roll up my shirt, grimacing as I catch sight of the bloody bandage there, very little white still remaining visible through the crimson stains. Breathing hard, I go to remove the bandage, only for Kyle to stop me, signalling that I should shower first, just to clean off the skin around it, so that dirt doesn't get into the wound itself.

"And what about you? Doesn't yours need reapplying?" I point out, gesturing to his arm.

"I guess, but I need to get some things..."

"No, you stay here and get that cleaned, then help me with mine, then go out. We can't afford for you to get an infection." I instruct him, mentioning towards the sink, non-verbally advising him to follow what I'm telling him.

"Fine, fine. Sarah, would you mind helping me with this?" The soldier asks, looking over at our ward with a hopeful expression.

"Sure." She agrees, going over to help him remove his bandage as I get up and walk to what I'm assuming is the bathroom, the layout near enough foreign to me. Wincing with every step, I climb into the box-like structure in the corner, sliding the glass door shut behind me, only to realise I need to take off my clothes before I do this, at which point I quickly exit, strip, and return, puzzling over the device before me.

Thankfully quick on the uptake, I manage to figure it out, surprised by the stream of warm water flowing from the odd protruding thing, flinching away initially, though I soon relax into the soothing sensation of the heated liquid flowing down my body. I inhale sharply as I brush my fingers over the wound, gritting my teeth against the spikes of pain as I wash the surrounding area clean of blood and dirt, being as thorough as I can, going over previous scars with some hesitation, some of them more recent than others.

Habitually, I don't take long to wash, making sure I've done the bare minimum before stepping out and drying off with what I assume is a towel, pulling on my clothes and boots again as I do so, going back into the main room again to find the other two sat at the table, Kyle's arm now bandaged again. Feeling refreshed but still in pain, I go to join them, seating myself with a grimace as I roll up my shirt, intending to remove the bandage and clean the injury properly. Instantly, Kyle has come to my side, batting my hands away as he takes over from what I'm doing, making me bite down hard on my lip as blood rushes from the re-opened wound, staining my skin a deep shade of red. Kyle's hands are soon coated in it, leaving even more marks as he works at cleaning and stitching it up, covering it with another bandage as he finishes, the white square a harsh contrast to the crimson colour of the skin around it.

Once finished, Kyle washes his hands using the sink in the corner, before going to the window to check that the coast is clear.

"I'm gonna go get supplies. You two stay here." He says without waiting for a reply, walking abruptly out of the door.

Sarah and I sit in silence for a few moments, neither of us saying a word, or making a move, our eyes focusing on anything but each other, awkwardness soon filling the air like a bitter cloud. Eventually, she mutters something about showering and gets up, heading into the bathroom, leaving me alone again.

Sighing, I reach for the handgun in my belt, deciding to clean it whilst I have time, my shaking hands dissembling the weapon as if it is second nature, which, in some ways, it is. As I work, I lay out each piece on the table in a neat order, making sure I know where each part is, finishing by checking the clip, which is only half full. Frowning, I check my pockets for any more ammo, only to find that the dangerous version of me has used to nearly everything I had. Frustrated, I start cleaning each part of the weapon, being as thorough as possible, slotting them back together as I go, the gun soon taking shape again as I work through them. The action takes me close to half an hour, my efficiency severely limited by the tremors wracking my hands, the blood loss having finally caught up to me as my head starts to spin slightly, nausea setting in with each passing second. Ignoring it, I reload the gun and chamber a round, just to be ready for anything.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Sarah's voice behind me surprises me, making me start slightly in response to heading it. Turning, I look up at her and reply.

"My parents did. In the future, it's the kind of thing you have to be adept at. They just made sure I learnt as soon as I could." I inform her, thinking back to the hours my father spent drilling the names of each individual part into my head, along with every tactical piece of knowledge he could think of.

"Oh, well I guess that makes sense." She muses, going to the other side of the room, where she picks up the phone.

"What're you doing with that?" I ask her, wary of it.

"I'm gonna call my mother and let her know I'm alright."

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Her voice turns cold, eyes hardening as she looks me over.

"Because there's every possibility that the Terminator got to her first."

"How could it possibly know anything about her?!" Sarah shakes her head and starts dialling, ignoring my exasperated shake of the head, before proceeding to talk with her mother.

Ten minutes pass, during which I zone out of her conversation, only tuning back in again as I realise what exactly she's telling her relative. My head snaps in her direction and I gesture for her to stop, drawing my hand over my throat in a "shut up!" motion. Lifting an eyebrow, she finishes what she's saying and lowers the phone, her mother having hung up on her.

"You'd better hope that was actually your mother." I sigh, leaning my head back.

"Why wouldn't it be? It sounded exactly like her."

"The new Terminator models can impersonate voices that they have heard. It's entirely likely that you were speaking to it over the phone, because there's no way anyone could tell the difference between the voices." I explain to her, rubbing my head.

"It was definetly her." Sarah insists, though she doesn't seem entirely sure of herself anymore, "How do you know that, anyway? Kyle never said anything about it before."

I close my eyes and sigh again, opening them to look her in the eye.

"He doesn't know about it yet. I do because I can do it."

Confusion floods her face, her head cocking to the side as she processes what she's heard.

"You can do it? What do you mean? Has it got something to do with you going completely crazy every time the Terminator shows up?" She questions, curiosity winning her over.

I look at her carefully, deciding to tell her exactly what she needs to know, aware of the fact that it could prove dangerous to her if she doesn't.

"In theory, you're right. It does have something to do with that, but it is not the Terminator that is the problem. Back home, I was captured by some of them and taken back to one of their manufacturing compounds. At first I was convinced that they were going to torture me and try and get information out of me, but they didn't, they just locked me in a red room. It was tiny, there was nothing inside it and I was never fed anything except some water to keep me alive.

"In the beginning, they just left me alone, leaving me to wonder what the hell they actually wanted with me, and what they were eventually gonna do to me. I never found out from them. It all started with the gas, which they pumped into the room using the air vents in the ceiling, using this to put me under for a few hours at a time, keeping me unaware of what was going on. For days on end, I had holes in my memory, nothing quite adding up, everything else disjointed, until I found myself lying face down on the battlefield one day.

"I had no idea why I was there, or how I even got there, but all I knew was that I was surrounded by members of the Resistance, who had guns pointed at my head. They knocked me out cold again and took me back to one of the bases, where I woke up again chained to a table. They had figured out what was wrong with me."

I pause, lifting a hand to trace the scar on my face.

"They told me that I had a metal plate implanted behind my right eye, which had been replaced by an artificial one, which worked as a mind control device of sorts. The plate had hooks wired into my brain, allowing it to send it's own electrical impulses into my nervous system, controlling my movements and actions as if it were me doing them. It had a stimulus attached to it, which was triggered by a frequency emitted only from HKs, which would then turn me into a lethal killing machine for a certain amount of time.

"I was horrified when I found out: I could kill anyone I loved, and not think twice about it, all beacuse of the plate on my skull. I begged them to try and reprogram it, to make me a more effective weapon for the Resistance to use, rather than Skynet. They tried, they really did, but something went wrong. The stimulus changed to the sound of gunshots, but the control over my actions is now up to a mixture of programming from Skynet and the Resistance; I don't respond to either, and I will kill anyone who has been previously listed on my target list. I don't register pain and don't recognise anyone. I only come round again after an hour or two of no gunshots being heard in the surroundings, otherwise the time is reset and I stay the killing machine that I am."

Silence encompasses the two of us as I finish, Sarah looking as if she wants to say something, or come to me, though I look away, feeling awkward at the grim reality.

"So...so you're not in control when it happens?" She eventually asks, trying to break the silence.

"No, I'm not. The chip in my head controls me based on previous commands it received when being programmed." I laugh dryly, "I'm half human, half cyborg at this point. I'm an abomination."

At that point, Kyle walks back in, carrying brown paper bags filled with supplies.

"I'm gonna go keep watch." I say as he enters, feeling the need to be alone for the minute, internally cursing myself and what I am, knowing that the success of the mission very much relies on me.

Without waiting for a response, I push past Kyle and go outside, taking my handgun with me as I go to find somewhere to sit.

Part Nine

[libraryofvenus]

The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot

I. The Burial of the Dead

 April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

 What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.                      Frisch weht der Wind                      Der Heimat zu                      Mein Irisch Kind,                      Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer.

 Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.

 Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

             II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

 “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.  “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.”

 I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.

 “What is that noise?”                          The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”                           Nothing again nothing.                                                        “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?”

      I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”  

                                                                          But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?”                                               The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

 When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

             III. The Fire Sermon

 The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu

Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone.

“This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

              The river sweats               Oil and tar               The barges drift               With the turning tide               Red sails               Wide               To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.               The barges wash               Drifting logs               Down Greenwich reach               Past the Isle of Dogs.                                 Weialala leia                                 Wallala leialala

              Elizabeth and Leicester               Beating oars               The stern was formed               A gilded shell               Red and gold               The brisk swell               Rippled both shores               Southwest wind               Carried down stream               The peal of bells               White towers                                Weialala leia                                Wallala leialala

“Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.”

“My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?”

“On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.”                       la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

             IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss.                                   A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool.                                   Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

             V. What the Thunder Said

 After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses                                      If there were water   And no rock   If there were rock   And also water   And water   A spring   A pool among the rock   If there were the sound of water only   Not the cicada   And dry grass singing   But sound of water over a rock   Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees   Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop   But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal

A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands

                                   I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.                  Shantih     shantih     shantih

[willow-salix]

Fluffember prompt: Rose

Day 11 of Isolation on Tracy Island 2.0 and I would like you all to know that, while Virgil was very nice to write my update for me yesterday, he’s also a complete liar. I did not fall asleep on the couch, I was watching the movie the whole time…

Anyway we all got up late today, since we didn’t get to bed until late and even then it hadn’t been easy to get to sleep. I’d woken up a few times but a quick look at the clock to estimate the amount of time I’d actually been asleep, coupled with a warm John to snuggle meant that I gave in to the lure of oblivion twice before I actually got up.

I felt like death, which was strange, because usually caffeine has little to no effect on me, I can only assume that the added stress of Alan hopped up on coffee beans was the catalyst to my zombie-like state. 

Alan, it transpired, was going through an even worse caffeine hangover than I was, at least I had a little resistance. He was groaning from his bedroom complaining of a headache and full body shivers. 

So yes, we were certainly feeling delicate and, even though I desperately wanted a coffee to wake me up enough to function I knew that it would probably be a bad idea. So there I was, sipping on a hot chocolate (I delivered one to Allie too), munching slowly on a corner of my toast and just hoping that the world would stop spinning today when Grandma came in.

“What are you planning on doing today?” she asked, not bothering to offer a greeting, no good morning, no hello, nothing. I glanced over at Scott who shrugged and sipped his tea ( he was avoiding coffee too, Virgil wasn’t but it takes a LOT to put that boy off his brown nectar).

“No plans,” I was forced to admit. I saw Scott shake his head sadly, like I’d just doomed myself. I obviously wasn’t on top of things today, my brain is mush.

“Good, then you can help me with some chores.” 

I resisted the urge to groan, looking over at the big bros for support…

“Huh, where did they go?” Grandma asked me.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know,” I sighed, gulping my cocoa and wishing it was something stronger and possibly alcoholic.

“Then I guess we’ll have to work twice as hard!”

 “Yes, Grandma.”

                    ***

“John,” I whispered into my comm as I hid in a corner of the library.

“Yes?” he popped up in his hologram form, not looking at me straight away, clearly distracted by whatever he was working on.

“I have a question.”

He turned to look at me. I saw him pause, his eyes darting around, taking in my surroundings.

“I have a question too, why are you hiding behind a curtain? Where even is that?”

“Library,” I settled back against the wall. Perched on the windowsill I was indeed hiding behind a curtain. “Grandma gave me a chore list.”

“Ah,” he said, not needing to add anything else, that said it all really. “You had a question?”

“Oh, yeah, I did.”

“What was it?”

“Oh, she's made me do three loads of laundry, I’ve dusted her ornaments, cleaned the two bathrooms, which is all I'm doing by the way, I’m not touching the ensuites, they’re on their own with them.”

“A wise decision,” he agreed, crossing his arms, leaning back on nothing, suspended in midair, showing he was in the comms sphere, clearly sensing that this would be a long story. There’s no rushing me when I’m trying to explain things, you just have to accept that you're along for the ride.

“I’ve helped her change the bedding in the guest rooms, why I have literally no clue, since no one can come and visit anyway and this is a secret base and it’s not like we do a lot of tours or anything…” I trailed off, seeing the raised eyebrow of doom on my boy. “What else did we do…” I mused, trying to think and hurry my thought process along. “Cleaned all the old food out of the fridge, vacuumed the lounge and now I’m here.”

“And why are you in there? Apart from hiding from more chores, obviously?”

“Because I needed to ask you what was going on.”

Was that an eye roll? I’m pretty sure it was. 

“Going on with what? You’re the one that was filling me in on your day.”

“What’s with the Grandma?”

“Grandma?”

“Yes, Grandma. I’ve been going from room to room, ticking things off her chore list but…”

“But what?”

“Babe, I hate to ask this, but is Grandma going a little…” I couldn’t say it out loud so I settled for the universal sign that is a finger twirl to the side of my head.

“Explain.”

“Babe, I don't usually question the wiseness of Grandma's logic but this time…well...she's got me watering plastic plants,” I whispered, making a conscious effort not to shout as I usually would. News like this needed to be delivered in a delicate way, a supportive, understanding way. No one wanted to hear proof that their, let’s face it slightly elderly, grandmother was going a little cuckoo in her golden years.

I watched him carefully, it wouldn’t do to be upsetting him when he was so far away 22,400 miles away to be exact, and I couldn't be with him, but to my surprise his face registered nothing but relief with a hint of...amusement? OK, maybe a hint was being generous. 

“Dude, are you laughing at me?”

“No, love.”

“Lies! You’re laughing right now!”

“I’m laughing with you, not at you,” he promised, sobering slightly.

“Laughing with me implies that I should be laughing too, so either share the joke with the rest of the class or bugger off.” I was not impressed and fast losing patience with the love of my life.

“Sorry, sorry,” he coughed, clearing his throat in an effort to regain his composure.

I waited, arms crossed in a mirror of his earlier pose, lips slightly pursed, eyes narrowed, he sooo knew he was in trouble.

“Let me tell you a little story,” he began, finally calm enough to talk to me properly.

“Go on then, I’m listening.”

“Grandma has always loved her plants, she used to garden a lot,” he started and as usual when he spoke, I listened, one because I needed to know what was going on and two, because I just love his voice and would happily listen to him reading a menu if he so chose. I wiggled a little to get comfier and prepared to be entertained, because every story John tells is entertaining in its own way, mostly because he just sounds so fed up and done with life as he tells it. 

“She said that she found it relaxing to tend them, it gave her time to think and to order her thoughts. She would talk to them like they were her children and no one dared touch them.”

I nodded to show I was following so far.

“When we moved to the island and got busier with International Rescue it obviously started taking up a lot of time for all of us,” he reclined himself back into his lazy float giving me a nice view I must say (I’m sure he did it on purpose).

“The busier we got, the less time she had to devote to them, the more we did the more she forgot about them and it wasn’t long before the first one died. She came down one morning and noticed that it’s leaves were dried out and brown and it was slumped over in its pot. She tried, we all did, but there was no reviving it.” His tone was so serious that I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Grandma was really sad, so we decided to help if we could. Unfortunately, as it turned out, none of us have a particularly green thumb. We did our best, but failed spectacularly. As we always say, you can’t save everyone, and that isn't limited to humans.”

I nodded encouragingly, wishing I had a mug to sip from 'cause my boy was spilling the tea!

"When we noticed another was, as Gordon put it, on its way out, we stepped in before it happened and fixed it."

"You fixed it? Like it was a broken processor or something? How do you fix a dying plant?" 

He stayed quiet. 

"John?" I lifted an eyebrow demandingly. 

"We switched it out for a plastic one," he finally admitted. 

"John!" I was shocked, shocked at their sneakiness and the sheer balls of pulling off such a move right under her nose. 

"I know, I know, it was awful of us. But we couldn't think of anything else to do. She was so sad every time she lost one and we couldn't stand it."

"How many times did you do this? Because I have yet to find a real live one."

"I think you just answered your own question."

"All of them? Like every single one?" 

"Well, not all of them, the bonsai in the lounge is still alive, but that's mostly Kayo and Virgil that tend it. Kayo learnt from her dad, he loved to garden. And the outside plants usually do OK. We have timed watering for then with both underground pipework and an overhead sprinkler system. And Kayo will do a little maintenance on them, cutting them back and the like, whenever she has time which isn't often. We don't really get weeds here as the seeds have nowhere to carry from, so it's just upkeep of the plants themselves."

 "But every houseplant other than the bonsai…"

"All fake," he confirmed. 

"And you never told her? She didn't notice?" 

"No, not that we know of, the fact that she gave you the job of watering them confirms that. We just kept offering to look after them for her and she let us do it. We bought the best quality we could, they look very realistic." He said that last like it made the whole thing more OK. "We did it for her, we didn't want her upset."

"Well, I honestly don't know what to think about all that," I confessed. And I really didn't, they were such sneaky little sods when they wanted to be, dangerous when working together. Sure they did it with the best of intentions and for the right reasons but still I did need to know one thing… 

"Whose idea was it?" 

"Idea?" he repeated, clearly deflecting. 

"Yes, who thought up the idea of swapping them?" I knew the answer, he knew that I knew, I just needed him to confirm it. 

Slowly he lifted his hand. 

"Yep, not surprised. Totally called it," I grinned. 

"Then why did you ask?" 

"Because sometimes I need to remind myself what a deliciously devious man you are." 

"You're a strange woman."

"A strange woman that your dumb ass married," I reminded him. 

"We all have our weak moments," he quipped but I didn't take it seriously. "I should probably get back to work, just hide out there for another few minutes and call the job done."

I nodded, seeing the sense in his words. "How long will you be?" 

"Just another few hours, I should be done by dinner."

"OK, but I'm holding you to that, Space Man." 

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

I blew him a little kiss which he dutifully pretended to catch, with much eye rolling, before he clicked off, cutting the connection. 

Sighing , still unable to believe what I'd just heard I drew back the curtain I was sheltering behind and dropped down from the windowsill. I grabbed my phone, tucking it into my pocket as I turned round. 

"Grandma!" 

There she was, waiting for me like a silent septuagenarian ninja, arms folded, one foot tapping out an annoyed rhythm. 

"Hi," I greeted, taking an unconscious step backwards. Would she notice if I threw myself out of the window like a weak willed victorian maid whose husband hadn't returned from the war? 

She glared at me. Yep, she'd notice alright. 

"Done with the chores?" she asked in a voice that told me she already knew the answer. As far as I could tell I had three choices, lie through my teeth, tell her the truth or deflect like my name was John Tracy and I was late home. 

"Well, there was a lot on the list…"

"Oh knock it off," she huffed. "I heard everything."

I slumped, there was no deflecting this.

"I'm very disappointed in you, young lady."

"I know, I'm sorry, I-" 

"I can't believe you let yourself get dragged into one of their idiot schemes. I expected better of you."

"I'm sorry, I know I let you down."

"Too right you did, I've been waiting the best part of five years for them to tell me the truth, I had hoped you'd call them out on it but they ended up with another conspirator. Perfect."

"I said I was sorry, I- wait, you knew?" 

Grandma rolled her eyes in a move that was so very John. "Of course I knew, how stupid do you think I am?" 

I sighed in relief that I wouldn't have to pull off this charade any longer, hell, I'd only been involved for five minutes and it felt like a year. "I did wonder, I mean, I noticed straight away and I don't even know that much about plants. When did you find out?" 

"Not long after they started," she shrugged. "I just didn't tell them."

"John did say they bought the best quality plants they could find," I said, feeling the need to defend my man and his idiot brothers. 

"Oh, they did that alright. They are beautiful and less work than the real thing, honestly I liked my plants because they gave me something to do, they kept me occupied but when this organisation took off I didn't need them any more."

"Then why not tell them?" 

"Because it was funny to watch them pretend to water them every week, plus I was waiting for then to realise how stupid they had been."

"Which they didn't," I supplied. 

"No, they didn't, which surprised me, I thought I'd raised them to be smarter than that." 

"They were pretty smart with it," I argued. 

"Smart? They replaced every plant that died."

"Yeah, that was kinda the point."

"Which would have been fine, if they had paid attention to the plants themselves. Roses that bloom for four years are a dead giveaway."