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g0ldengubler · 4 years ago

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chapter 6~life is a “high” way

(*i do not own this gif*)

A/N: this chapter is honestly one of personal favs because we get to see more of spencer feeling more confident in himself in a way while still being him and it’s just aaaaa :’) tomorrow you will get chapter 7 but then after that, expect chapters to come out a bit slower, including requests (which i am working on currently and thank you so much for sending them my way!). lots of my focus needs to be on my personal life but writing helps me get through all of that hell, so i’m in a very wishy washy position lol. thank you so much for the love on nauseous i love uuuuuu

Category: fluff w smut at the end

CW: road head, d/s dynamic, daddy kink

Word Count: 3282

before you read | last chapter | next chapter (coming soon!*)

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Spencer parks in front of your apartment building and stays in his seat as you get out. You both had decided that packing up right away and not going to lunch was better. That way, you can learn more about each other on the way there. You couldn't wait to get inside that smarty-pants brain of his and find out what's really going on in there.

You shut the car door and start walking, but stop when you don't hear his footsteps behind you. When you walk back to the car, you see Spencer sticking his battery in the cigarette lighter to charge.

"You're more than welcome to come in, y'know." You chuckled.

Spencer looks up at you, licking his lips as he moves some of his hair behind his ear. "It's ok, I don't want to bother."

"You won't be a bother. I've been to yours, now you can come into mine."

"Oh, so that's how that works huh? You have to go into the guys apartment before the guy goes to yours?" Spencer said sarcastically.

"You know what I mean!" You pull open the car and grab his hand, "C'mon, Spence. You'll be fine!"

He giggles under his breath and comes out of the car. After locking it, the two of you head inside and up the elevator to the 4th floor. Once at your door, you unlock it and open up to 4 paws jumping onto you. You hear Spencer gasp in surprise and giggle at his reaction, making it seem like you were giggling at your two buddies. Sitting on your old couch was your next door neighbor, Seth, who was watching Pose on the tv.

"Thank you again for watching the boys while I was gone. I really owe you big time for doing this." you say as you get up from the floor.

Seth gets off of the couch and walks up to you to give you a hug. "Anytime! If anything, they can stay at my place when you go on a case-" He stops and looks over at Spencer, standing awkwardly by the door still and letting the dogs sniff him, "Although, it seems like this new case was a success."

"Shut up, Seth!" You giggle, lightly slapping him on the arm. Realizing you forgot your manners, you quickly try to take it back. "Seth, meet Dr.Spencer Reid. Doc, meet my neighbor, Seth."

Seth reached his hand out to shake, but Spencer politely denies. "Sorry, I-I don't shake hands. It's actually been proven that it's safer to kiss." You catch Seth's eyes looking him up and down. "Seth stop teasing him like that!" You laugh. Spencer wasn't into guys, but somehow Seth looking at him made you a little jealous. You're not even dating the man, y/n shut up, you think to yourself.

"You and I will talk later." He says.

"Oh, Spence! These are my babies. The scottie is Benedict and the husky is Draco."

The room went silent for a moment, Spencer trying to hold in a chuckle. "Yes, I did name them after Benedict Cumberbatch and Draco Malfoy. I've had them picked out since I was a teenager, don't judge."

"Oh c'mon hun," said Seth, "it's adorable that you named them the way you did."

"It is," Spencer spoke, "I didn't depict you as a nerd."

"Oh my god, you kidding? She's probably the biggest nerd I've ever met with all her Sherlock and other crime shows, Harry Potter, Doctor Wh-"

"Ok, I think he gets it Seth!" You cut him off. That was enough embarrassment for today.

"I will say, Benedict or Tom Felton could always come my way."

You slap him on the arm again laughing. You look back at Spencer, who was awkwardly chuckling along with. You then announce that you were going to get in the shower. "Seth, can you take them for a few more nights? We're going up to my dad's cabin back home for the weekend. Also, when I get out and do my makeup, you promised me that you would tell me how your date went last night with 'Mr.Perfect' as you said it."

"Bitch I have ALLLLLL the tea that I'm not missing on spilling!"

"Good. Now you two get along. And Spence," He looks up at you, his hazel eyes looking into you...

"Don't miss me too much, hm?"

Then you walked into your bathroom, trying to wrap your brain on the fact that you just said that to him.

~Spencer's POV~ I can't believe she said that.

She left me here a little turned on. I could start feeling my pants getting tight and had to put my bag over myself as I sat on the couch so then I wouldn't embarrass myself in front of Seth. I looked around her apartment to distract myself of thoughts of being in the shower with her. She had a very interesting aesthetic. Walls white with old picture frames that had beautifully taken old photos in them. The lamps that were in the living room looked like they were from the 70's, old gold coating chipped off at some parts of the stand. While there was a vintage look to her place, it was also very modern at the same time, a minimalistic look took over her kitchen. She had a fake vine hanging from the wall behind her tv, some of it covering her maroon record player. In some ways, our aesthetics were similar. If she had a bookcase in here, I'd feel like I was at my place.

Seth and I began to get to know each other. I came to find out that Seth worked as a bartender at a club, and he enjoyed taking photos for his social media. "I would love to be a photographer," he said, "but right now it's just a hobby that I do mostly during the colder months." He says cold, cloudy days (especially if it's raining) were the best times to take photos, in his opinion.

"So," he says, "you work with y/n at the BAU?"

"Yeah, we've really become good friends in the past 9 days. It's like we've known each other for years. Plus, she's great out on the field. She's definitely someone myself and the rest of the team will never take for granted."

"Thank god," Seth said as I heard the water turn off, "She told me that it was her dream to be a part of the BAU. She would never stop talking about it when she was in college."

"Hm, she never mentioned that to me."

"Well, let her tell you on your way to the cabin. She'll love it."

After a little bit more conversation, y/n came back to the living room. Her hair was damp, not fully wet but not dry either. She had thrown on a white turtle neck shirt with a brown sweater vest over it. She matched it with darker brown corduroy pants, cuffing the bottoms. In her hands was what looked like to be her makeup bag. She sat down in front of the mirror that was in the corner on the left side of the tv (when you look at the tv), beginning the process.

Seth and y/n talk about his date from last night and got pretty detailed about it. He talked about how the man took him to a gay bar that was a few blocks from here, and how they danced and drank the night away. "Oh and then get this," says Seth, "we're pretty drunk at this point, right? Well at one point, the local queen that performed came up to me and tried to flirt and shit, thinking she was all that and a bag of lashes, and he saw how uncomfortable I was and stood up for me. And let me tell you, he was REA-DY to throw hands!"

"Stooooop he's literally a keeper!" y/n says.

Once she was done with her makeup, she gets up and goes back to her room, coming back out with her luggage. She goes over to the door to grab a pair of Vans and comes back to tell Seth and her children goodbye.

"I'll be back in a few days. Thanks again, Seth. I really-"

"Owe me one, I know I know!" Seth cuts her off, "Now go have some fun and relax, you need to after working so damn hard for this job!" He turns to me and waves. "And it was very nice meeting you, Doctor."

"It was nice to meet you, too! But please, you can just call me Spencer."

Seth smiles as we walk out the door. What this trip will bring? For once, I'm letting fate take the lead instead of science.

~Y'N's POV~ It had been about a few hours of being on the road. At this point, you were somewhere in Pennsylvania, but not sure if you were close enough to Philly to grab a cheesesteak. You think back to the start of the drive. You suggested that you'd be the dj because your library on spotify had a full range of genres with some songs you had no clue were in there. "It'd be a fun little journey!" You told Spencer. And that it was, a journey.

You ended up driving right by a dispensary before even leaving DC. Garcia told you that that's where she gets her stuff, but knowing that bringing a lot of weed across the country wouldn't be a fun trip, you two decided to go with the original plan and just wait till you get to Michigan.

You could tell Spencer was getting a kick out of your music library. While majority of the songs he didn't know, he was still being goofy and jamming out along with you, trying to match the same energy you were having. The songs that talked about sex, drugs, and/or alcohol surprised him every time, his jaw dropping or his eyes bulging out of his head as he listened to the lyrics. You couldn't help yourself but laugh at his reactions, which would make him laugh along with you.

You two weren't alone, however. You were pretty much sucking down on the carts you still had, although you both made a deal that whoever was driving could only get a little high if they wanted to, drinking plenty of water and eating snacks to sober you up a bit if needed.

Driving through Pennsylvania, you look out the window and onto the scenery around you. You weren't paying attention, however, because you couldn't stop the dirty thoughts that intruded your mind. You couldn't help to think about giving him head, since you hadn't done it yet because both times he gave you all the pleasure. You couldn't wait to get to the cabin and go straight to your knees for him. Suddenly, you tried to get them out of your head. 'You're getting way too excited, y/n. STOP IT!' you thought to yourself.

You decided to just feel everything around you, taking a few more hits from your pen before taking it in. Nineteen by Movements was playing; it was like you could feel the song itself and everything about it as you looked up at the very tall street lamps passing by. Nothing felt better than this moment. Just you and Spencer out on the open road. It felt like nothing could stop you two. You felt free, but you also felt safe and complete, something you haven't felt in a long time.

At one point, you couldn't take it anymore. It was 2:30am and Spencer was still driving. He told you to get some sleep but you weren't sleepy or tired at all. You tried to feel free but when you did, you thought of Spencer, which led to dirty thoughts. It was like you couldn't escape it, and every time the thoughts came, you couldn't help but secretly rub your thighs together for some kind of friction.

As you tried to get the thoughts out of your head, you look over to see a nice little surprise. The passing lights outside helping you see, you noticed the bulge in Spencer's pants. How in the hell would he be getting hard now of all times? Were dirty thoughts intruding his mind, too? Seeing that made you even more wet than you already were. This was your chance.

You look out to the open road in front of you, and gently graced your fingers across his bulge. You look out the corner of your eye...nothing. Not even a flinch. 'Playing hard to get, hm?' You thought to yourself. So you did it again, which made him shift in his seat a little, still pretending he didn't notice anything. Finally, with some kind of courage that you never knew you had, you grabbed his cock through his pants and slowly started to stroke it. His eyes came out of his head, letting out a small gasp.

"You know I'm driving, right?" He asked, "We could crash if I'm paying attention more to this and not on the road."

You give him a smirk, "It's almost 3am," you begin to say, but then you notice that you're the only car on the road, "and no one else is on the road right now."

You start to undo his belt with your one hand. "You pleasured me twice already," you continue, your hand successfully undoing the belt and undoing the zipper on his pants, reaching inside to pull out his already, fully hard cock, "I need to show my thanks somehow, don't I?"

Spencer shifts in his seat, keeping his eyes out on the road. You were kind of hoping he was looking for somewhere to pull over, but you wouldn't mind doing it as he drove. "You...you already did...b-by inviting me to your dad's cabin."

You stopped stroking and he almost let out a whimper. "I saw that bulge in your pants just a few minutes ago, are you suuuurree you don't want to...daddy?"

Just hearing the word 'daddy' made him grab your hair tightly. You smiled as you shifted your position in your seat to go down on him. When you were ready, Spencer stopped at a red light and pulled your face close to his, lips almost ghosting each other.

"You better make daddy feel good then, since you're being such a fucking brat right now." He whispered as you continued to slowly stroke him again.

You couldn't even react to what he said because once the light turned green, he guided your head down to his cock before letting the tightness on your head go and letting his hand rest on top. You decided to egg on your bratty-ness by teasing the tip, giving him kitty licks at first and then slowly just running your tongue in it, licking up the pre cum.

Spencer tightens his grip again, making you whimper. "I'm not sure doing that is a good idea, angel. Do you want to get punished once we're there?"

You shook your head no, but the thought of him punishing you made you feel yourself drip between your thighs.

Spencer moves his grip from your hair and slaps your ass with a huge SMACK, which made you moan loudly. "You have to use your words, angel. Unless you want to be a little slut tonight."

You look up at him to see his eyes were still on the road. You smirk as you pump him a few times before taking his head in your mouth. You bob up and down slowly, hearing him grunt and curse under his breath. You step it up by going down a little lower, each time going back up and then going lower until you had all of him in your mouth. You stayed like that for a few moments, gagging on it.

"Oh fuuuck that's it...that's it baby, take my cock in your mouth, just like that." He says before pulling you off to let you breathe. He's quiet for a moment before he says, "Now I'm going to guide you, angel. You're gonna make daddy feel more good than he already was, got it?"

"Yes, daddy." you answer, knowing that he wanted to hear you say again.

He pushes your head back on his cock, moving you head faster than before. He couldn't get enough it, making you gag every so often and pulling you back up. Spencer's cock twitched in your mouth and you knew he was close. He controls your head faster, his rhythm getting sloppy.

"You want me to cum in that pretty mouth of yours, angel? You want daddy's cum?" He growled, trying not to thrust into your mouth as he continues to drive.

"Mhmm!" You moan, which almost made him go over the edge.

"Keep doing that for daddy, moan for me. God, I bet you just love having my cock in your mouth, but I'm sure you're just desperate for my cum."

You moan again. That you were. You wanted his cum so bad in your mouth so you could taste him; taste how good you made him feel.

"Don't...fuck...don't stop doing that, angel...that's it...fuck I'm gonna cum..."

And with that, you feel his cum shoot inside your mouth, letting out moans and cursing. You slowly continued to suck him, getting every last drop. When you did, you move up to face Spencer as he pulled over, showing his cum in your mouth at first and then closing your mouth to swallow and open back up to show him it was gone. The look in his eyes told you that that was the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Spencer pulls you in surprisingly and attacks your lips with his, as if he was hungry for them. He was almost eating your face but you didn't care, you kissed him back and let your tongues play with one another. You both pull away after a bit and he just looks into your eyes. You look into his hazel eyes and felt complete.

"Now, will you stop being a brat and get some sleep?" He asks.

You giggle as you quickly look at the time in the car radio. "It's 3:15," you said, "it's my turn to drive."

"But now you're all tired from pleasing daddy," he jokes, "so you get some sleep, and I'll drive. I really don't mind it. Honest."

"Are you sure?"

Spencer nods his head. You decided to give in and get comfy in your seat.

"Goodnight, Spence." You say as you move the top part of the seat all the way back. You grabbed your traveling pillow and placed it on top of your right arm, laying your head as you turned your body to face away from him.

"Goodnight, angel."

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fan fiction #criminal minds fic #matthew gray gubler smut #matthew gray gubler #mgg

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dannyphantom-rewrite · 4 years ago

Note

What's "how to get to cracker barrel" ?

Oh now that, that one isn't Actually a wip. It's a short story I finished ages ago that later ended up being inspiration for one of the plotlines in an anthology style audio drama podcast I want to make some day. There's 4 main characters:

The Mckellen sisters Jamie and Lady who aren't Actually sisters but pass rather well for twins since one of them is actually a changeling, Natalie Anderson, photographer and lady's GF, and Gavin Walker, a mage still haunted by the death of his fiance, Caleb Adams, mostly due to the fact that his fucking ghost won't leave him alone.

Art by @unded-bun (click image for higher quality)

I'm leaving out a lot of details, but I'd be happy to fill in the gaps if anyone asks.

I'll Also throw the story itself under a read more here, bc I'm still super proud of it even though it's a few years old now.

A small hotel on the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia. There is a Sonic Drive-in across the busy street. Bright neon lights in the window state, “Open 24/7!” A Greyhound bus is idling in the parking lot. A man, Gavin Walker, climbs off and crosses over to the hotel. He walks easily, but not confidently. Approaching the hotel’s entrance, he spots a cat eating from a plastic bowl in front of the door. The feline is small, and feral. He is black, with white paws. He does not pay Gavin any mind as he enters, only continuing to crunch on dry cat food.

There's a desk on the left side of the lobby. The receptionist smiles kindly as he checks in. Her eyes are tired. Gavin gives her a knowing nod, and travels deeper into the building. There is a sign marked, “Out Of Order.” on the elevator. This is a good thing. Gavin takes the stairs, of which there are three flights. This is also a good thing, because three is a good number. He enters the hallway, which is old, and worn. The walls bear chipped yellow paint, and the floor, faded red carpet. Gavin continues down the hall after checking the time on his phone. It is exactly 11:59PM. He turns the device off and begins to count the seconds. At sixty he has stopped in front of the elevator. The fluorescent light above him flickers. The elevator does not have an out of order sign on it. It is the same elevator as before. Gavin enters.

He presses the button for the first floor. In the lobby the check in desk is now on the opposite side of the room. The lights are off, the receptionist is gone. It is daytime outside now. The bus is gone and the Sonic is closed. The road is vacant. There is a cat outside. She is white, with black paws. She looks up at Gavin as he approaches. They lock eyes, and he kneels in front of her.

“Hello, cat.” He says.

“Hello, Mage.” Says the cat.

She flicks her tail, “What is it you seek?”

“Direction.”

She nods and stands, before making for the road. The Sonic across the street is closed, but it was never empty. A Sonic is not a sit down restaurant. Customers are expected to pull into a parking spot and order over an intercom, and then a waitress delivers their meal directly to their car. Gavin’s pretty sure places like Sonic were more common in the 1950’s, and he knows that drive in diners are a dying breed now a days. The thought gives him a strange sense of nostalgia for something he’d never actually experienced, and he shudders involuntarily.

The cat sits down in the parking spot furthest from the building. She watches as he presses the the button on the intercom, listens, ears swiveling, as they are greeted with static. Looking out of the corner of his eye, Gavin can see something moving within the darkened restaurant. An outline of a figure, only vaguely humanoid. The thing moves like a deranged ape, long, long arms dangling to the floor and dragging it forward. Its back is hunched, legs short and stumpy. Gavin can not see its face, and he does not wish to. The intercom crackles to life.

“WhAt can aH’ do fER ya’lL?” Drawls The Thing in the Sonic. It’s got a southern accent thicker than congeling visera, and the pitch of it’s voice fluctuates wildly. Gavin glances uncertainly at the cat, and she nods.

“I’m looking for Direction.”

“Ahhhhhh……” groans The Thing, “WEll, watch’ Yer goNna wanna dO is hEad doWn the road, bout maybeEEee…..foUr, five miLeS, an’ yer gOnna wanna look fer’ weEl, watch yer gonna wanna fiNd is soMeTHing’ idEaliZed, ya knOw? Like uh, somethin’ kinDa romanticized, an’ a liTtlE faKe in sOme senSe but reAlLy true in anOther, ya follow?”

“Yeah.” said Gavin, even though he did not follow at all.

“Yep,” Continued The Thing, “n’ yer gOnna wanna gEt yourself sOme rasPberRy lemONade when ya get theRe, It’s some gOod shit, lemme tell ya.”

“Alright, I’ll uh, I’ll do that.”

“Good, GoOd, That’s Good. Y'all have a niIiiccceee daaaaaay nooooow.” And then the intercom crackled once more, and returned to spewing static. Gavin released the button and looked around for the cat, hoping, maybe, for some more guidance, but she had long since abandoned him. He started walking down the road, away from the Sonic Drive-In, and The Thing inside, and hopefully towards where he needed to be.

Gavin started to think as he walked, which was not something he liked to do often. He much prefered to act in the moment without much consideration for the consequences of those actions until they themselves became the moment. Gavin did not like to think because he often thought much too deeply, and it sometimes scared him. Gavin thought about a lot of different things in quick succession, he thought about the missing greyhound bus, and The Thing in the Sonic, and wondered if the disappearance of one had to do anything with the appearance of the other. It probably did. He thought about what The Thing had told him to do, and why he was doing it. He thought about why he’d come here in the first place, to this inverted little section of Georgia. And he thought about Liminal Spaces, about busted elevators and darkened hotel hallways and empty stairwells. The air shifted suddenly as a pickup truck speed past him, it had a faded confederate flag on the back window.

Liminal Spaces, simply put, were the areas between one place and another. The small spots in the middle of point A and point B where reality seems to be altered in such a way that the change is almost imperceptible, and yet, it is still enough to leave you feeling so impossibly strange.

Liminal Spaces can also be doorways, if one knows how to properly open them.

Gavin isn’t sure how long he’s been walking down this empty stretch of road, but it’s been long enough that he can no longer see the Sonic Drive-in behind him. It’s not even a dot in the distance now, just gone, as though it were never there to begin with. He keeps going. He walks until his feet hurt, and his legs ache, and keeps going even after that. At some point he sticks his thumb out towards the road, tired enough to risk hitch-hiking, but no cars have gone by since the pickup truck. And at some point he takes a moment to rest. He sits down on the shoulder, and just breathes for a while. And then when he stands again, he sees the Cracker Barrel just down the road. Exhausted as he is, he knows it isn’t possible for him to not have seen it earlier. Gavin decides it’s best not to dwell on that, though, because this is exactly the kind of place where Cracker Barrels can just pop into existence. (Although, as he enters the restaurant, he remains somewhat annoyed that it couldn’t have decided to do it a little sooner.)

The front of the Cracker Barrel is a store selling all manner of things. There's a back corner full of vintage candy, a small section of organic make-ups, and another full of knick-knacks like salt and pepper shakers, and dreamcatchers, as well as the usual crap that tourists like to buy, T-shirts and mugs and what not. Gavin has never actually been in a “regular” Cracker Barrel, so he’s not sure if this is a completely normal thing, but he’s certain that a “regular” Cracker Barrel would not also be selling such wares as bottled crocodile tears and Unicorn meat slim jims. There aren’t a lot of people in the store, and yet Gavin finds it impossible to get a good look at any of them. The people look normal, but they move like extras in the background of a film. The only person in the room with any notable features is the waitress standing by the back. She’s short, and her hair and eyebrows have been dyed a vibrant blue. As Gavin follows her into the seating area he can't help but stare at her hair, and he finds himself thinking that it can’t possibly be dye, it’s too bright, somehow. She smiles at him as he sits, and her teeth are a just little too sharp.

Once he’s seated, she says, “Can I start you off with a drink?” Her voice has a pleasant, lilting tone to it.

Gavin thinks back to The Thing in the Sonic, “A Raspberry Lemonade? If that’s something you have here?”

She nods, and goes off to get him one. Gavin leans back in his chair and takes in his surroundings, trying to relax. The decor in the Cracker Barrel has a sort of vintage, rustic feel to it, there’s things like black and white photos, and old advertisements on the walls. All the furniture looks antique. There are quite a few other customers present. Most of them look like the same nondescript folk from the front, but a few stand out. There’s a woman in the back corner, she’s dressed in black furs and her head is an ember eyed wolf skull. She’s sitting across from a man with the skull of a stag upon his shoulders, the antlers adorned with ivy. There’s something resembling a giant moth sitting two tables away, slowly crunching its way through a Caesar salad. Occasionally, there’s a figure leaning against the kitchen doors, they look as though they’re made up of television static. Gavin’s eyes start to hurt from trying to look at them, so he turns his attention to the menu instead. The waitress returns with his Raspberry Lemonade, and he orders the Country Fried Shrimp.

Gavin takes a sip of his drink and finds that he agrees with the Thing in the sonic. It’s definitely some good shit.

“Funny seeing you around here, Gav.”

Gavin looks up from his drink, almost spills it in surprise.

“Is this seat taken?”

Gavin manages to shake his head.

Caleb Adams pulls out the chair across from him and sits. Gavin stares at him. He’s wearing a T-shirt that reads, “NORMAL HOROSCOPES: Making your day a little more magic whether you like it or not.” Gavin’s not sure if it’s supposed to be advertising for a psychic’s shop or if it’s some strange indie band he’s never heard of. Knowing Caleb, it’s probably the latter.

He finally manages to speak, “You’re dead.”

“Yeah?” Caleb leans an elbow on the table, and props his head up in his hand, his smile never wavers, “And?”

“And- and I don’t know, Fuck, I don’t know.”

The waitress briefly interrupts his existential crisis by depositing his Country Fried Shrimp on the table. Gavin looks down at it and tries to focus on the smell of greasy seafood instead of the dead man sitting across from him.

“You seem confused.” Caleb’s voice sounds uncharacteristically sympathetic.

Gavin nods.

He sighs, frowning “Eat your lunch, and then we’ll talk.”

Gavin eats what he can, but it’s a large portion, and he’s somehow not that hungry. He takes a final bite, and pushes the plate across the table, silently offering Caleb the rest of the shrimp.

The barest hint of a smile returns to his face, “Thanks, but no.” And then he’s frowning again, “Why’re you here, Gav?”

“I just went where I was told to-”

He shakes his head, “No. I don’t mean the friggin’ Cracker Barrel, I mean Here.”

And Gavin doesn’t really know what to tell him. That he’s here because he felt lost and desperate? That he didn’t know what to do anymore? That it doesn’t matter anyway because he’s fine, everything's fine and he’s just tired?

But he doesn’t tell Caleb any of that, he just says, “I miss you.” And he can’t keep his voice from cracking.

“I know you do.” Caleb places a hand over his, “But this is damn near one of the dumbest things you’ve ever done. You knew this place wouldn’t be safe for you.”

He feels numb, “I didn’t really care.”

“Gavin,” Caleb grips his hand now, “Look at me, please. I mean, really look at me.”

So he does, he looks up at him, and finally, meets his eyes.

They have not changed. Death has not reduced the amount of compassion behind them, nor faded the sea blue color. Gavin stares. Eyes are supposed to be a window into someone's soul, a way to truly see into them, and Gavin just stares because Caleb’s eyes are still capable of conveying so much, and he can feel tears running down his face…..

“It’s time to go home, Gav, okay?” He gestures to the window, and the Greyhound bus has pulled up, “Your ride's here.”

And Gavin knows has to force himself to look away and loosen his grip, and he can’t bring himself to.

“It’s alright.” He says, “It’s going to be alright. I’ll take care of the bill, Please just let go.”

And Gavin finally, Finally manages to tear himself away.

He does not feel anything but relief as he leaves, as he boards the bus and settles into a seat. He leans back, and watches through the window as the world shifts and shimmers and is suddenly dark and starry once more. As the Greyhound pulls out of the Sonic parking lot, Gavin closes his eyes, and slowly falls into the comfort of a deep, dreamless sleep.

#southern gothic #tag game #Walker& Anderson #short story #ask #jamie McKellen can and will kick your ass bitch fights the fae on the regular #gavin just needs a nap and caleb needs to stfu lmao

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neocity-sarai · 5 years ago

Text

“Love in _____ “ series

❀ chapter 3: reader x jaemin

❀ forbidden love

❀ alerts: fluff, tinge of angst, language, suggestive, making out, i do not speak fluent french whatsoever, please forgive the mistakes, mentions of the dreamies

❀ song rec: “paris” by sabrina carpenter

“Love in Paris”

You’re surprised how you managed to make it this far. When you first told your parents that you wanted to move to Paris, they shot you down even before you finished. You told them you wanted to live by yourself to experience independence in a cultural epicenter and have some type of outlet to practice your french skills. Not that you were an expert in any way. Several days later, your father convinced your mother that it would be a good way to see the world and live in an environment that was different from your dull, quiet neighborhood. Before you knew it, you were on a one-way plane to Paris, France.

Several months later

Thankfully, you were pretty decent at your french skills without butchering the accent you had to adopt when speaking. You got a job at a nearby cafe that was close to your studio apartment but you couldn’t feel any happier. Despite having such a small room, you adored it. All you had was a small bed, a wooden vanity, a mirror, and a few belongings from home. Every morning, you’d wake up to the honey-colored window next to your bed as you hung your arms out of it- looking at the Eiffel tower that scraped against the dawn sky. It was like you were living in a painting, the way that the sky turned a light shade of lilac during twilight or how the city glowed in the late hours of the night. In the mornings, you’d always pick up a bouquet of pansies in the market that resided in the Jardin des Tuileries. You’d place the flowers in a crystal glass that you found in some vintage store in passing, you considered it your best investment. During the night time, you always felt yourself relaxing with the sound of occasional car honks or the buskers playing their accordions on the streets. You’d put your headphones on to play some soft music, swirling a glass of red wine that sat in your hand. Over the first few weeks of coming there, you mostly stuck to your day to day routine rather than exploring Paris for yourself. When you had the time, you promised that you would scour the city by every corner and alley. You just had to earn your rent money first.

You actually found the boulangerie by accident. You made a wrong turn somewhere and discovered a quaint, two story bakery that was called, “Claudette’s.” By chance, you decided to follow the comforting scent of fresh bread and honey-glazed pastries, an older woman who wore a chiffon skirt smiled at you. The establishment only had a couple customers in it, she made her way around the corner, “Comment puis-je vous aider madame?”

You answered her, “Embauchez- vous?”

“Oui.”

You walked closer to her, shaking her hand, “Je voudrais travailler ici. Parlez vous anglais?”

“Oui, un peu.”

“Merci.”

Though you could speak french without many problems, you still preferred speaking in english. You’re grateful that the woman was willing to cooperate with you. She eyed you curiously. She seemed like a character straight out of a novel as her hair piled into a messy bun of white, her apron is embroidered with tiny blossoms, and she looked extremely young for how old she actually was. In a heavy french accent she spoke to you, “Are you new in Paris?”

“I am, since a few months ago.”

“What- er, why work at my shoppe?”

Though the job is to make money, you really did want to experience the life of working in a bakery. You always were interested in how to make coffee or how to ice cakes and back home, you just couldn’t. You continue, “I want to learn from you, mademoiselle.”

“Call me Claudette, welcome.”

After your encounter with Claudette, you had been in Paris for nearly a year. Time flew by and you hadn’t even noticed. You were comfortable after trying and failing to make french-foam macchiatos, mixing up people’s orders, and getting the texture of the pastries right. You were thankful that Claudette was patient with you.

Like every other Monday morning, you swung the sign that hung on the bakery’s door to open, taking the morning rush on by yourself. Claudette entrusted the shoppe to you when she needed to sort out inventory or go on errands. You didn’t mind that, knowing your customers’ names, conversations about their lives. When you finally got to the end of the line, a peculiar customer had stepped foot through the doorway. He seemed to be taller than you, dressed in a white t-shirt and a blue blazer with matching pants to go with it. The odd part was that you couldn’t clearly see his face as it was covered with a black scarf, hat, and blake sunglasses. Why did it seem like he was trying to hide his face? You asked him, “Comment puis-je vous aider?”

“Je voudrais un expresso, pas de lait.”

“Donc tout noir?”

“Huh?” Despite the dark shades over his eyes, you could still sense the boy’s confusion in his voice. You took your chances, “Are you fluent in english?”

“I sure am.”

You nod at him skeptically, “I was asking if you were sure you wanted all black, that’s a lot of caffeine.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, his voice muffled under his scarf, “Are you questioning my refined tastes?”

“Uh- no sir. That is not my intention. But, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

The boy pulls out his credit card as he darts his eyes around the cafe. Like he insists, you serve him his tiny cup of all black espresso, you even grimace at the heavy scent despite working with coffee for so long. He wasn’t kidding, he had gulped it down like it was nothing- your eyes widening at the sight. He smiled, his scarf still wrapped around his face. “I’d like another please.”

You eye him incredulously, “More? really?”

“Yes, that’s what I said miss..”

“Y/n. It’s y/n.”

“Your establishment is quite the place. You’ll be seeing me here often.”

Trying your best to smile at him, “I look forward to it.” You walk back to the counter, packing sweets for the next customer as you watch the boy gaze out the window. Even his posture seemed so formulaic due to the way he crossed in legs in a prim-proper way, dainty fingers stirring his half-full espresso shot. When you get around to the boy’s third espresso, your surge of confidence makes you lean down at him, “You asked my name, isn’t it right that I know yours?”

He slides his shades down slightly, his eyes a dark brown, “Oh, don’t worry y/n. You’ll be seeing plenty of me that you won’t forget my name.”

He places a large bill on the table, winking at you, “Keep the change, y/n. You deserve it for working so hard.”

He struts out the door, leaving you just as confused as you felt when he first walked in. Who was that? And why was he acting so mysteriously? Throughout the day, you hadn’t thought about him after being so busy taking orders and fulfilling them.

To your surprise, the same boy came the next day around noon. You could tell by his odd disguise that contrasted with his crisp, white suit- his voice in a lower octave than yesterday. He whispered, “I’d like another espresso and a croissant please.”

You typed up his total on the register, two girls whispering behind him in line. He sat at one of the tables before one of the girls could tap on his shoulder, her expression falling when he walked away. When you set down his cup, you eye him carefully, “If you want more espressos, you’ll have to tell me what’s going on.”

He rests his chin on his hand before yanking his scarf down, “In what obligation do I have to do that? Isn’t it called customer confidentiality?”

“Not if you’re causing a disturbance. You look so suspicious right now!”

A scowl is scribbled on the boy’s face, some pink hair sticking out of his dark bucket hat, “Do you have anywhere private?”

“Follow me.” You lead him to your back stock room, his proximity too close for comfort. His eyes dart from the front of the store and back to you, his hand ripping off his mysterious ensemble. The boy finally reveals his face, a beautiful one at that. The locks that sit at the top of his head curl on his forehead are a shade of bubblegum pink, his lashes accent his eyes attractively, and his cheekbones accentuate his boyish charm. The boy smiles at you, his teeth shining through his pink lips, “You can’t tell anyone that I’m me.”

You stare back at him, “Who exactly are you?”

The boy dramatically runs a hand through his pink hair, “You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

He sighs, “I’m Jaemin Na.”

You don’t catch on. Instead, you look down into space, catching a sight of Claudette’s magazine pile- a picture of a pink-haired boy on the front cover.

“Wait a minute-”

You grab the magazine hastily, holding it up next to the boy’s face, “Y-you’re Jaemin Na?”

He smiles brightly at you, “The one and only.” You rub your fingers against your chin, “Wait, what do you do exactly?”

Jaemin sighs at you, resting a hand on the wall near your head, “Listen sweetie, I’m the son of the Na family- consuls to the royal family of Versailles. I stay in the palace.”

“Ohh- so you’re a rich elitist boy?”

“Well- I guess you could put it that way.”

You scan him up and down curiously, “Well that explains the lame disguise. I’m sure girls would try to maul you. If it’s so much work, why don’t you just have one of the palace people make you coffee? Why bother coming here?”

Jaemin scrunches his nose, “Well I don’t appreciate the insult and I also hate to admit that no one makes coffee like you do- that’s why I started sneaking out and coming here. Don’t take too much credit though.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you smirk, “For someone who sits on their butt in the palace all day, you sure drink a lot of coffee, you should see a doctor.”

Jaemin smoothes down the fabric of his white vest jacket before covering his face with the scarf again, “My taste buds and stomach lining are perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

Shoving his bucket hat over his eyes, he storms out of the shoppe- leaving you with an amused grin on your face. The next day, Jaemin came once again. You asked him, “one espresso shot coming right up.”

Your fingers nimbly move on the register’s keyboard, a hand flying across it without any thought. You bring Jaemin his espresso cup, setting it down on a dainty white saucer in front of him, “Here’s your black coffee of death. Enjoy.”

You swivel back around, only to be stopped by the sound of Jaemin’s voice, “Hold it. Not so fast.”

“What is it now?”

“I never said I wanted an espresso- it’s a lavender latte kind of day.”

You step closer to him, your eyes widened like disks, “But you didn’t stop me at the counter? You always get an espresso- all black?”

“Not today. Plus, you only assumed and never thought to ask.”

You resist the urge to slap Jaemin square in the face, he was acting like a spoiled, conceited child. You eye him sternly, “Are you going to waste that?”

Jaemin bats his eyelashes at you, swinging the fabric of his scarf over his shoulder, “Well I certainly am not going to have an espresso today. I take that as a yes?”

You feel your eyes roll back into your head, you’re surprised they don’t turn inside out. Grumbling, you march away with the espresso in your hand- dumping it into the sink drain as Jaemin smiles an amused grin. You come back to him, a menu in hand, “What do you want and make the choice good because I won’t do this.”

Jaemin raises his eyebrow at you, “Isn’t that your job? Customer knows what’s best?”

Scoffing, you smash your fist on the table, “Don’t do this Jaemin or you’ll regret it.”

The pink haired boy narrows his eyes at you through his pretentious sunglasses, “I’d like a lavender latte- make it oat milk. I don’t digest dairy well.” Heading back to the counter, you whip up the drink, layering a mint-berry compote and oat milk as you strategically place a lavender stem at the top of it. You stand back to admire the perfection of the drink, the purple gradient blends into a cloud of white. When you place it onto the table in front of Jaemin, he takes a sip of the drink as you wait for his reaction. He uses his index finger to motion you closer to him, your feet moving on their own.

“Well, how is it?”

A bright smile lights up his face, his white teeth gleaming between his lips, “It’s good but you need to come closer.”

You do as he says, his eyes flickering to your lips- you feel his breath on your face. Is he about to kiss you right now? He darts his eyes from your lips to your eyes. The fast-pace of your heartbeat skyrockets before it ends suddenly, Jaemin smacking his lips before whispering at you, “The oat milk could be a little less nutty.”

You break the tension, launching back from you, “Are you kidding me right now?”

Jaemin gives you a cheshire cat-like grin, “Yes but not to fear, I’ll still drink this since you worked so very hard on it.”

You raise your cloth rag at him, stopping your hand just before the crown of his head- your brows creased with distress. Before this, you had never dealt with such a difficult customer before. Your voice is laced with irritation, “Do you enjoy this?”

“Oh, so very much. I hope you don’t miss me, I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow.”

Grabbing his book sack, Jaemin heads out the door, leaving you alone to be irritated. Like he promises, Jaemin is back the next day. The whole evening after yesterday, you spent taking note of every trap Jaemin would set for you- there was no way he was going to get you this time. When he steps up to the register, you try to sound as polite as possible.

“Welcome to Claudette’s. What would you like to order?”

He nods at you, clicking his tongue at the same time, “Let’s go with the caramel frappuccino, no whipped cream or foam please.”

After he pays, you skillfully make the drink right in front of him, carefully measuring the correct proportions of every ingredient. He places his fingers on his chin, one hand on his hip in a taunting manner, “This is so fascinating to watch y/n. You’re truly the master of beverage arts.” You scoff, pushing the finished drink to him, “Try that.”

When he takes a sip, his eyes sparkle with pleasure as he visibly shudders, “Well, I am pleased to say that you have passed the frappuccino test except for one thing.”

“What now?”

“The straw is upside down.”

You groan, slapping a palm to your forehead, “You’ve got to be kidding me Jaemin.”

Before Jaemin can answer you, you hear a familiar voice from the back of the stock room and you feel a hand sit on your shoulder, “Are you satisfied with miss y/n’s services sir?”

You whip around to be met with Claudette towering above you, her lips graced with a fond smile. Jaemin clears his throat before answering her, “She’s doing great but she’s having so trouble accepting constructive criticism.”

You stare back at him, gritting your teeth, “What are you talking about? I just-”

Claudette pats you on the head, “Maintenant, maintenant petit pan, what do I say?”

Respectfully, you repeat after her, “Customer always knows best.”

Jaemin adds, “I was just telling her that the straw was upside down just so that she doesn’t do this to other customers.”

“Oui Monsieur! Learn from the customer, y/n, it’ll make you a better worker and person.”

Jaemin lets out a hearty laugh from over the rim of his maroon scarf, “Other than that, she’s great.”

Glaring at him, you look up to Claudette who’s smiling at him, “I see that you come almost every day monsieur, thank you for enjoying my shoppe. Merci beaucoup!”

He smiles back at her, “It’s because of y/n.”

You feel your breath hitch at your throat when you hear Jaemin’s words, how can he say things so casually? You want to believe he’s saying these things to get under your skin again, you can’t seem to predict the pattern of his ways.

Claudette practically jumps out of her skin, her hands clapping wildly, “l'amour est dans l'air! Y/n, you need a break right now- let this nice man take you out for some air.”

Waving your hands in front of you, you shake your head at your boss, “Claudette, please. I need to look after the shop in case of more customers and I-”

The older woman cuts you off, “Nonsense! You’ve been working too hard since I’ve been out! You’re done for today! Out!”

Claudette holds out her hand to you to hand over your apron, an amused smile on her face. After you hand it to her, you gather your belongings from the stockroom before breezing past Jaemin out the door. You turn back to Claudette for affirmation, she’s always trying to shoo you out when she thinks you’ve worked for so long. You don’t mind her motherly aura. It makes you miss your own mother. You begin walking down the street towards your apartment, your bag slung over your shoulder.

“Wait up! y/n!”

You turn around to be met with a huffing Jaemin, “Where are you going?”

Sighing, you say, “What does it look like? Home obviously?”

Jaemin holds up a finger so he can catch his breath, were you walking that fast? He says, “Why don't you spend the day with me?”

“Yeah, after you embarrassed me in front of my boss? No way, I’ll pass.”

Turning around, you continue to walk until Jaemin runs in front of you, holding his hands as if he’s going to entrap you if you try to make a run for it, “Please, let me make it up to you.”

You eye Jaemin skeptically, “Why? What would you get out of that?”

“Can you just trust me?”

Scoffing, you try to get more steps in until you’re halted by Jaemin once again, “I promise, if you spend the day with me, I won’t bother you about coffee or upside down straws again!”

You gaze at him, your eyes searching for some malicious sign. When you don’t find any, a smile creeps on to your face, “You better stick to your word Jaemin Na or else!”

The first several minutes of walking next to each other make you cringe from the awkwardness. You steal a glance at Jaemin who’s messing with the rim of his bucket hat, the accessory covering his eyes, “So, where are we going?”

He answers you plainly, “Have you been around the city?”

You rub the back of your neck, “I’ll have to admit, I haven’t been around much.”

He stuffs his scarf into his book bag, the sun too hot for the thick fabric, “No worries, I have a plan. Prepared to be amazed out of your mind.”

You let Jaemin guide you to the plaza of the Louvre, the glass pyramid reflecting the sunlight into a million rainbows. People stand in front of the water structure that it sits on, the water is like a pristine mirror that catches even the most subtle details. You had seen the Louvre in travel books and magazines but never in person, “Are we going to the Louvre?!”

“Nope, that can be for another day. I have something even better.”

Jaemin walks over to a man who stands by a red cart, they converse in basic french before the man hands Jaemin two wristbands. He puts his on, motioning for you to do the same. A big red tourist bus pulls over by the front of the Louvre, “All aboard the passengers! tous à bord du bus!”

Without a second thought, Jaemin takes you by the hand before hosting you onto the bus as you both dash up to the second story of the double-decker. You take a seat at the very front, Jaemin’s shoulder touching yours. You try to wave away the tingle you feel when he brushes against you, his cologne smells of fresh pine needles and mint. A skinny teenager dressed in a striped shirt wears a beret at the top of his head smiles at you, extending a fake rose to you. Hesitantly, you take it while smiling back at him.

“Bienvenue à bord! My name is Pierre and I will be your guide to your journey across the city of love, city of the la romance! Let’s begin!”

Within a few hours, you had already seen so much. You felt like you were on cloud 9 when you stood up on your seat as you passed under the Arc de Triomphe, Jaemin resting his hands on your waist to keep you stable. You don’t resist him. He watches you with adoring eyes, “Look like someone’s having too much fun!”

You look down at him, “How can you not?!”

The bus speeds over the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris that crosses over the Seine, Jaemin pointing out the ducks that float on the banks of it. You laugh as Jaemin takes your rose, putting it in between his lips in order to make you giggle in which you do because he grimaces as a thorn pokes his lip. You swerve with the bus as the driver maneuvers it through Place de la Concorde, the spot where the French Revolution took place. When Pierre told you fun facts about Marie Antoinette, Jaemin would scream at the top of his lungs, his voice getting lost in a blast of wind, “Let them eat cake!!”

When the bus halts at the final stop, you descend down the stairs and off the vehicle- the cool weather sending a chill down your spine. You and Jaemin walk over to the Notre Dame and the Saint Chappele to keep shelter from the blustering winds, the stained glass windows making your faces glow with shades of blues and greens. You sit on a bench, Jaemin’s body pretty much pressed to your body as you both hold a candle between your fingers within the quiet church. Jaemin turns to you, whispering, “So what do you think of Paris?”

You chuckle at him, “Paris is the city of love right? I think I’m in love with Paris, when do we get married?”

Jaemin stiffens his frame, “We as in you and Paris or as in you and I?”

You hit his arm, “No silly! Paris! I don’t want to get married right now!”

Shaking his head, Jaemin laughs at you, tufts of pink sticking out of his bucket slightly. The hat covers less of his face now, at least you can see his eyes.

“What do you say, we get something to eat?”

“You’re right, I’m famished. All that exploring has made me ravenous.”

Jaemin wins at you, “I know just the thing.”

It’s about evening now, the sun starts to set with a shade of champagne and violet- the trees glinting a shade of vermillion green when you pass the numerous cafes and boutiques on the street. You both find yourself in a field under the Eiffel Tower, the structure staring down at you with regality. You feel as if the air in your lungs has been sucked out, blue lights blink along the lattice pattern of the tower- creating a luminescent effect on your vision. Jaemin nudges you with his elbow, “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

You don’t even realize he had been gone since you couldn’t stop staring at the beautiful sight in front of you, your head fuzzy from how the gold and blue cut the painted sky. When Jaemin comes back, he sets down a blanket away from the other people- most of them couples- you avert your eyes from them. In his right hand, he holds a basket full of unknown goodies waiting to be eaten. You and Jaemin sit on the blanket before Jaemin reaches into the basket to pull out a multitude of things. He hands you a long baguette of bread before spreading out various shiny fruits, cheeses, and a bottle of blush cider.

“Did you really prepare this all right now?”

Jaemin smiles at you, his eyes softened, “I have my ways.”

For the next hour or so, you feel as if you don’t need any alcohol to feel drunk. You and Jaemin watch the dusk fade into a black sky, stars glimmering over the golden glow that surrounds you. You both nibble on pieces of havarti cheese or opt for a slice of bread as you talk to each other in hushed whispers. You had never done this with anyone before, it felt so easy, so light. You learn about Jaemin’s life as the son of the consuls and how exhausted he is to be expected of perfection every second of his life, how he’s had his freedom stripped from him since he was born. In turn, he listens to you when you talk about your life back home, how your parents almost cut off ties with you- thinking you were foolish to want to randomly move to Paris by yourself. You never regretted your decision after all. You say, “If I hadn’t moved here, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Jaemin laughs, downing his glass of rose blush cider, “This is the first day that I have felt like myself in front of anyone- just me, not perfect Jaemin Na in front of the cameras.”

You nod at him, scarily aware of how close your fingers are to Jaemin’s on the plaid blanket, “Do you have a favorite part about Paris?”

He turns to you, his cheeks and bridges of his nose illuminated by soft golden light, “After living here all my life, I hate to admit that it’s gotten a bit boring. Now, I think that’s changed.”

You quirk an eyebrow up at him, moving your hand away as heat travels up to your cheeks, “And what has changed?”

You see Jaemin laugh to himself, “You’re unlike any girl I’ve ever met. You don’t fall at my feet like the other elitists in my family- you’re not afraid to call me out and criticize me. I like that.”

You nervously laugh, “Thank you? I’m not sure what to say.”

Jaemin’s expression turns serious, his lips looking more prominent when he turns his face to you, “Then you don't have to say anything.”

Before you can register, Jaemin leans into you as his nose bumps against yours in a soft kiss. You pull away, boring your eyes into his before he scans your eyes for some sign of refusal. When he can’t find any, he molds his hand to your cheek, folding his lips over your bottom lip. Jaemin speeds up the pace by pressing into you further, a sound escaping your throat. You blush at the noise, Jaemin leaning his forehead into yours before sweeping a hair behind your ear, “Wow.”

Your bodies feel like they sing with electricity, Jaemin’s fingers hot on your skin as he pulls you into the space of his chest. Your ear is pressed to his heartbeat, “Do you hear that y/n?”

You shut your eyes at the quiet rhythm, “I hear it.”

You take it open yourself to edge your fingers on the rim of Jaemin’s hat, slowly taking it off him to reveal the pink shade of his locks- the soft tufts messy from the day. He watches you take off his sunglasses too, placing a hand on his neck while pulling him in for a fiery kiss. His eyelashes extend from his eyelids, framing his dark irises that reflect the Eiffel like swirling stars. He whispers to you, “Are you ready to get out of here?”

You nod at him, standing to help him fold off the blanket and carry the basket. The whole way back, you and Jaemin dance along the walkway of the Seine- to the beat of your hearts, to the beat of the acoustic guitar that echoes from a late-night cafe. Ending right back at your apartment, you don’t want Jaemin to leave just yet. He holds your hands like you’re a fragile porcelain, the warmth of him gentle and soothing. He leans his head against yours, pressing a kiss to the spot in between your eyebrows, “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it Jaemin?”

“This is only if you want to, don’t feel pressured. My parents are holding a masquerade ball at the palace tomorrow night. Do you want to be my date?”

You stare at him, a hand resting on his shoulder, “Oh, Jaemin, I’d love to go with you, there’s just one problem. I didn’t pack a ball gown when I moved.”

Jaemin’s expression is shocked as if he never expected you to say yes, “Really, you’ll come?”

“I’d be happy to.”

“Don’t worry about the dress, I’ll take care of it.”

For a final time, Jaemin presses a firm kiss to your lips, “I’ll see you tomorrow night y/n.”

“Goodnight, Jaemin. Today was perfect.”

“I’m glad. Now, go in first. I won’t leave until you do.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“Positive, goodnight y/n.”

In the morning, you wake up the sound of your doorbell ringing. Sleepily, you saunter over to your door, finding a neatly wrapped package on your welcome mat. Unfurling the paper, you hold the delicate satin of a scarlet red dress between your fingers, the softness making you sigh. It’s got billowing belle sleeves that are cuffed with pearls at the wrists, the train of it falls on your hardwood floors. You find a note at the bottom of it, “For the most precious girl, who’s beautiful even without this dress. -Jaemin”

You lay the dress agross your bed, the scarlet organza blending into a shade of fuschia as white sparkles cover the bodice. In awe, you can’t take your eyes off the dress- one thing was for sure, Jaemin had impeccable taste. You had gone to work with a pep in your step- you debriefed Claudette of all the details of seeing the city with Jaemin and how his eyes held every form of adoration. Neither of you had fallen so hard so fast before. You were tingling at the thought of it. Thankfully, Claudette let you off early so you could get ready for the ball, your head filled with the thought of dancing with Jaemin in a fancy ballroom.

Nighttime approached quickly, a jet black limousine had pulled up to the front of your apartment- Jaemin’s voice crackled through your phone speaker when you answered.

“I’m here y/n!”

“Be right down!”

You descended the stairs, your train dragging slightly despite holding it off the ground the best you could. When you came outside, Jaemin’s eyes met yours, his mouth agape from seeing the sight of you, “How is it so possible that someone can be so beautiful?”

Laughing at him, you hug his waist, “You need to stop with all these cheesy compliments, that’s what a boyfriend would say.”

Jaemin smiles into the hollow of your ear, pressing his lips at the shell, “I can make that happen.”

Suddenly, Jaemin pulls out a clear box. It holds a gold band, a white rose attached onto it. You let Jaemin slip it on your wrist before letting him whisk you away into the car. The whole car ride was full of hushed whispers, lips sealing stolen kisses, and bodies pressed together. Out of your time living in Paris, you have never experienced anything like what you felt with Jaemin.

Upon arriving at the Palace of Versailles, it was definitely a castle straight out of a fairytale. Fountains line the garden courtyards as different colored lights shine on the cars that line up in front of the palace, guests piling out of them. A velveteen red carpet was rolled out down the stairs of the entryway, giving off a glamorous effect. Extending his hand, Jaemin held out his arm for you to grab- both of you entering the palace. Over the top couldn’t hold a candle to the real description of how the atmosphere looked. Caterers dished out trays of hand towels and small crackers topped with caviar, desserts dusted with glitter in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. You whisper to Jaemin, “Is your life always like this?”

He chuckles, “Mostly. It gets boring all the time though.”

In the center of the main ballroom is a live band, musicians playing their cellos and their violins in sync with the music as guests dance in a flurry around the floor. You felt your heart sink. You were never taught to properly dance because there wasn’t a reason to learn back home. Jaemin feels you stiffen, “Y/n? Are you okay?”

Nodding slowly, you say, “I don’t know how to dance-”

“Relax, just follow my lead.”

Without a moment to breathe, Jaemin already placed his hand on your waist before guiding you hands to his shoulders. Like walking on air, you glide with Jaemin despite tripping over your feet for the first half of the song- you rest your chin on his shoulder, swaying. You two don’t say anything for a bit, Jaemin’s grip on your body feels secure.You’re interrupted when an older woman who resembles Jaemin taps him on the shoulder, “Honey?”

You feel Jaemin’s arms fall from you, hugging the woman you presume to be his: “Mother?”

“Honey, who’s this?”

Jaemin pulls you to his side, “This is y/n. I’ve been showing her around Paris.”

The woman smiles at you, her hand tucking back a strand that’s fallen from her black braid, “Please to meet you, has my son been treating you well?”

You take her hand firmly, nodding, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Na. Jaemin’s been wonderful to me, he’s been showing me around and telling me good things about-”

“Yes, that sounds great. Jaemin, I need you to come with me- there’s someone your father wants you to meet.”

“Can’t it wait until next week mother?”

Her eyes sharpen coldly, the warmth slipping out of her smile, “Do not disobey your father, come now.”

You hear Jaemin groan before he turns to you as he’s being dragged away, “I’ll be back. Do not move. I mean it- don’t.”

You nod at him confusedly, “Don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

You opt to take a seat by the tables where guests pile their plates up with various foods, your eyes watching Jaemin’s mother introduce him to a girl that’s a lot shorter than him, her eyelashes batting at Jaemin. They shake hands as Jaemin’s father and the girl’s father laugh, cheering their flutes of champagne as they converse. Immediately, you feel yourself rise from your seat when the girl launches herself into Jaemin’s arms, his face is riddled with surprise. She smiles up at him, whispering something inaudible as Jaemin’s mother teases them to kiss- Jaemin sternly staring at his mother. Getting up from your chair, you turn back into the nearest hallway, your black slumped against the wall. How could you have been so naive? Did you honestly think that Jaemin could sweep you off your feet like some cheesy romcom and then you’d fall in love with Paris’s it boy? It seemed inconceivable. Around the corner, you hear Jaemin’s voice- you start to run towards where you hear him- only to be met with the sight of the same girl pressing Jaemin up against the wall. Her voice sounds like a slither, “Little birdies are telling me you’ve been running around with some peasant girl that works at some dusty cafe. Didn’t you say you loved me?”

You continue to listen in on them. Jaemin holds her at an arms distance, “That was when I was 4 and didn’t know what the word meant. I don’t see you that way. Aleah, I don’t like you that way.”

She laughs into Jaemin’s shoulders, “Your mother has always adored my family- we’re destined from the start. Don’t turn me away, Jaemin.”

Jaemin shakes his head, “Y/n, isn’t some peasant girl. Just because she’s not like you and your family doesn’t make her a peasant.”

Aleah combs her fingers through Jaemin’s hair, “Sweet little Jaemin, that girl could never give you what I could. She’ll only bring you down. Face it, we’re to be betrothed soon- in the palace, side by side.”

When you don’t hear Jaemin protest or even say a word of refusal, you take off running. You don’t care that the ends of your dress are frayed now, your heels causing blisters on your feet. What felt like a dream has now transformed into a nightmare. You burst through the doorway of the palace, guests shooting you dirty glances when you tell the limousine driver to take you home. As the car dashes out of the courtyard, you hear Jaemin call your name on the steps while tears fall from your eyes. Paris has never looked so melancholy. When you arrive at the doorstep of your apartment, you glare up at the moon- the same moon that Jaemin had kissed you multiple times under. You sit on your stairway, crying into the lap of your dress as your hands fist the layers of fabric tightly. With a screech on the pavement, Jaemin flings himself out of another car- slamming the door behind him. You look at him, shaking your head, “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want-”

He doesn’t listen to your words when he wraps his strong arms around your sunken frame, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You collapse into the crook of his chest, your tears staining his dress shirt. Jaemin tilts your chin to him, “I’m not going to marry Aleah, I hope you know that.”

“What about your mother? She said-”

“I don’t care what she or my father says. I can’t marry someone I don’t like- I don’t love. Not for money, not for status. I won’t.”

“Jaemin, you can’t. You can’t sever from your family because of me-”

He raises his eyebrows, “Who says I’m doing it for you? I’m doing it for myself. I know what my heart says, I know that it chooses you. I’m not doing it for you.”

He takes your hand in his, pressing a kiss to your knuckle, “I’m going to do it for us.”

When you try to say something else, Jaemin shut you up with a passionate kiss before eyeing you closely, “Let’s go rest for tonight.”

Letting it go, you nod at him. Jaemin picks you up, your dress covering his body as he unlocks your door for you before setting you on the comforter of your bed- your room lights are off, the scent of Paris air drifting in from your open window. The darkness invokes the calmness, you start to kick off the heels that are strapped to your feet. Jaemin sits on your bed next to you, “I’ve never seen your room before.”

His dark eyes scan the wilting peonies that sit on your desk and the ivory walls that surround you both. “Your room suits you.”

You let yourself collapse onto the bed, your head hitting the cool fabric of your blanket, “It took me a while to settle into it.”

Beside you, Jaemin lays down to watch you, his elbow propped up, “I should probably go soon.”

“Do you want to stay?”

“Can I?”

You chuckle, “That depends if you want to. Your mom’s probably wondering why you’re with a peasant girl.”

Jaemin clears his throat, “Did you overhear Aleah?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you want to spit out a string of insults about the rich, how they judge people based on money. For Jaemin’s sake, you don't. He parts his lips, “You know that’s not how I see you right?”

Nodding, you whisper, “If you did, I don’t think you’d be next to me right now.”

Immediately, you feel Jaemin hover over you, “I don’t want anyone else but you.”

Your bodies burn like flames as you kiss each other hotly, Jaemin’s tongue gliding over yours. You grip his hair, slightly tugging on it so that he lets out a sound- your legs entangled with each other on the bed. Panting, Jaemin tosses his black suit jacket to the ground- you practically yank of his tie. Jaemin drags his lips down to the juncture of your neck, causing him to smirk when you gasp. You bore your eyes into his, “I need you to help me.”

Jaemin seems to understand when he reaches behind your neck to pull the zipper of your dress now, your chest exposed in front of him. In the dark, his eyes glimmer with adoration- his lips connecting with your own. Using your hands, you take his dress shirt off him to reveal his muscular body, his skin glowing under the soft moonlight. You smell the heaviness of Jaemin’s strong cologne, the scent makes you dizzy. By the end of it, your dress lays on the ground by your vanity and Jaemin’s clothes by your wardrobe as you press your cheek to his bare chest, watching him sleep peacefully. Jaemin has his arm on the small of your back, stroking your skin even in his slumber. You take note of how his pink locks are mussed and his eyelashes have a subtle curl from how long they are. Jaemin flicks one eye open, “Y/n? How come you’re not asleep yet?”

You snuggle deeper into him, “It’s because you’re next to me.”

“You’re right- I’m just that good- hey!”

You slap Jaemin’s chest, a blush creeping onto your cheeks, “That’s not why stupid!”

“Then what’s the reason?”

Without any hesitation, you tell him, “I like you and I want to be with you.”

“You’re a tad late y/n. I knew that already.”

“How? I’ve never told you that.”

“I can just feel it. You and I- we have this connection that I’ve never felt with anyone else. The only reason I come to that bakery isn’t only for the espressos. I want to protect you from harm’s way- even if that includes my own family. I just want to be there for you like no other guy can.”

Smiling to yourself, you reach up to pat Jaemin on the head only to have Jaemin’s hand catch yours, you whisper to him, “It’s only been a little while since we met?”

He sinks to your level, meeting your gaze before pressing a kiss to your eyelid, “That’s the beauty of liking someone. Time doesn’t stop for anyone. I just knew when I saw you.”

Giving Jaemin’s hand a firm squeeze, you press the curl of your lips to his knuckles. It makes him chuckle, his smile upturning on his cheeks. Once again, you shift closer to him. You both succumb to sleep, the low occasional honking of beetle cars and soft music from your neighbor’s window as your own Parisian lullaby- Jaemin wrapped in your embrace.

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fragment-lunaire · 4 years ago

Text

Some quotes from Ethan

I found a site in Polish (if I'm not mistaken ?) where there are quotes spoken by Ethan during the various Routes. I found it interesting to share them with you. The translation is rather rough (sorry).

Prologue

"Hey, who do we have here?"

Beliath’s Route

"So, now you want to rip a bookworm, but you're not curious enough to immerse yourself in great vintage classics? You know, if you don't have muscles or brains, things can get complicated."

"You have a sharp tongue, but weak nerves, huh?"

"I admit that I would have liked to show my amazing creativity, but Beliath never liked poaching his game. And stop talking to me so bloated, I'm not as old as Vladimir."

"Oh, you say that because I look too cool to bother opening books? That's my strength, baby. I have muscles AND a brain."

"Stupid, not necessarily, but undoubtedly not very bright. But go ahead, amaze me with your masterly Croatian, outstanding Polish accent or your knowledge of Greek philosophers, feel free ..."

"Come on, since I'm nice and I feel there will be a lot of laughter from it, then you come with me today. I want to see how brave you are."

"So, now smile and look excited to be with me, okay?"

"Rule of thumb: if you have a weak head, don't overdo it."

"You're right. I couldn't stand you when you came. If it was up to me, I'd be for kicking you out and let you die."

"If you want to look at it like that, okay. That doesn't mean I'll be nice to you at the mansion after all, do you get it? My name is not Raphael and I'm not your friend. But I'm not going to keep you locked up."

"Who am I to stop a young woman on the way to drunkenness? Okay, I'll buy you another one, but then be careful. Not being embarrassed about anything is fun, but you'd better not end up with your head in the toilet bowl."

"Wow, when you're a guy that's exactly what to say, if you want to score a score with someone, you know that? Nothing works better than letting someone else talk to a person. Seriously, is that me you want to flirt with?”

"It's not like that. Vampires have a" passive "ability to attract human attention. We are designed to charm and attract humans because they are the source of our vitality and power."

"Maybe my heart beats because of the blood of others, but that doesn't make him insensitive. I'd have to be a bloody bastard not to understand what it's like to be ... disappointed when you hoped for something."

"Probably like all the poor mortals in the world. But anyway, even though I've become a real asshole since then, I never got over it."

"Okay, I admit I like this approach. But you'll have to stick with me. You think you're ready for this?"

"Stop wondering, Eloise, lower your barriers and start living for once!"

"Hey, hey, and it's not just a little, but unfortunately I know it's doomed to fail." (In answer to Eloise's question if he was attracted to her)

"That big idiot doesn't know what he's losing ..."

"And you're not as tense and annoying as I thought. You see, this night is not so bad."

"Take care on the way back. It's safe, but you never know."

"Relax, do you think they can do anything? Hold on to me and you'll be fine"

"Good god, it's a ghost! I was starting to wonder if we might end up breaking down your room door just to see if you were there at all."

"Hey baby, it could have been worse. Maybe Beliath only thinks about one thing, but he's far from being a loser. You could have been less fortunate. You could have hit me."

"Yes, that's the way it is ... once a year the planets will align properly, and then I sometimes think of someone other than myself."

"And think about what I told you. Go and see Beliath before he wears out and goes on all fours because of hunger. I like this view only under certain circumstances ..."

"That said, we'd understand you're the chick who thinks hot water with grass is tasty. I can make an effort to get drunk, but this stuff is no fun at all."

"Oh, something like when Eloise flew out of a second-floor window because of Ivan's enthusiasm, whom we also saved after joint" consultation "? That bodes well."

"A girl knows where to punch to make it hurt ... I'm starting to like her."

"There are always the same ones who have to do the dirty work ..."

"Better to be a coward for a minute than to be dead forever. Soldiers have always been told so."

Ivan’s Route

"Please, please. How aggressive. What a pity you didn't choose me. I'd love to give you a lesson or two .."

"Vladimir would ask us to stop breathing if the sound disturbed him. He is physically incapable of playing. In turn, she ... I feel like we will have fun with her!"

"I didn't do anything. Neither did Raph. You chose us. You must be really in your head if you chose a madman who ..."

"Yeah, okay, I'll take care of it. Hi there, baby. If you need any help ... don't look for me."

"Face it, baby: you are dinner. Get used to it."

"And for God's sake calm down. I feel sick to see how tense you are."

Vladimir’s Route

"Do you have a sensitive stomach, my dear?"

"Shit, Raph, you are such a nuisance with your quick blind guy habits"

If you want the site, tell me, I will comment it out :)

#Moonlight Lovers #ML Ethan #ML

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dibleopard-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Make This Chaos Count

Fandom: The Island (2005) Characters: Bernard Merrick, Gandu Three Echo/Alpha, others Rating: Teen for language and brief violence Warnings: Terminal Illness, brief description of symptoms, murder, shooting, brief description of blood, infrequent strong language, CHARACTER DEATH, hospitals, mention of a car accident Additional tags: Angst, fluff and angst, cloning, pre-canon, canon compliant, technically

Word Count: 14,074 Also on Ao3 and Wattpad

Summary: Is it really stealing if you’re taking back something that was stolen from you in the first place? In the wake of his partner’s death, Bernard Merrick thinks not.

Watching the film isn’t really necessary since this is just the lead-up, but you should watch it anyway cause I’m carrying the fanbase on my back.

The study had an absent solemnity to it that Bernard Merrick wallowed in easily. He watched his own fingers tap against the red leather of the sofa. Tap. Tap. Tap. Along in perfect rhythm with the infernal ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Stop sulking,” said Steve, who had carefully selected a can of inexpensive beer from a cooler of vintage whiskeys. “Hey, at least I won't leave you a widower.”

Bernard glared at him. He had been hoping to leave the question of their marriage for another day. Still not legal, even after their decade of waiting. Hopefully they would get the opportunity soon enough. He had half a mind to march to the capital and write the bill himself. Steve never quite cared as much about that kind of thing. ‘I mean the tax thing would be nice but really it's just a piece of paper, right?’ He’d said so many times before, when there wasn't yet a deadline hanging over their heads. Bernard would nod, ‘Right’, and wonder if either of them were qualified to select wedding flowers. It was the small things.

“You know drinking will make it worse?” He unlocked his phone to the webpage he had found in the hospital lift. For the tenth time in three hours, his eyes glided over the concise little paragraphs, taking in none of them.

Steve rolled his eyes. “I'm drinking to cope, Bernie.”

“According to the NHS, less than fifty percent of people with cirrhosis live for five more years when they keep drinking.”

“Well then I'd better get all of my living done now, then, hadn't I?” He flopped down next to Bernard, threw one hand over his eyes. “And getting blackout drunk is first on my to-do list.”

Bernard sighed, knowing a losing battle when he saw one, and wrapped an arm around Steve. They still had time.

Months later, in that same room, papers lay on every available surface as well as many supposedly unavailable surfaces. At his desk, Bernard had a sizable stack of documents balanced on his lap and was holding a file in one hand, typing and scrolling with the other. So far his computer had coped with keeping fifty-seven tabs open with only minimal lag. Most were various healthcare websites, some for hospitals nearby, others for the most successful hospitals, and the rest for the best options in their price range. Tinny hold-music was playing from underneath one of several empty mugs; the last few days had seen him drink coffee and tea indiscriminately and, in one memorable instance, simultaneously.

“Man!” There was a crash as several thick hardbacks fell from their perch on the stair banisters outside. Steve’s hand emerged around the door, one foot poised over the paper-covered floor. “You say I’m a slob! What do you call this?”

“Try not to move anything; I've got it all where I want it.”

Steve poked his head around the door, still balancing on one foot, to give him an unconvinced look. “Is this still the same thing as last time?”

Bernard could only meet his eyes for a split second. “What else would it be?”

“Bernie, you can’t keep using your sick days to go looking for something that doesn’t exist. What if you actually get sick?”

“I wouldn’t be as sick as you,” replied Bernard, typing more aggressively than strictly necessary.

“Low blow, man.”

“Listen, I think I’ve found a few that could work.” The printer by the door thunked and juddered before deliberately whirring out webpages in glorious black and white. “There’s a research group in Italy working on artificially grown organs, and a firm in Japan that’s trying mechanical versions. Also, I have a hospital on the line about donation and three more to call by five o’clock.”

Steve took the pages and flicked through them half-heartedly. Bernard couldn’t see him from behind the door but he heard the sigh. He’d been hearing that sigh with increasing regularity. It signalled something in the area of pity, which rankled him more than he liked to admit. He wasn’t the one who had been falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon; he wasn’t the one who became nauseous every other meal; he was not the one with an expiry date hanging over his head. If anyone was worthy of pity, it was Steve, and Bernard refused to subject him to that indignity.

“You know they won’t give me a transplant when I’m still drinking?” said Steve. He did know. He hated it. “Ethics, and all.”

“Then stop drinking, for God’s sake!”

“Bit late for that, don’t you think?” And he could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, the dry humour. “The withdrawal would probably kill me before the liver.”

A sigh of his own, signalling something in the area of anger.

“Look, just– I’ll find something. I’ll find something. I promise you.”

“Promise yourself; you seem to need it more than me,” Steve put the pages on top of the printer, voice somber. His hands were shaking. “Just don’t run yourself into the ground, okay? I need you.”

Bernard nodded, unseen, “Of course.”

Steve’s footsteps retreated in time with the hold music. Bernard stared at his screen, at the file in his hand, at the forest of paper around him, seeing only the potential futures in his head.

“Steve?” He called.

“Yeah?”

“Could I take a genetic sample from you? Just in case?”

“Anything for you, Bernie.”

...

It was snowing. Bernard Merrick was dressed for the weather in the loosest sense: a long coat, a scarf, but with business shoes and no hat. The frigid air nipped at his ears and the snow soaked through his trousers as he knelt in front of the freshly turned earth, which was only just beginning to turn white.

Steve Gandu had not been a religious man; there was no church, no service, no stone angel, just a funeral, a wake with a noticeable lack of alcohol, and Bernard paying vigil until the sun set or he collapsed from cold, whichever came first. Who did you pray to, he wondered, when neither of you believed much in an afterlife but you liked the idea of someone keeping him safe, now that he was out of reach?

It was a strange thought to have, and unproductive. He let it become numb and fall away from sensation as his fingers had.

The last few months had been bad. He’d been bad. Steve had been coping as well as he could, but was also bad when it came down to it. His eyes had lost their life before the rest of him, the whites yellowing as they became more and more drowsy. Sometimes he’d wake up confused, or blood would end up in places blood shouldn’t be, and Bernard would find him with a can of something foul scrounged from who-knows-where. Those were bad days.

On bad days Bernard would find himself gravitating towards the study even after he’d promised to leave alone the ‘mad scientist pipe dreams’, as Steve occasionally referred to them. Not all of them were mad. Every now and then there was a spark of brilliance among the paragraphs of otherwise uncreative research papers. He’d pursue the thread until he found the end, which was usually before anything left the realm of theory, a brick wall few were willing to take a sledgehammer to. Ethics, funding, feasibility. All seemed negligible in the early hours of the morning, but apparently biochemistry did not occur before dawn.

Steve would look at him sadly, once he would return to bed, eyes red from screen strain. Bernard would smile at him, and they would both be too tired to do anything about it but sleep.

There was no one left to smile sadly at him anymore. No one to sigh dramatically when he brought up a new idea he’d found, or make snarky comments about death and inevitability and karma. It was just Bernard Merrick and the snow.

The house was empty which meant he could slam as many doors as he wanted. Papers flew as he swept into the study with a crash. They didn’t matter, they hadn’t helped him. Disorder could reign among them until he screwed them up and set them alight in the garden. It could all burn.

His snow-sodden shoes made the print underfoot bleed. Memory stick, wallet, change of clothes. That was all that mattered. Car keys, they mattered too. Only the things he needed to get out and not come back, at least for a night. Toothbrush? Yes, and toothpaste. Nothing else.

Articles were stuck to his shoes as he left the house, door locked only due to a chance remembering in the fervour. He noticed the papers only once he was in the car and threw them into the passenger seat.

Where to go? Simple enough: work. They did good things at work, things he could use. He would stay in his office. He would find an answer among all of the meaninglessness around him. He would make things better. He would fix everything. He would. He would.

...

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was entirely natural. It’s practically indistinguishable from the real thing. Bravo, Dr Merrick.”

A small crowd had gathered around the plexiglass container. Visually, the contents was unremarkable, if visceral: a wet, reddish mass that was ever-so-slightly pulsing where blood-filled tubes pierced the surface. Beyond the visual, it was the culmination of the department’s collective careers, brought to fruition by Merrick’s own contributions.

Months of work, years for some, and now they had a liver.

“Thank you, Dr Wilson, your feedback is greatly appreciated.”

It was a liver. A real, organic liver grown entirely in the labs.

Grinning, someone slapped him on the back. “You know, Merrick, I think this makes up for all that time off. I bet this’ll be on the other side of clinical trials before the year is out.”

“Just need to consolidate all the data,” added another, “And we’ll breeze through peer review.”

Before all this, he’d expected livers to be bigger, somehow.

“Saving lives, Merrick, this is what it’s all about. This is why you join the industry!”

Adrenaline-fueled conversation filled the room, most of it only half directed at him. His reflection in the plexiglass stared back at him, tight-lipped. Behind the reflection, the liver glistened. It had been made with the genetic material of some poor sod who still had years to live. They’d stopped drinking, presumably, to make the whole venture worth the investment.

The liver wouldn’t bring back Steve. It would save a life – and many more by its legacy – but it couldn’t bring back Steve. It was just one liver, and that wasn’t enough anymore.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one looked up at him with beady eyes; its distinctive black-spotted ear flicked disinterestedly. Only a day old, and it appeared identical to the photos of the original mouse, which had died of old age around the time that trial thirty-seven had woken prematurely and drowned, still half-formed.

“Merrick.”

Trial eighty-one had so far avoided the pitfalls of its predecessors. It had taken sixty attempts to make the switch from accelerated aging, and another twenty to iron out the kinks in developing a physically mature specimen from the initial stem cells. Maybe this time he had succeeded.

“Merrick!”

He blinked. “What?”

“I was being serious yesterday, we need to watch ourselves or we’ll get–” Merrick’s supervisor reached the desk, moving through the jungle of pipes and cables. “Is that–?”

“That,” said Merrick, not taking his eyes off trial eighty-one, “Is our first mature clone to survive twenty-four hours out of the growth-support system.”

“Oh my god. Merrick–”

“I know, I know, but I think we’ve done it.”

“You’ve done it.”

“Well, yes, but it’s on behalf of the company, of course. This is our research.”

“No, no. You don’t– Merrick, the boss needs to talk to you about this. We’ve had people– This is a major thing – way beyond the scope of the project – and we can’t just–” She gestured at the mouse, “Do that. Not– not here.”

“You seem to be overlooking the fact that I just did,” smirked Merrick. His supervisor dug her hands into her face.

“Listen, just– the boss needs to talk to you. Now.”

“Of course. I think I’m just about finished here,” he replied, gently scooping up trial eighty-one and putting it in a small enclosure.

“Yeah, I think so too. You’d better be up there ASAP.”

His new lab was in an unassuming building in the outskirts of the city – the industrial sort of outskirts, filled with warehouses and trainyards all in various states of rust. The main entrance looked more like a side-door, painted in flaking blue, opened from the inside with a crash bar designed for fire exits. In the corridor, the plaster was flaking off the walls, coating the exposed pipes in pale dust. The few rooms he had been allotted for his exile, however, had been repainted and retiled upon his arrival. It still wasn’t the old labs, but it was clean, it was big enough, and it was his.

There had been an ultimatum: he could no longer work towards human cloning while openly under the company’s employ. Covertly, however, with reduced funding and a team only of those who volunteered for a supposed career suicide, he could continue. He would owe the company money for their investment, but their name would be kept from any research papers and, by extension, any controversy.

The deal was fine by Merrick. At least, it would be if some of the supposed volunteers were actually trustworthy. He could have sworn that one of them was reporting on him to someone a phone call away. Another was far too eager to know the ins-and-outs of the process. Merrick kept his office locked.

A small menagerie of animals had come and gone by the time he felt ready to take on the endgame. The success rates were climbing, and their equipment was no longer as foreign as it had been – not to mention bigger.

It was after hours. Everyone else had left and Merrick was staring at the completed designs for the final growth-support system.

Could he do it?

Obviously, he could do it, but could he do it with so many suspicious eyes on him? Was it safe to make this final step in the lab, which had less-than-stellar security? What would happen if the spy reported to an ethical committee? Or if his work was stolen and misappropriated? What would happen to the clone, if anyone knew about it?

Finding out was not worth the risk, he decided; he would have to find another way.

He took the design sheet, downloaded the digital backup, and put a coil of tubing in the boot of his car. None of it would be missed, and now he needed it in his own hands – his hands alone.

...

It took two months to gradually assemble everything in his basement, and in that time he finally got used to being alone in the house. He’d never been superstitious, but he couldn’t help but shiver every time he had heard the boiler knock on the walls or passed the cold spot halfway down the basement stairs. There were two new locks on the door and he hadn’t opened the curtains in the front room since he had begun to work on the project at home.

In the lab, the construction of the new growth-support system was months behind, interrupted by small, hard to find mishaps that threw the entire system out of balance. Two loose bolts one day, a punctured tube another. Poor luck, said one scientist. A sign, said another. Merrick simply tapped the desk irritably and said that there had better not be any bad luck tomorrow. Often, there was. Funny how things happened like that.

He had requested a new genetic sample for the lab’s first test, claimed the one he was originally planning to use had been damaged in the freezing process. Now, in the safety of his basement, he carefully placed Steve’s sample into the analyser. The computer whirred for a few minutes and he watched, drinking the fifth coffee of the day, forcing his hands not to shake from caffeine or otherwise. Readings flicked onto the screen. The sample was safe. It would work. Just another month, and he could hear Steve’s voice again.

A few taps of a keyboard, and the arduous process of creating the first human clone began. He pulled up a chair, his eyes not leaving the system until he fell asleep hours later, still sitting upright in front of the foundations of a human skeleton.

...

The clone was not Steve. Perhaps that should have been predictable.

It did not have his memories, it did not have his wit, it did not have his rough-around-the-edges smile or his world-weary optimism. But it did have his eyes, and, once it learnt to speak, it had his voice, albeit stilted as his never was. It was a newborn in Steve’s body, with Steve’s brain if not his mind.

It was not Steve. It was a facsimile. However, it was Steve enough to put the thrill of success through Merrick’s nerves. The clone was a second iteration of Steve, similar but different. Manufactured. Gandu Two Alpha.

Good enough. He would always be good enough.

After the initial birth, as it were, after fluid splashed across the floor, soaking his shoes and the air was filled with gasping and begging and “breathe, breathe, breathe,” after choked sobs in two voices had abated, after eyes had opened, clouded with unfamiliarity, after Merrick felt the blow of being a stranger to those eyes, after he locked the pain away with viscous practicality and helped dry everything down, after all of that, he left the basement. The deed was done. It was alive.

That night he cried himself to sleep, back in the bed they had shared for the first time since Steve’s death, and the clone remained alone downstairs.

Eventually, he collected himself. The morning was spent teaching the clone to walk and then helping it up the stairs into the kitchen. There was no conversation, only Merrick’s monosyllabic encouragement and the clone’s attempt to catch the eyes that looked anywhere but its face.

In the days following, when Merrick wasn’t at work, he was guiding the clone – someone had thought of another term, a euphemism, but that was what it was: a clone – through human experience. The messy basics, initially, hygiene and eating and drinking, but then speech, abstract ideas, self-sufficiency. He set boundaries but allowed free roam around the house, not that he could have done much to stop it. Alcohol had long been banished from the house, so he needn’t worry about that, and he had long forgotten to pay the cable fee, so there were few opportunities for the clone to see something Merrick wasn’t ready to explain. The basement was locked again, cleaned and relegated to the back of his mind.

A finger gently prodded Merrick in the sternum, eyes questioning, brow furrowed with the intent seriousness of a three-year-old with a mission.

“Yes, this is me, Bernard.”

“Bernard,” confirmed the clone’s achingly familiar voice, “Me.”

“No, no, you’re you, I’m me.” Merrick took the unnaturally soft hand in his own and pointed it at the clone.

“Me?” Repeated the clone.

“Yes.”

The clone smiled, somehow managing to make it too wide, even if Steve had always smiled more than Bernard. It was strange that Merrick was more aware of those little details now than he had been when the real thing had still been right in front of him.

“Bernard?” The clone’s hand hadn’t moved from where Merrick had put it.

Merrick pointed to himself. “I’m Bernard. That’s my name.”

A nod of understanding, clarity, then, “My name?”

The clone wasn’t completely dopey, not anymore; it knew what it was asking. Perhaps last week it would have been a case of parroting, but now the clone was beginning to attach meaning to words. It took a few tries, sometimes from different approaches, but slowly things were clicking into place and comprehension was dawning.

Still, the gaze was fixed on Merrick. Still, Merrick found it difficult to meet.

“Bernard.” Not a question. Deliberately so. “My name?” A demand, skewing strangely into an English accent, imitating Merrick’s own tone.

What was its name?

He had named it on the documents, but the thought had been fleeting in his mind, where he mostly thought of it as ‘it’ or ‘the clone’ or, if he was feeling particularly morose, ‘not him’. The name was comfortingly clinical, distant and inhuman. He could shorten it to just ‘Gandu’ but that was a step too close to calling the thing ‘Steve’. If he couldn’t look it in the eye, he couldn’t call it by his name.

“Your name is Gandu Two Alpha,” he said, ignoring the way it felt strangely final, as if this, of all moments, was the one he couldn’t turn back from.

“Gan-du Doo– Gand-u… Two Alv– Gon–” The clone stopped with a huff, frown morphing into one of frustration. Apparently ‘Gandu Two Alpha’ was more of a mouthful than ‘Bernard’. Who’d have thought?

“Me,” decided the clone.

...

By the time the lab’s version (which had been completely dismantled and reassembled in an effort to fix several loose connections, twice) was ready for its first trial, Gandu Two Alpha had mastered basic speech and was gradually learning to spell. If it tried, it could probably work its mouth around its name, but it seemed content with writing ‘me’ instead, and if Merrick hadn’t wanted to push Steve’s name onto the thing, there was no one meaningful to judge.

Work, however useless it was becoming, was still taking up half of Merrick’s day. From what he could tell, the clone spent most of that time pottering around, inspecting inconsequential little details. Merrick had hidden all of the photos of Steve in a box under his bed, but it was only a matter of time before the clone got curious enough to venture there. Already, it had blindly reorganised the bookshelf in the front room, presumably by spending hours taking each book out, scrutinising every aspect of it, and then forgetting where it had originally been and putting it back at random. At least it hadn’t moved everything around in the kitchen.

Every now and then, Merrick would catch himself smiling as he watched the clone stumble through life. It was still painful to see that face with none of Steve behind it, but he found himself growing used to the differences and the clone had a captivating innocence to him– it– that was more endearing than Merrick wanted to admit. The smile that the clone often gave him when Merrick came back at lunch was not Steve’s smile by any stretch, but it was earnest and the fact that Merrick was the cause of that smile somehow made it better.

The clone had all of its own little eccentricities: an accent that was a strange mesh of the one its mouth was adapted to and the one it heard Merrick use; a fascination with water (Merrick had once come home to all of the taps running and the clone staring into the bath); and an insatiable sweet tooth that earned Merrick a wild grin anytime he made jam on toast. It was easy to forget that the clone was ever intended to be Steve, and that somehow made it easier to be around him– it. They had a strange little harmony between them that hummed beneath the heartbreak and the stilted navigation of conversation.

It was nice, and Merrick learned to accept that it was.

One evening, they were sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble – Merrick had decided to put the clone’s memory and spelling skills to the test – when there was a knock at the door. The clone jumped, skewing the tile he was placing. He realigned it with deliberate precision, eyes darting between the board, Merrick, and the hallway.

“Over,” he read.

Merrick smiled, rising, “Good, v is quite high scoring. I’ll be back; I just need to see who this is. Stay here, okay? Don’t follow me.”

“Okay. Is it work?”

“Usually I go to work, not the other way around,” Merrick replied, dryly. The clone tried to smile, but the anxiety of the unfamiliar made it flicker. The door knocked again, more loudly.

One of Merrick’s peers from work was behind the door when it opened. “You’re a hard man to get hold of, Dr Merrick. You keep your phone on silent or what?” He didn’t, he just let the calls ring through. They were never worth his time.

“Ambrose, what brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much, just that some of the guys were working overtime and got the system up and running,” he grinned. Ambrose was a relatively young man, the kind instilled with that insufferable swagger that made Merrick want to put him on admin duty for a month. “We need a sample, preferably before the thing falls apart again.”

“And you came to me at eight o’clock in the evening because…?”

“Well, we need your go-ahead before we can make any decisions about this sort of thing, y’know? You are the one in charge. And you still haven’t got back to me with that new sample you were talking about months ago. After the first one got... damaged...?”

Ambrose’s eyes were fixed on something beyond Merrick’s shoulder. Urging himself not to sigh too heavily, he turned around to see the clone standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning,” called the clone.

Ambrose swallowed, nodding. “Evening.” Then he looked back at Merrick. “Is that–”

“No.”

“I thought he was de–”

“No.”

Ambrose grinned in a way that Merrick didn’t like. This was the problem with normal humans: they always had an ulterior motive. At least Two Alpha was always genuine or, failing that, a terrible liar. This time Merrick did sigh. “You’d better come in.”

Ambrose didn’t hesitate, his attention fixed on the clone, who smiled nervously back and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Oscar. Oscar Ambrose. What about you?”

“What about me?” Their voices moved into the kitchen as Merrick worked on relocking the door.

“What’s your name?”

In his mind’s eye, Merrick could see the frown on Two Alpha’s face as he worked on recalling it. The last lock clicked into place.

“Gandu Two Alpha.”

Ambrose shot Merrick a disbelieving look as he entered. “Dr Merrick–!”

Merrick glared at him and played his turn on the Scrabble board. Resolute. Two Alpha mouthed the spelling to himself, expression somewhere between indignance and admiration. It was a long word by his standards and Merrick had so far been playing five letters maximum.

“Work on your turn. Ambrose and I need to talk upstairs. Stay here. Really, this time.”

“I did stay here; I didn’t leave the kitchen.”

Cheeky brat. Merrick rolled his eyes, unable to maintain his stern facade. Ambrose was still staring, so he dragged him up to the study by an arm.

As soon as the door was closed, Ambrose was talking. “‘Two Alpha’? What sort of name is that? Is he actually an agnate, you really did it? Wait–” He stopped dead, processing something. “Are you the reason the system keeps breaking? You want the tech all for yourself!”

Merrick thrust the desk chair across the room. “Sit.”

Ambrose’s legs gave way as he sat. Behind his back, Merrick’s own hands were shaking. “None of what you’ve seen or heard today will leave this house, understand?”

A skeptical narrowing of eyes. That damn arrogance, even as the man was slumped in Merrick’s shadow. As if there weren’t an innocent life at risk, sitting downstairs and playing Scrabble, unaware of what damage loose lips could do to his entire way of life. Irreverent bastard.

He lunged forward, pinning Ambrose’s wrists to the armrests. “I said: do you understand?”

Ambrose nodded unconvincingly and then winced when Merrick leaned into his hands. Merrick spat, “Yes, I sabotaged the system. No, it was not to hoard it. None of you can be trusted, not with him, so I did it myself. I needed you to be delayed.”

“So he’s your…”

“His genetic donor was my partner, yes, not that that’s any of your business.”

“And… Sorry, I can’t get over that name–”

“It’s better than Human Trial One.”

Ambrose gave a conceding nod, “Point taken.” Then, “Hey, could you ease off a bit? I can’t feel my fingers.” Merrick pushed into him, perhaps taking too much pleasure in the way he folded at the pressure, before moving to lean against the desk. Hissing, Ambrose tried to rub the pain out of his wrists. “God, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Merrick glared.

“Okay, okay, whatever, water under the bridge, doesn’t matter, but– do you know what this means? It works! You’ve made a human agnate! Have you– have you done any testing? Like, genetic analysis? Is he one-for-one identical?”

The main negative to having someone in your house, Merrick decided, is that you couldn’t walk out. “I haven’t taken any samples. Cognition has been my main focus, if not his survival. He seems accurate enough, physically. He has no memories, though, and he’s had to learn everything practically from scratch.”

“Sucks. Bet you were hoping for a carbon copy, memories and all, huh? Hang on, have you…”

Merrick could see the way his mind had turned and was unimpressed. Let him wade through the embarrassment, Merrick wouldn’t fish him out. “Have I what?”

“...Kissed him?” Ambrose’s shoulders were hiked up to his ears. Idiot.

“Mentally, he is a child, Ambrose, get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Sorry, sorry. Had to ask, though, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.”

Ambrose sighed as if Merrick was the insufferable one. “Look, I think we’re overlooking just how massive this is. If we could make this on a mass scale, we could– I don’t know. This is the kind of thing that very wealthy people would pay a lot of money for.”

“Millions of dollars for… an organ transplant?”

“Millions of dollars for an organ transplant with a wait-time of days, maximum, practically zero chance of the body rejecting it, and it would be up to the client to decide whether or not they should get a transplant – no lifestyle changes necessary just to tick boxes. That’s millions of dollars for twenty more years of life. Maybe more! If I were the kind of person who had a billion just lying around…”

Steve hadn’t had a million, let alone a billion dollars collecting dust in a drawer somewhere. If he had – if either of them had – would it have made a difference?

“Hell,” continued Ambrose, “at that point immortality is within reach. Imagine that, Merrick! Once the surgical world catches up, you could just keep going forever!”

“And we just keep harvesting from the agnates,” His voice was far more somber than he intended it to be.

“Yeah, I mean, if you think about it, the net result is positive. In terms of life, that is. If you count them as real people, which– which I wouldn’t, legally. Not if we wanted to sell anything.”

At some point, Merrick realised, he had begun to think of Two Alpha as a ‘he’. Somewhere else – before or after, he didn’t know – he had begun to care for him as an individual. Perhaps it was latent love for Steve, or perhaps it was an independent affection for someone who was slowly learning who they were as he guided them along. Either way, something in the back of his mind reared at the idea of Two Alpha being killed for parts.

If Two Alpha had existed before Steve had died…

Part of Merrick wanted to say that he wouldn’t have sacrificed him, that he’d have kept both for as long as possible and accepted Steve’s death when it came. The rest knew that he wouldn’t have given himself the chance to care for him – Two Alpha would have been on the operating table before he knew how to cry for help.

Sometimes Merrick hated himself.

“And we could do it on that scale?” It was hardly a question.

“You’re the one to ask.”

“We could.” He ignored the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on and off, on and off. “If we had enough money to do so.”

“Well that, my friend, is where you’re lucky I was the one to find out.” Lucky was a strong word. Merrick didn’t feel very lucky. Oblivious to it all, Ambrose continued, energised and far too loud for the time of evening, “I’ve got some sway with one of the banks, and if we proposed the project to, say, the Department of Defense, I’m sure they’d be more than willing to make an investment. I can handle all of the marketing, networking, whatever, you’d just have to get the science going.”

“You’re saying we start a new company – not research-based – to sell organs grown in…” He wanted to say sentient beings, or humans, but already he could tell that it was a dangerous train of thought, “Agnates?”

“I doubt the boss wants us to do it with his funding. Breaking off is the only way to go.” It was a valid point and Merrick had already been one bad day away from walking out and never returning, but starting an entirely new business venture had never been on the table – he was a scientist, not a businessman.

“Why should I agree to this?”

“Why not?! Millions, Dr Merrick, why would you turn that down?”

“Agnates are hardly cheap on the production end, not to mention upkeep.”

“They’ll pay for themselves, you know they will. What’s your problem with this? Your real problem.”

The real problem? As if he would spill his emotional turmoil to the kid with the supposed business skills. No. Merrick lied, “I feel you’re underestimating exactly how much time, money, and resources this will take.”

“And I feel you’re underestimating how worth it it will be.”

Sighing, Merrick took off his glasses and began to clean them, using the distraction to sort his thoughts.

Two Alpha had never left the house. He would never need to know exactly what Merrick was doing if he agreed to this plan. Merrick could create hundreds of agnates and keep Two Alpha safe for himself, all the while he would be saving lives like Steve’s from preventable deaths. If he just didn’t talk to them, if he didn’t stimulate their individual development beyond the physical, didn’t allow them to be much more than walking organs, they wouldn’t really be people. Not like Two Alpha. They would just be insurance policies, clean and clinical.

He put his glasses back on. They were smudged.

“Fine. I’m in.” Ambrose’s grin returned and Merrick wondered if he’d regret putting this much trust in the man. “But we’re doing this my way. I don’t want any surprises, understand?”

“Of course, Dr Merrick.” He held out a hand. “I think this is the start of something incredible.”

Merrick shook it. “I want you in my office tomorrow morning; we need to plan this properly.”

Ambrose was already moving back downstairs, “Nine AM, sharp, Dr Merrick.”

“Make that eleven.” God knew he wouldn’t be able to cope with the man so early in the day. He unlocked the front door and waved Ambrose out.

“You won’t regret this!”

“Make sure of it.”

With the door finally closed, Merrick could acknowledge the headache worming its way into his eye sockets. He needed to sleep this off.

“Is he gone?” asked Two Alpha, standing by the kitchen door, just barely behind the threshold. His weight was shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

“Yes. I trust you haven’t run the taps dry?”

“No,” the clone smiled, “There’s still water in them, look!”

Merrick put a glass under the tap as Two Alpha demonstrated, nodding seriously. “Very good. And did you play your turn?”

“Yup, error. I had a bunch of R’s.”

He drained half of the glass and stared at the board. “Do you want to continue? It’s getting late.”

Two Alpha seemed to disagree with that assessment, but he also seemed to have hit his energy limit for the day because his objection was broken by a yawn. “Maybe,” he conceded. “What was Oscar Ambrose doing here?”

They left the Scrabble untidied on the table, climbing the stairs to the guest room that Two Alpha now occupied.

“He just wanted to talk to me about work, nothing to concern yourself over.”

“He seemed nice.”

If only you knew the things he is planning, Merrick thought, before saying, “I suppose he did.”

Two Alpha nodded, content in his first assessment of any human beyond Merrick. “Goodnight, Bernard.”

“Goodnight.”

...

In far less time than was reasonable, Ambrose had wrangled the lab’s growth system and plans out of the company’s possession – easy, he claimed, when they had refused to have their name on any of it – and into the asset pool of the newly christened Merrick Biotech. Soon enough, they had enough investors to buy land in a barren part of the Arizona desert, specifically an abandoned missile facility complete with underground silos and outdated wiring.

“The missiles were Titan II’s, you know?” said Ambrose, unlocking the facility for the first time. “They were going to be replaced, that’s why they were decommissioned, but the replacements were never produced.”

“Fascinating,” Merrick lied. He had never been to Arizona before, but the desert reminded him of Steve, beautiful in that rugged, slightly unforgiving sort of way. Even after only fifteen minutes of direct sunlight, he could feel his skin burning.

They stayed in the nearby motel for days at a time, returning home for a few weeks at most before something else required their supervision. Two Alpha remained at the house, alone. Merrick found it more anxiety-inducing than he anticipated, unused to no longer being able to check in every few hours.

One morning he came downstairs to see Two Alpha intently scribbling on printer paper, seemingly trying to cover the whole sheet in graphite.

“You don’t always come back,” he said, not moving his gaze from the table.

“Of course I do,” replied Merrick, surprised by the sullen attitude, “I’m here now, aren’t I? So I must have come back.”

“But not always.” Two Alpha had the look on his face that betrayed his frustration when he couldn’t convey his thoughts properly. It used to be an almost permanent fixture but months later his communication had improved to the extent that Merrick struggled to remember the last time he saw it. “Sometimes you’re not here when I go to sleep or when it’s morning and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes you come back and it’s good and you don’t go for ages. But then you do go and you don’t come back.”

Merrick sat next to him, put an arm around him. “I’m sorry. Work has changed. It used to be nearby but now it’s far away, so I have to stay there for a few days every time. I try to stay here as much as I can, I promise.”

Two Alpha stopped scribbling, eyes distant with thought. “What’s promise?”

It was always jarring to find the little gaps in Two Alpha’s knowledge, the oversights and the things that seemed too obvious to miss. Each one would be filled, however, and Merrick took care to do it well.

“A promise is when you say something and you mean it. If you promise to do something, you should always try your very best to do it. Don’t make them lightly and don’t break them.”

“Do people break them anyway?”

“Yes, some people. That just means you shouldn’t trust them when they promise things. Especially big things.”

“Do you break promises?”

Yes, he thought, though his promise to Steve was not one he wanted to talk about. “I try not to,” he said instead, “But sometimes I get carried away and make promises that I could never hope to keep.”

“Big promises?”

“Yes, though I don’t think anyone expected me to actually fulfil them. Except myself, maybe.”

“And you promise to stay here as much as you can?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Two Alpha refused to look him in the eye and returned to his paper. “... I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t promise much more.”

An understanding nod. “The promise would be too big to keep.”

“Yes.”

Two Alpha processed the conversation and Merrick waited. Eventually, Two Alpha sighed and leaned into Merrick’s hold. “But you’ll come back eventually. You won’t always be gone.” Two statements, more self-reassurance than anything.

Merrick nodded. “I… May be able to get you a phone. So that you can talk to me when I’m far away.” It was a risk, of course, a hole in the protective wall of isolation that Merrick had erected around him, but it would put both of their minds at ease. He could try to put restrictions on it, to prevent internet access and unwanted calls. A curated library of apps would help keep him occupied while Merrick was alone. Yes, it was worth the risk.

“That would be good,” Two Alpha agreed.

...

The phone proved its worth but also highlighted Two Alpha’s loneliness. Previously, it had been relatively easy to forget that every hour Merrick spent away was another for Two Alpha to kill at home. On Merrick’s first day away after buying the phone, Two Alpha called almost hourly until Merrick had to tell him to ease off while he was working, after which the calls came every three hours on the dot.

On his second trip, three weeks later, Merrick was flicking through the channels in his motel room when the fourth call of the day came through.

“Hello?” Even after so many of these calls, his voice still raised as if there was any question as to who was on the other end. It felt silly. Distant.

“Hi, Bernard.”

Usually it was at this point that Two Alpha would choose an arbitrary conversation starter, anything from the weather to where paper came from. Instead, there was quiet. Merrick pulled the phone from his ear, checked the call was still working, then put it back and asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” came the voice, strained in the way voices were when their face was pressed into a pillow. “We don’t need to talk. I just…” There was a staticky sigh. “We can just be together like this.”

Something hurt beneath his collarbone and he pretended it had nothing to do with the creeping guilt rising in the back of his mind.

“Okay,” he replied, voice strained in the way voices were when emotion pressed into them. Strange how such abstract things had such physical symptoms.

Steve had liked these moments, the ones where the conversation had run dry and there was nothing but companionable silence. Nothing owed, no performance, no give and take, just being near someone you loved. That was what he lived for. He enjoyed the rest of it, sure, but this– this was what the it all amounted to. When he had explained this, half-asleep on Bernard’s shoulder,

Beyond Steve, however, Merrick found people’s presences grating. They were always watching too intently or not listening enough or putting far too much thought into the act of existing near him. It made him hyper-aware of every infuriating aspect of the situation, on guard and tiring. Steve made it easy to drift, semi-conscious, relaxed. With Two Alpha he had never been truly on edge, rather wary of his own tongue slipping, saying something that would break the translucent illusion he now lived in. As such, the silence of Two Alpha was comforting in a completely different way; no chance of error when there was uncomplicated quiet between them.

Merrick lay back and allowed himself the calm.

Construction was underway at the facility, installing new wiring and digging out new space. He didn’t pretend to know much of what any of it meant, why any of it was happening the way it was, but the schematics that he had been talked through seemed sound enough to his inexpert eye. Ideally, he’d be able to let the construction team do their work and stay home, but such projects were never without their hitches and Ambrose was never without his impatience.

“I know you have your hang-ups about this whole thing,” he had said that day, having dragged Merrick into an unpainted office, “But we need you to be here. Like, really be here. Whatever’s going on in that head of yours can’t take up so much of your attention; yesterday you signed off on a cement order that was ten times under what we need – if I hadn’t caught it this morning we’d be another week behind schedule.”

“You said I wouldn’t have to handle any of this.”

“Cross-checking numbers hardly needs a business degree, Merrick! Your head isn’t in the game. I’m here a week more than you per month. What’s your excuse?”

“Well, unlike you, I have responsibilities at home.”

“What? The agnate?”

Merrick had clenched his teeth and tried his hardest not to glare too venomously – the last thing he needed was to get over-defensive. That way lay exposing himself to a man who would not hesitate to attack such weakness in the name of the bigger picture. Ambrose took his terse silence as a confirmation.

“The agnate can manage by itself – it has so far. This is so much bigger than that, this needs you to put the effort in. What difference will it make to the agnate? You just won’t be around three goddamn weeks a month – who do you know with that sort of time off? It doesn’t happen! This is work, so treat it like work. Prioritise.”

“My private life is just that: private,” Merrick had replied, enunciating sharply, “You would do well to remind yourself of that, Oscar.” And then he had left, wondering if he regretted using Ambrose’s first name. In the end, he decided that he didn’t, which was the easiest problem to solve.

The entire conversation had been repeating in his head like a blinking indicator, only silenced once the underlying issue was confronted. It was true that his total working hours had tanked after leaving the company and it was true that he rarely had more than seventy-five percent of his brain focused within those hours, however there was an entire life hinging on his own and it did so far more directly than the abstract lives that Merrick Biotech could save.

Two Alpha hated being alone and Merrick was loath to extend that time anymore than he had. Already, Two Alpha was navigating more negative emotions than he had ever felt and Merrick could only guide him so well with an entire week of absence looming over both of them, let alone two. The dependence could be called unhealthy if not for Two Alpha’s age.

Still, the tension was undoing them both, the phone simply a loosened valve to release the pressure before something exploded. A coin-sized valve in the Hoover dam, more a weak spot for the pressure to crack than any real aid. Perhaps Two Alpha needed to learn to alleviate the tension by himself, reduce his dependence just enough that there wasn’t such a weight on Merrick’s shoulders.

But how to do it?

He would need to do some research – out of work hours – but he should let Two Alpha down slowly before he could let himself get caught up in radical solutions. Gradually easing him off calling so regularly would help. That was a simple enough step to take.

The phone told him that the call had lasted over ten minutes, most of which was dead air. Their silence hadn’t yet been broken. He sighed.

“Hey.” Thinking about it, he’d never addressed him as Two Alpha. Perhaps it was a bit too inhuman. But was now really the time to think of a more endearing name? “You know that I get charged per minute?”

“For what?” The voice was soft, the tension melted away. Merrick hated the way that his couldn’t do the same.

“For these calls.” Silence. “So– so I’m going to have to go now. We can talk tomorrow. Or not talk. Up to you.”

“Oh.” Soft again, but not in the same way. Damn it. “Okay.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Bernard. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, instinctively, though he didn’t quite know what for. In the moments it took for him to wonder, the line went dead.

...

Merrick stayed in Arizona for three days longer than he had originally planned, if only to get Ambrose off his back. Two Alpha had kept his calls to twice a day, morning and evening and kept both strictly within ten minutes. Merrick supposed that his words had gone deeper than intended and Two Alpha was hyper-aware of the time and money Merrick was using to talk to him. It was charming, in a bittersweet kind of way.

He was hoping that Two Alpha hadn’t noticed his extended stay, and as such he hadn’t brought it up. He would be back soon enough.

On the morning of his last day, the phone rang at eight o’clock exactly.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at work.”

“You can’t come back?”

“Unless there’s an emergency,” he lied. Two Alpha had clung to his promise, used it to reason his way through Merrick’s absence. It felt cruel to exploit that trust, break the promise, but the semantics of whether or not he truly could have returned earlier saved him from complete self-hatred.

“No, no emergency. Is there an emergency with you?”

“No, why would there be?”

“I dunno.”

The rest of the conversation was subdued, though Two Alpha often tended to grow withdrawn in his loneliness until Merrick returned and he bounced back. Nothing abnormal. No reason to be concerned. None at all.

Hours later, when Merrick was digitising spreadsheets at something resembling a desk, the phone rang again. He frowned at it and picked it up with a speed he would never admit to being panicked.

“Mr Merrick?” asked an unfamiliar voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from St Luke’s Hospital about a patient we’ve just received from a recent motor incident. You were the only emergency contact.”

“What?” he croaked.

“Unfortunately, the patient had no ID and was unable to provide a name. Are you able to come to the hospital at this time?”

No. No. It couldn’t be–

“I– I’m in Arizona, I can get there in– nine hours? Where did you find him?”

The matter-of-fact tone of the answer didn’t help calm him as the caller listed an address barely ten metres from his house. Already, the spreadsheets were abandoned in the wake of his strides to the nearest exit.

“What condition is he in?”

“I can’t tell you much without you here to confirm your identity and relation to the patient, but his prognosis is poor. What did you say his name is?”

Merrick hung up. That was not a question he would ever be able to answer, not to anyone other than Two Alpha himself. Even then…

No. Now was not the time.

He ran.

...

Since the 2007 American Transport Initiative, high-speed maglevs connected major cities down each coast and across the southern states, drastically reducing travel times on even cross-continental scales. Unfortunately, there was still a two hour drive to the Phoenix station – perhaps once the system was more established he could petition for another to be built in Tucson, the drive was easily the most grating experience of his life – a four hour trip along the Latitude Line, and another three hours of sporadic stop-starting up the Eastern Seaboard. His loose interpretation of the speed limit in Arizona cut thirty minutes off his prediction but the extended adrenaline high made the journey feel like aeons.

He was already hammering the open door button when the train hummed to a stop and squeezed through the moment the doors allowed him. No one batted an eye at the sight of yet another smartly dressed man rushing with no regard for those in his way and he wouldn’t have noticed if they had. The route to the hospital memorised on the journey, he was a gale force wind weaving between the crowds.

Merrick practically collided with the reception desk, making the receptionist jerk back in her rolling chair.

“I’m here for–” he gasped, caught his breath again, “For a man. Admitted about nine hours ago, no ID. I was called–”

The receptionist typed in the number he showed her once he fumbled his phone over the desk. “Well, the numbers match but we’ll need a proof of identity for you and also what relation you have to him.”

“I’m– I’m Bernard Merrick. I’m all he has, he has no family– except– except me. Please, I need to see him.”

“He has no name on the record, do you–”

“Where is he?”

“Just follow the blue line, he should be in room six. I’ll let them know you’re coming.”

Merrick just about managed, “Thank you,” before he was moving again. Blue line. The signs blurring past identified it as the route to the ICU but the blurring was in his head as much as his vision. All he could see was the line. It was all he needed to see.

There was a man standing outside room six. Merrick almost missed him in his determination to pass through the door, but he stepped in the way, placing a hand on Merrick’s shoulder. The hold was probably meant to have some compassion to it, but all he registered was the firmness keeping him from entering.

“Mr Merrick, I presume? Please, a word before you go in.”

There must have been something wild in his eyes when they met the man’s face, because the grip on his shoulder became tighter.

“I’m Dr Colby; I’ve been looking after the patient since his arrival in the department. He is… gravely wounded. Honestly, I’m amazed he’s lasted this long. When you go in there, please, be gentle. The state he’s in may be shocking to see, but you must stay calm, for his sake.” Colby caught his eyes as they darted to the door. “Breathe, Mr Merrick. And… prepare yourself – it is unlikely that he’ll recover.”

Blood was rushing through his ears but those final words rang through his mind clear as anything. They couldn’t be true, the doctor was just pessimistic; he’d seen too many deaths in his career, he was seeing a ghost where there wasn’t one. Two Alpha would make it through.

Nevertheless. “I need to see him.”

“He has been somewhat aware of his surroundings, so he may be able to talk to you. The best we’ve got from him is what we believe to be his first name, Alf, right?”

Merrick nodded, no longer feeling tethered to reality.

“The worst injuries were elsewhere – his heart has been… erratic. Try to keep any conversation from working him up. Just be there for him, okay?”

Frustration bubbled up – I know, that’s what I’ve been trying to do – but it was distant, as if it hadn’t accompanied him all the way from Arizona. All he could do was croak, “Please.”

Colby nodded solemnly and opened the door. Behind was a small room made smaller by the abundance of machinery, most of it feeding back to the pale shape on the bed. Merrick moved in, suddenly slowed as if moving over sacred ground.

“Hey,” he said, softly, and the eyes opened and his own began to sting. Two Alpha’s eyes were bloodshot to the extreme that the whites of one had become rust-dark. They looked up at him drowsily.

“...Bernard?” His voice was raw, from disuse or pained screaming Merrick couldn’t tell. He took the hand that tried to lift itself off the bed, weighed by the IV line. The fingers were cold but they wrapped around his, fitting like Steves’ had, positioned like his didn’t.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m here.” Merrick had taken Steve’s left hand, at the end, traced the ring there, covered the back of his hand with his own. Now, he was on Two Alpha’s right, and the hand was upturned, nothing to trace but those lines he didn’t know how to read. Life line. Heart line. Fate line. Illegible.

“Good… I was… worried about you.”

“Worried? Why should you be worried?”

“You didn’t come back. I know you said–” Two Alpha’s voice caught on its raw edges and on the shortness of breath. Perhaps it caught on something else, Merrick could hardly judge. “You said that you would always come back, if you could, and you couldn’t always because of work but– usually you’re back after seven days, sometimes it’s eight. So I waited and– you were away for ten days, no coming back, so I thought–” He sniffed, a thin tear track catching the light to become visible. “I know– I know it wasn’t– you were still on the phone. Looking back, I shouldn’t have worried ‘cause you were still answering, but– I thought maybe something had happened so I went out, the way you go when you leave. To find you.”

He was openly sobbing now, the monitors around him grumbling at the strain it put on his respiratory system. Merrick knew that if he turned his attention to himself, he would see the same sorrow and regret on his own face, but he didn’t, his focus purely on the man on the bed. The man who, if he was willing to admit it, did look terrifyingly delicate.

It was only in comparison to the clinically white sheets that Two Alpha’s skin looked at all alive. There were bandages covering half of what was visible, bruises covering what remained. Every movement, down to blinking, was measured, pained, subdued. All except the crying.

“I don’t remember– I walked for a bit, I think, then–” He tried to screw his eyes shut as if to block out the sensations still wracking his body, but the bruising was too much to do more than furrow his brow.

“It’s okay,” said Merrick, beginning to stroke the hand with his thumb. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. I should have kept you informed, that’s my fault.”

Two Alpha simply opened his eyes to look at him grimly. There was a depth, a weight to him now that there hadn’t been and Merrick desperately wished to relieve him of it. He met his gaze, unflinching, and let it hurt.

After a while, Two Alpha whispered, barely audible over the machines, “What’s going to happen to me?”

Merrick wished he could offer some spiritual belief, some promise of heaven or of rest. He wished that his first thought in response hadn’t been death, that clinging to his hope of Two Alpha’s survival wasn’t as hollowly delusional as it suddenly felt. He wished that he had anything to say that wasn’t a lie.

“I don’t know.”

“I– I never thought about it. ‘Cause I can only remember being alive, and you being alive too. But, now that… There must have been a time when I wasn’t alive, right?” He watched, a warped half-pride at working it out in his eyes, as Merrick nodded. “So… I think that maybe it’ll happen again. ‘Cause I feel like I’m… running out.”

Merrick felt himself slump forwards, head on their hands, his breathing refusing to work normally. It couldn’t happen again. Was it inevitable? If he tried again, would he be forced to watch this face die again, inhabited by yet another person with his own quirks, his unique endearing traits, a new name? A different death; illness, injury, what else? How many cooling hands would he have to hold for daring to pursue a different, kinder fate?

“You’re okay,” he said into the sheets.

“It hurts.”

Pulling his head back up, he moved one hand to Two Alpha’s shoulder, holding as lightly as he could to avoid causing any further pain. “I know,” he said, “But I’m here now. I’m here as long as you need.”

A weak smile. “Thank you.”

As he returned the smile, he pushed all of his sincerity to the fore. “I love you.”

It wasn’t the same love he had for Steve, but it didn’t need to be, because this was Two Alpha and he was enough. Love was the thing tearing him down from the inside, no regard for dignity, undeniable. Two Alpha deserved to know. If Merrick didn’t love him, he’d have lived his entire life unloved.

“Thank you,” Two Alpha repeated, “I love you too.”

With that, tears finally fell, landing on Two Alpha’s arm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“It’s okay,” he added, echoing Merrick’s speech the way he had when he was still learning. How long ago? A year? He was so painfully young… “You’re okay.”

All Merrick could do was repeat, “I’m sorry.” You deserved better.

“I think, maybe…” mumbled Two Alpha, eyes becoming drowsy, “Maybe it’ll just be like… those times on the phone. When we don’t talk… and we can’t see… but we’re together anyway. I’d like it, if it was like that.”

“Perhaps it will be.” The tears made his voice wet, but the words didn’t taste of cruel deception. It sounded like a good afterlife, for one invented by a clone with barely any life lived to speak of.

A twitch of lips, probably intended to be a smile. “I’m glad you came back.”

“Me too.”

Then Two Alpha closed his eyes and his breathing slowed. The fingers in his hand slackened their grip. Merrick didn’t take in much after that, even as the flatline drilled through his skull and medics bustled around him. What did any of that matter, anyway?

The important thing was that face, tranquil despite the wounds, motionless again. The important thing was Two Alpha and the heavy silence between them. He half expected to hear the click of a phone disconnecting.

...

This time the aftermath had no storm to it. He didn’t march home, threatening to burn everything in sight. He didn’t go to work and start shouting at Ambrose – though he probably deserved it. No, instead he began to make a list of criteria for the new facility. If they were going to have half an army of walking organs biding their time underground, they would need to do it properly.

The plan as it stood was to teach the agnates hygiene, nutrition, exercise, but nothing that would constitute a normal education. Speech would be necessary, reading less so but perhaps convenient. They would simply need to keep themselves healthy until their time came. Minimising contact to just staff members was also outlined in the initial protocol, though it sat uncomfortably with Merrick. He had no better plan, however. If they could communicate with each other, they would eventually catch on that some disappeared and never returned.

It would be easier, he found himself thinking at least once a day, if they never woke up and could just remain in those gel sacs until they were needed. Unfortunately, all of the animal trials proved it impossible or at least too much effort to be a better option. Once the agnates reached the end of their growth cycle they would wake up regardless of whether they had been taken out, occasionally drowning if they weren’t removed quickly enough. And if they were kept unconscious from there, they would atrophy – brains never finalising their development quite right, muscles never developing, digestion system shutting down without ever being used properly. Unfit for transplant donation.

The investment required to keep them in any fit state was major either way, but at least there were fewer fatal risks when they were allowed consciousness. So, living beings. Care to be taken to do it right.

From his list, Merrick found a sense of purpose in monitoring the construction efforts, making sure everything was as it should be, compiling another list of potential scientists, maintenance workers, caterers, making sure there was enough accommodation in the area, streamlining the growth-support system, getting a small team of lawyers to handle NDAs.

Maybe there was a storm, but he had found the eye more quickly than last time – a numb haven where he could work until he collapsed, ignoring the chaos beyond.

“We need a test run,” Announced Ambrose, walking into the break room where Merrick was lamenting the lack of kettle.

“A test run?”

“Yeah, like your guy, just to make sure everything works. We’ll give it a better name though.” Though Merrick was the one who had garnered a reputation for being cold simply by virtue of his general demeanor, Ambrose could be downright cruel. Not that Merrick had discussed Two Alpha at any length; he wasn’t a masochist.

“And do you have a genetic sample ready?” He asked in lieu of dignifying his jab with a response.

“No, ‘cause I’m not familiar with collecting that kind of thing, but I was thinking we should clone me.”

Merrick simply looked at him, disbelief readable enough without any expression. When Ambrose failed to elaborate, he collected his mind enough to ask, “You?”

“Yeah. Me.” The poor man. His brain must have been damaged from inhaling fumes from the construction. Or perhaps there was unhealthy amounts of radon this far underground. That would need to be checked. “All great pioneers of science end up trying their stuff on themselves, it’s practically a rite of passage. Besides, I can’t sue myself if it all goes wrong, now can I?”

“The legal team still needs to finalise the consent forms…”

“We don’t need it if I own the company!”

“You don–”

“Sorry, if we own the company. Point still stands. Bet this is why all those scientists do it.”

Should Merrick really stand in the way of such a misled endeavour? It was one thing to clone a dead partner, it was another to clone a man who was still alive and in regular contact with the project. Still, it would be interesting, for data collection purposes. Far too much of their current plan was based on hypotheticals. On one hand hubris, on the other…

“I’ve heard the physicists get on just fine without it,” he said.

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Physicists.”

Merrick made a conscious effort not to put a hand to his eyes, turning instead to what passed as a kitchenette. “And what do you intend to do with your agnate?”

How did people make tea without a kettle? Would he have to microwave a mug full of water? Was that even legal?

“Dunno, figure it’ll be an insurance policy like the rest. Maybe teach it how to do my paperwork.”

“I’m sure that will pay back the millions it will take to do it.”

“Investment, Merrick, I know you’ve heard of it.”

“And I’ve yet to see the benefit.”

“You’re taking jabs at me ‘cause nothing’s happened while I’m telling you to make something happen!”

He sighed, “If you really think it’ll be of benefit to us, be my guest. Just don’t make the decision lightly. If I find out that you thought of this five minutes ago–”

“You wound me, Dr Merrick, when have I been anything but thoughtful with this venture? This is a great idea – what do we have to lose? It’s the same thing we’ll be doing in a few months anyway, just contained so we can troubleshoot any issues. A prototype!”

This was not a battle that Ambrose was about to lose. Merrick hardly knew which side he was even on. Why not humour the man?

“Give it a week so I can train the skeleton crew on the initialisation and get everything calibrated,” he said, giving up on tea and instead filling his mug with cold water, “Make sure you’ve thought it through. If you want to go ahead, I’ll get your sample on Thursday.”

“Great!” exclaimed Ambrose, already halfway out of the room, “You won’t regret this, Dr Merrick!”

“You keep on saying that,” Merrick mumbled to the empty doorway. Mug water wasn’t as nice as glass water, he decided, but that hardly mattered.

...

In the end Ambrose went through with it. He dubbed the endeavour ‘Project: Pelasgus’ in the files, though Merrick could think of several more accurate titles, ‘Narcissus’ for one. Was he in a position to pass such judgements? Perhaps not, but there was no one else around to do it and Ambrose was in severe need of someone to temper him.

A great chamber had been hollowed out near the base of one of the old silos, fitted with a surprisingly expensive drainage system and the equipment needed to keep up to twenty-five growth-support systems, only one of which had actually been installed. Merrick viewed the room with much the same strange discomfort as he did the version in his basement, which was probably rusting with neglect. It was the discomfort of an ugly yet unregretted truth and he didn’t like how much of his life now had that tint to it. Sometimes, among the haze of work and his general distaste for Ambrose, he wondered if he too considered the whole affair to be ugly. Then he would decide that Ambrose had no such depth to him and, if anything, thought it cool.

When, eventually, Pelasgus was up and walking, Ambrose holed him away in the large office that was by now his own small apartment. Apparently there had been a scene regarding the staff seeing the agnate’s naked body – more out of concern for himself than the agnate – but Merrick could not bring himself to watch the security footage back to scan for any other red flags. This was Ambrose’s agnate, Merrick had had his chance already.

Which wasn’t to say that he hadn’t been tempted to stick his foot in.

“Check this out.” A memory stick collided with his forehead as Ambrose entered, no knocking as always.

Merrick remained motionless at his desk. “What is it?”

“You need to watch it. I showed Pelasgus a mirror this morning.” He didn’t know how he could say that name so seriously; it was ridiculous. Ambrose picked the memory stick up from where it had fallen, removed the one already in Merrick’s computer, and plugged it in before any preventative measures could be taken.

“I was using that!”

“Hope you save regularly,” replied Ambrose, unrepentant, “This is more important, anyway.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Just watch the damn video.”

The video began with a scene featuring Pelasgus having a simplistic conversation with two technicians that had probably been dragged in from the corridor, camera jerking about until the agnate was centred in the frame and Ambrose moved into view.

“Hey, Pelasgus, can you tell me these guys’ names?”

His response was a dubious look, as if the agnate knew it was a stupid question. Ambrose had probably introduced him to them ten minutes previously.

“Clyde and Bill.”

“Which is which?” asked Ambrose, to the tune of an even more unimpressed glare.

“Clyde,” poking one, “Bill,” poking the other. Both technicians, wearing matching dusty coveralls and stony expressions, seemed to share the agnate’s attitude.

“Good. You two can go about your business.”

Clyde and Bill seemed all too happy to comply. How the agante had mastered complete disdain so early, Merrick didn’t know. It was almost impressive. Apparently these thinly veiled tests were a regular occurrence and consistently skewing beneath his capabilities.

“Now,” continued Ambrose, moving to uncover a mirror he had leaned against the wall, “Who’s this?”

“You,” said the agnate to his reflection. Then he paused, mind visibly working as he watched his reflection move with him.

Ambrose apparently grew impatient and stepped beside the agnate, grinning. “You.”

A frown creased the agnate’s face as he watched their two reflections, identical if not for their expressions and clothing.

“You look like me,” explained Ambrose as if the agnate hadn’t already worked it out.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I made you to. You’re a copy of me, a clone.”

Merrick fought the urge to bat him around the head. No subtlety. He had mentally run through the scenario of Two Alpha finding evidence of Steve a hundred times, preparing for each a gentle way of responding to any range of reactions to the inevitable revelation of Two Alpha’s origins, and Ambrose had just barreled through it, no awareness of any of the variables Merrick had mapped a route around.

“A copy?”

“Damn right.”

“Why?” hissed the agnate, half in shocked confusion, half in indignant outrage.

“God, you sound like Merrick saying that–”

“I stand by that statement,” interjected the Ambrose watching over Merrick’s shoulder.

“I had lots of reasons. You’re just the first in a line of agnates that will revolutionise our ideas about illness and the human lifespan. Not to mention that it’s breaking scientific boundaries and starting a whole new industry!”

“How?”

“How what?”

“How does me looking like you change our ideas about illness and the human lifespan?”

At this point Ambrose seemed to spot the hole he had dug himself into. The chances of Pelasgus knowing the meaning of everything he was saying was unlikely, but there was no way that he would misunderstand what being an insurance policy entailed.

“Uh, well, there’s something to being able to create an adult human without the physical development of childhood…” Ambrose rambled as he walked back to the camera.

“What’s childhood?” Merrick had to stop himself from snorting. Ambrose was out of his depth, that much was clear.

The video cut out as he began, “You know what–”

Amused, Merrick looked up and saw that Ambrose’s ears had turned faintly pink.

“So you see, Pelasgus can differentiate between two different faces and identify that we look alike. It even seems to understand the general idea of cloning.”

“Perhaps you should provide some support with that,” Merrick said, as if there was any chance of it being a bad idea, “I can’t imagine that’s an easy pill to swallow.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively as he plucked out the memory stick. “It’ll be fine. Introduce the idea early and it’ll be normal. The rest’ll have to come to terms with it.”

“Will they? I was under the impression that we weren’t disclosing that to them.”

“What? You’re saying we should just lie?”

Sighing, Merrick pulled up the document he had been working on. Pelasgus was going to be a psychologist’s nightmare by the time Ambrose was through with him. He almost wanted to move him into his own office, but that was probably just the grief-echoes talking. Ambrose would turn it into a situation anyway, and Merrick was here as a scientist, not a caretaker.

“If your Project doesn’t see any issues arise because of this, we can consider telling the first generation. If.”

Grinning in the disconcerting way that he did, Ambrose strode backwards to the door. “You’re a pessimistic man, Dr Merrick,” he jeered before spinning into the corridor, exclaiming, “Self-recognition! Incredible!”

...

Conversation with Pelasgus would have been easy to avoid if Ambrose didn’t insist on keeping him in his office rather than in the purpose-built accommodation that would benefit from the prototype’s test run. At any given moment, Merrick was at most only half convinced that Project: Pelasgus was actually intended to be a true prototype and not a vanity project. Either way, Ambrose left them in the same room together far too often for Merrick’s liking.

The agnate had gradually accumulated a sort of static around his person that crackled every time Ambrose waltzed in. Existing in the same room as the two of them made Merrick exhausted and often left him with a pounding headache. Ambrose, of course, was too wrapped up in his fantasies of power and wealth to notice.

When he wasn’t there, suspicion was still thick in the air, which Merrick supposed was not helped by the small library of sci-fi and murder mystery films that was strewn about the TV. Although he had decided not to involve himself, he couldn’t bring himself to truly ignore the agnate. Initiating conversation felt a step too far, but throwing what he felt to be a comforting look in the agnate’s direction, or offering him coffee from Ambrose’s machine was fair game. If no-one did it, something would snap, so why not the only person in the godforsaken facility who didn’t look at him like either a freak of nature or a point of fascination.

Occasionally the agnate would say something and they’d talk until Ambrose returned and transformed the air into electricity. He’d often choose far heavier topics than Two Alpha had. Or at least topics that were heavy in context.

“Do people not like me because they don’t like Oscar or is it because I’m a copy of him and they don’t like that?”

“No consideration that they dislike you for your own merits?” Merrick asked, dryly. It was probably less than sympathetic but the agnate seemed to be on his wavelength about such things. The equally dry look he got in response affirmed this.

“How likely do you think that is? I don’t want to talk to them, but that’s because they already don’t like me. So do you think it’s because I’m a clone or because I’m Oscar’s clone?”

“Honestly? Given the people who work here and Oscar Ambrose’s general demeanor, it’s probably a bit of both.”

The agnate swore.

“Quite.”

...

At some point or another there was an incident in which Ambrose was mistaken for his agnate – or was it vice versa? – which had sent Ambrose into a somewhat vindictive frenzy, culminating in him commissioning an entirely new security system featuring RFID keys and a tech-filled bracelet that was quickly locked around the agnate’s wrist to prevent any further misidentifications. It would be amusing if not for the ire that was now constantly palpable between the two of them and the new glint in the agnate’s eyes.

Apparently there had been an argument and Ambrose had started shouting.

“Do you even know what being an insurance policy means?!” a security officer had quoted when he offered to show Merrick the footage, finding it to be far more hilarious than it was. “It means you’re here for parts! I own you! The moment I get sick or injured, you’re done and I live on! Don’t start thinking you can go around being me. Don’t think you’re on my level. You hear?”

Subsequently, Merrick tried to keep himself away from the administration and management block, instead investigating a way to keep the commercial generations from ever even considering the possibility of their grim prospects. Evidently, the truth had a negative impact. Who knew?

...

Merrick was taking one of his unfortunately necessary brief visits to his own office when it happened. All he had in warning was a percussive commotion sounding from down the corridor, then Pelasgus was in his room, knocking the door as he passed it and appearing noticeably ruffled.

He stood up. “What–”

“Please,” gasped the agnate, “I don’t– I–”

The uncharacteristic desperation was written over his entire body, shaking and wide-eyed. Footsteps thundered on concrete and the agnate began to stumble forwards.

Merrick was halfway around his desk when the dark uniforms of the security team filled the doorway.

“Dr Merrick! Move away from the agnate, he’s dangerous!”

He froze as he spotted the firearms in their hands, the blood flecked on the agnate’s trousers. Slowly stepping backwards, he asked in a voice that thankfully didn’t shake, “What’s going on?”

“It killed Mr Ambrose, sir, we caught it on the cameras.”

The agnate step forwards again. “I–”

The reaction was instant. One, two, three shots. Merrick jerked back as the agnate toppled over. A member of security rushed over to usher him away from the rapidly pooling blood.

“Sir, are you okay?”

He nodded, still trying to process. It was hard to ignore the shape on the floor even as he was guided out of the room. Everything had happened in the space of a minute and now…

“We’ll get someone in to clean up. You should find somewhere else to be.”

“How did this happen?” he asked.

“The agnate attacked him. Unarmed. Slammed his head against the desk, I think. Blood everywhere. We’re gonna cordon off the area until this is sorted.”

“Christ.” He needed a drink, though he didn’t own any alcohol. One of the maintenance workers would have something under the board, surely?

...

Death was one thing, seeing a man get shot was another. Nightmares plagued him. Faces in double, growing resentment, blood. The sensation of falling, over and over again. Two Alpha flatlining as he entered the room, moments too late. Pelasgus trying to retake control, fighting the man keeping him trapped. Ambrose dismissing and dismissing and dismissing.

Merrick found himself unable to sleep, spending his increasing waking hours reorganising the accommodation sector. Isolation was evidently asking for trouble, so the agnates would need regular contact. He couldn’t exactly hire people for them to talk to, so they would need to talk to each other in order to build proper social networks. But then how would staff be able to take them out of the active population for donation without arousing suspicion? How could he keep them from trying to find a way out? How, how, how?

In the end he hired a writing team to fabricate a world-ending event that had turned everything outside the compound into a dangerous hellscape unfit for living things. A Contamination. One that hadn’t reached a single small haven in the middle of the ocean, where a chosen few would be sent to repopulate humanity in the outside world. He didn’t want competition inciting violence within the group, so the method of selection would be presented as truly random, a lottery.

This all necessitated bringing in a further team to imprint artificial memories: the life before the Contamination, which they could hope for on the Island and make the staff’s memories of real life seem unextraordinary; and the devastation that the Contamination caused.

It was all quite elegant, in the end. Everything was explained neatly. The agnates would keep themselves contained, not needing to trust the word of the staff since they had memories of exactly what they were being told about. Perhaps this was the sort of lie that Ambrose had wanted to avoid, but Ambrose was dead by his own stupidity, so Merrick could continue as he wanted to.

He ordered the construction of new exercise facilities, various forms of entertainment, and a rudimentary educational curriculum all to keep them occupied so that they wouldn’t be bored into unpredictable behaviour. A techie had suggested that they get the clones to do some of the manual labour involved in maintaining the growth-support systems and hydroponic farms, which filled in the impression of ‘work’ given by the false memories and Merrick’s staff having obvious jobs.

Yes, all very elegant.

Now all that remained to be done was the agnates themselves.

...

The first generation was called Alpha.

Merrick watched as the first batch of samples got loaded into the system. Most of them were high-ranking officers in the Defense Department. A few were from notoriously flagrant billionaires. One was the only remaining genetic material from Steve.

He wouldn’t interact with Gandu Three Alpha out of course, he had learnt that lesson. Three Alpha would just be another face in the crowd, making friends, finding himself, living. But Merrick would be able to see his face, hear his voice. Steve and Two Alpha would live on through him. He would never be able to talk to them again, but he wouldn’t forget their face. It would be a silent phone call, staring at a photo across the room.

That was all he needed.

#the island #the island movie #the island 2005 #fanfiction #AO3 fanfic #fanfic

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aire101 · 4 years ago

Text

Ferrum Chapter 3

Something was wrong with the kid. Other than the fact that they had just gotten locked into a death game, of course. Tony couldn’t put a finger on exactly what, but he didn’t like it.

Knowing who Tor was now, he also knew that this ‘something wrong’ predated Kayaba’s villainous monologue in the town square. He could see it in the way he would sometimes catch Peter staring at him out of the corner of his eye with an expression as if he were chewing on glass, the way he reacted to being called ‘kid’ before their identities were revealed…

Then there was how the kid looked like he had seen a ghost after the reveal. Or worse than that, considering the strangeness in their life and work.

It was obvious that something had happened in the last few years that he couldn’t remember. Something that to Peter made it almost impossible for Tony to be here, stuck in this game with him. But try as he might, he could remember nothing.

He could only hope that whatever it was he had broken this time, there was still a chance to repair it.

It didn’t take long for them to make it to the outer edge of the city. And right inside the Eastern gate they found a small inn with a friendly NPC keeper who informed them that a double room would be 15 Cor for the night. Tony quickly made the exchange and hustled them upstairs to their appointed room.

“Would you like dinner brought up? It would be an additional 5 Cor for the both of you,” asked the keeper as they were shown to their room.

Honestly, Tony hadn’t even considered the concept of food since he woke up in this virtual world. What was the point?

“Yes please,” said Peter, ever polite even to coded entities.

The keeper gave a smile and nod of confirmation before heading back down stairs.

“Is there a point in eating inside a virtual environment?” asked Tony as he closed the door behind them.

“Eating food in the game works like a placebo—it doesn’t actually help your body, but it makes you feel full. Obviously our actual bodies will have to be put on a support system to be maintained, but if we don’t eat in game we’ll just go around being hungry sometimes,” said Peter as he plopped down onto one of the beds.

Shit… Tony hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. And with Peter’s metabolism and mutations he would need care tailored to his physiology…

“Where are you? In the real world?” asked Tony.

“I’m at Ned’s. I’m actually on his Nervegear system. He let me have the first run on the game.”

“I’m assuming at this point he would have heard about the situation. Who do you think he will have called?”

“Probably Aunt May. And if he called Aunt May, her first call would probably be to Happy,” said Peter.

Tony gave a relieved sigh. If Happy was on the short list, he was sure Hap would get Peter squared away with Tony’s medical team ASAP.

“Alright, we’re here. Now out with it, what did I do?” asked Tony

Peter stared at him with wide eyes, “Wha— What do you mean?”

“You’ve been acting weird since we first met up, and now that I know its actually you I’m even more concerned. What did I do? Did I take your suit away again? Did I actually hit on Aunt May? What?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered Peter, not meeting his eyes.

“Kid, you’ve been walking on pins and needles around me. Not all the time, granted. It comes and goes. Which is even more weird, to be honest. So what the hell happened that you periodically can’t bring yourself to look me in the eye and can barely handle hearing me talk?”

“I’m not mad at you or anything… It’s just— it’s hard,” said Peter, looking away again with a pinched expression.

“What’s hard? It’s me kid.”

“I know.”

Tony groaned, running a hand over his face in frustration.

Just then a knock interrupted.

Peter jumped up quickly, obviously eager to avoid the conversation. The same innkeeper from before stood at the door pushing a cart baring two plates of steaming pub fare and two pints of what Tony assumed was supposed to be water.

“Thank you very much,” said Peter, placing the food and drinks on a table against the wall of the room.

“No problem, let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” said the innkeeper with a smile before he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

“Don’t think dinner gets you out of this talk. I’m not afraid of grilling you over food,” said Tony, sitting at the small table.

“Yeah, yeah I know…” muttered Peter, taking the other seat.

“So spill, what happened?”

“You know, you’re not the only one that has questions. And considering you don’t seem to remember much of anything, I’d say mine are more important. How do I know you’re really Tony? You don’t remember much of anything about this game, and there’s plenty of stuff I’ve mentioned that you should definitely remember,” said Peter.

Tony swallowed his food down hard, coughing a little when it almost felt like it stuck. “Mmm… most delicious placebo I’ve ever had,” he said, taking a deep drink both to wash it down and to give him precious seconds to put off Peter’s very valid questions and concerns.

“Now who’s procrastinating…”

“Shut it, Underoos, old people need time to organize their thoughts.”

“Oh, so you’re ‘old people’ now? Last time I called you old you informed me in no uncertain terms you were never old, only vintage.”

“I don’t remember that, but since it definitely sounds like my usual load of bull I’ll accept it,” grouched Tony.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’ve spent all afternoon saying you can’t remember stuff—”

“That’s because I can’t. I can’t remember things passed a certain point, and that certain point is definitely way before whatever date this is for SAO to be in commercial release,” said Tony, his voice rising slightly with the panic he’d worked so hard to repress for the last several hours.

Peter went quiet, eying Tony’s expression. Finally he asked the obvious question, “What’s the certain point you can’t remember passed?”

Tony pursed his lips in frustration, but eventually answered, “The last thing I remember is the meeting with Kayaba about moving forward with the AI development I was working on for SAO. The problem was that in order to do further development and testing it would require me to deep dive into their systems, and for reasons I’ve discussed with you earlier today I was entirely unwilling to open myself up to that.”

“…but that was in early 2018?”

“Exactly. So you tell me kid, what the hell happened?”

“Ok, but first I want you to tell me something that only Mr. Stark would be able to tell me,” said Peter.

“Other than the fact that I called you Underoos?”

“Someone could have overheard it.”

“Pft, unlikely,” scoffed Tony.

“Unlikely is not impossible, so cough something up.”

“Alright… the day before that meeting with Kayaba we were working on your webshooters and you told me about an incident you had as Spider-man with some asshole who apparently has the ability to harden his whole body completely and how you said to him—”

“OK NEVERMIND I BELIEVE YOU—”

“’How did you get so HARD so suddenly?!’”

“DID YOU REALLY HAVE TO RAISE YOUR VOICE A WHOLE OCTAVE TO QUOTE ME?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh, fine…” said Peter putting his face in his hands to try and hide the bright blush coloring his face.

“Kid, it’s me… what happened? Why can’t I remember… anything?”

Peter sat with his head in his hands, clearly debating how to say what needed to be said. Eventually, without raising his head, he spoke quietly but clearly.

“There was a battle… you won, but you took a lot of damage. You’ve been in a coma ever since.”

Tony blinked. A coma…

That didn’t make sense at all.

“If I’m in a coma, how am I here?” asked Tony, quizzically.

“I heard they were doing tests to try and use full-dive tech on coma patients to see if it was possible to reach them directly through a mental interface. Perhaps there was some wires crossed in whatever system they are using on you and you ended up here? Or perhaps the plan was to use SAO and interact in this world? I honestly can’t tell you. I just know that I haven’t been able to speak to you in a long time and today has been like a dream and a nightmare all at once.”

Tony finally took note of the tears dripping silently from Peter’s hidden face, glittering as they fell on to the table.

“I don’t know what’s going on, Mr. Stark. I just know that I’ve missed you so much, and things have been hard and you weren’t there. And it wasn’t your fault, I know that, but now you’re here and I just don’t know what to say, I can’t—”

Tony was starkly reminded just how young Peter really was, even considering how much time must have passed since his own memories ended. When his own parents had passed he had been twenty-one and had been a complete wreck for months. To have your parents and a guardian dead before fifteen, then… whatever Tony was taken away in every meaningful way only a few years later…

Awkwardly, Tony reached a hand over and rested it on Peter’s head. Slowly Peter’s rambling quieted, though his breaths still caught audibly, clearly still fighting tears.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t mean to put pressure on you. I don’t expect you to have all my answers. At this point, we’ll probably just have to wait for those until after we get out of this hell hole,” said Tony, eventually pulling his hand back after giving Peter’s hair an affectionate ruffle.

Peter continued to keep his face down for a moment, surreptitiously wiping at his face, as if he could hide the tears Tony had already clearly seen.

“In any case,” said Tony, “How I even got here should probably be the least of our worries at this point. Better to worry about the immediate future. So what do you think the plan should be? I grant you, running down the road at twilight was perhaps not the best idea, but my point still stands— we’re better off getting the jump on this thing and putting some space between us and the angry hoards. What do you think?”

“You’re probably right, I mean you usually are, but—”

“Ok, so I’m assuming we’re going to want to stick together for the foreseeable future, yes?” asked Tony.

“Yes? I mean if you don’t want to I really wouldn’t blame you, but—”

“Then you are definitely going to have to learn to call me on my bullshit, kid. We’re both geniuses as well as hero’s, and we both know that fuckups happen. So whatever hero-worship you have left at this point is going to have to die a hard death right now. I may be brilliant but I never really got into rpgs, and I hardly remember a damn thing about this game, so at this point you are the expert here.”

As he said it, what little color in Peter’s face paled.

“Not to put any pressure on you… or anything,” said Tony lamely.

“Uh… sure, right…”

“Seriously, kid. What was your plan in this game, anyway?”

Peter sighed, and looked up at Tony for the first time since the talk had really begun. His eyes were still red-rimmed and glazed from his bout with tears earlier.

“Honestly? I just wanted to exist somewhere for a little while where I was just like everyone else. Not just pretending to be like everyone else,” admitted Peter, looking mildly ashamed as he admitted it out loud.

“Hey, there’s no shame in that. I used to occasionally put on a photostatic veil to go sit with a coffee down in Central Park.”

“I know, I know but it’s not the same. When you wear a mask, you’re still you, just no one else knows its you. I wear a ‘mask’ every day. But in here there isn’t a mask— I’m just as weak as everyone else. In here, I figured I could finally feel what normal felt like again,” said Peter.

“Kid, even if every one of your super powers was taken away, you still could never be the same normal as everyone else. You are so much more than normal, and that has nothing to do with a spider bite,” said Tony with solemn affection.

Peter swallowed, his eyes filling up once again.

“But anyway, no real plan to speak of I guess,” said Tony, attempting to move on before he managed to make Peter cry again. “So how about this— we wake up early tomorrow morning and head out from here to go to the next town. We’ll take the scenic route, hitting some encounters on the way and going over that beta file a little more thoroughly. Once we get there, we will reassess the situation and decide whether to camp out for a while or keep going. Wash, rinse, repeat… until we figure out where we want to be.”

“About as good a plan as any, I guess,” said Peter with a nod.

“Alright then, now finish eating or I’m going to ground you.”

“Uh huh, sure… ground me from what?”

“I don’t know yet. But I’m sure it’ll be petty.”

“You always are.”

“Shut up and eat your fake broccoli.”

#ferrum #aire101 writes #tony stark #peter parker #irondad #irondad and spiderson #marvel cinematic universe #mcu #iron man #spider-man #sword art online #mcu/sao #crossover #crossover fanfiction #marvel #ai tony stark #post endgame #mostly canon compliant #not ffh compliant

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unpack-my-heart · 5 years ago

Text

Sometimes I Have Everything (Yet I Wish I Felt Something)

Eddie Kaspbrak, pick-pocket turned international art thief and self-diagnosed lone wolf meets Richie Tozier, eager amateur, who just can't seem to catch a break

Read on AO3 HERE

@constantreaderfool @xandertheundead @eds-trashmouth @tinyarmedtrex @violetreddie @moonlightrichie @fuzzylogik

“You’ve got exactly four minutes before security will be able to get the camera back online, Eddie”

“Got it”

“Are you sure? Because it certainly doesn’t seem like you’ve got it. You should have been out of there five minutes –”

“I said I’ve fuckin’ got it, so I’ve fuckin’ got it, lay off”

The painting was heavier than he’d anticipated. He had done all the calculations, had sat up well into the night, eyelids drooping, plugging numbers into his dusty calculator, making sure that he would be able to wrench Ophelia from her golden frame without the need for anyone else to enter the gallery.

But he was wrong. The painting was at least two kilograms heavier than his calculations had suggested, and he knew that the excess weight would throw his balance off when Mike finally set the crankshaft off, and he and the painting would begin to ascend through the skylight attached to nothing but two snaking cables.

Not that he’d admit it to Stan, who was now gnashing his teeth in Eddie’s ear, hissing something about how four minutes had now become three minutes which was now two minutes, and Jesus Christ, Eddie, hurry the fuck up, but he had started to panic. His knife was too blunt to cut through the thick material of the canvas on the first try, and it whined and squeaked as he jabbed it into the matte material. A rookie mistake. He resorted to sawing instead of slicing, jerky aborted movements instead of one elegant flick of the wrist. His heart hammered against his ribcage, a brutal thumping that echoed in his ears, drowning out the suspicious silence of the gallery. Suddenly, half way through a particularly aggressive sawing motion, Eddie’s knife slipped, and instead of letting it gore a hole in the flesh of the painting, Eddie instinctively jammed his thumb in the way. The blade bit into the soft flesh, and blood immediately started oozing out of the neat gash.

"Motherfucker!"

He’d only ever sliced through one painting before. It was a Seurat. La Mer à Grandcamp, Bill had told him, The Sea at Grandcamp. Eddie remembers the tiny little sea-boats bobbing on the murky water, masts reaching out towards the sky, disappearing into the cloud, and he’d sliced right through the center of one of them when Stan had made him jump, voice static in his earpiece. In his panic, he’d wrenched the painting from its frame, turning the small slash into a gaping open wound, before he shoved the injured painting into his bag, crumpled and unsellable. Bill had yelled at him, and Eddie had stood and taken it, tail between his legs.

“Eddie, Eddie seriously, you gotta move, you really gotta move, Mike’s gonna start the winch in 30 seconds whether you’ve got the damn painting or not,” Stan demanded, voice cutting through the silence, dragging Eddie out of his introspection and back into the present.

One cautious tug later, and the canvas came away from the frame. Eddie screwed up his face in anticipation of the alarm that never rings but always could. It didn't ring. He held the painting at arm’s length, eyes dancing along the swooping lines, following the flow of the river, before finally landing on Ophelia’s face.

“She’s beautiful”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a real peach. Mike’s gonna start the winch, are you ready?”

“Ready”

Silently, like a heron taking flight, Eddie’s feet floated up off the floor. The canvas sat leaden and heavy in the vice-grip of his arms, and, as predicted, Mike’s voice filtered through his ear-piece.

“There’s too much weight”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Mikey”

“The painting, I mean. It’s too heavy, your calculations must have been wrong. I don’t know if this configuration is gonna hold you”

“We’ll soon find out”

A metallic whining sound filtered down from the skylight, and Eddie braced himself for a fifty foot fall.

The fall never came. What came instead were strong arms, the tell-tale sound of the winch clicking off, and Eddie and the canvas were dragged onto the roof by a vaguely sweaty and very panicked looking Mike.

“I honestly thought I’d be scraping you off the gallery floor,” Mike laughed, but his voice was laced with something serious.

He’d only done a few runs with Mike. He normally worked with Bill, who took risks and was almost always on the receiving end of Stan’s wrath for something or other. Mike didn’t take risks. Mike was methodical, Mike was reliable. Mike never left Eddie stranded in the middle of a strangers house in Iceland, two paintings under each arm and unable to open the door to escape, whilst he pillaged the wine cellar for a particular vintage red he’d been hankering for. Eddie much preferred working with Mike.

“Bev’s already sent over the details of the next job. It’s in a small downtown gallery, and you’re going in through the door and not the ceiling so it should be an easier run than this one,” Mike said, busying himself with dismantling the winch.

Eddie sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, before pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he saw constellations whirling in the dark behind his eyelids.

“When?”

“Tuesday”

“Today is Monday”

“… So tomorrow, then”

“For fucks sake!”

Everything Eddie Kaspbrak knew about art, he’d learnt from stealing it. He knew how to recognise where the layers of paint were the thinnest, how to cut into thick, chalky canvas, how he could slough the painting from its frame without damaging either, and how he should store a painting properly, so that it didn’t get marked by the sun or covered in a thin layer of dust. His own artistic talent extended to stick figures and no further, but he was now able to identify a Monet from a mile away, and he was able to pick a genuine Pollock from a pile of fakes.

He’d been head-hunted for this job. A petty thief from downtown New York, Eddie hadn’t expected to ascend to the lofty heights of international art thief before the age of thirty, but when he’d run into Stan on the corner of Canal Street, pocket bulging, full of stolen wallets, Stan had taken one look at him and dragged him into his jeep. Eddie had put up a fight, punching and kicking and swearing at the stern faced man he’d assumed was a cop, but Stan had locked the car doors and turned in his seat to face Eddie.

“You stole five wallets in less than ten minutes”

“No I didn’t”

“You did. I was watching you. You practically took that last one out of that man’s hand and he didn’t see you. You were right in front of his face, and he all but let you take it,” Stan had said, voice almost reverent, impressed.

“What can I say, I’m an artist,” Eddie had spat, hackles up and snarling.

“Do you just steal wallets, then?” Stan had said, voice light, light enough to almost be a laugh and it nurtured rage in Eddie’s stomach.

“Look, I haven’t got time for this cat and mouse shit. Either arrest me, charge me, take me downtown or whatever the fuck it is you need to do, or let me go. I’m not gonna suck your dick or anything”

“Feisty little street urchin aren’t we. I’m not a cop. Far from it, actually. I’m … I relieve art galleries and private collectors of their surplus inventory,” Stan had announced, smiling as if he’d told a joke that he expected Eddie to understand.

“So you’re an art thief?” Eddie supplied after a long pause. Stan nodded, raising his eyebrows at Eddie, almost impressed.

“Sort of. I don’t do the stealing. We have a guy for that, but he’s no good. He makes too many mistakes, and he’s not quick enough. We need someone else”

“… Me?”

“I hope so”

“So lemme get this straight, I’ve just been headhunted for a formidable career as an art thief?” Eddie said, incredulous.

“You could put it like that. We offer a great salary and some truly excellent perks”

“Do art thieves get a pension?” Eddie asked sardonically, but Stan didn’t take the bait.

“But of course!”

“This is fucking insane. I don’t even know your name and you’re asking me to steal art for you. How can I be sure you’re not a cop?”

“I’ve got a Picasso in the trunk of my car,” Stan said, grinning knowingly as if that’d explain everything. It explained nothing.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Stan sighed, and waved dismissively at Eddie, “it should mean something to you. It will mean something to you, soon. That is, if you take me up on my very lucrative offer. You’ve got thirty seconds before I turf you out of my car and send you back to your sad little life stealing pocket-change from people no richer than yourself”

Eddie stared at Stan, holding eye-contact for longer than necessary, challenging him to look away, to look towards the ceiling or the floor, but he didn’t. Stan held Eddie’s gaze steadily, and bared his teeth in a wolfish grin.

“Fine, but I know fuckin’ nothing about art”

The Tuesday job certainly seems easier than the Monday job, at least on paper. The gallery was small, much smaller than the ones they usually hit. It only had one entrance, which also doubled up as its only exit. There was a fire-escape, and several wall to ceiling windows, but other than that, the building was entirely secure with no other entry points. Ben composed a digital blueprint of the building, and managed to take control of the security system without much effort. He watched the security tapes of the night before every morning for a week, and plotted out the lone security guards monitoring route. The guard seemed follow the same route, like clock-work, each night, which made their job a whole lot easier. Bill reasoned that it shouldn’t be too hard to evade him, and began plotting their route through the gallery to the object of their desires.

The painting they’re going after was called Ignis. It’s a mass of orange and red, different hues and shades bleeding into each other, an abstract mess that gave Eddie a headache. Bev seemed to like it, though, and she told them all with a smug smile that the artist, a young German man, was anticipated to become one of the best-selling artists of the decade.

They made a plan. Stan, Ben and Bev were to stay behind, as usual. They were useless on the floor, and readily admit as much. Ben stayed behind to remotely monitor the security system, and Stan stayed behind to act as surveillance, to stay connected to Eddie constantly through his earpiece. Eddie, Bill and Mike set off in the blacked out van, arriving at the gallery at ten minutes past three in the morning. There was another van in the parking lot, white and unmarked. They all clambered out of the van, and wordlessly split up. Ben had remotely deactivated the security shutters on the fire escape, so Eddie managed to slip through the door silently and undetected. He went in alone, as he always did, having refused from day one to work with anyone else, despite Stan's initial protests. Bill stayed with the van, and Mike hovered around the exit, connected to Eddie via their earpieces. He’d be ready to rush in if he had to, if Eddie found himself in trouble, but thus far, he'd never had to.

The gallery was silent, and security lights flashed red and foreboding in the darkness. Pulling his balaclava over his face, Eddie began to tip-toe towards the rear exhibition suite.

He had taken three cautious steps into the room before he spotted the other person in the room.

There was a figure, clad in dark green camouflage, tugging hopelessly at the very painting that Eddie had come to liberate (Stan’s word). The figure didn't hear Eddie stalk into the room, didn't hear Eddie as he strafed along the wall, didn't hear Eddie sidle up next to him. It took a full forty-five seconds for the stranger to notice Eddie standing next to him, and when he did, he screamed.

“FUCK!”

Eddie slammed a palm over the mouth of the screaming stranger.

“Shut the fuck up or you’ll get us both caught,” Eddie hissed, hand still clamped over the strangers mouth.

The stranger looked up at him with eyes as wide as dinner plates from behind thick rimmed red glasses. Once Eddie’s sure that they won't make any more noise, he let the stranger go.

“Dude, that fuckin’ hurt,” The stranger moaned, and rubbed a hand over his chin. Eddie rolled his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stealing the painting,” Eddie says, plainly.

“Not just a pretty face then,” the stranger drawled, and it takes every bit of Eddie’s self-control not to sock him in the arm.

Eddie sighed instead. “You can’t see my face”

“Naw, but I can see your eyes”

Stupidly, Eddie chokes on his tongue, caught off-guard. He splutters, just wordless noise, and the stranger laughs at him.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck off. Why are you stealing this painting?”

The stranger shrugged, “I was told to. Boss wants it, and what the boss wants the boss gets”

“Who’s your boss?” Eddie asked, as he pushed past the stranger before he stepped over the velvet rope cordoning off the painting from the rest of the room. The stranger followed, forcing himself between Eddie and the painting.

“No can do. That information’s classified. What are you doing here? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“Do I look like a cop?” Eddie deadpanned, gesturing to himself. He was wearing his black neoprene bodysuit, the very same bodysuit that Bev affectionately called his catsuit.

“No, you look like you’re going surfing, what is that? A wetsuit? It doesn’t leave much to the imagination, if you know what I’m saying”

“Fuck off, at least I blend into the darkness. Camouflage doesn’t work when you’re not in the jungle, moron”

The strangers face turned pink under Eddie’s scrutiny, and he turned around, and continued trying to wrench the painting off the wall without another word. Eddie tried to grab his bicep, but the stranger shrugged him off.

“Stop, fucking stop! You’re pulling at it too hard, you’re going to set off the –”

As if on cue, the alarm roared to life, screaming into the silence.

“… fucking SHIT!” Eddie yelled, not tempering his voice, before he scrambled straight towards the back window, the one that Ben had identified as his emergency escape route. He’d never had to use his pre-planned emergency escape route before, and he internally cursed this stranger for breaking his streak of good fortune.

Before he could throw himself through the window, glass be damned, Eddie glanced back over his shoulder. The stranger hadn’t moved. He was still standing with his hands on the painting, face white as a sheet of marble. He was shaking so violently that Eddie could see his knees knock together, a sight that would have been funny if Eddie hadn't have been sure that any second now the police would have charged through the door to arrest them both. He made the decision instantly, almost passively.

“YOU!”

The stranger looked up at him, wide eyed and terrified.

“Fucking follow me, MOVE!”

The stranger sprung into action instantly, abandoning the painting that was now hanging onto the wall by only one corner, and scrambled over to the window where Eddie was standing.

“Cover your face,” Eddie demanded, before he kicked the window with all of his might, sending shards of glass raining down on them like snowflakes, twinkling in the moonlight.

Eddie crawled through the window, wincing as a jagged piece of glass caught his hand, and briefly debated sprinting off in the direction of the van, before extending an arm back through the window.

“Take my hand!”

The stranger grabbed Eddie’s hand, pulling himself through the shallow tunnel of jagged glass. They both took off in a sprint, Eddie’s heart beating a brutal rhythm in his ear. Eddie lead them in the direction of the alleyway that they had previously agreed Bill would move the van to if any alarms sounded, and as soon as they had rounded the corner, Mike threw the backdoor open, and both Eddie and the stranger all but fell into the back of the van.

“DRIVE!” Mike yelled, and, with Bill at the wheel, the van skidded out of the alleyway, tires screeching violently.

For the first time in over an hour, Eddie closed his eyes, and let himself breathe. The illusion of calm only lasted for three seconds, however, because Mike almost immediately jabbed him in the shoulder.

“Eddie, who the fuck is this?!” Mike said, gesturing wildly at the stranger, who was sat hunched in the corner of the van, head between his hands. Eddie watched him, vaguely concerned that he was going to be sick everywhere. He nudged a discarded bucket closer with his foot, as discretely as he could manage.

“It’s a crazy fuckin’ story, Mikey, you ready?”

“Just tell me, Eddie, Jesus”

“He was trying to steal Ignis”

“… No way”

“Yes way. I walked in, stealthy as a fuckin’ cat, and there he was, all dressed up in camo like he’s off hunting or something, trying to haul the canvas out of the frame without having cut it first”

“Who does he work for?” Mike asked, sending the stranger a concerned look. The stranger either didn't notice or didn't care, head still between his hands, face still suspiciously pale.

“He won’t tell me. Says he’s got a boss, though, so we know it isn’t just him.”

Mike shifted in the van, clambering over the center console to sit shotgun next to Bill, who was practically red in the face. Eddie carefully decided not to engage him in conversation, and instead crawled across the van so he was sat next to the stranger.

“What’s your name? I’m Eddie, that’s Mike and Bill’s driving”

“Richie,” the stranger – Richie – supplied, in a voice that was much steadier and more even than Eddie had anticipated.

“So, Richie, where are we dropping you?”

“52 Portland Street. Do you know it?”

“I’m sure Bill can get us there, right Bill?”

“Sure,” Bill supplied in a curt, snippy tone but Eddie counted it as a win that he spoke at all.

“I can’t believe I almost got caught” Richie said, and Eddie laughed.

“Yeah, you were giving that frame a real good tug. Have you done this before?”

“Would you believe me if I said yes?”

“No”

Richie doesn’t say anything, but he looks up at Eddie and winks.

Now they’re not in the gallery, and Richie’s face is bathed in the soft glow of the torch they rigged up in the van to serve as a light source, Eddie felt something mimicking attraction stir in the pit of his stomach. Richie’s face was angular, sharp lines and pointed tips, and his hair was swept off his face with a bandana that should have looked absurd but somehow didn't. Eddie thought idly that he’d seen this face before, in a portrait perhaps, or painted in the sunset when the sun hung heavy and bloated just above the horizon.

Richie’s looked back at him, eyes softer than they’d been before, and maybe they were also a little damp, because they were shining in the torchlight, and Eddie forced himself to look away.

Richie huffed, an annoyed little noise that Eddie is sure he wasn’t supposed to hear, but he did. He realised three beats too late that his body was entirely angled towards Richie, toes to shoulders. He tried not to think about what that might mean.

Then they were pulling into Portland Street, and it was too soon, Eddie told himself that it’s because he wants to quiz Richie about his boss, but he knew it was a lie.

“I have actually done this before, you know. I’m just – that one threw me off. I’ve never done paintings before, I’ve always been on sculptures and small paraphernalia, you know. Jugs and vases and shit. The painting guy got … well, he quit. So that’s me now. The new painting guy”

“He quit?” Eddie parrots back, shooting Richie a sceptical look, but Richie just shrugs.

“S’what I was told. So are you guys a team or something?”

“Or something,” Bill said before Eddie can speak, and then he’s pulling the van into park, and switching off the engine. “Portland street”

“Thanks, Big Bill!” Richie beamed, earning a scowl from Bill for his trouble.

Swinging the door of the van open, Richie hopped out. “Care to walk me to my door, Eddie?”

“Naw, too comfy,” Eddie joked, but he hopped out of the van anyway.

They walked slowly up the path to Richie’s door, in a bizarrely comfortable silence.

“Are you really not going to tell me who your boss is?” Eddie asks, pushing his luck.

“Nope. I would, but I can’t. Don’t wanna wake up with a horse’s head in my bed or some shit”

“You are joking, right?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. Wouldn’t put it past him, I suppose”

“Richie … are you safe?” Eddie faltered, after several seconds of silence.

“Safe? Uh... How safe are any of us, Eds? You do realise that we break the law on a regular fuckin’ basis right?”

“You know what I mean, jack-ass. Serves me right for giving a damn about you, I suppose”

“You give a damn about me?”

“About as much as someone can give a damn about a dumbass stranger,” Eddie shot back, but he was smiling, and Richie was smiling too, a dorky sort of grin that reminded Eddie of the sun.

“I’m touched, Eddie, truly. I’m safe. I’m safe enough. I won’t be doing this forever, anyway. Not exactly a career with long-term progression goals,” Richie said, as he leant against his front door with one shoulder.

“I’m gonna head off, then," Eddie said, and gestured to the van over his shoulder with his thumb, "next time, use a damn knife and cut the canvas out of the frame”

“You got it, chief!”

“Eddie! Hurry the fuck up” Bill yelled from the van, and Eddie groaned.

“See you, Richie. Stay out of trouble!”

Eddie jogged back to the van, hopping inside the open back door.

“So who’s your new best friend?” Bill asked bluntly.

“It’s not like that, I was just trying to get information about his boss,” Eddie replied, defensively, “and anyway, I didn’t manage to convince him to tell me anything so it doesn’t matter now”

“You were looking awful chummy walking up to his house is all I’m saying”

“Well maybe your visions clouded with all the steam rising from your very red face”

“Stop being so fucking childish –”

“Look, we’re all pissed that tonight didn’t work out,” Mike interjected, “but shall we try and not bite each other’s heads off before we arrive back at base?”

Bill put the van in gear, and drove away from Richie’s house without another word.

#reddie #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #art thieves au #criminals au #it fandom #it 2017 #it 2019 #thefutureisbright #ao3 #my fic

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themaskedwriter · 5 years ago

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Steve Rogers’s Day Off

Summary: For years Steve’s friends and coworkers have seen him as a stalwart stick in the mud. If only they could see him when he lets his hair down. But only one person seems to get that side of him- you.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 2500

Warnings: Swearing. Steve shirking his captainly duties?

Clues: This author started writing last June and has loved every second of it so far. She has a slight obsession with all things vintage, the latest being Queen and John Hughes movies, hence the inspiration for this fic (side note: Bucko and Steeb count as vintage, right?). She’s currently in the last semester of her undergraduate degree, which is related to the medical field.

******

Tony pushes his head into his folded arms, almost sending his plate of untouched eggs to the floor. “Can we all just take the day off? Mission debrief be damned.”

“Steve wouldn’t stand for that,” Clint chuckles as he takes a long drag of his coffee. “We all know he isn’t one to play hooky, especially when he’s the one that set the meeting”

Around the dining room table, there are nods and a few words of agreement. Bucky looks up from his phone and shakes his head.

“I don’t think you guys know Steve as well as you think you do,” he says with a small smile.

“I think you’ve lost touch, Tinman. We’ve all seen Steve in action this century,” Tony rolls his eyes. “Pardon my French, but he’s so tight that if you stuck a lump of coal up his ass, in two weeks you’d have a diamond.”

In the kitchen, a glass shatters and everyone whips around in their seats toward the noise. There’s a flash of golden blond hair and the sound of hasty footsteps.

“I think he heard you,” Bruce murmurs, not looking up from his bowl of cereal.

Bucky moves to stand as you walk into the room. “Hey, do you guys know what’s up with Steve? He ran the other way when he saw me coming down the hallway.”

“Tony’s just being an asshole, as per usual,” Clint says.

You look away from Bucky and notice the sheepish expression on Tony’s face. “Tones, what did you do?”

“Clint said it too!”

“I wasn’t the one talking about his tight ass!”

Bucky rolls his eyes and moves to smack both men on the back of their heads. “Maybe you should go check on him, sugar?”

“Yeah,” you look back down the hall to where Steve disappeared. “Yeah, I can go see if he’s okay.”

You knock on Steve’s bedroom door softly and wait for a few minutes before peeking your head around it. Steve is sprawled out on his back staring up at his ceiling fan. You walk over to him and sit down on his bed. He lets out a long exhale and tosses his arm over his eyes.

“What’s got you so down, Stevie?”

He pulls his arm away from his face and his bright blue eyes meet yours. “Am I boring?”

You raise your eyebrow at him and grin at the face he pulls. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Because you think I’m a stick in the mud too?”

“Get up!” You reach down for his hands and pull the two of you up off the plush mattress. “We’re going out. I’m not letting you sit here and throw a pity party all day.”

“Leave me be,” Steve groans. “Hey! This isn’t a pity party and I wasn’t going to stay here all day.”

“You’re damned right it’s not. You do fun stuff all the time, you’ve just been busy lately.”

You grab Steve’s hand and he trails behind as you lead him through the halls. When you reach the garage, you look up to the wall of keys expectantly. “Pick one.”

“I don’t think Tony would want us to.”

“Tony owes you one,” you gesture towards the wall. “Now pick a car, any car.”

“Where are we going?”

You grin at Steve as he randomly grabs a set of car keys. “To see something good.”

He passes you the keys and you click the lock to find the car. Your grin only grows when you see it’s one of Tony’s favorites. Steve slides into the passenger seat as the car roars to life.

Steve fiddles with the knobs of the stereo and looks over at you. “Okay, you’ve successfully kidnapped me, now where are we going?”

“What’s the first thing that pops into your head when I say ‘fun’?”

His brows pinch together. “I don’t know? Baseball, maybe?”

You pull out your phone and shoot off a quick text. “It’s a little early in the year for baseball, but I’ve got an idea. F.R.I.D.A.Y. can you start a route to Yankee Stadium? Also, send a message to the team that Steve came down with some nondescript illness.” You pull the car out of its spot and race off into the early morning sun.

Her Irish lilt fills the speakers. “Of course. Anything else, miss?”

“Yeah, start Steve’s favorite playlist. Thanks, F.R.I.”

She doesn’t answer but a different song pours through the speakers and Steve nods along to the beat. You weave through the mid-morning traffic and soon enough your stepping out into the parking lot outside the stadium.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing here? The season doesn’t even start for another month.”

“I know that you’re a Dodgers man, but I figured you wouldn’t want to spend all day on a plane. That, and I don’t personally know anyone on their coaching staff.”

Steve quirks his eyebrow at you. “That doesn’t tell me what we’re doing here.”

“We’re breathing a little life back into our routines,” you say with a laugh and tug on his arm. “C’mon, I promise it’ll be fun.”

A smile overtakes Steve’s face and he lets you guide him through the empty stadium to a row of offices. You knock on one of the doors and a man with kind eyes greets you.

“I’ve been expecting the two of you,” The man says with a broad smile. “Mr. Rogers it’s an honor.”

“Please, it’s Steve.”

“Steve this is Aaron, he’s the team’s general manager. I saved his ass during one of the many botched alien take-overs and he insisted that he owed me a favor.”

“I am surprised you are finally cashing it in, though. The field is all set up for the two of you.”

Aaron winks at the two of you and Steve raises his eyebrows at the man. “Set up for what, exactly?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” you singsong and push the confused blond back towards the field.

Steve smiles as you pull him onto the field and toss him a bat. “Ready to let out some aggression? I have a feeling this is going to be a baseball massacre.”

Steve scoffs and spins the bat in the air over his shoulder, catching it deftly. “This was my dream, you know? Buck and me went to any game we could. I uh- I thought that they’d let a little guy like me on a team if I was good enough. I practiced until my hands were raw.”

“You never told me that.” You look up from the pitching machine that you’re trying to turn on.

“Never told anybody. Not even my mom or Bucky,” he murmurs with a far-off look. “I’m sure they suspected.”

“I’m sure they did. You’re about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.” You tear your eyes away from him before he can notice you staring and finally turn the right knob. “Aha! You ready for the first pitch, Mr. America?”

His eyes narrow at you, but he can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles up out of his throat. “Do your worst.”

You raise your brow and feed the first ball into the machine. A deafening crack sounds throughout the stadium. You flip around just in time to see the ball fly through the air straight over the back wall.

“Holy shit,” you exclaim. “Steve! That was on the fastest setting!”

Steve’s smile is blinding as he takes off around the bases at breakneck speed. He’s not even panting when he slides into home plate. He stands and wipes the dirt off his pants as he jogs over to you.

A giggle bursts out of him as he pulls you in for a hug. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“If only the talent scouts could see you now,” you say breathlessly. “They’d be begging to get you on the roster.”

Steve’s cheeks flush as he lets go of you quickly. “That would sure be something. Is it your turn?”

“After that performance, I don’t know if I should.”

“C’mon its fun,” he smiles as you return to the plate and pick up the bat. “I’ll even turn the speed down.”

You hold the bat with one hand and raise your middle finger to him. Steve drops the ball into the machine and you manage to hit the ball over his head. You drop the bat and sprint towards first base. Steve scoops up the ball and darts towards you, just before you can hit the base Steve is there. You can’t stop your feet in time and you crash into Steve’s broad frame, his hands circle your waist to keep you steady.

“You okay there, doll?”

You grin and look up at him. “I mean I’d be better if I were safe, but I’m no match for the great Steve Rogers.”

He rolls his eyes and holds your arms to make sure that you’re okay to stand. “It’s the serum. I’d be almost as hopeless as you without it.”

You gasp and clutch your chest. “That’s a low blow, Stevie.”

“I couldn’t help-” his stomach growling cuts off his sentence and his cheeks flush a brilliant red again. “it.”

“It appears that even star athletes get hungry,” you say with a grin. “You wanna break for some lunch?”

“As much as I love ballpark hot dogs, I don’t think eating last seasons are such a good idea.”

“As good as that sounds, that’s not what I had in mind,” you scrunch your nose up and he laughs. “What’re you in the mood for, dummy?”

“You’re the mastermind here.”

“That’s not how it works! We’re having your best day ever. So, I ask again, what’s for lunch?”

Steve laughs and his eyes light up. “You know a hot dog actually sounds really good.”

“So, you do want a moldy-year-old hot dog? You’re a sick man, Rogers.”

“I was thinking Central Park? We could do some people watching. That and the drive shouldn’t be too bad.”

“If that’s what you want for your special day then it’s what we’re doing.”

You reach for Steve’s hand but stop midair, quickly rethinking your action. You feel your cheeks heat up and you turn to walk back to the car. Steve watches your retreating form before his brain catches up and he darts after you. You toss him the keys with a tight grin.

“Think you can handle it?”

“Doll, I was driving long before you were alive,” Steve chuckles. “Tanks and planes mostly, but they can’t be that different.”

“Hardy-har, grandpa has a sense of humor.”

Steve turns to you with a heart-stopping grin and stomps on the gas, pealing out of the parking lot. He expertly weaves through the mid-day traffic and pulls the sports car into a spot just outside the park. You make your way to a hot dog vendor and eat your lunch as you walk around, enjoying the warm weather.

The soft sounds of a few street performers draws you and Steve in, along with a small crowd. An older couple takes each other’s hands of the and the two start to sway to the music. Others in the crowd follow their lead and Steve offers his hand to you.

“Dance with me?”

You smile and take his hands and he spins you around. “It’s only right.”

“Danke schoen, darling, danke schoen,” the singer croons. “Save those lies, darling don’t explain.”

“I recall Central Park in fall,” Steve sings quietly. “How you tore your dress, what a mess. My heart says danke schoen.”

You laugh softly and lay your head on Steve’s chest. “Too bad it’s spring.”

“Just pretend, doll.”

You close your eyes and he continues to murmur the words, his chest rumbling as the two of you dance. All too soon the song is over and the couples around you begin to separate. You squeeze Steve’s warm hands and he smiles softly before stepping away from you.

“What’s next?”

“I was thinking something with art? I think they’ve got a new exhibit at the Met,” you say as you start to pull out your phone to check their website.

Steve stops you and nods towards another street artist, this one sketching people for money. “How much do you think he’d charge for a sketch pad?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” you say with a grin as Steve approaches the man.

It turns out the going rate for a sketch pad in Central Park is twenty-five dollars and a selfie with Captain America. You and Steve find a nice spot where he can draw, while still having people around for him to sketch. You sit next to him, content to watch his intense concentration as he shades. The park begins to grow quiet as the afternoon wears on.

“What are you sketching now that there’s nobody around?”

Steve bites his lip and his eyes dart down to the pad in his lap. “One of my favorite subjects.”

“Oh, Tony then?”

He laughs but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know I prefer to not draw from memory. Besides Tony’s a terrible muse, he’s always moving too much.”

“What is it, then? The city? New York’s got to be the perfect muse.”

He shakes his head. “How could I waste time drawing buildings when I’ve got something so beautiful sitting right in front of me?” His hands shake lightly as he holds out the pad of paper to you.

You look down at the sketch pad and notice a familiar form- yours. He’s somehow captured the slopes and angles of your body perfectly as if he had drawn them hundreds of times. You can’t take your eyes of the radiant woman smiling up at you. Steve’s somehow put a sense of untouchable longing into the portrait.

“I’m really sorry if you don’t like it,” Steve whispers. “It’s creepy. God, I just can’t help but draw you-”

You cut him off by pressing your lips to his and the needy noise he makes in the back of his throat sends you into overdrive. His hands find your waist and he drags you impossibly closer to him. The sketchpad falls forgotten at your feet as you tangle your fingers into his short strands. You both pull back panting, desperate to catch your breath.

“I take it you like the picture?”

You bury your face in his chest. “I love it.”

“Doll?”

“Yeah, Steve?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

******

Tony shrieks as he looks down at his phone and everyone comes running into the common room. He shoves a picture of you and Steve kissing into Natasha’s face. “Since when are they together?”

“According to this very real looking TMZ article, they’re secretly married,” Sam says as he reads over Natasha’s shoulder.

“How rude, we didn’t even get an invite,” Natasha smirks. “And to think Steve told us he was sick.”

Bucky grins from the couch. “Oh, that’s not Steve, that’s Abe Froman. And his lucky lady.”

“The sausage king of Chicago,” Tony sputters.

Bucky laughs and nods as the rest of the group look at Tony as if he’s grown a second head. “It’s the name he uses when they’re playing hooky. Looks like he finally got the balls to do something about his feelings, though.”

“What the actual fuck.”

“Language,” Bucky mock-gasps.

Tony’s eyes widen. “Rogers has got a lot of explaining to do.”

#fic

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justjessame · 4 years ago

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Babysitting Butcher Chapter 22

Before Billy and I could rush off for a rousing dinner with my parents at the club, we had our first sit down with a supe. I wasn’t counting my lone meeting with Highlander, and I promise you that I wasn’t about to remind Billy it had happened at all before sitting down with A-Train. Let’s not get his boxers in a twist and make the simple check in turn into an attempt to figure out if sticking plastique up the speedster’s ass and hitting the button would work as well as it had on Translucent, shall we?

When Billy had come back into the office after sending the Boys off to their next goal, he’d propped open the door again. No fear of anyone seeing our heads together, the casual touching, no hiding necessary now that the important people knew about us. And it also showed A-Train, when he arrived with minutes to spare, that we were in control and had nothing to hide, not even from the supes.

“Hello,” I offered, smiling and standing. “Please, come in and have a seat.” I gestured to one of the chairs in front of our desks, and waited until the young man took the offer. Sitting carefully, as Billy once again held my chair in place, I took another beat while Billy sat. “I thought, since our office is newly formed, and we’re still working out the kinks of our purpose, we should meet with the remaining Seven first.”

A-Train’s eyes flicked to Billy and I had to bite my lip to keep an errant giggle from escaping at the reminder that Billy and his team were the reason the Seven were- I had to do a mental count, four now? “Just to check in?” His eyes came back to my face, and I could tell he was trying to piece together the point of it. “So I just come in, say ‘sup’ and go?”

Billy laughed, and I shook my head. “No,” he offered, voice low and quiet, but also clear as a bell. “You come in. We give you a rundown of your ‘powers’.” I had to pick up the file on my desk to keep from hitting him for the air quotes and snark, mostly because he was making me want to laugh. “You tell us if you’ve gotten some added extras, and we add ‘em to your file.” Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I could see how supremely comfortable and confident Billy looked seated beside me. “You hold out, we find out you held out, well it’ll take more than a little rehab from the Church of Twats and Cunts to fix the mess.”

Taking a chance to look up from A-Train’s file, I was in time to see him gulp. “I helped you,” he muttered, but Billy said nothing. “I gave-”

“That’s the past,” I cut in, bringing his focus back to me. “Right now, after Vought’s irregularities have come to light, we have to make certain that you’re safe and healthy. You had a scare with your heart, didn’t you?” He nodded. “I have boxes and boxes of files, all are dead supes or attempts at MAKING supes that ended less than successfully. Babies, adults, and some that are somewhere in between. Learning if your powers are growing, if your body is under more strain, that could save lives. It could save YOUR life.” He was studying me, trying to find out if I was lying, but he didn’t have the same abilities that other supes had, so he had to choose whether to trust me or not on his own.

Billy sighed. Standing up, he strode over to one of the filing cabinets we’d filled with the supe files. Yanking open a drawer, he pulled out three files. Then he tossed them onto the desk in front of A-Train. “Go on, pick one and read it.” Nervous, but curious, he reached for the top file. If he’d gulped when Billy had first spoken to him, it was nothing to how sick he started looking as he read. “Each one, all three, and every single file in the cabinet I pulled those from are dead. Babies, children, adults, and even elderly. All because Vought wanted to play God, real or imaginary.” Billy sat back down. “Don’t have to tell you that I am NOT a fan of supes, but Doc here, she ain’t lying when she says she’s keeping track for your own good. If we know how this shit evolves, we can know if it levels out or if it amplifies and kills.”

“Like my heart,” he muttered, shaking his head. “But I was adding to it myself-”

“Which I’ve made a note of,” I replied. “Even if you hadn’t, from what a few files mentioned, there’s still a chance that your heart would have felt strained anyway. Human bodies, even modified ones, aren’t meant to bear so much stress.”

He listened, really listened, and while the tension between him and Billy didn’t lessen, he became more forthright with me. Telling me how he felt before and after taking more Compound V, how his body seemed to be bouncing back without it, and admitting he hadn’t known about the failed attempts. He also promised, taking one of my cards, to let me know if he noticed any new issues, good or bad.

All in all, it was a productive meeting. One that I hoped would be easy to repeat with the others. A-Train left, Billy and I talked over what we learned, and he told me that good cop/bad cop worked well. I rolled my eyes.

“What?” He asked, sounding far too innocent to take seriously. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“Sure, I just don’t quite understand why we have to intimidate them before we attempt to just ask for information.” I shrugged, still my favorite gesture. Sighing, I leaned back in my chair. “It did work,” I admitted begrudgingly. ��Even if I’d prefer to use the bad cop routine sparingly.”

“What if I use it when we’re alone,” his voice had gone a hint deeper, and I could swear I felt it rush through my body. “Can I be the bad cop when we’re all alone in your-” a knock on the doorframe stopped him, but I knew I had to get my breathing under control before I could say a word. “What is it?” Billy asked, attention leaving me to take over where I clearly couldn’t. And I missed the entire exchange, thinking all manner of ways that Billy could play bad anything with me.

The day went by, compiling a report of our first meeting with our first supe, making sure it was sent to EVERYONE who needed a copy. I wasn’t prepared when the day ended and it was time for the real torture to begin.

Billy had brought in my change of clothes after lunch, and after he locked the door, he took a seat to watch me change. I had to roll my eyes at him, but at least one of us was enjoying the moment. He sat back, completely relaxed with a smile on his face that almost kicked my worry about the evening we were headed to to its knees, almost.

The dress I’d chosen was conservative. Dark green, fitted, but covering me from neck to knee. The sleeves were short, there was a tie belt, but nothing from the knee up could be considered the least bit too sexy. I’d worn silk stockings, complete with vintage seam, and as I slipped into my heels, I realized that Billy had moved while I dressed. The heat of him was against my back, his hands sliding down my bare arms to take my hands in his, and his lips pressed against my neck.

“You are so fucking beautiful, Veronica Taylor.” His breath was hot on my skin and I relaxed into his body. “And I plan on showing you off tonight, make all those wankers at the ‘club’ know precisely who the lucky sod is that won you over.”

I turned so we were facing one another. “Are you prepared for my parents?” I wanted him to get that it didn’t matter to me, their approval one way or the other, but he had to understand that they would be pleasant, even with an audience. My family was well educated in how to cut someone to the quick without making a scene. He was grinning down at me which made me think he was taking the entire thing as a joke, but he surprised me by kissing me gently.

“I’m prepared to let them know just how badly they fucked up to force you to cut them out of your life, Ronnie.” His nose brushed against mine and he stole another kiss. “Let’s go, fashionably late is fine, but I want to get this show on the road. After all, we have something to do when we get home.” Shit, bad cop, I felt the tingle down to my toes at the promise of it. And that made leaving our office marginally easier. Just a bit.

#Billy Butcher x ofc #the boys #Mild smut #alternate universe

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mydisenchantedeulogy · 5 years ago

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Second Chance (Chapter Two) Be Still (Craig Tucker)

A/n: I may write a version of Second Chance for Kenny too. Depends on how this story goes. Tags are available; let me know if anyone wants to be on it.

Sunday before noon – before the weather got worse – Eden packed her suit case and left the apartment. Her beat up Taurus – nicknamed the Turd – was near a complete breakdown; not suited for long distance travels, but because she was only going 2 hours down the road, Eden thought the car would make it without a problem.

She was mistaken.

Outside South Park her car died. The rolling turd had a history of bad luck, most of which Eden was able to repair or replace. The newest issue was with the engine; it overheated nearly all the time. She had plans to take it in, but laziness on her part always seemed to prolong it. Hauling with her a bottle of water, she marched out into the cold and poured the liquid into the coolant tank – it would do until she found an auto shop in town.

Sending her cousin, a quick message she jumped back into the car, turned the heat up, and went on her way. The gauge on the dash stayed dangerously in the red, but she managed to find the shop and pulled in with a squeal. It was after 3, but no one was around; the parking lot was empty, apart from a vintage tow truck near the garage.

Eden tried the front door, but the store was locked up. She thought that maybe it was closed – the sign in the door said so – but hearing the faint sound of music drifting from the garage, she figured that someone was nearby.

“Hello. Hi … sorry to bother you, but my car needs coolant and I’m not sure how far I’m going to get without it.” Eden peaked into the room, noticing a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the front of a hulking SUV.

She tried to get their attention by clearing her voice – even calling out to them again – but still, they didn’t hear her.

Eden leaned down and gently touched the person’s leg. She felt them lurch in surprise. Their head striking the undercarriage of the SUV rocked the vehicle hard; hard enough that it knocked the balance off the floor jack and sent the load plummeting down. She managed to roll the creeper out until they were safe, barely able to keep them from having their upper body trapped.

“Fuck, dude. That hasn’t happened in a while.”

She wasn’t sure what they meant, but she sure as hell recognized them; the vibrant orange pants were an obvious hint.

“Kenny McCormick? Is that really you?”

Of course, it was. He hadn’t changed too much since high school, though his blond locks were a bit more unkempt. His stunning blue eyes lit up as he stared at Eden; a half smirk lifted his lips.

“Yeah. And who might you be?”

Eden frowned; he didn’t seem to recognize her. She honestly didn’t think she had changed too much. Her hair was longer, but that was about it. She aimed her eyes at the floor and curled her hair around her finger in embarrassment.

“Sorry … I thought you’d recognize me. It’s Edith Westbrook; from high school.”

We dated for a little while, she opted not to say. He was a rebound; he knew, but didn’t seem to mind.

Kenny couldn’t believe it. Eden Westbrook? He sat up and took her into his arms. “You look great – hot even; not like you weren’t already. It’s good to see you again.”

“Yeah. It’s good to see you too.” She hugged back. Parting from Kenny, Eden looked him over – a motion that brought a smile to his face. “Look at you; a mechanic. And you look great.”

She honestly didn’t know what to say. Her hands came up to cover her warm face.

“Still easy to embarrass I see. You’re too cute,” Kenny joked.

Eden playfully smacked his arm. “Stop it, play boy. It’s really great to see you doing so well.”

“It’s my dad’s shop, but I get around.” He still couldn’t believe she was back. “The fuck are you doing back in South Park? I thought you left for good?”

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “I’m not back; I’m here on business actually. Wendy called me.”

“Right. The wedding? I nearly forgot. Took Stan long enough to ask her – though I’m sure it was forced.”

Eden agreed. Stan and Wendy had been on and off as a couple for a long time. It was about time they settled down.

“A risky thing to do, but I’m sure Stan knows that. I’m happy he’s found someone to spend his life with.”

Kenny smirked. “Or until she divorces him. Some of the guys and I made a bet – more cash in my pocket if I win.”

“I was right; you haven’t changed a bit.” Eden rolled her eyes in a playful manner. She took a breath and frowned. As much as she wanted to continue on with this reunion, she had somewhere else to be.

“Think I could buy some coolant from you? My engine keeps overheating, and I really need to meet Shelly at the coffeehouse in a few hours.”

“Store is closed today,” Kenny said with a sigh. He was actually working just to clear his mind. “I can take a look at it tomorrow before noon though. It sounds like a number of things, and honestly your engine won’t stop overheating if the problem isn’t fixed. Coolant alone won’t repair a broken radiator fan or a stuck thermostat.”

“How much will that cost? And how long will it take?”

Kenny laughed and stood up, extending his arms above his head. His back cracked in protest. “Can’t say for sure until I’ve looked at it, but don’t fret; I’ve got you, babe. Until then, I can give you a ride into town.”

“I’d appreciate it,” she replied.

The flirty blond dug a set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her. “That tow truck by the door is mine. You can start it up and get the heat going while I close up, if you want.”

“Be still my heart,” Eden joked. She gave him a wink and walked out towards her car to grab her suit case.

Once she had it, she jumped into the passenger seat of the tow truck and started up the engine, along with the heat. Her phone was silent; Shelly hadn’t replied to her earlier message. Eden decided to ignore it and waited for Kenny.

He appeared moments later wearing an orange parka – a different style than the one he wore as a teenager; this one had brown patches around the elbows and a high collar that fastened beneath his chin – and jumped into the seat next to her.

“Miss me,” he joked.

Eden snorted in laughter. “Every second.”

With a smile, Kenny drove the truck out of the lot and headed towards town. He took her passed City Hall and allowed her to a chance to look around.

Nothing had changed too much since High School. A few new buildings were scattered here and there – mostly apartments and new stores. Eden stared out the window in glee. Memories flooded her mind; some good and others not worth recalling. This town was a big part of her life, a fact she wasn’t sure she was proud of or not.

By the time Kenny parked the truck in the parking lot of the coffeehouse, she was staring at her hands in concern. Was it honestly a good idea to come back here? A gentle sigh from Kenny brought her back to reality. She turned and forced a smile.

“Thanks a bunch for helping me, Ken.”

He nodded. “No problem. I’ll see you at the rehearsal in a few days, so just leave your car to me.”

Leaning forward with hesitation, Eden gave him a kiss on the cheek. Her face warmed up; she owed him this much. She grabbed her luggage and waved to Kenny as she got out the truck, walking towards the door. The sound of his truck roaring to life made her pause with uncertainty, but she took a deep breath and went inside.

All she had to do was wait on Shelly to pick her up; no problem.

The place was mostly empty as Eden walked up to the counter – very few people were inside. She was surprised Mr. Tweek hadn’t sold the shop; it was pretty old. The coffee was good though; addictive even. She decided to buy a cup, ringing the bell near the register.

Moments later, she saw another familiar face. He appeared from inside the employees only door behind the counter. His wide blue eyes landed on her and unlike Kenny, he seemed to know who she was.

“Gah! Eden … you’re back.”

She bobbed her head. “Only for the wedding. It’s good to see you again, Tweek. Are you doing well?”

“I’m making it, I guess! And you?”

It was obvious that twitching had gotten a little better. He was able to keep himself from grounding his teeth or clutching his hands. Eden admired his progress. She didn’t speak to Tweek much in school, but she was around him quite often.

“I’m doing pretty good. Mind if I get a cappuccino? I’m actually waiting on Shelly to pick me up. Has she done been by here?”

“I … I don’t know,” he answered in uncertainty. “But I don’t mind if you want to stick around until she gets here! Nngh! I’ll bring your drink out to you in a little bit!”

Eden thanked him again, moving her luggage to the first set of booths next to the counter. She took out her phone and checked her messages; still no word from Shelly. Eden shot her another text and set her phone down on the table. What was taking her so long to respond?

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes for a brief moment. With all that was going on, Eden didn’t realize how tired she was. Her time in South Park was set to be a hectic one; sleep wouldn’t come easy for her, not with the week Bridezilla had planned. She just wanted to get to the apartment and rest before the fitting tomorrow.

The chill air on her face suddenly urged her tired eyes open. She glanced towards the door and noticed a troupe of people come in; a familiar troupe of people. Eden snatched up her phone and buried her attention into it, listening as they spoke noisily to Tweek at the counter. Her heat pounded in her chest; fucking idiot. Did she not expect this?

Fortunately for Eden, the group of 4 didn’t seem to notice her. She thought she was in safe hands with Tweek, but once again she was mistaken. Her own name on his tongue brought tears to her eyes; a pen drop could be heard.

Moments later she was startled by someone dropping into the seat beside her, nearly on top of her. Eden squeaked as they embraced her closely – Bebe was an affectionate and very hands on friend.

“I am so happy you’re here – you have no idea,” she spoke.

Eden gently pried herself away, giving her a smile. “Wendy would never forgive me if I missed her big day.”

“No question,” Bebe agreed. “Now that you’re the new maid of honor; she’d probably kill you.”

Don’t remind me, Eden groaned. She narrowed her eyes in empathy. “I’m really sorry about that. You should have been the maid of honor, not me.”

“It’s no big. I was totally serious what I said; you’re the only girl brave enough to walk down the aisle with Cartman.”

“Only because of Stan,” Eden clarified. “I’d never be able to endure his behavior if it weren’t fo––

A sudden laugh interrupted her. Clyde took a seat, shuffling over so that Token could sit down.

“How is cousin Stan? Kenny and I have a wager going – I bet a year.”

Eden stifled a laugh. She’d heard. “He’s fine, I guess. Haven’t really spoken to him yet.”

She waved at Token and glanced at her phone again. Still no word from Shelly. And where was Tweek with her cappuccino? She really didn’t want to continue this reunion; not with Craig nearby. Eden tapped her finger against the counter. Where was he? Didn’t he want to see her again?

“So … any plans now that you’re back?”

Eden puckered a brow. Besides the wedding, she had none. She shook her head in disagreement. “Once this is over, I plan to return to Colorado Springs.”

“Really? I thought now that you were back in town, you’d make up with Craig. You know he––

Token gently elbowed his shoulder. “You can’t ask her that; it’s in bad taste.”

“Really, babe. Leave her alone.” Bebe leaned her weight against Eden’s arm. “Ignore him; he’s an idiot.”

He went to counter but instead swore under his breath as a carrier fell on the table with a loud thud. The contents in each cup luckily didn’t spill over, but the noise was enough to startle everyone at the booth.

“Fuck, man. Are you trying to scare us?”

Craig flipped him the bird and dropped into a seat he pulled up from the counter. His cold blue eyes fell on Eden for a moment – to gauge her reaction – but she was staring at her hands with concern on her face. He had to admit, long hair suited her.

“A carrier? I thought we were hanging out here for a while?” Token passed out the drinks as he waited for Craig to explain – Eden thanked him with a nervous smile.

“Decided not to,” Craig said simply.

His voice alone made her skin prickle. Was he upset that she was here? It wasn’t her fault; Shelly asked her to come here. Besides, it was her who should be mad, not him.

“What are your plans for today, Eden? If you’re free, you should totally hang with us,” Bebe suggested.

Eden quickly declined. “Sorry, but I don’t think it would be a good idea; not with the fitting early tomorrow. My car is parked at the shop Kenny and his dad owns, so I don’t currently have a ride home.”

“You met up with Kenny already? Where are you staying? Clyde and I can take you there.”

Close as she was to Eden, the fair-haired woman knew how curious Bebe was. The less she knew, the better.

“He brought me here. Shelly was meant to pick me up, but I haven’t been able to get a hold of her in a few hours,” she answered.

Bebe smiled. “Come stay with me tonight. We’re both getting fitted tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Eden tested her coffee and took a careful drink; she hummed in excitement.

“Are you sure? I’d hate to impose.”

Bebe shook her head. “It’s no problem. We can make some drinks and chat about all the little things in our lives.”

High school all over again. Eden agreed with a nod. She hadn’t been to a sleep over in a long time. “Sounds like fun.”

“Then let’s get moving,” Bebe said with a smile. She stood up and allowed Eden to do the same, more or less yanking her from the booth in excitement.

In a rush, she forgot her suit case.

#craig tucker #aged up #south park fanfiction #oc #kenny mccormick

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choiceslife · 6 years ago

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When Worlds Collide: Part Two (Limited Series)

Disclaimer: Based upon characters in Choices - Endless Summer, It Lives in the Woods, The Royal Romance, #LoveHacks, Home for the Holidays, and The Elementalists series. All characters presented are the property of Pixelberry Studios. I claim no ownership. This story is purely the work of the poster as fanfiction.

Overall Series Rating: 18+

Warnings: Adult Language, Adult Content, Sexual Discussions. Future chapters may contain SMUT and Gratuitous Sexual Descriptions

Overall Series Summary: The sisters are together again and Ava Cunningham believes only they can help her.

Author’s Note: This Limited Series is a companion/sequel to Divided By Circumstance. I suggest you at least read that series in order to understand this one. As with most of my stories, this is a crossover and is part of my interconnected Chromatic AU. My MC’s are as follows: Carrissa Monroe (TRR), Abby Bennett (#LH), Scarlett Joy (HFTH), Taylor Reed (ES), and Donovan Bailey (TE). There will be an End Note following this chapter. Previous Chapters can be found in my Master List located in my header.

Tag List: @cinnamonroll-duffy @darley1101 @debramcg1106 @brightpinkpeppercorn @regrettingnathan @katurrade @teamtomsato @luxurylives @akrenich @ladynonsense @riseandshinelittleblossom @kinkykingliam @jlouise88 @kenjikatsoros @eileendannie @marshmallow-ortega @littlecrookedheart @i-choose-liam @bobasheebaby @boneandfur @tmarie82 @europeanguy @walkerismychoice @pixieferry @sstee1 @3pawandme @endlessly-searching-for-you

***

Somewhere Over the United States

The jostling of Jake’s private plane jolted Dan out of his uncomfortable sleep. He and Ava had expected to fly commercial from Louisiana to New York, but when Jake said he owned a plane, they thought it would be an awesome experience. It had been nothing of the sort.

The first leg of the trip, Dan had gripped the arm rest so hard, he thought he would leave finger impressions in the aluminum. For the second and final flight, Dan tried to sleep away his worry, but every slight movement the plane made stirred him out of his slumber. “I thought you said he was a pilot?” Dan asked turning to Ava who was seated across the aisle from him. Ava chuckled with a smirk before sliding a sleep mask back over her eyes. “Guess I’ll check on him myself.”

___

“Take a seat and strap in Mop Top,” Jake remarked after glancing behind him at the sound of the cockpit divider being opened. “There’s a lot of turbulence to deal with right now.”

Dan did as he was told, quickly sitting in the co-pilot chair and buckling up. He looked over at Jake wearing a vintage green bomber jacket over his snug black t-shirt. Even clothed, Dan couldn’t deny Jake’s natural sex appeal. “Only Mop Top this time? No Sexy?”

Jake playfully side-eyed his new friend. His heart remained firmly with Taylor, even more so knowing that there was some chance he could be reunited with his lost love. But it was nice to know that others still found him desirable, even though his peak physical condition faded months ago after Taylor vanished from his life. “Your shirt is on,” Jake replied as he flashed his signature underwear dropping lopsided grin.

A tiny laugh mixed with the faintest snort left Dan’s mouth. “I can fix that ya know,” he said with a wink. Dan saw the corners of Jake’s lips curl up slightly before the pilot refocused his attention to the controls. He knew Jake was taken and that he was working with Ava to help them reunite, but damn if something inside him didn’t ignite when he met the pilot. Ava had asked Dan to accompany her in this quest in case things didn’t work as she hoped and Jake needed someone to help him cope with the trauma. Dan was more than willing to help in that capacity, but he hadn’t expected to crush hard on Jake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be flirting. Taylor is a lucky guy and I hope we can help bring him back.”

“No apology necessary Dan. My Bayou charm is impossible to resist.” A brief moment of silenced passed before the two men burst into a riotous laughter. “But I appreciate it and the help you and Ava are giving me. Come what may, you’ve given me hope again and I realized, I need to live for Taylor whether we are successful or not. He wouldn’t want me to be acting all sad and lonely.”

Dan fist bumped Jake to acknowledge their mutual respect. He sat quietly for a moment as Jake adjusted several control settings and verified their flight position. “So I gotta ask, how the heck did you afford a plane?” Dan finally inquired after Jake had gotten everything situated with the controls.

“Oh Delilah here?” Jake affectionally patted the control as he looked over towards Dan. “Long story, but let’s just say I won her.”

“Someone gambled a plane? Jeez! What did you wager?”

“My clothes.” Jake saw the absolute shock on Dan’s face at the revelation. Sure, Jake had omitted some key facts to the story, but Dan didn’t need to know that information. “I told you Mop Top...Bayou charm.”

Another fit of laughter and soon Jake and Dan were engaged in more friendly discussions and jokes. Dan learned about everything that happened on La Huerta, while Jake learned all of the strange happenings in Westchester. Before they knew it, the plane was descending towards their destination at a small airport outside of New York City.

___

Teterboro, New Jersey

The plane door lowered inside a private hangar allowing the three occupants to finally feel land again after hours in the sky. As Ava descended the stairs, her girlfriend Stacy bolted across the hanger as fast as her legs could carry her. The two wrapped each other in a tight embrace as they pecked tiny kisses all over one another’s faces.

From the top of the stairs, Jake observed Ava’s reunion with her girlfriend, as well as two gentlemen standing off in the distance. “I gotta admit, I’m pretty surprised that Hermione would date someone so peppy,” Jake remarked as Dan stepped beside him. “I figured Clark Kent or Pretty Boy was dating Cheer Squad.”

“You have an amazing knack for nicknames,” Dan laughed. “Cheer Squad would be Stacy Green. She and Ava started dating shortly after our near-death experience. Pretty Boy is Cade Phillips and he’s actually dating Stacy’s brother, Connor. And Clark Kent is Lucas Thomas. He’s one of the smartest guys I know and as far as I know he’s currently single.”

“That’s a good thing for you, Mop Top, because his eyes haven’t left you since we stepped off the plane.” Jake winked at his new friend before making his way down the stairs for the official introductions.

Dan stared at Jake in confusion before looking towards where Lucas and Cade were standing. He locked eyes with his smart friend and was sure he noticed his smile widen and cheeks blush. Lucas gave a little wave and in that moment Dan began to wonder if Jake was right. Hmm. Lucas Thomas huh? All this time we’ve known each other and I never noticed it. Dan waved back and made his way over to greet his friends.

___

New York City, New York - Manhattan

“So we’ve been following the sisters for a couple of days,” Cade said as he steered the large passenger van through the streets of New York. “It’s been tough to get anywhere near them. What with one being a Queen and all.”

Jake sat beside him in the passenger seat, holding on for dear life. He wasn’t a religious man, but Jake lost count of how many prayers he made since getting in the van with Cade. And people give me shit for my flying?

“Needless to say, but security is always around,” Lucas chimed in from the back of the van, momentarily distracting Jake from wondering when the inevitable side swipe of one of the many yellow cabs would occur. “But I read this morning that King Liam and most of his entourage are returning to Cordonia on business. The Queen is staying behind to get to know her sisters better.”

“And through some casual eavesdropping, we were able to find out which club they’re going to this evening,” Stacy added. “So we’ve gotta quickly get back to the hotel, devise a game plan, and change in order to not stand out like we don’t belong. And don’t worry gents, I had some clothes sent up to the rooms for you.”

“We might not make it there. Pretty Boy might kill us with his driving first,” Jake quipped. He ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair, letting out a puff of air in the process. “Can’t believe I flew up to New York to go to a friggin night club.”

Cade glanced into the rear view, making eye contact with Dan, after hearing Jake’s grumbling. A mischievous smile appeared on both their faces before Cade spoke. “Jake, ohmygawd, if you’re a tourist and looking for a good time, New York’s hottest club is Rumper Thumper.”

“Rumper Thumper?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes. Situated in an old processing plant in the meat packing district where Thomas Hunt once posed for shirtless photos during his underwear modeling days; this club has everything. Techno. Bubble baths. Stock broker’s on mobile phones from the 80’s. ‘Bare Mables.’

“Bare Mables?” Jake questioned as he looked at Cade in total confusion.

From the back of the van, Dan smiled before he spoke. “Yeah, it’s that thing where a shirtless muscle guy planks and you use him as a table.”

Everyone broke out in laughter. Everyone except Jake. He simply cocked an eyebrow at Cade until the noise subsided. “I’d much rather use a muscle guy for something much more fun than pretending to be a table. I’m sure I’m not the only one in here that feels that way.”

The others looked perplexed, but Dan knew what Jake was hinting at. He looked up towards the front of the van to see The Pilot smirking in his direction, before he noticed Lucas’ ears blushing from the seat beside him. Dan patted his friend on the knee. “This Jake guy, he needs to stick to flying instead of comedy eh?”

“Yeah.” Lucas shuffled his shaking hands into his lap, strategically covering his swelling length. He couldn’t have Dan notice that one simple touch caused him excitement.

___

Everything in the hotel hallway looked swanky. The art hanging on the walls, the design motif on the plush carpet, and the upscale decor contained in the nooks peppered periodically along the corridor - all of it looked fancy and more expensive than anything Jake owned. Not including Delilah. “Hey Clark Kent. How are we affording three rooms in this place?” Jake and Lucas were at the tail end of the group. Hermione and Cheer Squad led the way, with Mop Top and Pretty Boy close on their heels.

“My name is Lucas, not...never mind. Anyway, Stacy’s dad is loaded. When her parents split, he moved to New York and made a fortune on Wall Street. All she had to do was call and say she wanted to bring some friends to the city to shop and he got these rooms.” Lucas halted his conversation and walking when he noticed Stacy stop.

“Ava and I are in here,” Stacy said as she swiped her key card to unlock Room 309. “Cade and Lucas are next door in 311 and Jake and Dan are across from them in 310,” she said as she handed the other room keys to Cade and Dan. “Everyone be dressed and meet downstairs in two hours to go over the plan.” And like that, Stacy and Ava disappeared into their room. Jake swore he heard some giggling between the girlfriends as he passed making his way towards his room.

“Swap rooms with me,” Jake said placing a arm across Lucas’ chest to impede him from following Cade. “I need a south facing room or I won’t be able to sleep at all.”

“This room faces north.”

“That’s what I meant. Just switch rooms Clark Kent.”

“It’s Lucas.”

“Okay. I’m sorry. Please Lucas?” Jake playfully pleaded with the agitated young man.

“Ugh. Fine.” Lucas huffed and made his way into Room 310. Jake grinned as he entered 311 across the hall.

___

Lucas barely made it three steps into his new hotel room before stopping dead in his tracks. His mouth agape as his eyes blinked several times, trying to determine if what he was seeing was really happening. He always knew Dan was muscular - had to be in order to play football. Lucas just wasn’t expecting Dan to be that muscular. After a few moments of taking in his friend’s sinewy, shirtless beauty, Lucas cleared his throat. “Sorry. Looks like...” his mind ceased functioning mid-sentence when Dan turned to face him and Lucas saw his long time friend’s chiseled abs and defined pecs. “Jake needed to switch rooms. I’m gonna grab a shower,” Lucas blurted out rather succinctly, averting his gaze. He bolted into the nearby bathroom before Dan had a chance to realize what happened.

The shower clicked on moments later and immediately Dan chuckled. He knew exactly what Jake was doing. Dan grabbed the garment bag that had been laid out on the bed by the hotel concierge; the bag meant for one Jacob McKenzie. He threw open his hotel room door and was instantly met by the pilot, leaning against his own door jamb with an arm bent back over his shoulder holding the clothing bag meant for Lucas. “You’re a funny guy Jake. Poor Lucas damn near had a coronary when he walked in and saw me.”

“Told you he liked you Mop Top.” Jake extended his arm holding out Lucas’ garment bag.

Dan quickly exchanged the one he was holding with Jake. “You forgot Sexy, Jake.” The pilot looked at him curiously for a moment, clearly not recalling his earlier commentary. “I’m not wearing a shirt,” Dan reminded him before retreating back into his room and closing the door.

How could I forget? Sexy Mop Top. Jake chuckled before heading into his own room to get ready.

___

Hours of thumping bass music and drunk patrons were taking its toll on Mara. She knew the Queen wanted a fun night out to bond with her new sisters; she just wished it would have been anywhere other than a packed nightclub. Only two other member’s of the King’s Guard stayed back in New York with her. One served as a look-out up on the club’s balcony, while the other remained with their black SUV out front. Mara had the honor of standing guard near the Queen’s table; never more than a few steps away.

All through the night, Mara kept a keen eye out for any patrons that may wish to do harm to the Queen. Thankfully, most Americans had no idea they were in the presence of royalty. This made Mara’s night go by relatively uneventfully. There was one gentlemen that caught Mara’s attention. He was a heavyset man in a grey pinstripe suit. His being in the nightclub caused Mara’s hairs to stand on end. Something seemed odd about him and she swore when he smiled that he had what could only be described as fangs. He ended up leaving in a huff when an attractive business woman approached him and exchanged some words. Mara breathed a sigh of relief when the man left and shook the image of him from her brain. Fangs? Ha. Get it together, Mara.

“Ohmygawd! Is that, like, the Queen of Cordoba?” Stacy pretended to be drunk, peppy, and apparently from the San Fernando Valley as she approached the female body guard protecting the Queen. “I, like, totally need to get a selfie for my Pictagram.” Stacy turned her back towards the Queen and her sisters, aiming her phone up high, parsing her face to make duck lips, and pretended to take a picture.

“Miss, I’m gonna have to ask you...” Mara began before being bumped into by a tall, attractive woman with beautiful streaks of pink in her flawless hair.

“I’m so sorry. Is my girlfriend bothering you? Come on Stacy. Let’s leave these nice people alone.” Ava placed her hands on Stacy’s hips, pretending to try to escort her away. On cue, Stacy challenged Ava, knocking the two of them backwards into Mara and onto the ground.

Carissa, Scarlett, and Abby jumped from their booth as Mara and the two strangers fell. Cade and Lucas made their way over, pretending to be two concerned patrons just trying to help. As Cade reached down to assist the fallen trio, Lucas slipped a note into Abby’s palm.

“Please,” Lucas begged. “We need your help. This was the only way we could figure out how to talk to you.”

High above the commotion, one of Mara’s fellow guards saw what happened and tried to make his way down, but he got tripped up over the foot of Jake McKenzie. “Careful there bud,” Jake snickered as the Guard fell into Dan’s arms. Dan snatched the radio from the Guard’s hand and quickly shoved him into a nearby utility closet. He slammed the door shut and pressed his body against it until Jake pushed a couch over to block the Guard’s escape.

Mara bolted up from the floor, swatting hands away from her in the process. “Speed Racer get the car ready. Eagle Eye get down here. We need to extract Glitter Eagle and The Doves.” She received an affirmative response from Speed Racer in her ear piece, but silence from the other guard. “Eagle Eye? Report.”

“We have code names? So cool.” Scarlett giggled. She sipped her drink clearly reveling in the sudden action.

“Calm down Mara,” Carissa finally said. She had the note in her hand that Lucas had given to Abby. “I would like to chat with these...eager patrons.”

“Your majesty?”

Carissa handed the note over for Mara to read. Mara’s jaw went slack for a moment before returning the note to the Queen and resuming her professional demeanor. She stood attentively as Carissa motioned for the others to join her and her sisters. “So you need our help, but first...” Carissa placed the note down onto the table. We have information about your mother. “How do you know about the three of us and our situation? And why shouldn’t I perceive this as a threat?”

___

“The Learned One and her friends have made contact with The Sisters.” Zeph alerted the others that had been trying to observe the siblings via one of the many mirrors that lined the walls near the club’s seating area.

“We need to decide soon if we are going to do something,” Beckett remarked. “If The Learned One convinces The Sisters who they truly are, they’ll be in grave danger.”

“Beckett’s right. Everyone in the magick world felt something when they came together and the binding spell broke.” Griffin pinched the bridge of his nose before exhaling deeply. “But if they do a spell and there is no precaution in place, then those forces that wish to do them harm will be on them instantly. We gotta do something Donovan.”

***

End Note: Cade Phillips is the name of my MC from It Lives in the Woods. Also, special thanks to @endlessly-searching-for-you for letting me reference her fic, Plane Luck. The events of that story have a similar, corresponding event in my AU. If you haven’t read it, you should check it out.

#choices fanfic #playchoices #choices stories you play #long post #choices fandom

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dylanssourwolf · 6 years ago

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Sterek AU: Never Trust A Skinny Baker | Stiles just wanted to come home and run his bakery with Scott, but of course normalcy isn't something he'll ever find in Beacon Hills. The FBI thrust him into an undercover investigation of what they think is a serial killer, and Stiles already knows it's something different. Worst of all, there's a model that keeps coming in for cupcakes between shoots. He's angry and beautiful and an alpha werewolf that happens to be Stiles's best customer. What could go wrong? Oh yeah, he's a main suspect in the fucking case. All Stiles has to do is not get murdered by whatever homicidal monster is out there, all the while trying desperately to not fall for ominous Derek Hale. Let's just hope he doesn't get compromised.

Read the whole thing here: NTASB

“You do understand the risks of this operation, yes?” Agent Raphael McCall turns to look at his lanky intern. “This thing is dangerous, primal, and will not hesitate to kill again. We shouldn’t even be letting you do this.” He sits back down in his chair and takes a deep breath as he slides the case file across his large, oak desk. The boy picks it up and wastes no time in flipping through photos and autopsy reports as Agent McCall leans forward on his forearms to speak in a hushed tone. “You absolutely cannot tell anyone while you’re investigating. Not Lydia, not the Argents, and definitely not my son. Comprende? I know his nose is probably stuck into this mess already, but under no circumstance do you compromise yourself.” Agent McCall reaches forward and snatches the file back and goes through the important details, skimming over the police reports and the crime scene photos right to the last couple pages in the folder. “Everything in this packet is what you need to learn. It’s your alias. Your reasons for coming home, what you’ve been up to here at the FBI headquarters, how your internship is going, everything. You say nothing that isn’t in this packet.” “What if the answers aren’t in this packet? Do I call you o-or like, shoot a text?” He makes finger guns and receives a glare from the agent in response. “You know what? I’m great at improvising, I’m sure I can just, uh, make something up based on this—” he wiggles the pages midair, “—incredibly thorough biography.” He rises from his seat in front of the desk and Agent McCall follows suit. “The only people you consult with are your father and the rest of the Beacon County Sheriff’s Department. They’ve already been briefed and await your arrival.” He reaches into his suit pocket and tosses a pair of keys at the boy. “We pulled some strings and got Scott to send your car up. It’s parked out front.” “Whoa, wait—” The agent stops from his departure and takes another deep breath as he turns around at the kid behind him. “What is it?” “Do I have a cool code name or anything?” He starts bobbing his head to music that isn’t playing. “I could be like, Batman or something.” McCall opens the office door and shakes his head. “You’re going home. You don’t need one.” He motions for the kid to leave. “Your alias is just yourself, Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles’s face falls into pursed lips. “Whatever. I’m going.” He jingles his keys as he walks out of the office and into an array of cubicles. “Hey one more th—” He turns and the door closes. And locks. Twice. “Just go do your job, Stiles,” Agent McCall says through the door. “This creature isn’t going to catch itself.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

Chocanthropy is what they agree on. It took a teeny bit of persuading, but once he had Scott convinced he’d be home for a couple months taking a break from his internship at the FBI, they rounded up their cash and bought an abandoned building repossessed by the county for a whopping $750 so that they could fulfill Stiles’s dream of opening a bakery together. He’d always had a passion for baking; it was an activity he usually did with his mother but after she’d gotten sick, he just stopped doing it and it was as if that part of him was fading away with her. Stiles wasn’t about to let that happen. Baking was one of the best things his mother had ever taught him, one of the only things rather. He’d made everything from cakes and cookies, to the most incredible chocolate soufflé anyone has ever eaten, so the least he could do was take something he loved and start something for his mom. Scott hangs the neon sign on the building, the eerie, unconventional font spelling out Chocanthropy in bright purple. The silhouette of a howling wolf curves around behind the lettering and lights up a pale white, contrasting against the blue of the subtext reading Bake Shop. It gives Stiles chills to know that this is theirs. They paid for it.

“We’re officially open for business.” Scott gives Stiles a high five as they head back into the shop. The wallpaper is lavender with white crown molding along the border. The dark wood flooring expands the length of the small shop and booths of black vinyl stretch along the right wall. There’s a record player in the corner and a couple dozen strands of string lights running underneath the edge of the dark wooden countertop. Behind the counter is the menu, prominently displayed on a chalkboard hanging from a large piece of gray driftwood bolted to the ceiling. Pastry toppings rest in jars on the shelves along the back wall underneath the menu, a centerpiece for the artwork of wolves and werewolves that hang on the walls, all vintage movie posters from The Wolfman, Lycanthropus, and La Loba. “The result of our hard work. It’s more perfect than I’d ever imagined.” Scott watches Stiles beam as his amber eyes scan the shop. “Your mom would’ve loved this, you know. I’m sure she’s so proud of you.” Stiles smiles, pulling Scott in for a hug. “Couldn’t have done it without you, bro. Thanks.”

He spends the rest of his day in the kitchen, baking batches of cookies and cupcakes to sell the following day. He faintly hears Scott on the phone with the Beacon Hills Tribune trying to get an ad space for their shop. He lets the indie record on the player set into his bones while the pastry bag of rosy strawberry icing sets in his hand. Around the edge, fill the middle, curl the top. He’s got flour on his hands and smeared all over his face, the plaid apron around his waist decorated with streaks of food dye and icing. He’s got four dozen made and four dozen to go. It’s not like the daily flavors are going to bake themselves. Stiles puts the strawberry icing down and flips through the recipe book on the metal counter behind him. Chocolate Guinness or Patty Cake? His mind wanders. He’s too consumed by the fact that the sink isn’t working properly and soaking himself to even hear the bell over the door ring. “Hey, Scott!” He sounds desperate because, well, the water pressure was a bit high when he took the sprayer head off and now he’s flooded the kitchen. “This stupid sink is broken!” He’s managed to shut the water off. Stiles angrily grips the sprayer nozzle in one hand and heads out of the kitchen to look for Scott when he notices a man staring at the movie posters hanging on the walls. He overestimates the length of the hose and is yanked right back into the kitchen. “Oh my God, please tell me you weren’t waiting long,” Stiles dashes out and panics, running his fingers through his dripping hair. “The sink broke and I have no experience in fixing those kinds of things and I have no idea where Scott went so I—” “Do you have any red velvet cupcakes?” The man doesn’t turn around. Stiles blinks. “Uh, yeah.” His hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck. Nervous habit. “I just made two dozen.” The guy looks like he’s come straight out of a movie. The dark jeans he’s got on lay perfectly over the curve of his hips and wrinkle around his black boots. He turns, and Stiles notices how his jacket hangs over his broad shoulders. The smooth, oiled leather draws the attention right to the gorgeous light green eyes currently glaring at Stiles from the opposite side of the counter. “I’ll take a dozen.” “Sure, okay. Give me a second to pack them up.” Stiles offers a small smile to the man who just continues to stew in a shroud of vexation. He disappears in the back room to find Scott jotting down information just before he hangs up the phone. “Stiles! So, we got an ad in tomorrow's paper!” “That’s great. Can you help me with…?” Stiles nods toward the door and guides Scott out in front of him. “He wants a dozen red velvet.” "On it,” Scott says, stopping at the register to let Stiles scurry behind him into the kitchen to box up twelve perfectly decorated cupcakes. He seals the edge of the purple box with a sticker that reads, Never Trust a Skinny Baker and a logo printed underneath. He brings the box out and pushes it across the counter just as Scott closes the register. “This, is for you,” Stiles chimes, sticking a business card on top of the box. The man glances between Scott and Stiles before he grumbles something incoherent. "Enjoy your cupcakes,” Stiles beams with artificial charm. “Tell all your friends about us.” Stiles gets an eyebrow lift in return before the man grabs the box and heads back out the door. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Stiles mumbles something about being pleasant and lets Scott go back to the storage room to print out some flyers their friends agreed to hand out. "Something doesn’t set right with me," Scott says, turning briefly to look at his best friend before continuing to the back of the shop. “That guy gave me a weird vibe.” Stiles shrugs and brushes it off. “Hey, is Allison coming?” “Yeah,” Scott yells. “She’s supposed to bring Lydia and Isaac, too.” Stiles shuffles back into the kitchen to pick up the bag of strawberry icing again, trying to figure out why that pair of jade eyes looks so familiar.

#sterek #stiles #Stiles stilinski #derek #Derek hale #teen wolf #sterek au #eternalsterek #baker!stiles #model!derek #alpha!derek #fbi agent!stiles #ficrec #au #tw #mine

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ethereousdelirious · 6 years ago

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Fandom: DDADDS Characters: R.obert & D.amien (S.mallmarch established relationship) Tropes: vomiting, fever, fainting, nausea from anxiety, mild humiliation, trying to hide an illness, C.hristmas, hospitals Summary: Spending the holidays with Damien’s family is harder on Robert’s anxiety than either of them expected. Unfortunately for Robert, his symptoms match up perfectly with the stomach bug that’s been going around as well. Note: There are some headcanons coming into play here, namely that R.obert has social anxiety and was abused by his family members in the past, causing him to have worsened anxiety around other people’s family members

It was too loud in here. Too loud and too bright, and starting to get too warm. Robert tugged at his sleeves, but they were already rolled up to the forearm and disinclined to go much higher. At least Damien’s family hadn’t been able to talk him into wearing an absurdly thick vintage Christmas sweater like the ones they were all wearing. Even Damien had abandoned his usual neo-Victorian aesthetic in favor of a dark green cowl neck Christmas sweater with reindeer dancing circles around the chest area.

Robert found himself staring at it more and more as the night went on. Damien was seated all the way across the table and seemed to be enjoying a conversation with his grandparents, a concept which was largely foreign to Robert. He had never enjoyed the company of his own family, nor had be ever anticipated sitting down for Christmas dinner with them.

But Damien’s family all seemed to like each other, and everyone appeared to be having a good time eating and talking together.

Everyone except for Robert, who was sitting there awkwardly, sweating under his long-sleeved shirt and taking occasional sips of his sparkling cider, which was starting to give him a headache. He wished he’d gotten himself a glass of water before they all sat down, but it seemed rude to get up now.

“Robert, dear.” Damien’s mom looked at him from several seats down. “Have some more ham! Damien mentioned it’s one of your favorites.”

“Oh, uh.” Robert smiled awkwardly, acutely aware of his shirt sticking to his back. “Thank you, ma’am.” He accepted the serving tray as it was passed down the line and took several slices. It would have been rude to refuse, but at the same time… He was going to have to eat all of this, not just the ham, but also everything else that had been pressed on him earlier in the evening, rolls and turkey and roasted vegetables. Not to mention dessert.

Robert’s stomach turned and he took another cloying swallow of cider, which seemed to turn to syrup in his mouth. His head pounded. It had been several days since he’d been anywhere even remotely near his comfort zone, as he was stuffed in Damien’s parents’ house surrounded by Damien’s relatives with very little privacy. He hadn’t even been able to catch Damien alone since they’d come here 4 days ago. Even now, he was too far away to hold a conversation with him without shouting, and there were so many people seated between them that anything he said would become an announcement.

Dinner passed agonizingly slowly. Robert managed to eat everything on his plate, which was then cleared away along with everything else on the table to make room for dessert. His stomach clenched at the thought of spending yet more time trapped in this folding chair, awkwardly trying to avoid eye contact with anyone lest they try to strike up a conversation with him.

He reached for his glass only to realize his cider was gone, replaced with a whole pint of eggnog. Alright. The glass was cool in his hand, which was a relief at least. The collection of bodies all in one place had his face and chest burning with heat.

“So Robert.” One of Damien’s… uncles? grandparents? looked at him. Robert took a quick swallow of his eggnog. His stomach tied itself into a hangman’s knot. “Damien tells me you whittle?”

“Yes.” His voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat. “Just little things, nothing impressive.”

“That’s not true!” Damien spoke up. Robert noticed a gentle pink flush over his cheeks and couldn’t help but smile at his obviously tipsy boyfriend. “Robert’s made some really cool stuff!”

“I like to make chains,” Robert said. Suddenly all the eyes at the table were on him. He swallowed hard against a wave of nausea that lapped urgently at the back of his throat before receding to something a little more manageable. “I think maybe--” he turned awkwardly, trying to get at his jacket, which was hanging from the back of the flimsy folding chair he was currently occupying. “Well.” He fished an unfinished chain out of one of the inner pockets and displayed it. “This sort of thing.”

Damien’s relative (had to be an uncle-- he was too young to be a grandfather) acknowledged this with a nod. “I’m working on whittling a chess set.”

Someone else at the table (Damien’s cousin, going by context clues) rolled her eyes. “Ugh, dad. You’ve been working on that chess set for like a year and a half now.”

Robert put his chain away. The conversation turned by degrees until he was fully out of it. He slumped back in his chair.

Damien’s mom brought out pie and pudding and fancy chocolates and suddenly Robert’s pulse was racing. He’d spent the whole day, the whole trip, really, sick with nerves, but Christmas dinner had pushed him over the edge. The heat vanished from his body in an instant as a cold shiver crawled up his back.

As calmly as he could manage, Robert stood up and walked to the bathroom. Saliva was already filling his mouth, but he couldn’t-- If this whole room knew he was about to be sick, he would die. The anxiety would eat him alive. So he walked. Slowly. Nerves jumping the whole way there.

Then he was safe behind the closed, locked door. He got to his knees in front of the toilet. Someone had left the lid up, so he leaned in. For a moment, nothing happened and he had a moment of panic thinking he’d be stuck in here all night and then everyone would know and feel sorry for him and--

His stomach clenched, the pressure coming to a painful head, and he dry heaved a couple times before finally vomiting. He sat back shakily, aware of the tears in his eyes and the string of saliva pooling onto his shirt, but unable to move. He had to go back out there and soon, or people were going to start to wonder.

Alright. Robert flushed the toilet, cleaned himself up, and resumed his seat. No one acknowledged he had been gone, which was a relief. But now there was a slice of peanut butter pie on his plate and oh god he had to eat that, too.

At least the nausea was gone, but it had been replaced by a feeling of empty heaviness , like he’d been punched in the gut so many times his nerves weren’t working.

Damien caught his eye across the table and winked at him. Robert smiled back.

He took a bite of pie.

It was good, really good, but he couldn’t enjoy it. Eating in this state was extremely unpleasant, verging on painful but never quite crossing the line. The nausea didn’t resurface until he was almost done eating, but it came back with a vengeance, slamming him with a wave of painful stomach cramps. Robert grit his teeth and tried not to curl in on himself. It was just nerves. Just a whole lot of family anxiety and repressed trauma making his stomach go sour and his blood run cold. That was it.

When dinner was over and everyone had gone to bed, Robert was finally able to curl in on himself on the couch (his bed for the duration). His stomach hurt. Gone was the mere discomfort from earlier in the day. The cramps were near-constant, occasionally stepping off center stage to let nausea have a moment in the spotlight. He hadn’t vomited again, but he could sense it coming.

He moaned quietly and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Babe?” Damien hesitated near the armrest, concern painted on his face.

“Hey.” Robert looked up and smiled, happy for this stolen moment even if he currently felt like his abdominal muscles were trying to tear themselves apart. He patted the couch.

Damien sat down, still looking a little unsure. “Are you okay?”

“I’m great now,” Robert said. The living room was dark, illuminated only by the yellow lights that decorated the Christmas tree and windowsills. Robert was internally grateful for this. There was no way in hell he didn’t look like shit, and he didn’t need Damien worrying after him.

“You were really quiet at dinner, and i just wanted to be sure…”

Robert shook his head. “Nah, you know how I am with… You know, families. It was just weird that nobody got drunk and started yelling at me, you know.”

In the dim light, Damien’s expression shifted to one of horror. He pulled Robert into a hug. “You're safe here.”

Robert allowed himself a moment or vulnerability in Damien's arms, deciding not to mention how being all this familial love had him anxious to the point of nausea. “Thanks. I… You're the best.”

Damien let go of him and leaned back. “I know it's silly because you're right here, but I miss you.”

“I've been missing you, too. It's hard not having any alone time.”

Damien smiled mischievously. “We're alone now.”

Robert leaned back and raised his eyebrows suggestively, ignoring the stab of pain in his middle. “On your parents’ couch? You dirty dog.”

Damien's cheeks went darker pink and he laughed a little. “I'd better get to bed before I make any…” his gaze lingered on Robert, “questionable decisions.”

“On your parents’ couch.”

“Stop saying that!” Damien smiled. He leaned in and kissed Robert on the cheek. “Good night.”

“Night, babe.”

Damien left. Robert counted to 60 before rushing to the bathroom to pray to the porcelain god for the second time that evening. Then the third and fourth.

He fell back from the toilet, groaning. His stomach clenched as though it knew it was empty and was now trying to turn itself inside out. Robert coughed and sank to the floor. His sweat-soaked hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it to the side with a shaking hand. The possibility that this was more than just nerves loomed large in his mind, but he forced it away. He was not sick in a house full of strangers. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

Most of Robert's night was spent in the bathroom, either curled up on the floor trying to sleep or hunched over the toilet praying for death. In the early hours, he forced himself to go back to the couch. It had been a long while since he'd done anything but dry heave and he didn’t want to be caught in here when people started to wake up.

On the couch, he managed to drift off into a light, fitful sleep before Damien's family members woke up and started to clatter around in the kitchen.

Sick of lying there on a couch too short for him under a quantity of blankets that seemed both too much and too little simultaneously, Robert went to join them.

Damien was still asleep. Robert didn't care. He bid Damien's parents good morning, accepted a cup of juice from Damien's father, and parked himself at the table.

“Did you sleep okay?” Damien's mom asked. “You look a little tired.”

“Oh, um,” Robert rasped. He took a drink of orange juice. “Yeah, I had a little insomnia last night.”

“Eat a little too much?” Damien's dad winked. “Me too.”

Robert laughed awkwardly and took another sip of juice.

“I know you're not one for breakfast, but I'll set aside some pancakes for you in case you change your mind.” Damien's mother came around to the table and set a cup of coffee in front of Robert. “A few of us were planning on going to the mall after breakfast. Damien thought you might want to join us?”

Robert was silent for a moment, his head fuzzy and slow. “Yeah, sounds great,” he said after a moment's silence. God, he was so tired. He finished off his juice, then took his mug outside for a smoke. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday and the cold breeze bit right through his shirt. He shivered and lit up a cigarette.

He had planned to hide outside for a while, savoring his coffee and smoking in the driveway, but he was way too cold. He downed his coffee so fast he blistered the roof of his mouth, put out his cigarette, and retreated back inside to the couch still clutching his empty mug.

There he sat, shivering compulsively until someone took notice of him and he was forced to act like he wasn't dying until their attention faded again.

Damien came in after a while and Robert scurried off to the bathroom to try to clean himself up. If he looked half as crusty as he felt, it was a wonder that Damien's mom hadn't thrown him out onto the street.

The bathroom, at least, was clean and quiet and gave no indication that Robert had been up all night puking.

He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth twice, and came out sweating under the shower water that still dripped down his neck.

“Morning, babe!” Damien smelled the cigarette smoke on his breath and opted to kiss Robert on the cheek instead of the mouth.

“Mornin’.” Robert sat down beside Damien at the table, pleased to find that someone had refilled his mug with more coffee and set it down right next to Damien.

In the light of day, with a little caffeine in his system, Robert found that he was feeling better. The headache that had kicked up in his head around midnight had faded from gut-wrenching to a mere annoying pulse every so often. The nausea in his belly had gone completely, replaced with a sort of leaden numbness. He didn’t feel great but at least he could function.

Robert was dying.

Robert was dying in a shopping mall.

It was lunchtime and their party (Robert, Damien, Damien's mom, Damien's aunt, and 2 of Damien's cousins) had stopped by the food court.

The assorted smells hit Robert like a punch to the stomach. He staggered, nearly tripping over a wayward chair.

“I'll get us a table,” he said, taking the bags from Damien.

He wandered over to the first empty table he saw that would be big enough for all of them and collapsed into a chair. His vision blurred and his head spun, sparking a wave of nausea so vicious as to be painful.

Robert gasped for breath, his knuckles white on the edge of the table. He sat there and tried to collect himself and just couldn't. It was all he could do to not hunch over and start gagging, though he doubted anything major would come up. He hadn't eaten since last night, and it was afternoon now.

Damien's voice pierced the haze in his head but Robert couldn't make sense of the words. “Babe, do you have change for-- Hey. Are you okay? Robert!”

Robert looked up. Damien. Damien wanted something.

He half-rose and the world tilted sideways. He couldn’t feel his fingers or hear the din of the mall over the roar in his ears or see anything but Damien's face as his vision tunneled.

He blinked to clear away the black spots but they only multiplied in number until his whole vision was nothing but black.

It was over. Robert had made it back home to his bed, lying comfortably on his stomach with his face pressed into hard, unforgiving tile.

Wait. That didn't track.

He was on the floor somewhere. The mall. His eyes flew open. The sounds and smells of the food court hit him in the back like a sneaker wave and he couldn't help but gag, his muscles rending, pulling his knees in toward his chest.

“Robert!” Just from his voice, Robert could tell that Damien was near hysterics. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

Much as he wanted to answer, Robert just couldn't. The stomach cramps that had plagued him throughout the night were back with a vengeance and it was all he could do to not cry out in pain. He closed his eyes.

Dimly, he was aware of Damien talking, but not to him. No god no god no. He had made a spectacle of himself and was drawing a crowd. This was so much worse than simply admitting he was sick to Damien's whole family. Fuck.

He tried to sit up but his whole abdomen cried out in protest. He let out a harsh exhale.

“We're calling an ambulance, okay?” Damien said to him. “It's gonna be okay. It's okay.” He brushed Robert's hair out of his face.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Damien was crying and Robert was face down on the dirty tile floor of a shopping mall surrounded by onlookers and Damien was crying and Robert's head was so fuzzy and his whole body was hot and Damien was crying and he couldn't move a muscle or do a damn thing but curl up against the pain that laced from his stomach to his chest, up his neck to his head.

“M’okay,” he rasped. “Help me sit up?”

He pushed himself up onto one arm and Damien hauled him into a sitting position with some difficulty.

“Babe, I'm fine.”

Damien looked at him in disbelief. “You can't even sit up on your own.” He sniffled and wiped his eyes.

“Hey, Dames?”

“What?”

“I don't feel good.”

“I know.” Damien sat down and let Robert's head fall onto his shoulder. “You're burning up!”

“Yeah,” Robert agreed. He closed his eyes.

“Why didn't you say anything?!”

Robert ignored the question. “This is the first time I've been in a bed for a whole work week. Don't ruin this for me.” He scratched at the tape holding his IV line in place, then held it out to Damien. “Think I'm allergic to this stuff.”

Damien dropped his arms helplessly to his sides. “What's wrong with you?”

“Um, some sort of virus, I think the doctor said. Weren't you listening?” When Damien just stared at him, Robert scooted over and patted the empty space on his hospital bed. “Got you to stop crying,” he said with an uncharacteristically gentle smile.

Damien laughed in disbelief and sat down beside Robert. “But seriously. Why didn't you say anything?”

Robert shifted uncomfortably. “I was anxious. I thought maybe it was all in my head, you know? Like stage fright, except the audience is your boyfriend's whole-ass family.”

“You can't anxious yourself into a fever of 101,” Damien said. He wrapped his arm around Robert's shoulders. “I was so worried about you. I wish you would have said something.”

Robert swallowed, confident this time that it was truly just nerves making his stomach thrash. “I… Dames. I'm sorry.” Despite himself, Robert yawned. He blinked, trying to keep his eyes open.

Damien noticed this and hopped off the bed. “Get some sleep, babe. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

Robert smiled and closed his eyes.

#illness kink #ethereous writes

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