#i have been alive for twenty eight years and they have been The Worst Part of Michigan the ENTIRE TIME

[wickedhawtwexler]

yeah the super bowl is cool i guess. would’ve been cooler with the lions

[thosehallowedhalls]

The 2 AM Christmas Tree Farm (2/2)

Pairing: Trystan Thorne/MC (Emma Rose)

Summary: Trystan is haunted by regrets. But when he's granted a wish to undo the worst of them, he finds that the price might be more than he's willing to pay.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

It’s the most surreal experience.

Juliana suggests that he spend today with her, since he took the day off anyway. Good thing, too, because he has no idea what he's supposed to be working on. He trails along as she irons out last-minute details for the ball, her signature charm and kindness ensuring that everyone receives her commentary with a genuine smile.

Every once in a while, he looks at her and his heart fills with joy at seeing her alive and obviously happy. Every time, however, a stab of pain and guilt follows. Pain, because he has lost the most important part of his life. Guilt, because wanting Emma back means wanting to go back to a life where two people he cares about died horrific deaths.

“Trystan?” Juliana tries to keep her tone light, but he can hear the concern underneath. “Are you all right? You’ve seemed distracted all morning.”

He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I’m fine. It’s like I told you earlier, I didn’t sleep well.”

She clears her throat. “Thinking about Vasili again?”

His gaze swivels to meet hers. “What?”

“It’s been eight years since… well, since it happened.”

He’s unwilling to let this chance go. “I’ve been thinking about it, yes. It was a difficult night.”

“That’s an understatement. I’ve never been as relieved as I was the moment you walked out of the cabin and knocked him out. I don’t know what he would’ve done if it had been just us.”

I do, Trystan thinks grimly. “It must have been so hard for you.”

“It was hard for both of us. But I try to count my blessings.” She kisses his cheek. “I have plenty of those.”

He hesitates for a moment, trying to think of the best way to bring up his next question. “It affected Sebastyan, too.”

“How could it not? Finding out that the person you trust most in the world is capable of murder…” She shakes her head sadly. “Well, it’s no wonder he’s never been the same.”

“Still, it appears that Bas has plenty of blessings himself.” He wonders if Juliana still knows him well enough to pick up on the jealousy he can’t quite keep at bay.

“Behave,” she says. “I know you don’t like him, but you know he has changed.”

“I do. Moving out at twenty certainly isn’t something the old Bas would have done.”

She fidgets, looking uncomfortable. “Do we have to talk about it?”

“Why shouldn’t we?”

“Come on, Trystan.” She lowers her voice. “He got over me a long time ago. It isn’t fair to him or Emma to bring that up.”

Understanding comes in a flash. “He moved out so he wouldn’t have to see us together all the time.”

“And it was the right choice for all of us. That distance is one of the main reasons we were able to repair our friendship.” She smiles. “And the fact that he wasn’t living in the same palace as most of your siblings is why he was able to convince Emma to give him a chance.”

He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he knows he has to. “He’s lucky she did.”

“Oh, without a doubt. This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. It might have taken them some time to get past the initial personality clash, but they’ve made up for lost time.”

“Right, yes. I never imagined they would get together when they first met.”

“Really? I could tell from the start. Whenever they got within five feet of each other, sparks flew.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe. Stop talking. Please. “Did they? I never noticed.”

“Marguerite and I certainly did.”

“You talked about it?”

“Of course. She was the first to see it. She jokes that she would’ve paid more if she had known, when she hired Emma to find out who stole the designs from her collection, that she was hiring a future sister-in-law too.”

His heart in his throat, Trystan sinks his nails into his palms. “Sister-in-law?”

“Bas hasn’t said anything yet, but I know him. We’ll have another royal wedding soon.”

He can’t do this anymore. “If you have this covered, I think I’m going to lie down for a few minutes. It really was a bad night.”

As they stand in the parlor with their drinks that evening, he can’t help but remember the last family dinner he attended here. He couldn’t hold Emma’s hand or kiss her back then, either. But they exchanged covert smiles full of meaning – and promises for later.

This time, he’s standing with Juliana, something that would have made him inordinately happy once, as she chats with Marguerite. He supposes that he’s meant to be part of this conversation too, but all he’s managed so far are moderately well-timed monosyllables when they ask for his opinion on a topic.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Emma and Sebastyan standing close together, whispering to each other. They look lost in their own little world, and if he thought he’d been jealous before, it’s nothing compared to what he’s feeling now. She smiles at Bas the way she always smiles at him. Like he’s the only person in her world.

Feeling ill, he excuses himself and walks away.

He seeks shelter in one of the countless balconies in the palace, trying to breathe past the sheer grief of being thrust into a life he himself asked for without understanding the implications. This isn’t his life. He doesn’t want this to be his life. He wants New York, his friends, his job. Above all, he wants Emma.

As if conjured, she walks out and pauses upon seeing him. “My apologies, Your Majesty. I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“No need to apologize. This balcony is big enough for both of us. And I told you to call me Trystan.”

“So you did.”

Apparently, Alternate Universe Emma can make him smile as easily as Original Emma. “But you’re planning to ignore me.”

“Yup.”

The single word amuses as much as it hurts. “Can I ask why?”

The look she gives him is so full of disdain, it feels like a punch to the gut.

“I deleted the mind-reading app from my phone, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to use actual words.”

It would’ve made his Emma laugh. But this is Sebastyan’s Emma. The one who has given her loyalty to his brother, so she has no love lost for the irresponsible older brother who pawned his responsibilities onto Bas and treated him like an annoyance on top of it.

“Tempting, but I’d rather not get deported today, thanks all the same.”

“Consider this a free pass to tell me what you think of me. Deportation is off the table.”

“Fine. You’re an adult-sized toddler who’s spent his entire life dumping his responsibilities onto others. First your siblings, now your wife. And to top it all off, you have the gall to judge Sebastyan for not liking you.”

The words stab like knives. His lips twist into the mockery of a smile. “I did ask you.”

Emma’s eyes narrow. “You’re actually upset.”

He gives a humorless laugh. “Do you know many people who would be unbothered by that character assessment?”

“Astrid, the twins, Patryk.”

“And now you’re comparing me to them. It’s like a giant hug.”

Her lips twitch. “I’ll give you this, you’re probably not as bad as them.”

“Probably. Well, I can die happy now. Probably not as bad as a bunch of sociopathic narcissists is exactly how I want to be viewed.”

The look on her face… It reminds him of the way she looked at him when they were first getting to know each other. Reluctantly amused. Intrigued against her better judgement. Whatever happens next, he wants to fall to his knees and thank the universe for once again giving him the chance to see her look at him without animosity.

“It’s good to have goals.” She walks to the door, stops for a moment. “This has been… illuminating. Your Majesty.”

He watches her go, his heart aching.

“Oh.”

He jumps at the surprised sound, his head swiveling to meet Juliana’s eyes. There’s no mistaking the hurt in them. Guilt churns in him as he easily imagines what she saw on his face when he looked at Emma.

Longing.

“Juli…”

She turns on her heel and leaves.

Juliana doesn’t say a word – at first. She talks and laughs like nothing has happened, giving nobody any indication that anything’s amiss. But when his parents and siblings retire to their suites, she whirls on him.

“Is there something between you and Emma?”

“No!” Not in this universe, anyway. But he must have hesitated for a split second too long because twin sparks of fury and pain light up in Juliana’s eyes.

“How could you do this? She’s Sebastyan’s girlfriend!”

“Juli, there is nothing between me and Emma.”

Something in his tone takes the fight out of her. Sorrow fills her eyes. “Do you realize how sad you sound when you say that?”

What can he say to that? Deny it? It’s devastating to him that he and Emma aren’t together. This was supposed to be their Christmas. The first of their lives together.

“I don’t… I’m not sad.” He’s not. He’s heartbroken. And from the look on Juliana’s face, he’s not the only one.

“You forget, Trystan, I know what you look like when you’re in love. I would recognize that look in your eyes anywhere.”

“I’m not…” The words die in his throat. He can’t bear for her to think that her husband is in love with another woman. But everything in him revolts at the idea of denying his feelings for Emma. He’s not doing that. Not ever again. “Juli, I swear to you, the man you married only has eyes for you.”

It isn’t a lie. He’s sure that the Trystan who married Juliana has never stopped being in love with her. But… that’s not him. He stopped being the Trystan that Juliana knew eight years ago.

“I’ll sleep in my rooms tonight.”

Her little sidelong glance tells him that she’s hoping he’ll protest. But he can’t. Different universe or not, the only person he wants in his bed is Emma.

He retires to his own suite and tries not to think that somewhere in the floor below, Emma is sharing a room with Sebastyan.

Firs and spruces. Hot cocoa and candy. This time, Trystan recognizes the Christmas tree farm immediately. Relieved, he wanders off in search of Jacob.

“Looking for me?” He appears out of thin air, dragging a Douglas fir.

“What have you done?”

“I gave you what you wanted.”

“This is not what I wanted. I wanted to save Juliana and Sebastyan, not lock myself into a completely different life!”

“You wanted to make different choices, and I gave you the opportunity to do that. Different choices lead to different lives, Trystan.”

He grits his teeth. “Undo it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that power.”

“Are you saying I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life watching the woman I love be in love with someone else? That I lost my best friends and my job? And there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“You misunderstand. I can’t undo it. You can.”

“How?”

“You have to accept.”

“Accept what?”

Jacob smiles. “Everything.”

The Christmas ball is magnificent.

It meets 21-year-old Juliana’s expectations and then some. Trystan has never seen the ballroom so exquisitely decorated, or actual enjoyment on the faces of their guests.

He finds himself sitting at the main table, next to Juliana and right across from Emma and Sebastyan. He was worried at first that Juliana’s behavior towards Emma would be different, but he should have known better. Juli would never hold someone’s feelings against another person. Regardless of who either of them is.

As the night unfolds, conversation turns to Emma’s job. Private investigators are unusual enough to perk their tablemates’ interest.  

“What was your worst case?” Markarov asks.

Emma’s hand tightens on the stem of her wine glass, her eyes shadowed. Trystan knows, without a doubt, what she’s about to say. “Have you heard of the Heartache Killer?”

Some of the people at the table gasp. Others simply look confused.

“It’s the serial killer who murdered Sonja Dormer,” Juliana explains somberly.

“Oh, I remember that. The killer was never caught, were they?”

Trystan sucks in a breath.

“No,” Emma says, her expression shuttered. “As far as I know, the police never even got a real lead.”

“It’s a shame you couldn’t take the case after you found her,” Marguerite says. “You would’ve found the killer.”

“Yeah, well, I was hired to find Sonja. I wasn’t hired to find her murderer.” She sighs. “I wish I had been though. Her mother never got the answers she needed.”

Trystan stands up and excuses himself. It’s utterly unbecoming of a king, but he can’t be in this room any longer.

He makes his way to the same balcony where he and Emma talked yesterday. He needs the familiar to deal with the information he’s just learned. Eleanor and Tony... they're still out there. How many more victims are there now that the only people investigating are the likes of Morris and Holbeck?

He closes his eyes. How did he fail to consider that he and Emma only ever met because of Sonja’s murder? That the only reason she ever agreed to see him again after that first day was because he hired her to catch the killer? Without him and Emma, Sonja, Bethany, and Reese would never have gotten justice. Without the two of them working side by side, Tony and Eleanor would still be at large, adding to their tally of victims.

It turns out he can’t undo his original life, the one he looked back on with such regret, without undoing the good he did for other people along with it. And if that’s the case… Does that mean he shouldn’t feel guilty in the first place? That he should accept that all lives come with good and bad experiences, that all choices lead to mixed outcomes, and you never know how far the ripple effect will reach? That it’s pointless to linger on "bad" choices unless it’s to learn from them?

Suddenly, something envelops him. It’s a strange sensation, unusual enough that it takes him a moment to recognize it, break it down.

Relief.

Acceptance.

Peace.

The balcony, the palace, Drakovia, it all blurs around him. He feels a floating sensation for a second. Then it all goes black.

He awakens with a jolt. A quick look around tells him he’s half-seated, half-lying on the couch, the remote still in his hand. The Christmas tree he decorated with Emma glitters in the dark.

He’s home.

He stands, shoves his keys into his pocket, and leaves.

A quick visit to the bar lets him know that Emma already went home. He redirects his steps towards her apartment, knocking urgently on the door once, twice, three times when it takes her more than five seconds to answer.

“I’m coming! For the record, it’s too damn late for this.” She yanks the door open. “Trystan? What are you doing here?”

He drinks her in. She’s wearing the Christmas sweater that Ruby gave her after Thanksgiving, the one she made her promise to wear a few times before relegating it to the back of her closet. For all of Emma’s grumbling, he’s convinced that she secretly loves it.  Her hair stands on end around her face, and her eyes are bleary with sleep.

It’s Emma. His Emma.

He takes one long step, gathering her to his chest with crushing force. “I missed you.”

“O… kay. Trystan, it’s been, like, three hours.”

He holds her closer. “It felt longer.”

“Hey.” She runs a hand up and down his back. “What’s going on?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I will, but… let’s just stay like this for a while.” He buries his face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her. “Please.”

She says nothing. Instead, she tugs him into the apartment and leads him to her bed. They curl up together, not speaking, simply holding each other. It’s exactly what he needs.

“Emma?”

“Hmm?”

He cups her jaw and looks into her eyes. “I love you with every beat of my heart. You know that, right?”

She turns her head, kisses his palm. “Right back atcha.”

They lie there together until they fall asleep. For the first time, he doesn't regret a thing.

[rose-of-the-grave]

What Do You Remember?

Pairing: Lily x James

Hey, everybody! This is part 4 of All A Bad Dream, based off of this question. I hope you like it! As always I'm the author (please don't repost)

Masterlist. Series Masterlist Read on Ao3

Warnings: mention of suicide, trauma from a coma, hurt/comfort, Harry is loved, descriptions of canon events

Word Count: 1365

Description: When Harry's nightmares refuse to leave his loved ones become concerned so they ask him about what he experienced during his coma dream.

Taglist: @sylveryfire, @waitingformysandman

As the weeks went by, Harry’s nightmares persisted. Enough so that it was cause for alarm for his parents. It didn’t matter what they did, he would always wake up in the middle of the night leading him to be exhausted for the rest of the day. Eventually, Lily and James, as well as Sirius who had been concerned after all of the times he had stopped by to see Harry and he had been too tired to talk for more than ten minutes, decided to have a talk with Harry to see if maybe he needed to see a doctor or something.

“Hey Harry?” Lily asked. “Can you come out here please?”

Hesitantly Harry walked out into the living room where both of his parents and Sirius were sitting, all of them had tired and worried expressions. It was something he had noticed in his time getting to know them again. In his coma dream Lily and James had seemed so young because he had only seen pictures of them. Both of them had died at twenty so they had seemed so young compared to everybody else who was still alive and yet the same age. Sirius, however, he had to admit looked better. His years in Azkaban had taken a toll and yet here, standing in front of him, he looked younger. It was still so odd to see all three of them alive and well.

“Is everything alright?”

Lily smiled at him, as if to reassure him but all he could see was how tired she looked, how worried. The slight lines on her face and the sadness in her green eyes. He wished he could take it all away. Undo the coma and relive his teenage years with his parents at his side. But he couldn’t. He hated to think about how much he had put them through.

“We’re worried about you, Harry.” James sai, leaning forward a bit. There were a few streaks of gray in his hair, betraying his age. Premature, he thought. His dad was only thirty-eight. “You haven’t been getting good sleep ever since you came back from the hospital.”

“Is there something we can do for you, sweetie?” He couldn’t bear to look at his mother’s concerned face.

“I just…” He paused. “I just can’t stop remembering what happened. You were dead! And Sirius…” He turned to look at his godfather. “I watched you die right in front of me.”

Sirius recoiled as if he had been struck. The sounds of all of their gasps of surprise felt like arrows, piercing his heart.

“I almost died, several times.” Harry admitted.

Lily stood up and walked over to him, trying to wrap her arms around him to provide some form of comfort but he pulled away. “Oh, Harry.”

“And the worst part of it was, I survived. Every single time only to need to die in the end.” The words echoing in his head, ‘neither can live while the other survives.’

“How… How did you die?” He looked up at his father’s face, the worry plain to see in every line and every crease. He didn’t want to answer. In the weeks since he woke up he had only told them snippets of what he went through. Not once had he mentioned almost dying or them being dead.

“I sacrificed myself so that everyone else could live. If I hadn’t he would have killed everyone.”

Sirius stood up at his words, beginning to pace back and forth.

He knew what they were wondering. In a world where there was no magic he had quickly realized just how different things were. He knew that some of them were worried about him trying to end his life. It didn’t show through much but he could tell whenever he had mentioned the little things like how wonderful his life had been there compared to here because to him the magic had been amazing. He would have given it all up in a heartbeat for them all to be alive but it was still a magical and wonderful world.

Most of all, he remembered when they had asked about how his mind had filled in the blanks or his childhood. His mother’s reaction to hearing how her fictional sister and brother-in-law had treated him had been heartwrenching. In that moment he truly believed that if the Dursleys were real she would have been very angry.

“I saw you all.” At their looks of confusion he clarified, “Before I died. You gave me the strength to go through with it. Knowing that I would finally be able to be with you again. Sometimes I think that this is the afterlife, that it isn’t real and we’re all dead.”

Lily gave him yet another sad look, her heart physically hurting from the pain her son had to endure. James stood up and walked to her, hugging her from behind. He reached out a hand to Harry and Sirius who both joined in. Tears rolled freely down their cheeks as the information sank in.

Later, while eating dinner, Sirius asked in a low, muted voice, “How did we, how did I die?”

Harry looked over at him and considered how to answer that. He still hadn’t filled them in on all of the details of his dream.

Hesitantly he began, “Well, Mom and Dad died when I was a baby. They were killed by a really bad man who also tried to take my life but because of Mom’s love, he couldn’t and instead died himself.” At his confused face he said, “Magic is a very weird, sort of sentient thing in a way. Her love was considered the most powerful magic. Anyway, they died and I lived with my fictional aunt and uncle until I got a letter for Hogwarts. You already know how you were in wizard prison, which is why you couldn’t raise me but when I was fifteen, two years after we finally met there was this battle and your cousin killed you.”

The way he said it, so matter of factly, was what truly amazed them all. It was so odd to see that not only had he thought he lived for seventeen whole years in a world where there was magic and things like this got to be commonplace.

“I only knew you for two years and then I lost you. I lost all of you.” He started to choke up a bit, “That’s why I have trouble sleeping. I keep imagining that this is the dream and that one day I will wake up and you’ll all be gone.”

Sirius stood up and walked over to him, wrapping his arms around him. “You’re not going to lose me. Alright, kid?” He ruffled Harry’s hair before sitting back down.

His parents echoed that same sentiment. It would take time for him to fully stop his brain from making him question what was real and what was not.

“Maybe you should write all of this down.” His mother suggested. “I mean, I’m no therapist but maybe if you write it all down as it happened you can use that to try and remind yourself that that is all a dream. It might help you find the distinction between your coma and what actually did happen.”

“Maybe. There’s a lot to unpack but that might help.”

“Or at the very least we should start taking pictures. You can look at them as proof of it happening. I have all of your old drawings and things, we kept every single one. There’s also plenty of photos from when you were a kid. Maybe those might help. We can look after dinner.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him with watery eyes that were a bit puffy from all of the crying that they had been doing. “Anything for you to start feeling better.”

He gave her a grateful smile. There were a lot of times when his mind would play tricks on him but at moments like these when he could feel just how much he was loved by all of his family he just knew, deep down, that this was real.

[returntosaturn271995]

Favorite Quotes from "Really, Good, Actually" by Monica Heisey

“The idea of Jon writing breakup songs in some dark sublet filled me with equal parts deep despair and incredible relief – despair, to think that I had caused him such pain he’d been driven to experimental songwriting; relief that I wouldn’t have to listen to it.”

“We swore neither of us had Seen It Coming”

“Certainly, you are not supposed to be twenty-eight years old and actively planning a birthday party with the dress code ‘Jimmy Buffett sluts’.”

“Of course, it did not feel better to burn a tobacco and juniper candle and listen to the Backstreet Boys than it had felt to be loved”

“The truth is, if you start your eating disorder even slightly overweight, no one will notice until things are very much at the ‘what if two meals a day were soup’ stage.”

“Out of ten, how ready are you to joke about this?’ he asked. I mulled. ‘Six?’ ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So we’ll get into the eyebrows another time.”

“Clive and I split a bag of jagged low-calorie chips and toasted the beginning of my ‘ho phase’, though my lip started to quiver as our glasses clinked, forcing him to walk it back and remind me that every ho must take things at a pace that works for her. ”

"handwritten on heavy paper, highlighting relevant lyrics … oh, Brian”

“ the depth of their worry revealing itself only in my father’s daily text: alive? y/n.”

“ I needed a few weeks to be disgusting on my own and adjust to my new life as an unlovable husk. Amirah curled her long legs underneath herself, and I could tell she was going to say something annoying.”

“the way life together felt like an adventure. Their favourite adventure was going to restaurants.”

“and a rotating series of doomed hamsters,”

“a feeling of dull invincibility I referred to as ‘haha, so what”

“nodding like a group of NPR hosts. Lauren dipped an endive in yogurt, wiped the side of her mouth, and said politely, curiously, ‘Isn’t that, like, exactly how people describe depression?”

“I spent distracted time with the self-help authors, agreeing furiously with whatever was in front of me and forgetting it moments later.”

“ I think most intelligent people are a little bit mean, and all nice people are a little bit stupid. I wish I didn’t think that. I’m working on not thinking that. I have bad posture and good blood pressure. I’m heartbroken.”

“As I waited for the streetcar, I wondered whether he was right – if I’d had a bad marriage – or if Jiro was just kind of a dick.”

“Lauren nodded knowingly. ‘Can’t help you,’ she said. ‘The apps have destroyed my idea of what’s normal. I had to break it off with that guy I was seeing – remember he said he was agoraphobic, so we always had to meet at his house? Turns out he’s totally fine, he just doesn’t like coming to the west end.’ ‘Holy shit,’ I said. ‘Stealing that,’ said Clive.

“Sometimes it felt like a gesture of support, and sometimes it felt like loading all the corpses on the same cart so the rest of the village didn’t get the plague.”

“Amy said she’d never felt better, on days when she didn’t feel the worst she ever had.”

mortifying sadness selfies

“Amy drained her martini and puffed her cigarette, looking more divorced than anyone in history: ‘Good luck.’

The night carried on. I felt myself cross the threshold between fun drunk and ‘about to quote a song lyric from my past’, but there was nothing to be done except drink through it.”

“Her studio had a mirror that said STRONG AS A WOMAN on it, and she loved the way it made her butt look in selfies.”

“Amy, one false eyelash starting to peel away from the corner of her eye, looked at me like I was the dumbest idiot alive”

“looking for a partner in crime (i plan to commit many crimes)”

“Amy had recently gotten a tattoo of the word BREATHE, and Amirah had joked that it might as well read DIVORCED. Did I want everyone around me to know, on sight, that I was Going Through Something?”

“Merris came in, wearing one of her jazzier sweater shawls. She was holding a small baggie of eggs. ‘You have unsettled Olivia,’ she said, putting them down in front of me. ‘Apparently B12 will help.”

“This turned out to be surprisingly easy; all it required was 100% of my energy, 100% of the time.”

“everyone involved in adult learning was running from something.”

“Clive ducked out after the fitness class I had brought him to turned out to include a jazz dance component. Lauren broke at paint night as we stood side by side, drinking wine with twelve other women all outlining the same image of a city skyline at sunset. She added a few swipes of pink to the corner of a fading sky and said, ‘This is self-harm. This is worse than when my boss made us go axe throwing.”

“His flannel shirt and ripped jeans seemed fused to his body, like someone had vacuum-packed Kurt Cobain to store over winter.”

“Dating has a way of making incompatibility feel like personal failure; there was nothing technically wrong with Nathan, except that I did not like him or want to spend any more time with him, which, in the context of us having paid $45 for an hour of axe throwing and one draught beer each, was a problem.”

“After all, neither Jon nor I had broken the one mandatory condition of contemporary romantic coupling; we had done the noble thing and slowly fallen out of love over time.”

“Don’t worry about it,’ he said, seeming to mean it. ‘Divorce is, well … that’s a spicy meatball.’ I didn’t know how to respond to this, so I suggested we get a drink”

“Used one of those calculators to determine how soon you can retire if you make X amount and save Y amount each month; found I could reasonably begin retirement in 238 years”

[novelconcepts]

Excuse you...😭 The first prompt being absolutely Older Jamie having a cat that bonds with her AND Dani... Sad hours in this house, damn

She never let them have pets. There isn't much Dani Clayton regrets--isn't much point, she's found, in the endless, boundless stretch of after--but sometimes, she does regret that much. Jamie always laughed it off, said she didn’t mind--What do I need pets for? Got more than enough to keep alive, thanks very much.--but Dani knew she’d never had animals growing up. Hadn’t stood still long enough for a cat, or a rabbit, or even fish. Maybe it’s true that you can’t miss what you never had, but she can’t help wondering if Jamie’s got some little puncture, deep down, that should have been filled with a big-hearted creature who would have put her first. 

And Dani, to her eternal chagrin, hadn’t been able to fill that. Hadn’t been able to allow herself that. The beast, she was sure, would someday rise, and it was bad enough to think of Jamie going without. Bad enough to imagine Jamie staring hollowly at the door, wishing for Dani’s key in the lock. What would a dog have done? What would an animal who had only ever wanted love and to be loved have thought, the day Dani inevitably left and could not return home again?

How she’d thought of it in life, anyway. Now, she’s aware of so much. Aware of time in a slipstream around her, of the immediacy of the past, the present, the future all bound up with gold-edged ribbon. She is Dani Clayton, eight years old and watching her father waste to nothing, and she is Dani Clayton, twenty-nine and watching Eddie laugh at their engagement party, and she is Dani Clayton, thirty-one and watching Jamie nervously place a moonflower on a counter. Forever, she is Dani Clayton--the lost little girl, the stubborn young woman, the beloved wife. 

And Jamie? Jamie does not yet understand forever. She isn’t yet a part of the slipstream. Jamie is silver-haired, twisting that ring: a gardener and a widow, a storyteller and a scarred heart. Jamie doesn’t get it yet. Dani wishes she could tell her. Wishes she could impart the wisdoms of after while Jamie can still make use of them. 

She can’t. She’s tried. Her hand on Jamie’s shoulder, night after night, she’s tried to will the knowledge into the love of her life. I’m here. I’m always right here. You have to keep living, Jamie, you have to keep going, because I will always be right here. 

For years, she’s worried it’ll never sink in. For years, which are moments, which are blinks, she watches Jamie stagger through the world. Jamie, making bargains with gods and ghosts. Jamie, unable to see her, unable to let her go. Jamie, desperate and grieving and miserable. It sets an ache in Dani’s chest she hadn’t thought she could feel anymore. All time is now. How is there still pain?

But watching Jamie--watching her run baths, button into Dani’s old blouses, prop that god-forsaken door open in dozens of hotels over the years--how could it not be painful? Watching Jamie hurt is the worst of the world. Watching Jamie in her recklessness, watching solid, grounded Jamie crack open one empty mirror at a time. How could it not dig at her?

You’ll understand, Dani thinks--and it is as much a wish as a certainty. Someday. Soon. Now. Always. You’ll understand. The gardener always learns. The gardener always listens. The gardener can’t not piece it together, given enough time. 

But, for Jamie, it’s slow. It’s linear. It’s one day at a time, one year after another. For Jamie, it’s another Christmas alone. Another of Dani’s birthdays celebrated in silence: a lit candle, a photo, a woman bent over her own knees as her shoulders shudder. For Jamie, time plods. Time bleeds. Time is a wound she can’t stitch shut.

And then: the first one follows her home.

It’s an accident, Dani knows--would know, even if Jamie hadn’t in recent years taken to muttering to herself in the solace of an empty room. Jamie hadn’t even realized it was happening until the scruffy little mongrel followed her off the street, into the building. It sits--curly black fur, enormous brown eyes--at her side as if waiting. As if the invitation is implicit. As if it’s already home.

“No,” Jamie says. Dani can’t help smiling; there’s something to Jamie saying no that way that has always sounded an awful lot like a wall coming down. And, sure enough, the minute the door is open, the dog saunters inside as though it has never belonged anywhere else.

A bit, Dani thinks, like Jamie after Dani had taken her hand that night. 

It’s an accident, but Jamie has never been much good at turfing out creatures in need of love once they’re inside. The dog stays. Jamie calls him Iowa--it seems to have been the first thing to slip out of her mouth, and the dog cocks his head and wags his nub of a tail, and that’s that. Jamie, for the first time in her life--fifty-seven years old, paying rent on her first flat in over a decade--has a pet. 

Dani thinks it’ll be good for her. A dog begs routine. A dog needs walks, and feeding at reasonable hours, and doors that are shut at night. That Iowa seems older--relaxed and certain and just a bit bull-headed--is even better. He doesn’t run ragged around the flat, knocking into tables, shattering flower pots. He simply trots along at Jamie’s side as though he’s always been there. 

It would be enough, Dani senses, if it were just the two of them. Jamie has always thrived in the caring for other living things. Jamie is happiest when given a task, a hands-on approach to the world. The dog, she may not have sought out--but the dog is hers, and she is his, and there is a kind of salvation in unexpected love. 

The next one is even more of an accident, if that’s possible. A huge bear of a beast, shaggy and stained and wet-eyed. Jamie finds it limping through the streets of London with mud caked on its belly and head hung low. No tags. No marker of any kind. Iowa nudges her around the knees, looking at the mountainous creature, and Jamie sighs. 

“No,” she tells him, but Dani--and Iowa--can tell it’s a lie even before the syllable is completely formed. Jamie is already reaching a cautious hand toward the trembling dog. It whimpers. It presses its nose to her outstretched fingers. Iowa’s tail wags. 

London is, when given a proper bath and brushing, quite beautiful. Her limp is temporary; her attachment to Iowa in particular, eternal. The first night, with the dog resting her chin on Jamie’s knee, stretched across a threadbare couch, Jamie says, “Found it on the street. Wanted to save it” in a tone that suggests she’s speaking from a dream. Her jaw clenches. Her eyes close. Dani has never wanted so badly to break her own rules.

Neither dog seems to notice her. She’s relieved, in a way; Jamie’s nightly ritual never wavers, save for reluctantly closing the door--as with so many features of Jamie’s world, the safety of others precludes her own--and if the dogs began barking at shadows, it’s likely Jamie would never sleep again. Anyway, these aren’t her pets. Jamie has saved them--or they’ve saved her--and that bond is one Dani can’t muster envy for. 

Two dogs and a home full of plants. It doesn’t bring the light back into Jamie’s eyes, not all the way, but she walks a bit taller these days. Fidgets a little less. Cries often enough, but now there are soft muzzles to press her face against when she does. It’s better, Dani can see. Nothing will ever be what it was, but better is sometimes the most you can ask for in life. 

The third dog is less an accident, more a surprise. A two-for-one deal, to a degree; Jamie has wandered into the local shelter, where she’s taken to volunteering on weekends, and come across a sharp-toothed, snappish shepherd no one else seems able to touch. He’s been through the ringer, the other volunteers say, sage and exhausted by similar experiences. Abuse, probably. Neglect, probably. Only three or four, but with enough mistrust baked into his bones for three lifetimes. 

“He doesn’t like men,” one weary-looking young man says. “Or people who move too fast. Or multiple people coming at him all at once.”

“Can relate,” Jamie says, her mouth quirking. Dani laughs. “What does he like?”

The volunteer points. There, in the back of the shepherd’s cage, is a lithe black shadow. It blinks lantern-gold eyes up at Jamie, tail twitching, and makes a rasping sound that might, in another animal, have been a proper meow. 

“Came in same-day. Can’t separate ‘em. Not sure how we’re going to get them adopted.”

Jamie rubs her jaw, left hand hesitating on the way down. She touches the tip of a finger to her ring and heaves a sigh. 

“Fuck.”

She calls the shepherd Paris, and though it takes time--several patient weeks, Jamie turning up at regular hours each day to coax the nervy animal into growing accustomed to her smell, her voice, her easy-slow method of moving--by the time the papers are signed, there’s no changing it. The flat is now overrun, dog hair clinging to every surface, water bowls standing sentry in the kitchen. The cat’s litterbox goes into the bathroom, Jamie frowning a little as she surveys the new landscape of her home. 

“You,” she tells the cat. “Best behavior. Anything goes crash in the night, it’s your hide.”

The cat preens, rubbing around her ankles. Jamie sighs.

“Christ, if she could see me now.”

Something tugs deep in Dani’s chest--pride, and sorrow, and love of the most fervent kind. The dogs--proud Iowa, sweet London, Paris keeping a careful distance from both--are draped around the living room. Jamie’s home is theirs. Jamie is their home. Dani knows so well what that feels like. They’re lucky creatures.

The dogs are sleepy, warm, happy. The cat--

The cat is looking at her.

Dani frowns. She’s imagining things. Must be. She’s been drifting around Jamie--traveling the world at her side, resting a hand over her shoulder each night--for years and years. Nothing has ever looked at her. Nothing has ever seen her. Not Jamie. Not the dogs. Nothing. 

But this cat. This cat, with its huge golden eyes, black ears twitching, is staring right at her. 

“Huh,” says Dani.

“Mrow,” says the cat.

“C’mon,” says Jamie, oblivious to it all. “Supper.”

Days go by before Jamie properly names the cat. She strokes her fingers gently over the creature’s back, tracing the length of spine and tail, and frowns each night. “Who,” she says quietly, “are you?”

The cat butts against her palm, rumbling deep in its chest. Jamie makes a soft pensive sound.

“Vermont?” She shakes her head. “Nah. You’re different, mm? Somethin’ else.”

The cat chirps, turning its head, gazing into the corner where Dani is leaning. Dani raises a hand, wiggling her fingers experimentally. The cat makes the same noise a second time, as if in greeting. Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Eerie little beast. Never thought I was much for cats, y’know. But here you are.”

Never thought you were much for people, either, Dani thinks with amusement. Didn’t stop you drawing us all close. 

In the end, Jamie begins calling the cat Gremlin. A nickname, offered in warning, at first--any time she moved too near a plant, or experimentally sniffed at London’s paws while she slept, Jamie would quietly intone, “Oi. Gremlin. Back it up.” It is, in its own way, reminiscent of the way Poppins had clung to their first year--an accidental gift cherished by its recipient. 

Dani can tell the cat--rumbling her pleasure each time the name is used--agrees. Plants are left to their devices. The dogs seem strangely hard-wired to accept the cat as their queen. Jamie shakes her head. 

“So be it, suppose.”

It’s good, watching her build a routine around them. Dani hasn’t seen her stand this still since Vermont, but the dogs love the nearby park, and Gremlin sunbathes happily on the balcony, and Jamie seems, for the first time in years, to be fostering a simple sort of peace. The baths still fill, and her eyes are still too often far-away, but the door is shut. The dogs stretch out around the living room--which doubles, as all living spaces have for a decade, as Jamie’s bedroom--as if warding off intruders. The cat sets up shop on the back of the couch, peering down with regal bearing as Jamie slowly dozes off. And, when Dani inevitably presses a hand toward Jamie’s shoulder the first night--

“Hey,” she says, very quietly. “What’s this?”

Gremlin makes a raspy sort of sound, nudging toward her. She does not make contact, exactly; Dani hasn’t quite figured out touch, in all this time. She hasn’t had much cause. Touching Jamie is a dream, an ache she has carried since her death that reminds her forcefully of before, at Bly, when she hadn’t thought herself worthy or capable. Touching Jamie is the one part of all of this that still feels linear--I could touch her in life, and I can touch her when she gets here, but in between...in between...

In between, Dani can reach toward her. Can brush the space around her shoulder. Can be here, with her, in every way except directly, because some things are still unfair. Like Jamie feeling alone, even with Dani right here. Like Dani being able to always-someday-soon-now except for where it matters most.

She is in the kitchen at Bly, and she is in their bedroom in Vermont, and she is 1976, 1988, 1999, and she is--

Almost petting this cat. Almost. Her brows come sharply together, her heart thudding. 

“How?” she asks Gremlin, who seems not to mind. The cat presses in a bit harder, as if to say, Keep trying. Dani sees no reason not to obey. 

Each night, the animals spread around Jamie in a protective circle: Paris at the door, London beside the couch, Iowa nestled between Jamie’s knees. Each night, Gremlin sets up on the back of the couch, watching Jamie’s breath even out, and turns those enormous eyes on Dani.

And, little by little...

She can’t pick the cat up, or close her hands gently around her face. She can’t make the kind of contact she would as a living woman--matter pressing against matter, mass imposing upon mass. But her fingers are unequivocally brushing thick black fur. She can feel the cat’s breath on her skin. This is true, and real, and solid--and the cat, looking entirely too proud of herself, can plainly feel her in return.

Dani Clayton has been dead for over a decade, and Dani Clayton has been here all the same ever since, but for the first time, Dani Clayton is touching. Dani Clayton is feeling, not simply in the ether of memory, but now. 

She holds a breath as Gremlin rubs against her fingers. She’s still holding it when, slowly, carefully, she reaches down to the couch. 

Her fingers brush silver. Jamie’s brow knits, her lips parting. She’s always looked like this in sleep--as though some part of her just isn’t willing to shut down all the way. She’s always looked as though some part of her needs to be on guard. 

Now, with Dani’s fingers threading through her hair, that tight, armored expression gives a little bit. Just a little. 

In the morning, Dani wonders if Jamie’s eyes will flicker open and she will, finally, see her. There’s a breathless kind of terror to the idea--that she’s gone this long keeping Jamie safe from diving permanently into her own grief, only for a cat to undo all of that work. But, when the sun rises and Jamie rises with it, she gives no sign at all. No sign that she can see Dani, standing beside the couch, though Gremlin is staring right at her. No sign that anything has changed.

Except--except her hand, lingering at the crown of her head. Her fingers, sifting almost absently through her hair, tracing the same path Dani had been unable to pull away from. Her brow furrows. Her head shakes. 

“Breakfast?” she asks the animals in various stages of waking around her. Gremlin stretches, back leg popped high, and hops down. Dani doesn’t think she’s imagining the cat’s easy swagger as she makes her way to the kitchen. 

It isn’t the life she’d imagined for Jamie, laying awake and watching her sleep. Not the life she’d wanted for Jamie, hoping as hard as she could that the beast would remain always at bay. She’d never looked at Jamie and expected dogs to follow her home, hurt and lonely and in need of someone to show them the world can be kind. She hadn’t expected a cat with a swishing tail and a regal demeanor, standing sentinel. Jamie’s life has never quite veered in this direction before.

But: watching her now, as she slips a bit of apple to each dog, strokes the cat, leans her hip against the counter as she waits for the water to boil, Dani has to admit it suits her. Jamie has always been at her best giving love, even against her own better judgement. 

In time, Dani’s sense of soon-someday-now-always will broaden to encompass Jamie, as well. The years will press on. There will come a time where the brush of Dani’s hand across her sleeping cheek--the phantom press of Dani soothing Jamie out of a particularly bad nightmare--will evolve into the intertwining of finally standing on the same plane again. It is the natural order of things. Organic. Dani, standing outside of time, is patient. 

And Jamie: is slowly building herself a home again. Jamie is waking to take dogs out, and brushing down Gremlin’s ink-black fur, and looking more present in the world than she’s been in a decade. Jamie, staring into the mirror each night with Paris pressed resolutely against her legs, Iowa hovering in the doorway, almost smiles. 

“Someday,” she murmurs, “I am going to have some stories for you.”

Dani smiles. She knows, of course--outside of time, it’s hard not to know--but she can’t wait to hear them, all the same. Stories always land a little differently, coming out of Jamie’s mouth. 

Soon, she promises silently. Someday. Always. Now. 

In the meantime, Jamie reaches for a bundle of leashes, giving Gremlin a brief scratch between the ears. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder, her eyes drifting over Dani without notice. At her side, heading the pack, Iowa gives a small bark to confirm his readiness. 

“Right,” says Jamie softly. “Back soon.”

It is the first time in too long Dani has been sure she will be okay.

[longitudinalwaveme]

Worst Flash Storylines and Plot Ideas of All Time

As you’ve probably ascertained from the general contents of this blog, the Flash is my favorite comic book series. I love the characters and most of the stories. However, just like any series that’s been around for eighty years (counting the Jay Garrick stuff), the Flash does, unfortunately, have some truly terrible stories and plot ideas. 

In terms of terrible plot ideas that didn’t completely ruin the surrounding stories: 

1. Barry Allen uses the Mirror Master’s mirrors to manipulate Iris into agreeing to start dating him again (Flash #109). Creepy, Barry. Just creepy. The story is great Silver Age fun otherwise. 

2. Iris West: meanest woman alive. Iris was, by and large, incredibly awful to Barry up until maybe about a year before their 1966 marriage. Almost every time she shows up in an early Silver Age issue, you will admire her daring and independence (this is good) and be bewildered as to why on Earth Barry would want to spend time with a woman who is constantly calling him slow, lazy, and ambition-less (this is not good). It doesn’t really affect any one issue too much, but when read in a conglomerate, she starts looking really awful. Although as bad as Early Silver Age Iris seems as a romantic interest, she’s got nothing on Silver Age Superman and Lois Lane, the most dysfunctional couple in the DCU. 

3. Wally West’s zero-effort code name and costume (Flash #110). It really could not be more obvious how little effort the writers were putting into creating this character. The duplicate origin is also pretty cheesy, but there are enough differences from Barry’s origin for it not to frustrate me. But the name “Kid Flash” and the fact that his first costume was literally identical to Barry’s just feel incredibly lazy. Barry and Wally do have an adorable dynamic in the issue, though, so it’s by no means all bad. 

4. Barry Allen waiting an entire year after his marriage to tell his wife that he’s really the Flash. Frustrating and unnecessary; especially since Joan Garrick had been in on her husband’s secret since the 1940s. 

5. Iris Allen is FROM THE FUTURE. I both love and hate this idea. It’s so perfectly comic-booky, but at the same time, it opened the floodgates for the Allen family being a confusing, time-displaced mess. 

6. The Trial of Barry Allen. This one’s weird. I like many of the individual issues in this arc, and I actually think the last two issues are really great as an ending for Barry Allen’s original run, but this storyline dragged on for waaaaaay too long. There’s a reason I call it the Arc that Never Ends. Also, the titular trial is actually the least interesting part of the entire storyline. His battles with the Rogues and Kadabra are far more interesting. 

7. Wally West’s borderline creepy, chauvinistic attitude towards women under Mike Baron (and, to a much lesser extent, William Messner-Loebs). There’s being a hormonal twenty-something, and then there’s going through girlfriends at the rate other people change their socks. Messner-Loebs mostly avoided this issue by making it clear that Wally was under intense psychological stress that was negatively impacting his behavior, but under Baron and in some of his JLE appearances, he comes across as a real creep around women. 

8. Kadabra overkill under Mark Waid: I like Kadabra, but when he’s the main villain in like four distinct arcs, it gets to be a bit much. It’s like modern Eobard. He is legitimately written well, though, so he doesn’t drag down any of the stories too much. 

9. Pointlessly Dead Rogues: Killing off the Rogues in Underworld Unleashed for no good reason (the rest of the story is great, especially the Trickster). 

10. Pointlessly Dead Rogues 2: Electric Boogaloo: The Golden Glider’s pointless death to build up a character who was himself killed two issues later. (The rest of the story is decent.) Also, the treatment of Lisa in general post-Crisis is frustrating, since she becomes considerably more unhinged than she was before. 

11. Any time Waid tried to write McCulloch, with the exception of Flash vol. 2 #105 (and even there, he seemed off). It’s like he forgot Evan wasn’t Sam. 

12. Apparently, the Top trying to blow up both Central City and half the world makes him a loser? Also, he suddenly hates Piper for no readily apparent reason. (At least the story had some good Piper and Wally bits.) 

13. BARRY ALLEN HAS A SECRET EVIL TWIN! DUN DUN DUN! (The rest of the story, where we get to meet a whole whack of interesting future Flashes, is actually pretty good, but whoo boy, the Malcolm reveal feels like it came straight out of a soap opera.) 

14. In order for Captain Cold to ANGST, the Golden Glider’s pointless death remained in place for over ten years. It did give us a really, really good Capt. Cold story, at least...but it’s still fridging. 

15. Rainbow Raider’s mean-spirited murder by Blacksmith. Poor Roy. 

16. Albert Desmond becomes Hannibal Lecter, only twenty times as rude, for a Gotham Central arc that would’ve been terrific without him as the main villain. 

17. Owen Mercer is an idiotic child murderer and gets killed by the Rogues. Why was this necessary? (The rest of Blackest Night: The Flash is pretty good.) 

18. Josh Jackam-Mardon’s murder. The murder of small children for shock value is pretty gross. Especially since nothing was ever really done with it. 

19. Barry’s PARENTS ARE DEEEEAAAAD! (Okay, it’s really just his mom, but still. This is a very frustrating retcon, since originally his parents were alive and well until after his own death.) 

20. Albert Desmond was Barry’s jerk coworker; which never impacted the plot or led to anything. As a result, it’s just another frustrating retcon. 

21. Sam Scudder murdered someone before becoming the Mirror Master. Yet another Johns retcon that never went anywhere and only serves to darken the Silver and Bronze Age stories after the fact. 

22. Flashpoint (a decent story) wiped out a whole bunch of characters I really liked from existence for several years. Evan McCulloch’s still not back. 

23. Giving the Rogues metahuman powers doesn’t suit them, on the whole. They work better without them. 

24. Roy’s second pointless, brutal death in (I think) Forever Evil. 

25. IT WAS MEEEEE, BARRY! After serving as the main villain for like six arcs in eight years, I’m glad that Eobard finally seems to be getting a rest. The level of bad things he was responsible for was getting ridiculous. 

26. Sam/Lisa. WHY? (The only time it even kind of worked was in Forever Evil.) 

In terms of entire storylines I didn’t like: 

1. The Flash: The Most Terribly Written Man Alive. Poor Bart is aged up with no adequate explanation, loses all the traits that made him a likeable character, fights some awful villains, and then is murdered by the badly OOC Rogues. Meanwhile, Inertia goes from an at least somewhat sympathetic villain to a complete psychopath with little explanation, a murder is retconned into one of Captain Cold’s reformed periods, the Pied Piper and the Trickster completely forget that they’re supposed to be reformed, Abra Kadabra inexplicably teams up with the Rogues despite generally being a solo operative, and all of the Rogues act like total morons, willingly following a teenage speedster for no adequately explained reason. UGH. 

2. Countdown to Infinite Crisis: Even though Piper and Trickster were probably the best part of Countdown, that isn’t saying much. Both of them are uncharacteristically stupid (especially James), and James is a grade-A jerk to Piper for no reason. Also, both of them continue to forget that they reformed, and then James gets brutally murdered and Piper almost loses his mind. Also, the other Rogues cameo, and continue to act like idiots. Countdown: it really does ruin everything it touches. 

Superboy Prime will kill you! He’ll kill you to DEATH! And after you read Countdown, you’ll wish he had killed you to death. 

3. The Identity Crisis Tie-In Retcon: So, you know all that awesome character development the Rogues have had over the years? Well, forget all that, because it was all just Roscoe brainwashing them! Which was something he could definitely do before this story! And why did he do this? Why, because Barry Allen, one of the most upstanding men in the DCU, brainwashed him! Also, apparently, the Top had a huge bodycount that we never heard about back in the Bronze Age, because we need even MORE grimdark retcons for our cheerful Silver/Bronze Age history! I like Geoff Johns’ work, I really do....but BOY HOWDY does he need to lay off on the retcons sometimes. 

4. Identity Crisis: With the exception of Owen’s introduction and the establishment of the relationship between him and Digger, this story was pretty awful all around. More specifically, as far as the Flash was concerned, it was responsible for Digger’s second pointless death. It also killed off poor Jack Drake and poor, mistreated Sue Dibney, who deserved MUCH better. And the Justice League, including Barry, are A-OK with brainwashing, apparently. Comics are fun! 

These last two stories are pretty recent, and they did have some parts I liked, but on the whole I felt they also belonged on the list. 

5. The Trickster finally returns! Hurrah! Except it turns out that he’s way more like the Joker now than he ever was before, and he mind-controls the city in a super-creepy way. A very disappointing return for the character, especially since it was set up really well. 

6. Forever Evil: Captain Cold becomes a murderous dictator with a stupid Santa Beard, all of the Rogues get horrible costumes, and Sam completes his mutation into Evan-in-all-but-name. There are some good characters bits in the story (even for Cold), but on the whole, I found the story to just be unlikeable and depressing and thought Cold was pretty out-of-character. Poor Commander Cold....

So, what are your least favorite Flash storylines and plot ideas? 

[marvelobsessedteenager]

All The Hurt - Chapter 6

Pairing: Peter Parker x fem!reader

Warnings: ANGST, Peter was an ass, reader is a hurt and petty bitch, fluff to make up for the angst, curse words, lots of “coincidences”

Word count: 4.9k

A/n: This one’s gonna hurt..we’re nearing the end :3

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

You were driving recklessly, you knew. You were in no condition to drive, the world around you blurring into blurbs of mixed sounds and colors, and in the middle of it all was black smoke, like a monster of threatened death. Your eyes were glued to it, not even leaving it when you passed multiple red lights, nor when you went way above the speed limit, nor when the camera had caught you doing so.

All you thought about was him. You couldn’t help but imagine the worst-case scenario, which only made you drive faster, pure terror gripping your poor heart in painful ways.

You sloppily drifted the car into a parking spot once you got there and stared up into the smoke, already feeling the fumes creep up your lungs. It looked much bigger up close, and before you knew it, you were slamming your car door and running into the flames, completely forgetting to lock your car.

Fear was shaking you to your core as memories of Delmar’s and DC made their way to the top of your head, but you attempted to push them down.

For Peter.

Heavy smoke filled your lungs and caused your eyes to water as you ripped a part of your dress and tied it around your nose and mouth, making your way through hell on Earth. Fire, scalding beneath your bare feet, lined their way through the sand, aggressively marking their territory, and only growing angrier by the minute.

You coughed and hissed through the blaze, screaming out Peter’s name in hopes that he would answer. That he would be alive to do so. Your throat was raw and burned as you continued calling out for him, wafting away the thick smoke that blocked your vision. The fire crept up towards the ends of your dress, causing most of the fabric at the bottom to turn into ashes.

It was difficult to even see, let alone breathe, but the sound of gruff coughing provided you with a path. You followed the noise, feet pushing hard against the dull sand that threatened to pull you in, but you ran anyway.

You were heaving by the time that you saw them. Two figures lay on their backs, one significantly smaller than the other - one you recognized.

You fell down beside him, “P-Peter?” Your eyes scanned his face, bloodied and bruised with scabs that littered it.

Please, please.

“Peter?” You asked again, watching closely for any movement, “Hey! Hey, wake up!” You slapped his cheek a couple times before picking up his arm and letting it go, watching it lifelessly drop beside him.

No.

You placed your hand on his chest, moving it around fervently, panic starting to settle in when you didn’t hear anything. You shakily pushed two fingers against his neck, praying and praying that you’d feel a pulse. It didn’t matter if it was strong or not. You just wanted to feel something.

Anything.

And yet, you felt nothing.

Nothing at all.

You breathed heavily, starting to feel tears of anger and immense sadness make their way to your eyes, but you refused to give up. You coughed some more, feeling your chest tighten painfully as you climbed on top of Peter, hands above the center of his chest and knees on either side of his body.

Thirty compressions, two rescue breaths.

One, two, three, four.

You counted and counted, feeling like someone had wrapped barbwires around your throat and pulled until your face felt wet. Your tears fell down onto his bloodied cheeks, creating a clear trail through the gathered dirt.

Twenty-nine, thirty.

You pressed your lips against his chapped ones, the taste of metal on your tongue as you supplied him with the limited air that remained within you, pulling back to see if it did anything.

Still nothing.

“Come on, Parker.” You continued pushing, harder this time, "Come on, Pete, breathe, breathe, please! Don’t leave me, come on, come on! Wake up, Peter!”

You screamed out in agony as you pressed against his chest, your arms aching and sore but not ready to let go.

Save him.

Eight, nine, ten.

If only you’d gotten there sooner.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen.

You stared up into the night sky, and you couldn’t help but plead its creator for a miracle. "Turn back time!" You cried in between heaves, "I’ll do anything. Please!”

It felt as if the world was against you, using Peter as a way to lure you into another world of emotions and rollercoasters, and now they were taking him from you - again. But this time, you had the chance to keep him. If you’d been here sooner, maybe you could’ve saved the boy who laid below you.

“I love you.” You bawled, the heel of your hand burning into his septum, “Please don’t leave me. I need you. I need you.”

Two rescue breaths.

You pulled back, bottom lip shaking as you held his still face in your hands, wiping away the dirt and saltwater that covered the pale skin below, feeling the hope you had within you dull. You placed your forehead on his, noses touching as you breathed into him one more time.

Just one more time.

You pulled back, once again staring to see any movement. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but a black, endless void of silence - a silence that could’ve been filled with his laughter and joy that could light up a planet. His stupid stories that he would forget he told you, but you wouldn’t tell him, just to hear his excitement when he said it.

You’d give anything to hear his voice again.

You hugged him tightly as your head heavily fell against his frozen chest, harsh sobs wracking through you, accompanied by unimaginable pain and memories you were too fond of to forget. The world spun around you, and you laid there with the faded love of your life. He was gone, and it was all because of you.

“I’m sorry,” you wheezed, “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

You couldn’t save him.

This is all your fault.

Quick breaths made their way in and out as you felt your body on the brink of a shut down from the lack of oxygen, hands digging into his suit as your eyes began to slowly close while you whispered apologies through little heaves of air.

Until you felt an inflation.

Then a deflation.

You slowly sat up, fighting through the tiredness as you placed your hand on his chest, feeling a weak pulse drum beneath your fingertips.

Just to make sure you weren’t going insane, you pressed your ear against his chest.

Thump-thump, thump-thump.

You couldn’t help the small laugh that came from you. You cried, placing a gentle kiss on Peter’s forehead, feeling a small puff of air come from his mouth as you did so.

“I got you,” You mumbled against his head, “we’re okay.”

A low grunt came from beside you, and you wiped your eyes and looked to your right, squinting through the smoke. A man with much fewer bruises than Peter lay beside you, just beginning to twist and turn.

Boiling anger ran through your veins, your hands shaking with the urge to murder Liz’s dad, and you would have done it had you not needed to leave as fast as you could.

The air around you was too hard to breathe, and if you didn’t leave, you would’ve saved Peter for nothing.

Quickly, you tore the web-shooters off of Peter’s wrist and tried your best to web Liz’s dad up as much as you could. While doing so, his teary eyes locked with yours, watching you in defeat. He didn’t even try to fight back.

You shook your head at him, coughed some more, then ripped off another part of your dress, using the piece of fabric to cover Peter’s mouth and nose. You then proceeded to carry Peter on your back as you weaved through the thick smoke, falling a couple of times. Though your legs ached and your lungs burned, you kept going, eventually falling to your knees and crawling with Peter’s body on top of you until you reached your car, carefully laying him down on the backseats.

You shook your head of the dizziness and drove away, leaving the mess behind for the authorities to deal with.

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

For hours you sat beside Peter on your bed and cleaned his bloody face with a wet rag, the shock still bolting through you like lightning, screams and ragged breaths echoing in your empty mind. Your fingers tingled with memories of the vacancy they felt beneath them when Peter’s chest was still, when he gave no evidence that he was alive. It was almost like you were reliving the memories like they happened years ago. But it was so vivid. You’d stare into space, sharp pains slicing through you as they’d appear before you.

You watched him like an eagle, worried that his breathing would somehow stop. You worried he’d slip away like he did hours ago. You worried he’d die, and that you wouldn’t be able to save him again.

You contemplated leaving him, knowing that you should take some time to care for yourself, but your feet couldn’t show you out the door. They were stuck, frozen in spot as you watched his chest rise and fall. The bags under his eyes stood out against his pale skin, and you wondered how often he slept.

If he slept.

You didn't know what you’d say when he’d wake up. You didn’t even know if he’d wake up. Shivers went down your spine when you thought of that possibility, but you knew you shouldn’t dwell on it, so you tried not to.

You felt a sudden dip in the empty spot beside you, but didn’t dare look away from Peter. A gentle hand placed itself on your shoulder, and a soft voice followed, “Y/n..” Jane called out. You continued to blankly blink at Peter, and only realized how dry your eyes were when Jane moved her hand and cupped your face, guiding your vision to hers.

“Y/n, honey, you need to go wash up. I’ll look after him.”

“I’m good, J.” You said. You trusted Jane with your life, and therefore trusted her with Peter’s, too, but you simply couldn’t leave him. You let it happen once. You should’ve stopped him, or gone after him the moment he left. But you didn’t. And look where that got you.

You were still dirty and covered in debris with first and second degree burns on the soles of your feet, but you paid them no attention. When you parked outside your house, you ran up to the door and rang it as many times as possible. You made it back to your car, crying out for Jane’s help and ignoring all questions she was throwing your way. You both carried Peter to your room, and only when you told her you’d change his clothes did she leave.

You were lucky Peter used to undress in front of you without a care in the world, but still felt awkward as you replaced his suit with some of his clothes you still had in your closet - ones you wore so frequently it smelt like you instead of him.

Jane came by afterward to help stitch him up, and spoke no words. She didn’t need to, though. It was clear she understood everything. She gave you clothes to change into, and stayed with Peter while you changed in a record-breaking time. You hadn’t washed yourself, too scared to leave Peter for too long.

“Sweetie..” She sighed, “you can’t do this. You need to take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m fine, Jane. I just need to be here.”

She gave you a sympathetic smile and a small nod, “Let me go get you some water, okay?” She stood tall before giving your shoulder a squeeze, leaving you alone with an unconscious body - one that could stay that way for God knows how long.

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

It was just past 3 AM when you heard the low sound of groaning. You were nearly asleep by the time that Peter’s eyes slowly fluttered open, no doubt fighting the soreness of his body. He was lucky he didn’t obtain any serious injuries.

He was lucky he was even alive.

“You’re awake.” You said, an eerie numbness coating your words. You said it in a way that was calm. Too calm for someone who held their dead ex-best friend in her arms. You shivered at the memory and wrapped your arms around yourself, standing up and going over to grab the glass of water Jane had brought over.

“Y/n?” He squinted his eyes at you, his voice husky and dry as he began coughing. You rushed to his side and helped him sit up, placing the rim of the mug against his lips. He downed the water and sighed in relief, head lolling back against the headboard.

“Where am I?” He said, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“Look around you, Pete.” You gestured to your surroundings. His head followed his eyes’ directions as they wandered around your room. Not much has changed since the last time he’d been here, save for a few more books on your bookshelf, a new rug, and-

And you took down the photos and cards. The board you both spent hours on.

His head cocked to the side, a rush of pain shooting up his chest. But this sting wasn’t from the fight. This wasn’t something that could be healed with antibiotics.

You noticed him zeroing in on the bare wall and cleared your throat loudly to divert his attention.

“You-” died, “-you passed out. Next to the wings dude and I saw and-“

“Mr. Stark’s stuff!” He realized, planting his feet on the ground and wobbly standing up, grabbing the top of the headboard to stabilize himself as he did, “I-I have to-“

You gently pushed him back down onto the bed, “No, no, no. You got the guy.”

He blinked up at you, confusion swirling in those warm brown eyes until he put two and two together, eyebrows creasing.

“How did you know where I was?” He asked, looking up at you with accusing eyes, “H-how am I here?”

You bit your lip and took your shaky hands off of his shoulders, knowing he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it. The thumping of your heart became louder in your ears, but you replied anyway.

“I...” You gulped, “I went after you.”

“What?! Why?” He incredulously asked, his voice rising to his height as he towered above you, fire burning beneath his piercing stare, "Why would you do that?! It could’ve been dangerous, Y/n! You could’ve gotten hurt!”

“I could’ve gotten hurt?!” You yelled back, blood suddenly boiling, "I’m fine, have you seen yourself? You were bloodied and bruised and passed out beside him and he was awake! He would’ve murdered your ass! I believe it’s called thank you!”

“Thank you?! I had it handled!” His feet bumped into yours, head bowing until his nose nearly touched yours. You saw an angry vein popping from his neck to his forehead, pushing against the skin and you wanted to do nothing but smooth it back into its place. But you were too furious to do so.  

“Oh, yeah, it totally looked like things were under control considering a giant ass plane crashed out of nowhere, you were surrounded by fire and smoke, and there was a guy with wings who was ready to tear you to pieces!”

“Why do you care anyway?! Why are you trying to help? You just suddenly stopped wanting to make my life miserable? For what? To get even more popular? To tell your friends that you helped Spider-Man? You’re as fake as they come!”

The color drained from his face the second the words slipped, guilt and regret painted all over his features as he stood in shock at his own words.

And that, you realized, was your last straw.

You backed away from him like he had burnt you, letting out an empty laugh as he shook his head, ready to take back what he said, but now it was your turn to speak.

“Wait-"

“Fake? You wanna talk about fake? If I was fake, why haven’t I told anyone your secret? Why haven’t I just told the entire school who you really are? Why haven’t I told the world that the person behind the mask is really a selfish, naive high school teenager? Hell, if I was “fake” I would’ve let you die, because maybe then my life can piece itself back together after you fucking tore it apart!"

Your heart raced against your ribcage, adrenaline pumping from your head to your toes at lightning speed. You felt it everywhere as you backed him into the corner of your room.

You knew you had to stop and pick up the pieces of dignity he had left of you but you couldn’t. You couldn’t stop for the life of you. The confessions that tumbled from your lips were strong enough to push the little voice in your head that was begging you to stop.

This isn’t right, it said.

He was dead. He died. And here you were, screaming your head off at him.

But you just couldn’t stop the pain from forming into words. They only got even more raw and real as you fired at him, aiming deep into his soul directly into his heart with the intention to painfully crush.

And he felt it.

“What on fucking earth do you think happened to me after you vanished from my life, huh? What was I supposed to think when my best friend of years just decides to drop me and pretend like he doesn’t know me? What’s worse than that is that you carried on like I never meant anything to you! But you meant the fucking world to me! I was in love with you for fuck’s sake! But apparently, I wasn’t even good enough for you to give me a reason as to why you left, or good enough for you to stay! You of all fucking people should not talk about being fake!”

Your voice cracked and ached, but you showed no sympathy, even after his shoulders shrunk in their place. Frankly, all you saw were red and blue. Two dangerous colors that shouldn’t ever mix.

“You died, Peter! YOU DIED! You laid there with no fucking heartbeat, no breaths, absolutely nothing! What was I supposed to do? Just leave you? I wish I had the heart to do that but I don’t! I fucking don’t! No matter how much you hurt me, I’ll still be there for you like the fucking dumbass that I am because I’m still in love with you and I always fucking will be, even when I shouldn’t be!”

You were panting and out of breath, like you’d just ran laps upon laps. Your throat was in desperate need of liquid, head pounding against your skull painfully as your tongue felt heavy in your mouth, like someone was holding it down.

His eyes seem to water, but you couldn’t see past the buildup of angry tears that gathered on your waterline and dropped onto the rug below you.

Peter looked shocked, guilty, and afraid. He’d never seen you blow up like this before, much less on him. But he’d also never truly known just how badly he hurt you. No fight has ever been this big. No fight had ever shattered his heart and swathed him up in remorse as he watched you furiously wipe at the tears that had slipped past the barriers of your eyes.

The tears he caused, and that was enough to make his throat tighten and mind turn into mush.

You silently stepped back when you realized what you’d said, berating yourself for exposing your secret. You confessed. You confessed more than you should’ve, and you regretted it.

You were right back to square one. You didn’t want to look at him. You still felt that burning rage of hatred inside you, only this time it wasn’t directed towards him. It was directed towards yourself, for all the times you chose to listen to your heart over your brain.

Now was one of them.

And because of that, you knew he couldn’t look at you the same way again. You couldn’t look at yourself the same way, either.

“Y/n,” He called out, voice breaking like his demeanor, "I didn’t-"

“Get out.” You demanded, voice stern despite how broken and vulnerable you appeared.

He faltered, hand pausing in the air from when it was going to reach out to grab yours, “What?”

“Get out of my house, Parker.”

A beat of tense silence passed. You didn’t want to know what he was thinking. You knew what he was going to say, and you didn’t want to hear it. You didn’t want him to apologize and make amends. You weren’t going to set yourself up for failure and heartbreak again, especially if he didn’t leave at this moment.

He wasn’t going to say it back, and that was enough to make you hate yourself for loving him for all these years, all the while he didn’t feel a single thing back.

“Y/n, just listen to me-"

“I said-” you furiously grabbed his mask and suit and threw them at his chest, only getting angrier when he actually caught them, “-get out! Now!”

“Y/n/n,” He said, sounding like he whimpering in pain. But you knew he didn’t care. It was all an act. He showed how he truly felt about you in the heat of the moment, and those words can never be forgotten.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t fucking call me that. Just get the fuck out of my house.” You walked to the door and held it open for him, anxiously waiting for when he’d leave as your fingers fervently drummed against the handle.

He sighed, his fists clutching the fabric so hard it would burst if it were glass. A gulp could be heard as he padded across the room, pausing to whisper ’I’ll talk to you soon' and walking out, flinching when you slammed the door behind him.

You paced the length of your room with ragged breaths and your hands on your head, feeling an onset of a meltdown as the words made their way in and out of your mind. Hot tears heavily weighed you down until you fell to the ground beside your bed, cradling your knees to your chest and rocking back and forth, letting out the most painful wail you ever have in your life.

That night, you cried your hardest, the tears enough to fill buckets upon buckets. You wept until you were left out of breath, until you were defeated by the tiredness.

You were just...

Done.

Your exhaustion quickly knocked you out as you fell asleep on the ground with smeared makeup, a dirty face, and a clogged nose, unaware of the concerned eyes that watched you from your balcony with an aching heart.

——————————-

You somehow ended up in your bed with a foggy memory, the morning sun welcoming you with its rays that warmed you up, spewing a happy yellow across your tired body through the openings of your curtains. They promised you joy, and for a moment, you delightedly basked in them.

Until the memories of last night hit you like an oncoming bus, causing a throbbing, sinking feeling to lodge itself in your chest. What was worse was when you remembered today was Monday, a school day in which you’d most probably see him again.

You sighed and stretched your sore limbs, trudging your way to the bathroom, passing by the mirror that hung on the wall.

Then you backtracked.

You tilted your head in confusion, fingers tracing the clear skin of your face and arms. You were unable to recall if you wiped your smudged makeup off last night, let alone cleaned yourself, but beside your mirror was a garbage can filled with used wipes, so you shrugged it off and assumed you did.

Guess Jane must’ve taken care of me, you thought.

You went through your morning routine and got ready for school, making your way down the stairs with a heavy backpack and an even heavier heart, your stomach vibrating in a dull pain in anxiety. The sound of sizzling made its way into your ears the same time you caught a whiff of eggs. You paused for a moment, wondering if you should sneak out the back door.

You hadn’t expected Jane to be awake this early. Usually, she was dead asleep - she wasn’t much of a morning person - so her being awake alarmed you.

Regardless, you walked into the kitchen and flopped down on one of the stools, placing the backpack on the ground beside you, careful not to startle Jane, who stood with her back to you flipping an omelette.

Quietly, you cleared your throat and sat up straighter, “Mornin’ Jane.”

Her shoulders reached her ears in surprise, pan staying in the air for a couple of seconds, "Oh. Um, good morning.” She said with a strained voice, transferring the omelette onto a plate and sliding it over to you with sympathy painted on her face.

“What’s up?” You slowly asked, pulling the plate towards you suspiciously. The last time she made you breakfast was when you were twelve. From there on out, you told her you were old enough to make your own food, and though she stood by you to supervise, she let you do your thing.

“You only call me Jane when you’re upset.” She pointed out, lips rolling inwards.

“And you haven’t made me breakfast in years so,” you awkwardly laughed, picking at the appetizing omelette. You didn’t know what was wrong with you. You were hungry, but you couldn’t eat. The thought alone of doing so made you want to throw up.

“Do you want to talk about anything?” Jane asked, craning her head a little and watching your every move.

“Yeah, um,” you dropped the fork and scratched the back of your drooping head, “C-can you keep Peter’s secret? He doesn’t want anyone to know and-”

“Sure. Of course.” She nodded, agreeing quickly, "Is there anything else?”

“I…” you sighed and chewed on your bottom lip, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

False. You wanted nothing more than to talk about it. But you simply couldn’t burden Jane with your problems. She probably had enough on her hands as is.

She seemed disappointed in your answer, like she was waiting for a specific one, but gave you a small smile anyway, “Okay, well, you know I’m always here."

“Yeah,” you blankly stared at the plate in front of you, “I know.”

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

“Y/n!” You heard someone shout from across the hall, and had to fight the urge to run away and pretend like you didn’t hear anything. You felt incredibly drained today, and had no energy to deal with anyone, even Flash.

You groaned inwardly and turned, waiting for Flash to jog up to you with a grin. You wanted to get out of school during lunch, just for a while, but it seemed like you couldn’t leave at all.

“Where were you? Crisco Kid said your phone’s with him but he wouldn’t give it to me.” He pointed his thumb in the direction he just ran in from.

“Crisco Kid? You mean Ned?”

“Yeah, haha, get it? ‘Cause he’s fat?” He nudged your rib, giving you a playful wink, but you were in no mood for games.

“That’s not funny, Flash. Don’t make fun of appearances.” You said, already walking away from him. You felt like you were being suffocated everywhere you went, with no escape whatsoever, whether it’d be catching Peter’s eye from across the room or having someone question you about Spider-Man like you knew him personally. Which, you did, but they didn’t need to know that.

Ned had passed you a note in the middle of class saying “meet me at 2:45 sharp in the decathlon practice room to get your phone.” You furrowed your eyebrows and looked up, but he was already immersed in what the teacher was saying. You were too tired to argue with him, so you shrugged it off and planned to do what he said, no matter how suspicious it was.

Flash easily caught up to you and stood in front of you with his hands on your shoulders, concern lacing his voice, “What’s gotten into you, Y/n/n? You don’t…look okay.”

No matter how much makeup you'd put on, your bloodshot eyes and bags that were being held beneath the layers of foundation and concealer shone through like a bright light, a reminder of the shit that happened yesterday.

All it took was Flash’s question for him to break through. A switch had flipped in your mind, and you were suddenly feeling overwhelmed with emotions.

“It’s just…he came- he asked- I don’t know what to do a-and-“ you were having a hard time constructing your thoughts into a sentence, words spewing left and right, already feeling the buildup of tears.

“Okay, okay,” Flash quieted you down, “let’s talk about it.” He grabbed put his arm around your shoulder and guided you towards the cafeteria, warding off anyone who tried to come near the both of you with a glare while you wiped your stray tears.

Tags: @peachescream06, @hayhays

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[forever-rogue]

Golden

A/N: Totally not requested nor necessary, but yeah... It’s angst hours and I’ve been missing my favorite DEA grump. So here we are, it’s nothing much, more like a quick character study. Enjoy!

Pairing: Javier Pena x Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: None

Javier Masterlist

Main Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

The air in the small tavern was thick and heavy, perfumed with cheap alcohol and tobacco, it felt suffocating. Despite the fact that cool autumn days had finally arrived and all the windows were wide open, it felt warm, too warm, and it was driving you insane. 

Maybe it was the fact that you were getting a headache; between the lack of sleep and water, surviving only on coffee and the half empty cheap beer in front of you, you were surprised you were still alive. Even if it was just barely.

Or maybe it was the glaring fact that Javier wasn’t there. He was late, very late, which was very unlike him. You shouldn’t be worried; he was a man grown and able to handle his business. But he was a man of intrigue and polar opposites when it came down to his core essence. 

He could be punctual, but then he could be late and straying in like it was no matter. He was gruff and harsh, a man not to be trifled with, but you had never known a more gentle lover. At night he could be cold and distant, but in your arms he was close and all consuming. He knew right from wrong, often more aware of the difference than most, but he walked a thin line that became increasingly blurred at times. He was all business, but remained kind and gentle, those brown eyes holding a million different emotions at once. 

He was golden.

And still late. Ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes, and even an hour late. When it came to you it was almost unheard of you. He would never make you wait. 

As you swirled the foamy, almost neon yellow liquid around in the bottle, you let a long, heavy sigh. Tapping your fingers on the dirty, sticky tabletop, you quickly came to the conclusion that Javi wasn’t coming. For one reason or another. 

And you hoped it was a good one. 

After leaving the office for the evening, you’d briefly parted ways, telling him you wanted to go home and freshen up before your very lowkey date night. Now that you were thinking back on it...there was something about him that had been different - off - today. 

Not just today but...lately.

Fuck.

How had you not noticed earlier? Between this and that and every little problem that popped up and trying to wrangle in Feistl and Van Ness, your mind had been going a million miles a minute. And apparently none of those minutes had included enough Javier.

You should have known; you should have paid more attention. He was not just your friend, your partner, but your lover. The one that was your home, the one that you had seen every part and parcel of your soul, the one that was there for you no matter what. 

And you hadn’t been there for him. 

Shoving the beer bottle out of the way, you almost ran out of the disparate bar, and into the cool of the evening. The world already felt better outside of the dingy place and while your chest was still constricted and tight, you already felt better. Luckily for you, the place was close to the apartment building you and Javier lived in, and, thanking your lucky stars, you’d bypassed heels and opted for trainers. 

By the time you reached the building and had run up the flights of stairs to his, your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest and your legs were on fire. You hadn’t let yourself stop, the singular thought on your mind was Javi, Javi, Javi. 

Outside his door, you stopped for a moment, attempting in vain to see if you could hear anything on the other. But there was nothing; only deafening silence. Stopping yourself from knocking, you fished his spare key out from your purse, sliding it into the lock and quietly opening the door. 

The apartment was quiet and dark, save for the faint bits of dismal yellow light you saw filtering out from his bedroom. A small sound of relief escaped your lips as you realized if nothing else, he was home safe. 

Locking the door behind you, you shrugged off your jacket and tossed it onto the couch before inhaling sharply and squaring your shoulders. Why were you so nervous all of a sudden? This was Javier after all; not a complete stranger. 

“Javier?” your voice was soft, almost sound unlike you as you started walking towards the end of the hall. It barely looked like he had been home, things were untouched, left in the same state as when you had left in the morning, making sure to arrive separately to work, just in order to avoid more suspicion than necessary. Everybody knew, you knew they knew, but till...why push the envelope when you didn’t need to and all eyes were on you, scrutinizing your every move anyway. 

Nothing but tense silence met your ears, causing you to swallow thickly as you trailed your fingers along the wall. They were empty besides a few photos of you and Javier over the past few years. It was like a dirty little secret, one known to only you and Javier, away from the harsh and cruel realities of the world. The one on the end was your favorite; it was one of the few candids you had managed to get of Javier, a smile on his face and his eyes all crinkled up in the way that made your heart melt, his dark locks blowing in the wind. You wished that side of him came out more often; you’d make it a to try your best to bring out that megawatt smile as much as you could. 

“Javi?” you called softly as you gingerly pushed open the bedroom door the rest of the way. It sounded like you felt; creaking and aching, crying out for something. As you entered the familiar space, it almost shocked you with how familiar everything seemed; eight now it felt like you were in another world, “love?”

For some reason, due to the quiet intensity of this evening, you almost didn’t expect to find him in the room at all. But he was there. 

He was there and for once he wasn’t occupying every part of the room; he was small, diminutive. He was almost hunched in on himself, sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of whiskey cradled almost delicately in his hands that he barely touched. An empty pack of cigarettes sat next to him, suggesting he had been there for some time. But the worst part of it all? He didn’t even move, not even slightly, to turn and look at you.

“Javier,” you rushed over to him, quickly dropping to your knees in front of him as your hands instinctively reached for his face. But unlike almost every single other time, he didn’t let you touch him, he flinched away, as if your touch was venom. Your breath caught in your throat as you held up your hands in the air, almost as if admitting silent, heartbreaking defeat, “J-Javi?”

“Don’t.”

It was a single, earth shattering word. 

Your mouth dropped open, lips trembling as you tried to process what was going on. 

“Javier-”

“Stop,” he insisted as he brought the glass to his lips and quickly downed it before absentmindedly tossed on the bed, not caring what happened to it, “please.”

“What...what’s going on?”

“I can’t...I can’t do this,” it was a simple state, said without feeling and clinging to every part of you like thick, sickly sweet pollen. Javier kept his gaze trained at the wall, pointedly avoiding making every contact with you. 

But he didn’t have to expand. Even without expanding further, you both knew precisely what he was referring to. Your eyes, already tired from the long days burned and stung with warm, salty tears as you tried to figure out what, if anything, to do. 

Your mind, normally wicked sharp and cunning, failed. It faltered just like your heart felt like it was starting to do. 

Instead, you remained still, perched on your knees as you silently cried and he breathed heavily, in and out, in and out, steady, strong, deadly.

But after some time he couldn’t take it any longer, he couldn’t bear to hear you quietly sniffle and cry any more, he stood up and walked to the door. 

“I think you should go,” his voice was emotionless, steeled and rough as though he had rehearsed this in his mind many times over. His hand was on the knob as you rose to your feet and stormed over to him. You wanted to fight, you wanted to scream, to demand answers, to demand something. But there was just...nothing. 

Instead you stared at him, trying to decipher his expression. His face was tired...worn out. Almost like he just couldn’t…

“Why?” your voice broke and cracked on the single syllable as you hastily wiped away at the tears, “tell me why.”

“Please just go,” he seemed to struggle with each word but he kept his gaze away from you. You hoped this was hard for him, you hoped it would twist and twist and burn like a knife being plunged into his heart. Just like you felt right now. Gods, you still wanted him to fight you, and part of you wished you could fight back. 

But for some reason...you didn’t have resolve. Almost like you knew this had been coming; almost like you knew this would happen eventually. But you didn’t; you just wept like a broken hearted fool as you willed him to at least look at your one more time. 

“Why?” you repeated as he jerked the door open further, “tell me.”

“There’s a plane ticket with your name on it on your kitchen table,” his voice was gravely and thick; not the normal rich tone when you made love, but different; distinct - harsh, “you’re going back tomorrow.” 

“What!?” the words crashed around your ears like a horrible cacophony of sounds as you gaped at him. Surely this was a cruel wicked joke, one that you made him beg you to forgive. But when he didn’t laugh, he didn’t even offer up the slightest bit of emotion, nothing, you knew it wasn’t a joke. No, it was your whole world shattering around, bit by broken bit. 

And you didn’t even have a single say in it. 

He had made sure of that.

There was no point in arguing; at the end of the day he was your boss, and if you bothered sidestepping him, it would just end in the same result. This was done; over and decided without you getting a single word in. It was calculated from the beginning; this was why he had disappeared over the last several weeks. 

You should have known. 

You should have fucking known.

“Go,” but he didn’t have to say anything further as you stormed past him. But as you did so, you made it a point to tear down every single picture on his walls, letting them clatter to the ground as the glass shattered. 

Just like your heart. 

Just like your dreams.

Just like your love.

When you reached the door, you paused, your hand on the knob. 

You turned back to him, wishing and wanting him to finally meet your eyes and say I’m sorry or...something.

But he didn’t. He wasn’t in your line of sight anymore. He was just gone - gone.

“I hate you, Javier,” you wished you could have meant the words, that they could have held some weight. But instead it was weak and pathetic. A lie to the bitter end.

You slammed the door as loudly as possible on the way, uncaring about who heard or what scene it caused. 

Nothing mattered; it was all over anyway. 

A life without Javier was no life at all.

As Javier listened to you storm to the door side of the building before slamming your own door, he let out a long shaky breath. Reaching for the whiskey bottle, he didn’t even bother with the glass, instead opening it up and downing half of it one go. 

When he was done, he threw it against the wall, let it smash and shatter just like the pictures that were nothing but distant memories. 

This was supposed to be easy, supposed to be the right thing to do.

For you. 

To protect you. To show you just how damn much he loved you.

Instead it had resulted in this.

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Never. 

And now….what was the point? There was no point. Without you, there was no point to anything.

You were just too much. Too bright for him to bring down and drag to his level, too good and pure for him to mark up and scar. You’d been through much, and he’d shielded you from more. But it just...it was too much. 

This was what he had to do. Right? Right? Right. 

Maybe one day he would understand that.

Maybe one day you would too. He didn’t care if you never forgave him; but if you were safe and breathing that was everything to him.

You were just too golden for him. For this world - his world. 

Too golden.

»»————-　♡　————-««

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[isshebreathing]

I had an unexpected weekend off and it’s too hot to be outside today, so five stories in one weekend is too much for me to catch up with. Thanks everyone for your positive response so far, I’ll definitely keep working on them.

If you are triggered by dark stuff and death fantasy you can skip part 2 and come straight to part 3 without missing anything.

Chronic Asthma Part 3

We were over staffed at the hospital so I volunteered to leave. I had been working so much that my girlfriend Emily and I were like ships passing in the night. She would have just gotten home from her bar tending shift and we could eat dinner in bed then fall asleep watching a reality show like a normal couple would. Emily has a bachelor’s degree in fine art, but she still bartends because it pays more money. I’ve always felt guilty about that, once I was done with med school I would be able to make more money and she wouldn’t have to work. She could tell the men who made passes at her to fuck off without fear of losing precious tips or worse yet, her job.

“Coming home early” I texted “dinner and tv?”

I didn’t get a response

“???????” I sent.

She might have been in bed, when I called her this evening she sounded tired and short of breath, she said she had been running to catch something.

The thought crossed my mind that Emily was not okay. She had had chronic asthma since she was a child as a result of the poor air quality in the Appalachian town she was raised in. Sometimes late at night I would feel her start awake and I knew she was having a nightmare of one of the two times she had stopped breathing entirely in her life.

I pushed the thought out of my head, Emily had always accused me of overthinking things and turning them into a medical crisis, it was a side effect of seven years of med school I guessed.

I sent another text “Fast food tacos?”

I got no response, “she’s probably in the shower,” I said to myself.

My anxiety didn’t fade though, I thought we had food at home we could make. I ordered a car on my phone to shorten the 45 minutes the train would have taken. I tried to get the thought of my girlfriend struggling to breath on the floor out of my head and tried to replace it with the pleasant warmth and surprise I’d see on her face when I came home early for an unexpected date night.

I bounded up the stairs and opened our door, I was surprised that our cat Walter didn’t come to greet me, he must have been confused by my shortened day.

The kitchen and living room and hallway lights were on, and I could see that our bedroom light was on too, but the shower wasn’t running. “Babe, you left the lights on again,” I said frustratedly expecting her to say “don’t mock my fear of the dark” jokingly in reply but I didn’t hear anything.

“Babe?” I said again with no response.

“Emily?” I said louder, now making my way down the hallway.

I turned into our room and saw my worst fears realized, Emily was laying in the fetal position on the floor, face turned gray, inhaler and nebulizer scattered around her. She had an asthma attack that turned into a breathing crisis, she was in respiratory arrest in front of me.

I rushed over to her and put my face close to hers, “Emily,” I said again trying to shake her awake. She looked into my eyes for a brief moment before they rolled back in her head and fluttered closed. I put two fingers under her chin and felt her heart sputter to a stop, she was in full arrest now.

I saw her cell phone on the floor next to the handset I insisted on keeping because 911 services could better trace your address on a landline. I picked up the handset and realized it was already connected. “Ma’am? Ma’am can you hear me? Help is on the way” a dispatcher says calmly on the other end of the phone.

“Yes, I just walked in and my girlfriend is in full arrest, I’m a doctor, I need an ambulance.”

The dispatcher responds but I don’t care what they say. I lay Emily flat on her back and rip off her fitted bar t-shirt. I grab the knife from my pocket and slice off her bra, exposing her graying chest as her large breast flopped to each side. I started compressions and yelled “Emily you have to come back okay.”

Her lifeless body lay unresponsive, rocking inward as I pounded on her chest, “and ten and eleven and twelve” I push away any thoughts of arousal that I feel from her naked body needing me to pump it’s heart for her. “And twenty-seven, and twenty-eight, and twenty-nine, and thirty” I move up towards her head and tilt it back, I try to give her a puff of air, her cheeks puff out but her chest lays still.

I realize her airway is completely blocked and run to get the medical bag I keep in my closet, I pour iodine on her throat and place my knee on her forehead to stabilize her.

I have seen this procedure done in the real world twice, once on a training video and once in my ER rotation, I have never actually done the procedure. My mind goes into a trance, I am no longer a frantic girlfriend I am a medical professional performing a medical routine. I grab a scalpel and make a small slice in the skin of her throat covering her trachea, I make a few more careful slices though skin and fat and muscle taking care not to slice too deep. I take some gauze and soak up the blood as I find the trachea. I put a small slice in the organ and mucus and blood immediately start coming up, I place my two fingers into the hole so I don’t lose it and grab one of the clear plastic tubes I had set out for the procedure, I slip the tube into her trachea as a sickening gurgle lets out all of the fluid that had been stuck in her airway. I snapped on a breathing tube and an ambu bag. I began to breathe for her. Her chest rising each time I squeezed breath into her.

The adrenaline of the initial crisis was fading fast. I was trying to do compressions with one hand and respirations with the other. Emily had told me horror stories about air hunger and how terrifying it was, I needed to help her heart beat and also keep air going to her lungs.

I started to panic because I didn’t know what to do next, do I just keep her partially alive until help comes? How long could she stay this way?

I choked down my panic as the EMT’s rushed in, and took over, I was surprised how aroused I was seeing a man forcefully pump my girlfriends chest while someone else squeezes a bulb to breathe for her.

I snap back into the present as the third medic is asking me questions. “She’s 28 years old, she has a history of asthma, no known history of a heart condition…..”

My mind trails off as the severity of what is happening hits me, I lose my composure and start to sob and I begged, “Emily please stay here with me, please stay alive,”

I watch the scene unfold as the paramedics put two white pads on Emily’s chest, one between her breasts and one On her side. I lose all medical knowledge as I watch a surge of electricity shoot through her body contorting it in an unnatural horror. The shock does nothing, the v-fib that the drugs gave her has turned into a flatline.

I watch in horror as the slip a board under her to raise her chest more, making her large and graying breasts fall further to the side, they snap a machine over her and turn it on, the machine makes an unnatural squeaking noise as it beats on her chest 100 times a minute.

I forget that I am a doctor, I forget my medical training, this isn’t a case in front of me this is the woman I love.

“Are you hurting her?” I ask as the machine pounds into her over and over and over again.

“We need to beat her heart for her,” the paramedic replies.

For a moment I think it’s too much, her hands are strapped to the side of the machine that is violently pounding her chest, making her shoulders shift inwards, her belly bulge, and feet rock inward with each compression pounding into her battered body. A tube sticks unnaturally out of her mouth attached to a blue bulb that someone has to squeeze to make her chest rise with breath. “It’s too much to expect her body to take this to stay.” I think, but thought of living without her snaps me back to reality. I am almost a doctor, a medical professional, I will do anything it takes to keep my girlfriend alive even if it’s with machines.

They load her into the back of the ambulance and despite my protests make me sit in the front with the driver.

I text my colleague in the ER, “headed in with Emily, bad asthma attack to full arrest, get prepped to start life support. I can’t lose her”

“Oh god Jen, we will do whatever it takes” she replies.

[yoondoze]

coin toss | jjk

you and jeongguk go way back, even before you were the menacing duo many knew you to be, even before he brought you into the mafia and left you there to join the city’s detective agency. a call for cooperation comes out of a common enemy, requiring the two of you to reconcile for one last mission.

pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

word count: 25.4k

genre: soft and hard angst, mafia/detective agency au, complicated exes (?)

warnings: language, violence, blood, character death, sexual implications, little bit of gore, jimin has a weird hatred of yoongi idk don’t take it seriously, mentions of torture, grief, too many italics

a/n: long time no see everyone, hope you’re doing well! this story was inspired by my favorite anime, bungou stray dogs (it’s got a soukoku type beat & you’ll recognize some structures). it’s my first back in a while, and it’s also the longest piece i’ve written, so i hope you all enjoy it! <3

To be called to the Boss’s office for a quick word is almost always a sealed exit ticket from this world. One, because regular meetings of necessity are always held in the boardroom and discussed amongst the executives. Two, one on one meetings mean no witnesses. You’ve been there once before and barely made it out alive. To make it out a second time? The chances are practically nonexistent. 

The room feels less like an office and more like an 18th-century study, a dark academia dream with the coffee-toned furniture and ceiling-high shelves stacked with books. The only sign of modernity is the pristine silver laptop sitting perfectly on his desk. The guards to the side of the room look straight ahead, no indication of how this will end for you.

“My dear, good to see you,” The Boss purrs, eyelids falling into tender crescents as you place yourself gently on the cushion of his ornate bergère. Typically there are two of a kind that sit across from his dark oak bureau, but at this moment one has been removed from the space so yours could be positioned parallel to his own chair. 

The Boss has an intimidating air about him. From the gentle yet feline-like movements that look like they mask something sinister, to his signature verbosity that’s almost professorial, he’s the perfect paradigm of a godfather.

“And you, Boss. It’s been a while.” You maintain a cool tone, not breaking his eye contact. He was a dog that could smell fear and would drag it out of you if he thought it could sate his twisted desire for control.

He sighs as his cheshire smile fades. “I don’t like beating around the bush, as I’m sure you know. You... must have heard the rumors of a third party organization stepping foot in this city, yes?”

The whispers started only days ago, and the most you heard was only an assumption from another underling at the bar. Considering how much people loved to gossip and how boring it got around here, you were just going to brush it off. However, if it was enough to bring you here, it had to be something worth your attention.

“Yes, it’s been floating around.” You clear your throat. “Is it something to be worried about?”

He puts his elbows on the table and clasps his hands together, sucking a breath through his teeth. “This has happened before, when a new group tries to disrupt our hold on the functioning of our territory, and we have always squashed them from the picture quietly. But unfortunately, those who call themselves the Syndicate play dirty.”

It seems as if things were not heading in the track you imagined when being escorted on the long walk here. But then he orders the guards at the sides of the room out, and your heart jumps to your throat.

As the large doors close behind them, he resumes talking.

“Last week, twenty-two of our men were killed and one taken during a weapons exchange with a western group...who we thought were a western group. All they left behind was a handful of playing cards.” His wrist flicks up suddenly, a black card tucked between his two fingers. The shine on the back glints under the dim lamplight. He stares in disdain.

The nervous habit of jumbling your fingers started up in your lap, asking, “Who was it?”

“Underlings of the Syndicate,” he brushes past, holding up a single finger before continuing, “The key is that the missing one was a trusted man in our central intelligence unit. He was carrying knowledge of our expansion plans within the next year. When backup came, he was gone. Intelligence then reported that the Syndicate was also responsible for the crisis of our allies in the Midwest, Fox Lodge, two years ago. And a year before, the Federacy in Europe. They crumbled in a matter of weeks.”

The man sweeps his dark hair from his forehead, an undetectable motive flaring in his eyes, the one person you could never read. 

“Simply,” he shrugs, “this fish is too big to fry on our own.”

You couldn’t help but swallow. “And that means…?”

“I’ve spoken to the director of the Detective Agency. A temporary ceasefire has been agreed upon... Similar interests, a common enemy, you see.”

Existed an extensive list of things that did not have the capacity to surprise you anymore in this life. But a ceasefire? That was impossible; The Detective Agency and the Mafia had always been at odds like a fated grudge of the gods above. The fighting had been continuous for all your time spent in the organization.

“I know,” he nods, “It is a miraculous thought. But they have the resources and we have the manpower. While it would be great to let Syndicate take them out for us, we would ultimately be next on their list. Cooperation is our best bet.”

And the thought of what this conversation may be coming to strikes you like lightning on waiting sand. “I thought you didn’t approve of betting, Boss.”

“Hmm… I see you’ve caught on,” he says pensively, a smile rising on his face as fast as it disappears. “This gamble is one I have much faith in. It used to be our ace in the hole, you remember?”

Weakly, you mumble, “I do.”

“You must realize that our situation is grave. I would not suggest it if there was another way. In the kindest manner I can put it, dear, your willing partnership is required.”

And there’s the kicker, the whole reason why. A sick feeling seethes in the pit of your stomach, makes you want to gag or throw up or pass out. You have a choice, of course, but not a real choice. To clarify, it was agree, or be squashed out quietly, as Boss liked to say. On the off chance you would choose death over discomfort, he had to call you to his office for safe measure. 

“I understand, Boss,” is all you could manage. 

“I’m glad,” he smiles. “Though we have all turned a bit sour since Jeon’s departure, I’m sure you are capable of uniting for the sake of our city. I wouldn’t mind if you killed him after the mission is complete, either, but I will leave that up to your judgment.”

The name is awkward coming off his tongue, even with the chuckle he throws in to lighten the mood, implying an air of distance and estrangement. 

Jeon. That bastard. The thought of working with him… incredible. It was silly of you to think that you’d never see him again while fighting for control of the same city, but there you were, awestruck and in embarrassing shock. “Thank you, Boss. I’ll do what is needed.”

“Get some rest. I’ll be calling a meeting tomorrow with the other executives and we will talk about the plan. You are excused.”

With an obedient nod, you are lifting yourself from the chair and heading toward the door, the sound of your heels muted on his burgundy carpet.

“Oh, and dear?”

You pause, turning your head over your shoulder and clearing your throat. “Yes?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he traces his thumb along the blade of his knife, glinting in the dim glow of the moonlit window. “You know I trust you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without a falter in his expression, he makes a swift movement with his wrist. Before you can blink, the blade flies past your ear and lodges itself in the door in front of you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

A threat not to be taken lightly.

“Of course.”

As you tread down the hallway on your way out, you can't help but chastise yourself. How dumb could you be? Of course he would try to intimidate you like that. Any other day, you could have sensed it and caught it before it even parted with his palm. That was how it was supposed to be, as the renowned Scorpion, right? Was the thought of Jeon and having to see him again so debilitating that you let your guard flounder like that? Pathetic.

Hopefully he’d only take it as a slip-up. Take it as a respectful allowance and understanding as opposed to weakness. If you were losing your skills, your value was lost, as was your privilege to live.

The ride back to your apartment is the worst you had in years. Even the radio station you listen to regularly for mind-numbing background noise has you wanting to burst. The traffic lights make you want to scream, the sound of the air pushing past the open window has you bubbling with fury, the blinking advertisements circulating building perimeters driving your mind blank. Somewhere in a moment of clarity, you know it all starts with fear. 

Truth was, you and Jeon were partners once. In crime, the trump card the Mafia put down to play dirty, no way to get around you. In tandem, a menacing duo, the bold and the lethal, the Lion and the Scorpion. In the sheets, from time to time, after a few too many drinks or a few too many flirty looks on a sober night. Two sides of the same coin. But that was then, in a different time and a different world, and in a way that you hated how your mind had retained him so perfectly in his bitter absence.

☆☆☆

To be honest, the atmosphere of the first meeting really couldn’t have been any better than expected. It’s the furthest thing from civil, of course, but it can be considered a blessing that everyone participating was still breathing.

For protective purposes, office space had been rented out for a few hours for the intents of the meeting. There were only eight of you gathered in the small space; From the Mafia, the four top executives and from the Agency, the VP and three head advisors. One of them, none other than Jeon himself. The president and the boss stayed out for this meeting in an attempt to lower the tension, which was certainly an effort taken. Personal affairs mixing in would have resulted in at least one dead body within the first thirty seconds.

While there is some sort of discussion occurring around you, you are only focusing on how pathetic you feel in that you’re actively avoiding Jeon, as well as the discomfort in the pit of your stomach that appeared as soon as he did. You always thought that you’d be strong and bold the next time you met, but now that the time has come, you’ve let yourself down. Seeing him face to face after all this time is a reminder of everything you’ve been pushing to the back of your mind for years.

Meanwhile, Jeongguk isn’t sure what the playing field looks like just yet. He’s resting his head on his fist, sneaking a glance at you when he can and wishing you’d speak up so he’d have a good reason to look at you for longer than a blink, but you’re awfully quiet. He hates to think it might be because of him.

“We received an anonymous tip this morning about an underground base in the Coral District. Supposedly, there are multiple entrances from bars in the surrounding area, creating a tunnel system.” Namjoon, the VP, pushes his glasses up and closes the manila folder in his hands he had been referencing. “As our only lead, I think it is in our best interest to take a look.”

Namjoon is by far the most uptight man you had ever met. A little pretentious, of course, but in a way that almost made him cute. His calculative nature made him a good asset, but you couldn’t imagine how much of a bore he must have been in his daily life. You could bet without a doubt that he had been the most opposed to collaboration - if not by the countless moments he had spent sighing in your past encounters, then surely by how his condescending tone went into overdrive the second he sat down.

Yoongi, one of your fellow executives, states plainly, “That means nothing.” He seems more focused in the dirt tucked beneath his fingernails than the meeting at hand.

“It’s anonymous. For all we know they’re trying to trick us,” adds Yeji, personality plagued with suspicion. She doesn’t want to be here as much as you do, but she’s trying. Yeji is scrutinizing and not impressed by the image of naivety that stems from such a simple deduction, and that’s on top of her personal problem with the righteous narrative of the detective agency. You don’t blame her.

“And for all we know, it could be useful. The people of this city are our eyes and ears.” Jimin shoots back, stare unwavering. “It’s not like we should just ignore it. Do you have anything better?”

The strain in the air is almost unbearable, pulling up the hairs on your arms with all the tense energy circulating. It’s as if lightning was about to strike any second. No one says another word, only dirty looks being exchanged between headstrong personalities until a defiant knock comes to the door, startling the aggression into temporary submission. Taehyung raises an eyebrow at you, the only movement he had made this entire time. You only shrug at him.

“Who is it?” Namjoon asks, standing from the table.

“Just clean up. I’m here to take out the trash.” Silence engulfs the space like a dense fog hanging in the air, until the man behind the door calls again, “It’ll only be a second.”

Hesitantly, Namjoon makes the call for him to come in. All eyes flick over to the man, who cautiously enters the room with a nervous laugh. He is clueless to what he’s walking into. He waves a hand of greeting before fetching the bin from the corner of the room, taking it to the main dump on wheels in the hallway. After a few shuffles and plunks, he comes back in to put it in its place.

Namjoon adjusts his tie and clears his throat as he sits down again, resuming the meeting.

“I don’t care what we do as long as we can be done with this,” Taehyung mumbles, resting his head on his palm with half-mast eyes. He’s practically falling asleep, like a cat resting in the sunbeams pouring through a window.

Wendy, another advisor, rolls her eyes at him, responding with a scoff, “Of course you don’t care…”

“Oh, like you’re such a saint.”

The boardroom erupts into yet another argument, different groups spitting words at their own personal targets. All you can do is sit and listen, your hope for this mission decreasing exponentially as the seconds tick by. At least if it didn’t work out, you won’t have to see Jeon again after this.

“Creep,” mutters Yeji under her breath from the chair next to you. She had been removing herself from the argument like you save for a few special dramatic sighs and trivial insults that you didn’t condone, but didn’t exactly scold her for either. After all, she is the closest thing you have to a best friend.

“Huh?” you inquire wisely. “Who?”

She tilts her head to the hallway. Your head whips around to see the janitor through the walls of windows walking away with a peculiar bounce in his step, one he most certainly did not arrive with.

“What’s his problem?” you whisper, leaning in.

“I don’t know, but he was laughing to himself while they were arguing. He’s probably just another weirdo,” she snubs with a sigh. “You know how people are in this city.”

Though you had a slight feeling of discomfort from the commencement of the meeting, since stepping foot in the lobby of the building even, you simply brushed it off as paranoia, or nervousness from who you were about to see. But it just seems too strange to ignore anymore. Wasn’t the building supposed to be completely empty today, aside from those in the conference taking place right now? Your instincts scream at you through a closed mouth, wariness freezing your limbs, but why?

You hold your hand up discreetly as you stare at the simply dark grey bin across the room. It’s the only thing that seemed out of place - besides the meeting table and chairs, the room is completely empty. The pristine board room, black and grey and sparkling clean. And then, the cheap plastic bin.

The argument settles when Yeji whistles, getting their attention. 

“What’s wrong?” Wendy asks obliviously before you shush her with a raise of your pointer. All focus zeroes in on the bin… and that barely noticeable line trailing from it to the door handle.

One tick is all you need to hear.

“We gotta go, now,” you state, standing up hurriedly from your chair. Chatter and confusion ensue again as you drag it behind you over to the floor-length window. You pause, narrowing your eyes at the distance down from the second story. Considering there were no other exits from the room and you suspected that no one here was a part of the bomb squad, it was the only way to go. You drawback, hands gripping tightly around the armrests and hoist it up, swinging it around your side. it effectively shatters the glass, the piercing noise as shards clatter to the floor making you squint. 

“Woah, woah, what are you doing? Do you know how much that’s gonna coast?” Namjoon shouts, becoming frantic as you further knock the glass out from the surrounding area.

“They knew where we were. Look at the bin,” you explain quickly. Their surveillance of you averts to where you had been looking moments before, realization dawning as their sight finds the transparent cord set tight.

“Taehyung, you first.” The boy trails to the make-shift exit without question, blond locks bouncing in front of his face as he hurries over. Carefully, with a hand on the frame, he peers out to see what he’s working with. He’s made do with worse before. He lowers himself out onto the ledge one foot at a time, cautious not to cut himself on the jagged glass poking out. With a deep breath, he commits to the jump and launches off, landing cleanly on the flower beds below.

He cranes his neck up to you with disgust written all over his features.

“It’s new still,” he complains with a frown, toeing the dark mulch which must be fresh and with a rotten stench. You don’t have the time to admonish his behavior as you usher the others out, keeping an eye on the bin and the hallway. Yeji is out next, hitting the ground lightly with Taehyung’s guiding arms.

You fish a compact walkie from your pocket, tossing it down to her. “Find the janitor. Evacuate anyone else you see. Channel Six.” She catches it with ease, only providing a nod before sprinting off around the corner, ponytail whooshing behind her. Namjoon, now on the ground with Jimin, spares a word with him before Jimin takes off after Yeji to catch up. 

“You run a well-oiled machine, Y/N. I’m impressed.” Jeon’s voice from beside you grabs your attention, to which you can only hold his eyes for a moment before breaking it off. He stands smugly with his arms crossed in front of him.

He immediately cringes internally at the way it comes out. It was just supposed to be a compliment, genuinely, but the tinge of complacency in his voice took it all away. The way you don’t respond clamps his heart, but only pushes out more awful dialogue with an inappropriately playful tone.

“What, you’re just gonna ignore me?

Swallowing your nerves, you insist, “Get down.” Now, of all times, he chooses to chat you up? The chipper attitude had your nails imprinting half-moons to the base of your palm.

But he can’t stop himself. Even as he reads your growing impatience, he acts like a whiny toddler, emphasizing, “No, no, ladies first of course.”

“Get down.”

He’s trying not to let your firm edge get to him, playing it off with, “God, so cold. You’re hurting my feelings-” “Get down, Jeongguk!”

The once fluid movement of the world slows as you shout at him, your own voice becoming muted as you listen for it. A blinding light bursts from across the room, ripping through the walls and bursting the glass like balloons, growing brighter and brighter as you watch. In a split second you’re falling, tearing through open air while barely sensing your entanglement in something soft before hitting the ground with a blunt stop.

He had pulled you into him instinctively as the blow forced him off his feet, but the regret is instant in Jeon’s mind as he struggles to move. Not for grabbing you, but for the stupid words he couldn’t close the dam on as they poured out. The threat completely left his mind in the effort to get you to respond to him. He wants to smack himself, but his body hasn’t had the chance to recoup yet. 

You groan, body practically frozen in ache. Rolling off of him, you rub your lids and scratch the hair out of your face, looking up to see smoke pouring out of where you just stood moments before. Jumping to your feet, you brush the small shards of glass from your clothes and ignore the dizziness, aiming to put as much distance between the building and you as you could, but not before pulling a disoriented Jeon to his feet to take him with you. He’s coughing and clutching at his rib, your weight hitting him as an extra beating once he had landed.

Collapsing on the curb out front, you try to catch your breath. That bastard. If it weren’t for his necessity to uphold such a jackass mentality, you wouldn’t have needed the extra painful push out of the building. Without even needing to look, the sound echoing alone let you know that the building was collapsing in on itself. While you can’t feel it now because of the adrenaline, you know you’ll be hurting later.

A muffled noise comes from the walkie in your back pocket. It’s Yeji, who is suspiciously breathing fine as her heavy footfalls transmit as loud as her voice, reporting, “Finally caught up to him. It looks like he’s heading to Coral District, we’re on his tail but we don’t know what we’re going into!”

The device jumbles in your shaky hand as you scramble to get back to her. “We’re on our way, don’t worry. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” 

You bring yourself to your feet, your fleeting moment of recovery already gone.

“Namjoon, can you stay behind for cleanup? Rest of us will catch up to Yeji. You heard her, right?”

He nods solemnly, and you suppose the blast to the building also was one to his ego. His notorious calculative nature had failed him this time around with that poisonous hatred in the way. Maybe he’ll reference it next time.

You think that Jeon is going to come up with another snarky comment to make, but all he does is pinch his nose bridge and massage his temples. He chooses to stay behind also as you, Wendy, Taehyung, and Yoongi follow in quick pursuit. It’s no surprise that Yoongi, one of the most sloth-like yet efficient strong suits of the Mafia, is already pulling over a civilian vehicle to take. 

“Yeji, current location?” You ask into the radio, trying to keep up an acceptable trot behind the group.

It only takes a second for her voice to crackle back through. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. It’s weird though - he’s not just running away from us, he’s running to somewhere.”

Up ahead, Wendy is pushing Yoongi aside as she shows her ID to the astonished woman floundering for words, admirably commandeering the car rather than stealing. No surprise, but smart nonetheless. One less lawsuit to worry about.

It only takes a second to envision a mental map of the city. The Corner of Park and Third is heading toward an unfamiliar side of town. What was even over there? The subway station, a shopping center? No place plausible for a bar, and definitely not near the Coral district. There was no place you could think of he might be leading them to - unless, of course, he was leading them away from something.

In fact, his direction is almost exactly opposite from…

“Tae!” you shout, just as he’s getting into the car. “Corner of Park Ave and Third. Get on your walkie, I’m taking a detour!”

He tips his head back in understanding as he jogs backwards to the car, soon ducking in slamming the door shut behind him, the car speeding off with a squeal. The thought of being in that car with them makes you shudder, but it’s not like where you’re off to is any better.

The location is printed on the backs of your lids in vermilion red ink. You had to know it regardless of whether you were a frequent visitor or not, because being aware of your surroundings when doing the kind of work required for your job was just as necessary as the job itself. You couldn’t be making arms deals in the alleys behind the Detective Agency unless you were aiming to spend some time behind bars.

Your heart drops as you round the corner to see the building absolutely sacked, your sprinting pace coming to a standstill with disappointment. A small crowd of people have surrounded the area, phones out to snap pictures and take videos. The windows lining the building are smashed in violently, and small plumes of smoke wisp their way out of what remains, the alarms that alerted no one still ringing. 

Light footsteps approach from behind you as your own step carefully over the glass to get a closer look. He’d been in his head for only a few minutes after you left, but when he saw you crossing back over to the other side of town, while he was stuck pathetically on the curb, it sparked his brain back up into working condition.

“Huh. Smart cookie,” states Jeon, seeming to finally be back to reality. Enough to make it here, anyway. In less than a second your blade is against his neck as a firm warning. All he does is smile cheekily, raising his palms up so you could see them.

“No need to be hostile,” he tries, hiding the way he gulps when you look away. “Just a compliment.”

“We are nothing more than work partners. I advise you to drop the act now,” you spit, sure you’d break your jaw with how hard your teeth were pressed against each other, hearing the sandpaper sound grinding in your ears. You lower the blade and tuck it away, exchanging it for your gun in hand as you approach the entrance.

It’s a mess inside. The walls are dented, desks broken, drawers and filing cabinets sprawled all over the floor. Random papers make a muddle of everything visible. The computer screens are cracked and wires mangled as if someone with a bad temper had taken a baseball bat to them. Even the potted plants had been bashed in, fragments of terracotta and clumps of dirt spread out everywhere. 

“Was anyone working?” you ask, fingers tracing over the splintered edges of the welcome desk.

“No,” replies Jeon, in awe of the state of the office. “The President doesn’t come in, and two of our teams are off carrying out other tasks. We sent our office staff home to keep them out of danger.”

Not one thing untouched. Such great care was taken to ruin every piece of the space - but when no one was home. If the office staff were here, would they have hurt them? Or was it a purposeful decision in favor of the empty building?

Jeon’s shoulders slump, bottom lip jutting from his pout. Upon your questioning brow, he says, “They took my octopus pen.” He stares longingly down at what you assume is his desk, or what was his desk.

You squint in confusion, about to prompt further explanation, but Taehyung comes in through the radio. “We caught the janitor. Don’t know anything yet, but he’s being taken into police custody. We looked for the tunnels, but there’s nothing so far. I think it was a misdirect.”

“I think it was too,” you sigh. “The DA was ransacked.”

The waves flatten into grey static. You can picture the confusion that was rising among the group with Tae’s relay of information. When it comes back on, it is a different voice.

“Ransacked, you said? How bad?” It’s Wendy, the panic blatant on her tongue.

“Everything in it was destroyed…” you say, knowing this was just as much a loss for you as it was them. “They knew where we were and bombed us, and then led us on a chase so they could eliminate one of our bases. Let the others know and we’ll regroup later.”

“Copy that,” says Yoongi shortly, and that ends the exchange.

One of your strongest pieces was impressively knocked off the board. There was no way to get the building back in operating shape in the time span you had to eliminate the threat. While you still had their people and outside resources, the building was essential to the functioning of the agency, and the city along with it. If they had already taken down the home base of the detectives, wouldn’t the Mafia be next? Granted, there was no one set base, but things would surely get fishy if you didn’t act fast. Like Boss said, Fox Lodge crumbled in mere weeks. Whatever your opinion was, you couldn’t deny the Mafia was integral in monitoring the underground of the city, and letting control fall into the hands of such self-serving villains would be far worse than anything already occurring. 

Jeon sighs loudly from across the room, spinning on his heels to catch your gaze. He tsks and sweeps a stray strand of hair behind his ear with a delicate hand. “What are you thinking?”

You hum in thought. “It’s a warning,” you conclude, observing the rows of overthrown furniture. “They wanted to show what they’re capable of. Intimidation.”

He purses his lips innocently. “...What next?”

“I don’t know everything, Gguk,” you snap, sending him a fierce glare. “The Agency has to figure out what’s missing, if anything, and then we’ll go from there. Try to figure out a motive or something.”

You’ve been asking for a challenge for years, always unsatisfied with the ease it took to get your way. Laying in bed wide awake all night wanting things to be different, wanting things to have meaning. But with the high stakes, with so much at risk, this was certainly not what you intended.

You have to reassure yourself that you’re capable regardless. Once you get in the rhythm, surely things will be fine. Surely you’d get yourself together and pull through for the sake of the town. When you’ve been biting your nails and staring blankly at a ripped magazine for who knows how long, Jeon interrupts you again.

“Y/N?” The way he speaks your name is gentle and soft, a fondness to it that never failed to pluck at your heartstrings. It’s that special quiet tone of his that you haven’t heard in so long yet could always recall so clearly. It’s a sign of candor coming your way. “It’s good to see you.”

And it boils your blood.

“The park by the marina. Tomorrow at five. Don’t be late.”

☆☆☆

Penny has already started making dinner when you step through the door, just about to slump against the hardwood floor and resign yourself to the eternal slumber. Though she’s only ten, her palate is more tasteful that yours was last year. In times like these, you are grateful for the way she takes care of you sometimes. 

“You look tired,” she observes, sparing you a welcome look over her shoulder as she stirs the contents of her pot.

“That would be because I am,” you breathe a huff of laughter, slowly and carefully sliding off your jacket as to not irritate your sore muscles more than necessary. Taking a peek into the pot, your brain allows you a taste of serotonin that you welcome with open, starved arms. “Fettuccine alfredo? Pen, that’s my favorite.”

A small smirk appears on her face at your amazement. “I know.”

You plant a chaste kiss at the top of her head. “You need a trim soon, kiddo. Can barely see your eyes anymore.”

“That makes me look more mysterious though, doesn’t it?” She allows herself a giggle before turning off the heat, giving the pasta one last mix before transferring it to the two identical bowls on the counter. Her technique is a little awkward as her arms reach up to maneuver the tongs, but that’s to be expected of a kid who hasn’t fine tuned her motor skills just yet. Your mouth is absolutely watering as you fumble through the draws for two forks and some sort of napkin.

She hops up on the stool next to you and digs in, splattering sauce all over her chin nonetheless, but as long as she was fed and having fun.

Taking Penny in was by far the best decision you had made with what your life had come to. It was about two years ago when you stumbled upon her crying in a back alleyway during a job, her parents' lives the casualties suffered in a drug trade gone wrong. Further than that, you didn’t pry. You had those moments, too, the ones that felt better tucked inside a secret place in your heart.

Your only option was to take her with you. While he was incredibly beneficial to the Mafia, Yoongi was also hopelessly cold-blooded. He wanted to kill her to end the trail, to avoid suspicion directed at the organization. You ultimately made the call, because while what you did for a living was in no way guided by a moral compass, you still had your boundaries. Fortunately, it was just when you had gotten your current executive position and started making your fair share for the work you did - and while the both of you knew what went on outside of the apartment, inside was a safer space with more love than you could ever afford to show anywhere else. 

Housing people was one of the organization’s biggest costs. Most who joined did so out of necessity, whether they were out of work or a place to feel welcome. As long as you took care of her, it was an unspoken rule that they’d go easy on her. Occasionally they made her run errands and do deliveries, as children were an easy way to escape qualms from authorities. More often they used her for bait and leverage over those they needed the upper hand on; There’s no better way to manipulate someone than pretending a little girl’s life depends on their next decision. Usually it worked out the way they wanted and she was sent home, but there were times when you noticed bruises or scrapes adorning her thin arms, or hidden beneath her bangs. At least you could provide her with hope.

“So what went wrong today?”

Were you too obvious, or could she just read you inside and out?

You twirl the pasta on your fork before downing a big bite. 

“Got stuck in a pickle for the first time in a while. There’s a lot more on the table than I expected there to be.”

“Obviously,” she says, still shoveling her food down her throat. “I mean what happened?”

You sigh, letting yourself sink into your chair as you recount the order of events that unfolded today. Trying to simplify it as best as you can, you settle on, “I can’t say too much because I don’t want to get you in trouble, but it’s not just the Mafia and the Agency running things around here anymore, so there’s some collaboration going on right now that is getting tough to manage. And these new people moving in on the city… they’re smart. They led us on a goose chase today while they took out the DA.”

“Well, you’re smart too. You can manage it. You always do.”

“I know I’ll have to. It’s more the teamwork thing.” Mindless fingers tap at the countertop. “It was a little bit of a curveball they threw at me.”

“Is the curveball what caused all the bruises?” She looks at you slyly, a teasing simper just begging to make an appearance.

Your eyes roll breezily. “Yeah, it is.”

And all of a sudden the air turns quiet, her demeanor more timid. She looks to you for encouragement before she can even get the words out. With a small prompting nod, she asks, “Is… is it your old partner?”

An awkward chuckle bubbles its way out of your throat in surprise. “Um, yeah. How- how do you know about that?”

It’s a little bit of a shock. You don’t want to make her feel bad, but having this conversation is not one you are completely prepared for. Jeongguk, though his existence in your mind is stormy, is one of those things you always wish you could just keep to yourself, like a small love letter sealed in an envelope and tucked away under a mattress for you to pull out when you want to reminisce, but unfortunately everyone has read that letter and its contents seems to perpetuate underground gossip wherever you walk.

The atmosphere returns to normal when she shoots you a playful look, correcting it to the way it should have been. “I don’t just go to work and come back, you know, people talk to me. Especially some of the other kids my age. They sometimes mention how it’s so cool that I’m living with this legendary assassin, and they tell me supposed stories of… what was it, the Lion and the Scorpion? Yeah, and that he left.”

You bob your head along as she explains, somewhat in awe of her level of awareness of who you were outside of your relationship with her. The observant and lethal disposition you take on at work is a rude juxtaposition to the looser, lively personality you allow out at home. Above all, you wonder if she still thinks you’re cool.

“And what do you say?”

That she laughs at. “Well, it depends on the person who’s talking to me about it. Sometimes I say that you’re really scary and strict and sometimes if I like them I say that you’re really nice… I’m careful about it though, don’t worry. As long as you’re cool, I’m cool.”

Bingo!

“Hey, I trust your judgment,” you state through a mouthful of food, “I condone messing with people sometimes, and if it can harden my reputation around the place, I’ll take it.”

Lighthearted laughter ensues as you eat. The topic fades away and relief starts to take its place, but nothing good can ever last, can it?

“But Y/N…” she trails back, “Why is the Lion a curveball if you worked with him in the past?”

You click your tongue, tapping your fork at the bottom of your dish trying to stitch together the splinters of words floating around your mind into a cohesive answer.

“I’m sure some kids told you about the rumors,” you say, propping your elbow on the table to support your head as you looked at her. “But he and I… weren’t really just work partners.”

“You were dating?” She exclaims loudly, eyes widening. 

“Shh! No, no… well, kind of. But not really. Things were just a little bit more than work-related, that’s all. Listen, it’s not all black and white, and you’ll understand what I mean by when you start to care for people like that.”

“Well did you love him?”

She says it casually and straightforward, as if it didn’t weigh the emotional turmoil of years spent heartbroken and yearning. As if it’s that easy.

Penny’s expression floods full of curiosity. She is so investigative and eager, you wish she could be going to school and learning from real teachers that could give her a real education, not just snippets from your memories that you pulled up for her from time to time. If this wasn’t her life, you can’t imagine what she’d be doing because there’d simply be too many possibilities.

“Yeah, I did.”

And yet, as the words spill, you can’t not remember the pain of his desertion. You can’t not remember the one morning you woke up and he was gone, panic floating through the hallways about him, confusion and worry swirling in your head. Just to find out he had defected without giving you a clue. Not considering what it could mean for you. Not even a goodbye. 

“Do you still love him?”

You purse your lips, meeting her eyes softly. “That’s why I called him a curveball.”

Penny grasps on to the fact that that was the most she’d be getting from you today. It was a lot more than most days - you blame it on your tattered spirit from today’s tiring occurrences. She leads in the kitchen clean up, scooping the leftovers into tupperware for tomorrow’s meal and tossing her dishes in the outdated washer.

You pass behind her in the tight space, carrying your own empty dish with you. “You don’t repeat a word, got it?” you whisper.

She visibly sinks in vexation, head coming to a tilt as she stares at you. “C’mon, you just said you trusted my judgment! I’m almost insulted you feel the need to say that.”

You let yourself indulge in another laugh. The credit of her sharp vocabulary character no doubt belongs to your influence. “You know I have to.” Nuzzling the top of her hair, you add, “Don’t stay up too late. I love you.”

And for leading a life that was so cruel and devoid of light, crowded with guilt and regret, lacking most that makes you human, nothing ever felt more like home than when she says, “I love you too.”

☆☆☆

The next meeting is only better because of the fresh air separating both sides and the imminent fact that last time’s events have everyone so weary they can no longer think about arguing. It has started to sink in that this is no longer a piece of cake, or maybe that it never was to begin with. As well, a park full of citizens going on walks and taking their day slow is no place to expose yourself. It’s warm for spring, one of the nicest days you’ve had in a while, and you’d hate to ruin it.

There is a large circular expanse of white concrete with different pathways branching off into the park, green shrubbery lining each walkway. Pillars on both sides of each one hold up an awning providing much-appreciated shade. You no longer have to squint and can see everyone clearly.

Namjoon, sulking on a decorative cement bench, kicks off the meeting with a depressing statement on the Agency. “They didn’t take anything physical, but we traced their footsteps back through our computers. It looks like they downloaded a lot of our reports from the past few years and files on both our members and yours.”

“What do you mean?” Yeji’s eyebrows furrow deeply in confusion. “What kind of information was in the reports?”

“A lot of profiles. Skills, incidents you’ve been involved with, current standing position… things like that. On nearly every important person in the Agency and in the Mafia.”

“Why though?” asks Jimin, leaning back against one of the pillars beside Namjoon. “Can’t they find that information anywhere? A lot of it isn’t a secret. Ask anyone around here and they’ll tell you Min Yoongi is a lazy bastard that-” Jeon gives him a light punch on the shoulder, his disappointed grimace almost saying, “c’mon, man.” Yoongi looks like he couldn’t care less.

Taehyung, who has been pacing the narrow concrete walkways, speaks up. “Get to know your enemy better, I guess? Can’t hurt.”

“To be honest, I don’t think they really needed it either. It looked more like it was meant to be taken as a threat. They probably just did that because they could and they had the time,” You say, recalling the attentive wreckage of the Agency.

“Well, I don’t know about that. We know that they’re tricky, obviously, but they can’t know everything. I think they were also trying to get a better idea of what they were up against. Plus, it’s always intimidating when you come into contact with someone and it seems they know every detail about you when you don’t even know your name.”

Namjoon’s take makes sense. His frustrating attitude is an easier pill to swallow if he’s able to make conclusions like that. Not much could scare you off, but if a random person approached you in a fight and began talking about your past, or your personal life, or mistake you’d made, you’d definitely be unsettled, maybe just enough to slip up. With this group, you’re sure that a slip up is all it takes.

Wendy looks like she has something to add, but there’s a frog stuck in her voice box. She gives a shy look to Namjoon and then continues, something perhaps he was planning on leaving out. “To be specific, there were multiple traces of the words “Lion” and “Scorpion” in the information they stole... It makes me think they’ve heard of your, um, past reputation and wanted to see what they could dig up.”

“Oh, great.” You’re unable to help yourself from rolling your eyes. 

“Wow,” Jeon muses, “Didn’t know we were so famous.” His playful regard meets your own, but you’re too down to react with anything else but a blank stare before flicking your eyes away as soon as they meet.

He looks good today. You hate how much your brain keeps begging you to take another experimental glance as if one wasn’t enough. His button-up drapes gently over his shoulders and is tucked loosely into his trousers, sleeves folded all the way up to his elbows. Not that you’re paying such close attention.

Namjoon clears his throat. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to alarm you without any pretense, but…”

You raise an eyebrow at him, crossing your arms over your front. “Well, I’m glad she spoke up. What if they target us because they think we’re a threat? They already know we’ve been working together.”

Wendy offers a small smile of appreciation, but it is not to ignore how the agents all share looks of hesitation toward each other, visibly uncomfortable with Namjoon’s secrecy.

“Yeah… that seemed kind of important,” Yoongi says, squinting into the sunlight as he tilts his head up. “You can’t keep things from us if we’re working together. I hate this just as much as you do, but we aren’t gonna win if we aren’t honest.”

Jimin sighs. “He’s right. If one side tries to get an upper hand it’ll just cause a rift that makes us easier to pull apart.”

“Okay. That’s fair. I... apologize.” Namjoon is stiff, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He wants to avoid further questioning, but for the time being, you won’t press it. There’s enough on your plate right now.

“Anyway… what’s our next move?”

Yeji’s question goes unanswered. It sits under the afternoon light, the peaceful chirps of birds and casual chatter and boat horns filling in the blank space that no one knows what to do with.

“We don’t have a lot to go off of. The investigation is still looking for identification factors, but it could take time, which, as I’m sure you know, we don’t have a lot of. The most we can do is conduct some interviews with witnesses and passersby, but…” the Vice President looks up at you, “we are counting on them slipping up somehow.”

The dejection in the air is hard to ignore. Everyone feels it. Regardless of how impossible it might be for the two sides to see eye to eye, they can see how hopeless the fight has gotten in a span of mere days.

With the DA out of the picture, all of their employees are either working from home or in last-minute rented offices with limited resources. Never in a million years did any of the executives think they’d see the building that represented their struggle go up in flames. Yet the day it did, they couldn’t be happy about it. It only struck fear.

“So there’s really nothing we can do?”

No one needs to answer for you to know.

“Okay. Let’s wrap this up then. Just be careful from here on out. You know, be cautious of what you say, where you say it. They might be monitoring radio waves, might have bugged places you think are safe.”

 In times like these, you have good reason to be a little paranoid. They already knew where your office space was and the time it had been rented. The Syndicate was skilled and definitely had their reach online, and you didn’t doubt it extended to the personal world. There’s nothing money can’t bribe.

It’s disheartening to see how downcast the group is on a day so bright. Everyone begins to mobilize, though slowly, but they get a move on, going back to wherever they need to be or where they want to be. For now, you decide you want to be here.

Waving goodbye to Yeji and the others, you find a nice spot under some shade on a well maintained wooden bench. It faces the water, today clear and calm, and out in the distance is the gleaming modern drawbridge that closes off the port. To the right, the port terminal stretches out long into the river for the large ships that come in, the marina docked with boats of all shapes and sizes tucked in closer to the city behind it. The boats flood in and out, passing you by, the sails floating in the breeze so temptingly you can just see yourself hopping on one so easily and going along to wherever it may take you.

The dream is short-lived, because Jeon’s presence beside you tugs you from your imagination.

“What do you want?” You can feel him looking at you, but you can’t pull your eyes away from the ships drifting by.

It’s a hit to the confidence he strode over here with, but he continues. “What, we can’t make small talk? We’re partners for this, Y/N.”

Any opportunity he sees to make contact with you, he’ll take. He knows why you’re the opposite, but he’s dying to see you, and not just from across a meeting table or a park.

“Partners don’t need to make small talk, they just have to do the job they’ve been assigned and be done with it.”

He exhales tiredly, disappointed in your lack of engagement, like he expected at least a small something more. “Listen, I just wanted to talk to you. I know how things are, and-”

“No, Gguk, you don’t know how things are,” you snap, finally facing him. “You had the past three years to talk to me, but you didn’t. You don’t get to come and take care of things now while it’s convenient for you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It sure looks like that.”

“Well it’s not.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s me wanting to talk to you. Because it’s been a long time and I miss you.”

You make a sound caught somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, feeling even more let down than you thought you could be. “Yeah, okay.”

It sounds like bull to you. Does he really think you’re that gullible? Does he really think you were going to see him again and run into his arms like a bride who's been tying yellow ribbons around an old oak tree? The anger you felt at the agency yesterday returns, for what happened in the past, for what’s happening now, for all of it. How he can say he missed you when he had all the time in the world, when he was clearly happy after running away from what he had with you, you can’t understand.

Meanwhile, Jeon feels his heart palpitating as he waits for a reply. The explanations want to roll right off his tongue, but he knows this is not the time and place to bring up the subject matter he’s really urging to talk to you about. That conversation will be held soon as he finds it possible. He thought it might be worth it to just start the build-up with trivial chatter, but it’s not working, and probably never will with you.

He picks at his nails, scraping the minimal dirt out. Should he say it? A part of him wants to go for it, and another wants to wait in fear of scaring you. Unfortunately, he thinks it will either way.

“I heard you’ve been taking care of a girl.”

Unbeknownst to you, he’s right.

It steals the breath from your lungs, that residing anger booking it to make room for fear. Though you try to conceal it, you’re sure he’s seen through it, already felt how the atmosphere has shifted. He shouldn’t know about Penny. In fact, no one outside the Mafia should. You can’t meet his eyes, taking more interest in trying to count every strand of fine hair on the space between your knuckles.

It feels just like what Namjoon had talked about, and though you’re sure deep down he wouldn’t try to hurt you like that, it plants a seed of dread in you. In any other world, it might be similar to someone asking, “How are the kids?” and there would be nothing out of the ordinary about it, just a friendly gesture. This instance, however, is layered with a cocktail of warning and concern.

 Penny can fend for herself, she’s responsible, of course, but no one is invincible. It’s only up to a certain point, especially knowing that she’s only a child. 

“How do you know about her?” 

“I still get around,” he says, letting the pause marinate before adding faintly, “Don’t worry. No one that’s gonna try anything knows. I made sure of it.”

The way he still knows what you’re thinking makes you shiver. Or want to throw up. You pass over the slight relief of his last statement in favor of the bliss that comes with ignoring it.

When you don’t reply because you simply don’t know what to make of it, he continues. “It’s honorable. But that’s dangerous for you. To have someone important to you.”

“I know that,” you admit.

It wasn’t like you were stupid. Sure, you were an executive, but what did that mean when Penny made you so vulnerable? The same way they used her against their enemies could be used against you in a heartbeat for tenfold the amount they wanted. She was your weak spot.

“You have to be careful.”

“I know that.”

Jeon winces at your icy inflection. He’s like a child being scolded by his mother. His eyes squeeze shut, thoughts circling back to all the words that were just aching to pour out of him.

“Listen, Y/N, maybe we can go get some coffee? Or-”

You have to cut him off before he gets too out of hand, palms hitting your thighs. “I think that’s enough for today, Gguk.”

He wants to object to your leaving, but he doesn’t want to push you. Your deep sigh is proof of the distress he caused in the past and still continues to leave behind.

So much for some nice quiet time on your own, huh? You stand up and turn from him, heading down the exit path. Realistically, you’re glad he doesn’t call out after you, because you know it would just get you worked up and that was the last thing you needed. When you were around him, you felt the piercing image your reputation had created crumbling to ruins. It pains you to think of the consequences of an emotional err during times like these.

Yet still, it breaks your heart to leave.

☆☆☆

“He’s been really getting to you, huh?”

Yeji’s voice is quiet above the cacophony of clinking silverware and incoherent conversation, but intelligible enough for the both of you to hear in your own space. 

You smear some whipped cream on your forkful of waffle, placing it in your mouth and letting both the fluffy texture and immaculate taste sweep you off your feet for a moment, as brunch is everything good and great in the world. Or at least in your world, at this very moment.

You swallow before answering, your usual temper tamed by the sedative of a certain portmanteau of breakfast and lunch. “Of course he has. He won’t leave me the fuck alone.”

“Well, he does have to work with you.”

As you chew, you shake your head in wide, dramatic arcs. “No, I mean he keeps acting like we’re old friends. After the meeting he asked me If I wanted to get coffee with him!” you exclaimed, “Like no, I’m not getting fucking coffee with you, who do you think you are?”

Yeji flashes her pearly whites at your short fuse, the one she’s versed in remedying. Deft hands lift up her mug for a thoughtful sip.

“Maybe his intentions aren’t that bad. He’s always been happy-go-lucky like that and he’s probably just too oblivious to think about the consequences of what he did. Yeah, pretending like it didn’t happen hurts, but because of what’s going on right now... it might be a blessing in disguise.”

Despite her intimidating appearance, Yeji was an exceptional conversationalist and particularly thoughtful in her advice. It feels more like a talk between two childhood friends catching up over some food, gossiping about people from high school and boy drama. Though it’s not quite that simple, it lets you take a back seat for a little while. Yeji is one of the only people you’d consider a friend.

“What, like making it easier for the mission?”

“Yeah, 'cause if you can push that issue out of the picture temporarily, you can get the job done and either deal with it after or forget about it entirely. And hey, you’re the Scorpion!” Yeji leans across the table in an enthusiastic whisper. “Scorpions are badass and vicious and don’t spend their time getting worked up over men. In fact, Scorpions reel men in and then kill them, especially you.”

You know she’s trying to encourage you, but the thought is spectacularly unappealing. While she was right in what you did, it’s not like you enjoyed it or were proud of it. You hate to be described that way. Perhaps that is your character among the mafia and the image you spread to protect yourself, and perhaps it’s even true when you get in the work mindset, but is that really you? Talk about an identity crisis.

You reach for your water, the condensation slippery on the glass. “That’s just my reputation.”

She sighs, slumping back into her side of the booth. “Okay, scratch that then. What I mean is that, besides the people you’re close to like Penny and I, you’re this astute, intelligent, skilled executive. You’ve accomplished a lot to get where you are. Why are you letting him get under your skin and uproot that?”

Yeji wouldn’t let someone make her feel like that, and she wishes you wouldn’t either. As much as she secretly admires you - for both that reputation and the real you - she cares about you all the same. Maybe one of the only people that does.

“I guess you have a point.”

“You know I have a point.”

“It’s not that easy though, Yeji,” you say weakly, staring down into your glass. “Every time I see him, I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or beat his ass.”

She laughs at your comment, making you crack a smile too. “It happens, Y/N. Love and hurt go hand in hand.” When you look up at her, she reaches a slender hand over the table and interlocks her fingers with your own with a squeeze. “Just tolerate it for now.”

A troubled exhale leaves you at the prospect, but you squeeze back nonetheless. 

“I can do that.” 

☆☆☆

It's two days later when you get a call from none other than the Lion himself. The time has been passing unbearably, slower than a soul train passing an ambulance. You and Penny relaxed by bingeing an ungodly amount of shows and movies, even delving into your weekly budget for a stockpile of snacks and drinks. But with every laugh that tumbled out of you and blended into the live audiences’, the nervous thoughts of the situation lingered in the back of your mind.

But hopefully, this call will have some good news.

“What’s up?”

“Good news.”

Eureka! For once, you’re happy to be speaking to Jeon.

“Like Namjoon said, they slipped up. Someone wasn’t wearing gloves and left a fingerprint in the DA. Intelligence was able to track it down to a random guy living in the Gambling District. I’ll tell you more about him, but I’m coming to pick you up now.”

You to your feet from your seat on the couch, wedging the phone between your shoulder and ear so you could throw your stuff together. Penny pauses the show for you, sending a raised brow. In silent conversation, you shrug.

God, it’s too early. You’re rummaging around the room for your wallet and trying to process cohesive thoughts simultaneously, and it’s not working out.

You stop to let your hands rub at your eyes. “Okay, but how do we know this was an actual slip up? We don’t have footage to check… it might have been on purpose to lead us somewhere.”

The one thing you had learned in all your time was to play like your opponent. Never underestimate them - especially the Syndicate, who clearly wanted that message to reach you. But if you were trying to get the upper hand on the people you were trying to eliminate, it wouldn’t be far fetched to give them a false lead the same way you had before.

“It’s all we got. And if we are led somewhere, we’ll figure it out.”

“Okay. Talk to you in a bit. I’ll meet you in the parking garage?”

“No need. Already walking up.” In the background, you hear Jeon’s keys jingling as he strides. “Also, we’re stopping for food first. Bye.” A blunt click signals the end of the call.

Shit. He’s coming to your apartment? The current state is an indescribable mess - hopefully he wouldn’t call CPS on you. More importantly, you are still in your pajamas, and there is no way he can see you like this.

“Was that the curveball?” Penny asks with an impish interest.

Your eyes squint. “Take a guess.”

Hurrying down the cramped hallway to your shared bedroom with Penny, you trade your sweats for some comfortable jeans and, with the time ticking down, throw a moto jacket over your hoodie. As the knock on the door sounds, you’re gathering your hair into a ponytail.

When you reach the living room, Penny is already pulling the door open. You hear a greeting, and then Jeon’s head appears around it comically, peeking into the apartment.

“There you are,” he says, looking at your current state with confusion. Not exactly what you might wear to base, but it got the job done. He snickers. “What, did I catch you off guard?”

Trying to hold back your minor pants from running around so much, all you can muster is, “Yeah, a little bit.” You turn to the mirror and pluck a bobby pin from your lips, tucking it into your hair to keep the flyaways down.

“Okay, let’s hit it. Penny, super sorry about this, I’ll finish watching with you later when I get home. There’s food in the fridge, you know where the money is, and I’ll call Yeji to check in on you if it gets late, okay?”

She pouts. “Okay.”

“Hey, you remember the safe word?”

Penny nods dramatically, her dark bangs bouncing, standing on her tippy toes to whisper in your ear, “Cherry-cola… also, he’s really cute.”

You pull away laughing, giving her a light noogie with your fist as her nose scrunches up. She wasn’t wrong, of course. Your time apart did him well, and you assume he must have gotten tips on how to dress because of how effortlessly put together he looked these days. But that's beside the point.

“Love you, Pen. Bye. And make sure your ringer is on.” With a small peck on the top of her head and bidding goodbye with a promise to return, you’re pulling away and leading Jeon out the door, being careful in locking it behind you.

“What’s with the safeword?” He asks, starting down the hall to the elevator. An uncomfortable tilt to his lips fixes on his face. “Isn’t that… kinda inappropriate?”

You roll your eyes, swatting at his shoulder. “Ew. Not that kind of safeword, dumbass. It’s so she knows who she can trust and let inside. There’s a lot of people that I trust that she doesn’t know, so if I have someone swinging by I tell them so she knows she can trust them too.”

He makes a sound of understanding, slipping his hands into his pockets. The way he ambles is spirited yet composed, shoulders relaxed with purposeful steps. Jeon always came and went like low tide in the morning, a calmer view of his personality considering his notorious “devil may care” attitude.

“Can you tell me?” Once he sees the disapproving expression on your face, he continues, “Listen, I already know about her. What if something happens and you need me to get her and you’re too busy dying to tell me?”

Crossing your arms in front of you, you shake your head. “Hopefully that will never happen in the first place, but god forbid…” you cautiously lower your voice, “Cherry-cola.”

“Cherry-cola?” he repeats casually.

You shush him loudly, glaring and speaking through gritted teeth. “The point of a safeword is that not everyone knows it!” 

“Sorry,” his lips purse as you press the button and begin waiting for the elevator. “Why that one?”

“It’s our favorite drink. Goes with anything.”

“Well...”

You cut him off with a hand as the thick metal doors slide open and the two of you step inside. “Not a matter of opinion. I don’t want to hear it.”

He raises his hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I will respect that, but you know...”

It’s then that you see him giving you a look, an impish smile adorning his cheeks. The dimples that gently poke his skin are the kind that make you feel lucky.

“What?”

His eyes avert, head shaking as he turns away and exchanges his view for his sly reflection in the metal. “Oh, nothing.”

“Gguk.”

A teasing tone coats his tongue as he speaks. “Well, I don’t know, it just reminded me, you know, just pulled the thought from the deep recess of my brain, that.... we used to have one too.”

You almost couldn’t believe your ears, even considering asking him to repeat himself.  The arch look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. “Yeah, we did,” you agree. “Not like I ever had to use it...”

He faces you with a disbelieving breath of laughter leaving his open mouth, astonished. “What, did you want to have to say it?”

You shrug nonchalantly, raising your voice to say, “No, no… you were always just a little soft about it, that’s all.”

You can’t help the grin growing on your face as his lips part in offense, one corner slowly turning up in a knowing open-mouthed smile. His lids drop in the slightest manner, barely noticeable if you didn’t pay such close attention, and you have to turn away before your face starts to blaze too unbearably. “Oh, you know I was not soft.”

Both of you are thinking the same thing, no doubt about it. Memories roll back like pristine tapes on a projector, ones that most definitely prove his point.

You clear your throat, unsure of where the conversation is going and not bold enough to let it brew. “Anyway, about the guy…?”

He’s disappointed in your choice to change the subject, the tell in the way his head drops and chews at his lower lip for a split second, but abides nonetheless. “Twenty-six years old, been working at lots of casinos around as a dealer but his most recent job was three months ago at King’s Crown. After that, no record. Unfortunately, we have to take him alive since the investigation has the police involved.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Well, kind of. It’s just limiting when there’s a stipulation.”

“Okay. I will respect that.”

Your callback is the cause of a smile taking over his face. You’re glad he doesn’t mention your attitude - if he did, your dignity wouldn’t let you continue. Maybe it’s your good mood paired with his unexpectedness, maybe it’s Yeji’s advice telling you to tolerate him, but regardless, you won’t deny that it feels better than the anger. With hope of a lead comes hope that this could work out.

“By the way, what’re you in the mood for?” Jeon asks casually, turning to you. “We can do fast food, we can do Firehouse...”

As soon as he says the word, memories from long ago that almost don’t even feel like yours resurface. Firehouse was always your and Jeon’s go-to pizza place on lunch break or for celebration after a job well done. Though you haven’t been there in years, the delectable taste of their pies is still fresh in your mind. It’s tempting, but you don’t want to make the decision. You weren’t that hungry, anyway. Jeon stares, awaiting an answer.

At your shrug, his patience runs out and he fishes his hand into his pocket. “Okay, I’m flipping a coin. Firehouse is heads, tails is the nearest drive-thru.”

He says it naturally, but you know he’s testing the water by the way his gaze lingers, measuring your reaction to see if you’ll be angry with him. Not one, but two fond tokens from the past, all in the span of thirty seconds? At one point, flipping a coin was an everyday occurrence to settle disagreements, whether it be where to eat, what time to close up shop, or whose plan to follow. You know he’s trying to jog your good memories, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing.

The metal flings from his thumb and lands with a muted tap in his opposite palm. He slaps it over to the backside of his hand.

“Heads. Firehouse it is.” His eyes flick up to yours, an eyebrow raised in curiosity.

You grin. “Sure. Wanted that anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. A shy smile crawls up his face, the faint hallmark scar at the edge of his cheekbone shifting. “Yeah, alright. Tell me next time before it lands on something you don’t want.”

The elevator doors open with a ding, freeing you into the open world. If you let the resentment subside for a few minutes, it feels just like it used to when things were okay - you and Jeon against the world.

☆☆☆

“So this is it?”

You’re staring up a beat down brick building four stories high. It’s dilapidated and nearly falling apart, in contrast to the virgin casinos, modern and flawless with intricate architecture and an ambiance of expense just half a mile away. Supposedly, your guy was somewhere in there, and it was your best bet that he had something of value to give you.

Jeon slams his side of the car door, still licking at pizza grease on his forearm, and comes around to stand next to you. “Yeah. Floor two, apartment two.” You laugh to yourself incredulously at his casual antics, but he doesn’t seem to care as he walks right up to the door.

He finds that no buzzer is needed for entry, so with your guns at the ready, you take slow steps inside. Jeon leads, you trailing to the side of him. It’s eerily quiet, not a single person out to encounter, none of the hustle and bustle a usual apartment would contain, not even the sounds of footsteps or moving furniture. Did anyone actually live here?

The floors of the hallways are decorated with faded forest green carpet, stains and dust covering the washed-out fabric. There is an ugly floral strip of wallpaper at the top of the beige walls that are dented and scraped in random places.

You’re careful to keep down the volume of the creaking stairs as you shift your weight over them, but it’s nearly impossible. Upon further inspection, the door frame of apartment two was covered in scratches and markings, thin cobwebs joined in the corners. The door itself looks cheap and it has what seems to be a few drops of blood splattered near the knob. You and Jeon share a look of uncertainty, those gut instincts kicking in to let you know that something was off.

He begins to count down, and on three, you’re pushing in the door. He rushes in first with you on his tail to scope out the sides. The apartment is empty, except…

“Well, that’s fucking fantastic.”

There’s a dead body occupying the chair in front of the television. It’s the man, alright, but his throat has been slit, red coating his neck and clothes, head hanging back over the seat. There’s no smell, though - it couldn’t have been that long since others were here, especially due to the slight glisten of blood not yet dry on his skin.

They didn’t bury him, either. Just left the body out in the open for you to find. One alarming step ahead, just like last time.

“Covering their tracks. They knew he fucked up and took care of him before we could,” says Jeon, scouring the rest of the beaten-down unit. No signs of a struggle, no mess, no nothing. A dead end.

When you pat the body down, reach into his pockets, there’s nothing. When you move to his bedroom and start to search through his nightstand, it strikes you that there might be something invasive about rustling through a dead man’s belongings, but you’ve done it too many times to still be sensitive to it. You peer around his closet, look under the mattress, filter through his drawers, until a certain glint of light catches your eye.

On the side of his bed closest to the window, a small card lies on the carpet beneath, hidden by the frame if it weren’t for the shiny sticker on the back. You bring it up for a closer look in the light.

It’s got his name, picture, and contact information as well as a barcode at the bottom. Not a driver’s license, but an ID card for the Belvedere Casino. The sticker in the top corner makes out a small icon of a spread of playing cards.

You’re about to shout out to Jeon, but stop yourself as soon as you open your mouth.  You take a slow once over around the room. Namjoon’s words echo in between your thoughts - Could the place be bugged? They were here not so long ago, and considering how they kept seeming to be a step in front of you at all times, it wasn’t a far stretch. There was no way to be sure, but you had a hunch.

Walking back to the main room, you catch his attention from where he is snooping around the shelves. 

“Didn’t find anything. I think we’re out of luck.” When he turns to look at you, you widen your eyes and make an intense gesture with your finger to your lips before pointing a finger from your ear to the ceiling and directing your eyes around the room. You’re grateful when he understands immediately.

“Seriously? Nothing?” he asks timidly.

“Yeah. They got us. We should head back and call for cleanup, see if they can find anything.” You start for the door, pulling it open.

He hums, eyeing the item in your hand as he walks out behind you. “Good idea… I don’t really want to be here anymore anyway. Feels too weird.”

It’s silent all the way down. Was it too obvious? Was the dialogue too strange, too choppy? The two of you reach the street, careful of your surroundings, before getting back in his car. 

“What was that about?” he asks, shutting the door as he slides into the driver’s seat.

You hold out the card for him to take. “Look. You know how you said there was no recent record of employment besides at King’s Crown? He’s been working at the Belvedere the past three months.”

He looks at you incredulously. “And?”

For whatever reason, he makes you doubt yourself. Suddenly, that solid idea you had in mind that made you split from the apartment is no longer so solid.

“The Belvedere has to have something. That’s our new lead!” Pulling your seatbelt over your body, you reach for your phone to give the Boss an update.

“He could have just been working off-record and gotten involved with the Syndicate some other way.”

You turn to him seriously. “Jeon. If it’s separate, why bother? Why would he be working for the Syndicate when he has a stable source of income as a dealer unless the two come hand in hand? They have to be hiding in plain sight.”

“And you’re willing to bet all your cards on that?” You almost find the doubt in his voice offensive.

You exhale deeply, trying to push down your temper. “The people in the Syndicate who killed him made sure there was nothing left on him to tell us who he was. No wallet, no keys, no license, no nothing, because they wanted his identity hidden. If he was working for them separately, why would they bother to do that? They would have just killed him and left. But it was about who he was and what he did. Which was dealing at The Belvedere.”

The car goes silent, and Jeon doesn’t reply. He only looks at you blankly, his poker face hard to break through, but not impossible. You know when he lets a hand slip up to tug at the strands at the nape of his neck.

“Good job,” he grins, hooking the key in the ignition and rumbling the car to life. He pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road casually. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You cross your arms in front of you protectively, glaring at him from the side.

“Oh, come on. I never actually doubted you, I was just messing around.”

You scoff loudly, turning to the window. “You’re such a fucking liar, Gguk. You didn’t get the connection until I explained it and the fact that you can’t even admit that you’re wrong, the fact that you have to act like you always knew, blows my fucking mind!”

He makes a left turn, looking out at the road, clearly avoiding you even though you’re stuck in the same damn car a foot away. “Calm down, Y/N. It’s not that serious.”

“But it is that serious! It was going so well, Gguk. We were finally acting like regular partners on a job. You always have to ruin everything, don’t you? It always has to be about you, and how much of a hero you are-”

“I never said I was a hero.”

“But you sure act like it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous? Comes from the guy who claims he was ‘just joking around’ during a serious case like this when you know it’s not like what it used to be.”

“Okay, fine!” He shouts, hands slamming down on the steering wheel. “I did doubt you. I thought it was far fetched.” Jeon's voice booms as he rambles quickly in aggravation. “And then you explained it and I remembered that you’re really fucking smart and I wouldn’t have made that connection myself. And I lied because I didn’t know what else to say. I’m sorry, okay? Are you happy?”

Jeon’s free hand, which had been jerking around as he yelled, finds itself gripping the wheel again regretfully. Silence fills the car, hanging in the air as heavy and solid as concrete. You’re almost scared to breathe in face of all the tension. He looks like he’s about to say something else but stops himself before the words fall out. 

The way you were fuming brings tears to your eyes. When your parents died, all you had was Jeongguk. But Jeongguk’s heart had been rooted in the mafia since he was young. The two were mutually exclusive, and your best option was following after him. It was hard to believe the boy you put your trust in so blindly all those years ago had grown into the man sitting next to you now, bringing you to tears with the way he infuriated you. Where did it all go wrong?

“No. I’m not.”

☆☆☆

You’re tired when you go to bed that night, and you’re tired when you wake up. Though you’re barely awake, you can feel Penny nestled into your side, body rising and falling as she breathes. It’s a small comfort, especially after the rough day you had. Last night had been a mess as you tried to hold it together for her, but simply couldn’t. 

Today, you’ll be heading over to a motel in the Gambling District to stay at indefinitely with Jeon while you work on the case. You have no clue how long it will take - you’ll be taking a look at the Belvedere, but what comes after that, you don’t know.

It was important to note that somehow, the two of you had moved up to the faces of the mission, even though both sides were working tirelessly in the search. 

The last thing you want to do right now is see him, but you have no choice. The sooner you start working and get it done, the sooner you can get home. But for now, you have to start packing. You take another moment to lay with Penny, because when you’ll next feel this safety and comfort again, you can’t be sure of. Then, you carefully unlink her from you and begin laying things out.

Something nice to wear for the casino, clothes to sleep in, essentials for hygiene, an extra pair of socks… 

Eventually, Penny stretches out and groans to inform you of her awakening while you roam around the room. Her feet shifting under the comforter push a t-shirt off the bed.

“Sleep okay?” She rubs her eyes. “Yeah, you?”

“Eh. Could have been better.”

While you are away, Penny will be home by herself. The Boss said that she wouldn’t be required for work while you were gone - she could stay home and safe, for your reassurance. It still makes you nervous, of course, but bringing her with you isn’t an option. Yeji promised she would stop in from time to time, and you would be leaving her with a sum of money in case she needs it to order food or something of the sort.

“When are you leaving?”

“I have to be there by one, so probably in an hour or so.”

“Can we make waffles then?”

You sigh, letting your arms go limp at your side. Waffles were a hassle, and the cleanup could be a nightmare, but… something told you it was worth it over the potential mess.

“Sure, go get the machine set up and I’ll come out in a sec.”

It takes a few more minutes to get everything packed, take a few extra bottles of soaps and gels just in case, quickly zipping up your duffle bag and tossing it down onto the bed for when you return later.

Out in the kitchen, Penny has gotten more of a move on. She has already retrieved the ingredients from the pantry, even started measuring amounts out accordingly with the instructions on the back of the box.

You let her have a little fun and crack the eggs this time - though some shell gets in there, it’s nothing you can’t pick out. She makes jokes and you can’t help but laugh, and something about it has its way of calming you down. It reminds you of how precious moments spent together are. Something about the girl just makes you let go of the burdens you carry.

But it’s much too soon that you’re cleaning up. A small ending for a small fragment of your day bound to be filled with things much larger than you’re ready to handle. 

The rain falls like feathers when you pull into the lot, plunking consistently on your windshield. You turn the key and take it out, shutting down the vehicle’s rumbling engine, the lights dimming out all around you. You should get inside sooner than later, before the weather worsens, but you can’t seem to bring yourself out of the car. Jeon’s is already parked, meaning he’s inside waiting. But there’s no other choice you have. You’ll have to see him at some point, anyway. Postponing will only anger you further.

You push open the car door quickly, grabbing your bag and darting up the stairs as they clang under your shoes. The droplets smack against your skin and drip down relentlessly. It could be worse, but it is certainly not pleasant. Once you find shelter under the awning, you raise your hand in preparation to knock, but Jeon is already yanking open the door and stepping aside to make way for your entrance.

Inside, you dab at your hair with your sleeve carefully, fixing it in the mirror opposite to you. As clued in by the backpack and laptop already set up on the right side of the singular bed in the room, you deduced he had already claimed it. Therefore, you take the initiative to place your own bag on the left side, closest to the wall.

“So… how are you?”

“I’m fine.” You reach into your bag to begin unpacking a few of your essentials, feeling his eyes glued to you as you move around the room. Even as you plug in your charger, toss your computer on the bed, you could sense his firm yet uneasy presence behind you.

“Have you started yet?” you ask, brushing back the hair that had fallen forward onto your face. You’d prefer to start your work instead of floating around the elephant in the room awkwardly. 

He tucks his hands into his pockets. “No, I was waiting for you.” Jeon has been stuck to the same spot near the dim lamp beside the door since you stepped through the threshold. It inclined you to think that maybe he’s as nervous as you are, but you’re sure it’ll pass over in a matter of minutes once he gathers himself. 

“Okay.” You exhale in thought, sweeping yourself into a comfortable position on the bed. “I’ll start doing background on the casino and it’s ownership records. You can look into workers or people associated with the man who was killed. Or call the agency, I don’t know. You do you.”

He makes a small noise of agreement, flipping open his laptop. However, with the slow movement of his fingers across the keyboard, the air void of purposeful clicking, you can tell he’s not getting much done. In fact, you can see in your peripheral his stillness, as if he’s waiting to make a move.

When you spare a glimpse over to him, he offers an expression of deep thought, only to say, “There are snacks, too. In case you get hungry.”

Your scampering flow of typing pauses. “Okay.” All you can offer is a brief, tight pull of your lips, what you could barely define as a smile.

Luckily, he seems to receive your message loud and clear, turning back around in his chair to start up whatever he was planning on. You know what you want to get - the information most valuable to doing what you needed to do and confirming what you already suspected, which was in the past records of the proprietorship. It would also be helpful if you could find current workers and see what they were doing; Maybe even more helpful if you could find nothing at all.

The records you stumble upon are nothing short of interesting once you finally break down that barrier. Ownership of the casino had been consistent up until three months ago, when the deed holder - a healthy man of only fifty-six years old - made a business deal and swiftly moved out of the country, only to be found dead in his home a month later. The new owner’s background appeared without even the slightest scratch. The lack of suspicion is suspicious in itself - you don’t think the Falcon would have the place under his own name, but having it under someone who is pristine as a newly minted coin is dubious all the same.

It’s the shut of Jeon’s laptop that sucks you back into the reality of the motel room from your online sanctuary. He stands up to stretch and makes a move for the bathroom. The room is shrouded in the darkness of nighttime, save for the moonlight streaming in through the windows and the sorry excuse for a lamp on your night table. It wouldn’t kill you to call it a night either.

When he emerges, you take your turn, bringing a change of clothes with you so you won’t have to face the tension that might arise if you came back out in just a towel. The shower is pleasant; For a second, if you close your eyes, you’re no longer in the same space with him and can enjoy the time for yourself. 

Your heavy heart can’t be kept at bay for too long. Outside the bathroom is a surprisingly accurate reminder of old times, when scenes just like this were the regular, and the feeling was the same. But at this moment, the way you’re avoiding his eyes while you braid your hair in the mirror is a show of just how much things have changed.

“Why are you looking at me?” you pipe quietly over the steady padding of your feet on the carpet, his watch following you hesitantly.

Jeon sits back at the head of the bed, not sure where to direct his gaze anymore now that you’ve verbally interrupted it. His constant attention, and especially the way he doesn’t deny it even in the face of your attitude towards him, leaves you with a weary ache that you’re quickly getting tired of feeling all the time.

A charming, shy smile fixes on his face as his head tilts endearingly, testing the waters. “What, I can’t look at you?”

“Not like that,” you mumble, barely above a whisper, lifting up the sheets to crawl in, leaving as much space as possible between the two of you. When you turn your back to him to look at the wall, you think he might make another teasing comment, but he doesn’t.

“It’s the braid,” he elaborates, as if it’s some sort of excuse sufficient enough to play flirty and cool with you when the situation is anything but. “It reminds me of when we were kids… you used to wear it like that every day.” 

It’s almost as if to say, do you remember? But of course you remember. Afternoons spent at the playground, your hair in a loose braid thrown over the front of your shoulder. Mornings spent in the courtyard, scribbling down answers to work that was due in ten minutes. Evenings spent wandering around town, laughing and joking together as kids should. But nothing offered by the times of the past could dismiss the times of the present.

You lean over and tug the chain on the lamp, darkness enclosing your small room.

“Go to bed, Gguk.”

He doesn’t make another sound that night.

☆☆☆

The storm has proven its resilience yet continues to torrent, horribly testing the aging logs of trees and endlessly splattering your windows. Even still, it has something to say, residing anger it wants to make you feel, trapping you inside your room and limiting your options. It’s a deep pain, but perhaps if you were a storm, you’d let yourself drain out every ounce of deplorable wrath until there was nothing leftover, too.

Jeon sits at the small table near the door. He’s been there for who knows how long, flipping through pages, making phone calls that connect no dots, wasting his time. There is nothing that can be done at the moment, not with the state of the weather at least. Weather, a trivial matter, the most popular topic choice for insignificant conversation, heeds your course of action without a known resumption.

In the meantime, you enjoy yourself as much as you can. You make popcorn in the less than appealing microwave and settle in to watch whatever piques your interest in the slightest, meaning there is not a wide selection. Right now, you’ve got on a show about the aliens who have supposedly visited ancient Egypt and other societies bygone, and have been consistently present throughout the timeline of human history.

“Y/N. Let me ask you a question.” Jeon rubs his forehead, slumping over in his chair. “Did you come here with the intention of helping this case, or just to vacation?”

You nod in thought, humming. “Good question. I’d say the former, but I don’t think your question was intended to have an answer. Let me ask you a question then.”

His tired face turns to you expectantly. 

You take a pensive breath before raising your hand and asking slowly, “Do you think that aliens provided advanced technologies to the Germans to build new weapons for the Third Reich?”

He stares at you blankly, meeting your still and inquisitive expression for just a moment until he cracks, shaking his head and looking away toward the window, as if he’ll find something better to say out there.

“No, I’m serious,” you insist as you toss another kernel into your mouth, hoping he takes your biting satire to heart. “Because, this guy is saying that the Germans built a flying saucer. A whole fucking flying saucer, called the Haunebu, and no, wait, listen, it was said to use mythical technology from old Indian texts.”

You stare, intent on waiting for a response. Jeon pinches the bridge of his nose, the way his fuse was quickly shortening keeping you bitterly entertained. “You have to work with me, Y/N. Can you please just work with me?”

The joke dissolves and you blankly turn to flip through the channels. “I am working with you. There’s just nothing to work on.”

He puts his head in his hands. “For God’s sake, can you stop? I know you don’t care for me, but if you could just cooperate-”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Care for you?” you repeat, your smile fueled with gallons of flammable offense, sitting upright on the bed. He spins in his chair to face you again, eyebrows knitting together before confirming, “Yeah, care for me!”

A sour laugh escapes you, arms folding over your front. “I don’t care for you? That’s rich, Gguk.” 

“No, you don’t! And I don’t think you ever have, quite frankly, because you’re acting like such a bitch to me and can’t even give me a chance!” Jeon stands now, leaning into his words as his hands stretch out in dramatic gestures.

You jump to your feet. ”Why should I give you a chance? What good has that ever done me?”

Jeon’s jaw visibly clenches, his hand shooting up to meet his chin as he eschews your scrutinizing eye. You feel your nails digging into your palms as your fists clench, but you’re sure you’ll swing at something if you stop.

Your throat begins to sting, masking your cracking voice with a low tone. “I almost died for you, Gguk. And a week later, you left me.”

The room collapses under the weight of the elephant. It’s everything you’ve wanted to say for years bubbling to the top.

As soon as the venom leaves your mouth, you know he remembers. The guilt washing over his features says it all, awful clips of the last mission you ever went on together passing through his vision.

It was supposed to be an easy interception of a deal, but Jeon’s inability to differentiate between necessary risk and recklessness cost you your covers. He got away. You were captured.

It was torture at the expense of his safety. Excruciating pain in order to protect him from his own mistake. Your blood spilled, your tears cried, your body hurt. Yet at the end of every video, every call, every threat, your only message to him was that it was okay.

They were the worst you had ever encountered. They wanted leverage over the Boss; They wanted Jeon. And the only way to him was to you. At the time, it was worth it. You wouldn’t give him up, you wouldn’t let yourself become a part of an exchange for his life. You put his over your own in a heartbeat.

And where had that gotten you?

Your depth of a breaking point had provided that desperately needed time to organize a plan of attack, and even though you hadn’t been there quite yet, even though you had been trained and it was far from your first rodeo, it wasn’t anything less than scarring. 

Even though the mafia infiltrated and rescued you successfully, the inner turmoil never fully recovered. Though you moved past the nightmares and the flashbacks that hid in your damaged subconscious, the memory never stopped hurting. Especially when he up and left you to deal with it on your own.

“I know,” is all he can muster. 

A thrilling laugh of spite rips from your throat. He hates it.

“What? That’s all you can say? You can’t even give me an explanation?”

“I… I was out of options for us, Y/N. After the mission, I knew it was me making you vulnerable. People were hurting you over me, and I didn’t want that for us anymore. I made a plan to leave, and I thought that you could come with me… but I was stupid and in a rush and the deal was only for my cooperation if the Agency helped me out. They wouldn’t let me take you.”

Your usual crisp verbosity fails you now, everything you need to say stuck in your throat. A stabbing anguish falls like bullets in a downpour, a storm born only in the bitterest winter. 

“I know I fucked up, Y/N, I know I did. And I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always regret it. And I’ll spend every second of my life trying to make up for it.” Jeon’s lip quivers through his shaky breaths, his eyes now soaked, the ache in his heart unforgiving. “And I know I can’t ever take it back, but you hate me so bad…”

A pained upturn of your lips feeling the grudge of a thousand wrongdoings phases over your expression, for him, for you, for everyone you’d ever known in this sickening lifetime.

“I don’t hate you, Gguk,” you sob through your teeth, wiping furiously at your eyes, “I hate… I hate that I love you regardless of what you do.”

He winces. “Please don’t do that to me.” “Do what?”

Hot streams of tears trickled down his supple cheeks, voice cracking as he whispers, “Say that you love me when you know how I feel.”

“Oh shut up, Jeongguk!” you yell, wet rage prickling your veins as it courses through you. Your cheeks are now just vessels for a dam breaking loose. “I have always loved you!”

And it hurts so bad to say it. The way he makes your stomach flutter feels like a betrayal to yourself. But that smile he wears like a medallion, those eyes that are always searching for you, that golden heart that loved you so well - everything you hate is everything you love. Even when you want to ignore the truth for everything it’s worth and all the weight it heaves on its shoulders, it’s impossible to escape the way you love him even when you wish you could just hate him.

You calm yourself with a shaky breath. “I loved you before, and I loved you after, even when you left and I knew you weren’t coming back.”

“That’s not true,” he sputters, taking a step toward you. “I was always going to come back. Every day, I begged for help to get you out. But the deal I made with the agency was only my rescue for my cooperation, and it didn’t include you, no matter what I tried to do.”

It stings your chest. You have to turn away when your head drops to your palms, but he’s quick to reach a hand to your shoulder for your attention. 

“It’s been over three years, Gguk,” you whisper, sniffling as you wipe your running nose with your sleeve. Your voice is clogged in disappointed acceptance. “Don’t lie. Just say my relevance to you faded and you forgot.”

He grasps your arm gently, beckoning your eyes to meet his. While your tears are slowing from tire, his are an endless faucet left on in negligence.

“No,” his tone softens, “No, I was waiting until it was safe.”

You shake your head, the soreness in your chest present as ever as you try to hold it all in. “It was never going to be safe.”

“Maybe. And maybe it won’t ever be. But you have to let me make it right.”

“How do you intend on doing that? Putting snacks in the fridge doesn’t do shit, Gguk.”

He inhales deeply as his lips press together. Jeon takes a careful glance around the room, eyebrows furrowing as he silently pleads with you. 

“I made a plan to get you out after the mission is completed. The higher-ups at the Agency agreed just in exchange for you to give a private report with as much as you know for future reference. From there, it’s you going wherever you want, no strings attached, no extra deal you have to make.”

“That won’t work,” you scoff.

“Yes, it will! I promise it will! Listen, everything is already planned. My friends are taking extra care because they trust me. You’ll have new records, a new passport and a license, new everything, and even…”

“Gguk...” You whisper as he continues rambling. “Gguk. Jeongguk!”

He takes in a sharp breath as his words are cut off mid-stream, feeling his heart drop to his stomach.

In a quiet, calm whisper, you explain, “I can’t. I have Penny and other people here that I care about. For god sake, I have money I've been saving for years in that apartment, all our stuff is there, I can’t just leave and not come back.”

The desperation in his voice is now out in the open. “I know. I wasn’t expecting that, but I’m working on her now, too. You just have to trust me.”

For a second, he lets himself swell with hope, but your deep, despondent sigh crumbles him right back down to where he started. 

“Gguk…” you start, but he can’t bear to hear it, leaning down to meet your hesitant eyes straight on. Distress clouds his watery pupils as he implores you with every ounce of sincerity he can muster to the surface for you. He doesn’t know how else he can make you see he’s being more honest now than he ever has been in his life. 

“It’s okay if you can’t forgive me. I understand, and I’ll never stop being sorry. And, and I’m sorry for how I acted when I saw you again, but I was just so scared.” His lip trembles as he searches for eyes for something, anything. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do because I was so scared of what you’d say and how you’d feel and I thought if I acted like it was fine, it wouldn’t hurt as bad.” 

He swallows on a dry mouth, trying not to stammer but his heart denying him that ability.

“I, I thought about you every day. Every day. And I knew it was complicated and everyone told me I should just let go and, and I just couldn’t! I just knew it was you. It was always you. And I am so, so sorry I made you feel it wasn’t.”

By now, you can’t restrain your tears, no matter how hard you clench your teeth or comfort your face. In a moment of deep affliction, there’s no other place to turn but him. The second you pull him to you is relief synonymous with the feeling of when a battered castaway finally spots a plane coming for their rescue; it is joint. 

“I wish I could trust you, Jeongguk,” Sobs muffled by his comforting chest, you cry, ”But I don’t know if I can do that. I want to believe you so bad, but I… I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

The comforting warmth of his body is a mean juxtaposition against the harsh sobs that rack through it. Jeongguk smells of something sweet and nostalgically familiar, like sunny beach days spent down by the salty water, plucking seashells from the sand and digging for hermit crabs once the waves pull away from the shore. Light sunscreen and grainy memories that flash by as your brain slides through like film.

“That’s okay,” he mumbles into your hair. Your will splinters in his arms. “Just think about it. That’s all. Just think about it.”

Though you nod against him in shaky assent, it’s not a promise. 

☆☆☆

Not the next day, but the day after, is when you decide to make your move. 

The casino is a home base, hidden in plain sight. Not even that - crowded by the public eye, and yet not a suspicion raised despite its astronomical numbers being reported over the past few months. Sure, it was bustling full of rich men in need of something to spend their money on, but not enough to sustain those incredible reports.

And under that brittle, flimsy assumption comes your similarly brittle, flimsy plan. Go in, see what you can see. Scout for suspicious activity, chat up drunk patrons and loosen their lips, explore the building a bit. See what you see.

Your fingers are nimble, but your prickling nerves make them fumble as you try the clasp on your necklace. The nail on your pointer can’t seem to hold the small lever down for long enough, even when you twist the chain around so you can lean forward to do it in the mirror. You even consider just tossing it to the side and going without the necklace.

Jeon, standing awkwardly to the side and already having fixed his sleeves in place countless times, glances over to you in the mirror briefly. You sigh when you catch his hesitant watch in the reflection - his shy offer goes unspoken, just a reminder that it’s there if you want to take it. All it takes is a minuscule top of your head to give in.

 Resisting Jeongguk is like resisting gravity. It pulls you down sooner or later, no matter how high or far you push yourself off. But at the end of the day, it keeps you grounded.

His footsteps are barely audible on the carpet as he approaches timidly. Light on his feet, as always. You surrender the ends of the necklace to him and tug the pendant back around to the front. The pads of his fingertips are rough as they drag lightly across your skin in the exchange, igniting a flaming feeling in their path. You can feel the hairs on the back of your neck prickle as he pushes them out of the way with the back of his hand. Considering his extensive training and incredible eye, you’re sure he notices it, but you’re grateful he doesn’t say anything.

You try not to let your eyes wander in the mirror for too long. For your excursion tonight, your dress is one of the best you own - a simple, dark satin gown with a generous leg slit to steal some eyes, but not enough to make you uncomfortable. The deep cowl neck is flattering in its pristine v-shape, especially with the way the pendant hangs itself just above.

Jeon is sporting all black. His shirt is ironed smoothly, fitting well over his shoulders and tucked with care into his trousers and secured with a sturdy belt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows to reveal his skin, tattoos peeking out in a shamelessly appealing way, and the collar…

Okay, too much. You’ll go into sensory overload if you look any longer. He’s caught onto it, the way a smirk creeps onto his face. He lingers a second longer after he’s clasped the jewelry in place. The Gguk you know flicks his eyes up quickly and throws a small, short smile your way, hands reluctant to pull away as they take the time to drift over your bare shoulders.

You clear your throat, taking the initiative to get on your way. He hides the way his spirit dips at the rejection, but he knows he can’t expect more. Once you’re outside and have locked the door behind you, the night air hits you, cool and fresh and promising. But for what exactly, you can’t be sure.

☆☆☆

The Belvedere is one of the most expensive-looking places in the city - in the months since you’d last worked a case around the gambling district, it had certainly been renovated. At the very front, the casino’s name glows light blue in a thin font while large ivory columns hold up a wide intricate ceiling to shade the pavilion. A wall of luxe glass doors lines the entrance, so sparkly and reflecting you think it can’t be just glass. 

As inviting as the front entrance seems, it is not your way in. Too many scrutinizing eyes, too many cautious cameras, too much security for your type of job. That leads you to the side of the building, a small alley between buildings with one side entrance. The agency already looped the footage twenty minutes ago just to be safe.

But of course when you try it, it’s locked.

“And… what now? They’ll notice if we just break in.”

Jeon shrugs. “Maybe not until a little while. Besides, we’re covered.” His pointer finds the camera up above the two of your for reference.

“I’d rather hold off on the damage we do.”

As he racks his brain for another option, your brain tunes in to the muted sound of shoes on linoleum. He raises a question just as you put your ear to the door but your shush quiets him immediately. The footsteps are coming your way.

Just as you feel the door about to open, you tug Jeon to the side next to the door’s hinge, pulling him down by his collar into a kiss. The door opens loudly and his hands, after his initial shock dissipates, find themselves on your waist as your own snake their way around his neck. You make sure one hand covers the side of his face generously and that your hair masks your own, meanwhile Jeon can’t help himself from getting swept up in you.

A guard, you think it is, halts when he sees the two of you, but takes it off his radar when he can no longer stand to watch your shamelessness. Or rather, Jeon’s shamelessness. His lips persistently press themselves to yours, nipping and pulling all the while his large hands push into your waist. Something about it makes you think it’s not just for a distraction.

The man shakes his head and turns the opposite direction, walking out toward the street. Before the heavy door falls closed behind him, you reach an arm out to grab the handle. Jeon pulls back slowly, blinking dumbfoundedly. He never thought you’d do such a thing - but clearly, it wasn’t such a thing to you by the way you were grinning like you’d only told a joke. He swallows, mentally slapping himself in a note to get himself together. You’re already stepping inside, and he picks up to follow suit.

You follow the hallway down the main room, and no one raises any concern, probably unable to sense suspicion in their state of inebriation. The two of you weave your way through crowds of people with too much money to spend, quietly thinking of how easy it would be to pickpocket them - but that’s for another time. 

A quick scan of the room provides you with the bar, rows of slot machines, pool tables, and a large lounge area filled with the sounds of mindless chatter and glasses clinking. You order drinks to blend in, nothing alcoholic, because as much as you wish you could get drunk and have fun in a casino, that wasn’t the reason you were here. Jeon hands you your coke with a practiced movement.

In a cheesy sort of cheers, he says, “To… the Lion and the Scorpion? Or is that too soon?” He purses his lips, half scared you’ll agree its too soon. It’s relief when he hears the laugh he missed so dearly.

“Not too soon, just a little embarrassing.” You clink your glass to his and take a sip. Jeon leads you over to the dartboards in excitement, one of his favorites to partake in. He chooses the one at the end of the row so you can stand beside him, supposedly to be impressed by his skills and praise him.

“God, this reminds me of Macau,” he sighs out contently. His coffee eyes roam around the large expanse of the hall, seeming to glitter under the crystal chandeliers hanging above you as he walks back from the controls, darts in hand. He gets into position and throws his first, landing for two points in the ring of red. As if you didn’t already know, he adds, “I loved Macau.”

You scoff. “What, because of the way our covers were blown and we had to massacre the lobby, or the sex?”

“Why not both?” He shrugs, smirk creeping onto his face. Another dart leaves his grip, expert aim leading right to the bullseye.

You take another sip of your drink. “Careful,” you warn, “Can’t be too good at this. It comes with questions.”

He hums, and you wonder if he’s even listening. “And you still had blood on your chest. Weirdly sexy.” His eyes narrow jokingly as he speaks just low enough so only you can hear it, and the reaction it pulls from you is exactly what he wanted when he starts to laugh. He lets go of his last dart with a shake of his head, either at the memory or his bad throw that says he’s going fishing.

He turns back to you. At your annoyed expression, he takes another swig of his drink and leans down to your ear. “Seriously though. That was hot.”

You roll your eyes before sending a scowl his way. “I’ll make sure to be extra messy tonight, just for you.” Your eyes crinkle peevishly. The sarcastic tone doesn’t escape him, but he does look hopeful.

“Hey, speaking of, this could be my New Macau. If you’re feeling frisky after the mission.” He throws you a flirtatious wink. While your poker face implies disinterest, your stomach is somersaulting head over heels, and you have a feeling he knows it by the way his eyes linger on you when you raise your glass to your lips. 

The phone in your purse vibrates. It’s a text from Yeji - need to get a move on. Jeon already has your gaze when you look back to meet him, but he knows it’s time from your expression alone. With a small nod, he goes up to end the game on the machine’s screen. Instead of coming back to you, though, he subtly taps your arm as he walks past and heads off to the door of the main floor, disappearing from your sight. You wait for a good thirty seconds, let people pass across the camera view at random, before hopping down from the barstool to follow in his footsteps.

You find him waiting in a secluded hallway, away from crowds or casino-regulars. He looks solemn, back pressed against the wall, and you have a feeling that what he has to say might upset you. He thinks so, too.

“Listen, you have to make a decision now. Before we split up, because there’s a chance I might not see you after this.”

You shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.” His eyebrows draw together as he gives you a pleading expression. His eyes flick to both sides of the hall before coming back to you, releasing a deep breath before pushing his hair from his eyes.

“I gave you the time, Y/N. You have to before it’s too late.” Jeon gulps, fumbling for the words. “Just come with me, please. I know it’s a lot to ask and I know you’re scared but you can trust me. I can help you.”

“No, Gguk. You don’t get it - It’s not possible. It’s not an option.” You sigh in resignation. A depleted smile surfaces as you shake your head. “Not in this life.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“You did it once, you can do it again.”

“I’m not… I- I won’t. Y/N, please…” His lip quivers, his eyes glossing over.

He can’t accept the answer your silence provides. It’s not enough, not something he’s willing to endure. If it’s going to be a no, he has to hear it loud and clear.

He purses his lips tight. “I’ll flip a coin then.”

“...What?”

“I’ll flip a coin. Heads, you come with me. Tails, I’ll go,” he says shakily, swallowing, “...and I’ll never speak to you again.”

Before you can stop him, he’s wiping away the tears that have not yet had the chance to escape and aggressively fishing a quarter from his pocket, placing it on the tip of his thumb. Desperation burns in him, but you’re paralyzed. All you can do is stare, a fish out of water being held in the grip of an angler who just can’t let go. Or maybe one that’s urging you back out to sea.

His thumb flicks and the coin flies, the sound barely audible in this corner of the building but piercing to your ears. It flips in the air, every rotation executed with purpose - in that moment, as its arc nearly completes, the thought strikes you like lightning and without a second thought, you hand reaches up and snatches it midair.

Jeon is awestruck. He searches for something to say as his fountain of hope runs dry.

Weakly, you mutter, “Okay.” Its compliance, but a strange relief that makes you feel guilty the second it washes over you.

“Okay?”

“I’ll come.”

A tight-lipped smile spreads on his face - it’s the best he can do after such stress. In a heartbeat, he embraces you tightly, broad shoulders enveloping your form. His grip is familiar and only full of good things, even if it might suffocate you. His long, wavy locks brush lightly against your jaw as he buries his face in your neck. For once, you let yourself have that rare moment of comfort. 

“I won’t let you down,” he says, a vocal assurance for himself maybe more than for you. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t say it, but he has to. “I promise.” 

It’s his first small triumph tonight. If nothing else, it is a debt repaid. He won’t push for more. He pulls back, lets you fix your hair and readjust your dress.

“Let’s get a move on. I’ll search the main floor, you take a look around the building. Keep in touch.”

You’re about to turn away from him, but his arm catches your wrist at the last second. When you look back to see what he has to say, he has trouble finding the right words.

“Listen… Y/N, I don’t know what it is, but I have this awful feeling. And I’m trying to ignore it, I know I’m probably just nervous, but I just want you to know in case. You don’t have to say anything…”

The hair framing your face bounces as your head begins to shake, trying to deny him before he can even say it. “No, Gguk, I know-”

“No. I...I love you. And you gotta know that, no matter what happens.” His thumb traces small circles on the patch of skin where yours meets your index. Before you have a chance to respond, he gives your hand a tight squeeze and plants a chaste kiss to your cheek, lips plush and sweet against your dimple, his last action as your token of remembrance. 

He doesn’t know why he feels so frail as he walks away, wiping away the wetness leaking from his eyes as he tries to calm himself down. Maybe it’s the lack of information, maybe it’s you possibly being in danger again. He tries to push it down as he struggles to resist the urge to look back at you; He’s just all up in his head, right? You can defend yourself, you’ll be fine without him, he reassures himself. You can make rope from kitchen twine.

You’re stuck on your own as the distance between you grows, heart racing as your time to say it back runs out like sand in an hourglass. In less than seconds, his figure has already disappeared around the corner.

A delicate finger reaches up to press the small button on the spyware piece tucked behind your ear. The whisper is low but you mean every syllable, regardless of the leftover turmoil that has consistently tempted you into anger the past few years - “I love you, Jeongguk.”

It’s a shot in the dark for you without his physical presence, but he hears it. It’s barely audible, but he hears it, and rings in his mind for moments after. It makes him feel right, like the moment when everything sifts into the bowl perfectly, no clumps of doubt left behind in the minuscule metal crosshatches. Even if just for a few seconds, the feeling of relief stays frozen in time.

You’re on your way back to the main hall when a buzz from your purse alerts you to an unknown number calling your phone. Typically you’d let it ring, thinking it was spam - but considering this was an agency phone, that wouldn’t make much sense. Your finger hovers over the green accept button, hesitantly pressing down and lifting it to your ear. 

The response is immediate. “The Scorpion,” a man on the other end addresses you, sounding much too enthusiastic for your taste. His voice is masked with a changer, the tone fluctuating as he speaks. “I’m glad you could make it tonight. I’ve spent a lot to make this place nice.”

The theatrics elicit an impatient eye roll from you. “Who is this?”

“Who do you think? You’re a smart cookie. There’s a reason they call you the Scorpion, isn’t there?”

He lets the pause marinate and continues, “I actually wanted to meet with you. I need to discuss something vital to you in person, but you’ll have to do some things for me first.”

You begin to turn around, spinning on your heels and intent on heading to Jeongguk downstairs, but the voice on the phone stops you. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, an eyebrow raising at the voice’s inquiry. Keen eyes scan quickly, landing on the faceless lens of a security camera - 

“It’s my casino. Of course I can see what you’re doing.”

A skeptical breath escapes you, squinting at the camera focused on your position. “...What do you want?”

“I just want to talk.” It’s casual.

“How do I know it’s not a trap?” “You don’t. But you don’t have any other option, really. If you need convincing… why don’t you check your home security?”

The dubious persona falters as your heart stops. It couldn’t be. You exit the call and open the app on your phone right away, and a sinking feeling hits you like a truck on the freeway, full speed and with reckless abandon. The view from the camera, grey and grainy, displays the apartment in pieces, furniture overthrown and papers scattered. The dread crawls up your spine as your worst nightmare, the one thing you always prayed for despite the lack of faith, comes to life; Penny is gone.

You call the number back.

“What now?” you say, jaw clenched. trying to calm your breathing.

“Take out your earpiece, toss it to the floor, and crush it. I need to protect my location somehow, right? Just a precaution.”

You slowly remove the receiver from its spot nestled in around your ear, thumbing the tiny matte black tech. It’s your connection to the outside, to safety. It’s your connection to Jeongguk. But the Falcon has played his cards right, leaving you with no other option. It falls from your fingertips, clatters to the linoleum, and you crush it underneath your heel.

“Now, your weapons. My guards will come to escort you - hand over your gun and any knives you may have on you. I know you’re sneaky, but now… really isn’t the time. I’ll see you in a bit.” A cold click ends the call and he’s gone.

On cue, two masked men dressed in all black emerge. They don’t frighten you, you know you could take them if you needed to. However, the priority is Penny, so you have to. You surrender your weapons and phone to them, and then they begin to shuffle you away to wherever the Falcon had made his nest.

Despite the nerves prickling like electric shocks, uneasiness itches in the back of your mind. Something about the phone call - was it the strange familiarity that made you feel so nauseous? You couldn’t quite place your finger on what was so off, on what about it pulled the alarm, but something besides the obvious situation at hand was wrong.

☆☆☆

Jeongguk doesn’t have much to go off of. He’s looking for something, anything, that can clue him in. He finds a creepy looking stairwell and decides to take it down. That’s how you find everything in need of being found, right? By following what feels off?

He comes to a storage room full of dusty metal shelves, all lined with boxes upon boxes. He takes a quick sweep of the room, shrugging to himself before delving into one. It’s just piles of text he doesn’t understand, pages and pages of orders and receipts dating back years and years. Maps of the building, information of repairs and inventory and renovations. It doesn’t mean anything useful, until he sees orders under names that ring a bell.

But from where? People he went to school with, maybe? For the life of him, he can’t remember where he knows them from.

He’s frantically flipping through pages, pulling boxes from the shelves and trying his best to read under the dim light. It’s not making any sense, until he lands on orders filed under the name… Jeon?

He freezes, all alone in the middle of a storage room full of thousands of documents, a sickly feeling washing over him.

A trembling hand reaches up to press the button on his earpiece.

“Y/N? I think I just found something.”

He waits, and no response from you.

“...Y/N?”

☆☆☆

The penthouse is in the heart of the city, just a few blocks away from the Belvedere. The view is enough to tell it to you - it overlooks miles of blinking lights and busy streets with which you have an archetypal love-hate relationship with. 

You’ve stepped fresh off the elevator into an open room that is in dire need of an interior decorator, or at the very least some basic furnishing. It’s basically empty, the dark hardwood floors even coated with a light layer of dust. Nothing except the moon and the fireplace at the other end of the room illuminate the space.

There’s shuffling, and the guards on either side of you are grabbing firmly onto your arms.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You struggle against them, fighting to get out of their grip, but one of them mutters how it’ll be better for you if you cooperate. You strain against the instinct to escape, every bone in your body screaming disgusted by the forced submission. Handcuffs click into place, and pressure on your shoulders pushes you to your knees. Then, they resign themselves to the back corners of the room.

A door creaks open at the far side of the room. The man sports a dark coat that obscures his figure, and long, dark hair hangs over the man’s face. His steps are slow and calculated on the wooden floor as he makes his way to the fire. Slender, practiced fingers grab onto the poker and stir the fire, glowing orange embers soaring in a blizzard of an inferno. A silver ring glints in the moonlight - one you’d recognize anywhere.

The details flood back, chains of connections like dominoes tipping over the edge of gut-wrenching betrayal - 

“...Boss?”

The man pauses, followed by a sudden clasp of his hands in… delight?

He spins on the heel of his oxfords to face you, hair sweeping back as he smiles at you.

“Keen as ever, my dear. You truly are the Scorpion. I know how you feel about your title, but you’re deserving of it.” 

A shaky breath leaves your throat, eyes stinging as you make out a low, “What is this?”

At the sight of your panic, the boss hurries over to you, making a show of how he takes your jaw in his hands. Though you flinch, he wipes the escaping tear with a calloused thumb.

“No, dear, no need to cry! This doesn’t have to be difficult. You are just leverage - you won’t be hurt as long as what needs to happen, happens.” The way he shakes his head, the twisted compassion in his eyes, makes you sick.

“Then where’s Penny?”

His sigh is accompanied by a sad smile. “Penny is the leverage over you. In case you get any funny ideas.”

“For what? What is this about?” you press, “What about the Syndicate, huh? Aren’t you gonna tell me what this is for?”

A rush of air, and then a sharp pressure on your throat. The Boss’s blade creeping up your throat - a small burn as he nicks your skin. 

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you. You should remember where your loyalties lie.”

You swallow thickly, and he continues.

“The Syndicate is real. Their presence in this city is real - but we are on good terms with them. I help them, they help me. They sacrifice a few men because they do what’s needed for the terms of the agreement, just like us.”

He blew up a building, ransacked the agency, led you on a wild goose chase in search of a threat that didn’t exist? There was always something psychotic about the Boss, that’s why he instilled so much fear in you - his lack of empathy, the lengths he’d go just for a show of power, but a ploy like this?

“And what’s that got to do with me?”

He scoffs. “It’s not about you, my dear. It never was. It’s about your connection to who it is about…”

His grin grows inverse to your pained frown, lips quivering as the realization dawns on you. “Jeongguk.”

“You’re the link, Y/N. I know how much you hate to love him. Only if you were forced to for the sake of the city. The reconnection wouldn’t be easy, but that boy is persistent, and the moment he heard you say those words back, it was sealed.”

You’re choked by the weight of his words crashing down on your throat. It’s horrifying, the way the tears well up and spill recklessly, finding it hard to breathe with your arms restrained. You focus your hardest on the effort to stay conscious, but the nausea is eating away at you.

“He was honest, too. He’s tried multiple times to fish you out of here. And it always rubbed me the wrong way. He’ll leave me behind, but not you? You’re my best, Y/N, but I despise you simply because of what your existence means.”

“You’re going to kill him?” you bite your lip to hold back the sob trying to crawl its way from your chest.

The Boss blinks, tilting his head in a faked compassion. “Only if he makes the same mistake again.”

An alert sounds out from his pocket. He fishes out his phone and holds it up to show you a map with a green dot steady on a location, seemingly yours.

“And it looks like we’ll find out right about… now.”

The elevator behind you opens, and the guards point their guns straight at the figure stepping off. His gun is held up protectively, but he has nowhere to go, face falling as he reads the situation - reads the pain on your face as you stare back at him on the floor.

He lowers his pistol, glaring at the man waiting smugly in front of him.

“Nice to see you again, Jeongguk.”

His lip turns down in disgust, spitting rancor - 

“Can’t say the same for myself, Dad.”

☆☆☆

The tension in the air is tight, like a thousand strings of yarn pinned wall to wall and floor to ceiling and impossible to maneuver. The Boss tsks at the cold reunion, more bitter than he had hoped. 

“What, you didn’t miss me all these years? I raised you, after all.”

“Raised me?” Jeongguk scoffs incredulously. “Try training me into your personal pawn, like some fucked up trophy for you to flaunt.”

“It was only so you could someday take my spot, son. I treated you the same way my father did me.”

The bitter timbre of his voice is laced with venom, so uncharacteristic of the Jeongguk you know. “Well, I worked out my daddy issues with a therapist. Maybe you should give it a shot. You should also probably mention how fucked up you are to plan a scheme like this just to bring me here.”

“You left, Jeongguk. I’d do anything for my son.”

“Oh, please-”

A loud click, and cool metal pressed against your forehead. Jeongguk freezes, and he knows the stakes. His blood boils from the blatant manipulation. There was a reason he left - he hated feeling this exact moment, and he hated reliving it even more. It was a place he thought he’d never be in again.

The Boss rolls his eyes again. “Always with something to say, forgetting I’m your elder, your father no less. Plan on letting me speak soon?”

His eyes are as cool as Jeongguk’s now. Dark, disappeared from dramatic frills or drawn-out tones. The resemblance is stunning, strikes fear in your heart, both physical and the mannerisms long-buried by time now resurfaced by each other.

When you meet the Boss’s eyes, they show no remorse for someone he claimed thinks of as his best.

Jeongguk’s eyes flick down and back up. Cooperation.

“Thank you.” He pulls the gun away, letting you catch a breath. “It’s simple, son. You agree to come back, and everything goes smoothly. If not, you won’t be leaving this room alive, and neither will she. Can’t have my trump cards playing against me.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“She’s the reason you’re here, how could I leave her out of this?”

“This is you and me. Not her.”

His father muses the idea, chews it up, spits it out. “Okay,” he grins. “Just us. I’d say go until one surrenders, but that’s not how us Jeons do it. If you can kill me, you’re free to do what you want.”

The guards lower their weapons, leaving the room at a snap of the Boss’s fingers, and Jeongguk’s grip on his tightens, knuckles turning white as he nods sharply in agreement. He’s been caught, a three-year-long game of cat and mouse finally come to a standstill. The man he looks at is just another cruel, cold-hearted crook on a power trip. The last thing he wants to do is fight him, because as skilled as Jeongguk might be, his father is equally such. He also has the upper hand: No feelings of remorse.

But he sees you on the floor, and when it comes to your life on the line, he knows he’d do anything. No matter the risk or the cost, he’d play a losing hand if he had to, if just to keep the fear from your mind. He steps past you, eyes speaking of reassurance when they meet yours, but it’s not a promise. 

Once Jeongguk has made his way around you to the center of the room, the Boss’s attention falls to you.

“Hear that, dear? This is a family issue. But in case you need any more convincing…”

The same door he creaked through minutes ago flies open, and in shuffles two people. Penny’s figure mirrors your own, arms tied behind her back. Her eyes are red and puffy, hair mussed and clothes wrinkled. There’s no blood or bruising visible, but it kills you the second you lay eyes on her. Your chest heaves silently, panic rising as she is brought in front of the fireplace, led by… Yeji?

The sleek, dark ponytail is unmistakable, and her cat eyes flick over to you in guilt as your words confirm her presence.

“I’m sorry,” she mouths, tears clouding her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

It was impossible to believe how easily everything was collapsing. Maybe your foundations were not as strong as you once thought. Wasn’t it just a week ago you had last spoken to her, taken her advice on working with Jeongguk?

“Again. No need for anyone to get hurt as long as you don’t interfere.”

But would Yeji hurt Penny, even at the Boss’s command? Was she that scared of him? Penny finds you, and you try your best to communicate reassurance, but you fall short. She trembles in fear the same as you.

Without warning, the Boss’s blade flies across the room. Jeongguk side steps, but the red gash sliced along his cheek taunts him for being a second too late. He reaches up a finger to dab at the blood in awe.

His anger fuels him forward. He raises his gun, ringing out shots that bury themselves in the drywall as he closes the gap. The Boss dodges each one. Slender fingers pull the gun from its holster, firing back immediately, glass shattering behind the younger.

Jeongguk zig zags on his feet, blade swinging up viciously at his father while he pulls the trigger in his left hand. The Boss is quick despite his age, no hesitation to his wide, ruthless swings. Jeongguk ducks and spins, changing their positions, knocking a knife from his grasp.

The man laughs. “That was good, but you can do better!” he yells, evading Jeongguk’s relentless swipes. As he taunts, a shard of glass reaches your vicinity. “Or are you too scared to hurt your old man?”

Your fingers bleed hot as you force the shard into the keylock, lifting up the metal lever.

It only fuels Jeongguk’s fire. A firm kick to the chest sends the Boss stumbling back. Jeongguk progresses, his knife dropping around in his grip, taking the slim moment to drive a sharp ice pick stab to his father's shoulder.

His eyes flick to you, and he doesn’t have the time to pull it back out. His father parries his left wrist outward and the gun is knocked from his fingertips, skidding to the floor, arriving kindly right in front of you. A single shot blasts out and Jeongguk lets out a clipped yelp. Your wrists free from the lock and reach for the solution just inches away.

But it’s already checkmate. The Boss’ blade is pressed up against Jeongguk’s throat, who is on his knees as he clutches at his thigh, crimson seeping through his fingers.

“Has the Lion been tamed since I last saw him?” The Boss mocks. There is nowhere for Jeongguk to go. “I’m disappointed, son. Love has made you weak.”

It steals the breath from your lungs. His eyes dart to your figure, mirroring his son’s actions just moments ago. He dares you to make a move. With his play, you can’t.

But that’s where the Boss is wrong. The man void of love sees it as a shot with a predetermined course from point A to point B, easily interfered with by the right tools, by the right move. However, love should not be mistaken for something meager. It’s an ever-weaving thread, crossing and connecting each and every way. Love does not have to be star-crossed and dire, it is not always a fated, tragic romance. There is no one love to outlast all others - not when it can be one you choose.

Yeji meets your eyes from across the room. The Boss has only a bluff catcher against her, the mistake of expecting loyalty before knowing for sure. It’s a twisted collusion that you never would have chosen, but it’s not your hand to play anymore.

Her vision is blurry through her tears. Yeji takes a breath she’s sure will be her last and releases it shakily. She has to do it now. She thinks of every other woman roped into his scheme, every future Penny that will be taken if it doesn’t end here, and she knows you can do it, because she was never strong enough to.

“Forgive me,” she croaks. 

An enraged bellow leaves the Boss, but all too late. She has already fired, breaking the lock that has held you captive all these years. A scream rips from your throat as Penny’s body falls forward and collapses to the hardwood.

Yeji is shredded by the entourage of bullets ripping from the Boss’s gun. She stumbles back, hits the wall, sinks to the floor.

Your hands instinctively reach for the weapon in front of you, hands fumbling as you pull the trigger with the weight of a thousand lives behind your index alone. The Boss falls, knife slipping from his fleeting grip, the third and final seal to the game.

The silence is stunning. Nothing feels real. It’s all shock before the pain rushes in, the inability to breath, the feeling of drowning. It’s utter anguish as you fight to the other side of the room, but Jeongguk holds you back. Pushing past him, only for him to spin you around and make you look him in the eye.

“We have to go,” he says through gritted teeth, voice cracking. His eyes plead with you as they blink away tears. Blood coats his hands, urgently dripping down his wrists as they grip yours. “Y/N, we have to go.”

 It dawns just as the day on the glowing horizon behind him that it’s over, but there is no victory in sight.

☆☆☆

The coming days are a whirlwind. Most of the time you’re numb, finding yourself stuck in your mind replaying memories over and over, and wincing to pull yourself out of them to the real world that is not much better. The funerals are a blur, long and tiring processions of black and sympathies you are not capable of accepting that leave your head pounding by the time you finally can sleep. But the dream world is not as kind to you as you would have hoped. 

It isn’t the memory of her death. It’s the memory of her smile, bright and tender, that could not see another day to shine. You haven’t stepped foot in the apartment yet. You will at some point, but not yet.

Yeji is another story. It’s a moral dilemma of what your inner compass tells you is wrong and your love for the only friend you ever had. Yeji was not bad, you know that. But it was murder, and perhaps that was why it did not go unpunished. Were her actions the results of weakness, or strength? Of personal desire, or wide-scale consideration? You could spend hours wondering whether things might have been different if she hadn’t done it, but at the end of the day, you would never get the chance to know. 

In the meantime, the mafia is collapsing. Those who wanted to leave took their chance the second the news of the Boss’s death came in. Ran away to other cities, shelters, anywhere they could to get away from the struggle of the organization. Others who had nothing else are stranded picking up the pieces. They won’t be able to make a comeback, you know that. They’ll turn to other forms of crime, maybe even those that you’ll have to face again in the future.

You can get away from it all for a few moments of peace, but not much more.

Jeongguk’s apartment is close to the marina. He’s lucky for such a beautiful view. This early in the morning, the world is silent, relaxing without the mindless bustling of life. Boats float calmly across the harbor, sails reaching up to the sky streaked with blossoming pinks and clement oranges. Daybreak’s retiring light glitters as it touches the surface of the water with a gentle hand.

The glass door slides open slowly behind you, and Jeongguk’s presence enters to calm your thoughts. The slight limp in his step is barely visible, and he’s lucky that his father’s bullet avoided his femoral artery. If it did, he’d probably be in a much more dire situation than he has now. Since that night, rumors have surfaced that the Boss missed due to nervousness, or fear. Jeongguk knows that his father’s aim was too sharp to miss, and also that he was a hypocrite.

He takes a seat in the chair beside yours. His hair is mussed from a long night of tossing and turning, the same as yours.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you mutter, tongue coated with exhaust.

He hums. “Me neither.”

The flux of air from his sturdy chest is a comfort that relieves the pain for just a little while. Lifts it away like a fog being cleared, and the weight falls off your shoulders so you can breathe again. His eyes swim with affection, and you’re sure that a thousand particles of stardust must be locked away behind his irises.

It never fails to amaze you how Jeongguk always seems to know what you’re thinking. “It’s not your fault,” he says.

“I know.” It’s weak, barely a whisper. Your head drops to your palms despite your claim. “But it really feels like it.”

He takes a deep breath, atmosphere placid and unassuming. “You did everything you could. Some things are just out of your control, no matter what you do. It’s not fair, but just because you couldn’t stop something bad from happening doesn’t mean you caused it.”

You swallow blearily. “I just don’t even know where to go from here. It’s never going to be the same. So what do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” he speaks gingerly, “Maybe you should get out of here. Start again, somewhere else. I’ll probably do the same eventually.”

Your head begins to shake at the thought.

“I don’t want you to go,” you pause. “I told you that.”

Jeongguk softens. “Oh… okay. I, I won’t then.”

Finally, your head raises to see him properly. His calm guise masks the need of reassurance beneath. “I mean it. Do you remember when you said to tell you the next time so it didn’t land on what I didn’t want?”

He nods slowly.

“When it was in the air, there was just this split second watching it that it hit me. I knew what I wanted. Despite everything,” the corners of your mouth upturn, but not all that happily, “I wanted to choose you.”

Dark, wavy hair falls in front of his eyes, brushing at the healing cut that will certainly leave a scar. His gaze is tender and soft and all that’s good in this world. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And if you asked him, he wouldn’t hesitate to agree.

“I forgive you, Jeongguk. For everything, I don’t care. I’d go through it again and again if I had to.” A fleeting smile pushes the tears from their deep wells. “‘Cause I need you.”

Jeongguk suffered the subtle heartbreak of unknowing for years on end. He’d sit on his balcony just like this, mild evenings under the setting sun, knowing you were out there living under the same sky as him, yet so far apart. He thought of you crossing city streets, breathing the air of the home you loved and hated simultaneously, maybe even sitting out on the fire escape of your own apartment. You were within a radius of just miles, which sounds like nothing compared to how far he’d go for you. 

He saw you everywhere. Saw you in every crevice and crack of the city. When the sun was shining brightly, when rain poured like bullets. From the window of the train, from the coffee shop. Retracing his routine steps was hard when he always saw your footprints right beside his own.

It was the feeling he’d been waiting on. At last, he feels contentment in his chest. It’s all he’s ever wanted. His pulse stutters as he thinks that he might just be dreaming, but when he reaches out to touch your clasped hands, steady fingers curling over yours, he knows it’s real. You’re real. It’s pure, unadulterated sunshine splintering over his soul.

Jeongguk stands, holding out his hand for you to take. He pulls you up with care and tugs you into his embrace, warm and kind. His arms around you are safe and sound, and the gentle beat of his heart eases the noise in your mind. It’s the heart that wouldn’t quit on you, the one the angels must either admire or envy. It’s the only thing that feels okay.

One day, things will be better. It’s far away and hard to grasp, but it’s there, waiting for you. Things that are meant to be will find a way, no matter how long it takes, just as Jeongguk and you found your way to this very balcony. But for now, sharing the weight of a heavy heart soothes the lonesome burden of loss, and what it means to love.

[bondsmagii]

Here’s something I really can’t explain.

To sum up: I shouldn’t be alive right now. I shouldn’t be writing this. I have no idea how any of this could have happened, but the fact you’re reading this now is kind of living proof that it did happen, so I suppose I’ll try and explain it as best as I can.

A little backstory for you. Way back in the late forties, my great-grandfather was a young man working with the local fire department. He came back after the war and just couldn’t settle into any kind of desk job, so despite my great-grandmother worrying about his mental state he ended up running into burning buildings for a living. Naturally he saw some messed up shit, but nothing haunted him more than a hotel fire that he attended.

At the time there had been an annual prize night for a local grammar school. Hundreds of kids and their families were crammed into the hotel’s large ballroom when a stray match lit up the curtains on the stage. Back in the day they weren’t exactly great about fire safety, and the walls and furniture were panelled or made with highly flammable materials. The whole room went up in minutes. Over one hundred people died, over half of which were children below the age of fifteen. It was an indescribable tragedy, and my great-grandfather – along with every first responder there – was scarred for life over the things he saw that evening.

My great-grandfather did his best to live with what happened, and for the most part he did well, all things considered. All of his grief seemed to be directed towards one little girl, who was never identified or claimed. She was badly burned but not unrecognisable; the theory was that her whole family had died with her, leaving nobody left to notice she was gone. She wasn’t the only person to suffer this fate, unfortunately – all told, five people were never claimed by families – but because my great-grandfather was the one to pull her body from the wreckage, he sort of became obsessed with her. He was preoccupied until his death with finding out her identity, and every year on the anniversary of the fire he visited her grave to lay a wreath. Unfortunately, he died without ever finding out who she was.

Fast forward a few decades, and I’m in my early twenties. My great-grandfather died when I was quite young, so I only had a small idea of this part of his history. It was, however, enough to make me wary of large fires – especially hotel fires. One summer, I’m visiting another city for my younger brother’s university graduation, and I stay the night in a hotel near the city centre. I remember fires were on my mind already, because initially they had tried to give me a room on the twenty-third floor, and I had politely refused and requested a lower floor. (An old maxim of my great-grandfather’s: never stay on a floor where you wouldn’t survive the fall.) Because of the graduation, the hotel was packed, and I ended up on the fifth floor in the end, but I figured it was better than nothing.

The first night was fine. The second night a fire broke out. The hotel had had some electrical rewiring done within the last month, and something went wrong. The fire smouldered for hours, undetected, before spreading into multiple parts of the ventilation system. Smoke and flame was pushed to all corners of the hotel before the fire cut out the power. Later, investigators would discover that the fire burned through the power for the smoke and fire detection alarms almost immediately – yet somehow the fire alarms went off. This is only the beginning of the inexplicable that night.

By the time the alarms woke me, my room was already filled with smoke. I had been drilled on this so many times as a child that it was instinctive for me to roll off the bed and onto the floor; only then did I start to panic. Luckily I had fallen asleep with the curtains open – the only time I had ever done that in a hotel – and the city lights illuminated the room enough to let me know the smoke was only in the top two thirds of the room, and not as thick as it could have been. I had time to crawl into the bathroom, wet a towel, and tie it around my nose and mouth. Then I crawled to the door and lay a hand flat on it. The door was cool, so I cautiously pulled it open.

In the hallway, it was pitch dark. This is the worst case scenario for any fire. Smoke disorientates people, and they feel ill from inhaling it. Panic compounds the confusion. People can get lost in their own homes – hotels are the worst place for something like this. People stand little chance of getting out if they haven’t memorised an exit, and even then it’s not foolproof. I should know. I always memorise exits, but when I went out of my room I turned the wrong way. I don’t know why. I was panicking, I was confused, and I just made the wrong choice. It should have cost me my life.

I realised my mistake as soon as I reached the end of the hall. The door there was propped open (fire safety hazard, I remember thinking, like it mattered at that point) but I could see no flames. The door led to the stairwell, and I had just crawled out onto it when the entire world went black. The smoke and flame had intensified, the fire sucking in oxygen and the smoke being forced up the stairwell like a huge chimney. It spilled over the edges of the landing and enveloped me even hunched on my hands and knees. My eyes began to sting and water; I couldn’t see anything. I crawled back and bumped into the wall, and for several long seconds that felt like minutes, I couldn’t find my way out of the stairwell. The heat was evaporating the water in the towel, and the sheer amount of smoke meant it wasn’t doing much good anyway. By the time I finally made it back out into the hall, I was coughing and choking. Panic made me pull the towel down. I only took the smallest breath before the floor tilted under me and I experienced a horrible rush of lightheadedness – with smoke so toxic, sometimes a breath is all it takes.

I kept crawling, heading back towards my room, now realising my mistake. At that point I was forcing myself to stay calm, but it wasn’t working. I had realised I had probably just gotten myself killed, and it was almost impossible to breathe. The temperature was climbing, and I knew the fire was close. I could hear screaming from somewhere nearby, doors slamming. Every single rational thought had left. I scrambled down the hallway in pure panic, and then I saw the child.

She was hunched down, looking right at me. She wasn’t in any kind of night clothing – she looked like she was still in the clothing she would have worn at the graduation ceremony, a neat little dress and polished shoes, a ribbon tied in her hair. She was perhaps eight years old at my best guess, and seeing her shocked some sense into me. Before I could speak or gesture to the direction she should go, she waved and then pointed.

“Come on, mister,” she said. “This way.”

Together we crawled to the other end of the hallway. Smoke was billowing from that stairwell, too, thick and dark though still not as bad as the other one. Either way it didn’t look good, but the little girl didn’t seem concerned – not even when we crawled out onto the landing, and the orange flicker of flames was visible several floors below.

“No,” I said. “It’ll be too hot.”

“Come on, mister,” she said again.

She began scrambling down the stairs, staying as low as possible. I could hardly leave her, so I followed.

The heat was unbearable, and by the time we were on the floor below, visibility was zero. The smoke was so thick and black that even the flicker of the flames had vanished; the only way I knew how close they were was from the heat and the deafening roar of it. Have you ever been near to a large bonfire? Have you heard how loudly it crackles? That’s nothing. Big fires, they roar. They sound closer to a freight train, a tornado. It’s a sound so loud that it sets off a primal kind of terror, even without the heat and the smoke to add to the danger. What I’m saying is that it’s something that’s very difficult to crawl towards, yet there we were.

I couldn’t see the little girl, but every time I began to panic she would reach back and touch me. The heat grew and I could smell my hair burning, my clothing threatening to catch. The floor was excruciating, and while I didn’t realise it at the time, I was in the process of receiving third degree burns on my hands and knees from the floor alone. I felt faint, the heat making my head pound. It seemed to drain my of my energy, and during those last seconds – as we passed directly past the floor where the inferno was at its worst – I was sure I was running only on pure animal instinct to get away.

Then we descended into the hallway below the fire, and it was all gone. The heat lingered, but it was nothing compared to what it was before. The smoke was hazy grey, high up by the ceiling. The little girl was tugging at me, and I realised I’d collapsed to the ground.

“Quickly, mister!” she said now. “Not far!”

In my pain and confusion, it didn’t occur to me that she wasn’t burned; that she had no difficulty breathing. She tugged hard at my clothing, and while I didn’t know that my clothing was alight at the time, later I remembered and wondered how she had done it. With her prompting and encouragement I made it down the last of the stairs and out into the hotel’s lobby, which was shockingly untouched. Alarms were blaring, but the room was free of smoke and many of the hotel’s employees remained there, grabbing people as they emerged, coughing, from stairwells and hurrying them outside. When I stumbled into the lobby I was immediately tackled by several employees who were, I was later told, beating the flames from me. I had stumbled into the lobby on fire.

I don’t remember anything else. I didn’t have time to mention the girl. I passed out, and was kept in a medically induced coma while my body recovered from serious burns. I very nearly didn’t make it, and when I awoke I had several months of painful operations and skin grafts to go. My hands were badly burned, though the doctors managed to save nearly all my fingers – I’m only missing the little fingers to the first knuckle, and while the scarring is bad I can use the hands well. My knees are badly scarred but functional. My back isn’t pretty to look at, but it doesn’t bother me now, not outside of itching in the heat. I forgot about the girl until just before I was released from hospital, five months later, but to my relief I was told that no children had died in the fire. Whoever she was, she had gotten out safe.

Almost a year later, my grandfather died. He was the son of my firefighter great-grandfather, and when my own father and I were around his house, sorting through his things, we came across some of my great-grandfather’s stuff. Medals, a few old photographs of the family, some letters. My father and I went through the pictures, my father pointing out relatives and telling a few stories here and there. What you would expect from such an occasion, really – but then I found an old picture of a little girl.

I recognised her immediately as the little girl I had seen in the hotel – there was no denying it. The picture was an unpleasant one, taken post-mortem, and while half of her body was badly charred the other half looked as though she could be sleeping. Her hair was the same, the bow singed but present. The dress was the same. I could even still hear how she sounded. Come on, mister! I was so shocked I didn’t say anything. My father looked at it for a long moment, and then he gave a sad sigh.

“I wish he had found out who she was,” he said. “That haunted him. He felt like he failed her.” He took the photo from me and looked a little more closely at it. “Nonsense, of course. He did everything for that little girl. I’m sure she would thank him if she could.”

She did, I thought. She did.

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Splatter of Rage

Wolmeric Week #1: Formal

A/N: So I was messaged by a couple people that today was apparently the first day of Wolmeric Week on twitter (which I do not have an account on), and at first I was all, “oh jeebus no I just did twenty-eight days of prompts, no more!” But then the first day’s prompt stewed in my brain. And then turned more into worldbuilding than shipping, whoops, but it’s not like I don’t prefer worldbuilding, some days. So. Enjoy?

Day 1 || Day 2 || Day 3 || Day 4 || Day 5 || Day 6 || Day 7 || Bonus!

RATING: T WORD COUNT: 1677 WARNINGS: Brief references to misogyny and classism

---

For all that Synnove intensely disliked (an understatement) what Ishgardian nobility considered a proper social function, she moved through the crowd of the Haillenarte parlor with an ease that certainly didn’t appear wholly feigned. Part of that, Aymeric knew, came from being forced to attend the much more cutthroat soirees of Ul’dahn business magnates by her mother and absorbing how they traded barbs disguised as compliments, whether she liked it or not. Part of it also stemmed from the years of maintaining the façade of bureaucratic benignity while serving as a cargo assessor for Mealvaan’s Gate and waiting for the right moment to bury a merchant-captain in so much red tape they couldn’t see the light of day for sennights.

“There is no Ishgardian count or lordling,” Synnove had muttered to him the first time she had accompanied him to a party as his beloved and not a Warrior of Light, “that has an ego to match that of a member of the fucking EATC board of directors. The likes of Lolorito and Lady Shushuha would flay this lot alive with just their tongues and barely consider it sport.”

Tonight was the type of gathering that was focused on gossip and hobnobbing rather than dancing—admittedly something neither of them had overly minded, too tired from overwork to gather the energy for more than idle strolling while sipping fine wines—and he had been drawn early on into a conversation with Counts de Haillenarte and Dzemael and the Speaker for the House of Commons, Lionnet Aucheforne. Artoirel and Lord Edmont had thus taken turns to keep Synnove company for most of the night; he had caught her eye more than once as she had taken leisurely turns of the room with either gentleman, delighting in the spark of predatory, possessive satisfaction in her gaze when it alighted upon himself. She was quite fond of him in the fine blue coat she had brought back from the First for him, and it was his honor to be a source of some pleasure for her this eve.

Unfortunately, it now appeared that in the lull between father and son switching off escort duty, someone had waylaid his lady. It was only years of exposure to the subtle shifts in Synnove’s carefully maintained mask of pleasant neutrality that allowed Aymeric, even at this distance clear on the other side of the large room, to pick out the sourness lurking at the slightly downturned corners of her mouth, the chill turning her lovely eyes from grass green to sharp emerald. He couldn’t see who it was that was speaking to her, however; leaning around Count Baurendouin would be far too obvious, so instead he kept half his attention on the conversation in which he was supposed to be participating as he flicked his gaze towards Synnove every few moments.

Finally, the crowd parted, just a little bit—

—oh, Seven fucking Hells.

Aymeric was quite certain he had not spoken aloud, but there was no hiding the horror contorting his face at the moment, as both Counts and his House of Commons counterpart immediately ceased speaking to stare at him in quiet bemusement for a handful of heartbeats. And then, in one synchronized movement, all three men turned to follow his gaze. Another heartbeat of silence and then while Master Aucheforne maintained his puzzlement, both Count Baurendouin and Count de Dzemael swore.

“Why would you invite her?” Count de Dzemael hissed.

“I did no such thing, and neither would my lady wife,” Count Baurendouin replied in the same tone. Both men had hunched their shoulders in unconsciousness defensiveness.

Clearing his throat, and speaking in slightly more normal tones, Count Baurendouin turned to him and said, “Ser Aymeric, I will take no offense should you decide to escort your lady home early tonight. Or if anything untoward should happen to another of my guests in ensuring your lady leaves further unmolested.”

Without any further prompting, Aymeric broke away and strode in ground-eating movements for Synnove while the two counts explained to Master Aucheforne why the sight of Lady Isabeau de Torsefers—Aymeric’s mama’s absolute least favorite cousin—struck terror into most of high society.

Lady de Torsefers occupied an unassailable position in Ishgard: widow to a noble knight of means who had died in honorable combat slaying Dravanians. That she was widowed at twenty-one, five months after her marriage and carrying her husband’s heir, had been considered a romantic tragedy among her generation. That her position mere steps away from saintliness had meant no one had been willing to rein in the worst of her snide, cruel comments for anyone who presented the slightest inconvenience to her whims and wants, that had transformed over the decades into the haughty never-wrong surety of an elderly dowager, was considered a waste of potential of a maiden who had been a shining example of proprietary and grace at the time of her betrothal.

“A feral croc in karakul’s clothing, that one,” he had overheard Mama mutter to Hersande when Lady de Torsefers had shown up unannounced for afternoon tea, once.

He wove through the crowd with ease, startling no few of the lords and ladies, leaving a wake of rustling silks behind him. And with every step closer, Synnove’s expression chilled further and further until her face was as cold and expressionless as a statue of the Fury Herself.

(That tiny, atavistic part of his mind recognized that “Fury” was too-apt a comparison.)

Aymeric finally reached his lady’s side, nearly out of breath, to hear Lady de Torsefers say, somehow managing to look down her nose despite age having shrunk her to ilms shorter than Synnove, “—though I suppose you aren’t the worst choice to final beget a passel of Borel heirs.”

Synnove’s hand tightened on her wine glass until her knuckles whitened. Aymeric internally seethed, but this, unfortunately, wasn’t the first time some too-nosy noble had thought they needed to venture their (unwanted, unasked for, absolutely inappropriate) opinion about what type of family Synnove and Aymeric should have. (Never mind they had everything they wanted just as it was.) Still, it never failed to have him see red that anyone would reduce a woman, much less a heroine of the Dragonsong War and a Warrior of Light, to breeding potential.

“Children aren’t in our future,” Synnove said in a voice so frosty it was a wonder her breath didn’t ice the air before her. Aymeric ilmed closer to her, gently setting his hand on the small of her back; she shifted imperceptibly to press back against him. “The carbuncles are rambunctious enough on their own.”

Lady de Torsefers laughed, dry and mocking, her beady eyes glinting. “Oh, children are a much larger challenge than pets, though a proper governess makes that simpler!”

Synnove growled, low and furious, with enough force that Aymeric felt it reverberate up his arm. He may have made a similar sound himself, he couldn’t say for certainty, though he did know he saw red once more. The fact there currently wasn’t blood staining the Haillenarte carpet and walls was likely a product of divine intervention: nothing enraged Synnove quite so much as any implication that her carbuncles weren’t people.

His mama’s least favorite cousin for obvious reasons gave him a dismissive glance. “Two governesses, perhaps, to counteract the late archbishop’s taint.”

Aymeric’s jaw dropped, shock knocking away his rage as he stared at Lady de Torsefers and her mean little smile, so absolutely taken aback that his mind skittered to a halt. He heard more than one outraged gasp from the nearby nobles.

There was a beat of stillness, the sounds of the rest of the party distant and dim—and then Synnove threw her wine into Lady de Torsefers’s face.

The dowager shrieked in surprise and outrage as the liquid streaked her face powder and dripped onto her widow’s weeds. She pulled out a handkerchief and started frantically dabbing at her eyes as a few startled, choked off laughs echoed around them before the culprits hurriedly turned away; Aymeric didn’t bother to do similarly, instead letting out his smirk as malicious glee unfolded in his chest. Once her eyes were sufficiently clear, the widow lowered the handkerchief to glare at Synnove, a nasty sneer curdling her mouth.

“How dare you, you ill-bred cur,” Lady de Torsefers hissed.

Synnove matched her glare, unblinking, as she set her now-empty wine glass down on the tray a server had whisked over to present, and just as quickly whisked away. “Madam,” said Synnove, voice shivering with barely-contained rage, “should you ever again insult a member of my family, whether it be in my hearing or not, I will do worse then douse you with wine.”

The malicious glee morphed into pride and deep affection; even years after she had first done so, it never failed to awe Aymeric that Synnove had chosen him, that she counted him among her loved ones and a member of her family. In as deliberate an insult as he could manage without actually wasting words on the woman, he turned his back on Lady de Torsefers, ignoring her gasp of outrage. Synnove sniffed at his nudge on her back but acquiesced, spinning on her heel, and in unison, the couple left.

They were, fortunately, not far from the large parlor’s exit, so only a few eyes followed them as they swept out with a pointed swirl of Synnove’s green skirts. Her heels clacked loudly against the marble floor of House Haillenarte’s grand entrance foyer, the sound sharp and strident as she near-vibrated with fury, as she growled, “I know we’re rather overdressed for it, but I want a drink from the Forgotten Knight.”

Aymeric used the hand still on her back to pull her closer and kiss the side of her head. “No argument from me, darling,” he said. “And then we can detour to the Congregation and blow up a few striking dummies. We can even dress them in old black rags.”

“I’m keeping you.”

“You’d better!”

[veenaspakistanlitblog]

Ten Interesting Pakistani Novels

Under the Persimmon Tree by Suzanne Staples (Summary by Amazon)

Najmah, a young Afghan girl whose name means "star," suddenly finds herself alone when her father and older brother are conscripted by the Taliban and her mother and newborn brother are killed in an air raid. An American woman, Elaine, whose Islamic name is Nusrat, is also on her own. She waits out the war in Peshawar, Pakistan, teaching refugee children under the persimmon tree in her garden while her Afghan doctor husband runs a clinic in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. Najmah's father had always assured her that the stars would take care of her, just as Nusrat's husband had promised that they would tell Nusrat where he was and that he was safe. As the two look to the skies for answers, their fates entwine. Najmah, seeking refuge and hoping to find her father and brother, begins the perilous journey through the mountains to cross the border into Pakistan. And Nusrat's persimmon-tree school awaits Najmah's arrival. Together, they both seek their way home.

2.) The Diary of a Social Butterfly by Moni Mohsin (Summary by Amazon)

This is the hugely entertaining journal of a socialite in Lahore. Pakistan may be making headlines - but Butterfly is set to conquer the world. 'Everyone knows me. All of Lahore, all of Karachi, all of Isloo - oho, baba, Islamabad - half of Dubai, half of London and all of Khan Market and all the nice, nice bearers in Imperial Hotel also...No ball, no party, no dinner, no coffee morning, no funeral, no GT - Get-Together, baba - is complete without me.' Meet Butterfly, Pakistan's most lovable, silly, socialite. An avid party-goer-inspired misspeller, and unwittingly acute observer of Pakistani high society, Butterfly is a woman like no other. In her world, SMS becomes S & M and people eat 'three tiara cakes' while shunning 'do number ka manual. 'What cheeks!' as she would say. As her country faces tribulations - from 9/11 to the assassination of Benazir Bhutto - Butterfly glides through her world, unfazed, untouched, and stopped short only by the chip in her manicure. Wicked, irreverent, and hugely entertaining, "The Diary of a Social Butterfly" gives you a delicious glimpse into the parallel universe of the have-musts.

3.) Maps for Lost Lovers by Nadeem Aslam (Summary by Amazon)

If Gabriel García Márquez had chosen to write about Pakistani immigrants in England, he might have produced a novel as beautiful and devastating as Maps for Lost Lovers. Jugnu and Chanda have disappeared. Like thousands of people all over England, they were lovers and living together out of wedlock. To Chanda’s family, however, the disgrace was unforgivable.  Perhaps enough so as to warrant murder. As he explores the disappearance and its aftermath through the eyes of Jugnu’s worldly older brother, Shamas, and his devout wife, Kaukab, Nadeem Aslam creates a closely observed and affecting portrait of people whose traditions threaten to bury them alive. The result is a tour de force, intimate, affecting, tragic and suspenseful.

4.) A Season for Martyrs by Bina Shah (Summary by Amazon)

October 2007. Pakistan’s former Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto returns home after eight years of exile to seek political office once more. Assigned to cover her controversial arrival is TV journalist Ali Sikandar, the estranged son of a wealthy landowner from the interior region of Sindh. While her presence ignites fierce protests and assassination attempts, Ali finds himself irrevocably drawn to the pro-democracy People’s Resistance Movement, a secret that sweeps him into the many contradictions of a country still struggling to embrace modernity. As Shah weaves together the centuries-old history of Ali’s feudal family and its connection to the Bhuttos, she brilliantly reveals a story at the crossroads of the personal and the political, a chronicle of one man’s desire to overcome extremity to find love, forgiveness, and even identity itself.

5.) Karachi, You’re Killing Me! by Saba Imtiaz (Summary by Amazon)

Ayesha is a twenty-something reporter in one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Her assignments range from showing up at bomb sites and picking her way through scattered body parts to interviewing her boss’s niece, the couture-cupcake designer. In between dicing with death and absurdity, Ayesha despairs over the likelihood of ever meeting a nice guy, someone like her old friend Saad, whose shoulder she cries on after every romantic misadventure. Her choices seem limited to narcissistic, adrenaline-chasing reporters who’ll do anything to get their next story—to the spoilt offspring of the Karachi elite who’ll do anything to cure their boredom. Her most pressing problem, however, is how to straighten her hair during chronic power outages. Karachi, You’re Killing Me! is Bridget Jones’s Diary meets The Diary of a Social Butterfly—a comedy of manners in a city with none.

6.) How It Happened by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Dadi, the imperious matriarch of the Bandian family in Karachi, swears by the virtues of arranged marriage. All her ancestors including a dentally and optically challenged aunt have been perfectly well-served by such arrangements. But her grandchildren are harder to please. Haroon, the apple of her eye, has to suffer half a dozen candidates until he finds the perfect Shia-Syed girl of his dreams. But it is Zeba, his sister, who has the tougher time, as she is accosted by a bevy of suitors, including a potbellied cousin and a banker who reeks of sesame oil. Told by the witty, hawk-eyed Saleha, the precocious youngest sibling, this is a romantic, amusing and utterly delightful story about how marriages are made and unmade---not in heaven, but in the drawing room and over the phone.

7.) A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Shazaf Fatima Haider (Summary by Amazon)

Intrigue and subterfuge combine with bad luck and good in this darkly comic debut about love, betrayal, tyranny, family, and a conspiracy trying its damnedest to happen. Ali Shigri, Pakistan Air Force pilot and Silent Drill Commander of the Fury Squadron, is on a mission to avenge his father's suspicious death, which the government calls a suicide.Ali's target is none other than General Zia ul-Haq, dictator of Pakistani. Enlisting a rag-tag group of conspirators, including his cologne-bathed roommate, a hash-smoking American lieutenant, and a mango-besotted crow, Ali sets his elaborate plan in motion. There's only one problem: the line of would-be Zia assassins is longer than he could have possibly known.

8.) Home Fire: A Novel by Kamila Shamise (Summary by Amazon)

Isma is free. After years of watching out for her younger siblings in the wake of their mother’s death, she’s accepted an invitation from a mentor in America that allows her to resume a dream long deferred. But she can’t stop worrying about Aneeka, her beautiful, headstrong sister back in London, or their brother, Parvaiz, who’s disappeared in pursuit of his own dream, to prove himself to the dark legacy of the jihadist father he never knew. When he resurfaces half a globe away, Isma’s worst fears are confirmed. Then Eamonn enters the sisters’ lives. Son of a powerful political figure, he has his own birthright to live up to—or defy. Is he to be a chance at love? The means of Parvaiz’s salvation? Suddenly, two families’ fates are inextricably, devastatingly entwined, in this searing novel that asks: What sacrifices will we make in the name of love?

9.) She Loves Me, He Loves Me Not by Zeenat Mahal (Summary by Amazon)

Zoella didn’t know whether she was devastatingly happy or happily devastated. Zoella has been in love with Fardeen Malik, her best friend’s gorgeous older brother, since she was ten, but he’s always seen her as a ‘good girl’—not his type—and he can barely remember her name. Besides, he’s engaged to a gorgeous leggy socialite, someone from the same rarefied social strata as the imposing Malik family. In short, Zoella has no chance with him. Until a brutal accident leaves Fardeen scarred and disfigured, that is. Suddenly bereft of a fiancée, Fardeen is bitterly caustic, a shell of the man he used to be, a beast that has broken out of the fairy tale world he once lived in. And a twist of fate lands him his very own beauty—Zoella. This man, however, is a far cry from the Fardeen of her dreams. Stripped of her illusions, Zoella creates her own twist in the fairy tale, beating him at his own game. Order now and read this modern, unusual interpretation of the old-age fairy tale, in which Zeenat explores the themes of love, longing, and arranged marriages.

10.) Undying Affinity by Sara Naveed (Summary by Amazon)

Twenty-two-year-old, Zarish Munawwar, has everything in life she could ever ask for; an elite family, a high profile status, a bunch of good friends and a childhood sweetheart. Being childish, stubborn, imperious, extravagant and a bit impulsive at making important decisions pertaining to her life, is what perfectly describes her overall personality. She takes life easily and can get anything she desires. To her, life is a bed of roses. It is only when she meets, Ahmar Muraad, her mentor and finance professor at university, her perspective towards life completely changes. He looks quite young for his age as every girl at the university thinks he is attractive, seductive, intellectual and rather intimidating. This charming man is every girl's fantasy and Zarish also finds it hard to resist him. But is he fascinated by her? Little did Zarish know how one little interaction could bring about so many twists and turns in her life. After continuous unsuccessful attempts to avoid him, she feels that she is gradually falling for his charm. Ahmar, however, remains oblivious to her feelings. She is ready to abandon her childhood sweetheart for him. Eventually, there comes a time when only he matters to her and nobody else. Awestruck by the sudden revelation, she is dazed to find out that he feels exactly the same for her. Before their love blossoms, a slight tragedy falls into their lives. Zia Munawwar, her father, has some other plans for his daughter. Will Ahmar fight against the world for his lady love or step back? Do not miss this romantic tragedy as it will encapsulate you totally and will stay in your heart forever

[lucytara]

Bumbleby. Blue. “And now that you’re here realized I need you for survival. I know from the awe in your eyes”

On the day of the reaping, Blake never expects her own name.

She’s never taken tesserae; her name’s in there six times because of her age, and that’s it. It’s her second-to-last eligible year, and she’s six among thousands. She has no reason to expect her own name when some girls in her class have their names in thirty, forty, fifty times - she brushes the nagging anxiety away for days leading up, finding comfort in the words of her family, in Adam, who’s on his last year and isn’t quite as lucky.

“Twenty-one times,” he says, but he’s still scowling. “Could be worse. But it’s still a flawed system. The poorer you are, the less value your life has. Here in Twelve? The Capitol doesn’t even think of us as people.”

Blake’s heard this speech a thousand times, but she hasn’t shared the hardest of his experiences and so she doesn’t stop him. “But what do you want to do, Adam?” she asks. “We can’t do anything. We can barely survive.”

She doesn’t miss the brief, scornful look in his eyes before he masks it with fire. She’s survived easier than he has, with her father as the Mayor, but it hasn’t been easy for any of them. “You’re right,” he says, though his tone’s taken on an odd, darkly thoughtful quality. “We can’t. But victors…” he trails off, shredding a loose leaf in his hand, strip by strip. “If I were a victor, I might.”

–

“Blake Belladonna!”

She rewatches the scene from third-person, as if it’s a dream she’s having, only it’s happening a split second after inside of her own skull. The perfectly manicured hand of their escort dipping a hand into the jar and pulling the crisp, white slip of paper with Blake’s name on it caught between her fingers. Her hazy, disoriented walk to the steps, the hem of her dress batting against her ankles. She’s not there. She’s in the Capitol, watching herself called to the death and starting, already, to murmur about her odds.

But Adam. She sees Adam perfectly.

Sees him step forward to volunteer for a boy whose name Blake doesn’t even know. Sees the crowd shifting uncomfortably, uncertain what to make of the move. Sees some of them clutching their hearts, some of them shaking their heads. And she sees Adam, unable to hide the victorious smirk in the corner of his mouth.

–

“I’m so sorry, Blake,” her father says, his hand on her shoulder as her mother embraces her, weeping. “I never wanted this for you. For any of us.”

If so many people don’t want this, Blake thinks numbly, why do we still have it?

–

Their mentor’s a woman named Sienna Kahn, now in her early thirties after having won her Games at fifteen. She’s tough, hard around the edges, as Blake imagines anyone would be who’s watched countless children die under their watch. Blake doesn’t understand, but she understands - Sienna doesn’t want to get attached.

She and Adam barely speak - her silence falls to the fact that she’s on her way to her own murder. But Adam’s?

Well, she’s seen this quiet intensity from him before. And he’s making plans.

–

There’s more to work with than Sienna thinks there is: for one, she and Adam both know their way around a sword, and she’s no stranger hitting a target with a knife. Teenage boredom, she says when Sienna asks, and despite the doubt, she doesn’t push it further.

I wanted to help people, is the real answer. When I saw how Adam had been treated, I wanted to help. And then I saw how many people were like him, I wanted to do more than that.

“Your father’s a good man,” Sienna says instead, arms crossed over her body. She’s holding a far-off look in her eye, and instantly Blake knows she’s being told information specifically because Sienna thinks she won’t be alive to repeat it later. “He fought for people the only way he could, and I’m sure he almost died for it. I thought he wasn’t doing enough, back then. But I get it now.” She fixates her gaze on Blake again, solidly in the present, still on the same train car to a mass grave. “What do you have to fight for, Blake?”

Adam’s listening for her answer, and she says the only thing she’s thought since her name was called the day before. “Honestly? I don’t know why we’re fighting at all.”

A smile works its way to the edge of Sienna’s mouth, but it isn’t happy. It’s full of regret. “Yeah,” she says. “I used to think like that, too.”

–

They watch the other reapings. There’s a pair of volunteers from One who seem like they come as a set, with equally stupid names: Emerald and Mercury. Then she only really remembers the girl from two, who looks fourteen and innocent, but Blake knows better. The red-headed girl from three, who stands tall. A girl from five, missing an eye. A large boy from eight.

But the one reaping that sticks in her mind from the minute she sees it is the reaping from Four.

A girl’s name is called, and there’s a brief bout of hysteria from the crowd while a girl with long, blonde hair tugs her back and volunteers in her place. The younger girl just screams, but the older girl - Yang - just stands on the stage, slowly putting herself back together. It’s like Blake can see it happening - see her locking her heart away. Putting all that love she has for her sister somewhere it can’t be used against her.

“Pathetic,” Adam murmurs, because he hates weakness. He’s proud to see himself volunteer, steady and confident. “To protect you, of course,” he clarifies, and nothing’s ever been further from the truth.

Strangely, all Blake can comprehend is that she’s looking forward to tomorrow - getting to see Yang in person.

–

Their outfits are stunning, as is their debut. They have a compelling story: the mayor’s daughter from Twelve and the boy determined to keep her alive. It’s a television show, Sienna says. It’s about the narrative.

Blake finds that flash of blonde hair in the crowd. She thinks she sees seashells winding their way down a braid, and a net is woven to create some sort of dress. Yang clearly hates it, but she says something to the boy from her district, and he laughs.

Laughter isn’t a simple thing to come by in the Hunger Games. She decides, for no reason at all, that she likes Yang.

–

After the parade of horses, their team is riding on a high; she’s kept herself grounded, though, unwilling to entertain any ideas of survival. She’s walking to the elevator when she swears she catches Yang staring at her, but she blinks and she’s only met with Yang’s profile, her chin dropped and her eyes averted down.

–

Yang is a mystery in the training room. She spends most of her time at the wildlife stations, learning to tie knots, painting patterns, identifying poisonous plants. She never spars, or uses any of the weapons, really, but she lifts weights, punches a bag around a bit. Blake can tell everyone’s set on edge by her presence, not able to tell the extent of her power, skill, ability. It’s uncommon to hide that sort of thing during training, but her muscles tell their own story. There’s more to her than she’s allowing them to see.

That doesn’t stop Blake from watching her, though. From cataloguing where she spends her time and how it allows her to feel. She’s not as guarded as the rest of them - she seems to like making traps, because she gains this look of concentration as she follows along with the instructor, knotting rope around her fingers. She spends a little bit of time with the boy from her district, and almost against his will, he appears slightly enamored with her. In fact, a lot of them do, though they try to hide it. Blake isn’t the only one who watches her.

She’s so absorbed with the state of affairs that she doesn’t notice who isn’t, but she does notice there’s an energy between her and Adam that wasn’t palpable before, and now it seems to be coating the room.

“Thinking about allies, Blake?” he says over dinner, light enough to pass as a joke but sinister enough to be a threat.

“No,” Blake says, because she’s only thinking about the quickest way to die.

She hopes she can at least see Yang, wherever she is when it happens.

–

Her knife sinks directly into the red dot, signaling a bulleye on their human-shaped target. She’s not paying attention to the show she’s putting on; all she’s really doing is daydreaming while she idly throws knives. It helps her think. Gives her clarity.

They’re easy to flick. Most people don’t understand the wrist movement, the finesse - they tie it to strength, rather than purpose. That’s why Blake’s so good at it; she’s about precision, not power. That’d always been Adam.

Someone is watching her. Actually, as she comes back into herself, many people are watching her, but only one she cares about: Yang, back at the trap station, staring unfettered.

Blake abruptly puts her knives down. The worst part of the Hunger Games, she’s starting to understand, aren’t the games themselves. That’s going to awaken survival instincts, desperation for life - primal, unhindered urges. No, no, the worst part of the Games is now, these few days before, when they’re taken care of so exquisitely, when shiny, beautiful things are dangled in front of them and cruelly ripped away.

“Why?” she can’t resist asking, kneeling beside Yang. “Why did you do it?”

Yang’s eyes haven’t left her, but her fingers stall around the rope, as if surprised by the question. She examines Blake with a strange intensity, but an openness Blake still isn’t used to from any other tribute. Everyone’s either closed off or showing off, genuinity nowhere to be found. Except perhaps the redhead from Three. Pyrrha. She’s been spending some time teaching a much smaller, younger boy how to throw a spear. He doesn’t stand a chance, but Pyrrha must know that.

“Don’t you have someone?” Yang says, drops her gaze back to the knot. “Someone you’d die for?”

Her parents. Her friends. Adam. “No,” Blake admits honestly. “Nobody.” There are no cameras yet. No one to hurt with the admission. Adam had called her selfish, once; maybe he’d been right.

But Yang laughs, once and under her breath. “Maybe you’re better off that way,” Yang says, not unkindly. Her smile’s sad and quiet; whatever memories rise, they’re memories for her to cherish one last time. That’s how all memories feel these days. “My sister is my life.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Blake says, captivated by every word out of Yang’s mouth; how real she sounds. There’s no show; she’s not aiming to impress, or grasping at pity. She’s here because of a choice she made, and she’ll live and die with that. Blake wonders what that’s like: to have a choice. “Not many people would do what you did.”

“Well, what about you, Belladonna?” Yang questions, sitting up a little straighter, expression a sliding door that suddenly gives way to teasing. There’s a tone underneath, though - heavy - like a lingering doubt. “The guy who volunteered for you. To protect you, right?”

She’s close - she’s kept her volume low. She’s not stupid. She’s playing this conversation with an angle, but it isn’t for her own benefit.

Blake turns her head, locks onto Adam’s hand clenched around the grip of his sword, lunging strikes at a dummy. She feels the familiar uncurling of fear in her stomach, a dark and massive shape lingering just below. Ominous and foreboding.

“Yeah,” Blake says, and looks away. “He did.”

Picking up on her discomfort isn’t hard, and it isn’t something she’s actively tried to mask; Yang pauses strangely, gaze flickering between them. She infers, “It’s not a good thing, is it.” And trains her focus on Blake again. “It’s not good that he’s here.”

“I don’t know,” Blake admits. “He - I don’t know. Maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Maybe you aren’t.”

“He wants me to believe it is,” she says finally. “He told me all he wants is to see me safe.”

“And you think he’s lying?” Yang asks, like a story she’s invested in, though Blake isn’t quite sure why.

“I think,” Blake starts, and at last puts into words what exactly has haunted her since the reaping days earlier, “that Adam wants to win, and he thinks he can use me to do that. Use my loyalty to him.”

The knot effortlessly tightens and unravels between Yang’s fingers. It seems to be an unconscious habit, and one she’s better at than her hours at the station might’ve led them to believe. “Hm,” she says, poking her tongue against the inside of her cheek. “You’re good with those knives, that’s for sure. It makes sense that he’d rather have you as an ally than an enemy - help him take out all the threats, and take you out himself.”

“Perceptive,” Blake says, impressed despite her dawning horror; she’d been so good at pushing it down, at talking herself out of circles, at trusting him despite the signs. In one conversation, Yang’s forced her to undo all that. She echoes Yang’s earlier words to her. Maybe it’s for the best.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Yang says, and subtly jerks her head in his direction. “With how purposefully he’s showing off his swordplay, I’m amazed he even remembers you exist.” She rolls her eyes. “Men.”

And Blake laughs. Like Yang’s district partner at the parade. It’s accidental, and nearly shocking in its sincerity, but she laughs anyway. She doesn’t have a choice. “Men,” she agrees, and Yang laughs too.

That’s the first time Blake thinks about living.

–

The first time Yang thinks about dying - dying willingly - is their final day in the training center.

Blake Belladonna, beautiful and clever and entirely obvious to everyone but herself, locates her at the camouflage station, attempting to blend her hand into a sandy coastline. She stares quizzically down at the pattern, eyebrows knitting together, and Yang makes the connection with a laugh. “You’ve never seen the ocean.”

“No.” Blake shakes her head. “What’s it like?”

“Well, I’m no artist,” Yang says, wiggling her fingers, “but kinda like this. Blue, green, boundless - sometimes I think about just diving in the water and swimming as far as I can. Swimming away.” She adds, “Salty.”

And then Blake reaches for a paintbrush, deliberately dragging her fingers along the back of Yang’s hand, leaving streaks of blue paint. She pauses; Yang keeps breathing, but it’s a struggle. She says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Yang says.

“Don’t die.” She takes the brush, and swirls it into the yellow paint. “Don’t give up.”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” Yang asks, almost unnerved at the sentiment, fighting against the way it makes her want to cry. Her skin feels raw where Blake had touched her, and the marks remain.

“Because,” Blake says softly, “I think you deserve better than this.”

“I think we all do,” Yang counters, flaring up - it’s not just me, she wants to say. You deserve better. You. There are so few beautiful things left. You.

“But the rest of us aren’t here because there’s someone we care enough about to protect.” Blake lets it hang between them. “You’re a good person, Yang. Anyone can tell that much.”

Yang’d never understood the Capitol and its fascination with tattoos as a statement. Now she stares at the blue streaks across the back of her hand, and wonders about wearing it forever.

She’d die, she thinks. She’d die for Blake, too.

–

She spars for the first and last time after that, and one of her blows sends the trainer flying off the practice area and into the concrete, knocking him unconscious.

But she sweats the paint off, and finds without it, it’s a little easier to breathe.

–

Their scores aren’t surprising. Adam pulls a nine. Blake gets a ten - Adam pretends to be happy for her, but she sees that facade cracking instantly.

Yang gets an eleven.

“Her?” Adam spits out, clearly infuriated. He’s already seeing red.

“She’s a genius,” Sienna says at the revelation, shocking Adam into silence. “You’re good with a weapon, Adam, and anyone will give you that. But unarmed? You’re nothing.” She jerks her head towards the blonde girl on-screen. “You can’t disarm her. She’ll kill you with her bare hands.”

“Her?” Adam snarls. “If she gets within my line of sight, she’s–”

“You think she doesn’t know how to dodge a sword?” she asks, and Adam bristles once again with no response. “Do you truly believe a girl whose primary skill is hand-to-hand combat doesn’t know how to evade an attack? You’re a fool if you cast her aside as a threat, Adam. She’s the most dangerous one here.”

Blake stares blankly at her picture, wondering if it’s intelligence, if it’s determination, passion, will. Wonders if Yang’s trained for this, if she’s excited, if she’s terrified. Wonders if it’s all just luck, a mixed bag of rot and gold.

But Blake recalls the tapes of the reapings, across every district, and she remembers none of them as clearly as she remembers Yang’s - not even her own. Yang’s; a reaping that wasn’t supposed to be hers at all.

Ruby! Ruby! No!

Armed guards in white holding her back, or trying to, but being no match for her strength.

I volunteer! She hears Yang’s scream in her mind, even now, days later, sees her pushing her way to the platform. I volunteer as tribute!

Or, Blake thinks, maybe it’s just what she’s always done to survive.

–

Blake’s tactic, they’d decided, is mysterious and alluring: she’s to answer her interview in short, vague answers, and smile as though she’s hiding something. It’s not hard. She’s hiding so much from herself already that it barely even feels like a tactic.

Yang goes for sexy and powerful, and she doesn’t even have to try. People in the audience are literally fanning themselves as she’s interviewed. She looks stunning in her dress, her heels, red-lipped and eyes that seem to match underneath the stage lights.

“I just want my sister to know I love her,” she says at the end, a calculated vulnerability that makes every citizen watching want her even more, moaning about how strong and brave she is, protecting her younger sister like that.

“She makes me sick,” Adam says, face warped with hatred, and suddenly, it isn’t her own safety she’s worried for.

–

It’s a diversion. Confuse Adam, make him scramble for a new plan, make him rethink his strategy. Because Yang had been right, and Blake’s instincts had been, too: he wants to win. And when you want to win, everyone else is a target.

So during her interview, she confesses, “I know I can win. But I’ve met someone here who I’d really like to keep alive, even more than that.”

The interviewer goes insane. “Another tribute?” he says. “You’ve met someone here?”

Blake shrugs, pretending to be coy. “That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

He groans, begs her for details, and she says next to nothing, but the audience eats it up - she sees the camera focus on her as the show closes, hoping to catch her eyes flickering to another tribute. She stares straight ahead, speaking to no one until they’re backstage.

“Adam, not now,” Sienna says immediately, pointing him to the elevator. “Go upstairs. We’ll meet you there.” He grits his teeth, but does as he’s told. Sienna turns on her. “What the hell was that?”

“I’m not an idiot,” Blake says lowly, “and neither are you. We both know what Adam’s plan is. Or was.”

It’s a statement that forces Sienna into a corner, and she relents after a few seconds of the two of them staring each other down. “You’ll be his first target now, not his last,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“It doesn’t matter the order,” Blake says, brushing by her to the elevator. “I’ve been number one on his list for a long, long time. But I’m not playing the Games on his terms anymore.”

“Well, you’ve given them a hell of a narrative,” Sienna says, following her, reluctantly impressed. “The whole Capitol’s dying to know who your lucky love interest could be, since it’s not him.”

Yang shoves her arm through the elevator door just as it’s about to close. “Mind if I catch a ride?” she asks, stepping inside, her heels held in her hand.

So, maybe Blake should’ve thought through her plan, because at the moment, Yang’s a foot away from her and absolutely the most beautiful girl Blake’s ever seen in her life, and her story for the cameras turns out to be more true than she’d meant it to be.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sienna says, throwing up her hands. Apparently Blake’s staring is noticeable. “Of course it is. Blake, you’re on your own.”

“No, she’s not,” Yang murmurs, and brushes her fingers against Blake’s, hanging between them. “She’s got me.”

–

There’s a vibrancy to her when she disembarks, an urgency to her mouth. Find me, she says, leaning close, grasping Blake’s hand. Find me in the arena. Or I’ll find you. Okay?

“Why?” Blake asks again, unable to comprehend anything Yang does or says, unable to reconcile the motivation behind it.

“Because I want you alive,” she says, and lets go. “I want you to live.”

You’re insane, Blake wants to say. None of us will live except one. And out of all of us, it should be you.

But the next morning, standing on the platform, she finds Yang three spaces down from her, and their eyes meet as if by gravitational pull.

Find me, Yang mouths, and the cannons blast.

[marvelous-writer]

i'll be there when you feel lost and alone

Summary: Peter gets seriously hurt on patrol when he’s all alone, mourning the loss of Tony. 

Word Count: 6,823

Genre: whump, hurt/comfort, fluff

Link to read on ao3:

A/N: Part 2 of Whumptober 2021 @whumptober2021

Gunshots echo through the chilly midnight air as Peter runs along the side of the wet brick wall in the alley, dodging the bullets. He pushes off the wall and performs a backflip with practiced ease, aiming at one of the armed muggers and shoots an impact web at him, sending him flying backwards, successfully webbing him against the wall. There are at least ten or so men Peter’s trying to fight off all at once and it’s getting a little tiring, if he’s being honest.

“Nice shot, Peter.” Karen says as Peter lands in a low crouch.

“Thanks, Karen!” Peter shoots back as he jumps back up again, dodging a knife one of the muggers swipes at him.

“Who’s Karen?” One of the muggers calls out in confusion.

“The hell I should know just get him or the boss won’t be happy!” Another mugger yells back.

The bad guys come at him all at once and one of them jumps at Peter with an aimed fist, his hand covered in thick gold rings, which Peter easily dodges. “ You’re coming at me like that? Really, dude? How rude! Wait your turn!” Petre scolds jokingly as he ducks, dodging the next punch the guy throws his way, only for Peter to swipe his legs out from under him. “Petty thieves just don’t have any manners these days.” Peter adds as he webs the guy up to the ground.

Before Peter can get a second to catch his breath, two more men are on him, one armed with a crowbar and the other with a handgun. Peter resists the urge to groan. They’ve been at this for twenty-five minutes now since Peter jumped in and crashed whatever illegal dealing that was going on, and these guys haven’t let up. With each goon he takes down, it feels like two more take their place.

And to make matters worse, Peter is starting to feel pretty dizzy right now with how exhausted and hungry he is. That’s what happens when he doesn’t get more than eight hours of sleep in a week and barely eating, especially with his enhanced metabolism. But he’s trying to ignore the dizziness and the gnawing in his stomach for now.

Fight bad guys now, eat and pass out later.

Peter’s spider-sense tingles in warning at the back of his head as the goon with the crowbar comes at him swinging, while another guy appears out of nowhere and manages to land a hard punch to Peter’s jaw, causing him to stumble. Peter slams into the alley wall, barely managing to duck as the crowbar slams against the wall where his face just was.

“Whoah, man! Watch where you swing that thing!” Peter says as he shoots a web at the crowbar and yanks it away from the guy, causing him to lose his balance. Peter shoots a web at his face, blinding him, and swipes his legs out from underneath him, webbing him to the ground next to the other goons.

Another fist meets Peter’s face, causing him to stumble, but before he can react, something hard slams against the side of his head.

A sharp pain explodes through Peter’s head and down his neck as his vision whites out. He feels himself fall against the brick wall behind him, desperately trying to get his bearings back before another one of these guys gets the upper hand. Peter blinks rapidly behind his mask to clear his vision, only to catch a glimpse of the goon with the handgun aiming it at him as the guy that picked up the crowbar comes at him again.

Multiple gunshots fill the air once again, and one might miss them against the loud rumble of thunder, against the steady rainfall.

Pain explodes in Peter’s left leg near his thigh and in his right shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, barely registering himself falling against the wall from the force of the bullets hitting him, crumbling to the alley floor, feeling his head collide against the wall on his way down.

“Dude—you shot him! You shot Spider-Man!” Crowbar dude exclaims in surprise.

“Who cares! Let’s just get out of here before he gets back up!” The gunman yells over his shoulder as the two of them start to run towards the alleyway entrance.  

Peter groans weakly in defeat on the cold, wet ground.

“Peter it appears that you have been shot several times and you sustained a bad blow to your head. Medical attention is highly advised.” Karen informs him in a worried tone.

He manages to turn his head in the small puddle he landed in, seeing that the muggers, except for the ones webbed up, got away.

“C-Crap…” Peter mumbles to himself,  guilt gnawing away at him for letting them escape. Now they were free to continue terrorizing other people, all thanks to him.

Peter grits his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut against the agonizing pain coursing through his entire body, feeling a few warm tears slide down his cheeks beneath his mask. This is so not how he thought this night was going to go, yet here he is, beaten up and shot, laying in a filthy alley in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone.

He just needs a minute… and then he’ll get up.

Peter lays there for a few moments, until he hears sirens in the distance, feeling the rain soaking through his suit.

“Local law enforcement is incoming. ETA one minute. Peter, you need to get up and seek medical attention.”

Peter groans against the ground as he slowly blinks his eyes open, finding everything to be a bit blurry. “O-Okay…” he whispers as he slowly starts to sit up, letting out a choked gasp when the movement sends white, hot pain through his already pounding head.

When he’s able to sit up, Peter leans against the brick wall for a second, gasping in pain as he clutches his shoulder, feeling a warmness dribbling between his gloved fingers. He wants more than anything to just stop moving and close his eyes but he knows that he can’t. The police have been wanting to arrest him for years now since he started this gig. He can’t be seen at the scene of a crime… or a gang take-down. Whatever.

Peter grits his teeth as he braces his good hand against the ground and slowly starts to stand up, fighting through the pain. When he’s finally standing, he has to lean against the wall for support.

“Peter the police are almost here. You need to leave now.” Karen tells him in a serious tone.

Peter looks up and he can see the flashing blue and red lights from here. He doesn’t have much time to escape—a few seconds at most. He braces a hand against the side of the building with his bad arm, hissing through gritted teeth at the pain the movement brings as he starts to slowly climb up the side of the building, pausing a few times as pain tears through his injured shoulder and leg.

When he finally reaches the top, Peter grips the building ledge and pulls himself up with a pained groan. He rolls over the ledge and lands on the gravel-covered roof on his back, facing the dark cloudy sky above. Raindrops land on the lenses of his mask as he lays there in agony, his soaking wet suit sticking to him uncomfortably.

But Peter doesn’t care.

He messed up big time tonight.

He was sloppy and he let the muggers get the upper hand on him.

This is all because he can’t get a handle on his life. He can’t sleep anymore from either the nightmares or his worsening insomnia. He just… can’t… move on.

Not without Tony.

Peter closes his eyes at the thought of him. It’s been four months now since Tony’s funeral… four months since he’s been… gone. It’s been the worst four months of Peter’s entire life.

“Peter, your vitals are dropping dangerously low. Per the tattletale protocol, I’m required to call an emergency contact.” 

“There’s no one you can call, Karen. Tony’s...” He closes his eyes as he breathes a sigh out through his nose. “Tony’s dead.”

Saying out loud only makes it worse—more real.

Karen remains silent as Peter lays there, blinking up at the sky. For a moment, Peter lets himself pretend that Tony is still alive. It’s sick and unfair to himself, but he doesn’t care. He waits for a few moments, for that phone call to come in, to hear Tony’s worried voice on the other end as he chews Peter out for being so reckless and getting himself hurt. Tony always calls him because he has every alert and protocol known to mankind set for these kinds of situations Peter gets himself into.

He also waits to hear the familiar sound of the Iron Man suit, of Tony, swooping in to save him from bleeding out on this rooftop.

But neither come.

The only thing Peter hears is the rain pelting down and his heavy breathing.

Tony’s not coming… and he’s never going to ever again.

A choked sob escapes from Peter’s quivering lips as the retaliation sinks in. He starts to cry there on the roof, letting his grief swallow him up. It feels like forever until his crying subsides to only gasping sobs. Crying only made him even more exhausted, but Peter can’t bring himself to care right now. He just feels weirdly numb and lightheaded.

“K’ren?” Peter slurs out, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth to form words.

“Yes, Peter?” She responds in a soft voice.

“T’ny’s… gone… right?” He asks. He’s not sure why, but maybe hearing someone else say it will make him believe it, even if it’s his suit’s AI.

Karen is silent for a few seconds. “Yes… I’m sorry, Peter.” She finally answers, sympathy in her voice as she pauses again. “Is there someone you would like me to call for you? Your vitals are continuing to drop and I don’t believe you’re able to make it home in your condition.”

“M’ all good, K,” Peter mumbles, blinking slowly up at the sky as a wave of tiredness washes over him. “Jus’ gonna… lie here… for a bit an’ take a nap.” He slurs out.

“Peter, you need to stay awake.” Karen tells him in a serious voice.

“Jus’ five minutes…” Peter slurs out as black dots dance around in his vision.

“Peter-” Karen’s concerned voice fades away as he lets his heavy eyelids slip shut when his vision completely blacks out, feeling darkness invade his mind, pulling him further and further down.

He doesn’t even feel the raindrops falling on him anymore.

He doesn’t feel cold either.

“Calling Happy Hogan.” Is the last thing Peter hears Karen say before he passes out, unaware of the growing pool of blood underneath him.

…

In the four months since Tony’s death, one thing Happy had told himself, the very same thing he promised Tony all those years ago, is that he would be there for Peter when he couldn’t be. Which is why a few months ago, he took it upon himself to set the kid’s AI up on all of his tech devices at home and on his phone to get any updates from the kid’s suit, with FRIDAY’s help since technology is a little (very) out of his realm.

The only problem is that Peter hasn’t really had any contact with him in the four months since the funeral.

And Happy understands why. Tony’s death didn’t just affect him. It’s affected the entire world, especially Peter. Tony and Peter had such a special bond that wasn’t quite like the normal mentor and mentee relationship. What they had… it was like a bond between a father and son.

Tony absolutely loved that kid, equally as much as he loved Morgan. From the day Morgan was born, Tony would tell her stories about Peter and she grew up believing that Peter was her long-lost brother. And it’s true. In the rare times Peter has visited the Stark cabin, Happy has seen for himself that Peter and Morgan are like mini versions of Tony. Peter might not be Tony’s biological kid… but he sure could fool Happy if he didn’t know.

It’s close to one in the morning and Happy finds himself wide awake, mindlessly channel surfing in his dimly lit living room. He’s debating between watching the Discovery Channel or a cheesy rom-com on the Hallmark Channel to get himself tired when his phone dings with a message. He blindly reaches over to the couch cushion beside him and picks it up and looks at the screen, only for his stomach to drop when he sees it’s a notification from Peter’s AI, Karen.

Multiple GSWs detected.

Vitals dropping.

Emergency medical attention is recommended.

Happy’s eyes widen in shock as he feels cold dread flow through him. He leaps up from the couch and grabs his keys, shoving his bare feet in his sneakers before he’s out the door, running for the elevator that leads to his apartment building garage.

…

It’s a blessing that the tracker in Peter’s suit reads that he’s only a few blocks away. He can only hope that he makes it in time.

“FRIDAY, have Dr. Cho set up whatever she needs to for Peter when I get him to the Compound.” Happy orders.

“Right away.” FRIDAY voice flows through the speakers of his car.

Happy silently thanks Tony for installing the AI into his car all those years ago. Back then he thought it was stupid and unnecessary, but it’s definitely coming in handy right now. It’s one of the best gifts he’s ever gotten. He glances at the map on the touchscreen tablet installed onto his car’s dashboard, seeing that the bright red dot is still in the same location from when he first started driving, meaning that Peter hasn’t moved.

Happy’s grip tightens on the steering wheel as he approaches Peter’s location, the building in his sight.

He slams on the brakes, skidding to a stop as he all but jumps out of the car once it’s in park and cautiously walks in the sketchy looking alleyway, eyes darting around for any sign of danger or the teen, only to find it empty but clearly the scene of a crime that the police had cleaned up sometime before his arrival. There are dents in the side of the brick buildings he can only assume are bullet holes. The sight of them tightens the knot in Happy’s stomach.

The rain has picked up considerably during his drive, only worsening the situation because Happy knows that Peter doesn’t thermoregulate well and he could get sick if he’s out in bad weather like this for too long.

“Peter?” Happy calls out, reaching a hand to the back of his sweatpants waistband under his raincoat where he stashed his handgun he grabbed from the glove box in his car in case he runs into any trouble. “Kid?” he repeats louder, squinting against the rain through the darkness.

He pulls out his phone from his coat pocket with his free hand and looks at the tracker’s location, seeing that he’s now on the red dot. Peter should be here but clearly, he’s not. Happy lets out a frustrated sigh as he pockets his phone and runs a hand through his short, wet hair as he looks up to the sky, only for his eyes to settle on the rooftop above.

The sudden realization hits him like a ton of bricks. Peter must have been able to make it up to the rooftop before the police showed up. The kid isn’t stupid--he knows the police would have taken Spider-Man in and they would have been able to easily catch him with him being injured.

Happy’s eyes quickly scan the building for a fire escape and when he finds one, he wastes no time in getting the metal ladder down by standing on a crate he found, before he’s carefully climbing up the slippery thing.

When he’s up the fire escape a minute later, he’s panting, out of breath and it’s downpouring now, forcing him to squint against the droplets hitting his face as he swings his legs over the ledge and steps onto the gravel roof.

“Peter? Kid, it’s me where are—” Happy calls out, only for his voice to get lost in his throat when his eyes land on the blue and red figure laying on the ground a few feet away from him. Happy’s eyes widen as fear shoots through him, turning his blood ice cold. “Oh my God,” he breathes out as he runs over to Peter’s all-too-still form on the ground and drops to his knees at the kid’s side. “Peter. Kid? Come on, answer me please.” Happy pleads worriedly as he carefully lifts the kid’s mask and slips it off, revealing Peter’s soaking wet, ghostly pale face, his hair sticking flat to his forehead.

Please, God let him be alive. Please. I can’t lose anyone else. Please. May can’t lose anyone else. This kid is all she has left. Please let him be alive.

Happy’s fingers instinctively go to Peter’s neck to his pulse point and he waits for a brief, terrifying second before he feels a faint thumping beneath them. Faint but there.

“Thank God,” Happy breathes out, relief flowing through him.

But they’re not out of the woods yet—not even close.

Happy scans Peter’s body, only for his eyes to land on the bullet wounds, one on his right shoulder and the other one on his left leg, both of which are sluggishly bleeding, the blood being washed away by the pouring rain. But from here, Happy can see that it’s bad.

Shit.

“Kid? Peter?” Happy calls as he gently shakes Peter’s other good shoulder, gently at first and then a little rougher, silently praying to see those baby brown eyes once again, until the teen lets out a weak, pained groan.

It takes a few seconds before Peter manages to open his eyes halfway, looking completely out of it judging by how glazed his eyes are.

“T’ny? S’ you?” Peter slurs.

Happy’s chest tightens with sadness at that. The poor kid is so out of it he probably can’t remember anything.

“No, it’s Happy—see?” He tells him gently as he leans over the kid a little more to shield him from the rain as best as he can.

It takes the kid another few seconds until Happy can see the gears working in his head as Peter looks at him with recognition. “H’py?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s me, Pete,” Happy tells him. “How’re you feeling? Tell me what hurts.” He orders gently.

“M’ head… e-everything,” Peter mumbles as he closes his eyes, brows pulled together in pain.

Happy frowns worriedly as he notices the teen is shivering. He gently shakes Peter’s uninjured shoulder again. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me. You have to stay awake.”

“Mhmm,” Peter mumbles as he slowly blinks his eyes open once again, seeming to struggle with just that. “S’ hard to.” he admits.

“I know it is, kid. Just stay with me, okay? I’m going to get you out of here.” Happy tells him as he yanks off his raincoat and drapes it over the shivering teen. “Let’s get you to the car, okay?

“M’kay,” Peter mumbles, blinking sluggishly.

Happy reaches down and carefully snakes his hands under Peter’s back and legs, taking in a deep breath before he picks him up in his arms, feeling his back protest against the added weight. Peter lets out another pained groan from being jostled.

“Sorry, Pete,” Happy says as he turns around and starts to walk back to the fire escape, which is going to be a challenge for sure.

He couldn’t go down this building’s stairs and walk inside with an injured and maskless Spider-Man in his arms. That would attract too much attention and suspicion from the residents--not to mention there could and probably are security cameras inside.

So the fire escape is their only option.

“Okay, Pete listen up,” Happy says. “I need your help here, alright? You’re going to have to walk just a little bit so we can get down this fire escape.” He says, looking down at the teen in his arms.

“But m’ tired,” Peter mumbles, words slurring slightly.

“I know you are but I need your help here. I need Spider-Man’s help, okay?”

Peter sluggishly opens his eyes as he slowly nods. “M’kay,” he mumbles.

Happy steps onto the fire escape and carefully sets Peter down on his feet, keeping an arm on the teen’s shoulder to keep him standing when Peter’s face scrunches up in pain. He helps Peter put his arms through the raincoat so he has better access to his hands.

“I’ll go first and I’ll help you down, okay?” Happy says as he takes a few steps down the ladder. “You’ve got this, Pete.”

Peter slowly nods as he grips both sides of the metal railing for balance. They slowly start their way down and Happy keeps an arm out in case Peter slips. They make it one flight when Peter’s injured leg suddenly gives out, causing the kid to let out a choked gasp in pain as he grips the railing in front of him tight enough to dent it.

Happy is quick to brace a hand on his lower back, catching him. “It’s okay—It’s okay. You’re okay. Just take a minute to catch your breath, okay?” he reassures.

Peter’s shaking from the effort of holding himself up. “S-Sorry,” he says as he lets out a pained groan, leaning forward as he leans his forehead against the rail in front of him.

“You okay?” Happy asks, brows pulling together in concern.

“Y-Yeah… jus’ dizzy.”

That definitely isn’t good. Happy looks over his shoulder, seeing that they only have one more flight to go. He looks back up at the teen above him. “We’re almost at the bottom. Just hang on for a few more minutes. Do you think you can do that, Pete?”

“I-I’ll t-try.” Peter says with a small nod.

“Okay,” Happy says unsurely as he takes his hand away from the teen’s back as he takes a step down, ready to catch him again if need be.

When they’re finally down the fire escape, Happy helps Peter down by wrapping his arms around the teen and easing him to the ground, mindful of his injured leg. Peter sways where he stands, clearly absolutely exhausted from their trip down the stairs, as Happy wraps the teen’s uninjured arm over his shoulders and wraps an arm around the kid’s back, leading him towards the car up ahead, the headlights standing out against the darkness.

Happy opens the backseat passenger door up and helps Peter lie down in the back before he runs to the trunk and grabs spare blankets he’d stashed away for a time like this. He runs back to the backseat and gently places one of the blankets underneath Peter’s head for a pillow, while he covers him up with the other one.

Happy eyes the kid worriedly as he reaches down and carefully wipes away a few stray rain droplets from Peter’s forehead. “Just hang in there, Pete, okay?”

Peter shakily nods in response into the blanket pillow without looking up.

Crawling out of the backseat, Happy shuts the passenger door and jumps in the driver’s seat before he pulls away from the alley and all but floors it, mindful of the precious and very injured cargo in his backseat. He throws the heat on full blast in the front and back, as well as the second-row heated seats.

Adjusting the rear view mirror, Happy can see Peter’s pain-filled face, adding to the guilt and worry flowing through him. Judging by those dark circles under his eyes, Peter hasn’t been sleeping these past few days. He knows the kid well enough by now to know that he’s going through a hard time and he’s not telling anyone about it. No one should ever have to grieve alone.

And Happy knows this isn’t the first time Peter has lost someone in his life. First it was his parents, then his uncle, and now… Tony.

Life has been very unfair to Peter. But one thing’s for sure… he shouldn’t have to do it all alone. The kid has a big guilt complex and he never wants to burden anyone with his problems—he just wants to help people with their own problems.

But even heroes need help sometimes.

That is if the people around them care to be invested enough in their lives to see that they’re struggling. Which… Happy knows he hasn’t been doing a very good job of that these past few months.

I should have been keeping a closer eye on him.

Happy adjusts his grip on the steering wheel as guilt sits heavily in his stomach. From now on… he’s going to do better. He’s going to start weekly, no—daily check-ins on the kid to make sure he’s doing okay, and maybe they can even set up a weekly meet-up for lunch. Heck, Happy is even willing to pick him up from school every day.

But for tonight… Happy just needs to keep Peter alive, who’s currently bleeding out in the backseat of his car.

“FRIDAY, what’s the quickest way back to the Compound?” Happy asks.

“Routing course,” The AI responds before the route pops up on the navigation system. “ETA one hour.”

An hour is too much time. Happy glances back in the rearview mirror at Peter, who’s now passed out, still shivering away under the blankets covering him.

Happy looks back at the road determinedly. “Let’s make it thirty minutes.”

…

The ride upstate is a blur as Happy drives as fast as he can, cutting a few red lights along his way out of the city. During those long and tense thirty minutes, Peter half-wakes up a couple of times, dazed and confused out of his mind.

“T’ny?”

“No, Pete it’s Happy,” he tells him, adjusting his rearview mirror again to get a better look at the kid, who’s trying to slowly sit up. “Don’t move, Pete okay? You’re hurt. You were in a fight. Do you remember anything?”

Peter stays down, blinking sluggishly, silent for a moment as his brows pull together in confusion. “Are we fly’ng?” he slurs.

Happy looks back to the highway ahead, which is thankfully sparse of other cars, given that it’s now close to two in the morning. “With how fast we’re going, pretty much,” He answers as he looks back at the kid. “How’re you holding up?”

Peter blinks again as he stares up at the ceiling. “N’ suddenly m’ flying… flying like a bird… like ‘lectricity…” Peter mumbles as his eyes droop.

Happy’s brows pull together in concern. “What? Pete—you’re what?”

The corner of Peter’s mouth turns up into a dopey smile. “We’re soaring… flying… there’s not a s-star tha’ we cn’t reach…” he slurs out as he closes his eyes.

Well, shit.

That’s either the blood loss or the head injury talking.

“Sure, Pete,” Happy says worriedly as he glances at the navigation system, seeing that they’re ten miles away from the Compound. “FRIDAY, is Dr. Cho ready for him?”

“Dr. Cho and her team are prepared and awaiting your arrival.”

“Good. Thanks, FRI.” Happy says as he lets out a sigh.

“Of course.”

By the time they finally reach the Compound, Peter is out cold once again in the backseat as Happy carefully skids the car to a stop right outside of the front doors. He jumps out of the front seat and is about to open up the back door to help Peter out when Dr. Cho and her team walk out through the double doors, wheeling a stretcher.

Happy carefully picks Peter up, still wrapped up in his raincoat and blanket as he lowers him on the stretcher and before he knows it, the medical team is quickly wheeling him inside. Happy rushes ahead with them, keeping his eyes on Peter’s pale face until Dr. Cho stops him as they take Peter away through another set of double doors.

“We’ll take it from here, Happy,” She rushes out gently. “Thank you for getting him here so quickly.”

“Take care of him.” Happy says, coming out more like a plea than anything else.

“He’s in the best hands, I promise you.” She says before she disappears through the double doors, leaving Happy standing there alone.

He stares at the doors for a long few moments as guilt and worry flow through him.

When he turns away from the doors, Happy lets out a sigh as he walks over to the waiting area and takes a seat, rubbing his face tiredly. It’s been a long night and it’s far from over.

One thing he has to do is call May and fill her in on what’s going on.

And that’s going to be a hard phone call.

Happy lets out another sigh as he pulls his phone out from his sweatpants pocket, scrolling through his contacts until he finds May’s number. He taps the call button and puts the phone up to his ear, waiting for several moments until she answers.  

“Hey. It’s me… are you sitting down?”

…

“Kiddo... I think it's time you wake up.” A familiar voice says.

Peter blinks open his eyes, only to find himself laying on a bed in a room he recognizes to be the guest bedroom at the Stark cabin. He frowns, not remembering how he got here.

“There he is.” The voice says.

Peter turns his head to the side, only for his eyes to widen in shock. Tony is sitting in a chair beside him, softly smiling at him.

“T-Tony?” Peter asks in disbelief.

“Hey, kiddo. Long time no see,” Tony greets. “How’re you feeling?”

Peter just blinks at him for several seconds, still not believing what he’s seeing as he slowly sits up. “Uh… l-like I’m seeing-”

“A ghost?” Tony asks with a grin before he breathes out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. I’m not a ghost.”

“What—how are you here?” Peter asks, his eyes widening further. “Am I dead?”

“No,” Tony quickly answers, shaking his head again. “You’re not dead. You almost were though if it wasn’t for Happy.” He says. “I’ve been gone for what, a couple of months and everything’s going off the rails, huh?”

The joke only causes a stab of grief in Peter’s chest. Peter looks down and fiddles with the blanket on his lap as he swallows around the growing lump in his throat as his eyes begin to water. “It’s… It’s been really... hard… without you.”

He hears movement at his side as Tony stands up and takes a seat on the edge of the bed next to Peter’s hip. “I know… I’m sorry.” Tony softly says as he reaches a hand out and places it on Peter’s shoulder, the gesture so familiar and comforting, it hurts.

Peter closes his eyes and feels a few stray tears slide down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Tony softly says as Peter feels a calloused hand on the side of his face, his tears being wiped away by Tony’s thumb.

Peter opens his eyes, seeing that Tony is looking at him with sad eyes, surprised to see his eyes are a little watery as well.

“W-Why did you have to s-snap?” Peter asks him, letting out the question that’s been plaguing his mind since the moment Tony died.

Tony looks down with a small sigh. “Because… I had to.”

“N-No you didn’t.” Peter says, shaking his head, dropping Tony’s hand in the process.

“Yes… it did. I couldn’t have put that on anyone, Pete,” Tony gently says, looking into Peter’s eyes as he cups the teen’s face with his hand. “I had to do it. It had to be me.”

Peter shakes his head, blinking past the tears in his eyes as they continue to stream down his cheeks. “N-No it didn’t. Y-You j-just left us! P-Pepper, M-Morgan, H-Happy, a-and m-me. A-And I...I don’t k-know what to d-do without you.” He sobs out, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, Pete…” Tony says, feeling the man gently pull him forward against his chest. “I’m… I’m so sorry, kiddo.”

Peter breaks down and cries against Tony’s chest, fisting Tony’s green sweater in his hands as he sobs. He remembers being in this situation quite a few times before, being soothed by Tony’s soft voice after a crying session. Peter doesn’t really know how this is happening, or why… but he’s not complaining. He’s always said that he’d give anything just to be with Tony one more time… and maybe this is it.

The thought has Peter crying harder, clinging to his mentor more. He can’t say goodbye. He just can’t.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” Tony murmurs softly, his voice rumbling against his chest. “You’re okay… I’ve got you, Pete.”

It feels like forever until Peter runs out of tears, leaving him wetly sniffing against Tony’s chest as the man gently rocks him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. Peter keeps his eyes closed, praying for this moment to never end.

“I’m so sorry, Pete. I didn’t want to go… I had no choice. It was me versus millions of people. Thanos would never have stopped his mission. I want you and Morgan to be safe and be able to grow up and have lives of your own. Do you understand?” Tony gently asks.

Peter sniffs, nodding against his chest.

Tony sighs softly as he wraps his arms around Peter in a hug. “I hate that I can’t be with you guys. And I know it’s been hard on you lately. And as cheesy as this sounds, just remember—I’m always with you. Okay? And I want you to know how damn proud I am of you, Pete. I always have been and I always will be. You, Morgan, and Pepper are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

They stay like that for a while, until the moment is shattered when Peter hears voices in the distance. He frowns against Tony’s chest as Tony lets out a small sigh.

“I’m sorry, kiddo… but it’s time to go.”

Fear shoots through Peter as he pulls away, looking up at him. “W-What? But I don’t want to go.”

Tony smiles sadly as he cups Peter’s face. “I know… but you have to, bud. They’re waiting for you. They need you, Spider-Man.”

“But,” Peter pauses, his brain racing. He has so many things to say—so many questions. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I know, Pete and I don’t want you to go, believe me. But I promise you, we’ll see each other again one day, okay?”

Peter’s eyes fill with tears once again as Tony pulls him in for another hug.

“I love you, Peter.” Tony tells him, feeling him press a kiss to the side of his head.

“I-I love you too.”

…

“I think he’s waking up now.”

“Peter, honey? Can you hear me?”

Peter lets out a small groan in response, feeling his body start to slowly come back to him but he still feels weirdly floaty and numb. He struggles to open his heavy eyelids until he manages to blink them open slowly, meeting blurriness. He blinks a few times to clear his vision, only to find himself lying on a bed in a room he recognizes to be the medbay.

This scene feels all too familiar.

“There he is.” a soft, familiar voice says to his right.

Peter manages to roll his bowling ball of a head to the side, expecting to see Tony sitting beside him once again… but he doesn’t. He sees both May and Happy sitting in chairs beside his hospital bed, May is smiling at him, gently squeezing his hand in her own.

It all comes back to him.

Tony’s dead.

It was just a dream.

Peter’s face drops as he feels his eyes warm up as tears start to pool in them. Grief and sadness flow through him all at once, overwhelmingly so.

“What’s wrong, baby?” May asks with a worried frown.

Peter sniffs wetly as he closes his eyes. “I-I thought-” He starts to say, only for a sob to escape from his lips. “I-I thought T-Tony was here.”

“Oh, honey,” May says as he feels her fingers gently card through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“N-No,” Peter says as he shakes his head, wincing as it brings a sharp spike of pain from the movement. “I-I was with him. H-He was there.”

May turns to Happy and they both share a knowing look before they both look at him again.

“Peter…” Happy says, seeming to struggle for words for a few seconds until he closes his eyes for a brief second, meeting his eyes. “When Dr. Cho was working on you… you lost a lot of blood. Your… heart… stopped beating for two minutes.”

Peter stares at him for a few long seconds before he looks away at the wall across the room, processing the information. He’s taken out of his thoughts by May grabbing his hand again, feeling her gently squeeze.

“You okay? I know that’s a lot to take in.”

Peter licks his lips and slowly nods. “Yeah…” he says, blinking a few times. “Do you think that I… was actually with Tony?”

May smiles softly, her eyes tearing up. “You might have been from the sounds of it.”

“He was keeping you safe and helped you come home.” Happy adds in with a sad, knowing smile of his own.

Peter nods with a small, watery smile. “He did.”

“Thank God you’re okay,” May says as she stands up and carefully hugs him, wetly sniffing.

“I’m sorry.” Peter mumbles into her shoulder as he closes his eyes, weakly lifting an arm up to hug her.

She pulls back and sits on the edge of the bed, shaking her head to herself. “I don’t even want to think… if Happy hadn’t gotten you here as quickly as he did. If you really...”

Happy reaches over and takes her hand in his, offering her a reassuring smile. “He’s okay, May. It was a very close call,” he gives Peter a serious look before looking back at her. “But he’s going to be more careful next time and I’m going to make sure he wears the Iron Spider suit from now on.”

May nods in agreement, as she looks at Peter. “Yes. And we’re going to make sure you get your proper sleep. No more skipping curfew.”

“And you call when you’re going to be late.” Happy adds.

“Yes,” May agrees, looking back at him, smiling. “We make a great team.”

“We do.” Happy says with a knowing smile.  

And it’s… weird.

Almost… flirty.

Peter eyes the two of them, raising a brow in confusion. “Uhh… what’s happening here?” He slowly asks.

“Umm…” Happy says, eyeing May nervously.

May breathes out a nervous laugh. “Well… we… kind of just…”

Peter squints at them. “Are you two… a thing?”

May and Happy both look at him like deers caught in headlights.

And Peter feels pretty dumb right now because how the heck did he miss this? He must have a pretty shocked expression on his face because May’s eyes widen nervously.

“Peter--I was going to tell you but you’ve been going through so much lately and I didn’t want to spring this on you. And we’re still figuring things out!” May says.

“Yeah! We’re just… seeing where this takes us.”

May nods in agreement. “Yes. Seeing where life takes us with this and… what road we’re going down.”

Peter blinks, processing this, along with the fact that he was pretty much dead for two minutes.

It’s just a lot right now and it’s making his head hurt more.

Peter just sighs, tiredly smiling at them. “It’s okay--I’m happy for you guys. Really.”

May and Happy both let out relieved sighs at that.

“Wow. That feels good to get off my chest.” Happy says.

“Yeah,” May agrees with a small laugh before she looks at Peter. “Now that that’s settled, you need to rest! How about you try to get some more sleep, okay?”

Peter smiles tiredly. “Okay.”

Sleep. That sounds pretty good right about now.

Settling back down in bed, Peter closes his eyes and tries to fall back to sleep as May and Happy softly talk beside him. He’s close to falling asleep until he thinks of something.

Oh. So that’s where all of those flowers have been coming from.

[jbuffyangel]

Something To Live For: Arrow 1x10 Review (Burned)

I’m back! 

There’s a significant time difference between my 1x09 review and this review. No, I did not take a six year long holiday break. It just became too difficult to complete the Season 1 reviews the summer prior to Season 4. So, I decided to complete Season 1 and Season 2 reviews once Arrow was off air.

This means I have not watched 1x10-1x23 in eight years. I nearly forgot everything. Is L*urel still in this show?

She sure is.

“Burned” is the first real snoozer of Season 1, which kind of sets up the tradition of episode 10-15 slumps Arrow suffered nearly every season.  This has less to do with Arrow and more to do with it being a twenty three episode series. There’s gonna be some filler.

This episode still holds significant meaning to me though because it contains the SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR speech. This is my favorite John Diggle speech, which is why I named my blog after it. It is also the first time Arrow declares their mission statement.

Let’s dig in...

Oliver and Diggle

The bad guy plot is the worst part of “Burned,” so let’s just cut to the chase. There was a terrible fire in Starling City years ago. The fire chief recalled his unit but one of his men, Garfield Lynns, insisted the building could be saved. The chief refused to send in any more men and as a result Lynns died. Except, this is Arrow and nobody stays dead. Lynns is alive, ticked, insane and burning firefighters, which leads to Joanna’s brother (a firefighter) getting killed.

Cool? Cool. Moving on.

Oliver is having difficulty coping with the fact the Dark Archer kicked his ass all the way back to the stone age. It was a somewhat embarrassing loss and Oliver’s body wasn’t the only thing bruised. We are gifted a very lovely training sequences of a half naked and very sweaty Oliver Queen to show he is recovered, so his hesitancy isn’t physical. It is mental.

Source: @olivergifs​

Oliver is having a crisis of confidence and is avoiding suiting up like the plague.

Diggle: This guy, the other archer, he got in your head. He took something from you … he took whatever’s in your heart that lets you jump off buildings and take down bad guys.

Oliver worked for every skill he has. It was not gifted by a bolt of lightning. He does not come from an alien planet. Oliver is a weapon honed over time, which includes his superpower. 

Oliver Queen does not fear dying. 

That’s the “whatever” in his heart which gives him the confidence to jump off buildings. This superpower was honed after five years of fighting for survival. Oliver almost died so many times he’s built some kind of emotional immunity to it. It doesn’t freak him out like it would the rest of us.

The darker side of this superpower is Oliver doesn’t care if he lives or dies. Season 1 Oliver Queen is very fatalistic. He’s not suicidal, but he’s accepted death is the price he may have to pay in order to complete his mission. More importantly, he is drowning in guilt and believes death is the ending he deserves.

There’s rigidity in everything about Oliver – from his beliefs to even the way he moves. His posture is rod iron straight and there’s very little movement in his upper body and arms. It’s a physical manifestation of his PTSD. It’s like he’s encased in a brick wall, a tomb of suffering, which makes it difficult to breathe or move. It’s like the act of living is physically painful.

The problem is - Oliver came home and it is having an unexpected emotional impacted on him. He’s been laser focused on this mission, but bit by bit, the feelings he’s long since buried are resurfacing.  Moira, Thea, Tommy, Diggle, Laurel (AND FELICITY) are chipping away at this brick wall. Oliver didn’t adopt this machine like persona because he doesn’t feel anything. It’s because he feels so much, which means even the small holes in this wall are having a profound impact on him.

This all leads to the greatest John Diggle speech in history! Yes, I say that knowing full well Diggle has spectacular speeches throughout the series, but this will always be my favorite because it’s such a universal theme. 

We all must have something that makes life worth living.  This “something” is not limited to romantic love. It can be family, or work or a cause – basically whatever makes you get out of bed every day. It doesn’t have to be just one thing either. In fact, I hope you find many things/people to live for because that means you are living a full and connected life. By that same token, if you don’t have something to live for then you’re not really living. You just exist.

Or in Oliver’s case - survive. He’s known nothing but survival for the last five years. I think he absolutely cares for Yao Fei, Shado and Slade, but that’s exactly why Oliver shut down. He did care for people and it led to nothing but heartache, betrayal and loss. So, Oliver decided to be done with all that and has worked very hard to keep his loved ones at a distance ever since returning home.

He’s been extremely successful at it in many ways because Oliver refuses to share who he really is with anyone outside of John Diggle. So, that’s why it had to be John Diggle to tell him that it was okay to feel again.

Oliver: I’ve been close to death on the island more times than I can remember and I never feared it. Because I had nothing to lose. But when that archer almost killed me, when I stared death in the face then, I thought about all the people I’ve let into my life since I’ve been back – my family, Laurel, Tommy. And that made me afraid. Afraid of what would happen to those people if they lost me. Again. And for the first time in so long I had something to lose.

Oliver may not fear death, but he does fear what his death will mean to those who love him. Like I said earlier - Oliver is not suicidal. If that was true he wouldn’t have fought so hard to survive the island, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to live. He’s far from it. But this is the first time in a long time Oliver cared whether or not he died. And that scares him.  

Diggle: Maybe you’ve got it backwards Oliver. You think the people you’ve let in have taken your edge. I think it gives you one. Maybe a stronger one even. You can stare down death with something to live for or not. SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR is better.

That’s endgame folks. Oliver’s story is about a man learning to live again. He will collect more and more people/things that he cares about as he walks this road, which means there is more to lose. Losing his life is far preferable than losing someone he loves again.  Oliver can tolerate a great deal of physical pain. It’s the emotional pain that scares the crap out of him. This is why he fights tooth and nail to keep emotions at a distance. It just hurts too much.

Opening our heart to others often means opening our hearts to pain, but that’s not the only side of love. It brings happiness and contentment too. You take the good with the bad. Diggle is trying to open Oliver’s heart to the good.

Is Oliver alive? Or is he just breathing? The answers to those questions make all the difference in the world. A difference Diggle knows will make Oliver an unbeatable weapon.

Lynns: I'm not afraid to die

Oliver: I know. You're afraid to live.

COULD IT BE A PARALLEL?

Methinks yes. It’s interesting “Burned” revolves around fire. Fire is where Oliver’s story began. Lian Yu was about purification, but it was also a rebirth. 

A rebirth we see expanding as Oliver opens up his heart. A fire is lit from within our hero and it’s growing beyond penance, justice and retribution to hope, passion and enlightenment. Oliver Queen is finding reasons to live again. And it will make all the difference for his survival.

L*urel L*nce

If you sense I have less patience with L*urel’s character in Seasons 1 and Season 2 than I did in Season 3 and Season 4 then you’d be right. My opinions on this character changed radically so I’m coming into Season 1 and Season 2 reviews with a Season 8 perspective on L*urel.

Tommy wants a drawer. That’s all. A drawer. Tommy Merlyn is a simple man. Doesn’t take a lot to make him happy. He even wrote a list explaining all the reasons he deserves and needs a drawer. We never see the list, but I’d imagine it looks something like this:

I AM HUMAN PERFECTION.

I did not sleep with your sister.

I am asking for a drawer rather than run screaming to the North China Sea with above referenced sister.

I make you omelets.

I make your character moderately tolerable which is a miracle in of itself.

I could continue, but you get the idea. What’s absolutely ludicrous is OLIVER gives L*UREL relationship advice.

Oliver: Well we're friends.

Me: Oliver, my son, NO YOU ARE NOT. 

At least she had the common sense to scoff at Oliver’s friendly attempt to intervene on Tommy’s behalf. (Seriously, dude just stay out of it. This is wildly inappropriate.)

L*urel was ready to move in with Oliver (even though she knew he cheated on her regularly), but freaks at faithful Tommy requesting armoire access. JFC this woman is a dating disaster zone.

L*urel: I don’t take things slow remember? I close my eyes and I jump just like you. 

My initial reaction to this speech is to call it nonsense. 

I thought this was a case of Arrow telling rather than showing with L*urel’s character. However, upon further contemplation I have reversed my opinion.

L*urel may be a pragmatic attorney on the surface, but we have watched her run the gamut of human emotions week to week. So much so it’s difficult to get a read on the character the writers are trying to construct. (Spoiler alert: they don’t know what kind of character they are trying to construct). One week she loves Oliver. The next week she’s condemning him to hell. L*urel L*nce’s feelings definitely control her.

She has been reckless too, working outside the law, by contacting the vigilante for assistance. A relationship she resumes after telling her father in 1x09 that The Hood is a killer with no remorse. See what I’m saying about the ever changing emotional spectrum?

I’m not saying L*urel having emotions and expressing them is bad. That’s a healthier reaction than what Oliver is doing, but she has been all over the map. It’s less about who L*urel is as a character and more about the writers needing her to react a certain way to make the episode work.

Oliver likes to present himself as a cool cucumber, but he has a rather unpleasant temper too. It may seem like he’s emotionless, but that is just a façade. It’s a cover for the torrent of emotions he keeps at bay.

Laurel: I think that’s why we spooked each other. Our feelings, our fears, they control us. Not the other way around.

L*urel’s “spooking each other” statement is a big line of bull, which we’ll find out later in the season. L*urel was not spooked by Oliver. She was the furthest thing from spooked, which is why she asked him to move in with her.

Oliver wasn’t spooked either. Anytime I reflect on L*uriver I’m reminded of a scene from Sex in the City. Oliver isn’t freaked out by his feelings. He’s just not that into you, L*urel.

The process in which we get OLIVER to realize this and admit it to himself will take much longer, but I can be patient. It’s time will come.

But do I think these two characters are similar? YES. They are too similar in fact. It’s one of the main reasons they don’t work as a couple. This is exactly why Tommy and Felicity are perfect for L*urel and Oliver.  They need someone steady to temper their emotions. 

They need someone happy to balance out their anger. They need someone with a bright light in order to find their own.

It’s also worth noting that Tommy was ready to run into a burning building to save Oliver so GIVE HIM A DAMN DRAWER L*UREL.

Stray Thoughts

Flashbacks were kind of boring. Fyers kidnaps Yao Fei. Oliver saves his own life by accident. Meh

Thea calling Moira out was long overdue. This kid needs a parent ASAP.

Everyone's fall clothing is really adorable.

JUST UNBUTTON THE FRACKIN BUTTON OLLIE.

Merlyn kidnapped Walter right? Or Moira? I seriously don't remember. I don’t think I care either. lol

L*urel: I am not the best example of healthy grieving.

LL has a rare moment of self awareness, which is lovely.

Oliver: I heard what you said to your father. That I'm a killer with no remorse.

L*urel: Do you?

Me: You impertinent little snot.

I like Joanna much better than L*urel and I wished she stayed, but removing Joanna from the show is the first step the writers took to limit L*urel's role. The shift is upon us.

  Not to be unsympathetic, but Moira is starting to rack up the dead husbands.

Thea fantasizing that Walter is cheating on Moira with a stewardess as the hopeful pitch is YIKES. Goodness this show could be dark.

Musings of the Kiddo  

Kiddo: Yeah! He's actually putting his family first!

Me: Settle down. It doesn't last long.

Kiddo: I thought L*urel was gonna find out.

Me: Oh my sweet summer child.

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