#i want to withdraw all my savings and turn off my cell phone and leave it at home.

[southislandwren]

kind of tired of professors thinking they're the only class that matters. sorry i cant drop everything to study for a quiz tomorrow that only covers today's lecture content. turns out i do actually have other classes

[impala-dreamer]

Muddy Soul - Chapter 26

~ Life isn’t always as it seems and people aren’t who they say they are. Love isn’t always a good thing, and sometimes, finding out the hard way may just kill you. ~

Series Warnings/Characters/Pairings are all listed on the Muddy Soul Masterlist. Please read the warnings before proceeding.

Chapter 26 Word Count: 2,056

Muddy Soul Masterlist ~ My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon ~ My Original Works on Amazon

Days went by and Y/N found a little peace now and then. 

Castiel had been by to heal her new wounds, easily closing up the cuts and soothing the bruises. She smiled as he worked, closing her eyes as his Grace flowed through her. It felt so strange, like an echo of Christian’s magic, and she soaked it in, just a little taste, just a hit of the drug she needed.  

The withdrawal came and went. For long stretches, she was fine, almost back to her old self if not incredibly tired and depressed. She felt all right, until suddenly, she felt very wrong.

She helped out when she could, reorganizing the pantry with Dean, and passing him tools as he gave Baby a tune up. It was easy to do things that required her hands; moving was much better than not. 

When she sat with Sam in the Library, attempting to help him with some lore entries, she started to panic. The quiet was too quiet, the air was too still. Her fingernails flicked over the tiny ribs in her jeans, tugged at the seams on her shirt, dug into her palms. If she wasn’t moving, she was thinking, and thinking only led her down the darker paths. 

What had she done wrong? Why had she been so stupid? Why didn’t he want her? 

Over and over, she played out scenes in her head like horror movies as Christian’s phantom haunted the shadowy corners of the Bunker. She tried to ignore him at first, forcing her eyes to pass over him without a thought, but it was impossible. He was solid, lifelike, evil. And she wanted him still. 

Eventually, she learned to tune out his face, to push away his image from her mind. It wasn’t always easy, but the more she did it, the more she consciously told him to leave, the more she crossed out his picture in her mind, the stronger she felt. Perhaps, she could beat him. 

Some days she smiled. 

Some days she cried. 

Some days she screamed and fought with anyone who approached her. She drank until her stomach turned, cut until she needed help to staunch the bleeding. 

Some days she climbed into Dean’s bed with soft kisses and a plea for a hug. 

Some days she ran from him, afraid he would strike her down with a single blow. 

It was hard, but she was trying. 

Thursday night was pizza night, and it was Dean’s turn to fly. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and headed for the garage, boots clunking loudly against the floor. 

Y/N was alone in the kitchen, staring down into a cup of cold black coffee. 

He stopped in the doorway and whistled at her. “Hey. You gonna drink that or interrogate it?”

Y/N shivered and yanked her mind from a flashback, forcing a smile as she looked up at Dean. “Going somewhere?” 

She sounded sad, lost. His shoulders dropped. 

“Just running into town to grab dinner.” He twirled the car keys in his hand. “Come with me.” 

Y/N shook her head. “I don’t know-” 

Dipping his chin, Dean gave her the eye. “You’re coming. Let’s roll.” 

Reluctantly, she followed. It was hard to say no to him even in her darkest moments. Especially when he looked up at her through those thick lashes, green eyes bright with ideas. “You suck,” she mumbled. 

His chuckle rumbled off the tiles. “I know.” 

Y/N hadn’t been outside in weeks and the early evening sun burned her eyes as the Impala drove out of the garage. The light rose on the windshield like sunrise on a beach and Y/N squinted at the brightness, not used to the feel of it against her eyes, her skin. 

When they hit the road, she rolled down her window an inch and Dean watched as she stuck her nose in the crack, cautiously sniffing the air. She inhaled deeply and the cool air filled her senses. 

“It’s almost fall,” she said, rolling down the window even more and sticking her hand out. She let her hand ride on the wave of the wind, smiling honestly for the first time in a long while.

Dean smiled. “Yeah. Almost.” 

Y/N closed her eyes and let the wind kiss her cheeks. It felt good to breathe again, to feel the air rush through her hair. The sun flickered like a strobe through the trees and she unbuckled her seatbelt, turning towards Dean. 

“Let’s go to Vincenzo’s,” she suggested with a soft smile. 

Dean raised a brow and shifted his hands on the wheel. “Vincenzo’s? That’s like thirty minutes away. We’re just popping into town.” 

Y/N pouted. “I just wanna… drive for a while.”

He nodded and stretched his arm out across the back of the long bench seat. “OK.” 

Y/N scooted over and settled against his side, head on his shoulder, hand on his chest. He bent his lips to kiss the top of her head; he hadn’t felt this good in forever. Maybe she was finally on the way back. 

The pizzeria was crowded and Y/N clung to Dean’s hand as they walked inside. She hung back as he ordered; two pies and a side of wings. Y/N closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but the lights were too bright, the voices around her too loud. The walls began to tremble, ready to close in around her, and she dug her nails into her palms, begging her mind to slow. 

“You all right?” Dean asked, turning away from the counter. She was a step behind him, muscles in her arms and neck pulsing rapidly as the rest of her stood stone-still. “Y/N?” Concerned, he reached out to touch her arm and she jerked away, violently jumping back. 

“No!” She screamed at his touch, at the room, at the random strangers now turning to look at her. Their faces twisted and contorted into viscous sneers and evil laughter rang in her ears. She swung at Dean who tried to pull her close, knocking him off balance with a left hook he didn’t see coming. 

Christian loomed in the darkness behind the crowd that now turned to gawk and point at the crazy woman in their midst. He tipped the ashes from his cigarette onto a freshly baked pie and laughed. “You’re losing your mind, pretty girl.” 

Her vision blurred on everything but his smug face and she raged at him, shouting over the dense noise pounding in her skull. “Shut up!” 

Hands reached for her, faces rushed into her line of sight. Her skin began to crawl, her veins ached, her breath stopped. 

Y/N spun on her heel and rushed to the door, Christian’s booming laugh echoing behind her. 

“You can run all you want. I’m inside of you. You’re stuck with me. Forever.” 

Bells crashed above the door as Y/N pushed out into the night air. She took off down the street, not knowing or caring where she was going. 

Darkness settled around her, the cool air stung her cheeks. 

Boots thudded behind her; Dean called her name. 

Out of breath, she stopped, sneakers skidding on the asphalt. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, arms spread, soul open. She begged Heaven to strike her dead. Dared Hell to come take her. She’d had enough. 

“Smart girl.” Christian’s voice flew through her mind, carried by the wind that lifted the short hairs at the nape of her neck. “Death is the only way out of this.”

Y/N screamed. “Please!”

She felt the light hit her eyelids, burning them bright orange and red. She smiled, relieved that the angels were listening, and opened her eyes. 

Headlights blinded her and Y/N lifted her arms to shield her eyes. 

Dean slammed into her like a brick wall, knocking the breath from her lungs as he grabbed her up off of her feet, rushing her to the side of the road where they both fell in a heap on the grass, panting and terrified. 

“What the hell is wrong with you!” He screamed, rolling over her, pinning her to the cold ground. “You trying to get yourself killed?” 

Tears pushed out of her eyes, sliding down the corners, and she gasped for air, unable to control herself as he yelled. “Please...stop.” 

His face was red, nostrils flaring, jaw clenched. “Stop? I just fucking saved your life!” 

Y/N whimpered loudly as his voice crackled through her. Her bottom lip shook, her body trembling beneath him. 

Dean sat back on her legs and lifted a hand to scrub down his face. She saw the arm go up and cringed, turning away from him, afraid he was about to strike. 

“D-don’t.”

“Jesus, Y/N/N,” he gasped, climbing off of her and lowering his hand. “What the hell did he do to you?” 

Still shaking, she rolled onto her side and popped up on all fours, scurrying away from him as fast as she could. She didn’t get far, collapsing into a pile of weak limbs and flowing tears. 

“Baby, come on… please.” Dean went to her, falling down next to her head, listening in pain as she cried. “I’m sorry I screamed at you. I just- I don’t know what’s going on half the time anymore and I- You were standing in the middle of the road, talking to yourself. For fuck’s sake, Y/N, this can’t go on. You can’t go on like this.” 

Tears calming but heart aching, Y/N pushed up and sat on her heels, wiping her cheek with her sleeve. “What are you saying? That you’re done with me?”

Dean startled. “What? No…”

“That I’m too much of a fucking burden and you’re over it?” Her voice grew with anger and resentment. “You don’t want to have to deal with the crazy girl anymore?”

Dean shook his head and sat forward, reaching for her. “Y/N, no. Stop it.” 

“Oh, I’ll stop it.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll leave you to get on with your life, Dean Winchester. God forbid anyone else have a fucking trauma around here but you or Sam! I’ll just leave you two to it, then, shall I? The Righteous Man and the Boy With The Demon Blood, twin fucking assholes!” She turned, ready to run, but Dean’s cell phone rang, throwing her off track. 

He was frozen, staring at her as the ringtone blasted from his jacket pocket. 

“Well?” she yelled, one hand waving towards the sound. “You gonna answer it?” 

“I don’t know,” he said calmly. “You done yelling at me?” 

Y/N crossed her arms and sneered. “Yes.” 

Dean pulled the phone from his pocket and swiped, putting Sam on speaker. 

“Hey. Where are you guys?” 

Dean sighed. “Oh, just rolling around in a ditch by the side of the road. You?” 

“What? Just get back here. Rowena’s got something.” 

Y/N leaned in. “Rowena?” 

Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah. I asked her to look into a few things for us. She, uh- Just get home soon as you can.”

Dean nodded and pulled the phone closer. “OK. On our way.” 

As if he could sense her apprehension through the phone, Sam added, “Oh, Y/N? It’s a good thing.” 

She scoffed and looked away. “Yeah, yeah.” 

Dean ended the call and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. “You ready?” he asked, looking up at her. 

Y/N nodded gently and held out her hand to help him up. He mostly jumped, but she helped a little. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Dean licked his chapped lips and sighed. “Me too.”

After a glance that lasted a moment too long, Y/N turned and tried to start back for the car, but Dean refused to let her hand go. 

“What are you doing?” 

He turned his palm and pushed his fingers through hers, locking them together. “Not letting you go again,” he said, voice calm and sure. 

Y/N smiled and Dean blushed as she stared at him, an adorable laugh shaking her shoulders. “So much for no chick flick moments…” 

Dean gave her hand a tug as he walked off, pulling her behind him. “Yeah, shut up.” 

‘21 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278 @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart @amanda-teaches​ @beardburnsupersoldiers​ @because-imma-lady-assface​ @broiderie​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @cheritzie @cno92 @cosicas-cuquis @covered-byroses​ @crashdevlin​ @deansgirl215​ @defenderrosetyler @dontshootmespence @donnaintx​ @feelmyroarrrr @focusonspn​ @gabrielslittleangel​  @hannahindie​ @ilsawasanacrobat​ @justcallmeasmodeus​ @katelynw93​ @kittenofdoomage​  @laxe-from-outer-space @lyarr24​ @magicsharilynn @mariekoukie6661​ @missjenniferb​ @mylovelydame21​ @mysticmaxie​ @pandaxo79​ @pilaxia​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @squirrelnotsam​ @tatted-trina6​ @thoughts-and-funnies​ @typicalweirdbookworm​ @vulgar-library​ @winchestershiresauce​

Muddy Soul:

@starryeyeseunbyul​ @sycochick​ @vicmc624​ @jtink27 @lil-bitty-mushroom​ @couldabeenamermaid​ 

[evqnbuckley]

Chapter 2: A Price

7.2k words..........Okay this is taking on a life of it’s own but I promise, I promise there is a resolution. There is a happy ending. I’m just a sucker for pain and angst.... the rest is on ao3 @princesscas​

Two weeks go by in a daze. Sam has searched almost every book on the left side of the library. Eileen keeps the brothers hydrated and fed. Sam tells her not to worry about that, but she does. She bakes cookies occasionally, and brings home pie to cheer Dean up. He nods and half-heartedly grins in appreciation. Miracle cuddles Dean at night and licks his hand until he falls asleep. His presence is warm and comforting. Sam and Eileen both see Dean withdraw more and more everyday. They worry.

Dean is scanning through the online archives, with Miracle on the floor next to him fast asleep. He clicks on the topic NECROMANCY RITUALS. He knows it is a long shot but everything else is coming up dry. He scrolls down swiftly reading the pages, when something piques his interest. Upon first glance, most believe necromancy to be the darkest magick. Through further research it has been discovered that it’s only the first layer of what one can accomplish when tapping into that amount of power, darkness. Many rituals have culminated over time and within different cultures. However, one thing remains the same with Necromancy. A life for a life. Dean slowly sits up, removing his feet from the table. He swallows, and glances around the room. Eileen and Sam are giggling quietly. She shoves his arm in response to Sam’s remark. Dean pulls the laptop closer to him, and continues to read. Necromancy takes upon a life of its own. If one does not correctly perform the ritual, consequences may ensue. Those desperate to bring back a loved one should heed warning. Never perform the ritual on the second full moon during the harvest. Magick is unpredictable, but especially during the harvest the complications of Necromancy increase tremendously. Also, if you are to perform the ritual alone, it is to be exact. One mishap could lead to immediate death.  The ingredients vary slightly from ritual to ritual. It is appropriate to be diligent and perform with the correct offerings. Dean clicks the arrow for the next page, and it shows an error message. His brow creases  in confusion. He clicks the refresh button and the message appears again. He clicks four more times. The message remains on the page. Dean grows frustrated. He slams the laptop shut and stands.

“I’m going out.”

Sam and Eileen turn toward the noise, confused and shocked. “What? Why?” Sam questions.

Dean sighs, pulling on his jacket. “We’re getting nowhere. I feel claustrophobic and cooped up in this damn place. I haven’t left in two weeks. I need to stretch my legs. Get some air. I promise I’ll be back before curfew, Mom,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

“Dean-” Sam starts.

“I won’t do anything stupid, Sam.” He walks up the staircase and the bunker door slams.

Dean drives and drives and drives. He has no destination, but right now the road is welcoming. He runs his hand across the Impala’s steering wheel, slick, smooth and familiar. He almost forgets the feeling of driving his Baby. The trees and asphalt blur in his vision. The only thing Dean focuses on are the yellow lines on the road, but even those begin to blur as well. Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and azure eyes stare back at him. Fuck. 

He slows the car and pulls over. It's quiet. The Impala's headlights shine ahead, revealing an empty road. A bit of fog hangs loose above the ground. Dean sighs. He needs to get out of his head. There are too many thoughts and he feels like he wants to scream. Dean picks up his cell phone and pulls up Castiel's contact. His finger idles over the call button. Click. The line rings. And rings. And rings. And rings. There's a pause before the recorded voicemail answers. 

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice...a mail." Dean closes his eyes at the sound of Castiel’s voice. He only speaks for two seconds but Dean hears every syllable. His brow creases and he clenches his jaw to bury the pain. Dean hangs up. He calls again. 

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice...a mail." A tear falls down Dean's cheek. He needs to hear Castiel's real voice. He needs to see him again. Touch him. But he's gone. Wiping his nose with his sleeve, Dean notices a few tear stains on his shirt. 

Once again, he calls Castiel. Even though it's pointless. Even though he looks like a widower who can't let go. He calls Cas. The voicemail picks up again and Dean listens but he decides to not hang up. Not yet. The dial beeps, waiting for a voicemail to be recorded and Dean is still. He breathes in, motioning to speak, but stops. He hangs up. Anger rises in his chest. Why can't I leave a damn voicemail? He's angry at Castiel for leaving him. He's angry at Jack for leaving him. But most of all, he's angry at himself. At how he's failed to bring Castiel back. At how his best friend died and he didn't even say goodbye. At how he's known for a while his feelings about Castiel but never has the guts to admit it. 

Each thought churns his stomach more and more. The anger boils higher within him until he slams his palm against the steering wheel repeatedly. He cries out and covers his face with both hands, dropping the phone in his lap. Dean breathes in and picks the phone back up, hits redial and listens to the voicemail. I'm going to leave a fucking message. 

The dial beeps. Dean hesitates again but says quietly, "Hey it's me. Just wanted to hear your voice. The way you left- it's got me pretty messed up, man. I have to admit I never thought an angel was capable of emotions. You once told me I'm different. Well so are you. So I suppose my assumptions just make me an ass, huh?" He chuckles. "I'm sorry, Cas. I need you to know that. I need you to know th-that," he trails off. "Me too, Cas. I just need you to hear me, man." Dean pauses and rubs his brow with his index finger. "This is so stupid." He hangs up, and with a clench of his jaw, he pulls back onto the road.

On his aimless drive, Dean passes through a four way dirt road intersection. His memory of the deal with a crossroads demon to save Sam pops up. He considers trying to do the same for Castiel, but who knows if deals like that have much power in the Empty. 

Dean weighs the option before slamming on the brakes and makes a dangerous U-turn. He parks to the side and buries a small metal box with his picture along with other trinkets inside. Dean barely slides a layer of gravel over the box when he feels a presence.

“What have we here?” The demon peers around to face Dean. “A Winchester. Well, I feel honored.” The demon is possessing some young twenty year old kid, most likely a college student. He was probably Sam’s age when I pulled him from law school, Dean thinks. The demon straightens his dark suit jacket as Dean eyes him carefully. “So, are we just going to have a staring contest or do you have an offer to make?”

“I want to talk to Rowena," he demands. 

The demon stops, tilting his head. “She doesn’t take house calls.”

“We go way back. It’s important. Take me to her.” He states plainly.

“Uh, no.”

Dean stares down the demon. His green eyes flashing a dark olive with anger. His jaw clenches and he tightens his fists. Dean lunges forward, gripping at the demon’s collar and slams him against the Impala. He leans in, almost nose to nose as the demon smirks.

“Careful now, Dean I like it rough," the demon taunts. 

“Shut the fuck up. Why won’t Rowena answer my calls? Why won’t she see me?” His questions increase in volume with intensity. “Huh?”

The demon remains unprovoked. Dean pulls out the demon knife, threatening him. Eyeing the blade, the demon answers. “Alright, alright. I don’t know this for certain. I have just heard rumors, okay. Demons talking. But apparently Rowena was visited by the new God.”

Dean releases the demon, slowly in bewilderment. “What?” He says more to himself.

“Yea. They had this long ass meeting. Some demons are saying they came to an ‘understanding.’” The demon emphasizes with air quotes. He smooths out his jacket again and eyes Dean.

Dean’s eyes flick back and forth between the demon’s, searching for a hint of deceit. “The fuck does that mean?”

“I don’t know. I only know what I heard.” The demon walks away from Dean and turns back, facing him. “Listen, if you don’t want to make a deal I am just wasting my time. There are other losers out there desperate and willing to sell me their soul. It's kinda my job, so…" Dean is silent, staring at a large rock in the gravel. It’s much larger than the others, out of place really. 

The demon dramatically turns, as if he needs to walk away when he can just teleport. “Wait,” whispers Dean.

“I’m sorry what was that?”

“I said wait,” he raises his voice, normal volume. Dean sighs before continuing. He knows he told Sam he wouldn’t do anything stupid, but he has to know. “There is one thing I need to know. If I am to make any kind of deal right now, I need to know something first.”

“Yes?” The demon drags on the ‘s’ like a snake.

“Do you have access to the Empty? Can you make deals that involve it?”

The demon saunters toward Dean with a smirk. “Hm, maybe.” Dean’s face lightens up.

“Take me. Take me instead. Please man, I have tried everything. If you can trade me and Castiel-”

“Oh yes, Castiel. Castiel, the angel who defied Heaven and lost everything. The angel so love-sick with humanity he couldn't be a good soldier anymore. The angel so broken he wasn’t truly an angel anymore,” interrupts the demon. He smirks at Dean, digging into his emotions and adds, “Thanks to you.” Dean squints his eyes. He’s right. 

“Take me,” Dean steps forward.

The demon chuckles at the sight before him. A Winchester so distraught he’s almost on his knees begging for a kiss. “Truthfully, I can give you what you want. Death. Another eternity in Hell. I’ll even give you 6 months instead of 10 since you look so damn miserable. But it won’t save your precious angel. He’s stuck there.”

Dean’s expression falters. He gasps as the new sliver of hope rips his heart out, shattering it. The demon, chuckling, closes in on Dean, whispers in his ear. His breath is hot and moist against Dean's neck. He shivers in disgust. “You must have known I was lying. But why don’t you say we kiss and make up?”

With that, Dean slams the demon knife into his stomach and twists the handle. The demon yelps in surprise and then falls to the ground. The night air ruffles the neck of Dean’s jacket. Even with the long sleeves, he still grows goose bumps on his arms. An owl sounds from across the street, in a tall bare oak tree. Dean feels like he’s in a warped moment of time. The midnight sky, the sound of the owl, silence from the road, and a dead body before him. He continues to stare down at the body for quite some time. His head becomes numb, but in the sense he doesn’t feel real. He hates this feeling. It’s how he felt when Chuck told Sam and Dean they have no free will. He writes their stories. None of it is real. But now Chuck is gone, so this is real. 

Dean gets rid of the dead body, gathers the small metal box, and drives again. He drives for an hour until he comes across a small bar that resembles The Roadhouse. Dean softly smiles. The Impala driver door groans as Dean closes it. Music to my ears. Dean’s phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and the caller reads, “Sam.” He doesn’t want to deal with his brother’s concern or speech about self-destruction, so he declines the call. A notification for a voicemail pops up. Of course. Dean swings the door to the bar open and takes a seat in the middle. The stool is a bit worn down and the plastic is ripped, but the atmosphere is familiar and he appreciates the song "Bad Moon Rising" by Creedence Clearwater Revival filling the room. 

“What can I get for ya?” A petite, dark headed woman with bright, blue eyes asks from behind the bar. She actually resembles Pamela Barnes in some aspects. That makes Dean smile earnestly. 

“Double shot of whiskey, your strongest.”

“Coming right up,” she taps the counter and winks at Dean. He knows she is just flirting for a nice tip, but the gesture seems nice. After a few moments, the bartender comes around with a short glass full of dark, honey like colored liquid and slides it in front of Dean.

“Our strongest whiskey.”

“Thanks,” he lifts his glass up in appreciation and then takes a drink. The liquid burns as it flows down. He sucks a breath between his teeth and releases it slowly. “Damn.”

A few girls, confidently and bravely, approach Dean periodically throughout the night. Each one, he easily lets down. His younger self would be kicking him right now. In fact, twenty-seven year old Dean would jump at any chance to have sex with all of these women. Now, though, everything is different. The last girl, she has a few too many, becomes a bit too touchy with Dean. He has to continuously remove her hands, but when he glances away in embarrassment, she moves in to kiss him. He doesn’t reciprocate, and the woman pulls back, spilling with apologies. Dean assures her it’s fine and “we’ve all been there.” She nods in acceptance and shuffles away. No more women approach him after that.

Dean downs the remainder of his whiskey and orders another glass. “Damn, you’re pretty popular tonight with the ladies. Though, I can’t say I don’t blame them,” the bartender says.

Dean huffs in embarrassment. “Uh yea, right.”

She slides his second glass of whiskey across the counter and eyes him. He has dark circles under his eyes, a pretty thick five o’clock shadow, and he's staring at his left hand. “So, why are you here by yourself? Where’s your lucky lady?” She inquires.

Dean looks up, confused. “Huh?” She smiles at him, knowingly.

“You’ve been rejecting all these women all night. You’ve gotta be tied down to someone. There ain’t no other explanation.”

“Oh, uh, no lucky lady.”

“Lucky lad?” She implies.

Dean’s eyes widen and his expression falters. “No, no. No, it’s just me.” He sighs. The sound of Castiel’s voice saying, “I love you” replays in Dean’s head. “Why?”

“I just like to get to know my patrons while they visit me. In case they become regulars,” she says as she pours a light beer from the tap for another man at the bar.

“Hm,” he replies. I did have someone in my life, but I was the lucky one. The song overhead changes from “Renegade” by Styx to “I Want to Know What Love Is” by Foreigner. Around the edges of the room, couples slow dance to the song. 

“I love this song,” the dark-haired bartender says as she pours four shots of vodka.

Dean smirks. There was a time when he would never admit to liking this song, but not anymore. “I love this song too,” he agrees. 

Dean’s phone vibrates against his leg. The music drowns out his ring tone. The caller ID reads “Sam” again. He declines the call. A part of him feels bad, dodging Sam like this but he wants to be alone right now. This whiskey is warm and numbing but his mind is clear. The fuzziness has not consumed him yet. He needs something stronger. He can continue drinking whiskey, but he needs at least a full bottle. 

“Hey, sweetheart do you have anything stronger?”

The bartender leans across the counter, and points to her name tag. “My name is Riley, not sweetheart. And that is our strongest whiskey. We can try a different liquor? I have vodka.” She offers, holding up the bottle.

Dean shakes his head. “No, no. Doesn’t work.” He mutters to himself. Dean runs his fingers up and down the glass, mindlessly.

Riley eyes him. “You’re not a cop, are you?" She asks, carefully. Dean looks at her questioning the sudden inquiry and shakes his head. 

"Why?"

"No offense or anything, you are cute, but you look like shit. I see a lot of people, everyday, and I’m pretty good at reading people - comes with the job. I can tell you’re hurting. I won’t begin to guess who hurt you or what, but,” she trails off. “To be honest, it looks like you've been to Hell and back. I am just asking because you look like you could use a pick me up." She leans forward, speaking softly, "I can get you something stronger than whiskey. Not me personally, but I know a guy.”

“What do you mean you know a guy? Like drugs?”

She shushes him. “Yes, like drugs. Jesus, you don’t have to announce it. Cops come in here all the time.” Dean swallows the last of his whiskey.

“Hm. I don’t do drugs. Weed doesn’t count.” He pulls out his wallet and lays down a fifty dollar bill. Replacing the leather, he turns to Riley and salutes. “Thanks for the whiskey.”

“Hold on." She reaches for a napkin and pulls out a pen. On it, she writes an address and holds it out to Dean. “This is the last location I know of where the dealer hides out. It’s kind of shady looking. Strange people visit and some disappear. I know someone who kind of got wrapped up in all this and she,” Riley trails off. “Anyway, I just prefer not to involve the police anymore. They don’t believe in this kind of stuff.”

This whole situation seems off. He watches her, puzzled. Dean takes the napkin and reads the address. He recognizes the street but he’s never been around that area personally. “What did you mean by the police don’t believe in this stuff? Cops bust drug deals all the time.”

“It’s hard to explain. Just see for yourself, if you’re interested,” she trails off.

[space-paanda]

It’s been a while. But I really felt the need to spit out some kind of word vomit after so long. Try finding something to occupy my time and burn some energy. I feel tired writing this, it’s not coming as easily as it once did

Persona 5 / Reader

Akira Kurusu / Reader

Warnings

Hanahaki, Blood, Death, Heartbreak

It was hard to watch Akira and Makoto flirt, somewhat shamelessly at times. It was painful to think that you were suffering in silence, despite all the times you’d been told you didn’t have to.

How could you bring this up?

You spluttered again, leaning over the school garden bed in an attempt to scatter those red petals amongst the naturally falling rose petals. They looked almost like flakes of Mementos flame, being kicked up by your heart’s desperation.

Your heart would learn and give up soon enough.

You pulled out your red handkerchief and wiped your mouth. The blood faded easily into the red, and the rosy scent of crushed rose petals blended into your perfume.

It’s one benefit to having your disease align with your favorite flower - no one thought anything of the extra rosy smell or a few stray petals caught on your clothes. It was just part of you expressing your favorite things.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Was that the sound of your heart bursting or your phone’s message tone, you wonder, although the vibrations in your pocket give you a handy hint it’s the latter.

Pulling it from your pocket, your screen lights up to show off the conversation in the Phantom Thieves group chat. Ryuji, Ann, Futaba... Makoto and Akira.

Oh.

Where was Yusuke? It’s not like him to-

Makoto and Akira are being cutesy, even in the group chat. Not even wondering where Yusuke had disappeared would distract you from such a thing. You don’t know if they’re aware of how the interactions are coming across.

You wonder if they care. If they’ve noticed your withdrawal.

Are you ok?

It makes you stop for a moment, and the message notification disappears before you can fully register who it is who sent you the innocent question.

You pull out of the group chat and see Akira’s icon at the top of your chats. Why was he concerning himself with you now? He’ll have to wait.

You only just manage to push your phone back in your pocket and kneel before the flower bed again before you feel that rush in your throat. It’s thick, full again with rose petals and blood.

You have to lean over, grasp your stomach with one hand and bring your other hand to your mouth - you hated this part. Reaching far enough, you felt your gag begin and out came a cascade of - otherwise gorgeous - red petals.

You have to spit a few times to remove all the petals, some get stuck behind your teeth and under your tongue. If he saw them, it’d be over.

You wipe your mouth again and pull your phone back out.

I’m fine, why the sudden worry?

He takes only a few seconds to respond, and you ponder the possibility that your conversation is his priority right now.

You ran from cleaning time. You’re usually the last to leave

I had a doctor's appointment, but I booked it too early. I didn’t make it so I had to reschedule.

Could he believe that? He’s been more perceptive as of late, but that only applies when in person, right?

“Funny looking doctor appointment,” he calls. Akira tucks his phone into his pocket and adjusts the bag over his shoulder. As he does, Morgana shifts and pokes his head out sleepily, before settling back in for another catnap. “If you’re vomiting, I have some medication from the clinic.”

Of course, he would catch you. It wouldn’t be like him to not be in the right place at the wrong time. Akira was good like that, having a knack for finding you when you thought you needed to be alone most.

You pulled yourself to your feet, tucking the handkerchief into your pocket and turning to face him. You smiled. “Vomiting? No, not me!” You replied, gesturing to the garden bed. “Just a little cough, some phlegm. Nothing too bad.” Your tongue was skimming over your teeth, seeking petals that had snuck their way down to the corners of your mouth.

He tilted his head. Those gunmetal eyes were analyzing, so critical of your appearance. He wasn’t exactly the dumbest kid, but he didn’t present himself as the smartest at times, either. But he was always observant. He pushed his glasses up his nose slightly. “Something came out though. Looked red, was it blood?”

Akira was too observant for his own good. He came forwards to stand over you. He looked past you, to the flower bed. To the roses, and the piles of petals gathering by your feet.

You could hear him catch his breath. “Roses.”

“They’re my favorite.” You replied. You shrugged, almost as if to wipe the topic aside, but also helplessly. “I wanted to see them before they died.”

Roses only lasted a week, when cared for properly. Hours, when they’re cut and without water. Perhaps it was an indicator of how long you would survive. Would you survive to the end of his probation? Would you live a few months more?

“I’ve heard some roses are invasive, and people can opt to have them removed.” Akira knew, and it hurt to know he’d found out. He tucked his hands into his pockets, and his foot nudged the pile of rose petals.

The pile toppled, scattering the deep red further. 

You wrung your hands, glancing down to his feet as he pointed his toes up, and turned his foot. Your blood was smeared on his shoe. “I don’t want to remove them.” Your breathing was heavier than normal. It always was after throwing up the flowers.

“I’m sorry,” Akira whispered. You could only just catch it over the sound of students passing and their chatter. “I didn’t notice you were struggling. I could’ve helped sooner.”

Licking your lips, you reached up a hand and coughed into it dryly. You caught the few petals that sprung out. “Well, where were you? I’ve been struggling for a while, Akira...not much can be done now.” You turned to him and bowed. Your head was throbbing, and you could feel the exhaustion in your eyes whenever you blinked.

You knew you weren’t going to survive much longer, regardless of how much you hoped to make it to the end of Akira’s probation.

“I was trying to advance my skills, gather things for the Phantom Thieves-”

“Spending time with Ann, Ryuji, Futaba...Makoto.” You murmured. Your eyes stung a little when you blinked. Was that the tiredness, or were those tears trying to bubble through? Who knows anymore.

Akira used to make you feel such jubilation, tingle with happiness in each cell of your body. He caused butterflies in your stomach; your cheeks to hurt from smiling so much; your head to fog with thoughts of his own smile and laugh. But now...? Now he hurt you.

You loved him, you couldn’t hide it. It wasn’t enough anymore, to have him as a friend. There wasn’t time to be satisfied anymore.

There wasn’t time.

“I’m sorry. I meant to come to spend time with you, but...things got busy.” Akira replied, pressing a hand against your shoulder, nudging you to stand up. When you remained bowed, his brow furrowed. “[Y/N]?”

“I can’t, not anymore, Akira. I can’t be a Phantom Thief.”

When you stood up, you could see his glasses were sliding down his nose again, his eyes widening and his brows lifted high. His mouth hung open slightly.

“I can’t continue when I’m dying. I can’t pretend anymore.” You stepped away from him and picked up your school bag from the nearby bench. Rummaging through one of the pockets, you pulled out a bright red card, and held it out to him.

He hesitated a moment, before taking hold of it and turning it over to see the familiar Phantom Thief calling card design. There were significantly fewer words on it though. It smelled strongly of roses, having absorbed either your perfume or the scent of your disease.

Akira Kurusu

We were so close.

You stole my heart.

I couldn’t steal yours.

Now it’s too late.

But I wanted to tell you,

At least,

That I love you.

He looked up, but you’d walked away, shoulders hunched. A trail of roses followed after you, slipping from your hand as you walked. Some spilled out with coughs every few steps.

He felt his chest tighten, and he pressed the card to his lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I love you before I killed you.” He whispered.

You wouldn’t last the night. You were too far gone, to be saved by his love now. Surgery would leave you heartless, and your Persona wouldn’t hang around when there’s no heart in your rebellion. You wouldn’t feel the passion for the Phantom Thief cause, and you wouldn’t feel the exhilaration with him anymore.

When school began the following day, students were gathered in the gymnasium.

Akira looked to the stage and felt his heart squeeze, his breath escape.

There was your school portrait, surrounded by the red roses that had suffocated you in the night.

It was too late.

[alixsgardenofnope]

Nice To Meet You

Back again with this whole writing thing.

[Warnings: None really.]

With this in mind, please proceed at your own discretion.

. . . . Phobos isn't fond of politics, but as the last, and de facto leader, of his kind, he doesn't really have a choice in the matter, so when the United Universal Peace Organization calls for a meeting, he's legally and morally obligated to attend.

He doesn't hold much sway or power, not that he ever did in the past, but if his seat is left empty one too many times, others may see fit to replace him, and he's not ready to hand over the reins to just anyone. Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

The most troublesome part of it all, is that meetings like this can last anything from a couple hours, making the trip completely pointless, or could drag on as long as a week's time. The ideal, Phobos had decided a long time ago, was three days.

Long enough to make the trip worth the time and resources to get there, but short enough that he doesn't feel thoroughly drained by the experience.

Unfortunately, as he looks at his phone, useless in the middle of space away from any cell towers, save for acting as an expensive clock, Phobos sighs, accepting that he's in for the long haul, as a group of creatures from some far off corner of stars knows where argue about something trivial.

He's been here for four days now, and each time he thinks the matter is settled, their bickering starts anew. 

Phobos could scream.

But ultimately he just leans back in his chair and fiddles with the sleeve of his robes, needlessly fancy and uncomfortable things made of lace and some kind of stiff underlayment that keeps him from moving around all that much.

He misses his tracksuit.

"Lord Phobos?" A voice rumbles, drawing him from his thoughts. He looks up, only to be met with the towering figure of a lioness in some kind of military formal wear, hat tucked under her arm as she salutes him.

Phobos raises an eyebrow before standing, fixing his clothes a little bit, "That would be me, yes... I apologise, but who are...?"

"Captain Marta M. Meouch." She greets, offering him her hand, he takes it, a bit amused by how small his own looks within her grasp, "I believe you know my brother, Jazzlan?"

Phobos pauses, bringing his free hand up to cover his mouth as he stifles a laugh, "A-Ah, yes... Jazzlan... I just call him Meouch for the most part."

Captain Marta's face lights up, and she smiles, her eyes closing for a moment as she does so, "Sounds like Jazz. He's always preferred going by our last name... By any chance, um, gosh this is going to sound weird but... You see, I've been watching you for a time now."

Phobos' eyes widen.

"N-Not in a creepy way! Or maybe it's still creepy, but anyway..." She mumbles, "I overheard you talking about my brother and the rest of your friends during the last few meetings... Just here and there, but, I wanted to know if you could do me a favor? I-If you can spare the time that is?"

Phobos looks around the room, taking in the chaos, before turning to Captain Marta and nodding quickly.

"I have time, in fact, please get me out of here." He whispers, gently motioning for her to lead the way, "Anything to get out of listening to this for another hour."

Captain Marta nods and helps escort Phobos out of the room, and the two make their way to one of the empty rotundas away from the meeting hall.

Phobos takes a moment to stretch and kick off his shoes. He knows it's not exactly polite to wander around in a space like this barefoot, but his shoes, unpadded flats, haven't exactly been doing him any favors comfort wise.

The only thing stopping him from disrobing entirely is that he doesn't think he could recover politically, or socially, if anyone saw him. 

So the annoying robes stay on. For now anyway.

Turning back to Captain Marta, he finds the woman standing by one of the large viewing windows that overlooks Council City, a rather diverse and interesting community thanks to the United Universal Peace Organization's efforts... not that Phobos himself has seen much of it during his visits. He rarely even leaves his rooms, and despite many offers for him to stay with other officials, Phobos hardly trusts, or even likes, any of them enough to take them up on the offer.

As he comes to stand beside the woman, once again marvelling at just how tall she is compared to her brother, Phobos catches a look of sadness in her eyes, one he's all too familiar with.

"My brother has been away from home since I was a little girl." She begins, "I grew up without him for the most part, but I always heard stories from Ma about him... I won't pretend like I know anything about him personally, but Ma, she..."

Captain Marta trails off, rolling her shoulders a bit to ease the tension there.

"Ma would never say she loves one of us more than the rest, but Jazz... Jazz is always on her mind." She says, "She says she understands why he left, that she accepts it, but I know she would love to see him again... and I think Jazz owes her at least that much."

Phobos hums.

"Unless, has... has my brother said anything about, ya know, not wanting to see us... Her?" Captain Marta's expression turns a bit troubled at the thought, "Because, if he has, I can't exactly force him, ya know, he left for some reason, and I can't just... I can't assume to know what's going on with him... I just."

"He hasn't." Phobos says, looking up at the captain with a smile, "He doesn't talk about his home much, but most of the time it's positive."

"Most of the time?" She questions.

"It's not my place to discuss everything he's confided in me or our friends about." Phobos says, his tone ever so slightly defensive, but Captain Marta merely nods.

"I understand." She says with a sigh, deflating a smidge before straightening her posture, "Right. I should get to the point."

Phobos looks up at her, gesturing for her to go on.

"When you return, can you tell him what I told you? That Ma wants to see him? That she thinks about him often?"

Phobos nods, "I can do that."

"One more thing." She says, holding up one of her clawed fingers, "If possible... Do you have any recent photos of Jazzlan? Something I can give to Ma?"

"Oh, I have photos alright." Phobos grins, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

---

The week goes by quicker with the Captain's company, having managed to pull a few strings, Phobos was able to arrange for her to sit beside him during the concluding speeches, and promised to keep in touch, if only to update her on her brother.

He almost gives her his phone number before realizing that 1.) She doesn't have a phone, and 2.) She wouldn't be able to call him anyway, so they exchange direct links instead. He probably shouldn't use something official like that for socializing, but he can probably wiggle around the rules a bit, not like he has advisors who would get upset about it.

"It was great getting to meet you, Marta, you made all of this so much more interesting." Phobos says as he's boarding the shuttle to leave, "Next time I visit Council City, I'll be sure to invite you out for dinner or something."

"I'll hold you to it." She replies with a grin, before going wide eyed and digging into her pockets for something, "Here."

"What is this?" Phobos asks, looking at the small pouch she withdraws, taking it carefully.

"I had Ma send these through last night, open them when you're on the way home." Marta explains, tapping the pouch, "I think you'll like what's inside."

"If this is what I think it is, I think I will." He laughs, offering his hand to Marta, "I'll be off."

Marta takes his hand, "Take care."

---

"How did you get these?!" Meouch hisses in embarrassment as he chases Phobos around the kitchen table, making desperate reaches at the stack of photos clutched in his hand, "Who gave these to you???"

"Your ma!"

"You-!"

[bat-losers-inc]

Kintsugi: Chapter 11

Summary: Final Crisis/Red Robin AU. Dick admits Tim to a psychiatric facility after Bruce is lost in time. Jason finds him suffering at the hands of a Scarecrow-copycat and breaks him out. While safe in Jason’s apartment, Tim still struggles with panic attacks and drug withdrawal. At a loss for what to do, Jason calls Roy Harper.

Pairings: Jason Todd & Tim Drake, Jason Todd & Dick Grayson, Roy Harper & Jason Todd.

                                                   -   -   -   -

Tim stood in the kitchen and spun Jason’s burner phone around in quick circles on the countertop. He glanced up at Jason who was leaning against the other side of the counter, trying — and failing— to look casual. Between them, the clock on the wall ticked out the seconds in its endless rhythm.

Tim sighed. “I’m calling him again.”

He reached for the phone, but not before Jason slapped his hand down over it. “You’ve already called him twice in an hour. Maybe give it a little longer, yeah?”

“He could already be on a flight back to Star City.”

“He can’t leave here without picking up his stuff first.”

“Yes,” Tim countered. “I’m pretty sure he can.”

He gestured toward the living room couch where Roy had recently been bunking. A duffel bag rested against a stack of folded blankets on one end of the couch. “He packed light to begin with. I don’t think he’s gonna miss a few pairs of clothes and a travel toothbrush.”

Other than that there was no evidence that Roy ever lived here. It served as another reminder of how easily he could lose this lifeline— how Roy could step out that door one day, not return, and who would Tim turn to then? Jason? Well… yes, there was always Jason— would always be Jason. At least that he was getting more and more certain of with each passing day.

Jason held up his hands, placatingly. “Look, all I’m trying to say is that I don’t think we want to come off as desperate right now.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “We are desperate. I sure as shit don’t know the first thing about safely tapering off benzodiazepine. Jury’s still out on if you do.”

Jason’s expression tightened. “Now that’s just rude.”

He didn’t doubt that Jason could step up to the plate, take a crash course in drug treatment and recovery, and help him through it. It was the steep learning curve he was afraid of and the trial and error that went with it.

“Well, not for nothing, Jason, but if you get it wrong I could die.” They locked eyes and held each other's gaze in what seemed to be the world’s longest, and most judgemental, staring contest. Finally, Jason pulled his eyes away.

“You know what? Nope. We’re not doing this.” He grabbed the phone off the counter and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

Tim trailed him as he made his way out of the kitchen and headed for the garage. He called out at his retreating back, “Not doing what? Being realistic about this situation?”

“No,” Jason countered over his shoulder, still moving quickly through the rooms of his safehouse. “Turning on each other the second things get difficult and forgetting we’re in this together.”

Jason pushed open the door to the garage and Tim caught it behind him before it could swing shut in his face. “Whose we?”

“You, me, and Roy. We’re a team.”

Tim came up short, taking a moment to process that. He watched Jason from the top of the stairs as he messed around in a container, continuing his speech all the while. “We owe it to him to have a little faith and to give him some time to come back to us.”

“But what if he doesn’t—”

“Don’t think about that right now.”

Tim threw up his hands. “You say that like it’s so goddamn easy!”

“Give him time to call or come home, Tim. Until then, bristle brush or socket wrench?”

“What?” asked Tim. “What are we even doing out here?”

Jason smiled. “We’re gonna get my bike operational again. Take it apart, clean it, upgrade it if you’re still offering.”

Tim scowled. He knew what Jason was doing— trying to distract him with a project. If he really wanted him to get into a project he might let him get a head start on tracking down Bruce through all of human history instead of making him do manual labor. “I thought you were too poor to pay for upgrades.”

Jason shrugged and flipped an oil rag over one shoulder. “Eh, I’ll figure out something.”

Tim was beginning to think that was Jason’s approach to life.

“C’mon,” Jason wagged the bristle brush at him, smiling. “It might actually be fun.”

Tim descended the stairs and snatched the brush out of his hand. “You need to get out more if you think this is fun.”

Jason chucked a spare rag at him, hitting him square in the chest. “Wow, look who’s talking!”

Tim’s lips twitched into a smile.

He’d feared that hanging out with Jason would only be awkward— both of them too aware of their differences in age and personality. He was afraid that when reduced to casual small talk they’d suddenly realize how little they actually knew about each other. Eight years as “brothers”, coming together in blood feuds, stakeouts, and many dangerous missions and what did they really have to show for it? A couple of family photos, cell numbers saved in each other’s contacts list, and a handful of books shared throughout the years and forgetfully never returned.

But, despite his concerns, their time in the garage started casually enough as they shuffled around performing their own individual tasks. Tim laid down the tarps and placed the bike on its side. Jason stripped down to his undershirt despite the cold of the garage and put on a playlist jam-packed with Joan Jett and Blondie hits.

It was easy.

Before Tim knew it they had the bike broken down, all of its pieces spread on the tarp around them. The engine and some of the other larger pieces were pushed off to the side, a project for another day.

“Hey, Tim?” Jason said as he polished a tail light, “You know those emancipation papers you had Bruce sign.”

Tim looked up sharply from the exhaust pipe he’d been cleaning. “Yeah?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about something that you said earlier… about how Dick and I were using you to put each other down. You were right. I first took those papers because I remembered how worried you were at the diner, how you just wanted to file them and get your independence back. But when Dick was standing here telling me how shitty a brother I’ve been to you, I’d be lying if I said I did it for selfless reasons alone.”

Jason placed the tail light down on the ground and stared at his dirty hands. Tim just watched him, listening.

“I did want to throw those papers back in his face,” Jason continued. “I wanted to prove to him that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t need this family and their judgment. That I wasn’t the only one who could separate from the pack— that I wasn’t alone.”

“Jason,” Tim started, but already his words failed him, his tongue sitting as heavy as his heart inside his chest. What could he say to such a confession? Was it enough to say I understand? About how Jason had tried and failed so many times to come back into the fold that when he was presented with someone else who also wanted to cut that cord, he couldn’t help but encourage them to pick up the scissors. If only because two black sheep might then be able to make a little family of their own.

Was it selfish to be so lonely? To want someone who didn’t keep a strike count of your past mistakes, who said, I choose you as my family— just as you are. Tim didn’t think so.

“I don’t think you should file those papers, Tim. Because, if you do, you can’t take it back.”

“If I don’t, how am I supposed to live my life the way I want to? With no money and no ability to make my own decisions?”

“It might not be such an either-or situation… Dick and I came to a truce of sorts last night.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

Jason shook his head with a smile. “Yeah, don’t ask. But, I think if you give him time to think things through now that he got a full picture of the situation, he won’t petition the judge to extend the psych hold. As for unfreezing your bank accounts… I have a feeling he’s only going to do that once you’re through the worst of your detox and he’s certain that you won’t blow your money on feeding your high again. And he’s going to want to see that with his own eyes.”

“So, you’re saying, eventually I’m going to have to go see him and talk things out?”

Jason shrugged. “I can’t hide you from him forever, Tim.”

“Yeah, I know.” Tim fiddled with the exhaust pipe he still held in his hands. He wiped at the remaining grime with a few half-hearted sweeps of the oilcloth. “Hey, Jason?”

Jason glanced up at him through his bangs. “Yeah?”

“For all those times I never said it… thank you.”

Jason was quiet for a while with an unreadable expression stretched across his face. Finally, he stood up and offered Tim a hand. “It’s getting late. How about we see what we have for dinner?”

Tim let him pull him up off the floor. He glanced behind him at the garage door as Jason brushed the dust off his pants. “What about Roy?”

Jason put his hand on Tim’s shoulder and gave it a faint squeeze. “Cmon.”

Tim had no idea if Jason didn’t hear his question or purposely ignored it. The time was beginning to creep into the early evening hours and he had a feeling they were both thinking the same thing, even if nobody wanted to admit it— if Roy didn’t come back soon, he probably wouldn’t be coming back at all.

Tim didn’t think he had the courage to ask again, so instead, he trailed Jason back inside to help with dinner.

But, it turned out that Jason didn’t need much help in the kitchen, so Tim settled for keeping him company while he went about his business. He leaned next to the stove and watched as Jason sauteed sweet potatoes, onions, and strips of chicken together in a pan— a meal that smelled good enough to make even Tim’s usually nauseated stomach grumble. It had been a while since Tim had eaten a full meal. And this morning or well... afternoon was no different with both of them too tired and edgy to make up their minds on lunch. So Jason had made them both toast, which they ate standing around the counter staring at Jason’s burner phone, waiting for it to ring.

Jason pointed his spoon off to the right. “Go into the far cabinet and get some plates. This should be ready in a few minutes.”

Tim was lifting down plates when he heard the sound of a door closing. He turned to find Jason with his back to the stove, staring into the living room at Roy’s sudden appearance back in their lives.  

Tim clutched the plates closer to his chest. “You’re back. I mean, um, I’m happy you came back.”

“Yeah.” Roy barely seemed to hear him. He was too busy watching Jason watch him, a whole silent, unreadable exchange happening before Tim’s eyes.

“Can we talk?” asked Roy. It clearly wasn’t directed at Tim and Roy’s single-minded disregard of his presence struck him like a slap to the face.

Tim turned and placed the stack of plates on the counter, wishing he had a corner to hide in.

What a fucking idiot he was. In Roy’s mind, they were probably the farthest thing from friends and Tim couldn’t really blame him for thinking that. It was true. They were practically strangers. And after the stunt he pulled last night, Roy could confidently call him a stranger and an asshole.

“Sure,” Jason replied. “Tim, could you watch the food for me?”

Tim half-turned and accepted the wooden spoon out of Jason’s hand, managing a weak smile for his benefit. “Yeah, sure.”

Their footsteps faded out of earshot and then Tim was greeted with the slam of the garage door. He turned and stood alone in Jason’s kitchen, his only companions the sizzle of the skillet and his own troublesome thoughts. Of all the scenarios that Tim had prepared himself for, he’d never considered that Roy might show up again only to break it off officially.

Tim hurled the wooden spoon into the sink and sank heavily against the countertop.

We’re going to lose him and it’s all my fault.

                                                  -   -   -   -

“New project?” Roy asked, toeing at the loose bike parts spread out on the loading dock floor.

Jason watched him as he picked up a piece and examined it. He leaned back against the workbench and crossed his arms tightly, afraid that if left to their own devices one of his hands would pick up a nearby wrench and chuck it at Roy’s stupid, thoughtless head.

“So, you don’t answer your phone anymore, is that it?”

“I was at Blackgate talking to Croc.” said Roy. “You know I can’t bring it into the visitors center with me.”

“And what were you doing for the rest of the day? You had lunch in my safehouse in Old Gotham—at least that hour I can account for since you triggered my security system when you broke in. What about the other ten hours of the day?”

“NA,” Roy replied. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

Jason laughed. “Wow! So you must have hit every NA meeting from Blackgate to Grant Park in that time.”

He clapped slowly so Roy had time to realize what a load of bullshit it was to pull his ‘Narcotics Anonymous is anonymous for a reason’ card right now.

Roy glared at him. “Just get to your point, Jason. I know you have one.”

Yeah, why beat around the bush? “Tim was trying to reach you all day today. He wanted to apologize for last night.”

Roy flicked a tangle of copper hair out of his eyes. “Good. He should apologize for how he acted. He nearly got us all killed.”

Unbelievable, thought Jason. What a goddamn hypocrite. Didn’t he remember all those nights they stayed in shitty apartments in God-knows-where, because he’d blown half their money and left them stranded? Didn’t he remember how Jason always came and pulled him back from the edge — how he stayed up with him as he shivered and puked himself through another withdrawal?    

“You want to know what all this was for?” Jason gestured at the array of bike parts on the ground. “It’s because I didn’t know how to stand in that kitchen a moment longer reassuring him that it was all going to be okay when I wasn’t even sure myself.”

Jason shrugged and tilted his head in an attempt to catch Roy’s averted gaze— trying in vain to see past all the angry bullshit between them and find the friend he knew was still in there. “Did you even come back here to help?”

Roy kept his eyes on anything but Jason. “I came to talk to you.”

So, that was Roy code for ‘I haven’t decided yet’. Fantastic. “You should have called first.”

“Why?” asked Roy. “What does it matter if we talk here or on the phone?”

Jason stabbed a finger at the wall behind him. “It matters because of him. I made a deal with that kid to help him find Bruce if he starts to get clean— a deal that I can’t hold up without your help. It matters because— just now— when you walked back into our lives, Tim expected you to stay. I get it if you’re angry at me, but don’t you dare take it out on Tim.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to upset precious Timmy now, would we? Heaven forbid—”

“Stop. ” Jason was in front of Roy in an instant, a lug wrench clutched tightly in his grip. “I know you’re not this much of an asshole to take shots at a kid who just wants your help.”

Roy’s smile was bitter. “There is it. That’s your problem.”

Jason’s breathing was heavy. He could barely make out Roy’s words past the angry thump of blood in his temples. “What?”

“You're always going to choose him over me. Despite all your talk about being the black sheep of the family, you want back in with them so bad. And now you have your chance to prove you deserve it by taking care of Tim.”

Jason tried to put as much conviction as he could muster into his voice as he stared up at Roy’s green eyes. “You’re my family. I chose you as my family— ”

“You chose me as a cheap substitute.”

“This is not a fucking competition!” he snapped, whipping the wrench at the far wall. It struck, taking a chunk out of one of the bricks. Better the bricks than Roy’s head. “You know it isn’t. You know I will always be there for you.”

How long had these thoughts been festering in Roy’s head? Since last night? Longer? They had been together through thick and thin for years. Did Roy really just think it was out of convenience that he stuck around? That he’d just drop him the moment someone else came into his life?

“Really? Because you threw me to the wolves real quick last night when it came down to choosing between me and Tim.”

“I didn’t know that I’d have to choose anybody when I started this!” cried Jason. “We’re supposed to be a fucking team!”

“A team? Jason, a team requires trust. How can I agree to help when I can’t trust you to make decisions that will protect my interests as well as Tim’s?”

“He told you about our deal, right?” Jason turned towards the sound of the voice. “When I agreed to that deal I did it knowing I wasn’t just agreeing to work with him, but with you as well.”

The door at the top of the stairs was ajar, Tim’s frame discernable in the darkening shadows of the unlit hallway.

“Fuck,” Jason sighed, rubbing at his face. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

Roy crossed his arms. “Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to spy on private conversations?”

“I don’t think it counts as spying when I can hear you from all the way down the hall. And I think I’ve heard enough to know that you two come as a package deal, because when left on your own… you’re both kind of shit.”

“Gee, thanks.” Roy's eyes narrowed. “You’re really nailing this whole apology business.”

“Then, let me finish,” said Tim. “I am sorry for what I put you through last night, but we both know my apology alone isn’t going to fix shit. So, I’m here to tell you that I’m willing to do all I can to get clean. From now on our interests are going to be the same.”

Tim slipped into the room, his eyes still trained on Roy. “NA meetings, the twelve steps, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do as long as it helps me get clean and find Bruce because those are things I need. And while I appreciate someone looking out for me— ”

Now he shifted his gaze to Jason. “I don’t need favoritism, nor do I want it. If this is going to work, I can’t have you feeling like you need to choose between us. You just need to choose ‘us’. Okay?”

Jason rubbed at the back of his neck, the skin under his fingers hot with embarrassment and nodded. Looked like some of Tim’s old spunk was coming back after all.

Satisfied, Tim shifted back to Roy. “In case I haven’t made it totally clear yet. I’m not trying to replace you. I’m trying to work with you.”

Roy sighed and carded his hands through his hair. “It’s moments like this that really make me want a drink.”

It was unclear if Roy was talking to them or to himself.

“Would you settle for dinner?” Tim asked. “I set out a plate for you.”

Roy shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. “You really want me to stay, don’t you?”

Tim didn’t even blink. “Yes. You're my sponsor.”

Roy glanced over at Jason and back to Tim. Jason held his breath afraid he was going to jinx everything if he so much as breathed wrong.

“Alright.” Roy sidestepped Tim and climbed the stairs.

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. “Holy fuck, does that mean the dream team’s back together?”

“Don’t call us the dream team,” Roy called out from inside. “There isn’t an earth in all of the multi-verse were we’re somebody’s fucking dream team.”

Jason hooked Tim around the neck as he followed him up the stairs. He ruffled his hair playfully. “Good job, kid.”

[alejaosbastardos]

On the Road

Summary: Ten years after the massacre at the border, Daniel’s life had changed a lot, the death of his father and brother, his escape to Puerto Lobos to start a new life, dragging a past that he could never leave behind. When Daniel decided that he would never see a familiar face again, the past and the present cross in his road.

Chapter 3: Reunion

Chris couldn’t see anything.

Everything around him was dark, he could feel in his shoes some small rocks that hindered his passage. Chris kept walking cautiously around the area and raised his arms to avoid tripping over something.

But suddenly, everything around him lit up.

Around it there was nothing more than barren land with huge rocks that looked like mountains that crossed the ground, in the center of the place there was a huge flashing lantern.

Mantroid?

Why am I seeing it after so long?

Chris blinked confused without understanding anything and kept walking towards the lantern.

Whispers began to sound around him. Chris turned back to see if anyone else was following him, but there was only a huge horizon filled with rocks and barren land.

The sky was gray and the temperature was very cold. When Chris thought he was going to be able to touch the lantern, a huge dark figure rose from the place and opened his red eyes that looked at him menacingly.

"Do you think you will be able to recover your friends?" Said the figure with a mocking tone. "You should accept that you lost them forever, I thought ten years were enough for you to understand that they won't come back to you."

"That's a lie," Chris whispered. "None of this is their fault."

"Do you really think so? Who would want to be friends with a brat like you?" He smiled maliciously. "A loser boy who only knows how to lose his loved ones, or should I remind you of how your mother died for wanting to buy the toy of her son."

"Shut up." Chris cried out loud. "Don't you dare talk about my mother, son of a bitch!"

"Oh Chris, look how scared I am about your threats." The figure responded mockingly. "I don't understand why Daniel saved your life that day, he is as useless as you, your father would be more relieved if you had died."

"I imagine being him and having the burden of my wife dying because my son's useless wanted a toy." The devilish figure was lamented. "What do you think about it? If you hadn't been born none of this would have happened.."

"Enough." Chris replied in distress.

"If the useless one of your friend would not have saved your ass that day, he might not have had to flee the police, and he would be with his grandparents at this time, and not being a fugitive from justice in Mexico."

"I said shut up!" Chris said punching the creature.

The devilish creature broke into Chris's arms and a dark laugh was heard all over the place.

"Chris, I'm not a mortal like you." Chris felt a chill on his back when he heard the creature's voice behind him. "I am everywhere."

And before Chris could face him he felt a blow to his head.

________________________

Chris woke up suddenly over his seat on the bus.

What time is it? He thought looking at his watch.

Saturday, August 8.

8:30 a.m

Chris leaned back in his seat and touched his aching head, a headache began to bother him after waking up startled. He hated nightmares, he stopped having them two years after living with his grandparents.

Chris looked at the window.

The landscape had changed, before he only saw only trees, now there is only desert.

“Estimados pasajeros, dentro de unos 20 minutos más vamos a llegar a Puerto Lobos, vamos a repartir el desayuno en este momento, y por favor, cuando lleguemos no olviden su equipaje.” A girl communicated through the microphone.

"Dear passengers, in about 20 more minutes we will arrive in Puerto Lobos, we will distribute breakfast at this time and please, when we arrive don’t forget your luggage." The girl repeated in english.

Chris would lie if he said he didn't felt nervous. He feels nervous about everything, meeting with Daniel and Sean after so much time, being in a country alone, not speaking the language.

Chris had taken Spanish classes in high school, and had been studying what was necessary before traveling to Mexico and yet, when he arrived at the Hermosillo airport he had felt lost, however, thanks to the paper delivered by the airline receptionist, he could explain to the taxi driver that he needed to go to the terminal to take a bus.

After spending the night in a hostel near the terminal, luckily the hostel the receptionist could speak English, buying the ticket to Puerto Lobos was another problem.

The employee at the bus terminal, only repeated that he didn’t speak English while Chris tried to explain that he wanted a ticket to Puerto Lobos. However, thanks to his cell phone he translated the sentence to copy it on a sheet paper and give it to him.

"Good Morning!" He was greeted by a girl. "Here is your breakfast, thanks for traveling with us!"

Chris took the breakfast and answered a "thank you".

"Estimados pasajeros hemos llegado a nuestro destino, muchas gracias por viajar con nosotros." The same girl communicated again through the microphone.

"Dear passengers, we have reached our destination, thank you very much for traveling with us."

__________________________

After Chris left the bus with his backpack and looked for his suitcase, he sat down on a bench in the terminal to eat the breakfast he had been given.

And now what?

Where can he start looking for Daniel and Sean?

The heat began to annoy Chris so he took off his coat.

What if he started asking about Daniel and Sean somewhere known?

What site was known in Puerto Lobos?

Suddenly Chris heard two people speaking in English beside him. It was a couple who were discussing where to visit before going to lunch.

"We should go to the beach and then eat at a restaurant where they sell seafood. You don't think so." A girl with blue eyes and blond hair said to her husband with brown skin and brown eyes.

"We should rest from the trip first baby"

"But it's 9:30 in the morning!"

"Umn... Excuse me.."

They both turned in the direction of the voice of the young man who spoke to them.

"Sorry to bother you, my name is Chris and it's the first time I've come to Mexico." The boy said it embarrassed.

The couple looked at each other and smiled at the boy.

"Are you only here?" The girl asked with a smile.

"Yes."

"But you look so young!"

"I'm 20 years old, I'm adult enough to travel alone."

The boy who was with the girl burst out laughing.

"Smart boy, where are you from?" Asked the dark boy.

"From Oregon, Seattle." Chris replied with a smile. "And you?"

"I am from Texas, Dallas." the blue-eyed girl replied.

"I was born in the capital of Mexico, but we currently live together in Dallas, we are on vacation for our honeymoon." The boy explained.

"My name is Sasha and his name is José, nice to meet you Chris!" The woman smiled. "How can we help you?"

"I'm looking for some crowded place in town, I need to find some old friends." Chris explained. "The problem is that I don't know where to start."

"Why don't you visit the town center?" José asked. "This town is very small, if your friends are here I don't think you have any problem finding them there."

"In addition it is the commercial zone of Puerto Lobos, any shop that you are looking for is there, the rest of the place are houses of the habitants." Sasha concluded.

Chris looked around the exit of the terminal.

"Here is everything super close amigo, walking from here to the center is 15 minutes, you just need your GPS on to not get lost." José replied as if he had read his thoughts.

Chris nodded.

"Thank you very much for your help, really." Chris thanked him sincerely with a smile. "I’m sorry for having bothered you"

"You're so cute." Sasha replied.

"I hope you are lucky in your little search, in the center of Puerto Lobos there are several good restaurants in case you are hungry." José advised him as he winked an eye. "Have fun, Mexico is wonderful."

Sasha said goodbye to Chris and took her husband's hand to address what looked like a small coffee shop in the terminal.

Chris turned on his cell phone and placed himself on the map through his GPS. His main reason here is to find Daniel and Sean, but he had brought his professional camera to take some good photos of the place.

And what better way than walking through Puerto Lobos?

___________________________

3:00 p.m

Chris has toured the entire shopping center of Puerto Lobos, he had forgotten to count the number of shops and places he had entered, he found Mexican craftsmanship super striking, there were many virgins, skulls and handmade hats.

But there is no trace of Daniel and Sean.

Chris's stomach began to growl and he was tired of walking so much dragging his luggage, so he decided to enter a small restaurant near the beach.

"Buenas tardes! Bienvenido a Don Cangrejo! Qué desea ordenar?” The waiter asked very animatedly.

"Emm, hola, yo no hablo español bien."

"Oh, wait a moment." He responded by withdrawing from the site to go to a brunette girl with black hair who was cleaning a table, he whispered something in her ear.

A few minutes later the girl approaches Chris with a smile on her face.

"Good afternoon! Please take a seat."

Chris sighed in relief knowing someone could understand him.

"What do you want to order?"

"Do you have crab soup please?"

"Anything else you would like to order?" She asked as she wrote down everything in a small notebook.

Chris shook his head.

"I will be right back a few minutes with your order."

"Thank you."

Chris felt sad and unmotivated, he had entered every place and asked people who understood English if they knew who are Daniel and Sean Díaz.

No one knew who he was talking about.

And what if Daniel and Sean were no longer in Puerto Lobos? If so, this trip had been a waste of time.

The idea of finding them again suddenly looked so far away again. Karen will be sad when Chris talks to her.

A sigh of discouragement escaped Chris's lips.

The girl who brought his food watched him curiously as she left his plate on the table.

"Hey, can I help you with something?"

"I don't think... I'm looking for someone." Chris replied.

"And what is the name of that person?"

"Daniel and Sean Díaz, do you know them? They came to this place 10 years ago."

The girl shooked her head.

"I've never heard that name, Sean... And well, there are many Daniel here, but I've never heard the last name here." The girl replied. "Sorry, are you sure they are here?

Chris took a sip of his soup, his hunger had suddenly taken off.

"I don’t know." He replied sad.

_____________________________

It was 4:00 p.m., Chris was walking near the street while dragging his suitcase, he didn't know what to do now, in a few hours it will get dark and he had no place to stay to sleep. The money he had brought was not much to afford great luxuries.

Suddenly Chris felt someone cover his mouth from behind and point him with something sharp to his neck.

"Shhhhh... tranquilo guerito." A man whispered from behind as he brought the knife to his neck. "Nobody here wants to hurt you... I just want you to give us that suitcase you are dragging."

Chris heard the laughter of other men, they were more than one he thought.

He released the handle of the suitcase and felt someone took it.

"So, I like that you are that kind of tourists, calm and obedient, you better not look back the next 5 minutes when I release you, or this knife will end up in your eye."

Chris raised his hands, the unknown man released and pushed him to the ground. He heard the footsteps of the gang members running away and tears of rage sprouted from Chris's eyes.

It was a bad idea to come here. he thought.

The sky still looked beautiful blue as the sun began to approach the coast.

Chris wiped away his tears and kept walking without knowing where he was going, he thought he should find a place to spend the night and then leave Puerto Lobos in the morning and go to the nearest airport.

Suddenly a person caught Chris's attention.

A boy who was on his back on the seashore was drawing in an old sketchbook, he looked thoughtful, absorbed in his thoughts.

Chris got a little closer to him to see the drawing, but before he could see it the boy with dyed hair closed the sketchbook.

Chris froze a little in the place thinking the boy had noticed his presence, but when he see that his gaze was lost on the coast, he sighed in relief.

This is the moment when I should walk away. He thought.

But the boy's side face looked miserable, as if he had lived the worst tragedy of his life..

Chris wanted to approach him and ask him what was wrong.

Silly idea. He thought, the boy looked dangerous, the best was to walk away.

But before he could keep walking, the dyed hair boy turned sharply to face him while looking at him menacingly.

Chris felt that his heart was going to leave his chest at any moment when their eyes met.

Daniel?

[debbie-tanthorey]

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony.  A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently.  An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up.  Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended).  Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch)  He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.”  The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot.  B-word leads to the C-word. 

Alone now in my car, I fall apart.  Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see.  A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac.  Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this.  (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔)  Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion.  The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week.  What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions.  All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying.  Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.”  His reassurance tempers my panic . .  life resumes. 

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't.  Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda.  Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor.  Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.  

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.”  Did.  Friday, March 6.  Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one. 

“Sure” 

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’  She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her.  She and Ian were married 18 months ago.  Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9.  Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk.  Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn.  Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread.  Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work.  This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before.  A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10.  Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect.  She's calm.  So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second.  Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs.  The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head.  It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me.  Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope.  I do.  And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters.  Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed.  A mistake, surely so.  Just a glitch in the system.  “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in.  I’m in luck, they can.  So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery.  Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away.  Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either.  Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one.  Fact of the matter, there is NO lump! 

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia.  He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again.  This day I say, ‘ok'. 

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case.  ????  While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy.  Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson.  I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though.  COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car.  At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone.  And it's too quiet in here.  The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here.  I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important??  Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease.   Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it.  (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!)  In reality, robotically, walk over to look.  There it is, plain as day.  The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot.  Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh.  No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me.  The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me.  No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop?  That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a  face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure.  There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below.  Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed.  Needles are fun, aren't they??!  (eye roll)  Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me.  (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room)  And it begins.  Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells.  Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way.  Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY.  First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door.  Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator.  Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks.  As I wait, pilfer on my ipad.  Name is called, off I go.  Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me.  He begins  talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”  

IT 

“...(I go effectively deaf)  blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly.  What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE.  Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently.  Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?)  REALITY  Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally.  Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available.  (drifting off  - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.)  Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine.  The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!!  THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it.  Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP.  Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag.  Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.  

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door.  (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19.  Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk.  I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place.  Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids.   Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth.  All the while knowing the beast is growing.  

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16.  Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know.  I have breast cancer.  There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG.  Am a zombie.  A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.  

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek.  Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb.  Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention.  Vomiting would be a blessing about now.  I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??  

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed)  I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces.  Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that.  Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces.  Watch them absorb what they now understand.  I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George.  This is the first time I will say the words.  Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her.  (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright.  She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast. 

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went.  Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there.  Am thankful I am not them.  He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question.  My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit.  Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.  

Life is insane. 

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between.  Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it.  What to do. What. To. Do.  Staying right-minded is the aim.  Crave it.  C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there.  OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3.  I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me.  Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event.  Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy.  Every day I plow through my work to-do list.  Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.  

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery.  Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow.  A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus.  A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives.  In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.  

Sleeping is not an issue during these days.  It’s my safe place.  Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago.  (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.  

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation.  I waffle.  At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace.  Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children.  No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go.  Acknowledgement.  A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them.  They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them.  They’re part of who we are.   Mine are set for execution.  It’s them or me.

Time ticks by. 

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15.  Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive.  True.  This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor.  I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING.  So expect the worst.  Naturally.  Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk.  I notice what great hair he has.  Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first)  expect that.  Did.  Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything.  Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core.  What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.”  Meaning that tiny prick was it.  Say what now?  Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes.  I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home.  Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for.  Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them.  Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020.  DtoDD DAY.  Death to DD’s Day.  (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom.  Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same.  Gee, I hope I come back.”  Melodramatic to a fault I am.  Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour.  Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed??  Well, it is.  Apocolyptically-quiet.  Surreal.  Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though.  Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain.   I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes.  Dark room, humming machine.  Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m.  Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real  Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal.  I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest)  you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?”  (yes, I really did say it)  Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table.  I do.  My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here.  In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things.  Arms, legs . .  belt around my abdomen.  Am picturing masked-ants.  Busy, busy.  Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head.  I feel FINE  Am here, but not here.  Oh God.  Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air.  Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating,  “Debbie, wake up.  Can you hear me?”  Awake.  Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD” 

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it.  Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened.  Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me.  I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me.  Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how.  Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive.  Not moving.  Lord, what have I done?  Ice packs under both arms.  Detest feeling this gross.  I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself.  Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????!  God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors.  Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor.  No big deal.  Not much to tell.  Post on facebook that I survived.  Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME.  Here’s where it gets funny.  Seriously.  Humorous.   Reality.   My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days.  Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance.  Stubborn.  Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds.  First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch.   Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not.  Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!”  Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge.  “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!”  She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed.   Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction.   With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!!   It works!!  Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.  

Drains.  Grateful to only require two.  Three times a day they need emptying.  Unceremoniously, Leah’s job.  When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery.  These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side.  The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice.   (you winched at the visual, didn’t you?  haha)  They get full.  Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color.  Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction.   eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing.  (shudder)  Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.”  (rap, rap, smack)  “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).”  My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot.  Really HOT.  She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading.  Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her.  Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23.  A week passes, mostly uneventful.  Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing.  Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD.  I feel terrible.  Blah - which to me, IS terrible.  No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’)  Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day.  The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately.  I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive. 

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim.  (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL  Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power.  I have no power, drained dry.  Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area.  Pitiful.  I hate this.  Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me.  My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room.  sigh  I need a transfusion.  I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back.  Where’d Debbie go??!! 

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait.  Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction.  I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS.  (how embarrassing)  “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you.  STOP THEM.” 

huh?????! 

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.”  Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius.  (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze.  TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!!  Geez . .the tunnel, the light . .  THIS IS WHY!!!  TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!!  Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well.  Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there.  In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment  with oncologist in May to discuss options.  Why???  Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK. 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting.  Yes and no, in that order.  Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’.  For good reason.  Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!!  And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it.  Too few days of relief pass swiftly -  the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself.  But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that.  I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored.  ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL.  It’s normalcy.  And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March.  Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work.  Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way.  I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

THURSDAY, APRIL 30.  Meet-my-oncologist day.  (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??!  Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further.  Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!!  Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone.  Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in.  Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair.  I absorb the room.  Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do.  A few patients are here.  One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there.  Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban.  And there’s me.  Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.  

Name called.  BP and weight.  Perks of the day . .  bp is good, especially good for me.  Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs.  I’ll take it!!  Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction! 

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire.  Ugh.  Bottom of the page.  Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation.  Here we go . .  Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying)  Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals)  Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S.  Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”)   Janice / mom / is 81.  Terry / brother / is 55.”  Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . .  Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart.  Two verbal inquires of me - 

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely” 

He pauses.  He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details.  “Never?” he queries again.  Shake my head in the negative.  Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer.  No sense at all.” 

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!)  the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me.  Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally.  I consent.  He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated.  Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream)  If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen.  Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc.  Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures.  (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE)  Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back.  Come see me in two weeks please.   Oh wait . .  you drive quite a distance to get here, right?  Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh  . . .  so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way.  CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on  ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’.  TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results.   (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator.  Am still me, after all.  My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment.  By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score.  Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself.  I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd.  Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office.  One last day not having to call, know anything.  Ignorant bliss.  Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center.  I stop breathing.  Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’  Not breathing.   HERE WE GO  (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart.  Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.)  Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%.  Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?”  17    “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call.  Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . .  with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH!   For the moment, issued a reprieve.  I soak it up.  Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing.  Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

[gwaciechang]

Love Run (6/15?)

“By hook or by crooked look give me land One fist holds a lighter the other your hand.”

Yes, I changed the chapter count, because I’ve lost control of my life.

This chapter is going to deal heavily with withdrawal, cravings, and the reality of not being able to be there for your detoxing friends, things that I didn’t go into before and were pointed out to me as things I need to write. The ending changes tone abruptly because both my editors told me I need to tone down the drama. So, here you both go.

This time, when you wake up, it’s because the sheets are soaked and the bed is trembling. Bobby looks like death warmed over, with one hand clutching his stomach and the other muffling the pained sounds from his mouth.

“Is it your burns?” you ask. The hospital had given Bobby a bag of disinfectant and something else, but you didn’t know where he’d put them, or even if there’s any left.

He gives the tiniest shake of his head and curls up even further, miserable. Ah, right, you’re unfortunately familiar with this type of agony.

“Let me help you to the bathroom,” you put your arm around his shoulders again, and it’'s a sign of just how much he trusts you that he actually puts his head on top of yours. He still slams the door closed as soon as he reaches the bathroom, and you hear the sounds of retching through the door. It seems to go on forever.

You have to rummage through your jeans drawer to find your phone and dial Chloe. She picks up within seconds, and her voice is calm and direct, ready to take charge. “Speak, I’m here.” It’s exactly what you need right now.

“How did you do it? Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Clean up after me when I was detoxing.”

“Because someone needed to do what had to be done,” and it sounds so simple when she says it. “Once you know you can’t live without someone, you find out exactly how many bridges you’re willing to burn to focus on them, how many favors you’ll call to get hospital equipment delivered to your house, and just how far you’re willing to go to keep them alive when they’re begging to die.”

The toilet flushes, and then there’s more splashing, but no retching this time.

“Who’s there with you?” her voice is openly suspicious.

“He’s not Scott, you don’t have to worry.”

“Of course I have to worry. Did you not hear what I just said about living without you?”

“Yes, and it's true. But I’m not as well-connected as you are. I can’t get hospital equipment delivered to my apartment.”

She snorts. “So your limit is going to a methadone clinic?”

You hang up, furious. The energy buzzing under your skin isn’t itchy, nothing like the energy of a high. You use your phone to look up where you can afford to go, empty your savings account, and get dressed. Then you throw open the bathroom door.

Bobby shivers in the front seat next to you in Chloe’s car, pausing every few seconds to barf into an empty soft drink cup left over from the last time you borrowed this car a few days ago.

“We’ll be there soon,” you shoot a look at him and he looks just as miserable as you expected.

“It’s full,” he rasps, holding up the cup.

“Um, there should be a plastic bag in the glove compartment I’m not using,” you say absently. Only when Bobby’s already unlatched the cover do you remember why there’s a plastic bag in your sister's glove compartment. But it’s too late, Bobby has his secret stash in his hand.

“Don’t take that,” you say sternly.

“Just a little,” he whimpers.

“You can’t take that in here, you’ll trigger me and then I’ll start to throw up. And you’ll get my vomit on you.”

“You can go outside,” he tries and fails to open the bag with trembling fingers. It’s a sign of just how far gone he is that the idea of you puking on him doesn’t even make him flinch.

“You can’t take that in my sister’s car!” you’re only distantly aware that you’re screaming again. “She’ll smell it, she’ll think it’s me, she’ll stop talking to me again, they all will. Bobby, please, I’m begging you, please!”

He shakes, but after a few tense seconds, tosses it back into the glove compartment and shuts it with a snarl. He spends the rest of the ride staring out the window, occasionally rolling it down to throw up.

You’ve barely taken your hand off the steering wheel to pat his knee when he barks, “Keep your eyes on the road!”

It’s like those words lock your muscles into place. You snap back into driving mode and don’t so much as twitch until after you park. He refuses to let you help him inside, and you watch helplessly as he trails behind you, shrinking into himself with every step.

“You’re Robin Choi?” the woman at the front desk grabs some forms from one side of her computer. “I need you to fill out this consent form for your admit-oh,” she pauses as she sees Bobby stagger in. “I see,” she puts the forms back and grabs a hefty packet from the other side. “So you’re financing his admittance.”

A spark of awareness enters Bobby’s eyes. “You’re what?” he asks flatly.

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” you say at the same time Bobby says, “Yes.”

“You told me you can't afford heating,” he grabs the counter to keep from falling to the floor. “You definitely can’t afford this.”

“I can’t afford to have you in my apartment right now,” you know you’re being harsh, but you’ll be harsher if it means keeping him alive.

“Ma’am,” you turn back to the woman who, this close, you can tell is wearing a nametag that says Madeleine. “He really needs help.”

She nods sympathetically, and motions for two a nurse to come over.

Bobby squeezes his eyes shut and flinches toward you, away from the nurse.

“I’ve got him,” you step between him and the nurse, and he easily puts his arm around your shoulders and limps down to the room the nurse leads you to. His breath hitches in his throat when he sees the bed, so you sit down on it first and pull him down into your lap. When the nurse reaches for his arm to replenish his fluids, he shakes his head and shrinks into you.

“Come on,” you wrap your right hand on his, and pull it toward the nurse, squeezing in patterns of six, humming Queen.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his chest. You can hear his rapid heartbeat slow down at the praise. He squeezes back, and there’s a rumble in his chest. He’s humming back.

“I have money,” he whispers in your ear. “I’ll pay for this. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice so much to deal with me.”

“I’m not sacrificing anything,” you fist your hand into the back of his shirt with your free hand and pull him closer. “And I know you have money,” you admit, “I looked in the box on my dresser. I needed to see if you had drugs in my apartment. I’m sorry,” you take further liberties by turning your face into his chest so his shirt soaks up your tears. “I know it was invasive and I broke your trust.”

“I understand,” he forgives so easily. “You need to protect yourself, I understand, it’s alright.”

Bobby’s skin takes on a pinker shade. You start to realize how sallow and unhealthy-looking he had been until now. “Are you feeling better?” you ask.

He nods against your head. “Thank you,” he sounds almost reverent.

“I just want to help,” you hope he really believes you. “It’s so much better on the other side, Bobby. Being independent, setting a schedule, having a job-” shit, you forgot to tell your boss that you’d be late.

Bobby feels you freeze under him, and he lets go. “Do you need to leave?”

“I forgot to call in,” you take your phone out. No signal, weird.

“You have to make your calls outside,” the nurse says. “We have a cell phone jammer for security.”

“You turn back to Bobby. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” you pat his cheek.

He doesn’t look at you, but he nods against your hand, and that’s good enough. You run outside and your manager picks up within seconds.

“Oh, are you actually coming in today?” you expected his unhappy tone, but not those exact words.

“Um-”

“Because honestly, I might just keep your sister around. You didn’t tell me she was such a fantastic bartender.”

God fucking dammit. This was the one area you thought you were better at than her. She could burn soup, while you made fancy-ass noodles. You knew exactly which fruity flavors went best with vodka, and she once tried to mix orange soda with Bailey’s. But no, apparently she had to one-up you in this area as well.

“That's great, Jack. I was just checking in, making sure she hasn’t poisoned anyone.”

“She hasn’t, but-” he expels a huff of air. “Um, she wants me to let you know, ow, ow, you definitely still have your job,” his voice takes on a much higher pitch.

“Jack, are you okay?”

“Fine, fine, I’m absolutely not being threatened with a knife right now.”

You smother a laugh. Chloe was a piece of shit, but she did care, in her own way. “I’ll see you later, Jack,” and you hang up before he could beg for mercy.

When you go back into the clinic, Madeleine hangs up the phone with a shellshocked expression. “Ms. Choi,” she calls to you, “your insurance just called, and it will foot the bill for your husband’s treatment.”

You feel your cheeks heat. “Um, great, thanks, I’ll let my, uh, husband know that, so you don’t need to tell him anything,” you practically run back into Bobby's room. How the fuck did she know exactly where you were? Was there some sort of spyware in your phone? And oh god, had she filed some sort of paperwork to marry you and Bobby? How would that even have gone through so fast?

“Is everything alright?” Bobby’s voice is soft with concern as he wraps his arm back around you.

“My sister’s a little shit,” you tell him loudly, and, sure enough, your phone pings with a text from Chloe, despite the fact that it’s on vibrate. It’s just a string of random numbers and letters, which is weird because she doesn’t usually refrain from swearing via text. But you’ve also never gotten texts from her while she was at your workplace before, so you shrug it off and enjoy the feeling of being in Bobby’s arms.

[mollysmythtymsyllom]

A Chance to Save a Life

[Saturday 11:27 PM]

Will stumbled across his kitchen, knocking into a chair on his way to the freezer and toppeling it over as he passed. He cursed his younger brother under his breath as he opened the freezer door, pulling down a bag of frozen peas. He could feel the dried blood on the side of his face, cracked and peeling. At least he wasn’t still bleeding. He didn’t know how long he had been knocked out. Will pressed the frozen vegetables against the side of his face, just over his left eyebrow, right where Zach had punched him. What happened? He thought to himself, fighting to forget about the pain he was feeling and to focus on why Zach had punched him. He was forgetting something very important, something urgent, but what was it? Will moved to pick up the chair that he had knocked over, propping it upright and taking a seat at his kitchen table.

[Saturday 6:04 PM]

Ryan’s hands were in her pockets, fists balled as she walked, trying not to think about just how badly she was craving a good high. Quitting cold turkey was not easy, but she wanted to do it for Pam. She wanted to get better, to be better. She wanted to get away from Scott Mason and his evil ways. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the man anymore. Leave Scott to me. That’s what Pam had said, leave Scott to me. Ryan was nervous about what that could mean. She didn’t want Pam to start killing again. Not for her. It had been about a week since Ryan had stopped using, about a week since she had gone to Scott Mason for more drugs. He had called her a few times, but each time she had ignored the call. Little did she know that she was just angering the man.

As Ryan walked, she started to feel like she was being followed. She knew that parinora was just one of the many symptoms that came along with withdrawal, but that didn’t stop the feeling from consuming her. Ryan picked up her pace, and the man behind her did too. She broke out into a run, ducking and dodging the other city goers as she moved along the sidewalk. Maybe she would have been fast enough to get away from the man if she wasn’t so weak from withdrawal, but that wasn’t the case. The man caught up with her, and as she turned to face him, ready to start calling out for help, she froze, recognizing him for a brief second. The man standing in front of her was Scott’s right hand man, Ben Samson. The split second it took Ryan to connect the dots was all Ben needed to grab her, and pressed the chloroform soaked clothes against her face.

[Saturday 11:32PM]

The Chance household was uncharacteristically quiet on that night. Tessa and the four youngest Chances were away for the weekend, visiting their big brother Max on the other side of the country. The only ones were still home were Will, Zach and . . . Ryan. “Fuck!” Will sprung up from the chair, moving too fast and immediately getting dizzy in his rush to find his cell phone. Ryan was in serious trouble. “Where’s my phone? Where’s my fucking phone?” Will searched his pockets, then stumbled through his apartment toward his room. His phone was on the bedside table, charging.

[Saturday 7:45PM]

Ryan’s head throbbed as she came too, her eyes opened, but it took awhile for the blur around her to come into focus. She was sitting, zip tied to a folding chair, her wrists digging into the plastic that bound her. Standing crouched in front of her, his face less than a foot from her own, was Scott Mason. His expression was calm and curious. He watched as she blinked a few times, a cruel smile creeping into his lips as her recognition dawned on her own face. “There’s my girl.” he said, reaching out a hand to gently cup her cheek. “Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” Ryan felt dizzy from the drugs that had knocked her out. She felt like she was going to throw up, but there wasn’t anything in her to throw up in the first place. It had been hours since she had anything to eat. Scott stood up straight, and tilted his head, still looking down at Ryan. “You haven’t been answering my calls.” Ryan noticed that he wasn’t alone. His two top men were standing a few paces back on either side of him. Ben on his right, licked his lips, his amusement clear in his oafish features. Cole on the left, couldn’t make eye contact with Ryan. He was trying his best to seem disinterested, but Ryan knew better. Ryan and Cole were friends. She didn’t blame him for not helping her. That would only put him in Scott’s line of fire too. “Is your phone broken, Sweetheart is that the problem?” Ryan swallowed, there was nothing she could say to defuse the bomb that had already been set to go off. Now it was only a matter of time before Scott hurt her, or worse.

“McCarthy.” Cole stood at attention when his last name was called. “Go untie her,” Scott said as he reached for the cigarette that he always kept behind his ear. Cole did as he was told, walking behind Ryan to cut the zip ties. “She’s not going to try and run, my girl is too smart to pull something like that. Aren’t you, babe.” Ryan could barely hear him, all her focus was on the unlit cigarette in his hand. He only ever took it out from behind his ear for one reason. “I’m sorry,” Cole said softly as he bent down to cut the plastic, then he was up and moving back to Scott’s side. Scott held his hand out to Ben, who handed him a lighter. “Unlock your phone for me, Ryan,” Scott spoke kindly, his eyes on the lighter and not the woman in the chair. Ryan did as she was told, she had no other choice. Scott took the phone and checked the recent calls. “So, it looks like my calls were coming through.” This was for show. He didn’t for one second actually believe that the reason she wasn’t answering his calls had to do with tech issues. Scott Mason could be a bit of a drama queen. “This upsets me, Ryan,” Scott said as he handed the phone away to Cole. “You know what happens when I get upset?”

[Saturday 11:34pm]

Will reached the bedside table and grabbed for his phone, pressing the home button over and over again. He phone did not turn on. Panic set in as he tugged on the charger cord only to find that it wasn’t plugged into the wall. “Fuck!” he shouted, throwing his phone away. He stood there for a moment in his room, breathing heavily, head pounding, then it was off toward the front door.

[Saturday 7:50pm]

Zach was on his way home from the gym when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached for it, and saw his sister Ryan’s face on the screen. He had no idea why Ryan was calling him. He answered with a smile. Maybe she wanted him to pick up a pizza on his way home. Maybe she was calling to tell him that she’d be spending the night with her girlfriend Pam. “Hello,” he said, expecting Ryan on the other end of the call. There was no answer right away, just a shuffling sound. “Ryan?” Still nothing, wait muffled talking. “Is this a butt dial?” He chuckled and tried to listen to what was going on outside of the pocket that Ryan’s phone was in. “You know what happens when I get upset?” It was a man’s voice. “You see, I got curious when you stopped coming round. I got worried for you, sweetheart.” Zach fought the urge to gag. “I sent some of my guys to look into where you’ve been, and I was surprised to find that you’ve been seeing someone. Imagine my pain when I learned that you weren’t being loyal to me, Ryan.” Then Zach heard a small whimper. “Please.” It was his sister’s voice. Zach froze, ears straining so as not to miss anything. “You see, I can’t have you seeing other people, Ryan. You belong to me.” “I’m sorry, please. Just don’t, Scott you don’t have to do this.” “Hold her down.” “Please, no.” “Here’s the thing, Ryan. I need to get something through to you. I need to make sure that this doesn’t ever happen to me again. To make sure that you never stray again. I need you to know, that if I can’t have you, no one can.” Then there was a loud scream of true pain and then the phone hung up. “Ryan? Ryan! Shit!” Zach ran the rest of the way home.

[Saturday 8:15pm]

Will plugged his phone into it’s charger, then made his way to the living room. He didn’t often have the one TV in the apartment all to himself, so he was going to capitalize on this opportunity. He was halfway through his show when Zach came bursting through the front door. “Ryan’s in trouble!” Zach shouted before he bent over, hands on his knees. “What?” Will turned off the TV, growing at his brother. “Ryan, she’s, she needs us.” Will stood up quickly and looked toward the door, half expecting Ryan to come in behind his younger brother. His first thought was that Ryan had overdosed once more. “He has her,” Zach went on. “That Scott guy. He has her and he’s hurting her.” Will frowned. “How do you know this?” Zach held up his phone. “She pocket dialed me. Will, come on, we have to go rescue her.” Will shook his head. “We have to call the cops, Zach. We have to let the professionals handle it.” “Are you fucking serious right now? This is Ryan we’re talking about. This is our sister. I’m not leaving her fate in the hands of the G.C.P.D.” “We can’t go ourselves, what good would we be?” “I’ll go in and take them out, and you can do your doctor thing once we get to Ryan. I have a feeling she’s going to need you.” Will simply stood there. Zach seemed to swell with rage. “I’m going.” Will shook his head. “I can’t let you do that, Zach. You’re only going to get yourself hurt too.” Man he wished that Tessa was home. She’d know how to handle this. She’d know how to get Ryan back and keep Zach calm. Zach turned to leave. Will grabbed him by the wrist to stop it. Zach turned and took a swing at his big brother. The hit connected with Will’s left temple, effectively knocking the older man out.

[Sunday 12:13am]

Will sat in the back of the taxi, his mind racing with all the possibilities. He couldn’t get the images of both Zach and Ryan dead on a stretcher, being rushed to the hospital. He had seen too many bodies. Too many people who had been on the wrong side of violence and hadn’t made it out alive. Were his siblings about to be added to that list? No, he had to do this. He had to get help. He was doing the right thing here. . . Right?

[Saturday 9:00pm]

Zach sat by in the subway, wrapping his hands with boxing tape from his bag. His knuckles were barley bruised from punching Will, but he could feel the dull ache when he flexed his hand. He wasn’t going to let that get in his way. He wasn’t going to let anything, or anyone get in his way. Zach was going to save his sister. He was going to fight the way he had been trained for the past year, but he wasn’t going to hold back. If he had to kill a thug or two to save Ryan’s life, he would.

[Sunday 12:25am]

Will reached the door, and stopped taking a few deep breaths to brace himself. He swallowed, closed his eyes and knocked. When Thea opened the door, he spoke. “I need your help. I need the Huntress.”

@gothxmcitysirens

[phaedrecameron]

The Accused, James Fraser Chapter 9 Transactional Immunity

She laughed and swatted his hands away. Jamie reached out again. This time she came to him; her musk filing his lungs. She smiled a secret smile, her hair curling around her face. He lay back as she lowered herself onto him. Her movements slow and rhythmic. He grabbed her hips and made to match her pace, but she quickly pushed him down by his shoulders. “Stay still,” she commanded. Her voice breathy and yearning. He let his body go slack as she took what she needed. Slowly, she leaned down to kiss him. Her nipples grazing his chest. Unable to resist, Jamie brought his right arm around her back; securing her to him as she continued to move. His left hand reached over her hip and around her arse to their joining. She bit the side of his jaw. He felt her slick and warm as she pressed her forehead to his and spoke, “I’ll never leave you.”

Jamie awoke to the force of his release. The cell was dark, save the small flicker of a florescent light shining through the bars. His breathing was labored and his heart felt fit to burst. He curled on his side, wishing for a warmth and a smell that wasn’t there. He closed his eyes. It was the first time Claire had come to his dreams. Served him right. What had he been thinking? He’d allowed her to touch him; invited it even. And she had responded. A small terror reached his heart. What if it was an act, some psychological mind game for the eval? Could she be safely asleep in the arms of her husband? A part of him wished it so. No. He wiped his hand across his face. There was a truth to her; what was between them was real. And he knew she wouldn’t let him be. She’d lose her job and worst trying to help him. He knew she would because he’d do no less.

Jamie reached for the rosary Jenny had mailed to him. There was one person who might help him, but how he could he ask? What of Laoghaire and her baby? Should no one be punished for their deaths so he could pursue a married woman he barely knew? Could he risk Jenny and Willie to be with Claire? Would Claire even want him?

But, God had sent Claire to him. Why else if not to be with her? Claire belonged with him. He knew it when she took his hand. He was here so she could find him; it was the only way he could make sense of it. He had to trust she was his redemption and he must protect her.

Jamie rose from the small cot. He decided he must fight for his family, fight for Claire, fight for his life.

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

“Fraser’s claiming insanity. He has no history of violence and barely knew the victim. Seems to me something an insane person would do,” Grey argued as he looked directly at Det. Tom Christie.

Fresh from the gym, John Grey was spending his Saturday in the DA’s office working on the Fraser case. He’d ordered the Detectives to his office. He wanted answers and he wanted them now.

“A beautiful young woman is motive enough. Most men understand that.” Christie retorted.

John leveled an eye, but before he could respond to Christie’s inanity, his phone buzzed.

From Hal Grey

Sending car at 5.

Hal was heavy-handed, but this was ridiculous! Does he think I can’t get to Pardloe Estate on my own?

“…..don’t need to prove motive,” Christie was saying.

“Yes, but if you’re asking a jury to execute someone, evidence of evil intent would help,” Detective John Cinnamon smoothly added.

At least someone with a functioning brain.....

“She was pregnant, he didn’t want to be stuck for 18 years supporting a gold digger’s spawn.” Christie responded. He smiled smugly and continued, “if Fraser were innocent, he would have identified the attacker, he would have given a statement instead of walking back into the bar, covered in the victim’s blood, murder weapon in hand.”

Grey put down his double shot Americano, “that’s a nice bit of speculative fiction, but you’ve uncovered no evidence that MacKenzie knew she was pregnant or told Fraser that she was. And because there’s no video surveillance showing the other entrances to the alley, all we have is a lot of loose ends. Loose ends equal reasonable doubt.”

Christie bristled.

“Well, we’ve got more info on the murder weapon and Fraser’s movements before the murder,” Cinnamon stated, swiftly diffusing the tension in the room. He handed Grey a stack of papers. The top was a photo of the knife used to kill Laoghaire MacKenzie. “It’s a Scottish dagger called a sgian dubh. And,” Cinnamon pointed, “it’s a replica of one stolen from the National Museum of Scotland a little over a year ago.”

“Oh?” Grey’s interest piqued.

“I had it sent to Harvard.” Cinnamon was thumbing through a small notebook until he came across the right information. “Yeah, a Dr. Frank Randall. He’s the resident Scottish expert. He identified it as a good likeness of daggers used in early to mid 18th century Scottish highlands. Even though it’s a replica, Randall said it’s worth several thousand dollars.”

Christie sniggered. “Yeah, because random Boston dirtbags carry fake medieval European daggers. It clearly belongs to rich boy Fraser.”

“Well medieval is a different period, but it does point to Fraser,” Cinnamon nodded.

Grey examined the photo. “What’s this?” Grey motioned to carved lettering on the hilt of the dagger.

“That indicates the clan.” Cinnamon was reading from his notes. “Society in the Scottish highlands was organized around clans. Think the Houses from Game of Thrones. This dagger is from Clan Grant. That’s the Grant motto in Latin.”

Grey continued looking at the photo. “Could this be a type of honor killing?”

Grey knew quite well the cost of family honor.

“Dead-end. Fraser and the Vic have historical ties to Clan Grant, but so does half the Scottish diaspora. Dr. Randall didn’t believe there was a cultural basis for the murder.”

“Hmmm,” Grey sighed. He felt he was going in circles. “And Fraser’s movements?”

Grey looked to Cinnamon, but Christie replied. “He arrived in the U.S. three weeks before the killing. Flew into D.C. and spent time in North Carolina before catching a flight to Boston.”

Christie held up his hands, anticipating Grey’s next question. “We don’t know what he did there or why he went. Victim has no ties to the south.”

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

John was greeted by the smell of old leather and even older books as he walked into the library at Pardloe estate. It was unchanged since his father’s death. His sister-in-law, Minnie, entered handing him a glass of single malt scotch. “I thought you might like a drink.”

“Thanks,” John smiled at her. Minnie always bridged the gap between John and his brother Hal.

“I bought that, special for you. It’s MacKenzie Whisky. It’s quite good.” She winked at him.

John sputtered, “I’ll be sure to pass your praise to James Fraser.” He shook his head and took a sip. It was good.

“I hope the trial is televised, Fraser is a stone fox. Does he have a sexy accent?”

“Good God Minnie, the man is accused of killing a helpless woman!”

“Well, you think he’s innocent.” She smirked as she took a sip from her own glass. “Is that your plan? To exonerate him in some spectacular fashion. Take all the credit for righting a miscarriage of justice and crushing Brown in the process. It’s a good plan to prove your mettle to the public and the party.”

John gaped at her. Minnie worked in PR crisis management. She had been invaluable to Hal when he served as a US senator.

“Oh, come off it, John. You used the word ‘accused’ and described a woman as ‘helpless’. You know there’s no such thing.”

John began to respond as Hal entered the library. Minnie walked to Hal, placing a a hand to his chest and whispered something to him that John couldn’t hear. She turned to exit the library and yelled over her shoulder, “be sure to find the true killer before letting him off.” She quietly shut the door behind her.

“You should’ve told me my daughter was about to marry Che Guevara,” Hal began without preamble.

“That’s a tad harsh. Denzell is a good man, if a bit naïve. And I’m under no obligation to inform you of information given to me in confidence.”

“No obligation! You have every obligation when it concerns this family! Dottie has a chance to be someone. To do something. All you care about is doing what you want, while others are left dealing with the consequences.”

John thought of Hal’s words from the 4th.

You’ve learned nothing, our father died knowing our sacrafice was wasted on you.

John turned from Hal. Memories long buried came to the fore. He could almost smell Hector’s cologne. While John was a junior at Yale, he fell hard and fast for Hector, a first year. It was a reckless, all encompassing first love. Hal was serving as the junior senator from Massachusetts. He and Minnie warned him to be cautious. Not everyone accepted John’s nature and their father didn’t know. But John felt the invincibility of youth and privilege and did as he wanted.

That was until his father, the former governor, received an envelope. The Grey’s were blackmailed by Hal’s main political rival with the accusation that John had sex with Hector when he was a minor. While not true, hush money was paid and Hal was forced to withdraw from politics as part of the deal.

John was sent to Europe to finish his studies. He never knew the specifics, but John was led to believe Hector had set him up. Upon his return to America, Minnie assured him those involved has been ‘dealt with’. Outwardly, Hal and his parents forgave him, but their disappointment was right below the surface. John felt it was his responsibility to continue what Hal could not.

Hal, I’m sorry. I know what I cost you. I know you don’t believe me, but I live everyday trying to make it right. But I can’t do that under your thumb. I can’t let you control me if I’m to honor our father and your sacrifice. I must do what’s right and destroying your daughter’s happiness is not right.”

John left the estate without another word. *************** On the drive back to Boston, John’s thoughts drifted to Fraser. If Fraser were innocent and wasn’t insane, what would explain his subsequent actions? What would induce a man with everything to sacrifice his life? John’s phone buzzed.

Hal I forgive you. I’m proud of you brother.

John felt a relief he didn’t know he needed.

Then the answer came to him easily. Family. The protection of it. That could be Fraser’s only motive. But John had a job to do; find Laoghaire MacKenzie’s killer or killers and he was betting Fraser would lead him to them. Decision made, tomorrow, John would grant James Fraser pre trial release.

[swanqueeneverafter]

After The Sunset, Pt.12

Enchanted Forest. Present. (Regina walks alone through the forest until she arrives at 'Emerald Acres Farm' where 'There's no place like home'. Placing a hand on the gate, Regina takes a look around to see several little pigs snuffling around in their pen. Suddenly an arrow lands right next to her hand, followed quickly by a second. Pulling her hand away, Regina turns to face her attacker.) Regina: (Chuckles:) "I'm impressed. You're getting good." Robin: (Dropping her hood and running to meet her:) “Oh, Aunt Regina, I'm so sorry. (They hug:) I thought you were an intruder.” Zelena: (Arriving at the gates:) “Well, luckily, she's got her father's aim. (Opening them:) Those were warning shots, weren't they?” Robin: “Yes, of course, Mother. Just warning shots.” Regina: (The sisters embrace:) “Zelena, it is so good to see you. And Robin? She sure has grown up fast.” Zelena: “Well, at a much more normal pace recently. Oh, that reminds me, (Reaching into her pocket and withdrawing something:) This was dropped off on my porch yesterday. (Regina looks at the coin:) Have you seen it before? (Regina shakes her head:) It's a symbol of the Coven of the Eight. When it comes to witches, they're the worst of the worst.” Regina: “Gothel’s coven? But how can that be?” Robin: “Mom, if Gothel’s back then I have to warn-” Zelena: “No, don't worry. Look, darling, as soon as I knew what this was I flew right over and checked. Gothel is still a tree. She’s not coming back, I promise. (To Regina:) She's got a case of young love.” Regina: (Nods:) “Your mother’s right, Robin. Gothel is gone for good. This is most likely some prank being pulled on the Wicked Witch.” Zelena: (Scoffs:) “You’re probably right. Everyone knows about the Black Fairy taking my magic, but less people have heard I’ve got it back. The local village boys sure found out soon enough though. That’ll teach ‘em to play knock, knock, ginger with me.” Regina: (Shaking her head:) “All that aside, I’ve come to ask for a favour.” Zelena: “Oh really? Go on then.” Regina: “Well, Emma and I have decided to go away on honeymoon and I need someone to handle things at the mayor’s office.” Zelena: (Touched:) “And you thought of me?” Regina: “Of course. Storybrooke needs someone with authority in charge. That, and I don’t want Snow White getting anywhere near my office again.” Zelena: (Removing her apron, smiling:) “You can count on me.”

Storybrooke. Goldilocks Gym. After The Black Fairy's Curse. (It is the morning before Regina and Emma's bachelorette party. As Maid of Honour, Zelena is in charge of all proceedings, including the spin class they now find themselves in.) Emma: (Groaning:) "A spin class. Seriously?" Zelena: "Absolutely, you'll both need your energy for what I have planned tonight." (They all enter the room and each choose a machine.) Emma: (Climbing on, to Regina:) "What kind of bachelorette party requires us to work our quads beforehand?" Regina: "Believe it or not, I've been to a few of these classes. (At Emma's look:) As Roni. Just play along and pretend you love every second of it." Zelena: "That's right. You're all about to sweat like your life depends on it. Care to make it interesting, sis?" Regina: "Oh no, I'll be happy if I just survive." Zelena: "I wasn't talking to you, I was talking to my sis-to-be. (Looks to Emma:) How about it, Emma? Person with the most miles wins?" Emma: (Smirks:) "Yeah, all right, you're on. Gina?" Regina: (Scoffs, shaking her head:) "Play nice you two." Zelena: "Of course. (As the instructor starts the music and the class is about to begin:) All right, my cycling monkeys. Grab onto your bikes and fly!"

Wonderland. Past. (Drizella walks through the forest before being met by Gothel.) Gothel: “I see you've come to your senses.” Drizella: (Holding up the coin:) “I've come to join your little supernatural sewing circle.” (Places it in Gothel’s hand.) Gothel: “It's not that simple. You're not the only witch with interest. (They walk further into the forest, arriving at a circle of witches:) Now the last recruit has arrived we can begin. (Drizella takes her place around the circle:) Each of you shows promise. But only two of you will get the honor of joining The Coven of the Eight. I've hidden two golden flowers in the woods beyond the river. Whoever returns with these mystical plants will show themselves worthy. You'll each work alone. You'll have to be savvy and cutthroat.” Drizella: “Well, so much for sisterhood.” Gothel: (Turns to face her:) “Sisterhood is a prize not easily won. Happy hunting.” (Gothel disappears in a cloud of smoke and the witches split off in different directions.) Eilonwy: (Walking with Drizella:) “Gothel can be a bag of wind sometimes. I liked seeing you put her in her place.” Drizella: “Well, I'm glad you enjoyed the show.” Eilonwy: (Grabs Drizella’s arm:) “Hang on one second. (Drizella pushes her against a tree, holding a branch at her throat. Impressed:) I knew you were the strong one.” Drizella: “What's your point?” Eilonwy: “Alone out here, we're just gonna get lost. But together, we can find these things. We can both win this.” Drizella: (Considers for a moment, then drops the branch:) “I'm glad I didn't run you through with that stick.” (The two witches walk off together.)

Arendelle. Present. (Two women lay in bed together making out when a cell phone rings. Both women groan at this before one reaches out their hand and answers the phone.) Lily: (Sitting up:) "Hello?" Emma: "Hey, Lily, how's it going?" Lily: (As her companion kisses her neck:) "Oh, I've had worse mornings. What's up?" Emma: "Well, I'm gonna be headed out of town for a little while and I thought maybe you'd like to come help out at the station?" Lily: "The Sheriff's station?" Emma: "Yeah, I mean, your dad mentioned that you'd not been up to much lately and-" Lily: (Smiling down at her bed mate:) "Oh, I've been doing plenty." Emma: (Frowns as she hears the sounds of kissing over the phone:) "Are you- Are you with someone right now?" Lily: (Chuckles:) "Maybe. Listen, Emma, thanks for thinking of me, but I really don't think me being your father's deputy is something I could handle-" Emma: "No, no. You misunderstand. You'd be the Sheriff while I'm gone. I'd be leaving you in charge." Lily: "Really?" Emma: "Well, if you don't think you can handle it..." Lily: (Sighs:) "I'll be there in a little while." Emma: "Okay, great. Wait, Lily, where are you right now?" Lily: (Laughs:) "Don't worry about it. I'll see you soon. (Lily hangs up and turns to the woman beside her:) That was Emma. She wants me to take over as Sheriff for her while she's out of town." Elsa: "That sounds wonderful. D-do you have any experience with that sort of thing?" Lily: (Scoffs:) "No. (Kissing her:) But neither does Emma. She was a bail-bonds person before she became Sheriff and the guy before her was a huntsman. I think I can handle it." Elsa: (Watching Lily get dressed:) "Well it sounds like all you need to be sheriff is the ability to find people. And who's better at that than a dragon?" Lily: (Turns, buckling her jeans:) "Exactly." Elsa: "Will I see you later? Perhaps for dinner?" Lily: "Babe, we've talked about this. I'm just not ready to meet your family yet." Elsa: "But I know Anna would just love you." Lily: (Chuckles:) "That's not been my experience with families. (Leans down to kiss her once more:) I'll call you, okay?" Elsa: (Softly:) "Okay."

Enchanted Forest. Past. Underwater Cave. (Will Scarlett, Hook, Liam and Captain Nemo find themselves entering an  underwater cave.) Will: (Pulling his helmet off and looking around:) "Bloody hell." Nemo: “These are dangerous waters. Stay close. Don't step off the path.” Hook: “What exactly are we after?” Nemo: “You'll see soon enough. It's up ahead.” Liam: “You heard the Captain, stay close.” (They begin walking, Liam and Nemo leading the way.) Hook: (To Will:) “So you’re telling me you stole Maleficent’s looking glass and used it to send yourself here?” Will: “No, I stole it to give to my sister so she could escape the tower she’s currently trapped in.” Hook: “Well, either way, I no longer have means of contacting Maleficent. The woman doesn’t trust me at the best of times, lord knows what she’ll be thinking if she can’t keep tabs on me.” Will: “Sounds to me as if your wife keeps you on a tight leash.” Hook: “Hey. She’s not my wife, we just have a... mutually beneficial arrangement.” Will: “Well I’m not being funny, mate, but you’re a pirate. Can’t you get that sort of arrangement at any port side tavern?” Hook: “In case it slipped your notice, mate, Mal isn’t like other women. She’s special.” Will: “Oh, aye, a woman who breathes fire and has scales sounds mighty special to me.” Liam: “Quiet back there!” Will: “Listen, do you really believe everything the old man says?” Liam: “You should listen to him. You might learn something.” Hook: “Well I think the pressure's getting to all of you.” Liam: “I'd give my life for that man.” Hook: “Why? What's he ever done for you?” Liam: “When I was a child, my family was taken from me. I grew up next to the docks, fending for myself, desperate to make the people who took them pay.  (Sighs:) It was only a matter of time before I got myself killed.” Will: “And then what? Nemo kidnapped you?” Liam: “That man saved my life.” Hook: “Let me ask you one question. Your quest for vengeance... did you ever find those who wronged you?” Liam: “No, and I'm lucky I didn't.” Hook: “Then talk to me when vengeance is in your grasp. It won't be so easy to give up then.” Nemo: (Up ahead:) “There it is.” (Will, Hook and Liam hurry to catch up to the captain.) Hook: (Spotting a chest in the distance:) “Bloody hell. All this for hidden treasure?” Nemo: “Aye, but there's more than gold and jewels in that chest.” (Suddenly, Hook and Will are both grabbed by tentacles coming out of the water.) Hook: “Kraken!” Liam: (Rushing to save them:) “Hold on!” (Liam uses his knife to stab the tentacle holding Will’s leg, causing the creature to roar in pain before releasing him.) Hook: (Still in the Kraken’s grip:) “Nemo!” Nemo: (Picking up a harpoon:) “Hold on!” (Nemo hurls the harpoon at the Kraken’s eye, finally causing the creature to release Hook and return to the murky depths of the sea.) Liam: “We told you to stay close.” Will: “We could've been killed!” Nemo: (Chuckles:) “No, your destinies have yet to be fulfilled. Believe it or not, you're part of this family.”

Storybrooke. Goldilocks Gym. After The Black Fairy’s Curse. (The spin class has ended and people are leaving the room. Only Zelena, Regina and Emma remain.) Zelena: (Checking the clocks:) "So it seems that I win. And quite easily by the looks of it." Emma: (Gasping for air:) "H-how did you keep up that pace for so long?" Regina: (Laughs:) "Isn't it obvious? She used her magic." Zelena: "Aw, ‘fraid not, sis. Though it is nice of you to try and make your blushing bride feel better about her dismal performance." Emma: "Then how?" Zelena: (Chuckles:) "Well while you two are off enjoying your sordid sexcapades together, those of us who are still single have to channel our energies in different ways." Regina: (Checking each woman's machine for herself:) "So you're saying you whupped Emma's butt because you're hor-" Zelena: "Frustrated? Yes, it would seem so. (To Emma:) Remember, darling, my needs aren't being attended to regularly like yours are." Emma: (Climbing off the bike:) "I need to shower. (To Regina:) I think I pulled something." Zelena: "Just wait until tonight, they'll be plenty for you to pull." Regina: "Zelena!" Zelena: "Fine. More for me." A Short Time Later. (Freshly showered, the three women stand in the gym's reception area.) Zelena: "So, you remember the itinerary for tonight?" Emma: (Nods:) "We meet you and the others at Roni's for drinks." Regina: "And then you'll let us know the rest of your plans?" Zelena: (Smiling:) "All will be revealed, I promise. Now, off you go and make yourselves beautiful. It's gonna be a memorable night." Emma: (Shares a look with Regina before speaking:) "Hey, Zelena, I just wanted to thank you again for organising all this." Zelena: "Oh, please. It's the least I could do for my little sister and her bride-to-be." Emma: (As she and Zelena hug, quietly:) "You may have beaten me in spin class, but there's no way you'll beat me at shots." Zelena: (As they part, smiling:) "I look forward to the challenge." Regina: "Promise me you won't make us look foolish tonight." Zelena: "You can count on me. Besides, I've already checked and there's no karaoke where we're going." Regina: (Chuckles:) "You bitch." Zelena: (As they hug:) "It's not my fault you're tone deaf." Regina: "I am not!" Emma: "All right you two, lets break it up." Zelena: "See, Emma agrees with me." Emma: "I didn't-" Zelena: (Smirks:) "You two are too easy. So, drinks at Roni's, 7pm sharp. I'll be waiting." (With that, Zelena vanishes in a cloud of green smoke.) Emma: "Oh thank god." (Emma quickly leans on Regina for support.) Regina: (Wrapping her arm around Emma:) "I warned you before we came to go easy." Emma: "Yeah yeah, just help me to the car. I'll be fine after I lay down." Regina: (Laughs:) "Whatever you say, dear."

Wonderland. Past. (Drizella and Eilonwy walk through the forest, lead by the latter’s magical bauble.) Drizella: “Are you sure we can trust this bouncing ball of yours?” Eilonwy: “It hasn’t let me down yet. You know, you remind me of a friend? He was moody too, but I won him round.” Drizella: “Well, if you guys are so tight, why isn't he out here with you?” Eilonwy: “We were very young when we first met each other. Where you start with people isn't always where you end up.” Drizella: “And where did you end up?” Eilonwy: “He and I met in the Horned King’s dungeon, where we were both being held. We didn’t like each other at first but after you experience something like that together, it bonds you.” Drizella: “Well whatever happened, it seems like you got out okay.” Eilonwy: “Not unscathed. And from that day on, I was determined never to be weak to that sort of power again.” Drizella: “And your friend?” Eilonwy: “Forever altered. Last I heard, he was traveling around under a different name. You might not get it, but losing someone so close to you eats a hole in you that's damn-near impossible to fill.” Drizella: “I get it more than you know. What was his name?” Eilonwy: “Taran. I'm Eilonwy.” Drizella: “Good to meet you, Eilonwy. I'm Drizella.” (Drizella walks forward and sets off a tripwire. Using her powers, she manages to stop a battering ram flying towards them. Turning, Eilonwy uses her own magic to explode the second battering ram.) Drizella: (As they share a relieved laugh:) “Well, I guess you did learn something in that dungeon after all.” Eilonwy: “And if your abilities weren't as sharp as your tongue, we'd be flat as pancakes right now.” Drizella: “Come on. Let's best these witches.”

[emoboijk]

jjk | deviant: peach schnapps

“You’re like…scary? And stuff? Aren’t you?”—fluff, the deviant miniseries

» cherry cola :: peach schnapps

4,277 words

g.cred

Jeon Jeongguk wondered how he had made a habit out of spending time with you. And how it had only taken a month and a half for that habit to develop. The night he’d almost gotten you arrested he had talked to you because he’d been a little drunk and curiosity had got the better of him.

The second time was much more on purpose. And every subsequent incident was even more on purpose than the last. Until, suddenly, your number was saved in his phone under Goody and he was texting you. Regularly.

You wondered, too, sometimes, how this had all come about. But only when you let your guard down, because otherwise you were purposefully not thinking about it. You thought about everything to the nth degree and this the only thing that was…spontaneous. Wild. Free.

So you didn’t think about it.

Until Jihyo, leaning against your locker with a pretentious look on her face, said: “What is that?”

She was pointing at your bare forearm where there was a faded sharpie heart and your name followed by loves JK in his careless handwriting. Your mother hadn’t been too pleased with your newly decorated arm and had watched you scrub at it for nearly fifteen minutes before realizing it would take a few days for it to be fully gone.

You chuckled nervously and shrugged, tapping her shoulder so that she released your locker as her hostage so you could unload your bag. “It’s just a gag,” you smiled, glancing down at it and feeling genuine warmth infect your brain.

“Loves?” Sana said nervously from beside her, “Really?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know,” you turned to face them with your physics book pressed to your chest, “It’s just a joke.” You aimed for nonchalance but your heart was racing in your chest.

“You don’t know?” Jihyo said. She said your name like a teacher punishing a student, “He’s a criminal! This has gone on long enough, your little charity case with him needs to end now.”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you shook your head. “It’s not a charity case. I…I like him.”

“You like him?” Jihyo said, “He’s only seventeen and he has a criminal record! What about college? And your parents? What about your future?”

You crossed your arms, feeling defensive walls construct around you as you said, your voice like ice, “He’s the only person I’m myself around,” you whispered, looking at her, hoping to see a glimpse of understanding in her expression, “And he understands me. He doesn’t…judge me, Jihyo.”

“We don’t judge you,” Sana whispered, her voice soft and her eyes imploring.

You sighed and closed your locker, “What do you think is happening right now?” you whispered, walking away.

You spent most of the school day knee deep in the silent treatment, and after third period most of your friends stopped trying. You figured they were trying to give you space, or something. Either way, you weren’t in the mood to talk to them. You realized you were being somewhat harsh, but Jeongguk had suddenly become important to you. And you wanted them to accept that. Without judgment.

It was nearly dark by the time you left school, the yearbook committee meeting running later than usual. You waved them off as the group dispersed, climbing into their cars and chatting happily. You still felt cold and bitter as you walked away, heading toward your house on foot, screaming to high heavens when Jeongguk jumped out of a tree that bordered the sidewalk to land in front of you.

“Hey,” he smirked, putting his hands into his pockets.

Your eyes moved from his self-satisfied expression to the tree and back again, “How long have you been in there?”

He shrugged, “Since last period?” He ran a hand through his hair so that a smattering of dirt and leaves fluttered to the ground in his wake, “I stopped in to see Yoongs and then I took a nap.” Jeongguk smiled as he looked you over, his eyes landing on your forearm. He scoffed, “Did you try to wash it off?” He took your arm in two of his hands, holding it up to inspect the faded mark. You giggled and pulled your arm away from him.

“My mom made me,” you giggled.

“I wear mine with pride,” he grinned, pulling down his shirt to reveal the spot near his collarbone where you had doodled JK loves…in a large heart.

You rolled your eyes and chuckled, “What’d you score at the mini-mart?”

“Cigarettes,” you made a fake barfing sound and he shoved you playfully, “and peach schnapps.” The neck of the bottle peeked out from the inside of his jacket and you rolled your eyes. He dug around in his pockets and added, “Oh, and some mini donuts.” He took the plastic covered chocolate donuts out and showed you.

“Peach schnapps,” you said, diving past the donuts and into his jacket to withdraw the bottle, “Today’s for peach schnapps.”

Jeongguk’s eyebrows raised, concern clouding his features. You weren’t much of a drinker or a smoker. But junk food? Always. In fact, every time he stopped at the mini-mart he picked up something for you—junk good was typically pretty easy to fit in his pockets and it always made you smile.

But there was no smile this time. Tonight, with a serious expression and a darkness in your eyes, you unscrewed the cap from the bottle and downed a swig of peach schnapps straight, shuddering as it burned down your throat.

“Damn,” he whispered, impressed, turned on, and (a little bit) worried as he followed you into the park and toward the empty swings. You abandoned your bag in the sand and plopped onto a swing haphazardly, feeling a rush in your head. You didn’t look at him as you took another drink, only stopping when you couldn’t stand the taste anymore.

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed and as he moved to sit in the swing beside you, he swiped the bottle from you, taking a drink himself. You whined absently, losing your balance slightly and pouting. It was all quite cute.

He took another drink before he said, “You’re a lightweight.”

“What…” you burped, “ever. Whatever. Whatever.”

“Bad day?” he asked, laughing as you reached for the bottle like a kid for candy. He’d only seen you drunk two other times, and both were hilariously fun. He liked that you were a lightweight because you were adorable when you were drunk. But this wasn’t like that. You were in a bad mood. “Tell me what happened and I’ll give it to you,” he said, tilting it to take another drink.

You huffed in an exaggerated manner, leaning against the swing chains as you said, “My friends,” you sighed, “My friends. They think I’m crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy.”

“Crazy?” he snorted, “Why?”

“Because of you,” you said, spinning around in the swing and pointing at him accusatorially. “You’re all ‘dangerous’ and ‘bad for my reputation’ and stuff.” You sighed, looking at him wide-eyed and with your mouth hanging open in awe. “But you’re also super hot,” you giggled, “and nice. You’re so nice to me,” you sighed, dreamily, “I’m myself,” you hiccuped, “with you.” You grinned, leaning forward and almost falling in pursuit of the bottle again. You tipped it backward so that the liquid poured down your throat before you continued, “I like you. I’m happy with you,” you laughed, “But everyone hates that I hang out with you. My parents,” you guffawed, “my parents think I’ve become a drug dealer.” You paused, considering, “Do you deal drugs?”

“I,” Jeongguk stuttered, his heart racing in fear and panic. Was he…hurting you? He had never cared what other people thought of him, and he still didn’t. But was he, his reputation, his actions, hurting you?

“Whatever,” you said, shaking your head, and moving so that your swing was near his. You moved your face so that it hovered in front of his, “Will you kiss,” hiccup, “me, Jeon Jeongguk?”

“W-what?” he said, feeling a lump in his throat, feeling like some freshman nerd seeing a bra for the first time.

You giggled, the peach schnapps bottle sloshing in your lap, “Kiss me, dummy.”

“Who’s there!” a voice said, echoing around the park, a bright flashlight shining on you and Jeongguk. You turned abruptly, your hand securing the bottle of peach schnapps so it wouldn’t fall.

“It’s just us,” he grinned, stupidly waving the bottle in the air for the officer to see, so lost in drunken euphoria that you forgot you weren’t supposed to be drinking.

The officer approached you both slowly, the brightness of his flashlight making you both squint against it. Jeongguk’s heart sunk, already knowing this was going to mean a night in jail and possibly a juvenile charge for himself. It wasn’t…the first time, to say the least.

“Come with me,” the officer said, his voice stern.

You furrowed your brow, “Are we…in trouble?”

The officer sighed, “It’s a safe bet. Come on to the station, we’ll call your parents.”

You sobered up sitting on the cold cement bench of the holding cell at the police station, but even if you hadn’t, you would’ve when you saw your mom standing on the other side. She was shaking the police officer’s hand professionally, “Thanks Namjoon.”

The officer shrugged, an officer that you now recognized as a friend of your mother’s from school (he was always at barbecues and the annual Christmas party), “It’s her first offense. And they didn’t get up to any trouble.”

“But that young man has done this before?” your mother said, her voice almost Stepford-like in its analyzed caution.

The officer sighed with his hands on his hips, “Yes, but his blood-alcohol levels were barely registrable. We’ll give him and your daughter a pass. This time.” He moved to unlock the cell door, motioning for you to come out.

Your mother’s grip on your arm was like a vice, her expression stern. She dragged you from the cell but you pulled back stubbornly, “Wait. Can’t I go see Jeongguk? Make sure he’s okay?”

“I don’t think so,” your mother said, outraged, “I’ll be damned if you ever see that boy again.”

“But Mom, I—” you tried, but she shook her head and wrapped her hand around your wrist, catching sight of the faded ink still on your arm. She scoffed.

“JK,” she spat, “Unbelievable.” She pulled you from the police station without a second word, your heart sinking with every step.

You were on a house arrest for the foreseeable future, only permitted to leave the house for school and extracurricular activities. Your friends, while sympathetic and with a genuine desire to hang out with you, were also quite impressed with themselves. As soon as she’d heard, Jihyo had texted you:

Jihyo— told ya so ;)

You tried not to be too irritated. Jihyo was a good friend, even with her high horse. And Sana had been texting you nonstop to chat and see how you were.

Jeongguk on the other hand. He hadn’t texted you at all since that night (and your mom made of point of checking your phone before and after bed). But he did show up, after two days, loitering in your front yard and looking so out of place next to the pastel garden gnomes that it would have been laughable, if not for your mother’s instantaneous reaction.

“You,” your mom stuttered in anger, “You go away!” She raised her arm and pointed him out threateningly. Jeongguk took a step back respectfully, his hands held up defensively.

“I just wanted to make sure she’s all right.”

“No thanks to you!” your mother spat, “She was on track for a good college, a good job, and you almost jeopardized it all!” Your mother continued ranting, words and words about what a corrupting influence he’d been on her beloved daughter. His eyes moved past her and found you, standing hesitantly in the doorway. He asked his question silently and you nodded, you were all right.

“Okay,” he said, “I won’t be coming back.” He was speaking to you now, not your mother, although she didn’t know that. “I don’t want to hurt her anymore,” he said, his eyes locked on yours, “So I…I won’t see her again.”

“Good,” your mother said, crossing her arms proudly, satisfied. But behind her, you crumpled. Jeongguk watched as you tried to keep your resolve, rubbing your lips together and focusing your eyes so intently on him that it was like you were screaming. Your legs wavered and you felt the ground rush toward you as you collapsed.

Instinctively, Jeongguk stepped forward, arm outraised. Your mother had whipped around at the sound of you hitting the floor, a gasp escaping her lips like her chest had been stepped on. She turned back around and slapped Jeongguk’s hand, “No,” she said, hurrying up the porch steps to help you up. “Leave,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers.

Jeongguk stumbled out of your front yard, moving backward to watch you stand, to watch you breathe, to be sure you were okay. “Fuck,” he whispered as if he were choking, frustration boiling under his skin as he made his way out of the yard. He turned to go through the front gate, spotting the pale yellow gnome named Hubert and kicking it harshly.

“Deviant!” your mother yelled after him.

“Tell me about it,” he whispered.

You’d thought about letting him get away with that little scene in your front yard. I won’t be seeing her again. You thought about it. But then you remembered his face, the way his eyes looked as he said the words as if he was as heartbroken as you. You could see him collapsing internally through his eyes.

So, Monday morning at school, you found him where he always was—behind the sports shed in the backfield, leaning against the side. This morning with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s pressed against his lip.

You crossed your arms and pretended to look at a watch on your wrist, “Nine in the morning? Really?”

Jeongguk stood, stumbling slightly as he rose to his full height, passing the bottle off to Taehyung and Jimin as he pushed past you. “What do you want?”

“Hey,” you said, running to catch up to him, “What’s going on?”

“I told you,” he said, turning around with his hands shoved in his pockets, his face morphed by irritation, “I don’t want to see you.”

“Hey,” you said again, softly, like a trainer speaking to a wild animal, “It’s just me.”

“So?” he spat, the school bell ringing in the distance. Taehyung and Jimin chucked the empty bottle over the fence and wandered past you both, Jimin slapping Jeongguk’s shoulder jokingly, laughing hilariously. But neither you or Jeongguk budged.

“So? We can still be friends,” you paused, searching his face. You were surprised that you had to explain yourself. Mr. Bad Decisions himself? You thought he would understand. “Mom doesn’t have to know.”

Jeongguk coughed and reached into his jacket. He withdrew his cigarettes, put one between his lips and lit it, taking a long drag before blowing smoke into your face. You coughed and took a step back. “And be what? ‘Secret best friends?’ Huh,” he scoffed, mocking you, “I don’t fucking think so.” He turned on his heel and walked toward the school, leaving a trail of smoke behind him.

And you were struck, suddenly, by the realization that you hadn’t seen him smoke since that night you’d almost been arrested.

That first day was rough—you were late to homeroom and everyone knew about your incident with the peach schnapps. But it didn’t take long to fall back into old routines. You hung out with your friends like nothing had happened, your grades stayed normal, and after a while, you even felt normal. But it was like an internal injury—there was a dull ache where you knew you’d been hurt, even if there were no physical signs.

Jeongguk felt it, too. He was back in old habits—smoking, drinking, drugs occasionally. He went to the mini-mart nearly every night to get a hook up from Yoongi. Taehyung and Jimin were almost annoyed at his hanging around so much now. His grades sunk again (after a brief rise, because you insisted on studying). But there was still a nagging pain. Like he’d been shot in the chest, and they’d left the bullet in. He was fine, he could function—but it hurt, always.

By the time that prom was around the corner, neither of you had spoken to each other in nearly a month and a half. You made plans with Jihyo and Sana to go as a trio, girls only. Of course, they had date offers, but they tended to treat you like a reformed drug addict who needed to be watched at all times. So they turned the boys down and went dress shopping with you.

Jeongguk was torn. He didn’t want to go to the dance, wear a tux, see all of those people that he didn’t like and that didn’t like him. And of course, there was the chance of seeing you. But at the same time, someone had to spike the punch bowl. And it would be fun to see all of the straight-laced high schoolers get a little wild. And of course, there was the chance of seeing you.

It was a week away when the decision was made for him.

Taehyung, Jimin and he were stalking the halls of the mini-mart. Tae was sitting on the counter, putting the sparkly barrettes that were on display at the register in Yoongi’s hair. Jimin had stuck his mouth underneath the icee machine and was giving himself a brain freeze. Jeongguk was squinting at the vodka selection with an intensity that made him think he was becoming an alcoholic. He walked to the counter without anything.

“Nice look,” Jeongguk snorted, pretending to be interested in the scratch cards hanging in front of the register.

“Whatever,” Yoongi sighed, Taehyung chuckling. Yoongi’s brow furrowed and he said, “Whatever happened to that chick?”

“What chick?” Jeongguk said, although his heart was already racing at even the slightest mention of you.

Yoongi rolled his eyes, “You know who.”

“Oh, her?” Jeongguk said, casually but at the same time, not at all casually. “Goody two shoes? Fuck her.”

“Did you?” Jimin snorted, walking up from the ice machine, his lips tinted blue.

“Why?” Yoongi said, almost flinching as Taehyung ripped open a third bag of barrettes, sighing in relief when he started chasing Jimin around the store with them.

“What do you mean why?” Jeongguk rolled his eyes.

“She was chill,” Yoongi shrugged, sitting back on his stool.

“Whatever,” Jeongguk said, leaning against the counter and turning away from him.

Behind him, Yoongi rolled his eyes. “I think the alcohol has finally done you in. All your brain cells have turned to mush.”

Taehyung laughed loudly and Jimin paused in running away from him to yell, “Burn!” before Taehyung pounced, securing a sparkly butterfly into Jimin’s dark hair.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Jeongguk said.

“She was a chill girl. And you seemed to like her,” Yoongi shrugged, “Why dump her?”

“We weren’t together,” Jeongguk almost growled.

“Yeah, you were,” Yoongi said, rolling his eyes for the thousandth time.

“But I never even—”

“Hey, just because you weren’t man enough to make a move, doesn’t you mean you weren’t together,” Yoongi said, raising his hands defensively, “So what happened?”

“We were arrested for underage drinking,” Jeongguk said, his defenses dissolving because he was exhausted. He was fighting the pain all the time, always fighting his instinct to be with you.

“So?”

“So?” Jeongguk said in disbelief, “So! So, I’m bad for her, Yoongs. She’s like…all goody two shoes and perfect and smart and, like, with a future and shit. And what am I?” Jeongguk shook his head, “Top Ten Drinking Games? Top Five Ways to Escape the Cops? Thirty Ways to Get Arrested? Twenty Ways to Get Arrested With Someone You Care About?” He turned around and kicked a display of corn nuts.

Yoongi sighed, “First all, fuck you for that, I have to clean that up,” he pointed to the corn nuts now decorating the floor. “Second of all, stop being a baby. She’s a grown up. You don’t have to protect her, she can make her own fucking choices. Did you force her to drink? No. Did you force her to hang out with you? No. She made those decisions herself with her own brain. Do you think that if she thought you were dangerous or would jeopardize her future, she would go near you? Fuck no.”

“What are you saying?” Jeongguk sighed, wrenching his hands through his hair.

“Two things,” Yoongi said, holding up his fingers, “One, if a smart girl like her is hanging out with you, you can’t be that bad. So shut the fuck up with the self-loathing. And two, you need to suck it up, put on a tux, and go all 80’s movie on her ass at the dance.”

The day of the dance came in no time, and you were dreading it. Your friends had grown overprotective, your mother had become Stepford 2.0, and you felt tense all the time. You missed him, and you were tired of missing him, and tired of pretending not to miss him.

So, when you came out of your room to meet Jihyo and Sana and your mother, dressed to the nines, and your mother said, “Now, aren’t you glad we dealt with all that nasty Jeongguk business?” And then, your two best friends smiled sympathetically at her and nodded, you sort of snapped.

“Actually,” you said, finishing securing the corsage on your wrist, “no.”

Your mother nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

You looked at her, telling the truth for the first time in a month, “I miss him so much, Mom. He was…my best friend. And I think…” you paused, savoring the thought in your head before you said it aloud, “I think I really did love him. And I tried to talk to him after he made that big speech a month ago, and you,” and you turned to your best friends, “and you, too, helped convince him that he shouldn’t be friends with me, for whatever reason.” You paused, taking a deep breath, “And whatever, I’ll forgive you for that because you thought you were doing what was best for me, as long as you understand that I liked having him in my life and I wish he still was.”

And then you turned on your six-inch heel and left the room, leaving all three of them with their mouths on the floor.

The dance was being held in a ballroom of a hotel. It was a relatively small space, but the placed was decked out—streamers, strobing lights, sparkling things, signs from party stores that said PROM and CLASS OF—.

You arrived on the scene “fashionably late” and after an extremely awkward dinner. But Jihyo and Sana had recovered, apologized even for the way they had behaved. And now, they were ready to have fun.

What no one was anticipating, was Jeon Jeongguk. In a tux. In the middle of the dance floor. Looking so awkward and uncomfortable that it was both painful and laughable.

And, with your newfound realization in mind, you were smiling. Because of course, this is the kind of shit that he would pull.

You met him in the middle of the dance floor, and he grinned, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

“I brought some vodka for the punch,” he grinned, dipping his hand inside of his pants pocket to reveal his flask, before stashing it again.

“Of course you did,” you grinned, beaming.

There was a long pause, and you could see himself building up courage before he said, “I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I was a jerk.”

“Yes,” you nodded, stepping closer to him because it had been too long since you’d been near him, “You were.”

“I thought,” he whispered, completely taken with you—with how you looked all dressed up, and the smell of your perfume, and the way your eyes were solely focused on him. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“Everyone needs to stop doing that,” you chuckled, your hands finding their place on his chest.

“That’s what Yoongi said,” he grinned.

You rolled your eyes but laughed nonetheless. “You know,” you whispered, “You never kissed me.”

“I know,” he whispered, “I wanted to.” Without thinking about it, his hand moved to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin in soft rhythm. Your eyes closed at the sensation, warmth spreading through you.

“You did?”

Jeongguk chuckled, his eyes on your lips now, “All the time.”

Your eyes opened and you smiled, “Yeah?”

He chuckled, “Yeah.”

“What stopped you?”

“I…” he started, his mind going blank, his brow furrowing, “I had reasons, but I can’t remember them right now.”

“Good,” you whispered, looking up into his eyes imploringly, “Kiss me.”

He grinned, his lips transforming into a lopsided smirk. His other hand moved to cup your jaw and guide your lips to his. He tilted his head so that they met at the perfect angle, your arms reaching up to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. He was soft and slow, treasuring the moments, the sensation, the warmth that overwhelmed every nerve.

“See,” you sighed when you pulled away, “We could’ve been doing that for months.”

author’s note— look guys, i’m a sucker for a stupid 80′s movie ending ok? (part dos of dos)

requested by anonymous— Hi!! Can i request a badboy Jungkook fic? Fluff, a bit of angst, whatever you feel it works for it.

for more of my works check out my m.list

[meetmeatthestart]

Skye Rocket lyric collection

A selection of lyrics from Skye Rocket songs, including ones from their time as Rocket Ship Resort. Perfect to use for thread titles, ship tags, verse names, blog quotes, etc. Feel free to get creative.

A better place I'd never find

A cool breeze sweeps through the silver dust

A dance of misfits

A date with a time trial showdown

A different air waits for us

A ferris wheel tune

A fighter with a nature of gold

A glimmer on a winding trail

A glimpse of the night

A handful of fire

A lighthouse of love

A lonely flare in the dark 

A lullaby along the moon

A map to get back home

A smile among the storm

A snowball deep in hell

A window straight to the deep

Across all that reaches land

Adrift in the sighs

Ain't a chance we go outta style

Air that presses my lungs to paper

All the salty wit of an old drunk

All the ships eclipsing the ocean

Alone through the dark part of life

Among every storm and spark

An old wish, a dusty sign

And it cuts like a knife 

And the wound's getting bigger 

And when the sun goes down

And when you see its colors

Astray in the sky

At least we're adventure

Autumn blaze

Ballrooms and bridges

Bandanas and black boots

Be the might to my light shows

Bet I'll make ya light up like July

Boiled with blood pent

Born of the sunlight's dust

Bound down to a life on the free way

Break apart old cautions retold

Break the glass of every old impasse

Break us into the sky

Breathe deep into me

Breathing electric starlight

Burdened with gorgeous nature

Buried, wounded to the core

Burn as bright as you can

But you won't turn me

C'mon out to the edge of the world

Can we have a home everlasting

Cause there's vodka in the water

Chasin' disaster

Chasin' disaster; goin' faster

Chemicals of catastrophe

Come and stay with me

Come with me to race all the crumbling walls

Comfort within her chaos

Could you go if you had to?

Cry out to silence

Deep through beauty, treachery, and howling hail

Determined to be deflaters

Devoid of the morning daybreaks

Did a glow catch your heart?

Distant days of crescent moons

Do you find your way worthwhile?

Do you wanna run far away?

Do you want to run away?

Dogma's yearly tradition

Dream something new

Dressing up with dyed roots

Drifting on a cloud blanket

Escaping my tired mind

Every chip is a chilling climb

Eyes of ice in the sunshine

Fall white for another night

Falling through the snow

Far beyond the tallest trees

Fighting what the kings say 

Follow the trails in the air 

For life, for naught

Free your aurora

From atop the trees, reaching out so free

From high off the flowers

From the venom here

Fuck your war, I'm here for the starlight 

Ghost pepper voodoo

Give me a taste of oxygen

Give me all your pieces

Greetings, my glider

Growing up so fast

Hanging on the dawn

Hard times have you now, but you'll be alright

Harness it, make your mark

Heaven knows where we will go

Her gust is givin' you your flight

Hidden beneath the worries

Hits like a rocket

Home is where fires unite

Homesick for vistas new

I bet I'll make it light up like your eyes

I can taste the race in your heartbeat

I don't know how long this road goes out

I feel each step so slow

I held those words as law

I know the way, let's head there

I lack the blood to suck tonight

I lost you at the bay

I will save you every night

I wish I could take you sailing

I wouldn't hold your breath

I'd never believed in slowing down

I'd rather sweep a breeze under those old ashes

I'll be chasing the moon

I'll be rage on all fours

I'll be unleashed

I'll hold onto you as long as you hold onto me

I'll see you over the moon

I'll take a shot of what she's havin'

I'll take the heart break

I'll take the heart break before I slow

I'll wake up real soon

I'm fading fast

I'm seein' stars, the way you're flashin'

I've been here before

I've got a lot in my view but no one else that I can see

Ice upon the river

If summer had a daughter

If you chase the same chill in your weathered bones

If you're still awake by chance

In a dash we'll crash down the party

In a love story, where beauty is might

In the air we'll dance like we used to

In the grass like a landmine

In the july heat

In time the smoke will leave here

Invisible to the stars

It matters not what's outside

It's time to bring it all out now

Just lift your head aloft and wave

Just to cut me down to you

Just what this world needs

Kicked to the frost

Kicking rocks on a turnpike

Kiss the earth, let's disappear

Left here with life

Lend me the sight giants behold

Let me lead your breath home

Let me see your eyes 

Let your heartache down with your hair

Let's be lost, let's be heroes

Let's carve out our open view

Light a thousand streets

Like a backdrop for the moon

Like a lantern in the dark

Like a lightning strike in your heart

Like a phone hardwired

Like a secret in the dark

Like a whisper in a glance 

Like an earthy rust

Like the heaven's snow

Like you woke in the ocean

Listen close, my rogue

Lunar endeavors

Made of fireflies

May the guiding wind adorn us

Mistress magic

Movin' with mischief

My words are with you

Numbness is living on a loss

Of the demons in my thoughts

Oh will our hearts endure

On blankets of rockets and trees

One last ride up above the night 

Our wind in the sails

Out in search of truth

Out on the great wide blue

Please come down from your window

Please just give me one last dance

Poets long for words like your dreams

Princess Red Rum

Problem number one

Racing meteors

Rain on the river

Rainfall resistance

Reachin' up to the moonlight

Relentless, your scars open up wide

Remember how it sounds

Reminiscent of wings, you went

Ride on, shooting star

Ring your light through the dark

Rogues among the stars

Run like the rain

Running circles

Rushing like Niagara Falls

Scars that are far and gone

Scrapbooks and reflections

Seas and passions

Seashore at the door

See the sun surround you

Shadows shaped by gryphon stars

Shining soul, in the shade

Shooting for the stars

Show the way through the wild miles

Silver relics on the shore

Singing like a lonely ghost

Sky blue: it suits you!

Smile, you're wild inside

Snow dives by so quietly

Souls fade white

Specter on the bay

Standing in the night

Stars that look like you

Starstruck, a deep blue

Stay aloft for me

Stay awake, I plea

Still standing here years later 

Storm like the sea

Submerged neck deep

Sunrays and lattes

Swept along with a grip so sure

Tempest route

The air here is of your soul

The blood runs like a river 

The buildings glow

The clouds made their own way

The dance of the wind and waves

The ghost had a bouquet

The hope that you'd been saving

The horizon, it runs forever

The howling crowd's alive

The last time I felt alive

The meltdown ain't gonna thaw

The midnight streets

The midnight streets are empty without you

The night covers the earth

The night in front of you

The prettiest cold air

The rustic gears of establishment

The silent sky

The unruly, truly quite bizzare

The walls are your protection

The yell of a young punk

Theme park in the dark

There's magic in disguise

There's no need for frights, it's a show of lights

These gloves play love like guitar

Throttle it out

Through all the heartaches

Through nights into dreams

Through that disguise

Through the ballroom hall 

Through the land and night

Through the lights and heights of the compass caches

Through the time each night recalls

Through thunder's embrace

Till I stop the show

To the lands out somewhere far

Tonight we are aloft

Too heavy for words

Trace my touch all through here

Treasure maps and shaky floorboards

Triumph, scandal, all her name lends

Try to stay a little while

Trying to escape a whirlwind 

Tumbling sunbeams

Turn all the lights down

Under the moon and snow

Under the show of chaos

Up late, darin' fate, just to know

Waiting on a faint light

Wanted for love crimes

Watch the rockets reply

Watch the sands blow to wherever you are

Watch the sinking silver

Watch the stars swim through this ocean of air

Wave to the stars

We are like fire

We are momentum

We are the doomed ones

We are the stars hangin' up free

We can ride a road everwinding

We still share the same moon

We'll be the backbone

We're blowing the hurricanes down

We're pioneers

We're tearin' down mountain sides

We're the heat, we're the guns

We've been marked

When are ya waving my way, baby?

When the gates make way

When the leaves leave us

When the riots meet

When the sea grabbed me ahold

When the wind came a-knockin' 

When time just won't wait 

When your heart has been so bold

While the sparks danced up

While the sun follows you

Wield your wings for your own rhythm

Wisdom and a smile with a saber

With a touch of grace 

With the tidal burst

With the wrath of the red

Wolves among the shadow

Years and years of fighting here

You and me and the seven seas

You are a renegade

You can find me where the clouds part

You can plunge in anxiety so grim

You can survive on caution and foresight

You don't have a single flaw

You lived on with them, now they live on with you

You sing with the sounds of the seas sincere

You swore to win the war? I withdraw

You think you're a king

You think you're justice

You think you're the light

You're a bottle of lightning

You're dissolvin' the last straw

You're givin' me a little mania

You're not your demons

You've got a story 

You've got a window

You've got a window of time and air

Your heart beats so rhythmic and pure

Your leap won't lend you much leeway

Your lonely cell is waiting

Your silhouette sings profanity

Your soul is a bird

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 4,215 Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader Warnings: language A/N: This is the second part of a mini-series! Read Part 1 here!

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Cas arrived in the bunker in the late afternoon and first checked the library and the kitchen. There was no sign of you, so he rushed farther inside, calling your name and receiving only lonely silence in response.

”Y/N?” His footsteps echoed up the hallway. “Y/N!” Nothing. Finally he noticed the cold light beneath Sam’s door and he knocked hard. “Sam!”

Sam was laying on his bed, propped up on one elbow. His hair was disheveled, mirroring how Cas’s tie and trench coat were askew, which the younger Winchester found more alarming than the angel’s yelling had been a moment before. “What is it?”

Cas felt a knife to his heart at the heavy circles and haunted look on Sam’s face. ”When did you last see Y/N?” the angel asked desperately.

”Uhh, just before I went to sleep. Last night, when you were here,” Sam said, now sitting up on the edge of his bed. “What’s going on?”

Cas’s brow was heavy. “That was almost two days ago. You didn’t see her this morning? Or yesterday?”

Sam mouthed wordlessly and glanced at his phone on the nightstand, picking it up to look at the date and time. “I thought it was still morning now—I—Cas? What’s happening?” Now a sick feeling was growing in Sam’s stomach as Cas rubbed a hand over his mouth and paced in a quick, tight circle before settling himself again.

”I caught wind of something. I believe that Crowley has Y/N and is going to…” he trailed off.

Sam’s face was desperate and he hung with horror on the angel’s words. “Going to what? Cas. Tell me. What’s happening?”

”I think Crowley is trying to turn Y/N into a demon.”

The words hit Sam like a punch in the stomach and he felt the air rush from his lungs, leaving him winded and sick. He tried wrap his mind around what the words Cas had just said would actually mean. You. A demon. With Dean gone you were all he had—and now… His hazel eyes were wide and glistening as he looked up at Cas, dumbfounded. How could he possibly get both of you back when he couldn’t even save Dean? His mouth fell partially open and his eyes were unseeing. He felt his hands begin to shake and he smoothed them over his sweatpants, his palms sweaty.

Cas watched Sam spiraling with the news. “Sam,” he said, trying to call him back to the present and out of whatever reeling thoughts he was being consumed by. “Sam!”

Still Sam sat motionless on the edge of the bed, seemingly staring at nothing, his expression hopeless and vague.

”Sam!” Cas yelled, grasping the youngest Winchester firmly by his shoulders. It was enough to call him back to the present. “It is time to pull yourself up. Y/N has been here for you this whole time. She’s been there for me and for Dean more times than I can count. And now we need to be there for her.” He stared deeply into Sam’s hazel eyes, still a little wide, and nodded. “Can you do that?”

The silence stretched for a moment and Sam admitted to himself that what he was chiefly feeling wasn’t anger, though that was there too, it was fear; fear of another loss. He couldn’t withstand another loss. Sam’s fist tightened. “Okay.” He managed to nod.

”And perhaps we will be able to save Dean at the same time.”

Sam nodded again and stood, though a little shakily. And despite most of his muscles feeling weak, his heart began bounding in strength again. He had a job to do.

_ _ _ _ _ _

”You’ve reached the cell phone of Dean Winchester, demon extraordinaire and your #1 call for a good time. You know what to do.” “Oh for the sake of all demonkind—this is ridiculous.” Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose and waited for the beep to sound. “Dean! It’s Crowley. This is urgent so if you could please get over here at your earliest convenience it would be much appreciated.” He hung up the phone and his eyes found you still bound in the chair in the middle of the room. He checked the time and realized it was time for the next injection.

For a brief moment the King of Hell hesitated. He had never actually turned a human to a demon this way before—by injecting demon blood. The idea of course came from his own time in the church with Sam—when he acquired a specific craving for the humanity Sam’s blood had given him… There was a vague worry in his mind that you wouldn’t survive this transformation. After all, you had a human soul still and he wasn’t sure what the demon blood would do to that. It was risky. Generally he much preferred the old way of centuries of torture in Hell before the humanity was stripped from the victim, but frankly in the current political climate and with the pressing issues troubling him (read: rogue demon Winchester) he didn’t have the time to wait.

He approached you with a syringe ready. He was cautious. Your head was slumped forward and your hands were limp in their handcuffs. There were already numerous needle marks on your arms from your previous injections.

Crowley was hoping you would stay unconscious for this one. Each time he injected you so far you had exhibited more pain than the last. It wasn’t that he was concerned about you, he told himself, it was just that—well, he didn’t like the way you looked at him afterward, like you were imagining dismembering his meatsuit.

Unfortunately for Crowley, you roused as soon as he touched your arm and your head snapped up. You glared at him with a savage light in your eyes. For a moment he thought it faded… You would pull in a few steadying breaths and it seemed to withdraw, but the next instant it would rise again and he would have to snap his fingers to restrain you so you were still enough for him to give the injection.

You cringed as the demon blood surged into your arm. It took all you had to suppress a scream of pain as it began to travel through your veins. It burned like a shot of acid. You could track its progress through you from the heat and scalding of it, setting your nerves on fire. You shut your eyes tight, simply hoping that you would pass out from the pain again before you couldn’t hold in your agony. You didn’t want to give Crowley the chance of any sick satisfaction… You began to tremble violently from head to toe, your jaw locking, your teeth clenching down on one of your cheeks involuntarily. A little trickle of blood leaked from the corner of your mouth.

Crowley stood in the middle of the room watching with wide eyes, the empty syringe still in his hand. “Y/N—stop that,” he growled. He thought perhaps you were putting on a show in hopes that he would relent. “Y/N!” But as he watched, your eyes rolled back in your head and you seized more violently—once—twice—three times. The syringe fell from the King of Hell’s grip and clattered on the floor. A crimson droplet leaked from between your lips again and ran down your chin. More blood flowed from deep wounds on your wrists where your bindings had sliced into your flesh during your fit. “Son of a—“ Crowley rushed over to you and lifted your limp head, examining your face, any pretense that he was unconcerned gone like a puff of smoke vanishing into the empty space surrounding you both. “Y/N!” He slapped your cheek and shook you. Your skin was feverish to the touch. Crowley released your face and your chin slumped to your chest. He grasped your shoulders in a last effort to rouse you, yelling your name, shaking you, but there was no modicum of a response evident.

Crowley released you yet again and hesitated as he leaned over you. His heart was thundering away in his chest. A long moment stretched where he simply hovered there, partially bent, hanging over your still frame. Finally, he gulped at the annoying lump in his throat and pressed a finger into the side of your neck, just below the jaw.

After a careful pause he staggered back.

There wasn’t a pulse. Not that he could feel.

But what did that mean? Was this just a necessary step as you were transitioning from human to demon? Or had his whole plan been a complete and utterly failed experiment that had just resulted in your death?

Crowley straightened up with a somewhat panicked feeling rising in his chest, tightening a band around his lungs.

It was just then, possibly the absolute worst time, when the King of Hell’s cell phone rang. He fished it out of his suit coat pocket absently, still studying your silent and motionless form slumped in front of him before allowing himself to glance down at the screen.

Incoming call – D. Winchester

”Bollocks…” Crowley muttered. He paced away toward the door—he wasn’t sure why… you weren’t going to be making any sound in the background--and pressed his phone to his ear. “You’ve finally decided to respond to my twenty or so messages,” Crowley said, irritation easily audible in his voice in the sharp edge on his words.

There was noise in the background on Dean’s end. It sounded like a boisterous pub. “Yeah, well, what can I say? Curiosity finally got the best of me.” Dean belched loudly into the speaker. “What’s so urgent, el capitán?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at the burp. “Nothing I will be divulging or discussing over the phone. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll sober up and get here as soon as you can.”

”Aww, come on, Crowley,” Dean threw back another shot of tequila. “It’s all work and no play with you lately. Is this about management of the lower level again? Because I gotta say, the case you make for me helping you run things is not compelling.”

Crowley’s patience was wearing thin, but it was also somewhat tempered now with a twinge of worry. He couldn’t predict how this new demon version of Dean was going to react to the news that you were dead… The old Dean? Generally consistent in angry and righteous responses. But this one—absolutely unpredictable. One minute he could be singing ‘Living la Vida Loca’ and the next he gave you a look that suggested he had a long list of ways to destroy you filed away for a rainy day. “Just get here!” Crowley snapped. He ended the call abruptly and spun around again to take a look at your crumpled form at the other end of the room.

There seemed to be no change. If anything, the color in your face was graying. With another heavy sigh, Crowley conjured himself a chair (gold and scarlet cushioned throne, of course) and a substantial glass of Scotch and seated himself, facing your direction.

All he could do now was wait. For whatever would come.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Dean tossed back another shot of tequila and slammed the glass down on the bar. A curvy girl with long, glossy black hair slid her hand into his back pocket and Dean partially turned to give her a boyish grin. “Hey,” he said. “Getting handsy now, are we?” he said.

”Why don’t we get out of here, cowboy?” she whispered, her lips close to his ear. She bit her bottom lip and gave him an unmistakable look of desire. “My place is close.”

Dean took in her expression and flashed another grin. “I’d love to but I just got word that I’m needed elsewhere.”

Her face dropped. “What? Now?” She scoffed, somewhat recoiling from his rejection. “You’re wasted. Don’t lie to me. There’s no way you’re going into work now.”

Dean straightened up, the grin sliding from his face now too. “Who said anything about work? Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart, but I’m afraid tonight is over.”

”So, you just led me on all night, and now you’re just gonna leave?” she asked angrily.

Dean could feel his temper flaring. “I don’t remember making you any promises. It’s not like I agreed to pick out curtains,” he said dismissively. He turned back to the bar to pay his tab and dropped a healthy tip down just as a splash of cold liquid hit him in the neck and ran down his back and over his shoulders.

Dean froze, every muscle tensed, and his jaw clenched.

She’d thrown her drink on him.

He put his wallet back in his pocket and spun slowly on the spot to face her. She was standing there, looking pissed but self-satisfied, with her empty glass still in her hand.

Dean took a few measured steps toward her until he was close. She was breathing hard, presumably from anger at his dismissal of her. Dean peered down at her and she continued to scowl up at him.

But a blink and his eyes went from that deep and mesmerizing shade of green to solid black, and she gasped and stumbled backwards in fear.

The next moment when she looked back up, still off-balance, they were just as they had been all night; multi-faceted green irises.

The corners of Dean’s mouth flicked upwards in a smirk and he breezed out the door, leaving her wondering if she was just too drunk and had imagined it, or if what she had just thought she had seen had really happened.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Crowley’s phone began to buzz in his pocket and he shifted his glass of Scotch to the other hand so he could answer it. “Go,” he said. “Right. Of course. Send him down.” Crowley hung up hastily and downed the rest of his drink. He was on his feet in another instant, his throne disappearing with an absent wave of the hand, and he rushed to stand outside the door with one final glance at your form, now laid out on a metal table. You were no longer restrained—either you were actually, really, and truly dead, or you would awake as a demon, so Crowley didn’t see further need for shackles. Your hair fell away from your face exposing skin that was just too pale and too gray, and lips that normally had a warm blush to them were an unnatural blue.

Injection and track marks criss-crossed your arms, blemishes that remained as a result of Crowley’s perhaps ill-conceived plans.

But there was no taking them back now. There was only determining the next move.

The heavy door slammed behind him as faint footsteps echoed toward him from the long, dark hallway stretched out before the King of Hell’s feet. And Dean the Demon was the source.

He stopped when he reached Crowley, looking relaxed despite being summoned for some sort of urgent meeting. “You’re getting to be a real nuisance, you know that, Crowley?”

”Apologies,” Crowley replied. “But I think you’ll be glad you took time out of your busy schedule.”

”Well, what’s so important that you had to drag me away from my very full social calendar?” Dean inquired curiously. “And if this is another job pitch, I swear to Hell that I’m going to turn you inside out.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Noted. But there’s something you need to see,” he said. With that, Crowley led Dean back through the heavy door and into the room where you were laid out in the center.

Now Crowley’s nerves were requiring quite a bit of focus to ignore…

Dean didn’t seem to register just who the body was in the middle of the room at first and he only glanced at it, somewhat puzzled, and gave a measured glance over his shoulder at Crowley. But as he moved closer with curiosity he came to rest, frozen, about ten paces away.

Crowley lagged back by the door. There was a heavy and uncomfortable silence that stretched as Dean only continued to stare at the laden table.

Finally he began to close the distance to you, his steps deliberate and steady, but somehow resistant, as if he didn’t want to get close enough to confirm what he thought he was looking at.

Crowley looked on with apprehension tinged with curiosity as Dean finally stopped at your side.

Dean’s brow drew down darkly over his green eyes and they floated over every inch of you, finally settling on your face; eyes closed, lips slightly parted, skin sallow. He raised a hand and reached out until his fingertips barely brushed your cheek. He withdrew immediately after contact—your skin was cold and it threatened to send a shudder through his chest. Next his hand drifted down to your arm and his eyes settled on the strange marks there.

A shadow deepened on his face and his gruff voice broke the silence. “What the hell happened?” he demanded of Crowley. But his voice was controlled. His hand was closed gingerly around your wrist and rotating your arm so he could examine the marks marring your skin.

Crowley cleared his throat. “I’m not entirely sure—“ He had barely gotten the words out before Dean was on him, slamming his back into the wall behind him, a strong hand gripping his throat.

Dean’s eyes were black, and rage boiled in the darkness. “Don’t. Lie. To me,” he growled through clenched teeth.

Crowley struggled to talk through the compression on his throat. “It wasn’t supposed to happen—accident--!” he sputtered.

”You killed Y/N!? You KILLED Y/N!” Dean pressed the King of Hell harder against the wall. “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU DOING?!”

Crowley managed to come to his senses enough to disappear from Dean’s grip, leaving him gripping only air which he quickly crushed into his fist, and reappear behind him. He held one hand up and rubbed at his throat with the other, out of breath, before straightening his tie. “I promise you, Squirrel, that Y/N’s death was not what I had intended…”

Dean stalked toward him, a fierce fire burning in his eyes still. “What you intended?” His voice was a growl but it the stifled rage was almost more threatening than his blatant attack. “What the hell were you doing? Why did you even have her? What are those marks on her?” he demanded.

Crowley held his ground. “I was trying to turn her into a demon!”

Dean seemed frozen again, but his glare had lost none of it’s potent fire. “Why?”

Crowley hesitated. He hadn’t forgotten Dean’s warning that if this was about helping him with hell he’d gladly rearrange his meatsuit. He shrugged, trying hard to remain nonchalant and appear unconcerned. “I just thought, considering how the two of you got on at your last little meeting, that this warranted further exploration. With a few minor adjustments.”

”Minor adjustments,” Dean repeated. “Abducting Y/N and trying to turn her into a demon is not minor.” His face darkened again. “And I warned you once, Crowley. Don’t. Lie. To me.”

Crowley knew he needed to concede. “Well, I’ll admit that I was hoping that I could use Y/N to persuade you to assist me with—“

Dean’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I knew it. This was all to compel me to help you with your insignificant, pointless, selfish plans with Hell. It’s not my fault you have an inferiority complex and weigh your self-worth based on the number of minions willing to shine your shoes! You idiotic, pitiful little--I should gut you right now—“ Dean started menacingly toward the King of Hell but found that Crowley suddenly wasn’t there. “And if you had turned her? You can’t even handle Y/N as a human. How were you going to control her as a demon?”

Now Crowley’s anger flared. “Can’t handle Y/N as a human? Am I confused or did I BLOODY WELL KIDNAP HER TWICE?! Right from under the nose of that vegetable brother of yours, mind you, and your ex-boyfriend with wings!”

Dean’s eyes went black. “You’re the King of Hell. You make deals all the time. You use whatever demon voodoo you have to and bring her back. Now,” he said. His tone was unmistakably an order and there was no veil over the threatening tone.

Crowley stood silently glaring back at Dean.

”I’m not asking you, Crowley.”

Crowley resumed his usual business-like tone. “Ahh, yes… Do you really think I didn’t consider that option before I called you here? Believe me, I’d rather have undone what I’ve done without you ever knowing about it. Do you think I was looking forward to bringing you here and explaining this to you? But--there seems to be a bit of a complication with bringing her back…”

”I don’t care if there are a hundred complications, Crowley! YOU FIX IT!”

“Yes, you see, I would… But I’m not entirely sure where she is or even what is happening.”

Anger swelled in Dean’s chest again. “What’s happening? I think the dead body on that goddamn table is pretty clear!”

Crowley was losing his patience with Dean’s yelling and attempts to boss him around. “By the time most humans go demon, they don’t have anything resembling a soul left. Y/N still had a human soul when I started the process. I’m not sure what happened to it, or what that would mean… And there still remains the possibility that this is just—part of the process. Your own transformation took some extended measure of patience, if you remember.”

But Dean wasn’t receptive to his excuses or pro-offered possibilities. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. I don’t care if Y/N is in Heaven, or Hell, or Purgatory, or fucking who-knows-nowhere-land. I don’t care if she does wake up as a demon,” he began. He was slowly stepping toward Crowley and so far the King refused to yield, refused to step back in the face of his advance. “I don’t care if you find a magic potion that turns her back to a human as good as new with only happy memories… The fact is you fucked up. Big time. You dragged her into this. You dragged her into something she shouldn’t be a part of. And I perfectly intend to take you apart piece by piece until you’re begging to go back to being Lucifer’s little puppy dog. Got it?”

It struck Crowley despite the warning rising in his mind how unusual this was… Dean, a demon, who rarely showed any thought for anything that couldn’t be poured as a double or invited back to a motel room for a no-strings-attached romp, was actually pissed that Crowley had nabbed you… This suggested that despite being a demon, buried deep down, Dean still felt something for you. And the fact that Crowley had shrewdly perceived that that connection still existed gave him only the tiniest measure of gratification under the current circumstances. And it also scared him. Because it reminded him of his own weakness and craving for humanity…

But Crowley only cleared his throat and straightened his coat and tie again. “Well. I suppose that is my cue.” And he was gone.

”CROWLEY!” Dean roared, though he knew it wouldn’t do any good. Crowley had disappeared as he was want to do at the slightest hint that a fight may not go easily his way.

And Dean was alone now with your corpse. Hatred was boiling in his stomach. He couldn’t turn and look at you again. Not yet. Not now. Dean let out a violent yell and smashed his fist into the concrete wall, leaving a dent the size of his fist.

He would deal with Crowley.

And he now realized he would probably also have to deal with Sam and Cas sooner rather than later. Crowley had snatched you, and he was willing to bet that meant that they couldn’t be far behind…

_ _ _ _ _ _

”What is it?” Sam asked, urgently, his hands gripping the steering wheel far harder than was necessary.

Cas had just shut his eyes and looked vaguely ill. He shook his head. “I’m—I’m not sure. Something isn’t right.”

Worry grew on Sam’s face. “What?”

Cas shook his head. “I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling.”

Sam’s face was panicked. “You have to give me more of an explanation than that, Cas.”

”It’s difficult,” the angel said, pressing a hand to his forehead like he had a growing pain behind his eyes. “It’s almost as if—something has shifted.”

”What do you mean? Something? What?”

”I’m not entirely sure. Like, something has changed in the balance of power.”

Sam’s throat tightened. “What is it? Y/N? Dean?”

”I don’t know. I suppose we will find out,” Cas said.

Sam’s jaw tensed and he slammed his foot down, pressing the pedal to the floor.

[dougmeet]

Time! Let's log off, Becky, and get out of here. Hey, I got eight hits on that last batch of "help wanted" ads. I was right in the middle of chatting with Stuart, the clown from Pittsburg who thinks we're going to get married. Did he get that check you sent him last week to help with the wedding expenses? Yeah. Just give it a few days, let the money show up in his account, and Bam! I'll get him to send it right back to me. You know, I'll make up some emergency expense that suddenly came up that I had to cover. Fool won't know what hit him. What did you tell this one? Oh, this one? I told him that I am putting myself through nursing school, modeling underwear for catalogues. That one's almost too easy. The guy probably had never had a real date in his life. Yeah, but he's still going to wonder why I bailed on him in the chat. You know the rules. Never stay wired for more than thirty minutes. I've already sniffed another open network near the motel. We can log on there later and finish up. OK, but I still want to call him. I don't want him to start getting suspicious or something before I've hit him up for the green. But use the prepaid phone and keep it short. I don't want him to have anything to connect back to us. Chill, Abs. I know the drill. Well don't screw up. I'm like Paris baby. Orange ain't my color. So, who are you supposed to be today, Niece? I'm a sixty-three-year-old woman named Brenda, recently retired from school teaching, and I've settled in New Mexico. Yeah? I can see that. You already got the divorce and the cat. That could totally be you in about thirty years. That's cute, Lang. I wonder what that says about you, though. You play better females than I do. She's got a point, Howie. Remember that mope from Nigeria last month? I think he was in love with you. Any leads on our "work at home" scams out west? Yeah. There's several new job listings on one of the resume websites this morning. It's the usual pitch. "Wanted: international company seeks payment processor." These guys claim they're from Ireland, and they need someone to process payments to avoid making customs fees. You thinking it's our "coffee shop bandits?" Fits their "M.O." The "coffee shop bandits"….that's what we've been calling them for weeks now. We've tracked them to a series of coffee shops, hotels, laundromats, and other locations in the Southwest. They use public wi-fi hotspots to connect to the internet wirelessly. Their scams cover a whole range of internet fraud with one common link - they all depend on counterfeit checks and money orders. The payment processing clerk con is one of their favorites. They target people who want or need to work from home - retirees, single moms with kids, even people with disabilities. Once the person accepts the job as a payment processor, they're asked to open a checking account for the overseas business. In a few days a series of checks arrive from their customers. The new employee is told to deposit these checks, and once they've cleared, to wire ninety percent of the money to their employer. The clerk is told they can keep ten percent of the payments as their salary. When they check their available balance, the money is there. But actually it can take weeks for a check to clear or be discovered as counterfeit. But the ATM said that the funds were available. Yes, it did. At the time it was in there but in five or six days… If the person withdraws money during this period, then they become responsible for covering the bank's loss. But I've spent some of the money… We've seen victims lose tens of thousands of dollars on this type of scam. This job posting is nearly identical to the one we saw last week. Hey, if it's working, why change? There are thousands of new people who look at these "help wanted" postings every day. Where did you tell him you lived? Truth or Consequences. Priceless. OK, so what else we got on these guys, Derek? Well, first of all, they're not guys. Remember that last trace that we ran? An inspector went to the scene. Ran into a dead end. They got their room with a stolen credit card…fake names on the registration. But he spotted an ATM across the street, and we managed to get these photos. But these photos, they don't give us a whole lot to go on. You underestimate me. Another phone was used at three of the bandit’s locations. And this phone, it's not a prepaid cell phone. It's registered to a Becky Meyers of Key Largo, Florida. NCIC says she got a list of arrests for all kinds of petty stuff - everything from shoplifting to bad checks. OK, I'm impressed. Any idea who her friend is, Sherlock? Hey, man, I had to leave something for you guys to do, right? You're not calling one of the punks on that phone, are you? No, dope. I'm calling Mikey. I need to get some refills on those checks. Your boyfriend gives me the creeps. Whatever. You don't like any of my men. Besides, he's better than anybody we know with Photoshop. Look how legit these things look. I told you to stop flashing those! You're going to blow this whole deal! I'm going to blow this whole deal? There wouldn't be a deal if it wasn't for me! This sweet ride…my deal! Hardly! You and your boyfriend would still be passing bad checks for beer money at the Piggly Wiggly if it wasn't for me! Still, you've got to admit, Mikey's got good hands…and mad skills on that printer. So what did you turn up on Becky Meyers? Hey, I'll check you a little later. Thanks. According to her parole officer, her printer is a local loser named Michael Friedman. They've been an item since high school. He spends most of his time playing those multi-player games online, printing counterfeit checks, just as a way for him to keep the lights on. So who's playing "Thelma" to her "Louise?" Our best bet is another high school friend, Abbey Seals. She was a computer science major at FSU until she dropped out last year. Miami cops busted her on a DUI a few months back, Becky Meyers in the car. Almost violated her parole, but the judge cut her a break. So this Abbey Seals may have helped take their bad check racket high-tech? Looks like it. Trouble is, her PO says she's skipped. Hasn't check in in three months. That fits the timeline to our scams. But we stills can't actually connect them to any of the frauds, or any of the victims' wire transfers. Which brings us back to Brenda, from Truth or Consequences. Alright, do it. I'm on it. Oh, damn it! Stupid freaking woman! God! What is it? It's that woman from New Mexico, the teacher. Now she can't figure out how to send a simple wire transfer. She deposited those checks like two weeks ago. If she doesn't send the money soon, the bank's going to tip her off, and the whole thing is going to fall apart. How can one woman be so dense? Did she email you? No, we're chatting on IM. Oh wait, get this. She didn’t trust the guy at the wire service. Good god! Stupid broad took the money out in cash! Well, how much? Ninety percent. Almost thirty thousand dollars. You're kidding. Now what? Well, she's wants to meet in person so she can deliver it. Doesn't she think the company is located in Ireland? Yes, but remember? She thinks we have an office in Forth Worth. Yeah, OK, OK. No way in hell do we ever meet anyone in person. That's the rule, remember? Yes. Well we have to think of something else. Are you kidding me? Stupid hag could barely open the account. She's never going to brainstorm a wire transfer. And besides, the bank is going to call her any day now and tip her off. The money's going to walk. Then it walks. We never meet anyone in person. Time! What? Bull! Log off. No, No! What am I going to tell her? Come on. It's thirty grand! Tell her you'll call her later. Now log off, Becky. I mean it! They just logged off. She said she was going to call me on the phone. Do you think they bought it? I don't know. They've been playing it really safe. They might now be willing to risk a meeting in person. We better hope that they're getting greedy. If they keep using these web-based email services to open networks, limiting their access time, we're never going to be able to connect them to any of these "work at home" scams. Come on. Yeah. UC phone. Hold on, hold on, hold on. Caller ID says, "unknown." It's her. Yeah, trace that call. OK? Go. Hello? Hi there, Brenda? Oh, hello, dear. Hey listen, I was thinking that you really shouldn't come all the way to Forth Worth, especially carrying all that cash on you. We're concerned about our liability, because our insurance wouldn't cover it if anything happened to you. Oh, I just don't trust those wire services, dear. My father tried to wire money to my Uncle Benjamin once when he was having twin girls. And he tried to wire it to Tulsa, Oklahoma, but it went to another Benjamin in Kansas City. They didn't even have the same last name. Kansas City is nowhere near Tulsa. Yeah, I know where Tulsa is, Brenda. Hey, listen, my partner and I, we're going to be in your area. We're going to be looking at some land that we're considering. Why don't you at least let us meet you halfway there, you know, to save you some trouble. Oh, it's no problem, dear, to drive to Fort Worth. I have a half sister in Irving. I've been dying to see her miniatures collection. No, no, no, Brenda, really, I insist. Listen, Friday, let's meet at… You know what? Why don't we meet at Alamogordo. Do you know where Alamogordo is? Oh, certainly, dear. Everyone knows where Alamogordo is. That's where they tested the first atomic bombs in the 1940's. It was part of the Manhattan Project. That's a funny name, actually, as it was here in New Mexico and nowhere near New York. Well, that was really fascinating, Brenda. Well, listen, OK, Friday it is. I'll call you on your cell phone when we get there, like right around lunchtime. Of course, I'll bring you a receipt. Alright, well listen, Friday it is. I've got to go, Brenda. OK? Alright. Bye bye. Harmless. We'll meet her in the middle of nowhere, in and out, ten minutes, we're done. Less if I could get her to shut up for five seconds. Cake. I still don't like it. What if she's a cop? I swear, you must think I'm mental. Listen, I'll go in there, and I'll talk to her. You wait, out in the car. If something smells funny, we'll walk. Can't tie us to the phone calls, or the checks. Thank you. Did you get it? Yep. It's the same signature as the phone used to call the other victims. I'd like to see their lawyer explain that one. We're still going to need them to show up for the transfer in order to pick them up. I mean, by the time they do this trace, they could be a hundred miles from here. No problem, we'll pick them up on Friday. Aren't you kind of forgetting something? What? They're expecting a sixty-three-year-old named Brenda. It's after one. Look sharp, everyone. Possible suspect vehicle - white Ford Mustang, late model. We couldn't make the tags off the ATM photo. Location two, clear. Niece, they called you again? No, it's been forty-five minutes. She said they were running late. They'll be here. Our suspect is approaching, east side of the street. No sign of her partner. Bingo. Becky, dear. Brenda, I wasn't sure that was you. Sorry we're running late. It took a little longer to tour the property. Oh, that's fine, dear. I've just been sitting here enjoying my tea, and reading up on the history of this wonderful little town. Did you know that Robert Oppenheimer was almost convicted of being a traitor and a spy? Can you imagine? You look a lot younger than I expected. Oh, you're sweet, dear. OK, OK, Thelma's getting nervous. I don't think she's buying Niece's makeup. Find Louise, fast! I got her. She's parked just down from the war wagon - white Mustang in that alley. I'm on it, Lang. Watch my back. Everyone else cover Niece. Wait for my signal. I have the money right here. I put it in this bag. I didn't want to attract attention, you know. It's under my needle point. No, that's OK, Granny. You keep it. I'm giving you a raise. Federal Agent! You're under arrest! No! No, no, no! This is complete crap! It didn't touch that money. Police! Police! Freeze! Hands up! Hands up! Clear the door, folks, please clear the door. Thank you. Listen, everybody, thanks for your help. I need everybody outside. There's nothing else to see here. Thank you very much. Get up. Howie, she's all yours. Have a nice day. Did you have any trouble with her friend? Nah. She's already trying to pin the entire scam on Becky and her boyfriend. Yeah, she didn't take the bait. She's got several phony checks in her purse. Well, we're still going through the car, but so far, we've got lots of fake checks, prepaid cell phones, and your little friend Derek is going to have a field day with the laptops. Oh yeah, we got a whole lot of love letters from Mikey the printer. Can't wait to send in the Miami team. Did you recover any of the victims' moneys? Not a whole lot. About eight grand on them. Whole lot of neat toys and shwag from the shopping sprees though. Yeah, well at least they're off the street. Yeah, this time they're all looking at ten to twenty for mail fraud. You know, I've got to tell you. You look…ridiculous. I told you you weren't going to pass for sixty-three. What's the matter with you? Thanks to some solid police work and the efforts of the Technical Services Division, these two high-tech crooks are behind bars. Unfortunately, there are hundreds more of them out there, operating these scams from around the world. Remember, on the internet, these crooks can pretend to be anyone that they want. Often, they construct elaborate fronts to make them seem legitimate - fake websites, phony pictures, even references that can vouch for them. We refer to this as "the anonymity of the internet." But don't be fooled. There are very few legitimate jobs that allow you to work from your home, and none that involve processing checks or money orders. To avoid falling into these traps, remember these important tips. Number one: Never accept a check or money order for payment for any items if the check is greater than the amount owed to you. These so-called "overpayment scams" seem like a ticket to easy money, but usually leave the victim with an overdrawn account and empty pockets. Number two: Just because your ATM or bank statement says "funds available" doesn't mean that the check has actually cleared. By law, banks must make funds available to you in a few days. After that you can access the funds, but the check may not clear for weeks. Until the check does clear, you're legally responsible for the deposit, as well as any funds that you withdraw. Number three: Many lottery or sweepstakes frauds involve counterfeit checks. You receive a check for a portion of your winnings and are told to deposit it. You're then instructed to use a portion of these moneys to pay for taxes or fees, with a promise of even bigger winnings to come. Don't buy it. It may seem like easy money, but it will cost you big in the end. And lastly, don't forget your good common sense. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. There are no "get rich quick" schemes, and you can be sure that no one needs your help to transfer millions of dollars into or out of their country. Cops call these types of scams "419 fraud." They've been around for years, only now they've been updated for the information age. Play it safe, and log off on these fake check scams. For more information on how to avoid counterfeit check fraud, visit our website at www.fakechecks.org.

External Link: Behind the Badge: The U.S. Postal Inspection Service,   Transcripción en español