#i feel the need to clarify he is NOT doing the dance from that wretched ankha thing.

[cubicpeebles]

ibisPaint just added the ability to animate stuff! Have a goober grooving (quite begrudgingly by the looks of it).

[cutiecusp]

Lily.

(A 141 Regency AU, Kyle Garrick)

Dearest reader (I've always wanted to say that!) I've taken a little hiatus from writing my Regency AU, but I'm back, and this time we meet our dear Lord Garrick. With the Season dimming, I think we need a little scandal.

A/N historical inaccuracies. Kissing, touch, PinV, raw emotions, brothers best friend trope. 'Caught', MDNI!!!!!

"It's not fair that you go away to Paris and come back a changed person!" You fume at your brother, hands gripping your lace gloves tightly.

The carriage sways as it travels to your parents home, your home, as you are still paraded about the Ton like a pig to market.

Your brothers laugh filled the carriage, before he looks at you in mirth.

"Dear sister, it's not like I was gallivanting around Paris, neck deep in women." He pauses.

"It was work. You know this."

"But it's Paris.... the dresses, the stories, the food... please tell me you at least tried the food!?" You exclaim.

Nodding, he pulls out a little box from his pocket.

"Here, the rest of your gifts are in the trunk."

You take the box from him gleefully, and pop the top open. Inside was a gorgeous lily pendant attached on a silver chain.

"It's very beautiful, thank you."

He smiles and nods as the carriage draws to the house. You had skipped ahead of everybody, and took the carriage to meet your brother, so you could hear all the latest from Paris, and so far, it hadn't proved fruitful.

After a reunion with the family, you find yourself on the swing in the garden, breathing in the fresh air as you kick your legs out and swing.

"I thought I'd find you here." Came a familiar voice. You turn in the seat to look at Lord Garrick, your brothers best friend. His broad shoulders and chest are covered in a blue velvet jacket, and you find your gaze sweeping his face, his kind smile lighting up his features.

"M'lord." You nod, gesturing to the other swing.

He straddles the wooden seat and keeps his gaze on you.

"I have news. And I wanted you to be the first to know."

Excitement builds up in you. You had harboured feelings on Kyle for a few months or so, but never pressed further, due to the fact he was your brothers best friend.

"I'm going to America. And I'll be engaged on my return."

Your heart drops in your stomach, a fleeting moment crushed in your heart.

"A wife?" You choke out, hoping you don't sound as wretched as you feel.

He nods, seemingly glossing over your question.

"Her name is Anna, and we've been talking a while. Papa thinks a business match is the right way to go."

"What about love?" You blurt, gloved fingers pressed against your lips as your cheeks redden.

"After your brother and I came back from war, we chose to not find love. It's rare, and truth be told, I don't even think it exists." He says firmly, maintaining eye contact with you, an almost puzzled look on his face.

"Why, do you believe in it?" He asks softly.

You clear your throat, sweeping it under the rug.

"I suppose not." You lie, standing to your feet.

"I have to go, M'lord. Have to present myself at the party tonight."

His eyes follow you as you walk back to the house, almost puzzled. Had he said something to upset you?

That evening, you find yourself dancing with Lord Garrick. Dressed in peach coloured finery, you found yourself mentally suffocating at the thought of losing him for good.

"A glass of lemonade?" He offers, noticing you weren't your usual self.

You nod, and he leads you to the table.

"You know, I'm leaving tomorrow."

Your head snaps up.

"Tomorrow?" You clarify, if you thought your heart sank before, it was nothing to how you feel now.

He looked at you, his deep amber eyes searching yours.

"Don't act so surprised, you know I don't want to stay here forever. I know you feel the same."

"Then you should have taken me as your wife." You say boldly, your face flushed.

His gaze darkens, as he steps closer to you.

"You know as well as I do your brother would have my head on a platter if I thought such things." He says, lowly enough for you to hear.

You nod, cheeks aflame.

"I was jesting m'lord." You rush to explain, but he sees the way your gaze flickers to his lips, the grip of your hand on his arm. And it clicks.

"Oh, you have... feelings for me?" Kyle asks, his mouth brushing your ear, as to not let the other party goers hear your conversation.

You fan your face with your matching fan, hoping to cool the blush that's spread over your cheeks and neck.

"N-no, M'lord. It would be inappropriate." You lie.

"I didn't ask if it was inappropriate, petal." He closes the gap between you.

"I asked if you had feelings for me."

You nod, unable to meet his gaze. His eyes darken with desire, as he takes your hand and leads you to the dance floor, etiquette prompting you two to maintain a level of decorum, and the looks from other members of the Ton, urging you to engage with the party.

"I couldn't help it." You say softly.

Your eyes meet his, and you are startled by his intentisity.

"For how long?" He chokes out.

"Since the spring," you admit.

"But, it's November, now." He pulls your body to his, matching the motions of the dance.

You enjoy being held in his arms as you make your way around the room, you bristle at the song ending.

He leads to you the library. The quietest place in the house.

"I'm not an easy man to love." He starts.

"I've seen horrors many dare not dream about. I am scared to give any woman anything in return, for I'm a broken man."

You close the gap between your two bodies, your hands twisting at your fan nervously.

"I'm not afraid of that." You insist.

You brush your body against his, feeling bold as you stand on tiptoe and press a kiss against his soft lips.

"I garnered feelings for you because of the man you are." You explain.

A low growl is pulled from his throat as he returns the kiss, pulling your body flush with his. His hard chest enveloping you as you wraps your arms around his neck.

You let out a whimper as you feel his fingertips push your sleeves down, effectively pinning your arms to your sides as your chest nearly pops out of your corset. You flush with desire as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, along your neckline.

"I'm not a gentle man, petal." He says firmly.

"But, for you I'll try."

You shake your head, you didn't want gentle, you wanted him, you wanted excitement, travel, a chance to explore what this was.

"I'm yours." You say simply, your wide eyes meeting his dark ones.

He pulls on your dress, exposing your breasts to the air, your nipples pebbling due to the cold.

Another whimper is pulled from you as he latches onto the soft skin, his fingers making his way up your skirts, until he finds your sweet spot.

Gasping, you feel his fingers swipe through your sensitive folds, before bringing his hand to your lips.

You suckle on his fingers, not daring to look away. He groans, a deep noise vibrating through you.

"Didn't realise you were so scandalous." He laughs, the sound vibrating through you.

You simply shrug, a blush shattered over your cheeks.

He returns to your collarbone, kissing along your soft skin as he resumes touching your heat.

"So wet for me too, petal." He moans, his fingertip teasing your clit, as he presses a kiss to your open mouth, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, before pulling it into a bite.

You stifle a moan as you feel his fingers dip lower.

"Am I the first?" He pulls away from your lip, his features unreadable.

You nod, and he sighs in contentment before he slips a finger inside you, searching for your sensitive spot.

"Wanna be the only one making you feel this good, petal." He admits, his finger pushing gently on your spot, in a 'come hither' motion.

Flames of pleasure lick deep in your stomach, and you feel yourself spreading your legs a little further.

"More, please." You beg. Your hips rolling against his fingers.

He chuckles softly, adding another one, scissoring his fingers inside of you, causing you to grip his arm tightly.

You start to feel the flickers of an orgasm chase you, your breathing heavy as you melt in Kyle's arms.

"Kyle, please, M'lord." You babble into his chest, as you two find a rhythm that causes your vision to whiten.

You both don't realise, but the noises you have been making have alerted your brother,and as you come undone on Kyle's fingers, your brother bursts into the library.

"You rake." Your brother snarls, pulling Kyle's away from you, allowing you to hastily adjust your and dress your top half quickly. Luckily, Kyle's broad body shielded you, so you didn't flash anyone.

You hear the sound of a table scraping kn the wooden floor as you close your eyes tightly, taking a deep breath.

"Brother, stop!" You call out, grasping the back of the chair for support.

"I.. I have feelings for him."

"I know he's going away tomorrow. I just wanted to allow myself one moment, before he leaves." You say, more to yourself than anything.

"You know he's leaving?" You brother asks.

You nod, moving to stand with him.

"I wish I was going too." You say firmly, putting your hand in Kyle's.

"And what about you?" Your brother turns to Kyle.

"Do you love my sister?"

Kyle looks deeply into your eyes, searching for a reason to stay, a reason that the loss of friendship was worth it.

"I.. I do." Kyle admits.

"You've already sullied her for someone else. I suggest you ask for her hand, before someone else hears." Your brother says softly.

"If you hurt her..."

Kyle nods, knowing the alternative. You both fought together, and know what each other is capable of.

Your brother presses a kiss to your temple, and leaves the room, before popping his head around.

"Lock this door after me." He insists, a smirk on his face.

Kyle locks the door and turns to you.

"I.. I would be honoured if you became mine, petal." He urges, holding your hand to his chest.

You nod, your smile reaching your eyes.

"Where were we?" He asks, his lips finding yours.

Your hands made idle work of his buttons as you stripped him of his coat. He tugs off his cravat and pulls on his collar, allowing his shirt to hang open.

He rids you of your dress, his fingers tracing your spine as he undoes the laces holding the silk to your body.

"Beautiful." He murmurs as he drinks you in. Standing before him in your lacy stays.

You feel his length press against you as he holds you tight to his body, his lips exploring your soft skin. Gathering your remaining skirts in his hands, he pushes them up past your hips, exposing your warm skin to the cool breeze.

Kyle kneels down in front of you and licks a stripe over your sensitive folds, his firm grip holding your legs apart.

"You taste incredible." He says between licks, before his fingers joining his tongue, circling and entering your heat.

Your legs feel like jelly, so he leads you to the nearest stool, before maintaining his worship of you.

You run your fingers through his hair, mindful of how much noise you are making as you feel another climax building up inside you.

Kyle feels you tighten around his fingers as he presses into your spot, encouraging you to let go.

"Come on petal, come around my fingers." He insists, maintaining the speed and force of his actions.

"I want to hear that pretty voice say my name, you can do that, can't you?"

You nod, sobbing his name as your impending orgasm flows through you, knocking the air out of your lungs, you clench around his fingers, your hands gripping his hair as you finish riding his face.

"Oh god." You whisper, leaning back in the chair.

Kyle chuckles, before standing up over you. Your eyeline meets the bulge in his trousers, and your mouth goes dry.

"My stars." You gasp, an eyebrow raised.

"I know of pleasures of the flesh, but how is that.. going to fit?" You ask, a little dumbstruck.

"Do you me to show you, petal?" He asks softly, taking your chin in his hand, making you look at him.

You nod, your tongue darting out to lick yoir bottom lip.

"Do I not need to-" you trail off. You've been told by the maids that when you take a husband, they tend to like it received, also.

"Not this time, petal. In truth, I just want to be inside you, and I don't want to wait a minute later than I have to."

He pulls you up and over to the sofa, before nestling between your legs. Unbuttoning his trousers, he shucks the rest of his clothes off, leaving him fully naked in front of you.

You swallow the lump in your throat, he was beautiful. You shakily remove the rest of your clothes, baring yourself to him.

"If I died right now, I'd be a happy man. You are exquisite." He murmurs in your ear.

"Are you ready for me, petal?" He asks, waiting for confirmation.

At your nod, he gently slides home. You feel a pinch, and pain flashes over your face before you feel that warmth flicker again, Kyle reaches between the two of you, softly stroking your bud, allowing you to relax a little.

Stealing a kiss, he pulls out, and you moan at the loss of him. You lock your ankles around his waist and urge him to continue. You find purchase in the sofa cushions and rock your hips against his, drawing out moans from the pair of you.

"Please." You beg, your.hips snapping to his.

He picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust, your eyes locked onto his.

"I'll get you there, petal." He confirms, as that familiar pleasure finds you again.

You feel it build, thrust after thrust until your body can't take anymore. Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, your body convulsing around his as you soak his cock, but this time it felt different, more intense.

Puzzled, you look down, expecting Kyle to be as confused as you, but you see him smiling.

"You, uh, you squirted, petal." He explains.

"Just means I'm doing my job right"

Your face reddens, you heard about it from the other ladies, almost like a myth. It was akin to relieving yourself apparently. And very, very taboo.

Your embarrassment only lasts a little though, when you see the feral look in Kyle's eye.

"That was amazing, petal. Let's see if I can do it again. Come for me one more time, I want to come with you."

He presses deeper into you, your vision going static, it hurts on a base level, you can practically feel him in your stomach, but it's a pleasurable pain.

You feel his thrusts get sloppy as he nears the end himself, and his fingers come up to tease your nipples.

"Come on, petal. One more." He urges, sending shock waves of pleasure to your sensitive bud as you clench around him for the last time, Kyle following you after.

You lie there, panting against the sofa, as he pulls out of you, before pulling you into his arms, lacing his fingers through yours, and placing kisses on your temple.

"So.. forget America, shall we go to Paris?" He laughs.

"I'd be honoured" you reply.

Fishing his pinky ring off, he places it on your ring finger.

"Let's travel the world, future wife."

You nod with a smile.

"Lets"

...........................

A/N I couldn't stop writing this once I started. I absolutely loved writing this one. Our last Regency Au will be Price, and will feature a king, a witch and an assassin.... thank you for all of the love on this series!

@xoxunhinged @muneca-lemon-steppa @livingoutsidethetardis @gardenof-venus @misshugs @soraya-daydreams @frudoo @azxulaa @yesornowaitidontknow @enjisbf @thevoiceinyourheadx @shadowdark00 @rynbeerose @lunamoonbby @incredible-walker @identity2212 @pukbadger @urbimom @corvid007 @wordsfromshona @shadows-empress @m00xy @canyonmooncreations @evie-119

[rosegunsdaysfic]

No Feelings

Chapter 1

On the evening of October 29, 1949, Butler felt more wretched than ever before.

Primavera, the organization once dedicated to fighting for their countrymen's rights, was no more. The die was cast. Madame, the symbol of Primavera, had left the stage, and it was unlikely she would return. Calm and level-headed Rose could have turned the tide, stopping the deadly machinery before it was too late. But without her, the new leader was unstoppable. Ensnared in a devil's web of false compassion, he had heeded its counsel and chosen the wrong path, leading to inevitable self-destruction.

Who could have imagined Richard would end up like this—a broken, despairing soul, devoid of purpose? Now he's merely a puppet of vengeance, dancing to the cruel tune of a ruthless, mocking puppeteer. And what of Butler himself?

Perhaps he would compare himself to a slave. A powerless creature, obliged to obey his master without question. A disgusting feeling that Butler seemed to have experienced before—it must have been in one of his worst nightmares. The kind of dream you try to forget as soon as you wake up, breathing a sigh of relief that what you saw wasn't real.

But now the nightmare had become reality, and there was no end in sight.

Drowned in contemplation, Butler was slow to notice the persistent, irritating sound filling his office. A phone call at such a late hour was definitely not the norm. However, Butler had a pretty good idea who it might be—and that made him even less inclined to answer.

But... as if he could simply ignore the call with his personal guard watching him.

“I'm listening,” Butler replied flatly and immediately winced at the chuckle that came from the other end of the line.

“Took you long enough.”

“How can I help you, Major?” Butler asked calmly, or rather indifferently, ignoring the remark. In response, he heard laughter again.

“Drop by my office for a moment.”

“Do you need something?” Butler clarified, although he knew perfectly well what the answer would be.

“Nothing except your presence.”

Gabriel's voice and intonation betrayed his mood—he was clearly amused. To be completely satisfied, he apparently only lacked a listener who would obediently listen to his delusional speeches. Butler once again felt a wave of nausea rise in his throat. “I'll come by as soon as I finish my work.”

Gabriel laughed again. They both knew very well that Butler had practically no work left, and therefore such an excuse was nothing more than a way to stall. Nevertheless, Gabriel did not object. “Alright, I'll wait. But try not to be long.”

The phone was hung up, and Butler let out an irritated sigh. In fact, by this point he had no more even of the tasks assigned to him for show, so he once again immersed himself in studying the long-signed papers. The guard kept casting suspicious glances at him, but remained silent—and that was enough for Butler to ignore him. Minutes ticked by slowly as he leisurely reviewed the documents—however, even so, he reached the end too quickly.

There was no longer any way to pretend to be busy, and, rising from his seat, Butler headed to the major's office. The door was slightly open, and the sounds of a pleasant melody drifted out. The same classical music.

Gabriel was sitting in his chair with his back to the door but reacted instantly to Butler's appearance as he said, “You certainly weren't in a hurry.”

Contrary to expectations, there was no hint of irritation in Gabriel's voice; instead, Butler's tardiness seemed to have amused him. Sighing, Butler looked at his back wearily. “What do you need from me, sir?”

He laughed and finally turned to face Butler—in his hand he held a glass filled with a blood-red liquid. “You don't need to call me that now—we're alone here. Come in and make yourself comfortable,” Gabriel said, gesturing towards the chair in front of him and beginning to search through the desk drawers. Butler obediently sat down and only then noticed a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table, next to which a second glass was placed right away.

“You'll drink with me,” Gabriel declared firmly, filling a glass. 

Butler shuddered. He watched in horror as the dark red liquid poured from the bottle, realizing that this devil was now proposing a toast to the successful completion of today's part of his plan, which had turned into a merciless bloodbath. Butler recoiled and managed to stammer out, “I won't drink.”

“It seems I haven't asked you anything,” Gabriel sneered, his smile twisted. “You'll do as I say, Phil.”

Butler gritted his teeth, swallowing all his objections. With a trembling hand, he took the glass meant for him, but as he lifted it to his lips, he realized he couldn't swallow a drop.

Gabriel, on the other hand, drank deeply and talked incessantly. Butler tried not to listen to his chatter, catching only fragments of phrases—yet these formed complete sentences in his mind all on their own. Everything Gabriel said boiled down to speculations about the future of Primavera and the 'Golden Dragon' society: he seemed convinced that Richard was destined for a swift downfall and death in a pointless war. Gabriel grinned, his amusement evident, and Butler barely restrained himself from tearing that grin off his face.

And yet, he couldn't deny to himself that the major was right. If everything was left as it was, Richard would inevitably meet such a sad fate. Pictures of possible future events, filled with the bloodshed of innocent people, involuntarily formed in Butler's mind, complementing the speech of the gloating demon.

“However,” Gabriel sighed suddenly, sounding almost disappointed, “not everything is going as smoothly as I'd like.”

“Oh?” Butler said, intrigued. “Really? Doesn't everything always turn out exactly as you expect? What could possibly be going wrong?”

“The fact that I couldn't finish off Madame Rose.”

At these words, something snapped inside Butler. His heart pounded, and it felt like boiling blood was surging through his veins. Meanwhile, Gabriel continued, “Besides, she's been hidden so well that I can't get to her. For now, she's helpless, but… who knows what she might do in the future. I really hope she doesn't decide to interfere and ruin my plan, otherwise… it will be very unpleasant.”

Even though he spoke those words, a disgusting, sinister smile crept across his face, clearly revealing his intentions: if he somehow found out where Rose was hiding, he would kill her immediately. Butler flinched nervously, staring at Gabriel with a tense gaze. Noticing his reaction, Gabriel raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Is something wrong, Phil?”

“Just leave Rose alone,” Butler hissed, his body trembling with rage. “Isn't it enough that your men almost killed her, that she's… practically dying now?” His chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and he fell silent, his hand clamped over his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was quavering, “Forget about her, she clearly poses no threat to you anymore. It's uncertain if she'll even survive.”

Gabriel scrutinized Butler from head to toe, then grinned and raised a glass of blood-red liquid to his lips. “Well, well. I know I once asked you about your feelings for Madame Rose, but now I'm starting to think you were actually in love with her.”

Butler didn't answer. He didn't want to admit to any particular feelings for Rose, even to himself, and even less so to Gabriel. He couldn't manage to regain his composure—he was trembling so violently that his teeth chattered audibly in the silence.

Unexpectedly, Gabriel's expression changed: his gaze softened slightly, and a hint of a benevolent smile twisted his lips. “No need to be so alarmed, Phil. I'm just considering the possibilities. If your precious Rose truly ceases to be a hindrance, then I won't harm her.”

Though Gabriel spoke in a tone that seemed sincere, Butler knew better than anyone how skilled he was at lying with a straight face.

“You haven't taken a sip yet,” Gabriel suddenly noticed, glancing at the glass Butler was still clutching. “It's like you're trying to find something in the wine,” he added, laughing.

Butler set the glass down on the table right away, deciding it was time to give up on the futile attempt to drink the liquid. “I can't drink this,” he confessed, hoping the major would leave him alone. But…

“What a shame,” Gabriel sighed dramatically, refilling his glass almost to the brim with the blood-red wine. “I was just thinking it would be nice to drink to the well-being of your sweet little sister, but you don't want to join me.”

Butler gritted his teeth again in impotent fury. Of all Gabriel's remarks, he hated the mentions of Ange the most. They always struck a nerve, no matter how hard he tried to remain calm and ignore such obvious provocations.

Now, he reached for the abandoned glass and, without looking at the contents, drained it in one gulp. He couldn't help but note that the wine tasted completely ordinary—what else could he expect?

A smug smile played on Gabriel's lips as he drained his own glass, his eyes narrowed on Butler.

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic. chapter twelve: the desire to devour

word count: ~10.3k rating: m warnings: naughty language, .000002 seconds of spiciness (but not really), john goes "we were vibing, right? we had the vibes? right?" for like the entire last half. also mentions of self-harm and elliot's previous trauma. notes: hi friends! i hope you enjoy this chapter! this is going to be the last sort of in-between chapter before we really get into it, and from here it's going to go faaaaast. i had a lot of fun writing it and feeling out these different dynamics. not to mention john being a gigantic fuckhead (but like what is new, lmao). special thank you as always to my wifey and beta reader @starcrier for your impeccable eyeballs, and also to @vasiktomis and @shallow-gravy for lending their eyes as well because i did fuss a bit with this chap. i would be lost without y'all. thank you everyone for your love and support, esp with comments! it really fills my heart so so much to hear back from you, and i am always in the market for friends so do not be afraid to reach out to me <3

She is twenty-five.

She’s twenty-five, and it's her first full day of work. Or, it was; now, she's sitting in the Spread Eagle listening to Pratt talk about everything that's happened while she's been gone, because he'd said, c'mon, let me take you out tonight. He grins a boyish, toothy grin at her—the same kind that's mimicked in the multiple school dance photos her mother covets—and tries to sound nonchalant when he asks how she liked being in the city.

It's hard not to think about how this is the first place she had ever met John Seed, then-Duncan, and how it feels like it's spoiled the whole place for her.

Elliot redirects her attention as best as she can to what it is Pratt is saying. He's fishing for information. They've always been each other's safety net, the person they can fall back on when all else fails. School dances. Picking partners in class. Graduation walking buddies. He'd driven her to the airport when she left for the Academy, even. But even though she knows he's trying to figure out if she's still a safety net, Elliot can't disguise the way thinking about Mason makes her feel—disgusting—so she brings the beer bottle to her mouth and takes a swallow.

The result is her face scrunching up. Pratt laughs.

“Geez, Elli, slow down,” he says, his smile crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Bet money you're still a lightweight. When'd you start drinking beer, anyway?”

“I didn't,” she manages out around the taste, swallowing thickly. “I just won't let your money go to waste.”

He shrugs, as if to say, could, if you wanted, and swivels on the stool a little. He wants to press again—she can tell—but seems to have the good sense not to, instead busying his mouth with his own beer.

“Mama said Whitehorse let you right on,” Elliot says casually, trying to ignore the twinge of envy in her voice.

Pratt shrugs again. “He's known my dad a long time.”

“Known my mom too,” Elliot replies, dry.

“Yeah, well.” Pratt pauses, and sounds a little smug when he says, “Just because your mama likes me doesn’t mean I don’t know how she is to everyone else.”

“Likes you, does she?”

“Obviously,” the brunette replies confidently. “She still keeps all those photos of us. Remember senior year, she had all of her gal pals over when we were getting ready for prom—”

“Ugh.”

“—took us about 45 minutes before we were exactly where she wanted to take pictures—"

She rolls her eyes. Pratt grins, and then bumps his shoulder against hers. He says, “Aw, c’mon. Not so bad, is it? Having your mom like me?"

Elliot can feel the flush spreading under her cheeks. Not because she's embarrassed, or flustered, but because the beer sitting in her stomach feels rotten, and because Pratt's looking at her with the same kind of eyes he did before—always, always there's the before—and she doesn't know how to say I'm not her anymore, I'm not that girl, I'm different and changed and I don't know how to go back.

It doesn't matter. If Pratt can see it on her face, he doesn't let it show; just pats her shoulder and pretends he doesn't see the way she flinches from his hand swinging into her peripheral, pretends he doesn't notice the way she covers it up by swallowing another mouthful of beer she doesn't want to drink.

“Hudson’s really glad to have you back,” he says after a minute, when she doesn’t confirm nor deny that it’s not so bad knowing her mom thinks he’s a fine enough person. “Been talking about it nonstop.”

A smile creeps its way onto her face. “I’m glad to be back. With her, especially.”

“Yeah, you two always been thick, huh?”

She nods, swallows more beer, and Pratt rolls his eyes and snags the bottle out of her hand.

“Don’t keep drinking if you don’t like it,” he tells her, and then finishes it off himself, setting the empty bottle on the countertop with a grimace. “Can’t have people telling Whitehorse I bullied the probie into drinking.”

“‘Probie’,” she scoffs. “I could kick your ass.”

“Bullshit!”

“Could’ve done it before, Pratt.”

“Now that is lies and slander.”

Elliot only grins at him, the only time since coming back sans Joey getting her from the airport that it’s been a genuine thing; lopsided and a little sloppy but a grin nonetheless. Pratt finishes his own beer now, coughing a little into his fist before he blurts out, “I’m glad, too.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“That you’re back,” Pratt clarifies. “Y’know—nice to have my friend back. Didn’t like sendin’ you off to the big city, anyway.”

He doesn’t know. He can’t know, because her mother won’t talk about it and Joey would never divulge what it was that had brought about her speedy return—but even though he doesn’t know about the way she has to swallow back a flinch every time he waves his hand in her peripheral, or the way the smell of beer on a man’s breath makes her stomach clench with anxiety, or how her hands are so fucking cold all the time because her heart hammers in her chest, the way he says that (Didn’t like sendin’ you off to the big city, anyway) feels a little like vindication.

“S’okay,” she murmurs, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Came back in one piece, didn’t I?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The scent of roses wafted over her in waves. The sound of bathwater murmuring against the sides of the porcelain tub rippled each time she moved, each time she used the grip of her hands against the lip of the sides to sink herself under; her knuckles went cold with the ferocious grip, but when she went under she was submerged in quiet once more. Blissful, serene, quiet; just what she wanted.

Elliot pulled herself out of the water. Downstairs, she could hear her mother’s voice, spiking frantic even through the floors and the two closed doors that kept her separated.

“...years, Mr. Seed, I have lost years of my life agonizing over what she did to herself...”

She dipped below the water, closing her eyes. No sound; no shrill noise; just the heavy, bloated static that existed underneath the surface of the bath. Only her and the baby.

It occurred to her, absently, that she needed to start picking out names for the baby. Now that they had a guess at what the gender was, they’d have to decide about a name; not only a first, but a middle, too—the last name—

“...find it quite intriguing, actually, that the second she comes back to me after being involved with your kind that she’s got all this—this—”

Oh, don’t say it, Elliot thought tiredly, closing her eyes.

“—tear, just wretched wear and tear, Mr. Seed, don’t you? Don’t you find that intriguing?”

John was sitting down there, enduring a thorough verbal lashing, and she hadn’t even asked him to. She’d said, I don’t care if she thinks it was me, and he’d guided her upstairs and cupped her face and kissed her, long and open-mouthed, and swept his thumb over her cheek. Now, Elliot could hear the sound of his voice—calmer, empathetic, like just knowing that her mother was hysterical was giving him some kind of control over himself—but that he was speaking in a normal tone meant that his words didn’t come through quite so clearly.

She heard the sound of her mother saying, “I suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re not bothered in the least?” just before she dipped under the water again.

What was she going to name the baby? Did she even have an idea of what kinds of names she liked? Exhaustion pulled at the edges of her attention; she thought, I’m too tired to come up with a baby name, and gripped the edges of the bathtub harder. More fierce, more firm; grip and pull, maybe spill the entire bathtub over, tilt the clawed feet until it hit the tiled floor and the porcelain broke and the rose-scent water flooded the bathroom, her room, the hallway.

Then they’d have to leave. Then they couldn’t stay, surely, in a house flooded with rose water.

Fingers brushed over hers where they’d gone white at the edges of the tub. She pulled herself out of the water to find John sitting there, knelt at the side of the tub—not unlike the way he’d sat back at her mother’s house in Hope County, when she’d drank too much in the bathtub and said that he could mark her.

Because that’s what it had been. As much as she had wanted it, as much as she had enjoyed it, no matter what John said—he had been marking her as his. Like that Oscar Wilde poem.

The same sin binds us.

Elliot brushed the water from her eyes and settled her head back against the tub, regarding him. He looked less bothered than she thought he would, having sat through her mother’s grilling and interrogation—though he did look like he wanted to say something, like maybe it was sitting, burning into ash in his mouth, the way she could see the flex of his jaw and the way his free hand clenched and loosened.

Ignoring the nagging feeling that he wanted to ask her what she’d been doing under the water, and the even more bothersome knowledge that she had, at some point, become painfully aware of his body language, Elliot said, “We have to think of a name.”

John blinked at her. Less than an hour ago, he’d been saying Of course I’d come for you, I love you, with or without the baby I love you, and she’d been sobbing into his arms and clinging to him.

He said, “And a middle name.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

A smile finally ticked the corner of his mouth, his fingers uncurling hers from the edge of the tub. Reluctantly, she let him.

“Your mother’s upset.” He paused. “She still wants you to play nice for her Christmas party, but she’s upset.”

“I know,” she replied sullenly. The despair of her shame, which had at once both overwhelmed her and hollowed her out, had dissipated in the wake of her indignation. What would she know, that vicious thing inside of her said, replaying the way her mother’s expression had crumpled. What would she know of our suffering? What would she know of our pain? ‘Wretched wear and tear’, like we haven’t been torn up for ages, like she didn’t throw us to the wolves and scoff in disgust when we came back bloodied and battered.

She wanted to be angry, really angry, but like most things that had to do with her mother, Elliot found herself more exhausted than anything. Scarlet had always found it impossible to comprehend the scars she’d given herself, had always claimed to feel disconnected to the ways Elliot had searched out meaning and comfort.

Absently, Elliot wet her lips and let her gaze flicker up to where John had perched himself beside the tub. He looked mighty pleased with himself, having finally gotten his words out. I love you, he’d said, palm flat against her window, I love you, with or without the baby.

And John, I want a home with you.

And John, Marriage is hard work, but I know you’re just the woman for the job.

And John, No way baby, I’m fucking it for you.

Blood rushed through her head, thunderous. John was saying something to her, but the words felt distant, and far away, and everything felt like it was underwater when she moved—not just the parts of her submerged in the bath, but all of it, the air too-thick and dragging on her skin and pulling her down slow as molasses. She blinked a few times as she disentangled their hands and reached for the towel, but John pulled it off of the hook first.

She watched him. She watched his mouth move, and his brows pull and furrow together at the center of his forehead, and the way his breath rose and fell in his chest, pushing and pulling the Sloth scar scratched across his sternum. Just like me, dream John had said, gripping her blood-covered hands, you’re just like me.

His voice, muffled and bogged down by the blood rushing through her ears, quirked up at the end. Elliot’s eyes darted back to his, and she asked, “Sorry, what?”

“The water’s cold,” he replied, waving the towel a bit. “Aren’t you getting out?”

“Yeah,” Elliot murmured. She felt hollow. Her fingers itched. She wanted—

John caught her hand as she stepped out of the bathtub, steadying her while her free hand gathered the towel up against her front. Goosebumps prickled across her skin, the lukewarm temperature of the bath still lingering; his fingers interlaced with hers, and she used it to steady herself.

He was close. They were close. A part of her resented it—that she let him be so close to her, that she let him kiss her and fuck her but mostly that she let him hold her when she cried, miserably, that she wanted to go home. Because after everything, after all of it, Hope County still felt—

She closed her eyes. Of course it still felt like home. Joey was there; now she knew Pratt was, too.

And among all of that, if she waded through the weeds spreading in her mind, if she hacked and cut them away, there was John.

“What are you thinking about?” John murmured, his cologne washing over her, their noses brushing. Her eyes fluttered open and she let out a little breath, that wanton little creature in her head chanting it over and over. There’s John, there’s always been John, nobody will love us with this much red in our ledger. No one but him.

“You,” she managed. Her head felt swimmy, the words coming out of her mouth sounding like a stranger’s—thick with want. John’s eyes flickered up to hers, having fixed on her mouth.

“If you want something, Ell,” he rumbled, the pressure of his fingertips against the back of her neck guiding her forward just a little but not all the way, “you only—”

Elliot leaned forward and kissed him, her hand lifting so that she could curl her fingers into his hair, the towel slipping to the floor. His body had tensed, like he wasn’t expecting it—like he was waiting for something else—and she thought about the way he’d kissed her with Kian’s blood in her mouth, the way he’d been just rampant with desire, the way the way the way—

Her teeth caught his lower lip, a little sharper than she’d intended, and his hand gripping her wrist tightened and he moaned, and she felt that same little thrill as before surge through her. It’s my magic, too, the itch in her fingers subsiding when she dug her nails in and pulled his hair a little, parting her lips against his; John leaned into her, crowding her up against the counter in front of the mirror, the hand at the nape of her neck threading into damp hair.

“Ell,” he said against her mouth, his voice rougher than before and hands planted on the counter on either side of her, “what are you doing?”

She murmured, “Stop talking,” and kissed him again, fingers clumsily working through the buttons on his shirt—her voice came out even but everything else about her felt wobbly, unsteady, craving craving craving the way it felt to have him begging her. Anything, to feel in control. Anything, to feel whole. Dig, and dig, and when you hit the bottom you keep digging some more, right?

What do we do with grief, right?

Burn and erase the image of her mother’s disgust and horror at seeing a part of her she might actually like, scrape it from her mind, dig her trenches deep deep deep and hunker down where she could feel safe, where she could feel strong; soon she would be home and—

And John’s teeth snagged her lower lip in retribution, sparking violent and red-hot behind her eyes with pleasure lighting her neurons on fire.

“Off,” she ground out against his mouth, pushing helplessly at the shirt she’d only halfway unbuttoned. The brunette grinned; his hands resumed her work, and she instead devoted her attention to the belt at his waist, yanking at it as John’s face dropped to her neck, hot breath fanning across her skin teeth dragging against her pulse point to pull a moan out of her.

There was a split second between John discarding his shirt on the floor and gripping her hips to lift her onto the countertop, his mouth seeking hers out again as she wound her arms around his neck. She had never been completely naked and felt not vulnerable at all, felt more in control—but she did, now, when she grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled and he moaned her name, a little frantic, Ell, Ell, hellcat, he said into their kiss, let me let me, greedy and wanting as he glided fingers up along the inside of her thigh.

He tensed, like he was going to drop to his knees, and she kept her hand in his hair and said, “Don’t.”

“Hm,” is what he replied, “pulling on my hair, ordering me to take my clothes off—”

“I’m about to tell you to shut up again.”

“—but won’t let me eat you out?” John grinned against her mouth, the scent of his cologne—expensive, stupid shit, but it never failed to feel like it was overwhelming her senses—washing over her. “What is it, baby? Want me to say please?”

Yes, something wicked inside of her said, John’s eyes lifting from her mouth to hers, narrowing playfully. Yes, I’d like that, I’d like to hear you say it like that.

“I know you,” he purred. He dug his nails into her hips, a sound—the wanting kind—trying to crawl its way up her throat. “Know exactly what you want from me. Yeah? So, Ell, won’t you please—”

There was a sharp knock at the door, a pause, and then: “Elliot?”

A near-silent laugh billowed out of John, stifled into her neck when her mother’s voice came through the door. Elliot’s eyes fluttered; her fingers, knotted in John’s hair, loosened and smoothed down the back of his neck, the intoxicating tension relaxing just a little. Heat had coiled in the hollow of her chest, spreading warm fingers at the same leisurely pace that John’s hand drifted up to her hip, his mouth finding the hollow of her jaw.

“I can’t believe her,” she muttered. “Yes?”

“Miss West is here, with her brother.” Scarlet’s voice was tight. “Returning your vehicle.”

Fuck. Elliot sighed, her eyes closing for a second while she tried to gather her thoughts. It was difficult to focus with John’s breath on her neck and his hands on her skin and that fucking cologne—and boy, did she not want to dwell on the fact that he’d shown up with barely anything but somehow also remembered to pack his stupid fucking cologne. But there was a different, special kind of warmth that spread through her when she realized that Sylvia was coming to check on her.

“Hair’s wet,” she called after a moment, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Fine.” There was another pause, and then her mother’s voice, scathing even through the door: “Ensure you are put together, Elliot.”

John murmured against her neck, “So no hickeys, then?” and she swatted his shoulder, rolling her eyes and sliding off of the counter. He seemed reluctant to let her disembark, thumb sweeping the slope of her hip before he dropped down—just far enough to plant a kiss on the gentle slope of her tummy. It was—sentimental, unseating her with incredible ease.

And then he ruined it by saying, “Your mommy won’t let me fuck her filthy, but I hear the second trimester throws a woman’s hormones through the roof, so we’ll see how long that lasts,” to her bump as he grabbed the towel from the floor to offer to her.

She snatched it from his hands, wrapping it around herself. “Don’t say that shit to the baby. You think I won’t end your life?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he offered, head cocked to the side. “Leaving the hickeys, anyway, I mean. Well, and the second part too. About sex. Not the murderous part. Actually, you know I find it—”

Choosing to ignore the latter statement, Elliot narrowed her eyes. “You’d risk Via’s opinion of you dropping so severely?”

“You know what they say.” John spread his hands, almost in a gesture of helplessness; though she knew he was far from it. “Old habits die hard.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“She’s killing all of my angels!”

Faith’s voice was sharp, piercing; Isolde’s fingers fluttered over the bridge of her nose to fend off an impending headache, pen held poised above the notepad where she’d been writing down her thoughts but had paused in time for the girl’s interjection. She couldn’t stand a messy page—ink smears, jarred letters. Unacceptable.

Two hours ago, she’d had Jacob drive her out to where the service was strongest. A flood of emails and texts from her family had been waiting to overload her phone. Her dad, things are looking poorly, where are you?, her sister, I’ve been trying to reach you for days.

“Jacob,” the blonde plunged on, interrupting her train of thought, “you have to do something. They’re being—gutted like fish!”

“You should have locked them down,” Jacob told her. “And you’re not the only one losing things.”

“I put—” Faith cut herself off, clearly taking a moment to compose herself before she pitched her voice low and said, “I put just as much work into them as you do into yours.”

The red head’s voice bloomed with annoyance when he said, “Oh, did you?”

“No fighting, please,” Joseph called from where he sat next to her. His voice was even, elbows rested on his legs and fingers interlaced in thought. “I know this is stressful. But you must keep your faith in God.”

“Santi told me that—whoever she is has been leaving their corpses all around!” Faith’s voice pitched high with distress, now, sweeping around Jacob to come to where they had sat, big doe eyes wide. “We have to do something. Please, Father—I don’t want our people to wonder if they’re going to be next.”

Joseph paused, looking pensive for a moment; Isolde thought he might have been trying to figure out how he wanted to phrase something, but before he could speak, Isolde looked at Jacob and said, “You were going to hunt her down anyway, weren’t you?”

The eldest Seed’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you start with me too, Sol.”

“Get some fresh air,” she replied curtly, “go for a drive, clear your head. Eliminate a problem. You’ve been wearing a hole in the floors anyway; put that energy into being productive.”

“P—” Jacob’s voice spiked, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

He was agitated. She could tell—Pratt, and the phone call with the deputy in Georgia, and the Hunter on some kind of one-man rampage. But more importantly, Isolde thought, Jacob was agitated because there had not been a single conversation between him and Joseph since their argument.

Well, not even an argument. Just a lashing. A public one.

Isolde scooted her chair back from the table that had been set up at the front of the chapel, setting her pen down and stepping away. Her hand landed on the crook of Jacob’s elbow as she passed, and though he made a noise that implied disdain, he followed—not without shrugging her hand off by the time they got to the front doors of the chapel, leaving the other two to talk in low, murmured voices.

“You have got to stop letting this get to you,” she hissed.

“Nothing is ‘getting’—”

“Listen to me,” Isolde interjected. “I’ve been keeping as close an eye on the news as I have been on you. Things are—” She paused, mouth twisting around the words. “There is no room for you lot to be bloody fighting with each other. Do you understand me? This has moved far past needing to prepare PR and build a legal defense.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked suspicious. “So why are you still here then, Sol?” he asked.

The words burned insult in her chest. Why are you still here, stinging fresh and hot, because it was a fair question. It was the most fair question. Unlike any of these people, she had a family outside that she still loved. Her sister, and her parents. She should have told John and all of the Seeds to go fuck themselves, to enjoy the end of the world, while she went to be with her family.

But she wasn’t. She was here. Doing—this. Finding fresh new ways for Joseph to connect with his people to keep their morale high, keeping the infighting at bay to make sure they looked like a united front to everyone, second doomsday cult included.

“My parents will take care of Avery. You know they’re close with—government,” she replied after a minute, shaking off the unease. “And I told John that I would.”

He snorted. “John says jump, you ask how high?”

“No,” she bit out, “I say jump and you kiss the fucking ground I’m standing on because I cobbled together what the fuck is left of your congregation.” Before Jacob could say anything, Isolde added, “My hands are full, Jake. Do not add to my pile.”

Dark brows furrowed, his mouth thinning in disdain. He clearly wanted to say something. But true to his nature, Jacob straightened back and settled himself before he said, “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine,” he reiterated with his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to the Veteran’s Center.”

“That doesn’t sound like where we heard about the killings happening last,” Isolde protested, eyes narrowing.

“But she was there,” he replied. “Or someone was. Someone was there enough to steal my files.”

“Your—” Isolde snapped her mouth shut, sucking her teeth as she glanced back at Joseph and Faith; haloed in the dim lighting of the chapel, she could see them looking back at Jacob and herself expectantly. She wondered how much they could hear, from there.

Turning her attention back to Jacob and pitching her voice down in volume, Isolde hissed, “I don’t think prioritizing files is the best move right now.”

“Thank you,” Jacob idled, “for your input.”

“Fuck you.”

“Have fun,” he added, opening the door and letting in a waft of biting, cold air, before gesturing to the Book of Joseph on the table that she’d had her nose stuck in. All the better to make Joseph’s sermons hit home harder, after all. “You know—with your light reading.”

Isolde narrowed her eyes, watching him trudge down the steps for just a second before she said, “Jacob—”

“Yes, Isolde?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t get shot.”

For a moment, he looked almost surprised at her words—but it was only a moment before he said, “Don’t worry, I’m taking Vidal. He makes a suitable meatshield.”

“God, he’s a talker.”

A tiny ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Jacob’s lips, before he said, “John and the deputy should be making their way here any day now.”

Isolde grimaced. “I was there for the phone call.”

“Are you going to leave?” Jacob pressed, expression stiffening again. “When he does?”

She paused, clearing her throat and shifting on her feet. I should, were the words that wanted to come out of her mouth. I should go. I only came down here because John wasn’t here. I should go, and get back to my life, and maybe get to my family and try to stay out of the crossfire and—

After a heartbeat, she said, “I don’t know.”

Jacob shrugged, as if to say, see? Told you, though to what he could be referring to, she had no idea; she only knew that she didn’t like the way he swung around and sauntered out of the chapel, leaving her alone in the tepid warmth with Joseph and Faith’s eyes on her in favor of the blistering cold outside. Snow had continued to dump throughout the day and night, and had only just let up recently; the members of Eden’s Gate—those who had survived the Family’s relentless assaults, and those that had been pulled from the bunkers—had been tirelessly shoving pathways, only to have their work tidily undone each night.

Fingers brushed the palm of her hand. Isolde startled; she glanced back just as fingers interlaced with hers to be met with sweet, bright eyes and Faith’s adoring attention planted on her.

“It means so much to me,” Faith murmured, “that you would help. Not just me, but all of us.”

Soli watched the blonde for a moment, trying to gauge. The physical closeness was not something she was accustomed to; carefully, she disentangled their fingers, skin prickling with unease. When she glanced up, Joseph’s eyes were on them, on Faith’s fingers falling from her hand but skimming the inside of her palm in a lingering touch of affection.

He was always doing that. Watching. Watching, and waiting, and pinning each movement and gesture and thought and word out perfectly like the wings of a butterfly, just the color he liked and just the shape.

“Don’t thank me,” Isolde replied, mustering a smile and brushing the hair from her face.

“It’s my job.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Hey, Miss Honey, John!”

Wyatt’s cheerful voice broke through the late-afternoon chill; the sun setting early, people’s breath coming out in puffs of smoke. It all felt oddly normal, given the circumstances of the morning and the way she’d forgotten to call Sylvia once she got home, and that her friend had fished up a reason to come by the house and make sure she hadn’t—

Well.

Still, if there was any remnant of the morning in Sylvia’s heart, it didn’t show in her face, and it certainly didn’t show in Wyatt’s. Instead, both blondes beamed at her, radiant, the second she came out with fuzzy, fresh-from-the-blow-dryer hair and swaddled up to her chin in thick fabrics to fend off the cold.

And, truthfully, to hide the bump. John had reminded her of it, and even though the moment had been a...good one, it had also reminded her she hadn’t expressed this truth to Sylvia or Wyatt. As John closed the door behind her and jogged down the steps,

“Howdy,” Ell greeted, albeit a bit awkwardly thanks to her stuck-somewhere-nowhere-sort-of-accent. “You didn’t have to drive it back all the way out here, you know.”

“Sure we did.” Wyatt chirped. “Wouldn’t be very neighborly of us if we let it sit and the battery died out, now would it?”

“No,” John demurred after a moment even as Elliot’s cheeks went warm, “I suppose not.”

“You all recovered from this morning?” Via asked cheerfully, purposefully avoiding the actual question. Elliot shifted on her feet. John’s hand skimmed the small of her back, and even through the layers of fabric, it felt warm; she wondered if this was what it would have been like for them, had their life been normal. Had John been truthful with her from the get-go. Now, with everything laid out between them—the lies unearthed and only the brutal, unapologetic knowledge that they wanted each other, in one way or another—it felt like they might have been normal. Sometime, somewhere, someplace else.

It was still hard to swallow, all of it. The lies and the now-truths and the knowledge that she did, in fact, want.

“Oh, yeah,” Ell replied faintly. “Took a bath and...” She tried for a smile. “Decompressed.”

“That what smells so good?”

“Y’all get that tired from dress shoppin’?” Wyatt tsked, having pulled his coat out of the jeep and started to pull it on. He grinned at her and skillfully dodged a side-swipe from Sylvia; he had a good foot of height on her—and Elliot—so it wasn’t difficult. The siblings fussed for only a moment before Sylvia managed to fetch the Jeep’s keys from Wyatt’s coat pocket and held them out to Elliot, puffing.

She was in the middle of saying, “Your keys, madame,” when John’s head tilted and he muttered, “Now what is this?”, drawing her attention to the end of the drive. A police cruiser made its way slowly down the drive, carefully pulling up behind the Jeep.

Not beside it. Not further up toward the garage, not on the other side of the four of them chatting. Behind it. Blocked in.

Sheriff Pritchard stepped out, shuffling a little as he adjusted the black, fur-trimmed jacket on his shoulders and closed the driver side door. He’d come alone, which made Elliot certain he wasn’t here to arrest her—and what a ludicrous thought, that he might have considered it a possibility, because the mere mental image of Pritchard grabbing her arm and keeping his eyes in his head made a hysterical kind of laugh want to bubble out of her.

Not me, not me and not my baby, that thing inside of her said, lifting its hackles and baring its teeth when Pritchard began to saunter over. Not my baby.

“Afternoon, you two. And Wests,” Pritchard greeted as he drew closer. He’d earned himself a curious murmur from Sylvia. “Havin’ a little shindig out here, Miss Honeysett?” Elliot opened her mouth to respond, but he lifted his hands quickly in defense. “‘M sorry, forgot myself. Mrs. Seed.”

It caught her off-guard, sucked the air right out of her lungs. It was one thing to hear her mother say John is Elliot’s husband, to hear her say John is my son-in-law, but it was another entirely to hear herself referred to as Mrs. Seed. It had never, ever been that she was John’s wife, except out of his own mouth, but now—

John seemed eager to engage with Pritchard, because he said, “Something that you needed, sheriff?”

“Yes, actually. Believe it or not, I ain’t in the business of drivin’ out to the rich part of town just for shits and giggles,” Pritchard replied coolly. “Your mama home, Elli?”

“Probably resting,” Sylvia offered, smiling politely. “We just finished dress shoppin’ for her Christmas Party not but an hour ago.”

“Yeah,” Pritchard rumbled, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Heard about your little trip to the boutique today.”

John asked irritably, “Do you need to smoke that right now?”

Elliot swallowed thickly. Her lashes fluttered, eyes desperate to close; the warmth that had flooded her face now felt like it verged on feverish, threatening to make her head swim again. This was bad. This was bad-bad, chop her hair off and run run run again bad, the kind of bad that made a girl change her name and burn her birth certificate and make sure that nobody would ever be able to find her again.

“I don’t,” she began, “think mama’s feeling up to visitors right now.”

Pritchard eyed her, taking a puff of his cigarette while completely glazing over John’s pointed question. “Imagine not. You know, you been a hot topic of conversation lately, Mrs. Seed. Gotten loads of questions about you. Lady from out of town, Federal Marshals. I don’t like folks sniffin’ around my town, you know, especially not the fuckin’ Feds, but it’s gotta make me wonder.” The smoke curled out from his nose, the smoke of a lazy, self-righteous dragon wafting around her.

“Sheriff,” John continued tightly, clearing his throat, “you’re going to need to put that out.”

“We’re outside, Mr. Seed. You ain’t ever seen someone smoke a cigarette outside?”

“Do you make a habit of smoking around pregnant women?” John snapped viciously, and oh, she thought, oh, I didn’t even think of that, because her brain was too busy kicking into overdrive and parse out the absolute confirmation that Federal Marshals were asking after her and strange women, too. Oh, I didn’t even think about the baby.

And then Sylvia said, eyes wide as saucers as she laughed, flustered, “Oh, John, that’s very kind of you, but I’m not—” and her eyes landed on Elliot, and she blinked rapidly.

Wyatt was looking at her, too. Big, big eyes, surely having not only learned that she and John were married but that she was also pregnant in the span of only a few minutes. At least, Elliot didn’t think Sylvia would have divulged that information, and if the shock he was clearly trying to cover up in his expression was any indication, that gut feeling was right.

No, she thought, no, this is not what I wanted. This is not what I wanted at all. It wasn’t his to tell, it wasn’t his to tell, it was mine, my choice, mine alone.

Her gaze snapped to Pritchard. She said, “It’s time for you to leave.”

Pritchard lifted his eyebrows. “That so? Well, good for me I ain’t here to talk to you, missy.”

“Get. Off. My. Property,” she bit out through her teeth. “Scarlet isn’t taking visitors, and I’ll cut the decay out of my own teeth before she makes anything close to the time of day for you.”

Now, his eyes narrowed and the cigarette sat between his fingers, still burning amber at the end. “Excuse me?”

“And tell the fucking Feds whatever you want,” she snapped, fingers curled tightly around the keys until the metal edges dug into the nooks and crannies of her hand. “But whatever you do, get the fuck out of my driveway, sheriff.”

Something flickered in the corner of her vision. John started, “Ell,” and his hand went to her shoulder, but she jerked back from him before he could make much more than a brush of contact.

“Don’t,” Elliot snapped at him, her voice wobbling and the tears—shameful tears—welling up and burning, “touch me.”

“Alright, okay,” Sylvia murmured, “Elliot and I are gonna go inside, and John can—”

“Ain’t here to talk to Mr. Seed,” Pritchard drawled venomously.

“If you’re asking questions about Elliot,” Sylvia replied calmly, taking Elliot’s hand with a firm squeeze, “I can imagine there is no better person to ask than her husband, don’t you think so, Sheriff?”

Pritchard’s eyes were squinted into poisonous little slits, and he took a long drag of his cigarette.

“Mrs. Honeysett won’t be any type of cooperative if you get her up now,” Wyatt chimed in, eyes flickering nervously to Elliot—perhaps both because of the news and because of her outburst. But she didn’t have time to think much about it, because Sylvia was tugging her out of the cluster of folks, ginger and reassuring even as her brother plunged on, “I mean, sheriff, come on—you know how women can be when they’re gotten up too early, let alone they’ve been shoppin’ all day—”

And Pritchard said, “You want I should put my cigarette out now, Mr. Seed?” as Sylvia opened the door,

and John replied with a slick, charismatic kind of venom, “No reason to anymore, smoke to your heart’s content,”

and the door clicked shut behind her and Boomer scampered out from where he’d been snoozing under the dining table.

She had to leave.

She had to go.

She had to get out.

Federal Marshals and strange women asking after her, and now her only two friends in the whole fucking world—

(well, not entirely true, since we still have Pratt, isn’t that right? Isn’t that right, Elli?)

—had just seen her almost go fucking bananas on an officer of the law, had watched her demand he get the fuck out of her driveway for wanting to ask her mother about her, had seen her.

“Hey,” Sylvia said, “you’re alright.”

I’m not, she thought, dropping the keys into the crystal bowl by the door, smearing red against the glass. Her hand stung. She reached with the good, unmarked hand for Boomer absently. His cold, wet nose brushed against it, and he whined, feet tapping against the wood as he bumped her for her attention. I won’t go. I won’t fucking go. I won’t pay the price for what they did to me, what they made me into.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out abruptly, her voice coming out tight. “Sorry that I didn’t—um, tell you. About the—”

“It’s okay,” Sylvia told her quickly, “it’s alright, Elli, it’s not a big deal. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Elli, she said, without knowing what the nickname meant. Elli, Sylvia said, it’s alright, and Joey, right now we need to leave, Elli, and Pratt, geez, Elli, slow down, an affectionate nickname saved only for folks who considered her their friend. Sans Pritchard. Fuck Pritchard.

“Lots of people wait to tell,” Via continued, one hand coming to rest on her shoulder and jarring her out of her thoughts, which were quickly and rapidly devolving back into the urge to march outside and ensure Pritchard was obeying her command. Out out out, something vicious inside of her demanded, we want him out we want him gone.

Elliot said, “Yeah, you’re right,” but she felt far away—not lost, not gone from herself, but thinking. She could pack fast. She could pack fast, and John had brought barely anything, and they could leave right now, her mother none the wiser. They could leave now and be gone and Cameron Burke would have to—

But are we sure it’s Burke? Are we sure it’s Burke and not someone else, come to haul your ass to a fucking psych ward, for what you did in Hope County?

For what you did?

No. She wasn’t sure. She could only hope it was one singular Federal Marshall on her tail, and not an actual piece of the government body. That was all.

But whoever it was that was asking after her—strangers, government officials—it didn’t matter. That old mantra had kicked in again; something has to be done, the same kind of calm before the storm that she’d felt when Joey had been killed, something has to be done.

Something has to be done and I’m going to have to be the one to fucking do it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pritchard dropped the cigarette into the snow and stamped it out with his bootheel, his eyes fixed on John. Sylvia had rushed Elliot inside, but he didn’t think that had been purely necessary—only in the instance they had wanted to keep Pritchard out of a blood bath. Elliot hadn’t been checking out, trying to keep herself together; she had been angry, and he’d had half a mind to let her say and do exactly as she pleased to the man now standing in front of him in the cold.

“She always been that volatile, Mr. Seed?” the sheriff asked.

“Not undeservingly,” John replied tartly, his eyes narrowed. “Did you have specific questions, sheriff, or did you just come by to terrorize my pregnant wife with your theoretical judgment of her soul?”

“More your speed?” Pritchard replied, lifting a brow.

“Pardon?”

“Heard about you Seed boys,” he continued coolly, “and your...” He gestured with a calloused hand vaguely, looking for the right word.

John smiled, with teeth. “Before I grow old, if you don’t mind, sheriff.”

“Proclivities,” Pritchard elaborated, “for religion.”

Fucking Burke, he thought, with no absence of venom; fucking Burke can’t resist the urge to try and fuck up my life when he’d be better off trying to find a place to hunker down for the end of the world.

“We’re red-blooded Americans,” John idled coolly, “freedom of religion goes hand in hand with that.”

“Mr. Pritchard, you wanna get that car started?” Wyatt cut in abruptly, glancing around like he thought maybe the rest of the patrol might be rolling in any minute. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve got any questions for Mr. Seed.”

“That’s sheriff to you, boy,” he snapped. And then, after a heartbeat, he fished his keys out of his pocket and said, “I s’pose I got all the information I needed, after all.”

“Mmhm.”

John had turned back to the house, spotting Elliot and Sylvia through the front window, when Pritchard announced, “You make sure Scarlet gives me a call when she’s recovered from your wife’s antics, Mr. Seed.”

His gaze returned to the sheriff, narrowed. “Certainly, Sheriff Pritchard.”

“But if I don’t hear from you, no worries,” the man continued, opening his car door, “I’ll make another special trip out here.”

“Goody.”

John flashed another grin when Pritchard’s eyes flickered over him. Wyatt said, “Have a safe drive,” and Pritchard slammed his door shut, his cruiser’s engine roaring to life before he began to slowly back out and make a u-turn to head down the long driveway again. There was a moment of silence, stretching between himself and Wyatt that he didn’t feel particularly inclined to break—after all, Wyatt had been taking liberties with Elliot that he shouldn’t have been—before the blonde finally broke the silence.

“Congrats,” Wyatt said after a minute. “About—uh, the baby, I mean. I didn’t know!”

Ah, he thought, feeling a strange little surge of pride at the way the man across from him shifted on his feet with discomfort, and that’s why Elliot’s mad I brought it up. Her friends didn’t know.

Well, it was better this way, after all. He wouldn’t have taken it back even if he’d gotten the chance, knowing what he did now.

“Thank you,” he replied amiably. “It’s certainly a blessing.”

Wyatt’s mouth twisted for a moment, looking like there was something he wanted to say specifically and didn’t know how to say it without foregoing social niceties, but the sound of the front door opening caught both of their attentions.

“Wyatt, you gonna stand out here like a lemming all afternoon or what?” Via called. “Get the car warmed up, you caveman.” She took a few steps down the front stairs and looked at John. “You’re wanted inside, Mr. Seed.”

A very polite way of telling him that Elliot, perhaps, was in the mood to throttle him with her bare hands. Though he didn’t really see the harm in spilling the news—perhaps with Via, sure, but Wyatt? The cowboy? Like that was ever going to be anything.

“Thanks for your help,” John said, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder before he made his way to the front steps. Via hadn’t moved. In fact, her normally polite expression was eerily cool—whatever amicable, feigned interest she had manicured for him in the past seemed to have evaporated in the wake of Elliot’s own fury.

As he neared, he said, “Something else you needed, Miss West?”

Via’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Wyatt, now inside the car, and then back to John. “You must think I’m mighty dumb, don’t you?”

John lifted an eyebrow inquisitively. “If you think I instigated that little outburst on purpose—”

“What I think,” Via replied, “is that you know exactly what she’s capable of handling. Just because you didn’t do it on purpose doesn’t mean you weren’t thinking of letting her physically assault a police officer.”

His easy-going expression flattened. Sylvia, and her seeing, the same kind of uncanny people-reading skills that Joseph had, too. Seeing his delight at knowing that Elliot would have taken on a man a foot taller than her, pregnant, if it meant keeping him away from the baby, if it meant keeping herself out of the grip of a greater power that wanted her in a psychiatric evaluation.

“I want to like you,” Via continued, taking the steps until she reached the bottom, “and I thought maybe you were here to make a real effort. But it seems like you’re the same person you were before, John Duncan.”

The name sent a jolt of red-hot anger flushing down his spine, filling him up suddenly with a sort of molten rage that only the reminder of his adoptive parents could have inspired in him. When Via went to move past him, he snatched her elbow, holding her in place.

“And where,” he ground out, “did you hear that name, Miss West?”

“It’s called a web browser, John,” Via replied coolly. “You ever heard of Google? Imagine how many John Seeds there are in Hope County, Montana. I don’t need to tell you that the articles regarding you and your brothers, though a bit old, are unflattering. And all I want you to know—” She paused, arm still in his grip. “—is that we’re aware of each other, and that I don’t want anything happening to Elliot.”

“Neither do I,” John replied tightly, “and I especially don’t want someone digging trenches where there’s not a war zone.”

Via regarded him with an even gaze for a moment, glancing back at the car where her brother sat, before she murmured idly, “Kindly take your hand off of my arm, John.”

“Ellliot’s already aware of the any of the information in those articles,” he continued lowly, “just so you know.”

“My point, John,” Via replied casually, “is that I know, and I can—and will—deal with it as I see fit. Now, you gonna take your fuckin’ hand off of my arm, or are we going to have a problem?”

He watched her for a moment—just long enough to consider the dopamine rush of killing her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and slamming her face into the top of the porch, doing something, anything to ensure that Sylvia West was not capable of messing up anything that he was doing—and then he planted a big smile on his face and dropped his hand from her arm.

“Careful,” he said, louder now so that Wyatt would hear, “it’s icy.”

The blonde didn’t respond. Instead, she brushed her hand absently where his had been, as though to brush herself free of his touch, and picked her way across the driveway and to the truck idling just on the other side of the jeep.

Well, that would be one less problem to deal with, in the end.

John made his way inside, closing the front door quietly behind himself and taking a moment to gauge. Just to see what was going on. The house itself was quiet, and Boomer’s little footfalls were nowhere to be heard, and Scarlet wasn’t sipping her vodka in the living room—so.

So.

So.

Taking a breath, he started up the stairs, turning into the hall to find Elliot’s bedroom door halfway ajar. He paused in the doorway; she was rifling through drawers, pulling sweaters and long-sleeved shirts and jeans and sweats out and dropping them into a duffel bag, furious little exhales occasionally coming out of her.

“I was told I was being summoned,” John said, Elliot’s attention razor-sharp and snapping to him immediately.

“Pack your shit,” she said briskly, “we’re leaving.”

He blinked. Taking a step inside, he glanced at Boomer—perched protectively between himself and Elliot—and said, “I thought we were waiting until after the Christmas party?”

“You’re not fucking deaf, John, you heard Pritchard,” she snapped. “The Feds have been asking about me. The only reason they don’t know exactly where to look—whoever it is—is because Pritchard’s a fucking asshole and likes to be as obstinate as possible.”

“And if we sprint out of here,” he replied, “you’re just going to draw their attention.”

“It’s what Pritchard wants.” Elliot zipped the duffel bag shut and then brushed past him into the bathroom, gathering up her toothbrush and toothpaste and the sleeping pills. “For me to be gone. He’ll piss off if I go. And there’s no way he’s going to put up a big fight to cozy up to the government.”

“Elliot.” John watched her furiously gathering things up, and then when she came by again he caught her with his hands. “Ell, just slow down—”

“Stop,” she bit out, “stop telling me what to fucking do, John, and—I told you not to touch me.”

He lifted his hands from her, but not far enough that she could duck past. “Are you that mad about Sylvia and Wyatt knowing you’re pregnant?” When she didn’t answer, and instead hauled the bag over from the other side of the bed to be close to her so that she could dump the collections from the bathroom into it, he sighed. “I didn’t know you hadn’t told them, but I don’t understand what all of the secrecy is about. The baby isn’t—”

“I felt normal!” Elliot replied sharply, her voice pitching a little higher now, and John heard the wet wobble in it too—the way the timbre of her voice thickened and rounded out with the threat of oncoming tears, her cheeks flushed with anger and maybe shame and pain, too. “Okay? I felt—I f-fucking felt normal, for once, and it was enough that Sylvia knew you and I had been—that we’re married, which I don’t even want to dig into right now, but it was another to be like—yes, the father of my fucking child, who I’m actually married to even though I didn’t want it, is here and oh, by the way? He’s part of a cult. Yeah, a fucking doomsday cult. I’m carrying the child of a doomsday cultist.”

“How was I supposed to know?” he demanded. “How was I supposed to know that you didn’t want Sylvia and her brother knowing you were pregnant? You never said. And what does it matter?” And then, feeling the petulance well up inside of him: “I know it probably felt nice, to have Wyatt giving you attention—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked, incredulous. “You’re really pulling that now? So, what—you dumped the news because you wanted to make sure my friend found me as off-limited as possible?”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “I know this may come as a shock to you,” he said, feeling the tension peeling apart behind his eyelids, “I really didn’t want Pritchard smoking near my baby.”

“My baby.” Elliot jammed her finger into his chest, just above his heart, her words vicious. “It’s our baby, or it’s my baby, but there isn’t a single fucking universe where the only person this baby is beholden to is you.”

“He’s,” John corrected, tartly. “He’s our baby. And at the end of the day, whether you like it or not—”

“Have you ever,” she cut in over him, biting the words out between her teeth, “done anything for me that wasn’t for you too?”

Watching her, the words sat sticky in his chest. His instinct was to say, of course I have, but that wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t. And he wasn’t going to pretend like it was, either—because he wasn’t ashamed that everything he had done had been for them, that if Elliot wasn’t his then there would be no point in it, that it was a zero sum game where he either had her or he had nothing.

He said, evenly, “No.”

Elliot looked unseated by his honesty. She swept her fingers across her forehead tiredly and turned back to her bag. “Then do me a favor and pack your shit so we can go.”

John sighed. “Don’t you think—”

“John,” she bit out, “I am making an executive decision.”

“Alright, Ell.”

“And—”

John had turned to the door to go gather what few of his belongings he’d had when Elliot cut herself off, drawing his eyes over his shoulder to her again. She looked unwell—stressed, feverish, her hands buried into the duffel bag maybe to hide the shaking and her face flushed and her brows furrowed together.

“Thank you,” she managed out after a minute, “for being honest. For once.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Pratt brushed the snow from his hair, teeth chattering as he waded through knee-deep snow out towards the water. It had been three days, and Helmi had told him to meet her out there—how she was going to get past the compound’s security, Pratt didn’t know, but he also thought it probably was best not to dwell on the things that Helmi would do (and could do) to get where she needed to be.

Which is why he found himself less and less surprised to find her standing at the edge of the water, in the middle of the night, swathed up to her jaw in dark, heavy fabrics. The only part of her that wasn’t covered were her hands; the closer he got, he could see she was turning a smooth, dark rock over and over in her hands, passing it between them as she watched him come nearer.

“You remembered,” was how she greeted him, most of her face cast in shadow thanks to the high position of the moon behind her. Pratt shivered and jammed his hands into his coat pockets.

“Yeah, well, kinda hard to forget,” he replied. “Considering it’s been looming over me for the last few days.”

“Poor thing,” Helmi agreed, not sounding sympathetic at all. “Did you call her?”

Pratt paused, clearing his throat. There was something that didn’t quite sit right with him, knowing that he had called Elliot not out of a cry for her help—not really, anyway—but because this other cult wanted her. This cult, which had tore its way through Hope County splitting and gutting its residents, wanted her. And Helmi didn’t seem keen on telling him why.

“I did. They just got word that she and John are on the road now,” he said after a moment. “What, uh—do you want her for, anyway?”

Helmi quirked a brow at him, the corner of her mouth tilting upwards. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before making the phone call, if it was going to bother you?”

A little lick of shame and embarrassment crawled red-hot into his cheeks, and he scoffed, turning his face away. “Well, you said you wanted her alive. Can’t say the same for the Seeds.”

“She’s carrying John’s child,” Helmi pointed out. “You think they’d kill her still?”

Pratt grimaced. It was still hard to stomach—the idea that Elliot was with John. Or had been, at one point. It didn’t sound like things were going great, and he could only imagine why. Still—

Still, he thought there was a lesser of the two evils, and Helmi sounded like it. Maybe not the others, but Helmi.

“They don’t have a problem killing babies,” Pratt replied after a minute. “What are you going to do, once she gets here? They won’t let her leave, and they definitely won’t let you in.”

Now, the blonde grinned—pearly teeth in the dark of the night, surprisingly satisfied with herself. “Big one’s pissed at me, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Well, you know, Faith too. You've been killing her angels.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got a plan. You know exactly as much as you need to know right now. Are you eating?”

The question came so quickly that Pratt didn’t have time to register the oddness of it, replying on automatic the same way he had been with Arden’s consistent, gentle pestering: “Yeah, I mean—don’t have much of an appetite, but...”

His voice trailed off and he glanced back at the woman. Her head was cocked and her eyes were fixed on him expectantly. “What?”

“Eat,” she told him. “Take advantage of as much as you can. And most of all, listen. Any information you can get will be helpful.”

Pratt’s throat felt a little tight. He kept thinking about the way Jacob had grabbed his shoulder, laughing when he’d insulted the woman doing the heavy lifting for Joseph—grinning like a fucking wolf, like he was going to be dinner, next.

He managed out, “He’ll kill me. If he suspects. He’ll take—everything, from me.”

Helmi planted a hand on his shoulder. The gesture made him want to flinch, but he bit back the urge, and he thought maybe she’d seen but didn’t say.

“He already took everything from you,” she replied lightly, “and do you know what that means?”

The dark of her gaze was intense, piercing even in the late night; it made it hard to look away. Voices echoed back in the compound, and briefly, he thought maybe they’d noticed his absence—but he only shook his head.

“It means you have nothing to lose,” Helmi murmured, “and everything to take back from him.” Her hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, the pad of her thumb sweeping up to his pulsepoint pensively. “See? Your heart is beating, and hard. Your blood knows it’s what you want, even if you don’t yet.”

Swallowing thickly, he nodded his head once. Nothing to lose, and everything to take back. Could he? Could he get things back? Is that what Helmi had done? What Elliot had done?

“And don’t fuck it up,” she added, dropping her hand from his neck and zipping her coat up. Leaving so soon. She grinned. “Or I’ll gut you myself. And I guarantee, it won’t be an Återfödelse.”

A nervous, almost hysterical little laugh bubbled up out of him. Helmi shot him a look and then brushed past him, heading back into where the brush became the thickest, calling over her shoulder, “See you in a few days, Staci Pratt.”

A few days. A few days, Elliot would be back, and John Seed would be back, and Helmi would be seeing him. Seeing them. Maybe it would be better to make a break with Elliot, once she got in—but what if she didn’t want to? What if she was one of them?

Pratt let out a puff of hot breath, digging the heel of his palm into his eyesocket while the pain bloomed just there, turning and beginning to trudge back to the compound before anyone noticed his absence. Each scrape and puff of snow fell in line with his heartbeat, the mantra on and off again.

Nothing to lose.

Everything to take back.

[fanmoose12]

Dancing our dance

Summary: Sina was a city of wretched and helpless. A place governed by misery, terror and ruthless, cold-hearted criminals. 

As horrible as it was, however, there were quite a few things that made Levi’s life in this city almost enjoyable.  

A ganster!AU and Levihan Secret Santa gift for collapsability! Happy New Year <33

Sina. The greatest city on Earth. The place of flourish and success. A metropolis of wretched and damned. A place, where rich and elite could only prosper, multiplying their wealth and increasing their status, while hungry and poor were fighting each other for the smallest scraps of food.

Levi had experienced the worst of both worlds. He knew the desperation, the hunger that gnawed at him while he lived in the slumbers with rats as his company. And he was familiar with comfort and luxuries of life as a rich man. He also knew the danger, the constant fear that one mistake, a single wrong move could cost him not only his carefully cumulated wealth, but his life as well.

Considering his lifestyle, Levi was sure he wouldn't have lived for long. And he wouldn't have, if he hadn't stuck to the winning team.

Erwin Smith was sharp, calculating and ruthless. His biggest talent, though, was his exceptional ability to surround himself with the best of the best and inspire undying loyalty in them. Levi was good, excellent with guns and even better with knifes, but he wasn't the only member of Erwin's gang. There was Mike - an expert brawler and a man of few words, which made him even more valuable, Nanaba - an elite sniper and doctor, and, of course, Hange Zoe – a genius scientist and a massive pain in Levi's ass. She was loud, messy and had an uncanny ability to attract all sorts of trouble. Which made Levi's life just that much harder, since most of the times, Erwin made them work side by side.

Hange was smart, unbelievably so, but she was also so, so careless that Levi had to watch her every move, afraid that if he so much as looks away, Hange would instantly get swept in some trouble.

Even now, as he was sitting inside the overcrowded, bustling with people Wings of Freedom - a popular night club, owned by Erwin, - Levi couldn't take his eyes off Hange. 

Wings of Freedom was the place for the richest, most famous citizens of Sina. No one could get in, if they weren't approved by Erwin and his gang first. Despite the harsh restrictions and the overpriced alcohol that was served there, it was always full of customers. The success of the club was well-deserved, though. The alcohol, as expensive as it was, was also good. It wasn’t watered down like in the rest of speakeasies. And Levi couldn’t deny it, the interior of the club was breathtaking. As a former street rat, Wings of Freedom was a definition of wealth and prestige for him. It was a grand, spectacular thing with high glass ceilings, large, bright candelabras, red carpets on the floor and big, bright stage. Only the best musicians were allowed to perform in there, and Levi had no doubts about the vast talent that the current artists possessed. However, he was too preoccupied with boring holes into a certain four-eyed idiot to appreciate their efforts.

The dance floor, situated right beneath the stage, was as overflowing with people as the rest of the speakeasy. But Levi could recognize that mop of brown messy hair everywhere, and he watched it move around intently. Hange was in the middle of dance floor, spinning some unknown woman in a frilly yellow dress. Despite the uncomfortable feeling and overprotective instinct that appeared upon watching someone else touch Hange, Levi couldn't help but admire her movements. As clumsy as she could be, in a fight or a dance, Hange was as graceful as they come. Levi lost himself in following every move of her body, the way she spun, jumped and waved her hands. She was doing all of it so effortlessly, wearing an excited grin on her face.

Suddenly Hange looked away from her dance partner. Their eyes met, that little spark inside her gaze evident even from great distance. She winked at him, and Levi felt his face flush. He lifted his glass, gulping the contents down in one go. The whiskey burned his throat and he winced, turning away from Hange. He looked around, desperate to find something else to preoccupy himself with. Distraction came fairly quickly in the form of big oak door that opened at the other way of the room.

Looks like the big man is here, Levi sighed, getting to his feet and starting to descend down the stairs to the dance floor. It was time to retrieve Hange.

It was time for work.

 ***

Hange jumped, when Levi pulled her closer by the back of her suspenders. She whirled around, wide eyed and surprised.

"Levi!" she raised her voice, panting slightly. Even met with his scowl, the grin didn't leave her face. On the contrary, it only grew wider. "Finally came down to join me?"

Levi glanced at Hange's partner, who was awkwardly stomping behind, unsure of what to do. "You know I don't dance," he shook his head. "So say goodbye to your girlfriend and let's go. Erwin is here."

"Already?" Hange whined. "But I was having so much fun!"

"Tough shit," Levi answered, glaring at the girl Hange was having so much fun with.

"You owe me a dance then," she pointed a finger at Levi. "And I don't take no for an answer," she added, shutting down any possible protest.

"Let's finish the work first," Levi grunted. He didn't say yes to Hange's demand.

He didn't say no either.

"Hurry up then!" Hange exclaimed, linking her arm with Levi's and dragging him up the stairs. She didn't say goodbye, didn't even glance at the girl she was dancing with.

Levi hid a satisfied smirk.

*** 

Erwin, when they approached him, looked as immaculate as always. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on his pristinely white shirt. It was always so hot in Wings of Freedom and Levi wondered how much Erwin must be sweating in his grey three-piece suit. Levi himself, as meticulous as he was about his appearance, had taken off his jacket, wearing a dark blue vest with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows. And Hange wasn't even wearing a vest, but only a stripped light colored shirt.

"Hi, Erwin," Hange slide in a booth from the left side and pecked him on a cheek.

"Good evening, Hange," Erwin smiled. "I saw you were having a lot of fun."

"That I did," she grinned. “Unfortunately, it was cut off so abruptly,” she noted, glaring at Levi.

"What do you need us to do?" ignoring Hange’s petulance, Levi sat down as well, taking a seat at Erwin’s right side.

Erwin's smile turned into a serious frown.

"I have found an informant. He knows something, I'm sure, but he refused to talk with Mike. Maybe, you'll have more luck with him.

"Informant?" Hange asked, surprised. "Does he know something about—"

"Yes," Erwin answered, clenching his jaw. "He knows about Titans."

Levi's eyes darkened as soon as he heard that name. Titans were a rival gang, who terrorized the city every night. As powerful as Erwin was, he couldn't get rid of them. They lurked in the shadows, hidden from everyone. As ferocious as they were, no one even knew who their leader was. Levi didn't care. Whoever that bastard was, he was going to kill them, along with every member. He swore to do it years ago. On his friend's graves. Sweet, innocent Isabel and wise, reliable Farlan - his first true friends. Levi would never forget them. And he would make sure that those who had taken them from him would pay for their mistake.

A warm, comforting touch interrupted his dark thoughts. Levi looked up, meeting Hange's gaze. She smiled at him, worry swirling in her warm brown eyes.

Levi turned away from her, directing his stare at Erwin. Before Hange took away her hand, however, Levi patted it softly, silently thanking for the concern.

"So we need to find that informant and make him spill the info?" Hange clarified.

"Basically, yes. Here," he handed Hange a small file. She opened it instantly, pushing the glasses up her nose and quickly scanning over the pages. "Your target is the man named Nick. He lives in downtown and works in the nearby church as a pastor—"

"Pastor?" Hange looked up, wearing a mischievous grin. "That's intriguing."

Erwin turned his stern gaze at her. "Don't overdo it, Hange We need him alive. And, preferably, mentally stable."

Hange scoffed, crossing hands on her chest. "Don't know what you're talking about. I've never—"

"Really, four-eyes? Remember that guy who—"

"That was one time!" Hange cut him off, before Levi could finish. Erwin didn't need to know about that time. "And he was an asshole and totally deserved it."

"And what about that other guy—"

"It was an accident!" Hange gritted through her teeth, her fists clutched tightly together.

"Calm down," Erwin scolded them, covering his eyes with a hand and letting out an exhausted sigh. "I swear to god, sometimes you both act like you're still children."

"I'm nothing like her—"

“Considering his height, he’s still—"

"Enough!" Erwin barked, exasperated. "Just go already. Before I develop a migraine."

"He started it first," Hange pouted. As soon, as Erwin looked away, she stuck her tongue out.

Levi didn't retaliate. He was going to behave. At least, while Erwin is watching.

"Let's go, four-eyes," he got to his feet, waiting for Hange to join him.

"Oh, right!" she exclaimed, smacking her forehead in frustration. "I totally forgot, we should hurry!"

Erwin arched an eyebrow. "Are you late for something?"

"Oh, you don't know it yet," with a sly smile, Hange leaned closer to Erwin's ear, although, she didn't bother to lower her voice. "Levi asked me for a dance afterward."

"I didn't not," Levi grunted, trying (and failing) to keep a straight, calm face under Erwin's amused gaze.

"I've never seen Levi dance," he commented, scratching his chin. "You should truly hurry, Hange. I want to see him dance too. It's once in a lifetime occurrence after all."

"Roger that, boss!" Hange did a mocking salute and then grabbed Levi's hand, dragging him out of the club.

Levi surrendered with a heavy sigh. Now there was no way he could avoid this dancing stuff.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning to Levi with a lopsided grin.

***

The first thing Hange did as she walked out of the car that Levi parked near the pastor's house was putting on her hat. She made sure that the accessory sat comfortably and then ran a hand over the brim.

"Awful," he replied dryly. "What is our plan?"

"The usual," Hange shrugged. She didn't bat an eye at Levi's jab, continuing to casually stroll through the street. "I do the talking, you do your scary face thing."

"Alright," Levi agreed easily. The plan suited him well. Never failed them before too.

"Huh," Hange whistled, putting hands on her hips and staring up at the building in front of her. "That's quite a nice house. Do you think all pastors earn that much?"

"Do I look like a pastor to you? How the fuck should I know?"

"You could pull off pastor's look, though," Hange continued, cheerful, despite his harsh words. "If you ever need to go undercover..."

Ignoring her blubbering and pushing past her, Levi stepped on a venue leading up to the front door. His eyes narrowed, as he stared at the house in front of him. He glanced to his wrist watch. He frowned.

"It's almost midnight..."

"And yet our pastor is still awake," Hange threw an arm over his shoulder, watching the house as well. "Maybe, he's insomniac?"

"Only one way to find out," Levi pointed his chin towards the door and made another step towards the house.

"Wait," Hange's hand caught his wrist. Levi turned back, alarmed by the sudden seriousness of her tone. 

"Before we go inside... I need to know what you prefer the most - Charleston, Fox-Trot or Texas Tommy?"

Levi needed a few seconds to realize what the fuck Hange was on about. He blinked a few times, staring at her with a dumbfounded face. And when it finally hit him, he snatched his hand out of her grasp. Hange was such an idiot, why he even bothered to listen to her?

"I didn't agree to dance with you, four-eyes," he scowled at her. Under the weight of his gaze, anyone else would have shrined in fear. Hange just smirked. Levi resisted the urge to lash out on her or leave her to deal with the shitty pastor alone. Would have served her right for being such a jerk. He took a deep breath, calming himself down. There was a job they needed to finish. He wouldn't let Hange's idiocy distract him from that.

"Focus on a task on hand please," he told her, trying to keep his voice steady.

"And when we finish?"

Levi sent her another sizzling gaze. It produced no effect whatsoever.

He took another breath. "And then we'll see. The club could be closed by the time we're done here."

"It closes at dawn," Hange stated matter-of-fact.

Levi muttered a few curses. She was doing this on purpose. Riling him up just to make him lose it. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

Turning away from her and ignoring Hange’s annoyed mumbling, Levi reached the front door and knocked.

It was quiet for the first few seconds. Then the sound of shuffling could be heard. A moment later, the door opened, revealing a balding middle-aged man.

Hange took a step forward, waving her hand gleefully.

The man's eyes widened. He tried to slam the door closed. Levi's leg didn't give him a chance to.

"Pastor Nick, right? We just came here to talk!" Hange grinned. "There is no need to be afraid! We're—"

"I know who you are," pastor's lip was trembling. Levi absentmindedly wondered if he would start crying. He hoped not. He hated when people cry. "You... You're Erwin Smith's devil duo."

Hange nudged Levi in the side, almost glowing with happiness. "They have a nickname for us, Levi. We're getting famous!"

"We're criminals, Hange," Levi coughed, trying to mask the affection in his voice. As annoying as Hange could be, she was also so fucking endearing. "We shouldn't be famous."

“Still,” Hange flipped the hat on her head, still grinning from ear to ear. “It’s nice to know we have a reputation.”

"And you," Hange said to pastor, her eyes turning sharp. "If you know so much about us, you should know that we don't harm innocent, so if you got nothing to hide, you've got nothing to be afraid of," she spread her arms, putting on a friendly, sweet smile. Beside her, Levi rolled his eyes. Hange's theatrics were over the top sometimes. Almost no one bought her act anyway.

Pastor Nick wasn't an exception.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Levi warned, when pastor reached with his hand to the side of the door.

"I know nothing!" pastor Nick threw hands in the air. "Your boss just got some false data."

Levi cocked his eyebrow, giving pastor a look full of disbelief. Erwin sending them on a mission before checking his information as thorough as possible and making sure it wasn’t just a dumb rumor? Highly unlikely.

"Maybe, you could just allow us to come inside? We'll have a nice little chat and then we'll decide if what you know is worthy for us or no," Hange's smile grew wider and Levi's scowl grew darker and pastor's resolve crumbled.

With a deep, shaky sigh, he took a step back, allowing them to enter.

"And we did it!" Hange whispered, clasping Levi on a back.

"We're not done yet," he reminded her, eyeing the pastor with suspicion. The way he acted... so desperate to make them leave... Levi couldn't help but wonder what pastor was trying to hide. What he was afraid of? Was he simply frightened by the fact that they're gangsters? Possibly, but if he had the info on Titans, he must have been quite familiar with the criminal underworld. Besides, they weren't asking to join their ranks, just spill some intel. And it wasn't like Hange was lying, they never harmed innocents. Even more, Erwin always offered protection to the ones who aided him.

Could it be that pastor wasn't afraid of them? Then who was it? Titans?

"Levi?" Hange interrupted his thoughts by patting his shoulder. Levi met her eyes, turning away from pastor. She held his gaze, nodding ever so slightly. So he wasn't seeing things. Hange was suspecting something too. "Would you make us some tea, please? While me and pastor talk?"

"Of course," he agreed. This too was the part of their routine. According to Hange, it was easier to win the target's trust if Levi wasn't in the room with them and his cold steely eyes weren't boring holes into them. This tactic always worked and Levi had no reason to doubt it this time too. Still he was reluctant to leave Hange alone with pastor. That look in his eyes, Levi didn't like it.

"I'll be fine," Hange smiled faintly, noticing Levi's unwillingness. "Besides, you're just a room away."

“Of course, you’re right. Just don’t lose your focus, Hange.”

With one last look at pastor, Levi turned away, heading in the direction that he hoped would lead him to the kitchen.

Levi's guess was corrected.

When he entered the dark room and turned on a switch, he saw a spacious and neat room with fridge, cupboards, oven and sink. He went straight to the oven, meaning to heat up the cattle. His eyebrows furrowed when he touched the cattle. It was hot as though it was recently heated up. Was their pastor a fan of midnight tea? Or was he expecting someone?

Instinctively, Levi glanced behind his back, at the wall that separated kitchen from the living room. A hushed voice could be heard from inside the room. It was calm and persuading and it belonged to Hange. Some tension left his body, as Levi listened to it. The voice was too soft to hear what Hange was actually talking about, but, nevertheless, it calmed him down. Levi turned around, intent to finish his job. The water was already boiled. Now he needed to find some tea. And cups, where he could pour it.

He lifted his eyes. There were six cupboards hanging on the wall. Levi chose the closest to him and opened it. Seasonings and eggs. He sighed and opened the next one. It held napkins and towels. He moved further. This cupboard was used for storing pans, the next one - cots. Levi cursed and slammed it shut with more force than necessary. The tableware inside rattled dangerously. He ignored it, opening the fifth cupboard, this one with plates. Levi’s expression relaxed a bit, he was getting closer. He looked inside the last one, and finally, this one held cups. Standing on his tiptoes, he took three cups out and put them on a table. Then he returned to the first cupboard, the one with seasonings and rummaged through it, looking for any kind of tea. Surprisingly, pastor's collection was quite large. Levi's respect for the man grew, as he found his favorite kind of tea – lapsang souchong.

As he waited for the tea to brew, Levi studied the kitchen. Hange was right, the house looked too good to belong to a simple pastor. How an old man who lived alone could afford it? And how could he afford so many kinds of tea? Even Levi's collection wasn't so vast, and he frequently used his connections to get the best kinds, since some of them weren't even distributed in their city. But how could pastor get his hands on them? And was it connected to the fact that he knew something about Titans? Too many unknowns in this seemingly simple equation. Levi didn't like it. However, it wasn't his job to think about it. Hange was the brain of their duo after all.

His job right now involved brewing a tea. He poured it into the cups and put them on a tray. Then be added three spoons of sugar into Hange's cup. He stirred it carefully and then picked up the tray, heading to the living room.

Hopefully, Hange was done with pestering their target.

***

"Here you are," Hange spoke warmly. She rose to her feet and helped Levi set the tray onto a coffee table. Sitting down next to her on the sofa, Levi handed Hange and pastor, who was sitting in a big armchair, their teacups. Hange accepted hers with a grateful smile. Pastor scoffed with a disgruntled expression.

"Do you really think I'm dumb enough to drink whatever you put in your so called tea?”

"If I wanted to kill you," Levi said in a dark, low voice. "I wouldn't have used poison, you dipshit."

"We've already established the fact that we very much need you alive, pastor. And besides," Hange grinned, a bright contrast to Levi's gloomy look. "Levi takes great pride in his tea making abilities. As he should," she noted, lifting the cup to her lips, taking the first sip. "Mm," she closed her eyes, a blissful expression on her face. "The best tea in the city."

"Don't exaggerate, Hange," Levi scolded harshly, ignoring the warm sensation that spread through his veins at her praise. “Just because I can actually brew something better than that piss you called tea, doesn’t mean it’s the best tea.”

Hange started laughing – as always loudly and unabashedly, with her head thrown back and her hair flying everywhere. She spilled some of her tea in the process and Levi tsked, taking a handkerchief out of his pants and throwing it at Hange.

“Erwin Smith’s devil duo, huh?” pastor Nick mumbled, too quiet for either of them to hear. “They’re quite a pair.”

Everything that happened next, happened way too quickly.

Pastor took the cup into his hands, intending to take a taste of the tea Hange was praising so much. Levi turned to stare at him, curious for his reaction. Hange followed the suit, the hand that wasn’t holding her own cup, thrown over Levi’s shoulders. The cup almost touched pastor’s lips, when the front door of the house was thrown open. The man appeared – dressed in a long coat, his face obscured by shadows. He ran into the living room, and took out a gun. Levi jumped to his feet, ready to attack, but before he could do anything, two gunshots rang. With wide eyes, Levi stared at the pastor’s now dead body with a hole in the center of his forehead.

He was frozen for merely a second, a second too long. By the time he snapped out of it, the shooter was already gone. Levi rushed after him, running through the front door and onto the porch. It was empty, no sight of the culprit. He looked around the empty, silent and lamp-lit street. Nothing. He gritted his teeth, kicking the curb in frustration. 

Titans, for he was sure it was their work, had killed another innocent right in front of him. And just like the first time, just like with Farlan and Isabel, there was nothing he could do to stop them. At the memory of his late friends, Levi was overcome with frustration. He promised to protect them, and failed. He promised to avenge them, and failed again.

Useless. He was fucking useless. What good his skills did, if he couldn’t protect the ones closest to him?

The silence of the street around him was deafening, pressing onto Levi from all sides. Quiet, it was too quiet. Why was it so quiet here? It shouldn’t be, Levi realized with a start. Hange was with him, it shouldn’t be so goddamn quiet.

And then it hit him. Hange. Where the fuck was she? Why wasn’t she by his side, searching for the killer with him? Another revelation almost knocked the air out of Levi. There were two gunshots. What if the other one wasn’t meant for pastor?

With heart in his throat, Levi dashed back inside. Something close to a prayer was going through his head, as he tried to push the image of Hange’s bloodied, lifeless body out of his mind.

No, he won’t let that happen. He won’t lose another friend.

"Hange?" Levi called, stumbling inside. "Hange, where are you?"

There was no answer. Why was there no answer?

The seconds it took for him to reach the living room felt like years. More than anything, Levi was afraid to arrive too late. He couldn't repeat the same mistake. Not with Hange.

As he entered the living room, Levi's knees nearly gave out and a wave of relief washed over him. Hange— she was alive.

He hastily approached her, grabbing her elbows and turning her around to face him. His eyes skimmed along her body, searching for any sight of the injury. Despite her labored breathing, Hange seemed to be unharmed. Levi looked her over more carefully and his heart skipped a beat, when he saw a small dark spot on her otherwise clean shirt. His fingers touched that place gingerly.

"It's not mine," Hange said, and the hollowness of her voice took Levi's breath away. He lifted his gaze, staring at her face. Only now he noticed the blood on her cheek. She must have stood next to pastor, when he was shot, he realized. What frightened Levi more, however, was the faraway look in her eyes. She was in shock, Levi guessed. He needed to calm her down and then get her out of here.

"They killed him..." Hange whispered. She turned around, staring at the pastor's body so intently, it made a shiver run down Levi's spine.

He curled his fingers around her wrist, his every move slow and careful.

"Hange, we need to go," he pulled at her hand, tugging her closer. "The cops are going to be there soon, we should leave."

"Yeah," Hange nodded. She wasn't completely with him yet, and Levi wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leading her outside and then into the car. Opening the passenger door, he pushed her inside. He grabbed his jacket from the back seat and draped it over Hange. Kneeling in front of her, he rubbed her arms soothingly, looking into her eyes. The spark in her eyes wasn't there yet, but— Hange was slowly coming back. Levi lifted his hand, taking off her glasses and folding them carefully in the front pocket of his shirt. Gently, he whipped the blood from her cheek and after that, proceeded to clean the glasses too.

Putting them back on her face, Levi forced a smile. "Are you feeling better?"

"Did you get them? The shooter?"

Levi looked away, not wanting to see the disappointment inside those eyes. "No," he said, clenching his jaw.

"Fuck," Hange breathed out. "We let them get away once again."

"I was the one who fucked up.”

"Shut up," Hange pushed him away, strong enough to make Levi lose his balance and fell on his ass. He didn't get up, though, instead staring at Hange in surprise. That spark in her eyes - it was finally back. It was even more intense than usual, as Hange glared at him.

"I hate when you do that - blame yourself for everything. Not everything is your fault! We fucked up this time, yes. You didn't catch the guy, but I should have noticed that something was wrong. And I did, but decided to ignore it. We both made a mistake, and it’s up to us to make everything right. Together as we always do." A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips, as she extended a hand to him. "Don't you agree?"

Levi accepted her hand with a grunt. "Erwin's rubbed off on you," he complained, getting to his feet. "You sound just like him."

Hange chucked, her eyes sparking, and Levi let himself relax. She was still shaken, but that hollowness was gone.

"Thanks," Hange muttered, when Levi got inside the car. "I was a little out of it."

Levi nodded, starting the car. His mind was still reeling from tonight's events. While Hange was a little out of it, he was scared shitless. He was afraid that he made another mistake, he was afraid that he lost her.

It terrified him more than Levi was ready to admit. Hange, that little shit, managed to worm her way into his heart. He wasn't strong enough to stop her then, and he isn’t strong enough to push her away now.

Levi sighed, opening the window and letting the cold wind clear his head.

"Charleston, Texas Tommy or Fox-Trot?" he kept his eyes straight on the road, his voice as bored and emotionless as ever.

"Levi?" Hange frowned. "What are you—"

"What do you prefer, four-eyes?" he glowered, his cheeks turning red.

"Oh," for a moment, Hange was silent. She sat with her hands on her knees, her lips slowly curling into a grin.

"Since it's our first dance," she met his eyes in the rear window, winking. "I'll let you chose."

Levi grunted, gripping the steering wheel tighter and pushing down the gas pedal, speeding up. Hange didn't need to know it, of course, but he was pretty excited. He was also more than a little bit nervous. He had never really learnt how to dance. There was never a suitable partner. But now... Levi glanced at Hange, subtly admiring her profile. With her, maybe, it could all work out.

***

Just when they almost reached Wings of Freedom, Levi took a sharp turn, going into the opposite direction.

"Um, Levi? It's the wrong turn. The club is up ahead."

"I hate this place. It's too hot and there are too many people. Since it's our first dance," he showed Hange a small smirk. "I want to take you somewhere special."

 ***

Levi’s special place turned out to be a small park on the edge of Sina. Away from flashing city’s lights, it was dark, but cozy small place with only a few benches and a lonely swing, standing in a corner. It was situated on a precipice, and the whole city could be seen from up there.

“It’s beautiful,” Hange breathed out, her eyes full of childish wonder. She was standing at the very edge of precipice, gripping the metal railing with her hands. Logically, Levi knew that it was highly unlikely that Hange would fall over. Still, he stood a little closer to her, hovering just in case.

“Amongst all the horrors this city hides, it’s easy to forget how many wondrous things are there as well.” She bumped his shoulder with a grin. “You’re one of those wondrous things, Levi.”

“Shut up,” he grunted, feeling warmth spread through him at her words. Hange’s affection never failed in making him feel embarrassed. It also never failed in making him feel good. Levi craved her warmth more than he was comfortable admitting. That’s why he tried not to think about it too much.

“C’mon, four-eyes,” he tugged at her wrist, dragging away from the edge. “We came here to dance, did we not?”

"Someone's impatient, huh?" Hange teased. She stood in front of him, her arms hovering above his. "So... How do you want to do this?"

It didn't take Levi much time to decide. He did think about it. He put his left hand on her shoulder, and with his right one he grasped her palm. He took a step closer, their feet almost touching.

"Like this," he whispered.

"Alright," Hange nodded, a little shakily. "Alright, let's do it then."

She started to slowly move them around. Levi had never really understood the common obsession with dancing. People just spinned around while holding hands. There was nothing seemingly pleasant about this.

Now, though, he was inclined to change to his mind. Dancing with Hange was... fun. He liked the feeling of her hand in his, enjoyed the way she firmly held his waist. And looking up at her, with her eyes sparkling brightly even in the dark, Levi felt like he could keep dancing with her for hours. With Hange beside him, he was slowly forgetting about everything else. He felt like Hange and he were the only people in the world, nothing else mattered but Hange's bright eyes and soft smile. Nothing else was more important than this one small moment.

Hange sighed, putting her chin on Levi’s head. "I really needed this tonight. Thank you for indulging me, shorty."

"It's not that bad."

Hange stopped abruptly, her eyes going wide.

"Levi..." she began carefully. "Are you saying.... that you are enjoying this?"

"I said what I said," Levi retorted harshly. Maybe, he did enjoy the dance. What was wrong about it?

"Well, if you like it so much," Hange drew with a smirk on her lips. "We can do it more often."

"I will never dance in Erwin's shitty club."

"You didn't say no," Hange noted.

"I didn't," he agreed softly.

Hange beamed, and in the darkness, her smile was shining more brightly than the whole city below.

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

           Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

           “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

[dzxoxian]

Classic Josh: The Best Thank-You Note EVER

Originally posted in December 2003

Small note - So, I had I few problems with an order at work.  I actually wrote this and sent this in to the supervisor of the three poor, unsuspecting service representatives that were force to deal with me.  I'm told it had been passed around the whole office within three days of sending it, and was printed out on a poster and mounted on the wall of their customer service center.

To Whom it May Concern:

My name is Josh, and I'm the Purchasing Agent at the <Workplace>.

Almost a month ago, I purchased your 46" Lane Bi-fold Executive desk and hanging Keyboard tray from Staples National Business Advantage.  When it arrived, I had a tray.  I had the top of the Desk.  I was missing four legs for said table.

No problem, I thought...these things happen.  I alerted their Customer Service, explained my problem, and they agreed to pick up the limbless desk and bring me a new one.

I waited, again, and soon enough, the new desk arrived.   Guess what? Still no legs.

After what I felt was an extremely warranted session of cursing, I got back on the phone with Staples and attempted to reason with them without crying, whining, or otherwise throwing a hissy fit.  I was successful with controlling my behavior, but not with finding any kind of solution...they told me they had done all they could, gave me your company's phone number, and told me I would have to take it up with your people.

So, I called on July 17th, timid and fearful, hoping that I would meet with kind and useful souls who could help me with my tragic lack of desk legs.  I talked with Brandon, who, in a matter of minutes, had everything in hand, told me that an order had been placed, and that I would see my new legs in 5 business days.

I was relieved, and proceeded to move on with my life, which is usually far less wrapped up in concern over table legs.

Cut forward to yesterday. Author's note - Monday was 7 business days later.

I start receiving calls from the Director of our Marketing department, curious as to why her people have no legs for the desk of their brand-new multimedia center.  She expressed even louder curiosity in what my proposed response would be to this dilemma.  This distressed me greatly, as I am a simple, peaceful soul, who goes to great lengths to keep such exalted individuals such as Department Directors from taking personal interests in his affairs.

Once again, I flew to the phone and spoke to your representative Justin.  He agreed that the delay did seem a bit odd, and promptly supplied me with the UPS tracking number for the package containing to legs.

Filled with gratitude, I thanked him, and flew to the UPS website to find the package's location.   I then discovered UPS had no idea where the package was.  They knew who they were supposed to bill for the package, and had already done so, but they didn't seem to see how taking money to deliver something in any way obliged them to know the item's location, or, indeed, even deliver it.

At this point, panic began to bloom at the root of my soul.  I called your people back immediately and spoke to Nate.  He was as surprised as I was in hearing of UPS's Zen-like "non-delivery" deliver policy, promised me that he would attempt to get to the bottom of the issue, and would call me back.

Somewhat pacified, I left for the day, feeling confident that my problems were over, that Nate would call me back, assuaging all my worries by telling me the package did, indeed, exist somewhere, and was not stuck in some forgotten delivery Limbo.

I came in today to a phone message from Nate, informing me that UPS had never picked up the package, and that it was looking like he would have to order me a new one.

This was a regrettable situation.

What made the situation MORE regrettable was the selfsame Director of Marketing from earlier in this Saga calling me roughly 43 seconds after I had finished listening to this message, demanding an update.  I (reluctantly) informed her of all the current facts of the situation.

What followed was an inelegant and barbaric dance of bureaucracy, finger-pointing, and generally throwing me under the bus.  My call sheet now included not just said Director, but my boss, my boss's boss, the Vice President of Marketing, and our General Manager.  Apparently, they all felt that the most vital thing they could do to speed up the process of my acquisition of their needed table legs was requesting explanations, full reports, and status updates for two hours.

At this point, the aforementioned panic in my soul was in full blossom, and I was seriously considering taking holy orders in a quiet, remote monastery where people take oaths of silence, and vow to never trouble themselves with earthly matters, such as wealth and desk legs.

Now, my soul wounded and my heart heavy, I could only pick up the phone and once again cast my voice, weak and tremulous, across the digital divide of phone cable and electrical pulse to your operatives' waiting ears.  The ears waiting this time belonged to Nate again, who listened with what I felt was saint-like patience and angelic compassion to my heavy tale of sorrow, Vice Presidents, and woe.

I, in unmanly fashion, actually broke down and implored Nate to show mercy on my wretched self, and send the legs as swiftly as he could, whether by plane, costumed superhero, cartoon Roadrunner, or possibly even sub-atomic light speed transmission, if he had it available.

"Damn the expense," I proclaimed, "I'll pay it and more to conclude this matter."

Nate not only agreed to expedite the shipping, but he even volunteered to investigate your warehouse and see if he could lay physical hand upon the accursed legs in question, so he could verify with his own two eyes that they were packed up, picked up, and shipped, ensuring I would get them with no further delays.  He told me he would call me back as soon as he had it all set.

Confident at last, I hung up the phone a new man...relieved, calm, at peace.  Your representative had proven to be a balm to my soul.

"Surely," I thought to myself, "this must conclude this matter...he seems to be so sure, so dedicated to his goal of the acquisition and shipping of desk legs. Why, it would take an act of God to keep my legs from me now."

Alas... I was proven correct.

I was preparing myself to leave around 5pm (here in Tampa, so around 2pm your time, Author’s Note – the customer service center/table leg repository was in California.) when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not heard back from Nate.  So calmed I had grown that I foolishly went about all the other varied and demanding business of my day, giving the savagely crucial business of the chair legs nary a further thought.

But now... now, doubt had begun to creep in, and I thought to myself, "Why, I'm sure everything fine. But wouldn't it be remiss of me if I didn't check?  Can I endure another day of being the object of attention for such godlike and influential beings as Vice Presidents?  No, no... I am a simple man, and long only for peace and harmony when completing my duties.  Let's give Nate a call, and make sure all is well."

Resolved, I picked up the phone, waited for an answer, certain that all was well and that I would suffer not further disappointment.  My call was answered, and I was once more vocally reunited with Brandon, who informed me that Nate had left for the day.

Now, I will at this point admit, not proudly, mind you, that in my heart of heart, I cursed your employees, wondering what selfish, callow excuse they could offer for not ensuring the safe and speedy delivery of my legs.

"What!?!" I demanded.  "Why?"  I felt keenly that if his reason for leaving early was anything less drastic than the earth itself opening, I would start screaming.

"There's been an earthquake," came Brandon's reply.

Ah.  Well.

At this point, I was devastated.  At this point, despair rushed back into my soul, and I hoped that the earth would crack under ME, and swallow me whole, because I was a cursed man, burdened with a figurative albatross around my neck, and that even God himself was arrayed against the delivery of these desk legs, and thus, arrayed against my salvation.

I sighed, and offered my condolences, and asked Brandon (because, really, at this point, what did I have left to lose?) if Nate had mentioned anything about shipping out my desk legs. Though Staples, UPS, and the Almighty Himself had turned against me, I still obviously held onto the smallest sliver of hope.

At this point, however, a miracle occurred.

Your gentleman told me that no, no mention had been made, but he would check.  What followed, gentle reader, was amazing.  Brandon could find no mention of my order having been shipped, and could not locate the legs.

However, he did not stop there - he went and looked for them personally, and when THAT failed, he even contacted Nate by his cell, and they collaborated to see if any progress could be made.  I begged Brandon not to trouble his co-worker with such trivial business in the wake of such a disaster, but he assured me that there were no fiery homes, deceased relatives, missing pets, or severed limbs at the other end of Nate's phone that he was attempting to deal with, and that I shouldn't worry.

Finally, in the end, no legs could be located, and I thought that my luck had finally run empty...but no. Brandon girded his loins, picked up the phone, and returned to do battle with my original sparring partner in this office furniture train wreck, the Staples National Business Advantage Customer Service Department.  He asked for me to please be patient, and to stay on the line.  As if, by this point, I was even CAPABLE of hanging up with seeing this through to its resolution.

I waited, breathless with anticipation, the minutes seeming like hours as I waited on the phone, with Brandon returning occasionally to ask me for some clarifying point or miscellaneous ordering info.  In the end, he uncovered the gross error the Staples people had made with my initial order, negotiated a price 66% of the original, and arranged for free overnight shipping to ensure that I would not have to wait one second longer for my order.

It was done...Madam (or miss, I intend no disrespect,) your three customer service representatives had, at last, proven successful.

In an order I did not even directly place with your company, they had fixed an error made by several people a continent away, battled through the incompetence and confusion of two major megacorporations, and even overcame obstacles sent by God Himself to get me my desk legs.

They did so while displaying panache, tact, courtesy, patience, and undeserved compassion to a poor, broken man who had been driven beyond reason by what are, essentially, glorified metal sticks.

I sincerely appreciate all there hard work and dedication, and can unreservedly say that I have need had such excellent service, never been treated so well, by any company in the history of my (admittedly young) life.  You are lucky to have them in your employ, and I wish them nothing but success in whatever field they choose to follow.

Thank you, and more importantly, thank them.

All that being said, I hope that for the rest of my (hopefully long) life, I am never forced to become so deeply emotionally and spiritually invested in furniture components ever again.  I think we can all agreed that this would be for the best.

Thank you, and good day.

[ryik-the-writer]

A03

Previous Chapters

Chapter 1: Pan meets a Wendy

Chapter 2: Scars (Felix’s Story)

Chapter 3: Day One

Chapter 4: Revenge and Fireflies

Chapter 5: Brighter than Stars

Chapter 6: filler: The Tigress

Chapter 7: Operation Spotless!

Chapter 8: Operation Spotless: Reporters Down

Chapter 9: A Dance with the Devil

Chapter 10: filler: Felix and the Pancake

Chapter 11: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 1

Chapter 12: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 2

Chapter 13: The Girl with Blue Eyes pt. 3

Chapter 14. Recovery

Chapter 14.2 Recovery some more

Chapter 15: Trapped

Chapter 16: Fairydust pt. 1

-,-,-,-,-,-

I have reached demi-god status! Two people have done fanart on my fic:

Desklazy on tumblr and Cherrymizu on Instagram! I-I-I-I got so many feels!

desklazyhttps://www.instagram.com/p/BmgkPXrn3si/?taken-by=cherrymizu

http://desklazy.tumblr.com/tagged/papers-and-sleuthers

Also, this is my longest chapter to date at 23 pages and +9000 words, beating my record from chapter 13!

-,-,-,-,-,-,-

“Speak up, kid.” Sydney yelled through the phone.

Wendy pressed the diner phone as close to her face as she could. Her cell phone had died as soon as she left the library, and despite Storybrooke’s vintage look, it did not have payphones around town, thus she had to rely on Granny’s charity to complete the next step of her mission.

“I asked if you kept any notes on a story you worked on?” Wendy said as loudly as she could without attracting attention.

“Depends on the story. Which one you looking for?”

Though she trusted Sydney’s ability to keep silence, she didn’t want to get him too involved in case this all went south. He’d been damaged enough because of her.

“One from about…twenty years ago?”

She pulled the phone away from her ear when Glass burst out laughing.

“You want me to find notes from a story from two decades ago? What the hell have you gotten into now?”

“Research purposes.” Wendy stated vaguely.

Sydney chuckled again. “I don’t have a memory that far back, kid. Is Pan involved in this research of yours?”

“No.” Wendy huffed. “This is all me.”

“Heh, that’s unusual.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to remind her boss that every case she had worked on had started off as a solo project before Pan stuck his head into it. However, she needed to stay focused on Tink and push her frustrating counterpart into the furthest part of her mind.

They shared a few more words before Wendy hung up with a heavy sigh. A dead end. She leaned against the counter and put an strike across Glass’s name.

“Everything work out?” Granny inquired from across the counter.

“Not really.” Wendy replied, pulling her bag to her shoulder.

Granny leaned in closer. “Are you working on a new story?”

Wendy glanced behind her to see a few other diner patrons who were hungry for new news to feed their gossip groups until.

“N-no.” Wendy concluded. “Just…needed to make a phone call.”

“Hmm, right.” Granny hummed, unconvinced. “So you weren’t just changing details with Pan?”

“Poppycock.” Wendy muttered under her breath, easing out from behind the counter and leaving the friendly diner before Pan could be mentioned again.

-,-,-,-,-

“That’s him.” Graham pointed at a grainy photo on the police station wall. The man in question a curly mustache that reminded Wendy of Clark Gable.

“The sheriff before you.” Wendy nodded.

“Yep, old Holmes. Three terms unopposed.” Graham said before taking a bite out of his sandwich. It was his lunchbreak and he was working through it to get the paper work on Jekyll out before the end of the day. Wendy felt guilty about taking away the only free time he’d had, but he really didn’t seem to mind.

“Where is he now, exactly?” Wendy inquired. She hadn’t told Graham why she was looking for the ex-sheriff, and hopefully he wouldn’t be too concerned. It was best she kept her mission for Tink’s origins from as many people as possible.

“In the cemetery now.” Graham answered. “He passed away a few years ago.”

“Shit.”

Graham coughed, preventing his last bite of sandwich from going down the wrong pipe. “Pardon?”

“No, no sorry.” Wendy sighed. “I just…really wanted to meet him.”

Graham looked the journalist over suspiciously, but had too much going on to worry about her sleuthing.

“Just one question: is Pan involved in…whatever you’re doing?”

“No.” Wendy replied, annoyed.

“Alright.” Graham shrugged, turning back to the computer. “That means one less crisis this week.”

Wendy chuckled and took Graham’s dismissal has her cue to leave.

She crossed off his name from her book and hoped that her visit to the convent would be more successful.

-,-,-,-,-

The nunnery seemed much friendlier than the ones back in London, brighter with the colorful lights of the stained-glass windows bouncing off the.

Yet there was this air of dread around Wendy, like the walls were ready to push in and crush her to dust. She wondered if this was what Tink had felt during her time here, or if her own newfound claustrophobia was arising once more.

The apprehension clung to her bones as she followed one of the nuns to Mother Superior’s office. From the brief moment Wendy had laid eyes on the woman in blue, Wendy was more than certain that she wasn’t very nice. Anyone who could make someone like Tink La’Belle cry was certainly a monster.

The nun turned to her when she paused, giving her as small smile that indicated for her to do the same. She knocked on the door and a muffled response allowed the nun to enter.

“Mother Superior,” the nun greeted. “A young lady is here to see you.”

“Yes, yes let her in.” she spoke, sounding annoyed but willing.

The younger nun turned to Wendy with an apologetic smile and stepped aside to allow her entrance. Wendy breathed out nervously, watching as the door closed behind her, leaving her with a possible enemy.

“What is it?” the mother sighed impatiently, her head lifting from the paperwork she was scribbling on. “Oh, you again.” She said with a gross whine. “You didn’t bring that hooligan with you, did you?”

A definite enemy, then.

Wendy cleared her throat, as well as clearing any rude comment that was threatening to come up.

“No, it’s just me. My name is Wendy Darling. We didn’t get the chance to introduce ourselves after you upset my friend.” Wendy snarked. It would seem she didn’t clear everything away.

Mother Superior’s eyes bowed into a hard glare. “What do you want?”

“I want to know about what you might have seen the night Tink La’Belle was left on the convent doorsteps.” Wendy stated confidently, keeping eye contact with the spiteful nun.

A flash of blankness ran over the nun’s soft features before they hardened again.

“Why on earth ado you want to know any of that?”

“For the truth.” Wendy said. “There’s something else to this simple abandonment story and I intend to find out just what it is.”

“And splay it all over your pathetic paper?” Superior snipped.

“The only person who will ever know about any of this is Tink.” Wendy clarified. God forbid if anything got back to Pan.

The nun’s face paled slightly, and Wendy could see the wheels spinning frantically behind her eyes. With a blink, she was back to her passive, professional facade.

“I told the police years ago everything I knew and saw.” She stated, looking back down at the paperwork. It was the way the pen shook in her hand that gave Wendy the indication to push forward.

“I know you were young at the time,” Wendy pressed on more softly. “But if you remember anything—a mysterious person wondering around, a sound, someone coming by later—it would help—”

“I have nothing left to say!” Superior shouted, her façade dropping and crumbling into shards before Wendy’s eyes. “Now leave, or I’ll call the police!”

“Fine!” Wendy yelled back, her own patience slipping away. “Then you can explain to them why you keep harassing Tink to the point where she’s considering getting a restraining order against you!”

The rage vanished instantly from the Mother’s face, a wave of despair washing over her instead.

“She said that?” she inquired, her voice wretched.

For a brief moment Wendy almost felt pity for the nun. It would appear that despite her harassment towards Tink, there was a part of her that generally cared for her.

Then she recalled Felix holding her sobbing friend and the rage resurfaced.

“It was indicated.” Wendy replied simply. “Maybe, when I tell her the truth about her abandonment, I can mention that you’re the reason I found it and that you helped me.”

For a moment Wendy thought she had her. The head nun seemed to contemplate what she was saying, mulling it over to an accepting extent.

Then, she disappointed Wendy by bending over her paperwork once again.

“As I said, I have nothing to say that I didn’t report to the police all those years ago.” She stated more mechanically. “Now please, excuse yourself.”

Wendy actually twitched. Really, the nerve of this woman! She was sly, Wendy would pay her that compliment. She thought of a way she could make her say more. She could reveal what Tink told her, about why she had refused to return to the convent.

That place was never a home.

But as Wendy mulled it over (and as the words hung on the very tip of her tongue), she decided against it. That was something Pan would do, and do with pleasure if she had to guess. Pan wasn’t here, she didn’t have to handle things his way.

She was Wendy Darling, and she was clean.

“If you happen to remember anything,” Wendy said with sarcastic politeness. “Just call the paper and let me know.”

The head nun flinched but did not answer, and Wendy pressed no more.

Stomping out of the convent, she slashed Mother Superior’s name off her list and hummed when she saw her next—and last source.

Mr. Gold.

-,-,-,-,-

Mr. Gold looked up from his tedious paperwork when the door opened, cursing that someone would wonder in this close to lunch time. He had planned to close shop early so that he could visit Belle in the hospital as he had done since her rescue. His agitation stilled some when he saw that it was Wendy Darling, Belle’s savior.

His savior.

“Mr. Gold,” she greeted, an air nervousness in her voice. “May I talk to you for a moment?”                          

“Miss Darling,” Mr. Gold returned, smiling whole-heartedly rather than with his usual sarcasm. “Please, come in. Would you follow me to the back?”

Wendy nodded, glad for the privacy. The shop itself reminded Belle of her grandmother’s house: a fire hazard with its antiques but strangely inviting. It had the stale smell of dust just overpowered enough by the smell of strongly brewed tea.  

Mr. Gold guested to a small, rumpled cot for her to sit, and in a moment he pulled a whistling teapot from a small hotplate.

“Milk, sugar?” Mr. Gold inquired as he set out an additional teacup next to his own.

“Just a dab, if you please.” She answered, pulling out her notebook.

He handed her a cup and took a seat in a rough desk chair across from her. Wendy noticed that his own teacup had a chip in the rim.

“Belle’s doing.” He indicated when he caught her gaze. “The first time she entered my shop, I shocked her as she was admiring a stack of books. I don’t know why, but I fell for her rather quickly after that.”

Wendy smiled at the fleeting love story. Five minutes in his shop, Mr. Gold had revealed more about himself than Pan had in the month and a half she’d known him.

“However, I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear me drawl on about my past. What can I do for you, Miss Darling?”

Wendy took a sip of her tea before she answered (it was a bit too strong for her liking but still much better than the bagged stuff she’d had to sip on during her stay in Storybrooke).

“Actually, it’s your past I’m inquiring about.” Wendy stated, pulling out her cellphone for the pictures she took in the library.

Mr. Gold’s calculated expression bowed into calm curiosity. “Is this about Pan?”

Wendy felt she would have to start introducing herself with “Hi, may we talk, and no this is not about Peter flipping Pan,” for now on.

“No, it’s about a mutual friend of ours, Tink La’Bell.” Wendy showed him the grainy picture of the cross she took in the library. “I know it’s a long shot, but I was curious if the police asked you about the cross she had with her. I would have brought it with me but…”

Mr. Gold peaked over the top of her cellphone. “But this is a silent angel mission for you?”

“It is.” Wendy confided. “I’d just like to help her find some kind of closure. Do you have any idea if someone around here had one like it, or maybe if they got it from here?”

There was a comment in his smile that Wendy wanted to hear, however his attention returned to her cellphone a moment more before he handed it back to her.

“I recall Miss La’Bell’s abandonment quite well,” Mr. Gold reminisced. “Sheriff Holmes came to my shop the day after the incident to ask me similar questions like the ones you’re asking me.”

Wendy frowned, sensing another dead end.

“Let me guess, there was nothing you could provide him.”

“You’re quick to reach the worst conclusion, Miss Darling.”  Mr. Gold teased before turning to a nearby shelf. “I cataloged the item during the 24-hours it was in my possession so that I could do extensive research to find its origins. Thusly, I came to a few conclusions to satisfy the sheriff.”

“Could you share those conclusions with me?” Wendy asked hopefully.

“Would you like the answers I gave to the sheriff or the information I found afterwards?”

Wendy’s heart pounded with anticipation. This was the best, and so far only, lead she’d gotten and it would seem it could lead her to all the answers she was striving for.

“In order, please.”

Mr. Gold pulled out a small card and low and behold there was a picture of Tink’s half-cross attached to it.

“I discovered that the cross was Italian-made, and 30% silver.” Mr. Gold relayed.

“Italian-made? Does that mean that it didn’t come from Storybrooke?”

“Perhaps. Usually when something that wasn’t made here on the mainland cycles about, it comes through my shop. Not to mention the second half of the cross was never found, so Miss La’Belle was definitely brought here from outside of Storybrooke.”

Wendy nodded, a dead-end seemingly upon her.

“At least, that’s the information I gave the authorities.”

Wendy breathed in. He knew something no one else did. Another secret keeper, too much like Pan.

Although, Pan’s secrets stemmed were more personal, while Mr. Gold’s more than likely stemmed farther. He had stakes in Storybrooke, as Pan and several others had warned her. More than likely anything he was about to tell her could land him in legal trouble. Then again, this was all off the record. What the police didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

“What else did you discover?”

Mr. Gold ran the tip of his tongue over his lip. “A great deal of secrets, all of which stem back to the very place Miss La’Bell was dropped off at.”

“With all due respect Mr. Gold, I get enough of the vague allusions from Pan. Could we be more direct with each other?”

Mr. Gold smiled approvingly. “In all honesty, there are a few details I can’t reveal.”

“For legal reasons?” Wendy sighed. “I promise you, this all off-record.”

“For business-related reasons, Miss Darling.” Mr. Gold corrected. “I made a deal with Miss La’Bell’s abdicator.”  

Wendy paused, the meaning of his words sinking deep into the liner of her brain, infuriating and intriguing her all at once.

“You know who did it, who abandoned Tink?”

“I do.” Mr. Gold stated, his tone leveling when he saw Wendy’s gaze darken.

“You’ve known all this time and you told no one? The authorities, Tink? She has the right to know! You should have told her!”

Mr. Gold barely flinched when she yelled at him. “You’re right.” He agreed.

“Then why? What kind of deal did you make with her parents that would prevent you from giving her the information she deserved?”

Mr. Gold looked down at his ring, the strange blue stone reminding Wendy so much of Belle’s eyes.

“As I said, I can’t reveal the details of the deal I made.”

“Even to the person it affected most?” Belle barked, rage boiling inside her. Tink had a hole in her heart because of her parents, a hole Gold could have filled long ago. Instead he had used Tink’s pain as a bargaining chip against the people who had caused her so much pain. He used people to put himself further on top.

Just like Pan.

Just like his brother.

“I didn’t see it before.” Wendy muttered, shaking her head. “I didn’t see the connection, the part of you that he wanted to keep buried.” She lifted her head and met Mr. Gold dead in the eyes. The slight flinch he let off from the heat of her gaze only dulled her rage slightly.

Very slightly.

“I see it now. You’re both cut from the same cloth. You’re both horrible, selfish people”

Mr. Gold surveyed the young journalist, startled by her fire yet excited to feel the licks of her flames. Despite what Pan thought, Gold had indeed been keeping tabs on his much younger brother on and off since Belle’s disappearance. He knew about his shenanigans he pulled for the sake of journalism, about the lives he’d helped destroy. About the battles with his demons and recklessness and close calls. He even knew about Jekyll and August and all the bouts of filth in-between.

And he knew about the impact the young woman before him was having on him. He had seen it in the way he had carried himself in the last few months. Even when he was bruised and cut up from his recent horrors, there was still some sort of light over him, and Wendy Darling was always by his side to cast it.

He hadn’t seen him so alive since…well, Belle.

“No, Miss Darling.” Mr. Gold finally spoke. “You’re quite wrong on that note.”

“I doubt it.” Wendy hissed, grabbing her purse and standing.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Tink and tell her everything you’ve told me!” Wendy barked. “It’ll hurt her, but she had a right to know.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Darling.” Mr. Gold sighed, reaching under the counter and pulling out a small box.

“So you’re going to tell me who they are?”

“No, I can’t do that.” Gold stated simply, pulling a small brass key from the box. “But perhaps, Mother Superior can.”

“I’ve already talked to her—”

“You spoke to her, but you didn’t get the truth, I’m sure.”

“What do you…”

Mr. Gold reached out for her hand and curled the ancient key into her palm.

“Go back to the convent and search her office. You’ll find all you need to know.”

“But…”  

“I can’t say anymore.” Mr. Gold stated firmly, turning to retreat into the back room. “I must ask you to be off now, Miss Darling.”

Wendy groaned. This mysterious-town cliché had gotten old fast.

“What if she won’t talk to me?”

“Trust me, Miss Darling, once you find what you’re looking for, she’ll be singing like a bird.”

Wendy glared at him as she stuffed the key into her pocket.

“I barely trust Pan, why would I trust you?”

“Because you don’t have a choice. You’re getting desperate, and one thing I can recognize is a desperate soul.”

“I am far from desperate, Mr. Gold.” Wendy commented, turning on her heel. If he thought he could manipulate her with mixed metaphors than he would be sorely disappointed.

Pan couldn’t, and neither could his much older, much calmer brother.

But as she stormed out of his shop and headed back to the convent, she did hope whatever Gold wanted her to find would lead to the end of her current case. She wasn’t desperate, but she didn’t have a single straw left to grasp.

-,-,-,-,-

It sickened Wendy to think so, but she wished she had called Pan to join her—at least on this part of her mission.

Judging by their experience with August Booth and his vicious feathered pet, Pan was much more knowledgeable in these sorts of misadventures.

And as the minutes ticked until it was quite enough for Wendy to sneak back into the convent, she wished more than ever that he was here with her. Yelling or cursing at her, soothing and reassuring her that she had nothing to worry about. Taking the blunt of their horrors and fears from her.

It sickened her to have become so dependent on someone like Pan, who frustrated, hurt, and comforted her all at once.

God she needed therapy.

Finally, the young nun from earlier left the convent, locking the doors behind her as she whistled her way to the living quarters just behind the garden. Wendy scurried to the door, searching for a key under the worn map and in the bushes near the door. Though a quick look around the grounds indicated that there were no cameras around to worry about, there was still the grinding fear of being caught that she had yet to shake during her time as a journalist.

Pan would bite her head off if he were here.

Wendy rolled her eyes and searched for a window. She’d probably go straight to Hell for breaking into a nunnery, but she would risk damnation later if Tink received some kind of peace.

She shoved her hands in her pockets to keep them warm, her knuckles grazing the key Mr. Gold had bestowed upon her earlier. She had no idea what it would open, or even if what it revealed would do anything for her current case, but she had a hunch that Mr. Gold hadn’t given it to her just to get her out of his shop.

A thought came to her as she examined the key: it was old, much like the door leading into the convent. She turned back to the door and tested her hunch, her stomach flipping with joy as the key turned easily in the door lock. She pushed the old door opened, the aging squeak barely startling her. With a shaky breath she snuck into the nunnery and closed the door carefully behind her.

The walk to the head nun’s office felt shorter, as if time were working with her to ensure that she didn’t get caught before she found what she was looking for.

Her door was locked, as it should be during the night. Yet Wendy could feel the doorknob buzzing with all the secrets inside the quaint office. Carefully, Wendy inserted the key into the ancient key hole and the door opened with ease. Mr. Gold have given her a skeleton key. Either he was indeed a persistent ally, or a misleading enemy.

Wendy turned on the light and wondered where to go from there. The key couldn’t possibly unlocked everything in the room, could it? There was only one way to find out, and Wendy nervously began searching.

She started with the cluttered shelves, searching for anything that screamed TINK. Mostly she found old religious texts and old financial records that were probably too important to be boxed up in an abandoned library for snoops like her to find.

This was becoming frustrating. What was she even supposed to be looking for? Every mystery book and movie she had consumed often indicated that this part was easy, that the answer to her problems would jump out in front of her. It was an overused but very convenient plot device.

She couldn’t have helped but think that Pan would have found it by now.

As she mused on the thought, her cellphone buzzed against her hip. She quickly grabbed it to put it on silent and stared at the unknown name in her inbox.

Find what you’re looking for yet?

Wendy’s jaw slacked. Pan? She texted back.

No Larry King who do you think?

“How did you get my number?” she muttered aloud before texting the same question.

Not important. Have you found what you were looking for?

Wendy wanted to argue on the breach of her security, but decided that if he was curious about her mystery hunt, maybe he could give her a pointer or two.

Not yet. I’m in Superior’s office looking for clues.

You broke in? Now THAT’S my girl!

Wendy rolled her eyes. Don’t call me that.

I’m coming over. This is too adorable to miss.

“No!” Wendy exclaimed, tensing at the echo of her own voice before typing again.

Don’t. This is stressful enough!

She waited for a response, but none followed. She cursed Pan and herself. She was going to get caught and more than likely thrown into a cell with him!

She had to make a quick decision before he showed up. She could either ditch her mission altogether and run, or she could push through just long enough for a miracle to happen.

Her phone buzzed once more and she pounced on it before the buzz finished.

Check the drawers. There’s always something in the drawers.

“No bloody duh.” Wendy spat at Pan’s text before rushing to the head nun’s desk. Like the doors, the locks were ancient, leaving Wendy to wonder if the desk had been part of the property from the beginning.

The contents of it were scarce, full of old receipts, office supplies and little toys no doubt confiscated from unruly children.

Then there was something that stood out: a wad of blue silky cloth. It was too much of a coincidence for Wendy to pass up. She picked up the mass and instantly felt the added weight of whatever was wrapped up. Her heart pounded in anticipation for the reveal, and by the time she unraveled the object, the answers to a 20+ years case was almost solved.

In her hand was the other half Tink’s cross.

Mother Superior’s cross?

She moved the heavy, smooth metal in her palm, glazing over the jewels and the jagged edge where the cross must have broken off.

Mother Superior had had it all along, had had it lying in a drawer to gather dust while she belittled Tink. Wendy moved the cool metal to her chest, trying to possibly envision what her friend had gone through, how relieved she must had felt when she was able to leave it behind.

She had the other half of the cross, she had the keeper to Tink’s past, but she still didn’t have a motive. A “why?”

Unless…just possibly…

“What are you doing here?”

Wendy turned to face the head nun, her eyes roaming over her robed form, no doubt having been asleep just moments before. Her eyes widened when she saw that Wendy was holding the cross.

“Give me that!” She commanded, stepping forward.

Wendy scurried behind the desk, using the ancient relic as a border between them.

“You know something.” Wendy accused. “You know who abandoned her.”

“I’m calling the police.” She said, though made no move to act on her threat.

“Good, call them!” Wendy exclaimed. “Tell them you lied to them over twenty years ago, why you withheld evidence.”

Mother Superior lunged at the desk and snatched the cross from Wendy’s hand, the whiplash causing her to send the broken edge into her palm.

Wendy gasped in pain, clenching the end of her sleeve into the bloody streak. Panic began to consume her, the fear of a repeat of her last two brush with death a rising possibility.

“This was none of your concern to being with.” The head nun growled. “Everything was going as it should be.”

Wendy took the blue silk cloth and wrapped it tightly around her hand. “How…how was anything going well?” she panted, stalling long enough for Pan to arrive. “Do you know what you put her through? What you took from her?”

The head nun seethed, squeezing the cross tighter in her palm. “I did everything possible. I kept her close, kept her safe. I gave her everything she needed.”

“Except the most important thing a mother should give their child,” Wendy seethed, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction when Superior’s expression paled. “Love.”

Mother Superior looked her over. “No…how…” her expression darkened. “Gold told you, didn’t he?”

“No,” Wendy sighed. “Honestly, I’m just connecting dots at this point. And…she has your nose.”

The head nun blinked, panic rising in her eyes. “Are…are you recording this?”

“No.” Wendy sighed, flexing her fingers. “Like I said earlier, anything you tell me will only go back to Tink.”

“Get out.”

“She deserves to know the truth!” Wendy pleaded.

“You have no proof now.” The head nun fought, shoving the rest of the cross deep into her robe pocket. “I’ll deny everything, and nothing will change.”

“Yeah it will.”

Mother Superior shot around just as Pan breezed around the corner, his lips curved in anticipation.

“Rule one of journalism: lock the damn door after you break-and-enter.” Pan said with a frown Wendy’s way. A small smirk followed. “Unless you were just hoping I’d show up.”

“Yes, the same way I hope for appendicitis.” Wendy snarked, hiding her secret smile behind her bandaged hand. “I’m kind of busy here…”

“Yeah I heard,” Pan threw back. “And I think  Graham, Sydney and, well damn, all of Storybrooke, would like to hear too.”

Wendy watched the head nun’s back tense. They had her in a corner, and while this was hardly the way Wendy had wanted this to go, it was working as things had to be.

“Please,” Wendy beseeched once more. “Tell us the truth. We can help.”

“Or we can expose you.” Pan shrugged. “Just spill it.”

Mother Superior sent a deadly glare Pan’s way, but when he smirked back at hwe unfazed, she plopped down in her chair, defeated. She scrubbed two worn hands over her face, covering her eyes for a moment before turning to Wendy once more.

“You swear you’re not reporting this?”c

“Okay,” Wendy sighed, pulling out all the evidence she had gathered. “You’re Tink’s mum. You staged her abandonment and subsequently adopted her.”

“Yes.” The head nun admitted quietly.

“Shit.” Pan mumbled.

“Fine, I get all that.” Wendy nodded. “But the real question is why? Why go through such an elaborate setup for a baby you wanted to keep? Why never tell her anything?”

“Because I would have lost everything I had ever worked for.”

Wendy glanced at Pan who was staring at the head nun in a very queer way. It concerned her really, but she couldn’t focus on him right now.

“What do you mean?” Wendy inquired.

“I…was a lot like her.” Superior said, rubbing her hands nervously together. “I was abandoned, and someone took me under their wing.”

“You call humiliating and berating someone taking them under your wing?” Pan seethed.

Wendy held a hand out, warning him to stay put. “I can handle this.” She said, turning back to the nun. “Continue.”

“The nun before me groomed me to take her place when I was eighteen. About a year before, I went on a mission trip to Italy and…” she paused, her eyes searching the past for the more intimate details. “I met a man…”

Wendy nodded, assuming that the man in question was Tink’s father.

“He said and did things that…” she smiled fondly, “that went against everything I had ever known. I loved him, I really did…”

“Yes, lovely, I’m sure the sex was great but on to the post-baby abandonment already.” Pan intervened.

“Pan, shut up.” Wendy snapped.

“She’s stalling!”

“She’s telling a story, zip it!”

Pan rolled his eyes and slid down the wall, muttering something about idiots and exhaustive details.

“Okay, you met a man and got pregnant.” Wendy said, eager to speed the story along but wanting to do so in a more professional matter. “What led to you keeping Tink?”

The head nun was quite for a moment, a myriad of emotions swimming through her deep brown eyes.

“I told…Tink’s father…” she grimaced, as if the mention of the man left a bad taste in her mouth. “But he wasn’t interested in being a father, and I had no choice but to return to the states.”

“And no one noticed you were pregnant?” Wendy questioned.

“I spent most of my time in confinement, praying.” Superior admitted, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “By the time it was time for her to be born, we went into hiding, to this cabin just outside of town…”

“Shit.” Pan cursed. “The one that Gold owns? Is that how your arse got caught?”

“I…do you really need to know all that?”

“We can get to that.” Wendy promised, more in Pan’s direction than in Superior’s. “What happened then?”

The Mother’s back remained straight, her expression blank. “That’s it really. I gave birth to her in the cabin and later I took her to the convent to be found. All staged. And you know the rest. Are we done?”

Wendy stared at her for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around her tale.

“You’ve given us the bare bones of your tale, but nothing else. No motive no real reason why you did the things you did.”

“What more do you want?” Mother Superior groaned, sounding more tried than irritating.

“I want…answers!” Wendy said. “I want something meaningful to take back to Tink! I want her to know why you would keep her for a week and then just…dump her. Why you shamed her and forbade her from doing normal things. Why you—her mother—would put her through all you did!”

“I didn’t know how to be a mother!” Mother Superior yelled, her voice breaking with a sob. “I had my entire life planned out, I didn’t know how to fit a baby into all of it.” She took a long breath and straightened her spine once more, the blank veil of emotion she carried so perfectly falling over her face. “I did the best I could to give her a good life.”

“No,” Wendy said. “You did the best you could to cover your arse so that you could keep face.”

Superior glared at Wendy, but the young journalist gave her no room to cut in an argument.

“After you left yesterday, she told me about how you made her feel. About how you made the only home she ever knew feel like a prison. It was heartbreaking. And you have the nerve to try to drag her back here.”

“She’s living in sin!” Superior protested.

“She’s living with someone who loves her more than anyone else in this whole damn world!” Pan barked, stepping beside Wendy.

“Peter…”

“He has never, would never, do anything to hurt her, unlike you.” Pan growled, eyes aflame. He smirked then, enjoying the way the head nun paled. “I think you know that, and I think you’re jealous. She loves him and she’ll never love you. Not then, not ever.”

“I don’t have to listen to this any longer.” The head nun decided, standing up and heading for the exit. “I answer to one higher power, and he will judge me righteous!”

Pan stepped in front of her, not necessarily blocking her escape, but his presence was enough to stall the nun.

“Righteous?” Wendy gasped behind her. “I may not know much about God, but I’m sure using his name to judge your deceitfulness is blasphemy.”

“Everything I did was for the benefit of everyone!” Superior argued. “He will see that! I did it all in his name!”

“God is not your scapegoat!” Wendy yelled back. Despite her current hatred for the pious nun, she couldn’t help but feel something equivalent to pity for her. It certainly couldn’t have been easy to get pregnant so young and then subsequently abandoned by the child’s father. She had just never tapped into her maternal instincts. Maybe with help, she could have.

“I do care for her Miss Darling, whether you,” she glanced to Pan, “or anyone else thinks so or not.”  

“Is that why you gave her the other half of your cross?” Wendy inquired, pointing at her protruding coat pocket. “So that she would know that you loved her?”

The nun looked down guiltily. “The cross was an accident. I had bougt it in Italy…with him. I meant to throw it away but it had slipped my mind. The night I faked Tink’s abandonment, the chain I had it on broke and it shattered against the concrete. I had put one of the pieces in her bassinet and by the time the police came it was too late to hide it before it was documented in their report.”

“Oh my god you’re the worse.” Pan groaned.

“The bottom line,” Superior continued, unperturbed, “is that all of this will be resolved when Tink rejoins the convent for good.”

“Oh, you plan to tell her everything if she does?” Wendy inquired more sarcastically than she meant to. “Or would that risk your position you ditched her for?”

“I suppose that’s really up to you.” Superior replied icily. “You can tell Tink all I’ve told you tonight and destroy all I’ve managed to build.”

“Bitch we just might.” Pan muttered.

“But,” the nun contemplated with a small, eerie smile. “Without a recording, she won’t believe a word you tell her, and I’ll deny you ever being here.”

Wendy gripped the table to prevent herself from diving at the nun. Cunning witch! She glanced at Pan who gave her an “I fucking told you so” look and she wished they were on a higher floor so that she could jump to her fate.

Still, Wendy refused to let the nun have the last word. She straightened her coat and gathered her things, ready to leave on a final note.

“Who do you think she’s going to believe, Mother Superior? Someone who’s actually taken the time to earn her trust, or the woman who mentally and emotionally broke her for years?”

The head nun’s satisfied smile vanished, and her mouth fell as she searched for a retort.

“My advice is to talk to her first.” Wendy said as she stepped out of her office. “It might take a while but she’ll forgive you.” She motioned to Pan. “She did him.”

“Hey, watch it.” Pan warned only for Wendy to breeze past him unperturbed. He followed her with one last dirty look at the nun.

They made it out of the convent without incident, but neither of the journalists looked or spoke to each other until they were walking the quiet streets of inner-Storybrooke.

“Well you just barely screwed that up.” Pan teased, his spirits lifting

“I was doing fine long before you poked your nose into it.” Wendy miffed.

“Please you were bored to death without me.” Pan chuckled, and then nodded to her bandaged hand. “Not to mention you get cut up a lot worse when I’m not around.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. True, she had missed his accustomed presence today, but she had been doing a lot better on her own than she thought she had. No panic attacks, no shadowy figures crossing her path. She had been fine, abet a bit lonely.

“Well, I thought you needed more time to recover from your little tantrum yesterday.” Wendy spoke, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

“Oh, I see.” Pan scoffed. “Get a good night sleep last night, Wendy? Oh wait, no you didn’t.”

Wendy skid to a stop and shot around to the jeering boy. “That’s something totally different.”

“You’d be surprised just how much it’s not.” Pan argued.

“You know what, let’s just…drop it.” Wendy sighed exasperatedly.

“Fine with me.” Pan grumbled, and the two slipped into silence again.

They were close enough to town that they could see the ever-present light of Granny’s diner twinkling in the night. Despite how lively the restaurant still seemed to be, the rest of the town seemed too quiet, too peaceful despite what had happened—and was still happening—around it.

“I wonder what she’s going to do.” Wendy pondered aloud. “Will she tell Tink anything, or will things go back to being the way they were?”

“You should have recorded it.” Pan shrugged. “Then the bitch couldn’t hide anymore.”

“Actually, I’m kind of glad I didn’t.”

“You’re glad a whole day of work was for nothing?” Pan scoffed.

Wendy stopped and turned to Pan, sighed exhaustedly. “I’m glad that Superior now has the chance to come clean without the threat of blackmail hanging over her head.”

Pan observed her, taking in her nobility and strength, but quietly judging her obscene sense of justice. She didn’t know how twisted the head nun really was. She didn’t know at all.

“This was never my story to tell.” Wendy continued. “I shouldn’t be the one to decide where Mother Superior’s secrets get thrown around. She knows we know, so maybe that will give her enough of a push to tell Tink the truth.”

“Maybe.” Pan muttered, a small pearl of rage growing in his belly. But Wendy was smiling, satisfied with her days work, and he held off.

It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know everything.

“Well,” Wendy sighed. “I think I’ll head home, try to sleep.”

“Yeah.” Pan muttered, his hand sliding deeper into his pockets.

“Goodnight.” Wendy renounced, giving him a light nod before turning away.

Pan nodded, watching as she clipped to the apartments, safe and smiling whole-heartedly for the first time in weeks.  

“Fly, fly, little bird.” Pan muttered before turning in the direction of the Mirror. As he walked, he fished deep in his pockets of his coat to pull out his cellphone.

Before him was a recording app with all thirteen and a half minutes of his and Wendy’s conversation with Mother Superior saved.

Rule one of journalism may have been to lock the door after breaking and entering, but rule two was to always have a recorder going.

Pan weighed his phone back and forth in his hands, readying himself to give into his dark urge to put it on tomorrow’s front page.

The idea that Tink deserved better was what was stopping him.

Wendy thought that the Blue fairy was also a victim in all this, but she was way off from the truth. She witnessed a mere moment of Tink’s pain brought on by the holy horror. Pan had witnessed years of it.

Once, during his first week of school, when he didn’t have Felix or anyone else to call home to, he witnessed her cruelty first-hand.

It had been an early release day, but it could have been the end of the world and Pan wouldn’t have thought different. He was numb from the excitement of classmates. All he had to go home to was a stolic brother and a quiet, dusty house.

He was ready to walk back to said quiet, dusty house when someone bumped into his shoulder and changed the course of his overly quiet life forever.

“I completely forgot about the early release day.” Tink La’Belle (who at the time wasn’t the quite confident young woman she was in later years) gasped as she and Felix Croft pushed past the exiting bustle of students. “I forgot my clothes…”

“It’s okay,” Felix (who at the time was unblemished by scars and loss) assured, and Pan watched as he rubbed a hand comfortingly over her back. “We’ll sneak through the woods and then…”

Felix suddenly stopped when a blue car in desperate need of a paintjob on the hood breezed into the school parking lot, narrowly missing the bike rack.

Pan divided his attention between the pinch-faced nun who stepped out of the car, and the way Felix Croft’s hand waved up and down on Tink La’Belle’s back. The motion was therapeutic in a way Pan didn’t understand, and it numbed him all in the right ways. When the door to the nun’s car slammed and she started screaming, the peace he felt was shattered, and he was thoroughly pissed from the interuption.

“What are you wearing?” Mother Superior demanded, marching up to Felix and Tink while many of the other students looked on.

Pan hadn’t been sure who she had been yelling at. Both Felix and Tink were dressed rather appropriately for the cool Autumn weather, right down to the jeans and boots.

“I…snagged my skirt.” Tink said quietly, a sound that didn’t suit her loud, confident nature.

“Doing what?” the nun snarled with a glare at Felix.

“Please don’t do this.” Tink begged, and Pan could feel the heat of her mortification even from his place on the steps.

“Get in the car now.” The head nun snarled, grabbing Tink by the wrist before she had a chance to protest.

The small utter of discomfort caused Pan’s stomach to turn, and a small but fierce flame to flicker in his chest.

“You’re hurting her!” Felix had yelled after them.

“You stay out of this!” the nun growled at him, bundling Tink into the passenger seat before stalking to the other side.

Students muttered their condolences as the car drove off, but Felix didn’t utter a word. Didn’t even seem to breath.

Pan rolled his eyes at the boy’s love-struck agony (it would be many months before Belle would enter his life and fill him with the same pain), but he licked his lips as an idea filled his mind.

The following morning, the Daily Mirror ran a story on the second page about how the head nun of the Sisters of Saint Melissa’s car had been completely vandalized. Torn tires, key marks in the paint, and—as the mechanic would later explain—pieces of an Apollo candy bar in the gas tank.

While Pan chuckled about the small act of revenge he performed on Tink’s behalf, it also filled him with resentment for the head horror.

Wendy had said that this was Mother Superior’s tale to tell.

She was dead wrong.

It was his, and Felix’s, and anyone else who had to witness the head nun’s cruelty.

Pan didn’t blame her for her ignorance, but he wasn’t going to let it stop him from giving the icy bitch what she had coming.

He made a turn to the Mirror, ignoring the nagging voice in his head that—for whatever damn reason—he should feel some kind of guilt for what he was about to do.

-,-,-,-,-,-,-

Despite another restless night, Wendy felt more blissful when she awoke the next morning than she had in weeks. She had accomplished something big yesterday with only a slight interference from Pan. She felt more confident now, braver. She was going to be okay, and the idea was enough to make her sob.

As she locked up her apartment and headed to the Mirror, she wondered if Mother Superior had contacted Tink yet. No doubt her name would be brought into it, and Wendy was prepared for the backlash. She hoped whatever happened, her friend could finally get the closure she deserved.

There was something off in town as Wendy got closer to the paper. People seemed to be sending her side-glances behind their freshly printed papers. Wendy assumed it was about the Jekyll story and ducked her head. She hoped Pan hadn’t added any extravagant details for shock value.

The unnatural feeling followed her into the Mirror, which was unusually quiet for a Monday morning.

It wasn’t until she saw Glass, Felix, and a sobbing Tink in Glass’s office that she realized something was horribly wrong.

Two very distinctive thoughts ran through her head at that moment:

Tink knew, or something had happened to Pan, as he was nowhere in sight.

They all turned to her when she barged into the office, searching their faces for answers.

“What’s going on?”

“Like you don’t know!” Tink screamed at her, causing Wendy to flinch from the unexpected reaction.

“Know what?” Wendy gasped, reaching out to Tink.

“Do not touch me!” she yelled, snatching away from Wendy. “Stay the hell away from me!”

“Tink calm down.” Felix tried to sooth.

���No!” Tink fought. “What she’s done is lower then low. She does not get a pass on this!”

Felix pulled her back, trying to put some distance between the two women. Glass stepped forward, a hand on his lower back to steady himself.

“What’s going on?” Wendy begged him.

Glass held up the latest addition of the Daily Mirror. The moment she saw the stolid, gray image of Mother Superior she knew what had happened.

HEAD NUN OF CONVENT REVEALED TO BE MOTHER OF BABY ABANDONED IN 1991

Wendy’s name was under the headline and Tink had her scapegoat.

“I trusted you!” she sobbed. “I told you all of that in confidence and you published it like—like some kind of bizarre tabloid story!”

“T-Tink,” Wendy gasped, the paper rattling in her hands. “I swear I didn’t—”

“I thought you were different, that you knew how to separate your job from the rest of the world.” Tink hiccupped, pulling from Felix’s protective grip so that she could step up to Wendy and look her straight in the eye. “But Pan got to you. You’re just as filthy and selfish as he is. More concerned about a few seconds of glory than people’s lives.”

Wendy’s chest constricted with the weight of Tink’s words—her very misguided, hateful words.

“No, Tink, please that’s not—”

“Save it,” Tink sneered, stepping around her. “I’m done with you.”

Wendy couldn’t speak, couldn’t move as she heard Tink leave the office, Felix following her without so much as a glance at her. The moment that followed was quiet, yet bizarrely peaceful, like the few seconds right at the end of a horrible storm that had devastated the world around it.

It was Glass who pulled her back into the storm, and Wendy felt the air scorch her skin.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded, having to sit on his desk due to his still-injured back. “This was the research you were doing all day yesterday?”

“It wasn’t…I didn’t…”

Glass cursed and threw the paper on the floor. “We’ll be lucky if she or the convent don’t sue. Did you get any recordings or video? We can avoid slander at least.”

Wendy began to shake her head until a thought occurred to her.

“Pan might.” She said quietly, her strength slowly rebuilding after Tink had drained it from her.

“Shit!” Glass exclaimed. “I knew you hadn’t done this all on your own.”

Wendy’s head shot up to stare at Glass, another, much more different bubble of hurt filling her chest.

The entire town thought she was glued to Pan’s side. She couldn’t even screw up without them somehow thinking he had a say in it.

It was time to rip herself from him, or perhaps just rip him a part in general.

“Where does he live?” Wendy inquired calmly.

“You’ve been here all this time and haven’t figured out where he lives?” Glass remarked off-handedly.

“Tell me his address please.” Wendy pled more urgently.

Before Glass could respond, the office phone began to ring. He cursed and reached out to put it on hold.

“You know what, fine.” He grumbled, scribbling something out on a sticky note before tossing it carelessly Wendy’s way. “I have to deal with damage control. Just…don’t kill him before I figure all this out.”

Wendy barely managed a nod before she turned to leave the office, the note crumbling into the center of her pale, shaky palm.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do to him when she saw him, but she knew she wasn’t going to be satisfied until she saw blood running down his traitorous face.

It took her half an hour of stomping through town and having people jump out of her way before she found the first story apartment. It surprised her that it was in the building in front of her own, and that Pan had never mentioned their close proximity before.

Another thing to add to the list of reasons he was to die today.

“Peter Pan!” she screamed as she banged on his front door. “Open this bloody door!”

She continued to bang on it, unperturbed about the neighbors or what people passing on the street may think. When he didn’t answer, she stepped aside and tried to look through his curtained windows. She could see a slither of a kitchen through the cloth, but no Pan.

Frustrated, she stepped down and search for a rock or something she could use to break the window. Just as she was knuckles-deep in dirt, the door opened. Her glare melted instantly at who was leaning against it.

“A-A…uh, Mr. Booth.” Wendy swallowed, heat numbing her cheeks at the site of the shirtless man with a coffee cup clutched in his hands.

“August is fine.” he smiled, sleep still present in his deep blue eyes. “Winry, right?”

“Wendy.” She croaked, trying to wrap her head to what was going on. “I’m sorry to…disturb…um…I’m sorry…is Pan here?”

August turned just enough so that Wendy could peek into Pan’s apartment. Just ahead she could see what she assumed was Pan’s bedroom, as she saw a figure in bed and his long, pale arm sticking out from under the covers.

“I can wake him if it’s important.” August stated.

Wendy watched the tantalizing movement of his body as he breathed peacefully, sleeping away as if he hadn’t just destroyed several lives.

The rotten bastard.

“It’s fine, I’ll wake him.”

August stepped aside as Wendy barged into the apartment, watching in mixed horror as she grabbed a stray pillow from the end of the bed and began mercilessly beating Pan until he startled awake.

“Shit.” August laughed into his coffee.

“The fuck!” Pan slurred, shooting up and rubbing his eyes. “Wendy?”

“What the actual bloody hell is wrong with you!” Wendy screamed so loud the giant fuzzy cat in the corner of the room scurried away in a frenzy.

“In general?” Pan yawned, the thin sheet covering his waist sliding further down as he stretched. “August, you still here?”

“Yep.” The man in question responded from the living room.

Wendy’s face heated from the sheer absurdity of all that had happened in the last half hour. It was almost too much to bear, especially when the person responsible cared so little that he had spent the night in the throes of passion with another person. She wanted to scream or cry or break something, anything to get the horrible feeling of failure and hurt out of her system.

She grabbed the pillow she had been beating him with and raised it over her head again, ready to destroy him once and for all.

However, Pan’s phone began to vibrate on the nightstand, and he held up a finger to stall her.

“Just a sec,” he said answering his phone. “Hello?”

“Are you bloody kidding me!” Wendy yelled at him, slapping him on the shoulder with the pillow.

With a flick of his wrist, Pan wordlessly tore the sheet from his waist. Wendy gasped, covering her face with the pillow to block her view of Pan’s parts, her face hot enough to boil water on.

“Alright, repeat that.” Pan asserted with a slight smirk.

As the blood rushing through her ears began to slow down, Wendy shifted her attention to the man chuckling over his coffee. He winked at her when he noticed her gaze, and Wendy blushed all the more.      

With her anger cooling, she now felt a bit embarrassed that she had stumbled into such an intimate setting. It was odd seeing Pan with someone who just the day before had been held for suspected murder, but it was more odd to see him with someone who he had insisted he had no current attraction to. Wendy could only wonder the circumstance that had seduced August Booth in to Pan’s bed.

“Astrid, slow down.” Pan demanded over the phone.

Wendy turned just enough so that she could see his face, using the pillow to block out his parts. She watched as his confused look melted into astonishment.

“What? When?”

Wendy gulped. Something was wrong.

“Damn…yeah, sorry for swearing, whatever.”

Oh, that he would apologize for.

“I’ll be there soon.” He said, hanging up and standing.

Wendy looked away, listening as he frantically opened and closed drawers.

“Come on, we’ve got to go.” Pan said over the rustle of clothing.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why—”

In a flash, Pan had her facing him, his hands gripping her shoulders like he was trying to hold her together.

Then Wendy saw it, the rare emotion of guilt in the depths of his green eyes. It was just a twinkle, like the life of star, but it was there all the same, and it made Wendy’s stomach turn with anticipation.

He was trying to hold himself together.

“We’ve got to get down to the convent.” Pan croaked, his hands fidgeting on Wendy’s skin. “Mother Superior was just found dead.”

-,-,-,-,-,-  

Okay, I mean to have this out sooner but I totally changed the ending at the last second (the other one was just confusing and kind of boring to me).

I have two ideas for the next couple of chapters, but I must flesh them out first. Not to mention it’s my last semester of college and I have to focus on my studies if I’m to graduate without incident.

Also, I have a side project with this story I’m working on 😉 as well as chapters to my other works. But I shall update soon I say!

Thanks for all the love guys!

[lala-kate]

Do you have time for a nice fluffy m/m drabble such as from your room service universe or even indescretion?

It’s not exactly fluff, but it is MM and Indiscretion. I hope you enjoy it!  Dedicating it to @miscreantrose who has been patiently asking for an update for months. :)

Mary stares at Matthew, wondering what on earth he can be about.

First of all, he’s standing in her bedroom, a place no good man of breeding should be, although the very reason she’s situated in his house in the first place is because a very different man entered her bedroom uninvited a few months prior. She finds she can’t mind Matthew’s intrusion at the moment, however, not when he’s brought along a cool cloth to ease her discomfort.

It’s then she realizes just how ragged her appearance must be.

But she doesn’t ask him to leave, not because she relishes his company, but because of the words he’s just uttered, words she can’t quite wrap her mind around, words still dangling in front of her like a ball of yarn rolling past a cat.

Perhaps I can do something for your future.

“What on earth do you think you can do for my future?”

The question slides out of her mouth, taking on the bitter bite of the bile she’s just wretched out of her body.

“May I ask you a question before I tell you?”

He doesn’t wince at her sharpness, a fact that both infuriates and soothes her.

“No one’s stopping you,” she replies, settling back into her pillow to keep the room from spinning about. He smiles at her then, that lopsided, dopey sort of smile that has the unfortunate side-effect of making her actually like the man.

“I suppose that’s true,” he rebuffs, his good nature remaining as intact as his suit. “But I would never want to be accused of pushing in.”

She laughs at this, a mirthless, pathetic sort of chuckle that burns a throat still raw from vomit.

“As if I haven’t pushed in on you and your mother,” she fires back, noting her aim has gone astray. “As if Kemal Pamuk…”

The words catch halfway out of her mouth, willing to tell a story she’s kept hidden in deep places. She looks back at Matthew, fighting back the urge to bury herself under the bed quilts, forcing herself to meet his gaze head-on.

“What is it?”

His tone is tender, his eyes too soft, and she swallows down relentless fear as she adjusts the cloth of her forehead.

“Nothing,” she replies, seeing something akin to recognition take root in his brow. “Nothing of consequence, that is.”

He’s unconvinced, but she hardly cares as a small swell of nausea washes over her like a rogue wave on an outgoing tide. But his next words are too close, too insistent, too close to a truth that still stings in its raw form.

“This Kemal Pumuk,” he begins, watching her carefully. “Did he push his way into your bedroom?”

A dull ache turns into a throb just over her eye sockets, and she removes the cloth and relocates it around the back of her neck, breathing in as deeply as she can.

“I didn’t invite him in, if that’s what you mean.”

She watches his face constrict with her words, making her feel the need to withdraw from everyone and everything into a realm of blacks and grays.

“Dear God,” he mutters, rubbing his hand over his face. His eyes find her then, and she flinches, unable to accept anyone’s pity, unwilling to see his.

“I don’t want to discuss him anymore,” she states, making herself sit taller than what is comfortable. “Besides, I believe you are the one who had something to discuss with me.”

He studies her a moment more before before setting his jaw and leaning forward. Something is on his mind, there is no question of that.

“What are your plans for your future?”

Her eyes round as her mind freezes in place.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what are you planning to do after you’ve given birth?” Matthew clarifies. “Are you planning to give your child up for adoption, or will you attempt to raise him or her on your own?”

Her mouth falls open, her eyes trying to blink her cousin back into focus.

“Do you know me at all?” Her words a dull, their only edges meant to inflict pain solely on herself.  “I am still in bed at an hour many would consider to be ungodly late. I’m selfish and vain and have even been referred to as heartless by members of my own family. What in God’s name makes you think I would even consider trying to raise a child born out of wedlock on my own?”

Her tirade exhausts her, and she closes her eyes momentarily, wondering if he’ll simply leave her before she opens them again. But there are no footfalls, no sounds of anything but birdsong from outside her window, and when she does open her eyes again, Matthew is still there.

“I wouldn’t do well as a societal outcast,” she insists. “I’m afraid the opinions of others matter far too much to me.”

He smiles then and shakes his head.

“I doubt that very much.” Her stare doesn’t faze him, her open ire merely drawing him closer to her side. “The Mary I am coming to know is brave, irreverent, and doesn’t give a wit about other people’s opinions, especially mine.”

Hot tears threaten, and she blinks them back, unwilling to show any more signs of weakness when he already has her at a disadvantage.

“That used to be who I was,” she mutters. “But I cannot afford such luxuries anymore.”  Her past life dances through her mind as one hand settles on her stomach, the small mound now too pronounced to ignore. “There is no choice in this matter, Matthew. I have to give up this child, for his sake as well as my own.”

The words slip out unbidden, and she wishes she could take them back as they are far too revealing. But they’re out now, hovering between her and this distant cousin who unsettles her far too much for her own good.

“What if you didn’t?”

Her eyes meet his, and she shakes her head.

“There are no what if’s anymore,” she rebuts. “Those disappeared the moment I realized that I was with child.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Stop living in a dreamworld, Cousin Matthew,” she fires back. “Either I find a suitable home and family for this baby and return to my life at Downton, or I keep the child and both of us live in disgrace. What would you choose?”

She’s breathing harder, her body now rigid, the cool cloth having fallen forgotten to the floor.

“I would choose to marry,” he replies, his tone so soft she can barely make it out. “And to keep and raise my child.”

Her laugh is biting.

“Men have that option,” she states. “Whereas we women do not.” She breathes in deeply, feeling hotter than she had only moments prior. “Just whom do you propose I marry, Cousin Matthew? What man do you know who would be willing to marry a fallen women and claim and raise the baby of a dead Turkish diplomat as his own?”

The birdsong seems out of place in the muffled silence surrounding them. Then he looks at her, his eyes too soft, his expression too sincere, his everything too much to be believed. But he says it just the same, one word that tosses her a lifeline in a sea of condemnation, one word she cannot fathom in the quagmire of her life.

“Me.”

[shardclan]

Ranti gratefully accepted the warming herbal tea from Dantalion's cauldron. With the sun covered by the seeking ilk of the Outsider and the deep shadow of Omen, the mild winter had suddenly become bitingly cold. Heaven rubbed her hands and she felt a seep of tingling energy prickling her nerves back to life before her covered her with a warmed blanket.

"Interesting kinds you keep in these lands," she mused, and looked toward Omen. "This witch  doesn't yield."

"Mom is a powerful one," Dantalion said with more than a little pride. "There's a reason she's been First Witch twice."

Ranti hummed thoughtfully into her cup. "A lucky thing, that. The power that is bound with her is a good match for this outworlder. Were she not here, we might have already been lost."

Dantalion quietly ladled tea into another cup and dropped a young sprig of white sage into it, which Heaven carried carefully toward Omen. When they were alone, he leaned close to Ranti and gestured subtly toward Arcanus and Bestealcian. "Do you think Lady Telos will come back?"

Ranti shrugged and climbed slowly to her feet. She drained the rest of the cup, savoring the rush of warmth. "I am not long enough in this clan to speak of the queen's mettle in such affairs. But they look ready to wait all winter if need be."

Over their heads, light suddenly broke through the shell of colliding power. The shining silver ooze was peeling and flaking, like paint from an ancient ceiling, and the day was coming through.

Ranti clapped Dantalion on the shoulder. "It seems this faith must have its source."

The true pearl still danced out of reach, tantalizing Hitth from beyond the impenetrable oblivion the witch denied it with. And further still beyond her, the swirling cold of something that was not an Outsider but had the smell of one. It had power it thought only their kind made manifest, and Hitth despised them. They hoarded the pearl of pearls without devouring it, without utilizing it, without embracing the infinity it offered, and how it hated hated hated them for it.  

All the while it was preoccupied with loathing and hunger still the guardians remained, destroying it from within. Telos and Opal had represented an annoyance for Hitth. Telos and Zo with Opal in tow represented a disaster. They were moving too fast, closing too many of its doors, and the losses piled and piled even as it was reduced to a crunching cacophony of rage and fear. They had to be dealt with, or it would turn into a repetition of the last age. Hitth had been foolish at the time, drunk on its fresh entry into Sornieth and the curious, amoral Arcanites that fed it their desires and curiosities until even Hitth thought it knew what it felt like to be satisfied. Attempting to devour an emperor had been the height of folly, but the greatest foolishness of all had been in for seeking aid from the same Arcanites it had feasted on. Their curiosity left Hitth naked, stripped of secrets and devoid of all but the merest sliver of its power--and then had come that wretched Chosen to seal it away.

It would not let that happen again. With all its dwindling might, it summoned the most sublime reality for each of them, siphoning all that it was off into perfect offerings for them both.

I will not devour you, it whispered to them both. Take the offering Leave me to this reality Live elsewhere in bliss I give you the word of The Pearl

They were informed, they had to know if it swore by the pearl it could not go back on its word. Renat had to have told them so, or whichever curr had armed them to tear it down from within. But Zo rejected it almost immediately, to Hitth's horror.

This time Zo did not lose himself. He stood before the mirror image with the skull of the water seer curled in one fist.

"Aren't you going to break it?" it asked.

"Aren't you tired of my mother punching you?" Zo shot back. "I can't touch my own and I know it. Shut up."

Telos took longer than Zo anticipated to emerge. When she did, the oracle's veil was down, and there was a solemn expression on her face that puzzled and worried him.

She took his face in her hands, and looked deep into his eyes. "Do you know that I love you, Zo?"

His chest tightened, and he gulped. "You came to save me. Of course you love me. I love you too. And I would really like it if you could contextualize all this, cause you're scaring me."

She pushed him gently toward the floating facet that Hitth had crafted so painstakingly. "Go. Touch it with your bare hand."

Zo kept a tight grip on her hand. He checked over his shoulder, feeling very suddenly suspicious. Ilkilides was no help, so he whispered to the skull. "Is this a trick?"

"It is quite real. Your mother has a confession to make apparently."

That somehow made Zo feel even worse, but he reached out and touched the smooth mirror-like surface with his bare hands. The images moved through him rather than into him. A whole reality contextualized in what felt like a split second like the pre-existing knowledge from the start of a dream.

When he let his hand fall, his eyes were wide. "Ma..."

"Break it." She smiled faintly. "It's fine."

He felt a little shell-shocked, but he did as he was told. And soon enough she had done the same for him. When they reconvened, something had changed between them. There was an almost girlish expression of embarrassment, maybe even contrition, on his mother's face. And he could not say exactly what he was feeling or what they were meant to say to one another. But Hitth didn't afford them the time to sort it out.

Stop Stop Stop Stop, it shrieked. I will let you free I will let you leave!

"As you tried to let me leave?" Ilkilides spat into the muted silver.

You must choose Those are the terms The terms must be followed Leave me!

Visions of the world--their world supposedly--appeared before them. Telos and Zo shared a look. The visions of their own world were not facets. They were more like rifts in the otherwise disconcerting space.

"Do you swear on your pearl that one of these is ours?" Telos called.

I give you the word of The Pearl, it buzzed.

"You seem very desperate for us to leave all of the sudden" said Zo. "Why is that? Do you die if we take your facets away? What are they for, creature? Answer me and we'll leave."

I am the Thousand Faced King I will exist in all places In all realities and then I will Voice the Eclipse and Blacken the Moon.

Telos and Zo looked to Ilkilides, but the nocturne was quick to raise his claws and completely remove himself from the situation as a source of potential understanding.

"It wants to make the moon like Hewn City," Opal clarified. They all looked down at the skull with varying levels of confusion, and he huffed as best he could with his jaw barely holding together. "I'm a seer, I'm allowed to be invested in the condition of the moon."

"You were a seer," Telos corrected. "But I'll bite--what happens if the moon goes black?"

The skull clicked, and after the kind of prolonged silence only a dead person would find tolerable, he answered simply but with sobering gravity: "Horrors."

It would have been easy for Telos to press for a more exact answer, but there was something about the way he said it... He was good at faking sincerity, but he was also a coward who didn't want anything bad to happen to him, and that had persisted even in death. 'Horrors' was descriptive enough for her to pull the veil back over her eyes and clench her fists. Zo kept step with her, and the group strode off to destroy the last of the facets.

Hitth no longer had the power to open doors to new worlds without request. But it did have control of itself. With a concrete place to anchor them back to, it wasn't difficult for it to distorted the space around the, and forced them back to the site of the portals.

You gave your word to leave Choose your world Get out GET OUT

"Give it up," Opal advised. "It's right. You said we would leave when it answered your question. That agreement will be binding in here."

Telos stared into the empty world. Without facets, it had grown gray rather than silver-black. They were close. They were so close. But maybe there would be a way to deal with this creature on the other side.

She reached for the last of the items the Smoke Gyre had given her. "Show me the place where my knight and dog are waiting," she demanded, knowing the creature could not decline. Every single image honed in on the exact same place where Arcanus and Bestealcian sat patiently. As she'd asked the latter, an open black box sat on the ground before them. And all Telos had to do was flick the box she had open, and compare.

The creature could not present a false truth of something that didn't exist in Telos' mind until that exact moment, and it could not alter what had already been presented. When playing games of Hitth's sort, a simple double-blind was enough to guarantee a way home.

The four of them landed back on the path to Hewn Bridge, where the horizon was already shedding the darkness that had clouded it. Bestealcian cheered, but Telos was keeping her eyes nervously away from Arcanus, who rose like a tidal wave. Only a little while ago she had been entirely sure of what she was doing, but that confident bravado escaped her now. She had stumbled home to where she was queen of a safe and peaceful clan again and things looked rather different with the threat receding.

"I hit you again," she blurted.

"It was premeditated this time," he said sternly.

"You were getting hysterical! I couldn't take you in there, and you wouldn't have let me go."

"What good and honorable guardian would let their charge face an outsider alone? I may as well have thrown you to an emperor."

"...I am sorry, but it was the right thing to do in the moment."

He looked terribly tired for just a moment, before giving a defeated smile. "I agree in principle, just not in practice." He lifted her rapier, offering it to her in both his hands. "I hope you won't make a habit of going places I can't follow."

She took the saber slowly, and watched his shoulders fall with a great release of tension. Something about how easy that had been nagged her, though she couldn't put her finger on what or why.

"Telos!" Omen bellowed from the canyon edge.

They rushed to the cliff, where only a few blocks of what had once been Hewn Bridge remained set and clinging to the dirt. On the other side, Hitth wheezed and coughed, crusted in its own ooze, its wings were barren of their once glittering glory. While the day had returned to brilliance, the Hewn City was still Hewn City, and it was slinking back into the dark with what little energy it had.

"It will be devoured by some denizen of the Hewn City before it makes it far," the witch said tiredly, collapsing onto the ground. "It is over."  

"No, no, we don't want it dead," Telos stressed. "Renat said it gets released back to the other side if it's dead. Where is he?"

"With Lutia and the people," Ranti answered. "If you, or I, or Omen fell, they were the last protection there could be for your clan. Lutia would not hear anything else."

Telos ground her teeth, but didn't argue. It made perfect sense that Lutia would want the clan protected if this had turned into another flight from their homes. "Just go and get it then. Bestealcian!"

On the other side, Hitth scrabbled and writhed in the dust as fast as it could. So close to the cliff there was no place where it could hide itself, but there was the ugly, looming presence of Thunder's March. With the Umbra Wolf closing in fast, it cannibalized one if its precious remaining facets to figure out the mechanism, but just as it began to work its trembling claws on the dials--it opened.

A claw the size of its head shot out and seized its throat.

"I seem to recall telling you," a gravelly voice said. "That if I caught wind of any weird shit in this clan and traced it back to you, I would rip your wings off."

There was a scent of cindermint and sun and the dust of other other territories. Hitth croaked feebly, and its world went white with pain far worse than the Ice or the snowblindness had ever been. Its flesh parted and the facets with it and, finally knowing what horror felt like, it screamed

Carnelian tossed the noisy, flightless, facetless thing to the Umbra Wolf, and lit an exotic looking cigar that seemed to be sparking instead of smoldering.

"So... What kind of apocalypse did I miss this time?"