#i’m almost done with death’s end and i’m equal parts excited and dreading what’s about to happen in it

[benvoliotheorphan]

Honestly I know four books isn’t a lot but considering how in years past I would read one book every couple of years or so, the fact that I read four last year is kind of cool

[bizarrebaby]

Untouched

Pairing: Pero Tovar/Virgin!Reader

Work Count: 3.2k

Summary: You and Pero spend your first night together, which is your first night with anyone.

Warnings: you guys have penis in vagina sex. Some descriptions/mentions of violence, reference to painful loss of virginity, but we all know Pero’s too good to do that to you

You were a walking contradiction. Nothing was more confusing or intriguing to Pero Tovar than how you managed to exist in these times.

When he’d been introduced to you (it was generous to call it an introduction, seeing as Tovar more or less refused to acknowledge you at the time) he saw you the way he saw most everyone: an annoyance at best, a punishment from god at worst. When he glanced at you, he saw just a little thing, a girl who ought to be at home, out of her depths.

He first beheld your beauty through a veil of bloodshed. On the battlefield you had no equal. People throughout his travels often equated grace to beauty, but in observing you, Pero found that simply wasn’t so. You did not dance with the blade, like twirled silk. What you did was not akin to dancing. It was heavy and destructive, you took to you enemies with the crushing force of a mortar and pestle. You wielded the heavy and challenging kanabo, the force of which caved armor and shattered bones, man and beast alike. When you swung the heavy bat, you looked as a healer pounding medicine. The force itself was destructive, but it was delivered with the righteousness of someone who was preserving life.

You could not always use the kanabo, and you most certainly could not spar with it, for your opponents would be crippled by even a sporting blow. So Tovar sometimes saw your prowess with the sword, the staff, anything nearby. You made many an arrogant man eat their words.

Now, when he was to imagine a beautiful woman, he did not think of flowing locks and fair skin wrapped in silks. He saw sword-cut hair, an oversized tunic, the loosening laces on leather armor.

And beyond the fighting, you did not often make with revelry. Tense in the company of most others in your band of mercenaries, you kept away when they became excited. When you approached him, scowling as he wolfed down his food alone, he dreaded having to endure niceties, persuasions, and prattel from you, and had already decided to be as disagreeable as possible. To his utter surprise, you said nothing to him at all as you kept a couple of meters distance and ate your own meal. You did so day after day, and at first he had been paranoid that this was some plot at inching your way closer, that one day you would ruin this silence and reveal your true intentions. Until one night, Tovar found himself doing something unthinkable: initiating conversation. Or at least, speaking unprompted.

“You do not chatter like the others,” he stated almost mindlessly, not knowing what he was expecting by saying so.

“I try not to talk when I have nothing to say,” you admitted. You looked towards him, half illuminated by the distant, flickering fire.

He found himself studying every detail of your face from the corner of his eye. It was terrifying, for once wanting to observe and actually caring if he was noticed doing so.

“And,” you continued quietly, “they say you do not like to be disturbed.” That was a very kind way of rephrasing how he was often spoken of. In all likelihood, what you were actually told was probably more along the lines of ‘he’s a mean, miserable bastard who doesn’t like anyone’. Tovar didn’t know how he felt about your twisting such words into something that sounded… reasonable.

Understood.

“I don’t like being disturbed either.”

Now, when he was to imagine a beautiful woman, he did not think of lip rouge and silent, unnoticed steps, or curled, dark lashes, of coquettish smirks. He thought of a split lip, and the uneven pace of worn leather kicking at stray pebbles, of tired eyes rubbed with the back of the hand after looking into the fire too long, of the struggle to hold back a wide-mouthed yawn.

Through a few well placed miracles and the incessant meddling of others (William) the two of you had ended up together. And this was when Pero discovered what a contradiction you were. 

You knew death in every facet… except for la petite mort. 

While other girls snuck off with their paramours in experimental forays of intimacy, you were studying the blade, the staff, the bow, the kusarigama. Raised by a father and uncles who loved you, but did not know how to raise a young lady. Only how to raise a fighter. 

When you didn’t scare off any potential suitors, they certainly did. 

While younger than Pero, you were still fully grown, and had yet to even kiss a man until Pero had claimed your lips in a passionate fury on the night of his confession. 

Pero did not fancy himself a teacher, he saw himself as a taker, one with no patience for uncertainties and incompetence. But for you, he would be anything. And regardless of what he was, what you deserved was a gentle touch. Subtle, comforting, patient, and understanding. 

All words that had never been used to describe him. 

Over time, the kisses grew deeper, the touches flirted further beneath the clothes, until the night came where he held you against him in his bed, eyes begging for more as you looked to him for guidance. Never had he been so frightened at the thought of bedding a woman. He was a scoundrel with hands only fit for killing, and he was terrified of hurting you somehow.

But he’d be damned if anyone else took this honor.

With every piece of clothing he stripped your body of, you looked at him with such trust. He felt your heart beating in his rough palms, like the flutter of a bird’s wings. Never before had he been responsible for something so pure, so delicate. His relations before you were intimacies he had paid for in coin, encounters that didn’t require any gentleness on his part, where he cared little about any pleasure or pain besides his own. If he were to do one thing in his life with tact and delicacy, it would be this, he promised himself. 

“Tell me again, hermosa, how many before me have seen this beautiful body?”

“N-none. You’re the first, Pero.” 

He hums in satisfaction, running his hands up your stomach to cup your breasts. His thumbs stroke over the hardening peaks, causing a hitch in your breath as you shudder. 

“Oh, mi conejita, so sensitive,” he descends, taking a nipple in his mouth and sucking almost harshly for just a moment before pulling away, admiring how your breast shines with his spit. You squeak out a shaking moan. “I wonder if you’re this sensitive everywhere else? Don’t tell me. I’ll find out myself.”

You feel your cheeks heat at his words, feeling the urge to curl in on yourself and hide. But Pero keeps you bare to him as he lavishes eager attention on your breasts, enjoying the whines half-caught in your throat. By the time your nipples are perked and wet from Pero’s hot mouth, your blush has spread down to your collar. He pulls away slightly, gently guiding you to lay down. He takes your thighs in his strong hands and spreads them further apart. His thumbs spread your lips so get a good look at your pink, silky hole twitching with a need you’ve never known before. 

Your breath hitches as one of his fingers traces along your sensitive lips, brushing against your clit briefly before beginning to sink into you slowly. He rocks it back and forth gently while admiring the rise and fall of your chest, the way your eyelids flutter as you go between wanting to watch and being too bashful to. His thumb gently strokes your clit as he works to ease in another finger, and you tense harshly at the new intrusion. He leans down to press a few reassuring kisses against your neck.

“Relax, querida. Let me in.” He whispers, moving his lips to your mouth in an effort to distract you as he coaxes you open. His cock was heavy and hard against the laces of his trousers. You would see it soon, but Pero doesn’t want to overwhelm you. Not yet, anyways.

You breathe deeply in an attempt to relax your muscles as Pero’s fingers reach farther than yours ever could, and it feels as if he holds all of your bodily feelings in the palm of his hand. He continues to coo endearments against your neck to comfort you. 

“Bueno, bueno… you’ve gotten nice and wet for me, cariño, so good for me,” a smirk spreads across his face as he feels you tighten with his words. “Oh, you like it when I talk, niña?” He teases, increasing the pace as he pumps his fingers in and out of you, the tight circles he’s rubbing into your clit on the verge of driving you mad. 

He parts from your neck to take a look at your face in pleasure, and finds himself enraptured by the slight furrow of your brows and the way your eyelids flutter when he strokes the right part of your insides. Your quiet huffing and mewling, combined with the way your cunt is gripping at his fingers, has him more riled up than he’d like to admit. 

“Pero, I-I I think I’m gonna cum,” you whine, looking at him with pleading eyes. He bristles with pride as your hips move to meet the palm of his hand while chasing the pleasure he gives you. 

“Cum then, muñeca. Cum for me.”

The coil in your belly winds so tightly it snaps, and white hot pleasure floods your system. Pero groans as you cream on his fingers, feeling his cock throb harshly for the umpteenth time tonight. A tremor wracks your body as the mercenary continues rocking his fingers gently to help you ride out your climax. When they withdraw, he doesn’t hesitate to lick them clean, much to your embarrassment. The sight of his tongue against your slick on his hand gives you… ideas. Ideas that will have to wait until another night, maybe. 

He leans down to plant a chaste kiss to your lips before bringing you to sit up. He wants to see what else you’ve never done. Wants to know how curious you are. 

Pero places one of your hands (which feel so small in his) against the tent in his pants, encouraging you to explore his body the way you’ve so graciously allowed him to explore yours. His tunic is already off, but of course, you’ve seen men shirtless before. His cock feels hot and hard through his trousers, and the apprehension is probably clear on your flustered face, but Tovar finds this entire situation incredibly arousing. 

He’s no stranger to sex, but most of his previous sexual encounters had been paid for and, thusly, were with experienced (and sometimes jaded) partners. Though the size of his cock may have impressed a few, it had never been the first they’d seen, touched, or taken. This was different. 

His eyes never leave your face as you bite your lip, occasionally looking to him for approval as you move to undo the laces on his trousers. His eyes are lidded and dark with desire, and a smile crosses his face, a little more genuine than the usual smirks he throws in your direction. 

“Go on,” he urges, more gently than he knew himself capable. You finally slip down his waistband and smallclothes, and his cock lands heavy against his stomach as he reclines just slightly. You try to contain your startled gasp, attempting to seem less like the blushing virgin you clearly are. The way your lips part ever so slightly as you examine his red, leaking cock with nervous interest sends the mercenary reeling. 

Pero almost takes your hesitance as fear, which he’s determined to quell, before you finally reach your hands out to run them along the hard length, drawing a ragged groan from him.

For a moment, Pero feels the strongest compulsion to take charge of you. To guide your head down and order you to get his cock nice and wet before he takes you, to see tears prick at your eyes while you struggle to take his cock in your little mouth. 

But, somewhat regrettably, he remembers his first time with a woman well. He remembers the nerves burning against his skin like a thousand needles, the fear of performing well and doing things he’d never even imagined doing. He can only imagine that fear to be tenfold for a girl. You’ve spent years in the company of brash mercenaries, uncouth enough that they brag of their rough, bruising conquests. He knows the type. And what women you do meet often speak of intimacy with dread, or reflect on the pain of their first times.

You are one of the few things in Pero Tovar’s life that he has ever really cared for. And his greatest wish is to make you feel cared for. He has never known patience. But for you, he shall have it in spades. You’ll have plenty of time to play rough later. Or never, if that’s what you want.

Not to mention, he’s just about as hard as he’s ever been in his entire life, and he doubts he would last in your mouth, not with the passionate stare you’re giving him. You have, after all, always been a quick learner when it came to the sword. The way you start experimentally moving your hands along his cock confirm this, as he sighs in pleasure from the light pressure you’re giving him.

“This the first cock you’ve seen up close, hermosa?” you nod, and that teasing smile is once again set on his face. “What do you think of it?”

Your eyes widen just slightly at the question. He takes one of your hands and spits in it before letting you continue to stroke his cock, still patiently awaiting an answer.

“Are they all… like this?” Pero has a feeling he knows what you mean, but he wants you to say it.

“Like what, preciosa?” 

“Big.”

He chuckles quietly before cupping your chin in his hand and bringing you towards him for another bout of fervent kisses. In these moments, and most others, he looks at you and sees everything he’s ever wanted. He presses his forehead to yours when he finally parts from your lips.

“No, amor, not all,” he pauses in thought, somewhat uncharacteristically. “Are you worried?”

“...Yes.” The mercenary appreciates your honesty. For your entire life, you have had to be brave. He doesn’t want you to have to be brave with him. He’s never been trusted with something as precious as you. He calls your name with the same softness he feels for you.

“I will never hurt you,” he promises. “And…” his need causes him to struggle with the next part. He’s still not used to being sensitive, not used to caring so much. “We do not have to do this.”

Pero can see the fire ignite in your eyes, that same passion he sees when you get up right after being knocked down.

“I want to, Pero, I want to. Will you take care of me?” his eyes have their own fire now. He guides you down onto your back once again and leans over you. His cock leaks against the soft skin of your belly as he kisses up your neck, sucking in marks as he goes.

“Forever,” he swears.

Pero hoists himself up to look into your eyes as his cock catches at your entrance for the first time. He pushes himself in just barely, giving you a little more each time as he shallowly rocks into you. He watches, feeling lovestruck, as your breasts rise and fall with each short breath you take as he eases himself deeper into your heat. 

When Pero Tovar met you, he didn’t exactly respect you, but he wouldn’t have called you soft. You proved quickly that you were a better warrior than most men he’d met, and despite the roughness and inconveniences of mercenary life, you didn’t complain. In those early days, he’d have scarcely called you a woman at all. 

But here you were beneath him, soft and warm, and everything he’d never imagined he could be trusted with. Long ago you reached your hands into his hardened chest, with all of its armor, and gripped his heart with all of the hope and reverence of a devout finding comfort in a rosary. The vice of your wet cunt on his cock was an extension of that. An inescapable binding that he had no desire to leave. 

“You feel so good, querida, so tight and perfect against my cock.”

And so you pant, looking cherubic against the sheets with your splayed hair and flushed cheeks, lips plumped from Pero’s incessant kissing. The wet noises coming from between the two of you are obscene, and you love it. 

“So good for me, amor, taking everything I have to give you.”

He wouldn’t last long. Not waiting as long as he has, not with you looking, sounding, and feeling the way you do. His thrusts aren’t punishing, but they sure as hell aren’t gentle, as he can only restrain himself from wrecking you for so long. And from the way he’s hitting that place inside that makes you sing, you won’t last either.  

“Pero, I’m gonna— mmm I’m gonna cum again!” You keen, calling him back from his animalistic fervor. Pero stares into your eyes with a fire roaring behind his gaze. 

“I want you to soak my cock, hermosa. Cum. Give me your pleasure, let me make you mine!”

“God— oh, fuck, I love you—“ you pant as he feels you clench deliciously around him. Any hope he had of holding on has fled now. 

“Mi amor, let me cum in you, please, querida—“

“Please, do it Pero,”

You can feel the skin of his hips slap against yours as he pistons himself in and out of you, babbling about how beautiful you are and how good you feel until he can’t stand it anymore. 

“Te amo, te amo, te amo!” He growls, ceasing his hips as he fills you with everything he has. You jolt at the sensation before relaxing again, his hot cum painting your walls. His elbows stop him from collapsing right onto you, but he can feel your breasts brush against his chest with every breath the both of you take. 

He basks in this moment for a while longer before pulling himself out gently, resolving to clean the both of you properly later. Pero lets himself fall beside you in bed, still breathing a little heavily. 

“Come here, querida.”

Pero stares at the ceiling as your weight comes to rest against his chest, warm in ways he cannot describe. The arm around you tightens, as if he wishes to pull you further into him.

“Are you… do you feel alright, mi amor? I didn’t hurt you?”

“Never, Pero. I feel wonderful. Was it ok? For you, I mean. I know I’m… you’re probably not used to being with someone so inexperienced,” you trail off, feeling palpably insecure. He gently puts his hand beneath your chin to coax you into looking up at him from his chest.

“You don’t have to be anything more than what you are to be perfect for me, amor.”

Taglist:

Pedro Pascal: @auty-ren

From the preview post: @josepedropascal @tintinwrites @computeringturtle @kiwi-the-first​

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eight: the living sea of waking dreams

word count: 10k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: emotional manipulation/some weird humiliation tactics (joseph is a fucker), some weird/uncomfortable relationships getting dredged up, john is a jealous little shit. some spooky scaries go on, blood and body horror (i think? tagging just to be safe).

notes: we've got some ~things~ going on here in this next chapter. i feel really excited about where this story is going and how we're going to get all these little threads put together, but mostly, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! we've got a lot going on but i promise, it will all (hopefully) be worth it in the end. and also, a tiny reprieve: some soft elliot, as a treat, because we deserve it.

thank you to everyone reading and giving me your feedback!! i love hearing from yall <3 special thanks to @shallow-gravy​ and @vasiktomis​​ for listening to me slog through this chap : ))))

“Knock-knock!”

Isolde took in a deep breath, closing her eyes and willing patience to the forefront of her mind. It had only been an hour or so since she’d left the chapel, Joseph’s words ringing in her head, a death knell.

Not after the things I’ve done for you.

Even still, even now—he knew how to get under her skin. She thought she’d never wanted to kiss and throttle someone in equal amounts, in the entirety that she had known them; to think that once, she had let Joseph take her in an embrace, sweep the hair from her shoulder and bury his face in her neck and whisper sweet things into her skin.

He wasn’t the same, anymore. And neither was she.

“Come in, Santiago,” said Arden, from where she had set up her little space across the cabin’s modest room. The heater on the floor rattled laboriously, clicking and chugging away. Isolde swept her eyes over Arden’s space—a small makeshift bed on the couch, the table stacked with a few books and a notepad she was scribbling dutifully on. Isolde had politely offered her the bed, even though she didn’t want to, and the woman had waved her off and said it was no trouble at all, that she often fell asleep on the couch at home anyway.

It was still weird, thinking that someone was—with Jacob. For a long time. But, she supposed if there was any Seed boy she thought would be in a long-term relationship, then—

The door to the cabin swept open, revealing the dark-haired boy from before. Well, perhaps not boy, but young man. Certainly too young and good-looking to be wasting his time with the likes of Eden’s Gate, wasn’t he?

“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, do you?” Arden asked, not once looking up from her writing.

“No, no. Unfortunately, our time together has drawn to a close.” Santiago lifted his arms, spread in defeat. His eyes, a vibrant blue, turned to Isolde. “I am actually here for you.”

“Me?” Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“Joseph has asked me to fetch you.”

“And you’re a good boy, so you do whatever he says,” she replied tartly.

Santiago flashed a grin that was all teeth-pearly, perfectly bleached teeth. He was far more groomed than any of the others she’d seen trawling about the compound. “I am nothing if not loyal, princesa.”

Isolde sighed, passing a hand over her face as a headache began to fester and bloom behind her eyelids. She thought she might have been more willing to kick up a fuss if she thought it was worth the drama—but it probably wasn’t. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Joseph was right; she couldn’t be of any help to them if she was being contrary just for the sake of her own spite. Even if she didn’t know where Joseph got off summoning her like she was part of the peasantry.

“Coming,” she sighed, picking her coat up off the bed and sliding it back on over her shoulders.

“A sweet word, coming from even sweet lips.”

“Alright, Romeo.”

She trudged out after Santiago in the snow, casting a quick glance around the compound. Though evening had fallen, the fluorescents surrounding lining the edges of the compound cast a cold, brutal light across it, highlighting every single pore of the place, every ragged inhabitant shuffling into their bunkhouse as watch switched and folks went to retire for the evening. Some of the roofs sagged with the weight of the snowfall, which trundled on without any kind of end in sight. Isolde couldn’t remember when she’d seen real, unadulterated sunshine last. In Georgia? Had it been that long?

None of it was anything like what John had told her. Of course, she had expected some differences—the man liked to embellish, to be sure—but the members of Eden’s Gate seemed to have lost their fire. They were wayward, adrift at sea, among waves of freezing cold water and what now seemed to be a resurgent threat that they had hoped to be rid of.

And Joseph, having comforted them so very little.

“Icy,” Santiago warned, offering her his hand as he opened the door inside with his other one. “Careful.”

“Thanks,” she muttered dryly. She took his hand anyway, pulling herself into the sputtering warmth of the chapel where—at the front—the silhouettes of Jacob and Joseph stood.

The two of them were suffused in a warm amber glow, but there was nothing warm about the mood in the room; the closer she got, she could hear Jacob’s insistent words—the firm, assertive gestures of his hands, the words, just didn’t feel like it was pertinent at the time, coming out of his mouth—the more she thought, I shouldn’t be here for this. Whatever they’re arguing about, whatever it is that’s gotten them to this point, I’m not supposed to be here.

Joseph didn’t respond to whatever it was that his brother was saying, but instead turned to look at her as she approached down the center aisle of the chapel. Despite the rattling warmth coming from several heaters placed throughout the chapel, Isolde felt a chill sink deep into the marrow of her bones.

“Thank you for coming,” he said by way of greeting. He lifted one hand and beckoned her forward when her feet slowed.

“I just hope this is something I need to be here for,” Isolde ventured cautiously, her gaze flickering to Jacob’s face. The redhead’s expression was drawn tight and hard, and not the way it normally was; it wasn’t calm and focused, but strained, like he was holding himself back from saying something to Joseph that he thought he might regret later.

She had never known Jacob to bite his tongue very much, but from her own experience with Joseph, well—he was apt at bringing out the worst in people.

“Did you know?” Joseph asked when she had finally come to a stop. “About my brother’s...” He wet his lips for a moment, his gaze darting across the empty space of the floor as he looked for the word he wanted to say. And then he landed: “Pursuits?”

Isolde blinked. “If you mean the woman he says is his partner—”

“Yes,” the blonde interjected, before she could finish—a thing he knew that she hated but he seemed unable to refrain from doing. “I do.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed. When she turned her gaze from Jacob to Joseph, she was greeted with the typical unreadable expression; as untroubled as the blue sky over a sunny sea.

But there were storm clouds. Somewhere, in there, on a horizon Joseph would not let her reach now and perhaps had not ever.

“I only knew of her today,” Isolde replied after a moment. “After we saw our little hunter out in Fall’s End, I imagine he felt it pressing that he retrieve her sooner rather than later.”

Joseph made a low noise. It was like a hm, but threatening. Hm, he said, interesting, that. But what it was he felt was so interesting about that particular line of information, Isolde couldn’t only venture a guess; and if she had to venture a guess, she would have said that it would probably be that he felt it was interesting that something was going on that he had not been aware of.

If there was one thing that she knew about Joseph, affirmatively, it was that he did not like not knowing.

“Isolde, why are you here?”

A familiar spark of anger lit, hot and fetid, in her belly. “Pardon me?

“Why are you here? In this compound? In Hope County?” Even as he spoke, Joseph’s gaze was fixed on the eldest Seed, the lines of his face peaceful and serene despite the idle venom burning in the timbre of his voice. “What did John send you here for?”

The anger burned up into soot, into dread, and sat just there, curled at the base of her neck. Isolde could not shake the idea that she had been brought in here to make a point, and that she really shouldn’t be there—that this was something Joseph and Jacob needed to settle between themselves, but that was never how Joseph had operated: fair had never been a stratagem in his playbook.

“Isolde,” Jacob said, his voice a low caution when she looked at him, shaking his head very slightly. It’s not worth it, he was saying, fighting, it’s not worth it.

“Joseph, this,” she plunged on pointedly, “is not something that I need to be a part of. I’ll go, so the two of you can—”

But when she went to depart, Joseph lifted his hand and pointed at her and ground out between his teeth, “Stay. Put.”

The poison in his voice was so potent it almost made her flinch. Almost. And then the indignation started to bloom: who do you think you are, to be talking to me like that? But they wouldn’t come; the words wouldn’t come, because when she lifted her gaze to Joseph’s and saw him looking at her, it was—

“I want you to say it, out loud, in front of Jacob,” he continued, the muscle of his jaw flexing viciously. “Tell him why John needed you here.”

Jacob said, raising his voice a little, “We all know why—”

“Because you are useless unless you are aware of what’s happening. Every detail. Isn’t that right?” he prompted. “Isolde?”

She felt her molars grind. It was clear, now, why he had asked her here. “Yes.”

Joseph turned his gaze to Jacob. “Is that what you want us to be? Want me to be? Ill-informed?”

The redhead was silent for a long heartbeat. He sucked his teeth, and said, “No, Joseph, I don’t—”

“No. More. Secrets.”

The blonde’s voice had pitched so low that she nearly couldn’t hear him, so close and low and intimate was it that he was speaking to his brother, so little space between them. Joseph looked to be controlling himself quite tightly; so very little of the leash available to himself, digging the choke chain deeper and deeper into him in an effort to remain intact.

“Joseph,” Jacob began, “I only—”

“A whole year?” the blonde bit out viciously. “An entire year you spent devoting your time to this—this—”

Isolde was familiar with the precipice at which Joseph was teetering. Right on the edge of saying something vicious and mean and unendingly cruel. She had pushed him there a few times before, in their brief few months together—had seen the way he pulled himself back time and time again, seconds away from grinding out some wretched insult.

“I won’t,” Joseph bit out, lifting a hand as though to temper himself, “tolerate it, Jacob.”

Silence stretched between the three of them for a moment, pulled taut as a rubber band. Though she knew why Joseph had wanted her here—to make a point, but also to put someone there to witness the verbal lashing—looking at the two of them now, she felt more than ever like an intruder on a world she knew so very little about.

John had done nothing to prepare her. He had given her the rosy version of the story, and even that included the cult and the killing and the residents of Hope County. It still hadn’t been enough.

The silence broke when Jacob said, “I understand, Joseph.”

For a second, there was nothing; just Joseph, sweeping his gaze over Jacob for a long moment, like he was trying to wring out any deception or sign that Jacob was being disingenuous—and of course, he could find none, and that meant there was only the tense, uncomfortable silence wadded up between them, in their own fists.

Finally, Joseph said, “That will be all,” and turned, tilting his face to the lukewarm light of the candles at the front of the chapel and closing his eyes.

The eldest Seed lingered for only a moment longer before he left; his eyes met with Isolde’s for a heartbeat before he made his decision, turning down the center walkway and heading for the doors. It wasn’t until they clicked shut that Isolde felt a tiny bit of relief—if only because the source of Joseph’s ire had now departed, and she could get a better look at him.

It was her job to make sure things were under control. John had asked her here for that exact reason—and this kind of in-fighting would be the kind of thing that would, eventually, be their unraveling if they didn’t get it under control. She had only seen Joseph so angry once before, almost over a year ago now, back before he was the Father of Eden’s Gate. Back when they had been—

There are things that I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a wife—

“Joseph,” Isolde said, leaving the memory somewhere else—somewhere dark and deep she would never find it again, “what’s going on?”

The blonde did not open his eyes when he replied, “I cannot have secrets kept from me.” After a moment, he added, “And in that vein of thought, I should get in touch with our wayward brother.”

“Do you really think it’s that big of a deal?” she prompted again. “To have started a fight with Jacob over a woman that he—”

“Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” His eyes fluttered open, the flicker of dark lashes illuminated by the amber glow, and he tilted his head to look at her. There was a hardness in his voice when he said, “God is perfect in knowledge, and I cannot be less. Not when He speaks directly to me.”

An unpleasant little thrill crawled down her spine when his eyes fixed on her, darting over her face like he wanted to savor her. “Then don’t use me as the whip you want to lash your brother with,” she snapped. “I’m not a humiliation tactic. You do know better than to do that to me.”

Joseph let out a little sigh. The corners of his mouth ticked upward, the shift in mood almost palpably changing the energy in the chapel—just like that, it was different. Not lighter, not better, but different.

“You’re right,” he agreed after a moment. “I do know you better than that.”

Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Deciding to forego that comment, she took a step forward, cinching her jacket in more securely around her waist. “You know what you cannot be, Joseph?” she asked. “You cannot be fighting with your brothers. Especially not the only one that’s here. Your people out there are disgruntled, and scared, and you can’t afford to be picking fights with the people who are the most loyal to you.”

“They are all,” Joseph replied, “loyal, Isolde." And then, after a moment of watching her: "Is this what you want to be doing? Herding us? Mothering us?”

“My professional opinion is that the image of your convent is severely lacking,” she bit out, once again ignoring the bait, “and the last thing you need to do is have them noticing that there’s a rift forming between the ones in charge. And yes—that is the only thing I can do for you lot at this point, and like an idiot, I agreed to come here and do it.”

Because I can’t say no to John, something tired inside of her said. Because I couldn’t say no to any of you, even if I wanted to.

The blonde reached up, and it took that gesture for Isolde to realize how closely they had drifted—it was so little effort, so little time between the movement of his hand and the time at which his fingers made contact with her cheek, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. He moved so confidently and leisurely that Sol couldn’t think to pull back; and when she didn’t, the calloused fingertips trailed down the pillar of her throat, his eyes following their journey.

It was intimate; too soon her brain said, even though it had been so long since they had been in the same room, let alone regarded each other in even a passive capacity. But it was too soon enough that her brain fizzed out, the air moving thick as molasses in the journey between her mouth and lungs, the violent flashback of their closeness overwhelming her.

She said, “Joseph,” in a don’t kind of voice, and he dropped his hand from where it had come to a stop at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

“It was smart of John, to ask you to come and shepherd us in his absence,” Joseph said, blithely ignoring the desperate little barb in the way Isolde said his name.

“I always thought you’d make a perfect Mother.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It had been several days since their conversation in the hallway that night, and John had barely seen hide nor hair of Elliot.

Honestly, it would have been impressive how quickly she could make herself inaccessible, were it not so frustrating. He couldn’t help but wonder what the implications there were—had she known she could do this all along, and had been indulging in him for some reason? Had she simply decided to be done and that was it, meaning that she hadn’t been done before?

Not that she was done now, anyway. Not if John had anything to say about that. But for a few days, she barely spared him a glance—passed him in the hallway when she got home with a muttered greeting on occasion. She woke before him, left to the stables without him, and left him alone in the house. Left him alone without her venom, without her eyes on him. With her mother, no less.

Scarlet was, on paper, exactly the kind of woman that John felt confident in his ability to charm. Single, wealthy by inheritance, a little older and always with a martini in hand by ten? If he couldn’t impress her, he had to be doing something wrong. But in a way that seemed to be very typical of the Honeysett women, Scarlet remained veritably unimpressed and even disdainful of his presence—even though she had insisted he stay with them.

More and more, he was becoming convinced that it was not going to be to his benefit.

“Good morning, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet greeted him from where she sat at the table, perusing her magazine. Not once did her eyes lift to meet his, and not once did an ounce of enthusiasm enter her voice. “You are missing from the stables again today, I see. Not a horse person?”

“I might find myself to be one,” John replied with a leisurely sort of bitterness, “if Elliot would only allow me to come.”

“Yes, it’s very annoying, isn’t it?” The blonde mused idly, over her cup of coffee. “To not be handed exactly what you want when you want it?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, pouring himself a cup of coffee and trying to remind himself that this was all temporary. This house, this town, Scarlet and Sylvia and Wyatt—it was all temporary, and soon enough they would be the least of his concerns. All of his time and attention would be wrapped up in Elliot and the baby, and what their lives would look like once the end had come.

Because it would come, and then she would see. She would understand that everything he’d done had been for them, for her and their baby and—

“I only want to spend as much time with her as I can,” he replied, managing to keep his tone pleasant. “Before I go back home.”

“And when are you?” Scarlet idled. “Going, I mean?” And then, in what he could only think was a stretch of graciousness: “Not that you’ve overstayed, because I am sure you would never, and Delia is quite taken with you—”

“Surely.”

“—as is Elliot, despite her best efforts to act otherwise.”

“What?” John’s head snapped to where Scarlet was still browsing her magazine, and he cleared his throat at her arched brow to try and gather his scrambled thoughts. “What I mean is, has she—said anything to you about me?”

The blonde at the table, swathed in her silk robe and curls primly pinned back away from her face, made a sound that might have been amused. Might have been, anyway, had he not turned to look at her and seen the way her face remained serene and unexpressive.

“I am not blind, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “It takes very little investigation to find that my daughter is fond of you, against my wishes and her own.”

Before John could open his mouth to respond—and press for more information while his stomach did victorious little somersaults—she turned her head to the window, when the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive spurred Boomer on to barking in the front room.

“Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured with a little sigh. “My prodigal child, returned home at last.”

He glanced out the window to see an unfamiliar car pulling up, a black truck that took the fresh snow of the unplowed drive to the Graves-Honeysett home with ease; from the driver’s side hopped a familiar face.

“Didn’t Elliot drive there this morning?” he asked, frowning as he watched Wyatt jog around to the passenger side despite Elliot’s waving from the front for him to stop. The man had been nothing but polite—even enthused—to meet him at the bar the other night, but that didn’t mean John had forgotten the way he’d gotten comfy enough to try and touch Elliot’s face and her hair. Even now, the man grinned, all sunshine, as he opened the passenger side door for her and offered her his hand.

Scarlet replied, her attention already having departed the window, “What a silly question to ask out loud, Mr. Seed. You're not stupid, so I would beg you—try not to give me that impression.”

His eyes darted to Scarlet for a moment, briefly grateful that she wasn’t looking at him to see the spark of irritation winding its way across his face; he could feel it furrowing his brows, drawing his mouth into a hard, tight line. Setting his coffee cup on the counter, John made his way out the front door just as Wyatt and Ell were nearly there.

“Oh, hey John!” Wyatt greeted him. His eyes swept over him briefly. “Boy, you’re really put together any chance you get, huh?”

“You can never be overdressed,” John replied as amicably as he could. “Watch the steps, Ell, they’re—”

“Icy, I know,” Elliot said. She puffed out a little breath of air and brushed his offered hand aside, instead favoring the railing with one hand and the top of Boomer’s head with the other, still refusing him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. It had been days. She had never once held such a grudge against him—not really, not where he couldn’t at least get her to give him the time of day.

“Where’s the Jeep?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he would have liked as she brushed past him. “Surely you didn’t have Wyatt ferry you out here for fun.”

“Tire’s flat,” she snipped. “Would you prefer I walked?”

“You could have called.” He took in a sharp little breath, willing the accusation away. “I would have been more than happy to pick you up, Ell.”

“Don’t have a cell phone,” Elliot replied flatly. “And Wyatt was already there.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Wyatt interjected hurriedly, smiling at John with pearly whites on display. “I had to come into town anyway, and it was gonna be hours before the mechanic could get out there.”

“Well, it was very kind of you all the same,” John said with a smile that felt like it pulled too tight across his face, a smile that was harder and harder to maintain with every passing second that Wyatt West put his baby-blues on Elliot. And that was often; the blonde looked a little sheepish when his gaze met John’s, drawn away from the redhead who was readily retreating into the house.

“Like I said, wasn’t any trouble. Always happy to help,” the blonde insisted, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yes,” John replied pleasantly, “I can see that.”

Wyatt blinked, flushing. “Anyway, uh...Have a nice day, John. And you too, Freckles!”

He waved before turning on his heel and heading back to the truck. As soon as the driver’s door closed and he was starting to pull away, John turned to see Elliot watching him, her eyes narrowed.

“‘I can see that’?” She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, are we talking now?” His brows lifted, head tilting. “So kind of you, to grace me with eye contact when you’ve been storming around the last few days—”

“Don’t be a fucking baby,” Elliot snapped. “My life does not revolve around you. Especially when I can’t seem to figure out why the fuck you drove all the way here just to sulk around.”

“Perhaps it should at least be in my orbit,” John replied tersely, “considering that we are having a child together.”

“You—”

Elliot sucked in a sharp breath, clamping her mouth shut as she looked at him. There was a very brief moment where she looked like she wanted to say something, and very badly, but instead, the corner of her mouth ticked upward and she turned on her heel to walk inside without saying a word.

“It’s a cute nickname,” John continued tartly as he trailed after her. Don't walk away from me, don't, you owe me at least your attention. “Freckles. Do you prefer that one over Miss Honey?”

She closed the door behind her, promptly and without hesitation, letting it rattle in the door frame and in his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, passing a hand exhaustedly over his face.

Impudent. Surly. Ferociously, viciously, wretchedly stubborn. He knew this about her—had known this about her—and yet at every opportunity, she proved his idea of her correct, and he found himself getting more and more frustrated. It wasn’t fair, that even those moments of her attention still felt good, that the sting of her venom held some satisfaction for him, like he was addicted to it.

If she would just, came the thought, rolling over and over. If she would, if she would just, if she would just—

But just what? Just stop being that way? Would he have even liked her if she were not this purposefully obstinate problem to solve?

“No,” he sighed to himself, raking his fingers through his hair. “No, I wouldn’t.”

The reward would just have to be all that much sweeter in the end.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three hours later, Elliot had forced herself to come to a decision.

She waffled on it for a while—going back and forth as she showered, scrubbing her hair and trying to let the hot water ease some of the growing aches and pains—and did her best to ignore the way something a little wicked chattered happily inside of her at the knowledge that John’s eyes had been sparking with jealousy. It felt immature, to like watching him squirm; more apparent than ever, too, was that old habits died hard.

There was a sick kind of satisfaction that came with finding John’s buttons and pushing them. It had felt the same way, back in Hope County—when he’d been burning with irritation and jealousy that Joseph had gotten her confession, not him, that she wouldn’t tell him what it was, pushing and pushing and jamming her finger into that button until he finally snapped and—

Kissed her.

That’s not what I’m trying to do, she thought, a little defiantly as she looked at herself in the mirror of the bathroom; tracing the WRATH scar, looking down to realize that there was, in fact, a baby bump. Oh, God, wasn’t that something fucking dreadful? Too real, but even still she’d known it was coming—worn looser, heavier clothes. She’d tried so hard not to look at herself in mirrors as of late that doing so now made her feel like she was looking at a stranger.

I’m not trying to get him to kiss me—the opposite, actually, I’m just trying to get him to fucking lay off for a minute—

And yet, as she found herself standing outside of the door to John’s room, her chest felt a little tight and her heart was doing that funny thing it liked to do when he was around; fluttering, leaping against her ribs, begging for attention. Elliot could have argued that it was just muscle memory at this point, that she had spent enough time around John letting him touch her and kiss her and say sweet things into her neck that her body was only working off of its basest instincts, and that was why she was feeling this way.

Clearing her throat, Elliot knocked on the door and said, “John?”

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side, and then his voice drifting to her: “Yes, Elliot?”

“It’s time for my appointment,” she managed out lamely. It felt even more stupid, saying it now, after she’d made such a big show of marching off after he’d committed to his display of jealousy. “Since the Jeep’s still waiting to get the tire fixed, do you think you could—”

The door swung open; John’s eyes flickered over her for a moment, his head tilting just before his mouth curved into a pleasant little smile that was two parts triumph and one part spite.

“What’s this?” he asked. “You need my help with something?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be an asshole, John.”

“I would never.” He propped himself up against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Wyatt’s taxi services currently unavailable?”

Already, she was regretting her decision—it had felt important, to have him along, but now she thought maybe she had been too forgiving for having forgiven anything at all.

“The appointment might be the one we figure out the baby’s gender, fuckface,” she snapped, “and since Wyatt’s not the baby’s father, I figured maybe you’d want to come in for this appointment, because it wouldn't feel right not to at least ask if you wanted to. Don’t worry though, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

“Wait!” The exclamation stopped her mid-turn from his door, the feeling of his fingers brushing the palm of her hand making her jerk out of his reach instinctively. John exhaled through his nose, and when she looked him with narrowed eyes and her arms crossed, he said, “I do want to—I want to come.”

“You sure aren’t acting like it.”

“I—Ell, I haven’t heard the baby’s heartbeat a single time,” he insisted, a little frantic. “I’ve respected that you didn’t want me there the last time, and you know, when I wasn’t here before is another thing, but finding out the gender and getting to hear the heartbeat—” He stopped, sighing. “I’m...”

Though there was a bit of pain stinging in the cavity of her chest at his earnesty, Elliot steeled herself, keeping her expression tight. “You’re what, John?” she prompted. She half-expected another blow-up; I’m the baby’s father, that baby is mine, I deserve this, it’s mine.

But instead, John’s mouth twisted and he said, “I’m—sorry.”

Elliot blinked. Had she ever heard John apologize? For anything, ever? And sincerely? She couldn’t recall a day or time in memory—and though her memory was spotty at best these days, she thought for certain that was something she would have remembered. Even when they’d been going to bury Joey, she wouldn’t let him get the words out.

“Uh,” she said very intelligently, “what?”

“I’m sorry,” John repeated, appearing a little frustrated at having to repeat himself. He shifted on his feet. “I want to come to the appointment. I mean—” And then, in what surely must have been pure agony: “Please let me come to the appointment.”

It felt so odd to hear the words coming out of his mouth that she could only blink rapidly and say, “Um, okay,” before turning and quickly heading down the hall and to the stairs. It had been her intention all along to ask John if he wanted to come to the appointment, to see the baby on the screen and find out the gender together—because despite his petty jealousy over someone he didn’t need to be concerned about in the least, and despite his insistence that he was the only person capable of loving her, she did see him making an effort instead of yanking her all the way to the other side. Even if it was a minute, tiny effort; it was an effort nonetheless.

“We’ll have to take your car,” Elliot said uneasily over her shoulder, pulling on her coat quickly. “And it’s soon, so—”

“Making haste,” John agreed from beside her. He reached over her shoulder to pull his own coat off of the rack. It wasn’t lost on her, then, that weeks ago he had gone to reach for her shoulder and she’d about jumped out of her skin; now, the smell of his cologne and his voice close to her ear was almost comforting, in an entirely self-indulgent way.

If she just broke it down to the piece of John she loved the most—his voice and the way the cologne smelled when it was on him, and the way it felt when his hands traced the scars on her hips, and the boyish grin he’d flash her—then maybe it could work. Then, maybe, things would have been fine.

But that’s not love, something inside of her said, as she made her way out the front door and to the car. John says he loves all the wretched things about you. Did you forget?

No. No, she had not forgotten the way John had kissed her when she had blood on her mouth, or the way he’d said, I would’ve fucked you there, or how it felt when he buried his face into her neck and said her name in a voice so broken she thought she might be holy.

“Too hot?” John asked, and she realized she was sitting in the car—that she had checked out halfway out the door—and they were now down at the end of the drive.

Elliot swallowed. Her face felt hot, and now it was not only because of her mind’s wanderings but also because she had been caught daydreaming.

“No,” she said, sinking back against the passenger seat. “No, it’s fine.”

He watched her for a moment before pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. She took a quick glance around the car; it was older, and sort of a beater. The kind of shitty Honda civic she’d see peeling out on the highway at 3AM because some idiot teenager thought she wouldn’t pull them over if the roads were empty. He’d probably lifted it on his way out of town to keep a low profile.

Her foot nudged something solid as she stretched out. Over the sound of the radio rattling and fuzzing tiredly, she heard a dull thunk. She squinted. It was a book. Unconditional Parenting.

“Jesus,” John muttered, “for a town this small, this traffic is a nightmare.”

“What?” Elliot asked, quickly averting her eyes from the book, feeling like she’d just rifled through someone’s personal drawer. “Oh, um—it’s a tourist town. People come here for the Christmas lights. They do like a whole lighting festival with that big tree in the square every night for weeks before Christmas.”

“And that’s why I can’t find parking.”

“That’s why you can’t find parking.”

He shot her a wry smile, taking a second loop around the square and a bit slower this time. Elliot turned her attention back out the window, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it—Unconditional Parenting. How long had he been reading baby books? Why was he so confident he’d get the chance to be a parent, anyway?

When he finally pulled into a parking spot, he let out a breath of relief. “How are we on time?”

Ell glanced at the car��s radio. “Ten minutes early,” she replied after a moment. “Right on time.”

“Great.” John paused. When neither of them moved to get out of the car, he cleared his throat and said, “So, what do you think?”

“About?” Elliot prompted. “The lighting festival?”

“What do you think baby is?” he clarified. Absently, he worried his thumbnail into the rubber of the steering wheel. “The lighting festival in a tourist town is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Well, it should be on your mind,” she replied, a little petulant. “I think it’s nice, for the record. All of the vendors come in from out of town and even though the traffic’s a nightmare, it’s good business for the town and everyone’s always been respectful of it. Plus, the lights are nice.”

She paused, and when she looked at John, he was grinning at her. He seemed to be enjoying her firm defense of the lighting festival.

“And I think baby is a boy,” she added after a minute, pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. “Just my gut feeling.”

He seemed pleased by her answer, but if he actually was she couldn’t have said why; it was nearly impossible to read John sometimes, but especially in moments like this, in uncharted waters for them both. She lingered for a moment before she unbuckled and said quickly, “Anyway, we should probably go,” pulling herself out of the warmth of the car and into the chilly afternoon.

She wanted to go back to being angry. She wanted to go back to hating John, to being disgusted by him, to relishing in making him suffer, even just a little—but it was like her brain had reverted back to her neanderthal roots. Baby daddy reads parenting books, makes him a good father.

The sooner the moment was over and done with, the sooner she could go back to wallowing on the ways John had wronged her, instead of the ways he made her happy.

By the time they were back in the room, Elliot sitting on the end of the little bed and John in the chair under a pregnancy poster—Pregnant or thinking of getting pregnant? 3 things to discuss!—she had nearly steeled herself. If she just sat there, and replayed the last three months in her head, and reminded herself of all the reasons why she had left John behind in the first place, she would be just fine.

And then the door opened, and Dr. Harding stepped inside, and looked between Elliot and John with surprise.

“Hello, Elliot,” Harding greeted. “I see we’ve a guest today?”

“This is John,” Elliot said, trying not to sound too miserable given the riotous state of her brain. “This is the, uh—he's the father.”

John stood quickly, holding out his hand. “John Seed.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Harding,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Excited? Elliot’s told you we might find out the gender today, yes?”

“Yes and yes,” John confirmed, sounding more and more like the kind of man she had fallen for and less like the egotistical psycho she’d turned in to the government. Right, the one that had lied, and coerced, and perhaps knowingly drugged her. She couldn’t afford to forget that bit.

As Elliot went through all of the normal questions—have you been eating well, yes, I see you haven’t lost weight, yeah, how is the sleep, it’s fine—she held on tight to that little thread of knowledge. John was here because she was letting him, not for any other reason, and it did feel good to know that this whole time he’d played by her rules. As much as he could have, anyway, showing up at her house unannounced.

She settled back against the propped back, grimacing as she shimmied the hem of her sweater up and Harding put a generous amount of gel on the swell of her stomach. Between doctor’s appointments, it was easy to pretend like maybe she wasn’t pregnant. The morning sickness had faded, her appetite had come back, she was getting fine enough sleep; if she didn’t look at herself in the mirror, if she ignored the pervading aches and pains, the roundness to her features then she could pretend like things were normal.

But then John pulled the chair over to the side of the bed, his fingers brushing hers, and nothing felt even remotely close to normal.

“Alright, let’s take a look at baby, shall we?” Harding said, settling in as she began to glide the instrument across Elliot’s stomach.

“Okay,” Elliot said, feeling uneasy. John’s eyes flickered to her, and while she chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers curled around his—a thoughtless, absent-minded gesture, like she was a heat-seeking machine and the only heat that would do was his.

He didn’t say anything, but laced their fingers together just as Harding said, “Oh, there’s baby!”

The dull, steady heartbeat echoed. When she stole a glance in his direction, John’s eyes were transfixed on the screen as Harding went over where the features were, pointing them out on the screen to him.

“Your little one is about the size of a peach right now,” Harding was saying, “and let’s just see here...”

Oh, God, she thought, feeling her stomach roll. It was so real. Too real, to be laying there, after all of this time feeling so disconnected from her own body—like a vessel, but now with John’s fingers tangled with hers and the baby’s heartbeat and a fruit analogy regarding the size it felt too real. She could no longer act like it wasn’t happening.

“It looks like we’ve got a perfectly healthy baby boy,” were the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth when Elliot’s eyes drifted from John’s face. “It might be a bit early, but that's my educated inference. Congratulations, Elliot. And daddy too, of course.”

A boy. A boy. I’m having a boy.

A perfectly healthy baby boy.

The room felt a little like it was swimming, her throat tight and a steady burning behind her eyes and nose. She sat up a little and swallowed thickly. John had come to a stand too, to get a better look at the screen, but when she squirmed and moved he looked at her.

“Ell?” he asked, sounding very far away, or like he was talking to her underwater. His hand not interlocked with hers came up to her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to pull away—not only because of the effort it would take, but because of the way it felt to have him right there when she thought she needed him the most. “What’s wrong? Hey, baby, are you—”

“I’m okay,” Elliot managed out, her voice thick and wobbly. “I’m f-fine, I just—um—”

I’m having a boy. Oh, God, it felt so fucking real, too fucking real, but in a good way—for once, her nerve-endings felt alive, and not with anxiety and dread but with happiness.

Sounding panicked, John tilted her face up and asked again, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, a wet, raspy little laugh bubbling out of her, “nothing’s wrong, I’m just—I’m just really happy—”

It took his thumb sweeping wetness from her cheek for her to realize that she was crying. Some unshed emotion hiccuped in her chest, and she swallowed thickly, fingers wrapping around his wrist in what she understood too late was an effort to keep his hand there; skin to skin, pulse close to pulse.

I want a home with you, she’d said to him, that night, and he’d looked at her and said, You have it, Ell, I told you.

He’d said, I’m all yours.

He’d said, Take what you need from me.

Dr. Harding was saying something, speaking softly to John. It was another reminder that it had been idiotic not to let him come in the first place—there was something so inherently endearing about John mmhming and nodding along, listening raptly as the doctor went over what they would be expecting in between this appointment and the next while his thumb swept affectionately over her cheek. She was sure that she heard the reaffirmation that she needed to be getting good sleep, staying as relaxed and unstressed as possible, but she couldn’t think about that. Her brain was going on loop, on repeat.

I’m having a boy, she thought, a perfectly healthy baby boy. My baby.

When Harding patted John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before exiting, she felt John’s fingers threading through the hair at the nape of her neck; in a gesture that was painfully intimate, his forehead pressed to hers.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe that—”

“I know,” she said, sniffing. “I can’t either.”

“You were right.” He grinned, their noses brushing, giving her hand a squeeze. So close to a kiss; she felt her lashes fluttering, the warmth of his hand spreading along the slope of her neck. “We’re having a boy. My God.”

Yes. We are having a boy. A perfectly healthy baby boy. Without her permission, the thought populated, permeating her brain.

Our baby.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Yes, I have him right here.”

Staci blinked. A quick intake of his surroundings reminded him that he was sitting in the cab of one of Eden’s Gates trucks—lifted from the F.A.N.G. Center. Footage of him with the cultists—the other cultists—would now be available. Footage of him walking past the corpses of Jacob’s gutted chosen would now be available.

Jacob is going to kill me, he thought, lifting his eyes from the back of the seat to look at Helmi. The woman was watching him as she spoke on the phone, with Dani sitting next to him on the backbench. Helmi had been on the phone with someone for quite a while; he’d stopped paying attention what felt like eons ago. If he just let his brain drift off, he wouldn’t think about the bodies. Fucking God, their bodies—

Jacob’s going to fucking kill me.

Helmi's hand moved. On instinct, Staci flinched, and she rolled her eyes.

“Say hello, doggy,” she said, shoving the phone against his ear. He fumbled with it for a minute before he swallowed thickly.

When he looked at Dani frantically, she frowned, her brows furrowing, and she whispered, “Don’t embarrass me, Staci.”

“Um, h...” His mouth was painfully dry. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Staci Pratt?”

The voice on the other end was painfully pleasant. She had the same kind of accent Dani did—Norwegian, maybe, or Swedish—but her voice was a bit deeper, a rich timbre to it.

“I am,” he replied uneasily. “I-I mean, yes. It is.”

Helmi had faced forward in the driver’s seat again and started pulling away from the F.A.N.G. Center, turning the heat down low. As the truck pulled out onto the snowy highway, she flicked the headlights off and slowed to something close to a crawl.

“S-Sorry, but—”

“You do not have to apologize to me, Staci.”

“I just don’t know—um, who you are,” he managed out. As soon as he said the words, Dani dug her elbow into his ribs; he barely stifled the yelp, looking at her as she mouthed something he couldn’t understand.

She hissed, “I told you, she is—”

“My name is Kajsa. Helmi, and your Dani, and many of our brothers and sisters are...” Her voice trailed off, and she made a thoughtful hum. Pratt tried to ignore the way she said your Dani made his heart jump in his throat. “They are my charges. It is my responsibility to take care of them.”

“Oh,” Pratt said. “So what...What do you want with me?”

“Helmi says that you have made a very good impression,” Kajsa replied sweetly. “You have important knowledge, and I want to make sure that you are safe, and taken care of. Just as I would any of the others.”

He fought back a grimace. The words sounded sweet and enticing, but he couldn’t shake the way Dani had looked at the gutted corpses on the screen and said delightedly, It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.

Pratt’s gaze darted up to the front. Helmi’s dark eyes fixed on his in the mirror, like she had been watching him all along.

“It is my understanding that the Seeds have not endeared you to their cause? That you know what your colleague did, that your friends have left?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “I mean—that’s right. Um, I was working for Jacob, but it was more like—”

“Do not trouble yourself with recounting. I believe you,” Kajsa interrupted. And then, gently: “It must have been horrible.”

His chest tightened. Oh, no, he thought, shaking his head and pressing the heel of his hand against his left eye. No, fuck no, don’t listen to her, Pratt, you fucking idiot.

“By now you must have some grasp of what is going on,” the woman continued, “but in case you do not, I will tell you. Are you listening, Staci Pratt?”

Pratt’s head pressed against the back of the seat. He didn’t want to; he didn’t want to listen to her sweetness, her sympathy, the way she clicked her tongue and the timbre of her voice warming him down to the marrow of his bones when he felt like he’d been freezing this whole time.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”

“We are well-armed. We are organized. We have a common enemy with you. And a common friend, too.” She paused, and he thought that he could hear a smile in her voice when she said, “I can tell that you want to live, my darling. That you don’t want me to have Helmi pull over and gut you open, leave you for the crows and the wolves and the woods to take you.”

Opening his mouth did nothing to inspire the words to come out of him. Nausea rolled violently in his stomach—but there was nothing left to puke up, even if he’d wanted to.

He did want to live, but not like this. Not terrified. Not. Like. This.

“I want you to live too,” Kajsa murmured on the other end.

“But you’re going to have to do something for me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot opened her eyes, it had gotten dark outside.

It took her a minute to collect her bearings, sitting up in a bed in a dark room. At her feet, Boomer huffed and sighed at the disturbance, and then she remembered; she was in her bed. Back at home. John had driven the both of them back to the house, and she’d said that she needed to lay down—and he’d let her, without protest or complaint. He hadn’t even tried to insinuate she could use a napping companion.

Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and glanced out the window. Everything felt a little foggy. How long had she been sleeping? Had she really been out until late into the night?

She reached absently to her bedside table, blindly fumbling for the lamp switch; after what felt like an eternity of not being able to find it, Elliot sighed and skimmed her hand over her face, looking out the window. The night outside was brighter than it had been in a while, with no clouds in the sky and the moon illuminating the snowy landscape in an unforgiving blue-white, stretching out far and far and far until it hit the treeline.

Something darted on the horizon. She blinked rapidly, taking a step closer to the window and pushing on the glass pane until it started to slide up, grinding laboriously. The longer she looked, the longer Elliot thought maybe she had just been zoning out—but then she saw it again; a flash of something, pale and long, like spider bone-white in color skittering up the dark wood of a tree in the distant treeline.

A glimpse of pale limbs. Tangled, dark hair—she couldn’t make out the color, it was too dark—but it looked wet, it looked matted, like someone had hurt it. Like someone had blown its skull open.

Something metal rattled. The trash can, she thought, her attention snapping to the front of the house. When the sound of metal crashed in the night, the motion-activated light in the front kicked on. A shadow stretched along the snow, cast long and deformed by the warping of the light.

“Hey!” Elliot shouted, but the shadow did not twitch or move in response; just the sounds of rustling, like whoever it was found themselves too preoccupied with digging through the trash can. Her heart was pounding violently in her chest; the terror that had been knotting in her stomach was doused by something hotter, redder, angrier.

Rage.

She pushed herself away from the window and out the door into the hallway. As her feet hit the stairs, there was almost no noise—just the rushing of her movements as she pushed the front door open and hurried down the front steps, turning the corner to where the garbage can sat.

“Hey, listen to me!” she snapped, propelled by the anger when she saw the figure hunched over the garbage can. “You can’t be in—”

The figure lifted its head. From the back, her eyes swept over what looked like fur, a tail, up and up to the back of a head that had two ears perched on it, until the figure’s head turned—

Fury disappeared. It was now only dread, only pure, cold dread and terror sitting in her, gutting her, washing her out as the dog with a man’s face turned and looked at her and smiled.

The square teeth, gapped and pearly, oozed with the same dark liquid as she had thought she’d seen before. In the yellow light from the porch, it glittered dark as garnets, dropping into the snow and spreading out crimson.

Move, she thought, I have to move, I have to fucking move, I have to go I have to run I have to—

“Hey!”

It was her voice. It was her voice, but it wasn’t coming out of her—it was thrown, echoing from somewhere in the trees, the dog with the man’s face spreading its mouth wider. Somehow, she knew deep in the marrow of her bones that It was making that sound.

“Hey? Listen to me?”

The pitch was all wrong. Elliot felt a moan bubbling up in her, and It turned on its hind legs, feet hanging loose around its ribcage, and faced her fully. She managed one step back before It tilted its head, as if to say, where are you going?

“Hey, listen to me!”

There was something else in its teeth. Something else, wiry and golden, and even when she willed herself a step back

(whereveryougowhereveryourun)

her body would not move; she was trapped, frozen, watching as It stepped closer

(ItwillwaitforyouItwaitsforusall)

she realized that it was hair, in It’s teeth

(ITWAITSFORYOUITWAITSFORUSALLITWILLHAVEYOU)

her hair.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she screamed.

When she lurched and twisted around, she was not met with a familiar face. It was a woman, hair dark and bundled up in winter clothes, watching her with concern furrowing her brows as the headlights of her car made Elliot squint. She immediately jerked away.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, her hand dropping back to her side. She was tall—she had to be at least six feet tall, and her face was sharp and angular, her eyes nearly black without any light to show their color.

“Where—” Glancing around wildly, Elliot forced a swallow. She was not in front of her house. She was not even close to the front of her house. She was all the way at the end of the drive, standing in the—

“—found you in the middle of the road,” the woman said, the lilt of her accent jarring Elliot back to reality. “I was on my way home when I nearly hit you. Are you quite well?”

Her gaze snapped back to the woman. The dog; where was the dog with the man’s face? Where had she—

Every nerve-ending felt fried, like they had become pure static; she felt like she was vibrating. She stared at the dark-haired woman with the strange, rich accent, wondering why it itched at her. Weyfield was small. Too small for her to not know about someone with an accent living there.

“Who are you?” she asked after a moment, nails digging into her palms. “You don’t live around here.”

A smile stretched across the woman’s face. She had pearly teeth, and the kind of full mouth that looked pretty, sculpted—but in the smile, Elliot only thought, broken glass, her smile looks like broken glass.

Vaguely, she was aware of John’s voice; he must have heard her scream, or seen her down the driveway, the headlights of the unfamiliar car illuminating her in the dead of night. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Paranoia spread along her spine, worming into her lungs, a most effective parasite.

“I know you don’t live here,” Elliot managed out, her voice trembling as she took a step forward. There was a tiny pinprick of relief when she realized she’d regained her mobility. “Why are you driving around this neighborhood? Who are you?”

The woman turned and headed back towards the driver’s side of her car, hands tucked politely into the pockets of her coat.

“You should be more careful of your sleepwalking. Someone else might not have been so kind as to stop,” she called over her shoulder. “And—”

The woman paused, the smile still rooted firmly on her face as she opened her car door.

“I hear stress is bad for the baby.”

Something wretched and vile twisted in her stomach, hot as a branding iron. The panic that shot through her system was so vicious, so potent, that for a second she felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs; it crashed over her in a wave so powerful that her vision swam and she thought, I’m going to pass out.

But there was another thought, too, squirming around in there, blinking its little emergency light:

My baby, my baby, you stay away from my baby.

“Ell!”

John’s hands landed on her before she thought think to pull away, even if she’d wanted to, as the headlights of the woman’s car turned away and began to drift down the drive. The idea that she ought to chase the car down occurred to her, but the tremble in her legs and the hitch of her breath reminded her that it would only serve to make her feel worse.

The brunette frantically checked her over, panting and out of breath as though he’d just sprinted down the drive; when his hands finally came to a stop, they were cradling her face, his eyes searching hers. Over his shoulder, she watched the receding red light of the woman’s car drifting in the dark, aimless in a sea of inky black, and she wanted to throw up.

“I heard you scream,” he said, breathless as his brows knit together at the center of his forehead. “What are you doing all the way out here? Baby, look at me, what’s wrong?”

“She knew,” Elliot managed out. Her voice felt like sandpaper grinding out of her lungs. “She knew I—she knew about our baby.”

“Who?” John looked over his shoulder, and then back at her, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. “Elliot, who?”

I don’t know, but the words wouldn’t come.

I don’t know who she is,

but she knew about our baby,

and she has a smile like broken glass,

and a mouth as red as blood.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.10

...and Drink It with Gusto

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 3400

Summary: Steve’s a bit difficult (poor baby), not that anyone blames him. Sam Wilson makes a confession – sort of.

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood and death, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanism, sad sad Steeb

A/N: dropping the chapter early, because I won’t have time to post for a bit

Story masterlist

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The mission hadn’t been a shitshow, surprisingly enough, but the reports to Fury had been. Natasha had spent the rest of the day, whole night and a better portion of the next day at the SHIELD HQ, having to deal with everything, because Stark had quite literally fled. To be fair, he had at least taken care of Steve’s still unconscious and very much muscular (read ‘really fucking heavy’) form.

Tired and annoyed, Natasha finally landed with small jet at the Tower, making her way to her room, wishing nothing more but to shower and get some fucking sleep.

Of course, walking through the common room, she should have known she wouldn’t be that lucky.

She heard his icy yet somewhat cheery voice before she even saw him and it made her stop in her tracks, dreading facing him. She was too tired for his reproaches now.

“AH! There she is!”

Natasha took a deep breath, closing her eyes and mentally counting to three.

“Here’s ‘ur soulmate ex-pert!” Steve howled again, making her heart clench.

Black Widow was not a coward, but neither her nor Natasha liked dealing with feelings too directly – the jet was enough to get her fill for several years prior. She scanned the room before she would settle on him – and sure enough, she and Steve weren’t alone.

Bruce was standing indecisively by the door, torn and helpless expression on his face, his eyes one big question mark, asking Natasha how the hell he was supposed to deal with that.

Good question, Bruce, good question.

The smell of booze and Steve’s demeanour were unmistakable, but she silently asked anyway.

“Is he…?”

“Yeah. He… uhm… he found Thor’s stash,” the scientist answered her in equally hushed voice, inconspicuously pointing towards the counter where three flasks lay, emptied. Jesus.

Steve apparently heard and saw them anyway, because his voice bellowed again in reaction to their conversation. His words were slurred.

“Goooood friend Thor. Thou’ he t’ied to take my g’l. Nooot a g’d friend. Baaaad, bad friend.”

“Oh bozhe moy…” Natasha whispered under her breath and Steve turned to her, looking almost excited to see her.

Which didn’t mean he didn’t look like absolute shit. He had a t-shirt stained with the alcohol, his eyes red-rimmed, bruise-like dark circles under them as if he hadn’t slept for a year.

She hadn’t thought he could get worse than in the quinjet. Clearly, she was wrong.

“’tasha! Greeeeat ‘dvice you gave me,” he exclaimed, trying to rise from his spot on the couch where he had been half-lying like a dead fish casted ashore.

Natasha resisted the urge to massage her temples as the headache started to build. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach at the audible edge to his voice, the accusation glaring at her from his eyes.

“Steve…”

He finally stumbled to his feet and she noticed another flask secured in his right hand. He held it out as if he was pointing at her.

“Tried wat’ you s-said. Hurts,” he hiccupped, the sound blending with a sob. He cleaned his nose with the back of his hand hastily. “S-saw her grave. Fuck it hurts…  ‘dis thing’s good ‘ough.”

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, her mind racing. She didn’t need to call anyone for advice now. Her friend was shitfaced. The only thing she could do was to get him to bed and try not to antagonize him or trigger something worse than… whatever this was. She wasn’t sure if moving on from being snowed under work – voluntarily – was more or less healthy than drinking himself into oblivion. But she counted any change that wasn’t a step towards a suicide (possibly assisted by the last of Hydra goons) like a progress.

“Is he drunk?” Tony’s incredulous voice ringed from the doorway and Natasha didn’t even bother spinning on her heels to him, hearing him enter and close the distance between them as he stopped at her side. “Cap?”

Blood froze in Natasha’s veins and she was swift to call out, but it was too late. “No- don’t call-!”

So much for not triggering him and making it worse. She could see how he suddenly stood straighter as if he swallowed a wooden ruler, and an indefinable expression appeared on his face.

She gulped in anticipation of a storm.

“Cap!” he called out, mimicking Tony and the billionaire realized his mistake, judging by the silent dammit that left his lips. Steve raised the flask in a mock toast, turning around and nearly tipping over his feet. “Captain ‘merica! What a heeero! Cheers to him!” He took a long sip before continuing, his gestures animated. “Swin’ in, safe th’m all! Kill his g’l, why ‘ven care… hero, murd’r, potato, tomatho…” his voice slurred into a murmur, until he spotted a newcomer and came to life again. “Ah! Hey, Clint!”

Clint was quick to understand the situation and it took one glance at Natasha for them to agree what needed to be done. He approached Steve cautiously with his features emotionless.

“We should get you to bed-“

“Nope! No!” Steve howled instantly, taking several steps backwards to get out of Clint’s reach. His expression was dark, tears welling in his eyes. “Smell like h’r. Not ‘nymore. Hurts!” he sobbed, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, his figure swaying dangerously as he closed his eyes and lost the visual control of his balance. “Hurts!”

“Come on, Steve…” Clint coaxed him gently, attempting to close the distance between them again. His gaze flickered to Bruce and Tony and they took few steps towards Steve as well.

“Nope! Gotta-ta sssay sm’thin’!” Christ, Natasha had never seen him like this and she wanted to bleach both her eyes and ears. He pointed the flask at Clint resolutely. “You knew. You warn h’r. Fuck-fuck up. Shouldva told- I ain’t gettin’ killed. I kill h’r.”

“Steve…” Natasha approached him as well, grimacing when she saw the flash of emotion on Clint’s face.

Steve spun to her immediately, this time accusing her. “And you! Gooood job. Pushin’ us togthe’. You kill h’r too.”

“Hey! Watch it!” Tony snapped at him, running out of patience, but Natasha knew Steve didn’t quite mean it. Pushing them together wasn’t her fault – the fact she had tranquilized him was her sin and she was aware he had the right to be mad at her.

“Your friggin’ ‘stem! You too- n’t fly fast ’nough!“

“Steve, you’re wasted. You’re going to bed before you say more things you regret,” Bruce said calmly after Steve managed to finish his roll and blame another person.

Bruce speaking up gave the captain a pause and he looked like his brain froze. His brows knitted together and he nodded, another sob erupting from his throat, his inhale shaking his whole being as he crossed the distance to Bruce, murmuring.

“Regert. Her. My folt, no yours. Kill h’r. Miss her. Shouldva s-s-saved her. Pick h’r… love h’r. Hurts. Hurts s’much…”

Steve’s large frame enveloped Bruce, resting his whole impressive weight on him. The scientist was nearly tripped over – except a hint of green flushed his neck, Hulk coming to rescue before the other men and Natasha rushed to help. Steve went completely limp, the flask falling to the ground, the little liquid remaining in it spilling and staining the carpet. No one cared as they tried to support the supersoldier’s goo-like body, exchanging desperate glances.

“Well, that was… enlightening,” Tony summarized, his poor attempt at joke that not even he apparently believed in barely gaining any reaction.

Clint sighed. “Please, this is hardly any news. We knew he blamed himself.” He readjusted Steve’s arm he had slung around his shoulders and Tony’s right side of suit came to the rescue, taking most of the weight off from the billionaire. “I hate this, but I think he needs this.”

Natasha wasn’t so sure about that, but yeah, Steve definitely needed to start accepting the reality. It was probably a natural reaction to want to dull the pain with something else when work was off limits. She pressed her lips together as their whole grouped slowly made their way to Steve’s room.

“Let’s just get him to bed.”  

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Not many people could probably brag they had Black Widow’s number. Well, probably no one could, because if they told a living soul, they’d meet their end. So Sam Wilson didn’t brag. And he sure as hell didn’t call her first.

That said, he did not hesitate when she called him with location and time to meet, no greeting, no goodbye. Rude, but he’d take it. He had more than one reason, not that he would advertise it.

So there he was, sipping coffee from a take-away cup as he sat in Central Park with Black Widow, both of them having the best super-spy disguise; sunglasses and baseball caps.

The silence between them was getting awkward and Sam couldn’t take the tension anymore.

“Well, this is much more… civil than our last meeting,” he noted casually, hating to admit he was… nervous.

“I’m not gonna say sorry,” Ms.Romanoff hummed back, sipping her latté.

“Guess I wouldn’t expect that…”

He didn’t expect her to face him either but she did, a reminiscence of a sad smile gracing her lips. The warmth around his heart was familiar and not entirely unwelcomed. He found himself longing after seeing her whole face.

“I’m saying thank you, though.”

Huh.

“Didn’t expect that either,” he admitted and one corner of her lips rose higher in a smirk. Sam had a hunch she loved surprising people – or rather shocking them.  “How did it go?”

She huffed out a sound that could only mean frustration and Sam grimaced. Confrontation usually didn’t go very good, but this sounded awful.

“That well, huh?”

“No, no…” she shook her head, red curls swaying around her head elegantly. “He’s… an asshole. He fell asleep on a mission. In a cockpit. When he was piloting. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but God bless Stark’s inventions and auto-piloting,” she grunted and removed the cap of her cup before taking a long sip of her coffee.

She seemed to be gathering thoughts. Sam might not be able to see her eyes, but he did learn to read people. She didn’t like talking about feelings, but she was making an exception. Whether it was because of him, because of his job or because she wished to help her friend so badly, that remained a mystery. Either was pleasing though, the action itself intriguing Sam.

He had given her a lot of thought after their first unconventional meeting. He could not get her out of his head and for a good reason, of course.

He came to a conclusion that… despite her manners, she probably wasn’t a bad person. There were rumours about her past, but everyone had one. She was with the Avengers now, getting clean and the present and willingness to fix mistakes often mattered more than what had been done – especially when it came to a past like her own. Sam had made living by helping people dealing with their past actions and failures; judging her would be a hypocrisy and as far as he knew, he was a killer too. And if it came to it, he would punch, sliced or shot his way out again.

“It’s just… he’s… he’s really at the bottom,” she Natasha spoke softly, emotions lacing her voice. Regret. Compassion. Helplessness. Sam knew all those too well. “Seeing him going from one mission to another just to pass out in exhaustion was bad enough, because I knew it was wrong, but… seeing him drink himself into oblivion? One time only, but it was a nightmare. And seeing Steve doing nothing? Struggling to find a purpose, himself… that’s just…”

“It sucks. But he has a good friend in you. He needs time.”

“I know that, it’s… I wish there was someone hurting him so I could just punch them in their face and call it a day. But that one guy blew himself to hell and the others just… don’t really matter, getting them doesn’t do much help to Steve.”

Sam couldn’t help but smile softly as she said Captain’s name. It held a meaning – he was clearly dear to her and it went way beyond professional relationship. Not that the fact alone that she had shown up at Sam’s apartment the way she had wasn’t enough of an evidence. Not to mention her surprising openness.

“It’s a long way to recovery, Natasha.”

Her first name just slipped past his lips unwittingly, but he didn’t feel like apologizing. The informal space they found themselves in, the honest open conversation… first names suited it better. He was aware he sounded like he was speaking from experience on top of that, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know. She had done a thorough research on him.

As if she agreed with him feeling his surroundings and the atmosphere, she put away her glasses, her green eyes burning with honesty when she met his – he automatically lost the barrier too, because it felt unjust for her to be left… vulnerable like that.

“I’m truly sorry about poking at your past, Sam,”

Sam felt the last remains of hostility towards her resolve. That apology meant more than he had realized it would.

“Thanks. I get it, you know. Being worried for someone so much… he’s gonna be okay, eventually. Scarred, but okay.”

“He could be better than that…” she sighed, leaning onto the backrest of the bench tiredly.

“What was that?”

“When I confronted him on the plane… he told me he had another words,” she revealed hesitantly as if she wasn’t sure if it was her secret to tell.

Sam’s heart positively stopped. Was she telling the truth or was this a game? Did she know about his own too? He swallowed the panic when he saw her resigned gaze.

She wasn’t playing no game.

“Two soulmates. That’s rare,” he remarked, a lump growing in his throat. His palms started sweating and he hated it. Fortunately, Natasha didn’t seem to notice – or she politely ignored it, her voice dry and laced with a bit of irritation.

“He never wants to meet her.”

“That’s not rare.”

Sam would know. He had struggled with the same feeling, after all. He wanted to forget the world existed. He wanted to live peacefully and alone. It was probably no coincidence fate sent him Black freaking Widow as the one – if she was willing, Sam would not be alone. And definitely wouldn’t get ‘peace’.

If he was being truly honest with himself, he wouldn’t be able to say he minded.

“He thinks… he thinks he doesn’t deserve her or something.”

Sam sighed, mentally chuckling at the irony of fate once more. The Universe did have a messed up sense of humour, didn’t it?

“Because he thinks he blew his chance. Because he thinks that he will mess it up again and fail her. And it feels like being unfaithful,” he offered, venting his own feelings for the first time.

He had never told that to anyone, ashamed of the set of words sitting on his other collarbone, appearing shortly after Riley’s death. Why did he tell her of all people? He wanted to question his own actions, he barely knew the woman, but… there was a significant but, wasn’t there?

Her emerald eyes were searching on his face, recognition lighting them up. She fidgeted, something he hadn’t seen her do before and he was sure not many people had either. It was a privilege and while his heart started racing, seeing her nervous eased his own nerves the tinniest bit.

“…yeah. I guess. You… uhm, you dealt with someone like that too?” she asked, looking away, seemingly intrigued by something in the distance.

Sam didn’t buy it and swallowed loudly.

“Just one case in my whole carrier.”

“What did you tell them?” she queried gently, her shoulders tense.

Sam shrugged. He told himself a lot of things, but he wasn’t certain they were all presentable.

“Never figured it out. First, the meeting with his other soulmate was a bit unconventional. He kinda hated her,” he admitted, glancing at her with the corner of his eye. She gave almost an inconspicuous nod, her gaze casted down. She took it as a rejection, he realized. “Then he started thinking and realized she wasn’t too bad. He’s still struggling to make up his mind – whether he should try. Whether she would want to. She would be a catch though, no doubt,” he lighted it up, biting the inside of his cheek right after.

Was he really trying to flirt now?  

One corner of her lips rose in a smirk. “Somehow I doubt that. Sounds like a bitch.”

Sam wanted to chuckle at the joke, but then her eyes lifted to him and his heart just… stopped, the amused sound stuck in his throat. He had to clear it to be able to speak up, but it did nothing under the intensity of her gaze.

“Not to me. Not anymore.”

Natasha licked her lips – and Sam would lie if he claimed he did not mirror the motion instinctively – and finished her drink.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you, huh? That must have been a pleasant surprise when it appeared,” she stated, a hint of amusement along with relief that the secret, the whatever that had been hanging between them, was finally addressed.

Sam snorted, not necessarily because he found his next statement funny.  

“Yeah and I bet growing up in Russia and have an English soulmark must have been walk in a park.”

Good, there was so much sarcasm in his voice he might even feel ashamed. But the redhead – his second soulmate, holy shit, it really happened – didn’t seem to be offended.

“Wow, this almost beats the way Steve met his and that was some story….”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Silence fell on them then, both of them unsure how to continue and where to go from here. They found each other – their other half, supposedly, but no one could tell the outcome.

She was an Avenger. Sam was a therapist, a veteran at ridiculously young age, because he had lost his partner. They had a perfect example of how wrong it could go, served on silver plate – it was how they had met for God’s sake. But once again – Sam would lie when saying he didn’t miss some of the adrenalin. He did. A lot, actually.

The reason he had left the field was his soulmate. Was there any better reason to get back in when the need would rise, than another soulmate?

“Do you want to explore this?” Sam broke the uncomfortable silence, lacking the courage to look at her expression. The tension in her shoulders he could almost feel told him enough. He didn’t want to see her rejection. Did he want to see her agreement though?

“Do you?” she hummed back, staring ahead just like him.

“That’s the million dollar question.”

Riley had been… his everything. But could he ignore something like this? Could he ignore the opportunity, a woman who was no doubt fabulous and he was already finding interesting and that apparently was matching his sense of humour? Did he believe in fate? Did he have the right to try again?

Deep down, Sam knew he had already made his mind about it. Now it only depended on her.

“But I keep telling everyone to move on,” he mused out loud, catching her gaze. “Try to live. Some do. Neither of them had the… advantage of having another soulmate if we can call it that.”

Small smile appeared on Natasha’s lips, new twinkle lighting up her eyes and Sam knew he had made the right decision, no matter the outcome.

He didn’t complain when she rose to her feet to clearly leave though – they had enough to deal with today, they needed more time to think of how to approach this.

“Okay. Okay then… You have my number. Call me,” she offered simply, saying goodbye only with a nod and spun on her heels.

“Oh, I will!”

She casted a flirty grin over her shoulder and Sam found himself smiling.

“Hey, you bowl?” he blurted out the first idea that came to his mind and this time she stopped in her tracks, her smile turning almost wolfish. It might have done a thing to his crotch.

“I do, but you can’t run crying when I beat you!” she smirked and gave him a wink, hips swaying as she left him behind.

His laughter sounded like a soundtrack to her catwalk.

Cheeky lady. Sam kinda liked her.  

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 11

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Thank you for reading! 

We’ll be leaving Stevie next time, coming back to our wayward sons and daughter (...that’s a spn reference, if any non-fan is confused). We’re getting closer, y’all!

[p3nny4urth0ught5]

One Step Back - Chapter 1

Hey everyone! I finally finished the next part of One Step Back. Thank you so much to everyone who has been so supportive so far!

If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know! Also big shoutout again to @singeramg. I honestly don’t think I would be able to do this without her. You all should read her stuff.

Just a reminder, this story takes places after the events of Justice League. The timeline is a little different so if things seem a little incorrect that is why. Also this part is still from Clark’s POV. I’m planning on officially introducing the reader the next chapter. Thanks everyone!

Taglist: @singeramg @queengeorgiaaa @spookypeachx @ayame236 @ohjules 

           Clark was anxious. He was so nervous that he could barely breathe. He kept having to stop his leg from bouncing. His hand rubbed the nape of his neck and his entire body felt as stiff as a board. He decided to take the bus back home instead of just flying, and while it was probably a good idea for him to not be in the air right now with how much of a mess he was, it was also very counter-intuitive because it gave him more time to dwell on what was to come.

           He hadn’t been able to get Y/n off his mind in months and yet now he felt like an idiot for making this trip. The two of them had grown up together. They met when they were kids and became joined at the hip despite his parent’s reluctance to him having any close friends. She had fought tooth and nail for the right to be his friend and had proved time and time again that she was worth the risk it was to him and his parents. In fact, after the whole bus incident from when they were kids, she became so defensive and protective of him that she had definitely scared off both kids and their parents alike from confronting him or his mom and dad about what happened. Lois had even been intimidated by her when she came around looking for answers about who he was, and knowing how Lois was, that in and of itself was extremely impressive and surprisingly heartwarming.

           After his dad died, he hadn’t been able to stay in Smallville. He felt like in order to find himself and assuage the pain and guilt and loss he felt, he had to leave. Clark hated leaving his mom to deal with his father’s death all alone, but it was eating him alive being in his home when his dad was gone and he could have saved him. He had been so angry at him for not letting him help and at himself for listening to him. Despite how hard it was, he needed to leave, to get himself straightened out.

           As difficult as it was to leave his mom, his home, and everything he knew, it had been especially hard for him to leave Y/n. He had been through everything with her and not only was she his best friend and his rock, but the two of them had eventually fallen in love and became high school sweethearts. He had proposed to her just a few months prior to the death of his father.  The two of them hadn’t even started seriously planning the wedding but they had decided on a few things here or there very casually, such as possible colors they liked or how many people they wanted in the wedding He loved waking up and knowing that he was going to spend the rest of his life with his best friend and love of his life. Clark had been so in love with her. Leaving her, had left the both of them heartbroken and wishing things were different, and it was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. 

           To this day, he still could remember her standing on his porch, tears in her eyes, telling him that she didn’t want him to leave. They had fought over the prospect of him being gone for weeks but eventually she had told him that she understood why he was doing what he was, she just wasn’t happy about it and didn’t agree, all she asked was that he come back to her.

           The bus he was in was crowded and noisy and the sound of a crying child dragged him from his memories of Y/n. He looked up and saw a frantic mother of three at her wits end, her two boys fighting next to her and her toddler crying inconsolably in her arms. The child had her arms outstretched toward the ground, reaching for something, and when Clark looked down, he saw a stuffed elephant sprawled across the floor of the bus. His heart stopped at the shear pain on the child’s face and the anguish in her cries. He felt himself feeling her pain as his own, wanting to cry out as she did, but he couldn’t. 

           Clark reached down and grabbed the ratty old stuffed toy, clearly something that had been loved on for years so probably a hand-me-down of some sort, and held it out to the teary-eyed child. Upon receiving what she was looking for, the child gurgled for a moment and then immediately quieted. The mother looked down at her now silent baby and breathed in a sigh of relief. A smile broke out across Clark’s face. The young girl stuck the elephant’s ear into her mouth and started to suck on it. He had to hold in a laugh at how quickly she had been pleased as he shook his head and turned to the window, looking out at the changing scenery. A flash of regret struck through him. By now, he thought that he would’ve had a whole gaggle of kids or at least, that was the plan when he was still learning to be a man.

           As the view outside changed from the city to the countryside, Clark tried to clear his head of the nonsense running through it and get back to focusing on seeing his mom. He hadn’t been home since he had helped her move back into their house after Bruce bought the bank. He still couldn’t believe that he did that. He definitely appreciated it, but Clark just couldn’t fathom anyone having enough money to just up and buy a bank. He had grown up on a farm in a small town and while he lived in Metropolis now and worked for a very successful newspaper, he still wasn’t exactly flush with cash. Being a pencil pusher mostly meant he wasn’t paid super well. Clark liked his job well enough and it gave him an excuse to poke his nose into things and places where it didn’t belong but he didn’t have the passion for it that Lois did. Something just didn’t feel right, like there was something missing.

           After a few hours, Clark was finally home again and he felt himself fill with joy at the thought of seeing his mother. Despite his underlying reason for coming home, he was still very excited to be back. He imagined this is what he might have felt had he gone away to college and come home for the summer. The bus dropped him at the city limits so he started the long trek to his family farm. He decided to walk through the center of town because it had been such a long time since he had seen it.

           Everything he saw as he walked along the familiar sidewalk brought back memories from his childhood, both good and bad. There was the diner on the corner where he would spend time with his parents when they had a little bit of money to spare for a night out. The old movie theater that he and Y/n used to sneak into, well... that Y/n used to help him sneak into. He could practically see the two of them running around town like the hooligans they were, getting into trouble and Y/n always took the blame. Most of the stuff they did was her idea anyway but he played an equal part. People were always confused as to why the two of them were such good friends when she was such a troublemaker and he stayed on the straight and narrow. He couldn’t help but laugh thinking about how people used to talk about what a bad influence on him she was. It was 100% true, but he didn’t care either way.

           A few things had changed here or there in the town, it actually seemed a bit bigger than he remembered, there seemed to be more people that he didn’t recognize but Clark didn’t put much thought into it. He continued on his journey home and started to pass by the other family farms that were in between town and his home. Clark noticed that most of them seemed to be doing quite well and it looked like there had been a few updates done to the houses as well as some newer cars in the driveways. It was puzzling to him how they could afford that but once again he didn’t let that thought bother him.

           As he got closer to home, he felt his throat start to close up and it felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest. The air started to fill with the scent of wildflowers and lavender that always seemed to permeate from the property no matter what season. He took a deep breath and stopped in his tracks. In his mind, as clear as the light of day, he could see Y/n lying next to him smelling so strongly of those two things, her skin soft and sun kissed from being outside. His mouth watered for the taste of apples, something she always seemed to have on her that the two of them would share at lunch or after school. He could feel her touch on his skin and hear her laugh almost as if she was right next to him.                     Just as Clark started to lose himself in the memories, he noted that the air smelt dusty and barren, as if the house hadn’t been lived in properly for months if not longer. His eyes snapped open and he had to stop himself from rushing to the front door. He took a good look at the house and while it still looked like it was in great shape, it was obvious to him that no one had been there in quite a while. The house was obviously still being maintained by someone as it looked quite clean and put together, but he didn’t see or hear or smell anyone living there. His heart sank in his chest and he started to feel light-headed. She wasn’t there.

           Clark tried to push all the negative thoughts creeping up in his mind that something had happened to her or that she was with someone else. For some reason the second option sounded all the more terrifying and filled him with more dread then the first. He continued walking toward his mom’s house, the trek feeling like it took even longer than it should have. His feet felt like they were filled with lead and seemed to get heavier with every step that he took further from her home and toward his previous one. He tried to focus on the other reason he was here, his mom, but Y/n was hovering in the back of his mind and he had to focus on not letting it overwhelm him.

           He continued walking and arrived at his mother’s home just a few moments later even though it felt like it took a good four hours. Clark felt a little bit of the weight on his shoulders fall off at finally being home. His chest didn’t feel like it was completely caved in anymore and he could breathe. A small smile graced his lips as his mom walked out of her house and the family dog, Frank, ran out of the house and up to him. She smiled and laughed, cupping her hand over her brow to block out the sun, “Is that my boy?”

           He crouched down and scratched Frank behind his ears and ruffled his fur. “Hey Mom.” 

           It was hard to believe as he looked around that just a few months ago all of this had been seized by the bank. His mom had to move with all of their stuff and abandon their home where he grew up, and yet it didn’t look like a thing had changed, it looked the same as it always had. A small part of him was comforted by the fact that nothing had changed.

           She walked down the porch steps and threw her arms around him. Still touch sensitive, he flinched and tried to disguise it by hugging her back tightly. His heart sunk at still feeling anxious like he was. He thought if anyone would be a comfort instead of another reason for him to feel tense, it would be his mother, but apparently not. 

           “I wasn’t expecting you to come home. If I would’ve known I would’ve made a roast or something.” The two separated and he crouched down to grab his bags as she led him inside. 

           “I wanted to surprise you.” His cheeks hurt from how wide he was smiling, meanwhile his skin still ached from where she had touched him.

           “Well I’m always happy to see you honey. Come on in, let me get you something to eat.” 

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

           Being at his mother’s house for the past few days had done him some good. Clark felt like he was a little more relaxed, less on edge. He loved being home, getting to help out his mom around the house, working in the fields, it made him feel like a kid again, but something kept nagging him at the back of his mind, Y/n. He hadn’t dared to bring her up yet. It was causing him to lose sleep thinking about her, not knowing where she was or if she was alright. He knew that his mom knew something was on his mind, and he was sure she knew what that was as well. He never could hide anything from her. Sometimes she would look at him like she wanted to bring it up but then turn away. Clark knew that it was his responsibility to bring her up, he knew that she was trying to get him to admit his mistakes and ask her what he was dying to ask.

           It all came to a head about a week after he’d come home. He couldn’t let the thought of her eat away at him any longer without getting answers. The two of them had been working tirelessly all day and were now in the kitchen preparing dinner, well, his mother was at least. He had offered to help and she had shooed him away like always, claiming that she liked to do it and didn’t need any help. 

           “Hey Mom?”She looked up from where she was stirring something in a pot on the stove.

            “Yes dear? What is it?”

           He had a sense of déjà vu, sitting at the dining room table drinking a half empty mug of coffee. A sigh passed through his lips as his stomach turned and his soul filled with dread. Now that he had begun the conversation, he was having second thoughts, but he knew he had to push forward even though things were about to get very uncomfortable.

           “Where’s Y/n? I walked by her home the other day on my way here and it seemed like it had been empty for a while.” He gulped and felt like he was trying to swallow a boulder. His chest was tightening as he waited for a response and his heart felt like it was about to pump out of his chest.

           Clark’s mom’s back straightened. He could hear her take a deep breath as she turned off the stove. His mind raced when she didn’t immediately start talking. She took a few moments to wipe off her hands and settled herself down at the table beside him. Her hands reached out and grabbed one of his into her own.

           “She left town shortly after the funeral we had for you here at the house. After she found out about Lois, she was completely devastated and she got a great job offer out of town and took it. I tried to talk her into staying but you know how hard headed she is.” His heart stopped; she was gone. He had hoped to have told her about the Lois situation himself but knew that was probably just a pipe dream at this point. “Son I love you but I have to say I have never been more disappointed with you with the way you treated that poor girl. She deserved better than that.”

           That statement hit him hard. He knew he should have treated her better and come clean sooner with her about him and Lois, but he was scared, and it was difficult trying to juggle his superhero persona and his normal life as Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet. Y/n leaving because of him was the last thing he wanted. He had hoped that the two of them could sit down and talk like adults and try to mend the bridge he had broken by leaving in the first place. A big part of him knew that the conversation would not go that way at all but he had still hoped at the time. Now, he was lost.

           “Where is she Mom? Where did she go?” It felt like someone was choking him from the inside of his throat and he felt his eyes fill with tears.

           His mom had a dejected smile on her face. She cupped his cheek with her hand and he felt himself grit his teeth at the touch, it still made him ache. “I don’t know son.”

[lablass-2882]

The Links vs Amusement Parks

A modern Au where the Links go to an amusement park.  Enjoy the chaos.

Part 1 The Coaster!

Why me?

Twilight sighed as he slowly approached the rollercoaster with Wild and Wind.  Why? Why did it have to be me; he asked himself again.  Why did he have to go on this death trap with his most mischievous younger brothers? Why couldn’t War, or Legend go with them?  

Twilight didn’t have to ask himself twice, he already knew the answer.  It was equal parts, Wild being Wild, War and Legend being in the midst of another betting war and Twilight being the most responsible of his brothers.  Argo. He, had to ride the deathtrap with Wind and Wild.  But he asked himself again anyway.  Why me?

Wind was absolutely gitty with excitement.  Almost to the point where Twilight thought he was going to vibrate through the metal guardrail that lined the walkway.  He had been waiting weeks for this brand-new coaster to open.  And for weeks, Twilight dreaded another visit to the Amusement Park.

He could not fathom why Wild and Wind loved this place so much.  Granted, he was one of the few who didn’t like this place.  Most of his brothers loved going here.  He however really wished that he was somewhere, anywhere else.    

Wild punched him on the shoulder.  Come on Twi, it’ll be fun.

Tell that to my already curing stomach.

Really, already?

I don’t do coaster, Wild……

Yeah…. But this one will be different.

Different how?

Different by how fast it flings you up and over that peak.  Wind pointed towards the peak of the coaster. It's 400ft in the air and you get shot up it like a cannon! AND-

I know Wind! It is all done by water pressure. You’ve nagging me about it for weeks.

Wind pouted.  It's cool.  That’s all.

Twilight sighed again.

Sorry, Wind… I just-

Don’t like coasters, we know.  Wild finished. BUT!  Look on the bright side.  It’s better than doing chores, right?

Or drills, or being grounded? Wind added.

Twilight groaned.  He’d rather be mucking out the stables than being flung up a straight incline on a slingshot.

 Meanwhile, near the carnival games….

I cannot believe that we lost to Sun.  Again!

YOU lost to Sun. Again.  I demand a rematch!  Best 37 of 75! Legend’s eyes were set ablaze with anger and determination.  War, on the other hand, looked utterly defeated and pleaded for mercy.

~Okay Legend~, Sun sang in her usually sugar-sweet tone.  One more round.  War you want in?  She glanced back a Warriors with a cunningly sweet smile. War wisely opted out.

Nope.  I wasted enough money for one day.  Legend you are on your own.  

Traitor!

Nope! Not falling for it.  Nope, I am out.  I have already wasted 200 bucks on these stupid games and I am done.  Warriors stomped over to where Time and Sky were sitting.  Time merely raised his eyebrow as Warrior sat down next to him.  

Don’t even ask.

Fair enough.  Time shrugged and watched another round of chaos with Sky and Warriors.

He’s going to be broke by the end of the night. Sky hummed.

I’m surprised he's not broke already. Time questioned.

He is. He keeps phone his boyfriend for more money. Warrior grumbled.

Oh! Are he and Ravio finally official? Sky beamed at Warriors with a hopeful smile.

No. Legend lives and breathes deniability.  They could be married and Legend would insist that they’re “just friends”

Not that you're doing any better there, playboy.  Time pointed out.  

Okay first off, Rude.  Warriors dramatically scoffed.   And second. Just because you’re the only one of us that’s married doesn’t mean that you get to stand on any moral high ground here. I still remember all the trouble you and Ruto got into, mister.

I was twelve and it was a schoolyard crush.  Malon’s my wife and that the end of it.

Um… Sun and I are engaged so-

Doesn’t count yet Sky.  Warriors cut him off.  And “school yard-crush” my ass!  That “crush” lasted until high school buddy.

Freshmen year hardly counts as high school

So, you admit that it wasn’t just a schoolyard crush.  Anything else you want to own up to?  I’m all ears.

War… this isn’t the time nor-

I saw you kiss a guy, last week.  Time added smugly.  And knowing you… there was probably some tongue.

Warrior’s face was beet red in embarrassment.  He was also stuttering and flaying about; searching for a response.

Oh! Do we get to know his name this time?  Sky leaned over knowingly, with a mischievous look on his face.  Or was it just another taste?

 Meanwhile at the waterpark with Four and Hyrule.

I am not too SHORT! Four shouted at the teen managing the water slide.

I’m… sor…sorry…s..sir.  The teen stuttered out.  My man.. man.. manager will fire me if I let another kid go down the ride.  The last two near broke their arms in a fight.

KID?! Four was beyond riled up by this point

Let it go Four, we’ll just find another ride.  

But?!

There’s no need to risk anyone's job, let's just…. go…. Before we cause another scene.  Hyrule tried to quiet down his angered brother, while also not thinking about the growing number of eyes staring at them.

FINE!

Four stormed off back down the steps.  With Hyrule on his heels, quietly trying to not meet anyone’s gaze as they did.  Once at the bottom and well out of sight of the crowds, Four unleashed his anger.  

Can you believe this?! KID? KID! Just who does that guy think he is?  I am not a kid.  I’m goddess dammed sixteen years old for goddess’s sake!

Four… just…. Take a breath…. And … calm down…..

NO!

Please? Hyrule whined. I really don’t want to get banned from another ride.  Especially after what Wind and Terra did last time we were here.

Yeah, yeah, I remember.  They got into a huge fight and dragged half of the kids in the park into it. Broken bones, and pride all around.

And they both got banned from the waterpark.  Not to mention we’re food court, the video game lounge, the petting zoo, the-

I get it. Four stopped Hyrule from listing all the places he and their brothers have been banned from for… questionable behavior.

Honestly, I’m surprised they haven’t banned us from the park altogether.  

It’s because the other parks are paying them to keep us so that we don’t go to any other park. Four joked.

Hyrule laughed.  Yeah, you’re probably right.  All the other parks quake in fear of the Link brothers. Ooohhh spooky.  A family of nine brothers that cause utter chaos where ever we go.

Speaking of spooky, Four pipped up.  You want to ditch this place and go check out that new haunted house?  I heard that is super scary.

Ha, you know it. Let’s jam! Hyrule pointed finger guns at Four and did his best Cowboy Bebop impression.

Ugh.  Hyrule, we got to work on your reference game.

Hey, I thought I did pretty good this time.  

Four just shook his head.  Why his brother loved 90’s anime, he would never know.

 Back at the coaster.

Twilight looked up at the looming coaster.  He tried not to think about it.  

He tried not to think about being flung at high speeds up a vertical incline while being strapped into a metal cart.  He tried not to think about how the safety bar is essential a thin and a very breakable metal bar across his waist.  He tried not to think about the computer that calculated the weight of the cars messing up and not launch the cart up the slope with enough speed.  Causing the cart to come sliding back down to the platform only to recalculate and be launched up again.  As Wind was so kindly explaining to Twilight as they stood in this goddess forsake long line.

You think we’ll crest the top on the first try? Wind oh so innocently asked with his best “I’m-not-causing trouble-voice”.

Maybe? Wild shrugged. He tuned out Wind ramble about an hour ago.  He was too busy texting new recipes to Sidon to notice Twilight growing paler with every passing minute.

Goddess, I hope not. Twilight sighed.  One ride is enough

OH, come on Twi.  It's not that bad.  Plus, we get a free ride out of it.  Wind quipped back.

We have membership passes, Wind.  All the rides are free.

Okay…. We get a second ride without having to wait in line….?

Twilight sighed again.  Can this line move any slower?  I want to get this over with before my stomach upchucks from worry.

HA!  You’re becoming a worry-wort just like the Old-Man. Wind teased.

Well with brothers like you, who can blame me.

Hey.

Gess, Twi. Calm down.  We can ride one of your favorites when we’re done.  Maybe go to the Petting Zoo? Wild tried to calm down him down, finally registering how pale he had gotten.

We’re banned from the Petting Zoo. Twilight glared.

Well…

And the Food Court, and the Video Game Lounge and-

We get it! You don’t like it here, alright.  Don’t blame me for wanted to have some fun.  Wind pouted.

Twilight grimaced. Sorry, Wind.  I know you’re excited and you’ve been looking forward to this.  I’m…. just… not a coaster fan.

Then why’d you agreed to come?  Wind glared back with puffed-out cheeks.

Because you two are my brothers and I like spending time with you two.

And, Malon would kill you if you left us unsupervised?  Wild added

And Malon would kill me if I left you two ding-bats unsupervised.  Twilight repeated

Wind snickered.  Nah. You could just use your puppy dog eyes and blame it on Time.  Malon listens to your lies.  

Hey!  I don’t lie.

Wind and Wild glare at Twilight with raised eyebrows.

Often……

 Back with Legend and Sun.

GGAAHH!!! How!  HOW! In the NAME of the Goddesses! Do you keep winning! Legend yelled with all the fury of a sore loser.

Better luck next time, Legend.   And no more calling your bf for more funds.  We made a deal.  Once you’re out, you are out.

GGAAHHH!!

Sun giggles.

AND! Ravio is not my Boyfriend.  We are just friends. Got it. Legend was pointed at Sun with a crimson blush across his checks.

Aww Legend, you don’t have to deny your feelings.  You know (Sun enters scheming mode.) Sky and I can offer some love advi-

I don’t need your advice.

I can flirt just fine on my own.  AND! Ravio and I are JUST friends.  I don’t need your mettling.

ME! Mettle in my future brother-in-law’s affairs? Never.  Sun playfully scoffs.

Says the woman trying to set up Twilight with her classmate and Warriors with her personal trainer.

I can’t help it if I have an eye for match-making.

You really don’t.

Sun’s eyes narrow.  Okay! Mister Denial. If you and Ravio are not together… Then you won’t mind if I post these pictures of you two from Warriors Party last week? Or on longs walks?  Or at your sister Aviary?

Your lying! There is no way that you have pictures.

Oh! But I do. Your sister and I text quite often. She takes out her phone and waves in front of Legend.

Legend face blushes an even brighter red. Your…. Your lying….

I think this one this the cutest. Sun chimes as she shows Legend a picture of him and Ravio sitting happily on a bench holding hands and drinking coffee.

Delete that!

Nope.

Sun!

Never! Sun takes off in a run.

Sun get back here!

 Meanwhile not paying attention to a nearby Bench….

Okay! But you have no room to talk here, Time.

I can and I will. You are far too judge.  

It’s called standards!

It’s called being a damn prick!   You’ve been sleeping around with strangers for months now.  

I have not!

You’ve had three different partners in the past two months, War.  Sky leaned in.  We’re not judging.  We’re… just… worried that’s all.

You don’t need to worry. I am fine!

You’re in as much denial as Legend.  

That’s a low blow coming from you, Mister. Warriors pointed at Time.  That’s a grand statement coming from the man that took two years to pop the question to Malon.  Even after you bought that damn gaudy rings.

I wanted the perfect moment!  Sue me, for putting thought into purposing to the love of my life.

Two.  Goddess. Damned. Years.

That was a lot of time…. Time….. Sky pipped up again.

Sky.  Stay out of it.  You wanted to purpose to Sun after the second date.  

Hey.  Sky shrugged.  When you know, you know.  

Warriors rolled his eyes.

And pry tell how you even describe that feeling, Sky?  You fall in love with a cup of coffee every morning.  

Sun makes really good coffee. Sky chimes in.

Of course, she does. Warrior sighs.

Malon makes good coffee…

Not you too!

 End of chapter one.

The rest of it is posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30189333/chapters/74384583

I’ll update it soon.....ish....

[admiralty-xfd]

Culmination

This is chapter three. To go back to the beginning, click here.

AFFIRMATION

SCULLY

(Never Again/ Memento Mori/ Small Potatoes)

“Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.”

“Yes, but it’s…”

She’s been thinking about this unfinished sentence a lot. The silence that followed, the distance they felt as they sat across from each other, thinking so much but saying nothing. Mulder’s desk situated between them like a huge mahogany metaphor for this particular bump in their road.

For the first time, it felt like they were in a real fight. The things they’d said to each other had hurt, but worse than that is the quiet resentment she now knows they’re both feeling. This inability to communicate about the things that really matter only adds to her frustration.

Two steps forwards and three steps back. It’s exhausting and disheartening to feel this way right now. She can’t help but wonder if she should be in a very different place in her life. Her friends are getting married, having kids, doing… normal things. Things she assumed she’d probably be doing by now. Things she thought she really wanted to do. Even the people she considers friends are so distant to her now. Mulder has taken up every inch of available space in her life. This can’t be healthy, can it?

But she’s still here with him. She’s connected to him in a way she’s afraid to examine too thoroughly. Their partnership has become personal to them both, and she’s only starting to truly realize the implications of that; the consequences of that.

His behavior towards her the morning before she left for the Pudovkin case in Philadelphia was aberrant. She’s having trouble explaining it, or justifying it. Maybe he was upset that she’d tuned out the evening before while he was questioning a witness. Or maybe he was annoyed about having to use his vacation time; idleness in any form is a peculiar brand of torture for him.

In any event, his bad mood combined with her disgruntlement has pushed them both to a breaking point. Without even realizing what he’d done, he had cut her to the quick with his flippant attitude about something very important to her, to how she views their partnership. He’s always treated her as an equal, always. And his dismissal of something as seemingly trivial as a desk only augments its significance in her mind.

It isn’t about the desk. It was never about the desk.

Four years into their partnership and she honestly can’t recall feeling this angry at him before. It surprises her. She doesn’t like it.

She’s well aware that she hurt Mulder, too, though. She hadn’t meant to but she’d trivialized his life’s pursuit, and made him think she didn’t care when she does... of course she does. She wouldn’t be be here if she didn’t. And she truly believes he knows that, regardless of what was said between them.

So why was he so upset? Why had he been so unkind after she’d returned from doing his bidding, as always? It wasn’t like him. She still can’t make sense of it.

She’s convinced it can’t be because of Ed Jerse. Mulder has never shown any interest in her pursuing a social life other than to mock her for it. If she’s being completely honest, that very mockery is what led her to call Ed in the first place.

It was ill advised, the entire thing, but how the hell was she supposed to know Ed Jerse would turn out to be a psychopath? The frustration she was feeling had to express itself somehow and a mysterious handsome stranger seemed like the right outlet. He was nice. She found him attractive. They’d had a good conversation, a good connection. And quite frankly, she needed what he’d given her. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s body beneath her, everything that followed had almost been worth it.

Almost.

What had she been thinking? One night stands aren’t her. Getting tattoos with men she just met isn’t her. She’s having trouble admitting to herself she slept with Ed Jerse because she was angry with Mulder. It didn’t feel that way while it was happening. But she did. She knows this now, she just doesn’t quite know what it means. It was being thirteen and sneaking out of the house to smoke her mother’s cigarettes all over again.

Maybe she really did want Mulder to find out. Maybe she wanted to find out what he’d do.

Being acknowledged by him and feeling like her work has meaning isn’t something she thought she’d have to work so hard to obtain at this juncture. It’s the first time in their partnership she’s felt devalued in such a way. It frustrates her to no end that she has to throw that concern in now with all her other concerns.

Chiefly, the very real concern that she’s dying.

Ever since she’d learned that the MUFON women in Allentown were all dying of cancer as a result of their abductions, she feared it may be a possibility for her. But as every day passed, she grew more and more hopeful that maybe her fears had been unfounded.

Now that she knows the truth, she dreads telling Mulder. The last thing she wants is to feel even less like an equal, to feel like someone fragile to be cared for or pitied. Just one more reason he needs to protect her.

As the phone rings, she realizes she picked up and dialed his number without even rehearsing what she’s going to say. Also, she forgot for a moment they are still kind of in a fight.

She idly wonders how someone can rely so heavily on another person and still feel so fucking lonely all the time.

“Hey, Scully,” he answers. He sounds apprehensive. She hopes that’s a good sign and not a bad one.

“Hi.” Suddenly she has no earthly idea how to proceed. “Um.”

“Before you say anything, can I say something first?”

“Okay.” She’d rather not be having this conversation at all, so she’s glad to delay it even for a moment.

“I just want to say I’m sorry for being such an ass the other day. Especially considering what you went through, it was insensitive and wrong of me. It’s none of my business what you do on your own personal time. I don’t know… I don’t know why I acted that way and I’m sorry.”

Wow.

“I appreciate that, Mulder.”

“Also, I… I didn’t really hear you when you were talking about the desk. I mean, I heard you, but I didn’t hear you. I’ve thought about it and you’re right. There’s no reason you shouldn’t have your own desk. I put a request into HR to get you one. We’ll figure out where to put it next week.”

Jesus. This is completely unexpected.

“I hope you know that having you here isn’t just something I tolerate, Scully. You’re not just a box to be checked. I want you to be here. I just… I hope you know that, is all.”

Weirdly, this fight feels so unimportant now. She doesn’t need the desk. She just needed to hear him say that.

“Mulder, thank you. And I hope you know it was never really about the desk.”

“I do know. I know that now, believe me.”

“Then cancel the request, okay? I don’t need it. I hate Battleship anyway.” She smiles and hears him laugh on the other end.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. And thanks again. Thank you for hearing me.”

“Of course. I always try to hear you, Scully.”

She knows, but she’s glad he said it. Maybe there’s hope for their communication skills after all. “I… I actually called because I have something I need to tell you, and it’s not good.”

“What is it?” His concern is evident.

“Can you meet me right now?”

“Yeah, of course. Are you at home?”

“Actually I’m at Holy Cross Memorial.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Meet me at oncology.”

“I’m on my way.”

She hangs up the phone and looks up at her brain scans, displayed on the wall like some macabre art exhibit. A proclamation of death demurred.

She called Mulder before she even called her mother. It had been automatic, like a nerve sending a signal to the brain that she has no control over. Somehow he’s a part of her, like a phantom limb she will always feel. This knowledge scares her, it gives her pause. She’s never been so dependent on another person in her entire adult life.

It’s always been hard for her to let people in, even the ones who are closest to her. She’s always looked out for herself, been tough, independent. It’s probably what attracted her to the FBI in the first place.

This feeling of powerlessness is strange territory for her. She’s well aware of Mulder’s proclivity to protect her, but she fears it now. This time it feels different. She’s vulnerable now, in more ways than one. It’s not his fault, either. It’s just who he is.

How is she going to tell Mulder she will someday have to give up on him? That they won’t be able to continue this journey together? How will she admit defeat, failure? And at what point will her body decide to give up on her, to give up on both of them?

She knows now, more than ever before, his life’s work is her own. His life is her own. They are in this together, forever entwined. Maybe that’s what he was trying to communicate to her before, in their office. Maybe he’s already come to that realization. It took a cancer diagnosis to wake her up.

“Not everything is about you, Mulder. This is my life.”

“Yes, but it’s…”

She knows now.

“...It’s my life, too.”

***

They’re sitting in her apartment on the couch, a fire roaring, soft music playing, wine glasses in hand. It’s not a scenario she ever thought they’d be in together. Incredibly, something has happened. He’s made an effort to get to know her more socially and it’s confusing and exciting and a little scary.

“I’m seeing a whole new side of you, Mulder,” she says as she sips the wine. It’s not great wine. She’s not surprised. But with Mulder, it’s the thought that counts.

“Is that a good thing?” he asks. She looks at him, the contours of his chest visible through his gray T-shirt. She doesn’t get to see him much outside a suit and tie. The way it’s distracting her right now makes her a bit grateful for that fact. Just a little bit.

“I like it,” she confesses.

She does like it. This isn’t the kind of attention she’s used to getting from him. There’s no pretense to be in her apartment, no new autopsy notes to go over, no paranormal theories to discuss, no arguments over what to believe or not believe. Just two friends hanging out.

With wine. And music. And a fire. And thoughts about how he looks in his T shirt that are decidedly unfriendly.

“Do you ever wish you could go back and do it all differently?” Mulder’s voice is unusual, hushed. She’s not used to him talking to her like this. It’s sexy. God help her, his voice is so sexy.

“Do you?”

His nod is barely perceptible but she sees it. As he shifts closer to her on the couch she knows exactly what he’s doing and she feels a rising panic inside her. Suddenly all the fears and doubts that have kept her from thinking about this very moment are real, and in her face.

Oh god. What is he doing?

As he inches closer and closer to her lips, her mind goes through a roller coaster of emotions.

Her first impulse is to tell him “no” but then her brain loses all control to the other parts of her body that just want him to kiss her, now.

They are mere inches apart when her apartment door bursts open and there is Mulder, again, looking disheveled and confused. She looks at one Mulder, then the other. She barely has time to register what’s going on but everything suddenly and disappointingly makes sense. Thoroughly grossed out, she pushes Eddie Van BlundHt off her and moves away. The real Mulder’s face is inscrutable.

Everything comes to fruition in her mind in an instant. Maybe knowing she’s dying brings clarity she hadn’t had before. Maybe it’s the wine she’s been drinking all evening. Or maybe it’s the hard fucking evidence that she was only just half a second away from pulling his mouth to hers and letting him take her right there on her couch.

Whatever the reason, she can’t deny it anymore, she knows the truth.

She’s in love with Mulder.

Not the kind of love she’s always felt for him; the kind of love a best friend feels, or a partner, or a confidant. No... the kind of love that overwhelms her senses and reaches deep, deep down to every single part of her. The kind of love she’s been waiting her entire life for.

It’s difficult to believe she hasn’t realized it before now, but she’s actively worked so hard not to fall for him that the opposite actually happening never concerned her. She’s kept herself so closed off for so long, it’s become difficult to see things that are staring her right in the face.

The disappointment she feels at this turn of events is painfully evident. She knows it wasn’t really Mulder saying any of those things to her, but what she knows now is how much she wanted it to be. She wanted him to be saying those things. She wanted it to be him, wanting to kiss her. She knows it.

And now she’s completely fucked.

Besides the fact that she has no idea how to convey any of this to him, she’s dying. If she tells him she’s in love with him, she’s dying. If she doesn’t tell him, she’s still dying. She doesn’t know what to do.

Not telling him is easier. She thinks she’ll stick with that.

After the police arrive and escort Mr Van BlundHt back to jail, Scully starts cleaning up the wine glasses. This isn’t like the Ed Jerse situation; it’s much worse, because she feels like Mulder now knows something about her that she doesn’t know about him. Her walls have started to come down in front of him and she doesn’t like that feeling.

Thankfully, the embarrassment isn’t solely hers; as Mulder lingers near the doorway he can’t look her in the face. She secretly hopes he just leaves so she won’t have to explain herself.

“Do you think he could have drugged the wine?” Mulder asks.

She had opened and poured it herself. She knows this isn’t the case. But he doesn’t know that.

“Maybe.”

He nods and turns to leave. They won’t talk about it again.

MULDER

(Redux II/ Emily)

He races to the hospital as fast as humanly possible. He can’t believe what she’s told him, he has to see her for himself.

Remission. She’s going to be okay. She’s going to live.

The pain he’d felt last night at her bedside was so intense he’d been utterly lost. He couldn’t fathom what he would do, how he could possibly move forward without her by his side. He can’t remember another time in his entire life he’d felt so alone. And he knows from lonely.

He’d actually considered joining forces with the cancer man, for fuck’s sake.

Oddly enough, that very consideration has got him thinking. When it comes right down to it, Mulder would give just about anything to save Scully’s life. He’s realizing protecting her has become his highest priority and he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Solitude has been a comfort to him over the years. If he doesn’t get too close to someone, he doesn’t have to risk losing them. He’s remained focused, determined, undeterred in his quest. He hasn’t had to worry about distractions.

After the Diana fiasco, he made a conscious decision not to pursue any romantic entanglements that might distract him from his mission. It wasn’t for lack of desire or interest, just a lack of availability. He knew he’d be unable to give someone the time and energy required to maintain any kind of healthy relationship while remaining focused on his work.

He hadn’t counted on Scully showing up in his life and blowing that plan to pieces. The way their lives have become intertwined was something he could never have anticipated. Although proud of himself for keeping things between them mostly professional over the years, he’d be a fool to deny what he knows now is the truth: there is no other person he’d rather be with than her: professionally, intellectually, romantically, sexually, all of the above. He simply can’t imagine another scenario.

If that’s what love is, then that’s what he’s found. In spite of everything, even though he hasn’t been looking for it, somehow he’s found it here, on this godforsaken planet, in her.

He thinks it might be possible she loves him, too. But he doesn’t think it’s possible he will ever feel worthy of her.

He knocks and slowly peeks into her hospital room. “Scully?”

She’s laying on her side but she’s not asleep. He inches tentatively into the room, searching her eyes. She sits up and reaches for him. There are no words either of them need to say.

He goes to her and sits on the bed, wrapping his arms around her. His smile is so enormous he worries it might jump off his face and go flying around the room. He can hear her sniffling as she grips the back of his jacket, and one of her hands moves to the nape of his neck, fingers spreading into his hair. His body tenses. How does she know to do that, how much he likes that? Does she even know or is it completely unconscious?

He wishes they were something they aren’t, so he could kiss her. God, he just wants to kiss her. Why can’t he do that? It’s never the right time. Why can’t it just be the right time?

He knows that’s not the main reason. He knows the real reason: he’s afraid.

“I can’t believe it, Mulder. I really can’t.”

He doesn’t plan to let her go for a long time, so they just stay that way, holding onto each other.

“I’m so relieved, Scully. Do the doctors know what turned it around?”

“None of them can say for sure, but I’m never removing this goddamn chip again just in case.”

He laughs, and breathes her in. Considering she’s been stuck in the hospital for several days he’s amazed at how great her hair smells.

After an indeterminate amount of time, he hears the door open behind him, but he can’t see who it is from his vantage point. He soon realizes that the Scully family has arrived.

He releases her and turns around, finding Mrs. Scully’s eyes flooded with tears. He tries to avoid Bill Jr’s stare, but can feel it just the same. He wants to cut the guy a little slack. He loves his sister and is just looking out for her, much like himself.

He thinks of Samantha. He can relate.

“Oh, Dana!” her mother cries and runs to the bedside. Mulder starts to slide off the bed but Maggie envelops him into a three-way hug, and he returns it. He may not be Maggie’s family, but she is well aware he is her daughter’s.

“Fox, thank you for being here.”

Mulder smiles at Scully’s mother. He’s always liked her, liked how easy and welcoming she’s been with him over the years. In a way he envies the relationship she has with her daughter; his own mother hasn’t very often been the same reliable source of comfort and support for him over the years. Maggie has never questioned or doubted the devotion he and Scully share, and he feels grateful for that.

“I’ll be in the hall, Scully. You take your time with your family.” He takes her hand and kisses it, aware that Maggie is watching the two of them very closely.

As he gets up to leave, he and Bill Jr share a nod. He and this guy may never like each other, but in this moment they can push those feelings aside and acknowledge the relief and happiness they both feel.

Mulder extends his hand, tries to be companionable. As Bill takes it, he looks Mulder in the eye. “I’m glad you’re here for her.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else right now,” Mulder retorts. Their grasp tightens, then releases. It’s all he can say in this moment, all he feels comfortable saying. He hopes it’s enough for this guy to stop hating him.

He closes the door behind him and sits on a chair in the hospital hallway, where he waits. He will wait for the right moment to kiss her. He will wait for the right moment to tell her what she means to him. Waiting will become one of his new crusades.

For now, he will wait here for her until she needs him again. It’s where he belongs.

***

The car ride home from Emily’s wake has been quiet. He wants to talk to Scully, he’s just not sure how, or even about what.

It’s drizzling outside, both his hands are on the steering wheel. She’s turned away from him, looking out the window. Every once in awhile he hears a soft sniffle.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She won’t turn to face him. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

He wants to be there for her, even if she thinks she doesn’t need him. He reaches out a hand to take hers, and she lets him. “If it’s any consolation, you did the right thing, Scully. Her suffering is over.”

“I know it is. I’m not feeling guilt, or regret, or anything like that. I know I made the best choice for her.”

“Then… are you okay?”

“It’s just... so unfair. So needlessly cruel, for God to bring a child into this world and allow her to suffer that way.”

He sighs. “I know this won’t help, but if you think that way, you have to concede that God lets this happen to multitudes of other children, every single day. We cannot save them all, Scully. All we can do is the best we can. That’s why we do the work we do.”

She squeezes his hand, knows he’s right.

“You need to keep telling yourself that, Scully. We are doing the best we can.”

“Maybe I’m just being selfish. Because I know you’re right. But I can only think of myself right now, and why this happened. I should never have even known Emily existed. But if I hadn’t, she may have suffered even more. I’m not sure how to feel. It’s almost as if… as if I shared in her suffering. As if she gave it over to me when she died. And now I’m suffering.” She pauses, considers this. “Maybe that’s what being a parent is.”

“Do you wish you’d never known about her?”

“No. She was my daughter, nothing can change that. I’ll always be glad I got to know her, even for those short precious moments. To see myself reflected back to me in a child… it’s something I never thought I’d get to see.”

He can’t help but feel a pang for her, for the loss of something she’d longed for. Not Emily specifically, but the chance to be a mother. It was stolen from her in her prime, and for no other reason than she had gotten tangled up with him and his mission. She may not feel guilt, but he certainly does.

“Emily wasn’t meant to be, Scully. The men who created her didn’t do it so you could know her, and love her. But you did, you got to love her, and as sad as this all is, that’s something worth holding on to.”

Scully turns in her seat, regards him thoughtfully. “Do you want to have kids someday?”

He glances sidelong at her, with a small smile.

She quickly explains. “I mean… I just mean, you know, in general. Is that something you ever think about?”

“I don’t know, honestly. I’m not opposed to the idea, but maybe I’m just jaded. It’s not a future I necessarily picture.”

As soon as the words escape his mouth he finds himself reconsidering. It’s not that being a parent is something he doesn’t want, it just hasn’t been a priority. But now that he’s openly said it’s a future he doesn’t think about, he can’t help but think about it.

Maybe he’s subconsciously written off the idea of having children because he knows Scully can’t have them. The thought burrows its way into his heart and he can’t shake it. Any kid he had the presence of mind to imagine has always been, in his heart, half his and half hers.

It’s silly; they aren’t even in a relationship. He loves her and he knows it, but this isn’t a conversation he can have with her right now. Just because he sees his future with her, it doesn’t change the fact that they’re sitting in this car together having never even kissed. It doesn’t change the fact that her heart is currently broken by the death of a child that should never have existed. A child that was created using her stolen ova, ova he knew about and never had the heart to tell her.

The two of them have issues that no couple, romantic or not, should ever have to deal with.

He remembers beating the shit out of Emily’s physician the other day. How his devotion to Scully had come pouring out of him in violence. The guy had deserved it, but it took him off guard. The anger and desperation he’d felt in that moment was something even he hadn’t been prepared to feel.

“Where do you think they took her?” Scully fingers the gold cross around her neck thoughtfully. “Some cold facility somewhere? Is she being picked apart as we sit here? Cut open? Researched? Or has she just been destroyed?”

Mulder shakes his head. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“You knew she’d be gone. I should have suspected. After everything we’ve been through, Mulder. Why couldn’t I see that coming?”

He sighs. “You have an optimism I haven’t had in awhile. When I was in violent crime I saw so many horrible things, all the time. It does something to you, Scully. It takes away your hope. It chips away at your faith in humanity. I don’t often meet people who help renew that faith. Maybe it’s why I’m always out looking for aliens.”

“But I wouldn’t consider you a person without hope. Far from it.”

“Maybe since you’ve been around, things have been better. What can I say, Scully? You bring out the best in me.”

She can’t help but smile at him. He squeezes her hand and adjusts his fingers to interlock with hers.

“I don’t say this often enough, but I think you’re amazing, Scully.”

“You do?” She sounds touched.

“I do. It’s not easy doing what we do every day. You take a lot of crap for it, too. From your family, from others at work. In the face of all our dead ends, everything that’s happened to you, and all the terrible stuff we see. You keep on going. I think that’s amazing.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Mulder," she sighs. "But I don’t feel that way all the time. To be honest, on days like today all I want to do is give up.”

They drive in silence for a bit, the rain picking up a bit, the windshield wipers working harder.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“You know, you don’t have to do this, Mulder. I’ll be fine. I don’t need you to make me feel better.”

“I’m not," he insists. "I’m just being honest with you. You put all of yourself into this job even when you probably shouldn’t. You always defend me even when I don’t deserve it. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to get stuck with you, Scully.”

“Stuck with me?” She raises an eyebrow, smiling.

“You know what I mean. If it had been anyone else sent downstairs to work with me I’d be out of a job by now. Or even dead.”

He can feel her gaze on him. He loves it and is unsettled by it all at once.

“I don’t think I could ask for a better partner, Scully. I’m thankful for you every day. I should tell you that more often.”

She looks down at their entwined fingers. He briefly glances down too, and for a moment he can’t tell which fingers are his and which are hers. She slowly traces circles with her thumb near his wrist, right at his pulse point. The gesture is romantic, sensual. He doesn’t want to read too much into exactly how much he’s enjoying it.

“I’m glad you’re my partner too, Mulder. Even though you’re stuck with me. I’m happy to be here.”

He pulls the rental car into Bill Scully Jr’s driveway and turns off the ignition. The car goes silent and they sit together for a moment, the rain pattering on the windows the only sound. She’s still doing the thing with her thumb and he wonders if she’s aware of the power she has over him, or if she’s completely oblivious to it. They look at each other, really look into each other’s eyes for the first time since they left the church, and he briefly considers going for it. He could lean in right now, here in her brother’s driveway, and change everything forever.

Before he makes a decision, she speaks and the moment passes.

“Are you coming in? Or do you have to catch your flight home?” She says it quietly and he can tell she wants him to stay.

He doesn’t really want to endure Bill Jr’s unpleasantness, but his flight isn’t for a few hours, and something deep inside is compelling him to stay with her. Besides, after all Scully has gone through this week, the least he can do for her is put up with her asshole brother for a couple hours.

“I’m coming with you.” He can’t help himself and pulls her hand to his lips to kiss it. He knows, truly knows he’s in deep. The only thing more real to him right now than his love for her is his fear. The only thing getting in the way is his own hesitation.

“Hang on, I’ll come around with the umbrella,” he tells her.

He walks around to the other side and helps her out of the car. He holds the umbrella over her head as she shuts the door, taking her hand again. She doesn’t typically tolerate these acts of chivalry with much patience, but for whatever reason she’s allowing it.

As they walk to the front door, holding hands, he wonders if he’s being inappropriate. They’re off duty, she’s grieving, maybe he’s taking advantage. But she squeezes his hand and makes no effort to let go. He’s just happy she seems to be feeling better. If she’s sending him any signals, he’s certainly not going to interpret them as such, not today.

Maggie Scully opens the door, smiling, and lets them inside. As she collects the umbrella, he glances over her shoulder into a mirror behind her and takes in the tableau of himself and Scully, hand in hand. He has the distinct awareness that they look like a couple.

Maybe they are. Maybe they always will be, regardless of whether or not they ever talk about it.

Thanks for reading! To continue reading click here. I’ll be back tomorrow with Chapter Four.

[nearlyfandoms-blog]

Artemis and Orion - Chapter One

Summary: Sixth-year Ravenclaw, Valerie Halliwell, had spent the past five years a bright, successful student at Hogwarts. However, when she arrives home from her OWLs to find her younger sister missing, she can’t help but blame herself. Over the course of the summer, she slowly loses herself, becoming a shell of the person she once believed to be her true self. Upon arriving at her sixth year at Hogwarts and cutting herself off from her past self almost entirely she finds solace in a new group of companions, the Marauders. Valerie’s life finally seems to be on the upswing once more. However, Voldemort and his group of Death Eaters grow stronger and stronger, becoming more prevalent in the public eye, lashing out more frequently in more violently. The group once viewed as a powerless fringe company of dark wizards grow more and more powerful everyday and those, like Valerie, who believed themselves to be safe from the threat find themselves in constant danger. As the threat against Valerie and her family escalates in ways no one could foresee she may be forced to abandon the new life she has cultivated for herself for the good of her family and the ones she loves; the ones who love her the most.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading the first chapter of this series! I hope you all enjoy it and I would love to hear what you all think. To be fair, I’m not the best at writing summaries so I hope that the one above does enough justice to the story. Let me know if anyone has any suggestions for it as the story goes one! Also, just a fair warning, this chapter is very expositional but I tried to make it as interesting as possible. Again, thank you so much for reading! I hope you’re all having a lovely day/night!

- nearlyfandoms

0.1

Silence. That’s what my life has boiled down to, a constant state of silent anxiety. An inescapable dread that my life had become unhinged and was spiralling wildly out of control coupled with the feeling that I was helpless, yet it was my own doing. My fate had little to nothing to do with me. At least, that’s what it had taken a summer to convince myself. My entire vacation away from Hogwarts was spent in a continuous cycle of sleeping, hardly eating, crying, and sitting in introspective silence. Each day continued the same. I had lost contact with all of my friends. Every week their letters arrived and every week a new piece of parchment was accumulating on my bedside table inside of my almost equally as silent and dreary household. I guess that’s how I ended up like this, sitting inside an empty cabin on the Hogwarts express on my way to my dreaded sixth year, the shell of who I used to be.

While boarding the Hogwarts Express for the past five years I had been filled with nothing but excitement. The joy of beginning another new and magical year at the world’s most prestigious school of witchcraft and wizardry was beyond thrilling. I would finally get to see my best friends and Ravenclaw peers after a long summer in my hometown of London. They were the ones who understood me. My mother tried to help me with the feelings of being lost outside of school. However, she lacked the experience to properly understand the sensation of being stranded in a world of people who were unlike me. I had my father, a fellow Ravenclaw, but he worked almost constantly, especially this summer. Who could blame him though? My house was the last place that I wanted to be too.

When I boarded the train home for the summer I had been the picture of Ravenclaw excellence; a bright, happy-go-lucky girl who never got less than excellent marks in any of her classes and spent her free time studying in the company of friends. Only three months later I boarded the same car a shell of the person I once was. I’d seen my closest friends Levi, Delilah and Carson sitting in a compartment with an empty seat I knew was reserved for me. My heart clenched when I saw that seat. It represented the five years of friendship that they were willing to preserve despite the numerous unanswered letters I’d received this summer. I was a terrible person. It was selfish of me but I couldn’t handle speaking to them again after the way I’d treated them over the summer. Instead of joining them in their compartment I walked hurriedly past and found an empty one for myself at the back of the train.

It was cold and I was completely and utterly alone. My mind wandered to thoughts of my beloved younger sister, Cheryl. Our situations were probably comparable. This is where the trouble that lead to my entire family’s downward spiral had begun. I arrived home from my fifth year at Hogwarts, excited as ever to see my family again. My sister was unaware of my father and I’s shared magical capabilities due to the fact that she did not inherit these traits as I had. She believe that I had been attending an all girls preparatory school for advanced studies in marine biology. It was a flimsy excuse, but she never questioned it. Cheryl wrote me frequently. Before she would send them my father would have to catch them as they were being delivered to the mail carrier and deliver them by owl. However, a few weeks before the end of school, in the middle of my O.W.L.s her letters had abruptly stopped. I didn’t pay much mind to it.

It wasn’t until I arrived home near the end of May that I was told she had run away from home a few weeks prior. During a particularly stressful night Cheryl had written me a letter and addressed it to the address she’d been writing to for years. She managed to deliver the letter to the post and received a letter a few days later from the headmaster of the school informing her that there had never been a Valerie Halliwell at her school. After confronting my father he confessed the truth about my whereabouts and his heritage. My mother was furious as she was the one that wished to keep it a secret from Cheryl until she was older. Being a muggle, my mother thought she could understand her better than my father and I. I suspect that Cheryl thought herself responsible for the sudden uptake in nightly arguments between our parents in the weeks before I returned from school. She left late in the night close to the beginning of May, a short note having been left behind as her only explanation. I’d reread her note thousands of time and the crumpled remains were currently stuffed in my pocket. My hands instinctively went to the pocket of my jeans to make sure the yellowed paper was still there. I couldn’t help but pull it out and scan over the scrawled and frantic handwriting one more time.

Dear Mum, Dad, and Val,

I’m sorry I’m such a nuisance and I’m sorry that I’ve done this to our family. Maybe it’d be for the better if I was somewhere else. Please don’t look for me, just know that I’m okay. I love you all.

- Cheryl

Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes. I’d practically memorized the letter by now. If only my parents had told me earlier, I could’ve stopped her. I believe that she is safe, she was clever enough to protect herself in tricky situations. However, she was still only fourteen and nothing would reassure me more than knowing she was at home and safe. I spent every waking moment worried about her wellbeing. It got to the point where I had stopped paying any mind to my own physical and mental wellbeing. My cheeks had hollowed significantly and everything about me was clearly on the decline, inching further and further away from stability with every breath.

I remember arriving home from the train station by cab. My parents sat in the living room in silence, a pointed glare being the only interaction that the two had probably shared for the preceeding hour before I arrived. My mood sunk immediately and my mind flushed with worry. I recall asking them what was the matter in a tentative and shaking voice. When they explained that my  younger sister had been missing for three weeks my sketchbook clattered from my hands and landed with a thud onto the hardwood floors. My mother started to cry. My father disregarded her and instead rose to embrace me. This was the first sign that anything was different between them. Typically, my father would immediately go to comfort my mother, but this time he brushed her off like a piece of dust that clung to his jacket. My mind was too frozen in a state of shock to react in any way. Burly arms embraced my small frame and rubbed my back soothingly but I could only remain still. My life hadn’t been the same since then.

My room, stacked floor to ceiling with my favorite records from muggle bands such as The Beatles and The Rolling Stones now felt foreign and strange. My earth-toned tapestries were falling from their posts above my bed. My bedding sat practically undisturbed as most nights I would fall asleep on the floor, a stack of pictures of Cheryl and I as children in hand. Sleeping in my own bed felt too normal, like I’d be disregarding the current situation and be accepting a life without Cheryl as normal. The girl with curlier hair than mine and innocent green eyes was only two years younger than me but I still felt an almost maternal instinct to protect her. A 14 year old with little to no experience in the real world could not be alone out there. Some parts were dark and twisted and there was so much brewing below the surface that she could never comprehend. A sadistic, elitist dark wizard with abilities the likes of which were previously unseen in the wizarding community was on the rise and he threatened not only the witches and wizards but the entire world. The majority of the population had no idea of the grave threat that they faced.

My family, however, was burdened with the knowledge of this crushing reality and, in an effort to restore some of the normalcy we once possessed, planned a family dinner the night before my return to school. My mother cooked my favorite, chicken alfredo with basil pesto, and bought some of my favorite cookie dough ice cream. However, there was no light-hearted conversation or laughter between bites to brighten the setting. There was only silence and the soft smacking of our chewing. If anything the gathering did nothing but make me feel worse about my situation and myself. I’d never felt so much self-pity in so little time before. I was supposed to be stronger than this. The only conversation that was had during the dinner was my father asking if I was excited for potions class this year. He excitedly told me about how advanced potions had been his favorite class throughout all of his seven years at Hogwarts. His professor had been Professor Seville, a young man not much older than the majority of the sixth years. All the girls fawned over him relentlessly while all the boys wanted to be him. He had been a 7th year prefect when my father was a first year. The amount of detail with which my father was able to recount his first time meeting the older boy was astounding as it’d been close to 35 years. I made this point clear to my father and he jokingly reminded me that he was “38 years old”. A smile stretched across his face, accompanied by the faintest hint of a laugh. The only positive that could be gleaned from that drawn out and borderline torturous hour was that faint glimmer of joy. It was hope; hope that things could return to normal, hope that tomorrow Cheryl would walk through our front door and that our lives would return to the way they were before all of this happened. Deep down all three of us knew that there was no way that was going to happen.

I was pulled suddenly from my reverie by a knock on the compartment door. Through the small glass pane I could see the trolley witch with a smile on her face outside the door. I didn’t have the motivation to get up or the gold to buy anything right now so I simply resigned to giving her a small smile and shaking my head sadly. The older woman gave me a sympathetic smile before turning back to her cart and beginning to holler her offerings of sweets down the corridor to the next compartment. Memories of eating chocolate frogs and comparing which notable wizard we each received with Carson, Delilah and Levi flashed through my mind. A small smile tugged on my lips as I remembered the time Carson accidentally ate a handful of Ernie Bott’s beans and when Levi went to buy some candy but was so startled by the girl he fancied that he dropped all his coins on the floor at her feet. Oh how I wished those could be the times I knew were still to come. Everything was inherently different now and no matter how hard I tried there was nothing I could do to fix it.

An hour or so later the train lurched to a stop. Several voices filled with excitement started to fill the compartments and cars as my peers flooded the halls. There were so many familiar faces that passed by. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would look as different to them as I felt? I waited about five minutes from when the last person passed by to stand and collect my things. The familiar itch of the cotton robes covered my body once more and I found an odd comfort in it, like receiving a hug from a beloved yet distant relative. My footsteps echoed as I hurried out of the train to catch up with the crowd of people getting into carriages to go to the castle. The first carriage I found contained a sixth year Gryffindor that I’d seen passing in the halls a few times. I didn’t know her name but she was pretty with fair skin and reddish hair that fell past her shoulders and framed her slender features. She smiled sweetly at me and gestured for me to join her. It only took a few moments of hesitation before I climbed in next to her. We didn’t say much. We gave each other glances that let me know that she knew who I was but was unable to put a face to the name, just as I was with her. She was the first to get out of the carriage when we got to the castle, which I was grateful for. If I knew she was behind me, watching me get out, I probably would’ve fallen flat on my face. I planned on thanking her before we left but by the time I was securely on the ground she was already running to catch up with a smaller group before us, her hair swishing gracefully behind her.

A breath of stale air that I didn’t know I’d been holding released heavily from my lips as my eyes landed on the castle for the first time in months. I felt like I was going insane. I hadn’t even gone inside yet but already something was different. Was it possible that the castle I’d grown up in could have grown with me too? I told myself this was impossible seeing as I was so small and insignificant in the grander scheme of all the amazing things that were happening within the walls of this school. Some of the finest witches and wizards were growing up here and we didn’t even know it yet. I doubted that I would be among those who fell under the accolade of the finest witches and wizards; perhaps I could have been last year when I was at the top of my class and a favorite of most of my professors, but not this year. Things like that change all the time. Unfortunately, whether we want it to happen or not, so do we.

[strmyweather]

one foot in front of the other, babe / one breath leads to another, yeah / just keep moving

I’m in the homestretch of my training for the New York City Marathon; the race is a little over five weeks away. Honestly, I sort of can’t believe I’m saying that -- because it seems like just a minute ago there were multiple months stretching out before me like the Great Dismal Swamp (which is an actual place) -- but now I’m realizing that there’s actually a faint light emanating from the end of this endurance tunnel. Somehow, I’ve only got four more ‘long runs’ left before the taper.

This is marathon number six for me, which might give the impression that the process is old hat by this point, but that would be thoroughly untrue. There have been a ton of ‘moving parts’ this time around, physically, mentally, and nutritionally -- maybe more so than ever before -- and I’m definitely due to set some of it down on paper. I had intended to do regular updates every couple of weeks as the training progressed, but (surprise, surprise) never actually managed to do so -- meaning this will probably be another of my infamous ten-page missives. So… pour another cup of coffee and strap in.

Back Story

I have a rather long and karmically-entangled history with the NYC Marathon. I was never a runner in adolescence -- swimming was my sport -- but took it up gradually during my senior year of college, mostly because my roommate nudged me into accompanying her on a couple of races of various distances. When we graduated and I no longer had easy access to a pool, I started doing road races and triathlons regularly, almost by default -- at that point in my life, I needed something concrete to train for in order to ensure that I remained consistently physically active. I gradually built up to marathon distance, starting with the Marine Corps Marathon in 2008, and although I entered the NYC lottery more than once, I was never selected.

In 2012, I finally just bit the bullet and bought a charity slot for NYC. Thanks largely to my PA classmates, I successfully raised 100% of the money (!) -- but those of you playing the home game may recall that 2012 was the year of Superstorm Sandy, and that the NYCM was therefore canceled that year for the first and only time since its inception. (I was literally ON THE BUS from Philadelphia to New York when the verdict came down.) Along with most of the field, I deferred my entry to 2013 -- and ended up with a stress fracture in my foot. Thoroughly annoyed, I deferred again, to 2014 -- and, a month into training, promptly sustained a stress fracture in the OTHER foot. (Pretty sure that’s what the kids call #facepalm.) However, by then I was out of deferrals, and I sure hadn’t raised that $2500 for nothing, so I adapted a CrossFit Endurance-style training plan to keep my fitness at a reasonable level while avoiding anything involving repetitive impact. Three weeks before the race, I was cleared to run.

So I did. My longest training run was five miles. It was by far my slowest marathon. It wasn’t the race I’d envisioned, to say the least. But I finished it.

That was supposed to be it. The end. The closing of a chapter. Yet somehow, every year, I have consistently managed to end up in New York City on marathon weekend. Typically, I’m just there visiting friends or seeing shows -- but this past year, it was because a dear friend of mine from the Netherlands was running the race herself. And, reliving that experience from the fringes last November -- walking around the expo with thousands of excited runners, dashing around Manhattan with my friend’s husband to try to catch a glimpse of her at various mile markers, standing on the sidelines cheering with my camera at the ready -- well, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me wish I were running myself.

So, on the spur of the moment, I threw my name in the hat, for the fifth time in ten years. And then promptly forgot about it.

...Until the evening of February 28, 2018 -- when my mind was entirely occupied by Week 2 of the CrossFit Open -- and my phone suddenly beeped with an alert for ‘Unfamiliar Credit Card Charge’.

Over the coming minutes, my initial alarm changed to confusion -- then, as the realization dawned, to equal parts shock, excitement, and dread.

Oh, shit. What had I done?

Fast-forward another seven months or so, and here we are.

Physically

The metaphor I keep using is that I feel like I’ve been driving a 4-cylinder automatic transmission for the past decade and am suddenly being asked to master a stick-shift Maserati. That’s not to say that I’m any kind of speed demon in the grand scheme of things, just that I have a much larger number of ‘gears’ than I used to. I spent a solid decade doing ‘long slow distance’ in various forms prior to discovering CrossFit in 2012, but back then, I was basically either running or walking (or crawling!) -- there wasn’t much of an in-between option. Nowadays, I’m much stronger, faster, and lighter than I used to be -- all good things! -- but this kind of training also utilizes an energy system that we just don’t routinely tax to the same degree in CrossFit, and it takes time (and mileage) to get comfortable with that. Therefore, much to my dismay, I’m having to become intimately familiar with the feel of a ‘threshold’ pace -- a.k.a. the place where I’d LIKE to slow down, but don’t objectively NEED to slow down in order to complete a given work requirement. This is occasionally validating on the back end when I review my split times -- never could’ve imagined a day where I ‘accidentally’ hit an 8:15 mile IN THE MIDDLE of a long run! -- but also inevitably involves some ‘overshooting’, a.k.a. those sessions where I come out of the gate too hot, hit a wall after two miles, and spend the remainder of the time feeling like death. Yet, slowly but surely, I’m starting to internalize how it feels to run at an 8-minute pace, vs an 8:30 or 9:00 or 9:30 pace. There are two processes happening simultaneously -- physically training my body to run faster, and mentally training my ‘sixth sense’ to learn how to calibrate a pace that can be held for MANY miles, not just two or three.

I’ve learned a couple of interesting things about myself so far, including that, on a physical level, I am inherently a more aerobic athlete (read: not a power athlete). This had already become apparent in recent months via barbell performance -- I can use a pretty high percentage of my max with decent form for a lot of reps, but tend to struggle in terms of getting my actual one-rep maxes to move upward. It turns out I’m similar with regard to running -- I can hold a ‘moderate’ pace for a relatively long time (on one of my earliest long runs, I averaged 8:54 across seven miles and felt pretty great the whole way), but, as above, I’m learning that ramping that pace up even just a little bit past the sweet spot will quickly lead to a major crash and burn. However, I suppose I’d prefer to be built this way, as opposed to the alternative -- and one silver lining is that, since my 10-rep maxes are a lot closer to my 1RMs than they have any right to be, my working weights on the current (muscular-endurance-focused) weightlifting cycle haven’t had to drop down SO far as to make me sad. :)

In terms of programming, at my request, we are continuing to prioritize my CrossFit fitness, just with a necessarily heavy slant toward endurance and bodyweight strength. Running isn’t my primary sport and isn’t going to be; my goal is simply to ‘complete’ this marathon in relatively good shape -- to stay healthy as possible throughout the training, to feel strong for the majority of the event, to soak in and thoroughly enjoy the atmosphere of such a special race, to crush several very large piles of food afterward (first stop: milk bar!) -- and then immediately jump back into ‘normal’ CrossFit training. A new PR would be a bonus -- and I do think it’s well within my abilities -- but I also won’t be too upset if it doesn’t happen; I’m playing the long game here, and I’m much more concerned with retaining muscle mass and overall fitness than with earning the fastest possible marathon time.

This all means that my actual ‘mileage’ is relatively minimal -- which is good for me, both in terms of personal preference and due to the fact that my feet are typically the part of me that ‘breaks’ first when subjected to high volume. (Other CrossFitters have wonky shoulders or knees; my own personal Achilles’ heel -- pun intended --  has always been my feet.) I started out having weekly long runs programmed on Sunday mornings and two-a-day sessions on Wednesdays (light CrossFit in the morning + running speedwork at the track in the evening). However, I promptly sustained a (mild) foot injury in the third week of increasing speed mileage (#typical). This led to us changing the sprints over to the rower and assault bike -- so now, with five weeks to go, my only true running is the long Sunday-morning piece. However, almost everything else I’m doing supports those sessions by having taken a sharp turn towards aerobic capacity and bodyweight strength. My ‘metcon’-style work these days is usually ridiculously long and pretty boring -- think anything that taxes the legs: biking and rowing mixed with long light high-rep sets of wallballs, thrusters, air squats, deadlifts -- but I’ve just had to accept that. (I halfheartedly complained at one point early on, and Coach shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “Well, it’s either this or more running,” so I immediately buttoned my lip!) :)

This brings me to...

Mentally

Going in, I tried to keep a semi-open mind -- after all, I did this for a solid decade prior to CrossFit; this could turn out to feel like a refreshing break for me. It might even be exciting to do something a little different for a while. No such luck, though; I’m actually finding this type of training to be tremendously more mentally fatiguing than regular CrossFit, for two main reasons.

First (and most obviously) -- compared to barbells and handstand push-ups and ‘three-two-one-go’, endurance training is just LONG and BORING. There have certainly been a few gratifying moments -- ‘accidentally’ running a sub-27-minute 5k during training, crushing 3000 calories in a day, realizing I’ve somehow become that girl who truly is most comfortable running in just a sports bra (who even AM I?!?). But it simply isn’t where my heart is. In hindsight, I’m pretty sure the only way I was able to convince myself that I ‘liked’ this for so many years is because back then I wasn’t physically ‘training’ so much as giving myself a forced MENTAL break -- shoving in my headphones, zoning out, letting my mind wander. Fast paces were things that occasionally ‘happened’ on days when I felt good, not things that I could deliberately strive for. As I mentioned above -- turns out it’s a whole different ball game (and a lot more mentally taxing) when you’re actually TRAINING at a prescribed intensity level and staying attuned to keeping yourself there.

And secondly, this type of training is a lot more isolating than I had bargained for -- both physically and mentally. Gym-wise, I knew it wouldn’t be fun to watch other people crushing their CrossFit goals while I sat on the assault bike plugging away at another hour-long conditioning piece… but I was at least somewhat mentally prepared for that part. What’s been harder has been the (many, many) hours when I’m NOT in the gym. Getting up at 4:00am to cover a dozen miles in the dark before work is not much fun, nor is forcing myself to drive to the track at 7pm after I’ve worked a full clinic day and just want to go home to bed. It’s also tough to feel as though nobody in my life can relate to both this odd set of obligations AND the (even odder) accompanying headspace -- after all, most endurance athletes choose this method of training because they genuinely enjoy it. And -- to add insult to injury -- because the repetitive pounding beats my body up in a whole new way, it means I have to be hyper-focused on recovery (I’m getting to that!)... which then FURTHER detracts from time that I could be spending training in a way that I DO actually enjoy.

Training is generally my favorite part of any given day, because I usually find it validating and motivating just by its own nature. So, lately, it’s been frustrating and demoralizing -- and, frankly, a little frightening -- to feel such a major piece of my life evolving into a chore. I’ve certainly completed marathons on far less training than this (albeit a lot more slowly and painfully), so there have been many moments when it’s been hard to stare down the gun barrel of WHAT DO YOU MEAN TEN MORE WEEKS (or however long). However, I’m trying to remain cognizant of the fact that this is temporary -- and that, the better-prepared I am for the marathon, the less of a toll it will take on my body -- and therefore, the faster I can jump back into the stuff I really love.

This brings me to…

Recovery

I'm being extraordinarily careful about prioritizing my recovery, in part because, with endurance training, problems tend to show up LATER rather than declaring themselves in the moment. Aches and pains tend to be related to overuse, rather than to any kind of obviously-pinpointable injury, which makes them more slippery and insidious -- and therefore more difficult to prevent (until the horse is already out of the barn, that is). This is not my first rodeo with regard to distance running -- I've completed five marathons, over a dozen half marathons, and quite a few triathlons -- so I’m well aware of this dynamic by now. I had a bone deformity in one of my feet as a teenager, and although it’s been corrected, I've still had the pleasure over the years of dealing with shin splints, Achilles tendinitis, severe plantar fasciitis, and two metatarsal stress fractures. The latter is the worst-case scenario for any runner -- because by the time you 'feel' a stress fracture, it's already too late. That’s exactly where I’ve ended up during two of my previous marathon training attempts -- and is a place that I’ve been valiantly trying NOT to revisit.

Knock on wood, this training program has kept me considerably healthier overall than any of my previous attempts (not coincidentally, it’s also been the plan with the smallest weekly run mileage!). As I mentioned, I did end up with a mild foot injury a couple of weeks ago (nothing ‘specific’ enough for a true diagnosis; my left foot/ankle just got ‘angry’ through the retinaculum and the lower segment of the tibialis anterior) -- but it was definitely a soft-tissue problem this time, nothing bony, and responded well to a couple of weeks off running, some RockTape, a better-fitting pair of shoes, and a couple sessions with the PT and the bodywork guru at my gym (both of whom I’m seeing about twice a month for dry-needling, cupping, taping, and various other ‘hurts so good’ interventions!). My coach and I are perfectly in line with our opinions on this, which is that -- if we have to choose -- it’s vastly preferable for me to reach the start line healthy and perhaps slightly underprepared, versus crush every mile of the training and then be in pain from the first five minutes on the day when it actually matters.

Honestly, I am feeling incredibly well-supported in terms of the team I have around me -- more so than I have been maybe EVER, athletically speaking -- and so (general saltiness aside) I’m actually managing to stay pretty calm, even during the acute injury phase. First, because it always feels like a small miracle to be able to lie down on the therapy table with legitimate pain, and then stand up a little while later with it having essentially vanished (!) -- but second, because of the sheer emotional comfort that lies in the knowledge that (for once in my life) I actually don’t have to worry about EVERY little thing, that ‘other people are taking care of’ some pieces of this puzzle. The three of them are all aware of ‘where I’m at’ physically, and are in communication as far as what they think is best for me, which is such a gift. Just the awareness of that support network provides me with a huge amount of reassurance -- AND additional motivation to ‘do my best for them’, after all the time and energy they’re investing in me. (The first time she dry-needled the injured area, the PT bade me farewell after the session with the admonishment, “Don’t f*ck up my good work.”)

Unrelated: one other thing I’ve found useful for recovery purposes has been my new Garmin watch (Fenix 5S). It’s definitely not a hundred percent accurate -- it’s very much an endurance watch and thus has absolutely no idea how to interpret regular CrossFit most of the time, so it occasionally tells me my weekly training load is ‘light’ or that my performance condition is ‘peaking’ when that is BLATANTLY FALSE -- but in terms of things like heart rate, daily stress level, and sleep quality, it’s fascinating to see numerical data that backs up my own internal gauges, and it’s admittedly also been pretty helpful nutritionally in terms of calorie burn estimates (I’m getting to that!). And although it’s apt to underestimate my effort output at times, there are other times when it keeps me honest; on one memorable occasion, my coach sent me a new month’s worth of programming, and I saw that my long Saturday metcons had been dropped in favor of more movements that were labeled as ‘for quality’ or ‘not for time’. This is the sort of stuff I tend to find ‘boring’, and I groaned internally as I made a note to ask her why she’d done that. However, before we even had a chance to discuss it, I completed my first Friday session on the new plan (over 60 straight minutes of biking, rowing, wallballs, lunges, running, and air squats, if you’re curious!) -- and as soon as I clicked my stopwatch off, Garmin popped up with a cheery little note: “Recovery Time 45 Hours / Easy Effort Recommended.”

Well then. As usual -- it seems Coach knows what she’s doing!

Awesome support crew and techie gadgets aside, a few other essential recovery things: -- compression socks or calf sleeves for the 24 hours following a long run -- supplements: vitamin D, krill oil, zinc/magnesium/B6, probiotics, vitamin C -- a consistent 9-9:30pm bedtime -- Epsom salt baths after the heaviest leg days -- tart cherry juice in my workout shake (helps reduce inflammation) -- and doing my best to NEVER be in a calorie deficit (more on this below).

Which brings me to...

Nutritionally / Fueling

One enormous and unexpected side benefit of this whole process is that I’ve had to become much more flexible and forgiving with regard to food. (This is something that definitely needed to happen, but I just couldn’t really foresee exactly how I was going to get there!) I’ve been following Renaissance Periodization for 18 months now (cut #1, short maintenance, cut #2, long maintenance, third/SHORT cut, now currently on maintenance again), and it has done phenomenal things for me (which is why I’ve stuck to it so rigidly until now); however, the origins of the program lie in weightlifting and strength training. To their credit, RP has put forth a lot of effort recently to try to tailor their approach to make it work for endurance training, and I definitely found their tools to be a pretty useful starting point in terms of calculating carb recommendations for long run days -- but I also learned that the math could really only carry me so far. A standalone long run is one thing, but it gets trickier when I’ve got (for example) a day with two training sessions, or a workout that’s maybe only an hour long but is almost entirely composed of sprints, or one of those super long Fridays where my ‘metcon’ is 60-100 minutes of work at “70% effort”. The bottom line is, at some point, you just have to take the toolbox you’ve got, start experimenting, and figure out what works for your body.

I’ve said before that I think one of the official RP hashtags should be #alwayslearning, and this training cycle has been no exception! While I obviously knew I would need more carbs/calories on long run days, I did NOT expect for the caloric demand to increase ACROSS THE BOARD as much as it did. It didn’t present as traditional ‘hunger’, so I didn’t recognize the ‘deficit dynamic’ at first -- but after a couple of great weeks initially, my performance and general well-being started to fall off around the 4-week mark. I wasn’t sleeping well, was feeling generally moody and anxious, and my long run paces were significantly slower than they had been up until that point. I also knew the scale had been running rather low, in the 138s-139s. However, none of this by itself was THAT far out of the range of ‘normal’, so it took me a week or two to put it all together. The larger picture didn’t fully click until, independently of one another, two separate CrossFit coaches (both of whom I’d only known for a month!) asked me if I had lost weight. That finally prompted me to look back at my daily scale trends, and I realized that my ‘maintenance’ was not actually maintenance; I’d slowly lost about two pounds over the course of the first month of endurance training.

Now, while two pounds is obviously not a tremendous amount of weight, this was still a super important phenomenon to identify and address, because in my case, it would NOT be beneficial for me to get any smaller right now. From a general health and performance standpoint, I’m already right where I need to be (my DEXA scan in July measured me at 17% body fat), which means that losing weight would fly directly in the face of ALL my goals: not just day-to-day performance and recovery, but also muscle retention. Muscle is a heavy and metabolically demanding tissue, so the body doesn’t want to hang onto more of it than it truly NEEDS -- so it’s one of the first things to go during heavy endurance training (ever checked out the physique of a Kenyan marathoner?). Since my primary goal is to preserve CrossFit fitness and performance, the last thing I want to do is sacrifice my hard-earned muscle on the altar of marathon training.

Another SUPER important facet to all of this is hormonal health -- which, unfortunately, seems to be one of those things to which I’m more sensitive than some other women. During the past 18 months of intermittent cutting, my body has shown me repeatedly that it haaaaaates being in an energy deficit (and that it will respond to this by promptly grinding my reproductive cycle to a halt for MONTHS). And while I don’t necessarily love everything about the monthly cycle, it’s an inescapable fact that estrogen is one of the best defenses I have against all this repetitive pounding on my feet. As I mentioned, I already have a history of two prior metatarsal stress fractures, both sustained during marathon training -- therefore, I absolutely need my biochemistry to hang in there this time around!

At any rate, in hindsight, I’ve been playing this RP game long enough now that I felt pretty stupid for not recognizing the ‘deficit phenomenon’ sooner. Once the light bulb came on, I started increasing calories, mostly carbs (amid a lot of jokes about my need for ‘supplemental frozen yogurt’); this immediately made performance feel much better and got my run paces back to the range where they needed to be. I’ve learned that 200g carbs seems to be the absolute minimum on a training day (and on most days it’s significantly more!), and that even on rest days I need a few more carbs (for recovery purposes) than my templates officially prescribe. However, it eventually turned out that in order to truly stabilize my weight (and to stop waking up hungry at two o’clock in the morning!), I ultimately had to slightly increase my training day fats as well. As we got deeper into the training plan and my sessions got longer, I also had to tweak my pre- and intra-workout strategies to figure out how best to fuel for a longer time duration (it’s not unusual nowadays for my Friday gym workouts to take over three hours -- meaning my regular fruit juice and whey shake alone simply isn’t sufficient) and/or what types of things I prefer to carry and consume while I’m out running. (On the plus side, my iron gut serves me well here; many runners suffer GI distress related to intra-workout nutrition, but it turns out there’s not a whole lot that I can’t tolerate!)

I’m definitely still tweaking and refining -- it (unfortunately!) isn’t as easy as just stuffing my face round the clock, because GAINING weight right now obviously wouldn’t be ideal either -- but I’m learning a ton, and, equally important, am also learning how to relax a little. My modus operandi for just about everything in life is that I tend to dive in at 120% enthusiasm, then have to slowly work my way back to a place of more moderation, and RP has been no exception. But this endurance training cycle has really forced me to try some different things as well as be a bit less rigid in general -- i.e. more willing to eat ‘combination’ foods (that don’t fall squarely into one macro category), and even to dine out in restaurants once a week or so. (Exhibit A: the best free meal I’ve had recently was a fried green tomato biscuit from Rise, when I did my long ten-mile run on a Sunday morning and then met up with two other runner friends for breakfast. LOOK AT THAT HEALTHY BALANCED RP MAINTENANCE LIFE. :)) Additionally, the necessity of (on many Sundays) fitting a homemade high-carb meal in between an early-AM long run and a full day of work means I’ve also learned how to make certain things in such a way that I actually enjoy them just as much as (or even more than!) the restaurant versions. For example, Aldi’s frozen sushi is surprisingly awesome, a home-assembled burrito bowl is totally on par with Chipotle, and (for me) a flatbread pizza in the toaster oven really does satisfy a pizza craving. I’m reaching the point where (MOST) food just isn’t really that exciting anymore -- which is actually a pretty great (mentally healthy) place to be.

Unintentional weight loss is one of those things that sounds like a #firstworldproblem to a lot of people -- and in another scenario, I can see how it could be! -- but honestly, I’m grateful to have experienced this ‘problem’, because the necessity of tackling it has been a pretty big eye-opener. This whole process has required a new level of intuition -- less straightforward following of a numerical macro chart, and more paying attention to my body’s physical, mental, and emotional cues. If I’m feeling ridiculously tired and depleted after a long workout (even if I don’t feel obviously ‘hungry’), or if I’m noticing that my hand ‘wants’ to flash out and grab the frozen yogurt when I open the freezer, then I probably need more carbs. If I wake up hungry at 2:00am, I probably didn’t eat enough fat that day. And, when eating foods I didn’t ‘plan’ for, it’s been validating to see that what often feels to me like a ‘crackout’ is usually just my body trying to maintain homeostasis. During the first few weeks of trying to sort through all this ‘data’, there were several occasions where I ate a larger-than-normal amount of something (usually the better part of a pint of frozen yogurt...) that I didn’t necessarily ‘plan’ to have. Each time, I fretted guiltily for a few minutes -- then did the actual macro/calorie math in the context of that morning’s workout and realized that my body had done EXACTLY what it was supposed to do, almost to the point of being eerie (as in, I worked for X minutes longer than last week, and today’s calories worked out to be X amount higher than last week -- without any intentional effort on my part to make it so. Biology is pretty neat). On some level, I do still ‘expect’ myself to self-sabotage -- and maybe always will expect that to some degree -- but these past couple months have reinforced to me yet again that my body truly does ‘know what it needs’ most of the time, and that I can actually ‘trust myself’ on a gut level a lot more than I tend to believe I can on a cerebral level.

What’s Next

We’re not quite tapering yet, but getting close. Tomorrow is my peak-length metcon -- by my reckoning, that portion alone is going to take about 95-100 minutes (!). But after tomorrow, Fridays will get somewhat shorter; the metcon portion will probably only take 20-30 minutes or so for the remainder of this cycle (and I’m laughing out loud at the fact that that genuinely sounds like a SHORT metcon to me now!). My long runs on Sundays will continue to build for another 3-4 weeks; the programming is written in ‘minutes’, not miles, and we lost some time because of the foot injury, but my rough calculations would suggest that I’ll make it to about 14-15 miles (on October 21st) before the two-week taper. (Which, yeah, is a bit shorter than ideal, but as I said above -- better 15 and healthy than 20 and broken.)

November 4th is the big day. I’m so, so ready to be done with this training, yet (I’ll admit) am also getting something of a ‘second wind’ mentally now that the end is finally in sight. And while I have no plans to ever (EVER) do another marathon after this one, I’m also not so jaded that I can’t recognize how very grateful I’ll be, come race morning, for all the blood, tears, and sweat (SO MUCH SWEAT) that I’m putting in right now.

In 38 days (38 days!), this will all be worth it.

[nauticalparamour]

Strangers on a Train Tom x Hermione Rated M-ish. Warning: Character Death

Well, here is my contribution for @dulce-de-leche-go‘s Spooky Scary DulceWeen. If you’d like to read last year’s, you can click here.

Huge thank you to @hollowg1rl for alpha reading! Tagging some people who liked the sneak peek or I think just might be interested, but feel free to ignore if it’s not your cup of tea: @weestarmeggie17@sindhooora @perf-patricia @colubrina @katsitting @feelingsinvitae @ash-castle @nerysdax @kreeblimsabs @madziayeon @kakashizzle @evcrythings @tomriddlesnonexistentheart @holysheepfan @svalle099 @snipandsnail @calebski @jheeley @jasperandgemma @meowmerson @kristeristerin @littleredsiren3101 @browneyesandhair @bluecurls8 @bonafake @for-witchcraft-and-wizardry @geekmom13 @imsonick @itisariddle @katemaplebranch @littlemulattokitten @mechengmama @primruesabcd @queenvulca @sableunstable @synoir @thriftycrimson @worthfull1 @xxdustnight88 @ashenrenee

Stomping down the long hallway of the Hogwarts Express, Hermione Granger could feel her irritation only rising higher. She had hoped that walking away from Ron for a while might help her clear her head and keep her from hexing him. She wasn’t entirely sure how, but after only two hours of being in his presence again after a Weasley-free summer, Ronald had already made her flee for a bit of solitude.

Looking into the glass panels of the doors, she knew that she would be beyond lucky to find an empty compartment this late in the train journey, but she was willing to do basically anything at this point to put some space between her and her friend.

To her dismay, she was nearing the very end of the train, and had only one carriage left to find sanctuary. Pushing through the doors to the very last car, she paused for a moment, noticing that the overhead lights seemed to be flickering in time with the steady turn of the locomotive’s wheels. It was a bit eerie, to say the least, but she pressed on, hoping that she would turn up something. Unfortunately, this part of the train was just as full as the rest of it.

That was, until, she came to the very last compartment on the left. Looking inside, she saw just one occupant, a boy that she didn’t recognize. Biting her lower lip, Hermione waffled for a moment, before moving to open the door. Sticking her head in, she gave him a cautious look. “Erm, sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could join you for a while? All the others are full,” she lied, knowing that there was a perfectly good compartment further up the train holding her trunk that she could rejoin at any time.

The boy – or young man, really – looked up from the book that he was reading, and gave her a charming smile. “Of course, come in,” he said with a sweep of his hand to the empty bench opposite him.

Hermione cautiously returned the smile. “Cheers. I won’t disturb your reading, I promise,” she thanked him before taking her own seat and staring out the window. Watching the scenery rush by did little to distract her though, and before long she was sighing and grumbling, imagining all the ways that she could hurt Ron Weasley if she wanted.

After she sighed for what must have been the 100th time, the young man coughed, catching her attention, and she found him staring at her with intense blue eyes, a smirk on his face. “Sorry, but is everything alright? You seem quite upset.”

He seemed so sincere that she almost opened up without hesitation. But then, she really looked at him and Hermione realized that she actually had no idea who he was at all. He seemed that he might be about her age, but he hadn’t changed into his uniform yet, and his nondescript grey robes didn’t help to place him. Confusion on her face, she sat up a bit straighter. “I – I’m sorry, I don’t believe that we’ve actually met yet. I’m Hermione Granger,” she introduced, hoping that her shiny prefect’s badge would be it’s own introduction.

“I’m Tom,” he replied, still smiling, but not elaborating further. With his jet black hair, slightly tousled, he was really quite handsome. She was positive that she would have recognized him if she’d seen him before.

“What year are you, Tom?” she asked, hoping that she wasn’t coming across as rude.

“I’m a seventh year,” he said, eyeing up her Gryffindor tie. “Though, I am in Slytherin, so I doubt that we’ve had a reason to cross paths in the past,” he told her smoothly.

Hermione nibbled her lower lip, thinking that his explanation did seem to make sense. Perhaps he had just gone through an impressive growth spurt over the summer? Was he a late bloomer, the same as she had been? It felt a little bit uncomfortable to be sitting with him, knowing so little about him. “Hm, I suppose that’s true,” she conceded, eventually.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she decided that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if she opened up to this mysterious Slytherin about her issues. It would be good to get them off of her chest and he’d been decent so far. “I am a bit upset if I’m honest. My good friend Ron is the other Gryffindor prefect in our year, and he’s already slacking off. More or less told me that I could do all of the work for the pair of us, and then skived off our meeting so he could chat to Lavender Brown.” Hermione crossed her hands over her chest, really feeling quite annoyed still that he hadn’t even bothered to show up. “Sometimes he makes me so mad, I could just…ugh…kill him!”

Tom chuckled at her seeming to understand where she was coming from. “I completely know what you mean,” he said, his white teeth glinting perfectly behind an equally perfect smile. Merlin, he was so handsome. “I have had similar experiences.”

Hermione thought that was a bit of a weird thing to say, but she contented herself with looking back out the window, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on her. It was making her hair stand on end, and when her eyes finally darted back to his face, he was staring at her with a wide grin.

She was shocked when he suddenly stood up, stretching his long legs, before moving to sit in the seat next to her. “You know, Hermione, I had the funniest idea just right now,” he said, his voice having dropped an octave, making her shiver. She was uncomfortable having him sitting so close to her body, feeling his heat seep into her skin, being unused to this kind of male attention. “You and I both have someone that makes us mad enough that we could kill them,” he whispered conspiratorially, his nose scrunched up as if he were telling her a delightful joke. “But of course we couldn’t actually do it…we’d be the first suspects.”

“I didn’t actually mean that I wanted-”

Tom cut her off. “But there is a way around that, isn’t there? I could kill your Ronald, and you could kill someone for me. Both of our problems would be solved, and neither one of us would be traced back to the crime,” his voice was seductive and gravely, his hot breath trailing over her neck while he played with the ends of her hair.

Hermione narrowed her eyes, turning so that she could look at him. “Who do you want killed anyway?” she questioned, not entirely sure how to deflect from the topic at hand. Of course, he couldn’t be serious about killing someone, could he?

“Dumbledore,” he said, viciously, his eyes flashing dangerously.

Hermione couldn’t help herself. She burst our laughing at the absurdity of it all. “Hahaha, yes, Tom. You kill Ron for me, and I will kill Dumbledore for you.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes, standing up. “You know, Tom, you’ve cheered me right up. I am sure I can return to my friends now that I’ve had a laugh.”

He just smirked at her while she stood up, leaving the carriage, and Tom, behind her.

After her unusual meeting, Hermione didn’t see Tom again. She’d nearly convinced herself that she’d daydreamed the handsome seventh year Slytherin, a figment of her imagination to burn off some homicidal thoughts.

That was, of course, until Ronald Weasley wound up dead in the Great Hall.

It was well into October when it happened. She had waited in the Gryffindor common room for Harry and Ron, wanting to walk down to breakfast with them. Harry had come down confused, telling her that Ron’s bed was made, and he wasn’t anywhere to be found in the boy’s dorm.

“Well, maybe he got so hungry, he decided to go down early,” Hermione had quipped, knowing about their friend’s legendary appetite.

They’d walked down to the Great Hall together, chatting about their upcoming potions essay that Professor Slughorn had assigned. Harry was generally much more excited about potions now that he had his textbook, margins filled to the brim with notes and changes. It irritated Hermione to no end, partly because she thought it was cheating, and partly because he was doing better than her at the subject.

In retrospect, they should have known something was up when they entered the Great Hall. All of the other tables were empty, and everyone was crowded around the Gryffindor table. Upon seeing Harry and Hermione approaching, student parted, whispering, giving them access to the scene in front of them.

Hermione gasped when she saw it, her face transformed by the horror. Ron was laid out on the table, his face a horrifying shape of purple. His bright blue eyes were wide with horror, snot and dried tears covering his face. There was some shape lodged in his throat and a red apple had been forced between his lips. There was no hiding what had happened – he’d choked to death, but someone had done this to him.

Unable to look at it a moment longer, she felt tears spring to her eyes, and pressed her face into Harry’s shoulder. His arms wrapped around her provided her little comfort. She could still hear Lavender, Ron’s girlfriend, wailing. Before long, the Professors were shuffling everyone aside, telling them to return to their common rooms. In the jostling, Hermione was separated from Harry.

Immediately, she could feel dread settle in her stomach. She’d been positive that the mysterious Slytherin from the train had been joking…he hadn’t really intended that they kill people for one another, had he? An icy hand clenched itself around her heart when she realized she’d sarcastically agreed to the plan. Merlin, just what had she gotten herself into?

Scanning the crowd, she easily caught sight of him, leaning against one of the far walls, completely by himself. He was smirking at her, having just taken a bite of bright red apple, the same shade as the one in Ron’s mouth. Hermione stomped over him, feeling more and more nauseous with each step. When she got to his side, he was fully grinning at her. “Admiring my handiwork?” he quipped, clearly enjoying himself and the chaos that was unfolding before them.

“No! I can’t believe you killed my friend!” Hermione said, shoving her hand against his rather solid chest.

He gave her a patronizing little frown. “Oh, but Hermione, we had a deal. I kill your problem, and you kill mine, remember?” Before she could blink, his hand was pressing her hair away from her face, his fingers cupping her jaw lovingly….except for the thumb that was digging into her throat, just nearly cutting off her airway. Her eyes searched the room, hoping that anyone would see what was happening to her, but they were all still caught up in tumult of discovering Ron’s body. His face was transformed to something handsome to something much more sinister. “Now, I’ve held up my end of the bargain, Hermione,” he whispered into her ear.

Again, she looked around for anyone to help her, and she caught Ginny’s watery, shocked eyes. She tried to convey that she needed assistance, but to her dismay, Ginny was pulled into a hug by Luna Lovegood.

Another squeeze of her neck had Hermione’s attention snapped back to Tom’s face. “Now it’s time for you to do your part. Don’t disappoint me,” he demanded.

“I’m not going to kill Dumbledore,” she insisted weakly, bringing her hand up to his wrist, hoping to pry it off, but not getting very far with his iron grip.

“You will,” he said confidently. “You’ve seen what a convincing scene I’ve created here. Don’t you think that I could frame you just as easily?” His voice raised up a pitch, mocking some giddy school girl. “Of course Granger just snapped. Everyone knows how jealous she was that Weasley was dating Lavender Brown.” Another smile slipped on his face, as though he was  positive he was going to get his way. Suddenly, her earlier joke about him being too hungry to wait for food tasted like ash in her mouth. “And if that’s not enough incentive, I’ll kill you next if you don’t.”

Pressing her further into the wall, Tom eventually released her from his hold, before walking out of the Great Hall. Hermione rubbed at her neck and wondered if she might have bruises. Knowing she didn’t have time to think on it, she paced over to where her friends were standing, Ginny now wrapped up in Harry’s arms.

“Ginny!” Hermione called, her eyes wild. “Did you recognize that boy I was just talking to? I think he might have had something to do with Ron’s…murder?” She questioned eagerly, before trailing off, hating the way that she’d just stomped all over social norms. Ginny was shocked, grieving, and here she’d just blurted out that Ron was murdered.

The redhead looked horrified, and then concerned. “Hermione, maybe you ought to go lie down…or talk to Madame Pomfrey,” Ginny sniffled. “I didn’t see you talking with anyone.”

The school was unequipped to handle a student death, especially one that was covered so publicly. Harry had stayed with Ginny until the Weasley’s could arrive, and the Professors had fluttered around them, trying to field their grief. Hermione had slipped through the cracks, having been told by the Head Girl to go to Madame Pomfrey for a calming draught and maybe a dreamless sleep potion.

She didn’t go.

Hermione had lied awake in her bed, unable to keep with the memory of Ron’s face still in her mind. Tom’s threats were heavy on her mind, and she was spinning different possible outcomes, many not looking too good for her. She’d thought about telling Harry for about thirty seconds before dismissing that idea out of hand.

In the darkness of her dorm room, one answer sprang to mind. Unfortunately, it meant reaching out to just about the last person that she wanted to: Professor Dumbledore. She just had to hope that he would listen to her and realize that she didn’t promise to kill him. Maybe he would have more information about just who Tom was, too.

Slippers on her feet, she crept down from Gryffindor tower through the halls of Hogwarts. The castle become increasingly terrifying the later it got at night. She navigated her way, avoiding Professors and ghosts alike, down moving staircases until she got to the gargoyle guarding Dumbledore’s office.

“Bertie Botts? Licorice wands? Pepper Imps?” Hermione tried offering up every wizarding confection that she could think of, but to no avail. Biting her lower lip, she knew it was imperative that she speak with Dumbledore as quickly as possible, but she was getting nowhere this way. Of course, it was against the rules to break into a professor’s office, but she needed to speak with him. Raising her wand, she shut her eyes tight. “Confundus.”

Her eyes opened back up at hearing the sound of the stone scraping against the wall, unable to believe that it had actually worked. Still, she eagerly raced up the stairs into the darkness of the Headmaster’s office, finding it empty. Another spell had the room bathed in the unnatural light from the tip of her wand.

Cursing another time, Hermione realized that Dumbledore wasn’t here, and she didn’t actually have any idea of where he slept so that she could wake him up. She had to let him know that his life was in danger, and worse that she knew exactly who was behind Ron’s murder. She wondered if he would understand how she’d gotten involved in the first place, or if he would understand that she’d all thought it was a big joke.

Before she was able to plan her next steps, the floo was flaring bright green and eerie. Dumbledore stepped out of the fireplace, brushing his robes of any imaginary ash, before he was startled by Hermione’s presence. “Miss Granger, what are you doing here?” He asked.

She was unable to see his eyes, as the light of her wand was reflecting off of his half moon spectacles. “Professor, I am sorry for barging in here in the middle of the night, but I had something I had to tell you,” she bit her lower lip, hoping that she had made the correct assumption about the Headmaster. “Your life is in grave danger.”

A cool sensation slid down her spine like ice water. She could sense his presence before he even spoke. There was no second guessing who it was that had pressed their body against her’s, his hand coming around her wand arm, covering her hand. His breath tickled against her ear when he spoke. “I am so proud of you, Hermione. I didn’t think that you’d actually do it.”

“I’m not here to kill him, Tom!” She hissed, wondering how he’d gotten up to the office in the first place. “I’m here to stop you.”

“Who are you talking to Miss Granger?” Dumbledore asked, his normally calm tone betrayed by a slight waver in his voice.

“Don’t you recognize him, Professor?” she questioned, hoping that he’d still be able to see the other boy, even in the darkness of the room. “He’s a Slytherin called Tom.” Belatedly, Hermione realized that she’d never gotten his last name…

“Miss Granger, Hermione…” Dumbledore continued, concern evident on his ghostly features. “There is no one else there, except you and me. Now, why don’t you put down your wand.”

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she shut her eyes closed tightly. How could Dumbledore say that there was no one else there? She could feel the hard wall of muscle behind her, she could feel the heat of Tom’s body seeping into her skin, she could feel his grip on her hand, pointing her wand at her Headmaster. Shaking her head back and forth, she tried to clear out her thoughts. “No!” she said firmly.

“Come on, Hermione, let’s do it together,” Tom whispered, and she could practically feel his smirk, even if she couldn’t see it. “You know the words, you know the wand movement. It would be so simple, and you’d just be holding up our end of the bargain.” She could feel him moving her arm, a quick zigzag pattern, refusing the let up.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The spell echoed in her head, along with Tom’s laughter, long after Dumbledore had fallen in a heap to the floor. She wasn’t sure if it was her or Tom who had said the words in the end, but she dropped her wand the same, feeling as though it had scalded her. What had she done? How had this happened? She’d only wanted to help Professor Dumbledore and in the end, she’d….

Her heart was pounding against her chest, a wild rhythm that she couldn’t see to gain control of. “What did you do?” She questioned, turning around and facing the young man who was supposed to be just another Hogwarts student. At this point, she knew that there was more than meets the eye.

“What did I do?” Tom laughed again, giving her a cheeky smirk. “Well, my dear, sweet Hermione, let me tell you. I’d been living at Hogwarts – a sad, hollow, remnant of a spirit – ever since Harry Potter tried to destroy my diary, biding my time. I’d gained some strength from Ginny Weasley’s soul, but never enough to become corporeal again.”

Hermione stared at him in absolute horror, the wheels in her mind turning rapidly while she pieced together what he was saying. “But that means…you can’t be…”

“Tom Riddle,” he pronounced with a self-satisfied smile. “Or as you might know me, Lord Voldemort.”

She pushed back from him, trying to get out of her grasp, only to nearly trip backwards over Dumbledore’s robes. Tom caught her, pulling her to rest against his chest, his fingers tangled in her hair, and his nose pressed to the crown of her head. It would have been a reassuring and welcoming gesture had it come from anyone but him. “Please let me go,” she begged, trying to get free, but to no avail.

“Your spirit called to me on the Express. You were so angry, and my spirit fed on that, allowing me to appear for you,” he whispered, and she could practically feel his proudness radiating into her. “And now that Dumbledore is dead, well, I’ve absorbed his energy, and I’m fully corporeal again. A second chance at life, and it’s all thanks to you.”

“No, no, no!” Hermione begged, knowing deep down that what he said was true, but not wanting to face the facts. She was ashamed that it was her anger at her friends that had allowed him to get a foothold in her mind. She never would have killed if it hadn’t been for him.

“Yes, Hermione,” Tom said indulgently, as if she were a misbehaving child. “Now the question is, what are you going to do? No one else has seen me, except for you, and everyone will think you’ve gone mad and killed Dumbledore. It was your wand, after all, that cast the fatal spell.”

As much as she wanted to deny it, she knew that what he was saying was true. There was no way that she could explain the situation without ending up in Azkaban, as she didn’t think the Ministry would believe that she was possessed by the spirit of Tom Riddle. All they would see was someone who’d snapped and killed her best friend, and then her Headmaster. They would probably even use it as some kind of propaganda against muggleborns. She couldn’t allow that to happen. “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted quietly.

“Come with me, Hermione. I will take care of you, and all will be well,” he offered in that sweet, crooning voice of his, the rumble of his words in his chest making her eyes droop as her adrenaline waned.

Helpless and without her wand, Hermione nodded, defeated. She allowed Tom to shuffle her to the fireplace, listlessly watching as he took a pinch of floo powder. “Riddle Manor,” he called out confidently, pulling Hermione into the Avada Kedavra green flames.

[wanderbitesbybobbie]

2020, Please Slow Down. I Can't Keep Up.

I’ve been sick for three days because the past 72 hours had been rough. I was in a whirlwind of emotions the moment November 11 came into the picture. Today, I spent the whole day in bed, I’ve been trying to catch some quality rest. But, to those of you who knows about my disorder, you know I always have a hard time sleeping. My sleep schedule is just terrible. My stomach has been upset, I don’t know if it’s the food I ate, or because I am just too overwhelmed. I find it very challenging to keep pace with everything. I just had to shut my eyes and shut everything down for a while.

November 11 started like normal. That morning, I was on a phone call with a client and I was overly excited for closing a huge deal. As I tapped on the “End Call” button, one of my closest friends delivered a dreadful message. “Lee passed away.” I stared at my phone for a few seconds, blinked, and read the message again. Am I still asleep? Am I having a bad dream or what? I was stunned, in shock, in major disbelief. Quick flashbacks came to me and I started crying. What? This can’t be happening. I was just chatting with Lee about Ms. Universe a few weeks ago. We were just chatting about a certain stage play we both watched on YouTube. He was my seat mate in high school for the longest time and the first ever person who brought me and introduced me to Rockwell Mall. He was one of the few people I became close with as a high school transferee. I flew out of the country a few years after college, but despite the fact that we didn’t see each other much, we still remained friends and kept in touch until his last days. He was the type of person who would call and ask how I was when I was abroad. He sang me songs every time I felt down way back our high school days. We shared the same circle of friends. We laughed and worried about the same things… about pets, about animals, about theater arts, about traveling, about beauty pageants. Just a few months back, he posted his illness on Facebook and I told him to have faith. It was not alarming at that time, seeing his outlook and the way he composes himself. He was cheerful, positive, and full of life. Lee’s death was a huge blow for me and it was just hard to digest. My heart is still breaking. He played a big part of my youth, and those bubbly and fun memories will always remain.

November 11 wasn’t done. It was raining the whole day as if the skies were crying for Lee’s sudden demise. I drove to pick up Mom from the office and got stuck on the road for three hours. I watched through my wind shield as the wind blew off some ads on the billboards. The strong wind turned umbrellas upside down. It was frightening. It was draining. The moment we got home, I was too tired to cook and so I ordered whatever was convenient. The winds became stronger, and I knew that an enormous typhoon was about to hit Manila at that time. I prepared emergency lamps. I was at home when it happened. The winds started howling scarily and I was hearing glass windows shattering nearby. The lights flickered on and off until it finally blacked out. Everyone was anxious as NDRRMC (National Disaster Risk Reduction and Management Council) put Manila in an Emergency Alert Situation. Weather updates were somehow delayed and so I relied on an international weather bulletin. I was worried sick for my relatives down south, they haven’t even recovered from the previous typhoons yet. But then again, Typhoon Ulysses came underestimated. It caused havoc and great damage to thousands of people not just in Manila. The whole Luzon is weeping, crying for rescue as of this writing.

This was only one day. One of the longest days of 2020. This year, I can never say “Best Birthday ever!” or “Best Summer so far!” because the whole world spent most of those months in quarantine. 2020 is full of wrath and anger and danger as it started with bush fires in Australia, killing almost half the population of wildlife. 2020 came with the Amazon burning, with buildings blazing and collapsing in the Middle East, with great floods in Jakarta, with strong earth quakes and typhoons in the Pacific. Most of all with the horrid Covid pandemic that took a lot of innocent lives, that made our nurses and doctors cry of exhaustion, that made the great division between the rich and those in poverty, that made people from all over the world suffer in anxiety. The list of entries just doesn’t end. Every month, 2020 has another appalling entry.

As much as I would like to shed some positivity given our current situation, nothing seems to come clear to me. As I write this blog entry, my countrymen in Cagayan Region are drowning in floods caused by the Typhoon Ulysses and the overflowing of Magat Dam. Marikina and Rizal are drenched in mud. Some of my relatives in the Bicol Region have lost their homes from Typhoon Rolly. The bridges collapsed. Roads are not passable. Rescue is just so near, yet so far. It seems to me that as the days pass, we all recommence to brace ourselves. We don’t see the light at the end of the tunnel coming any time soon. We prepare. We succumb unwillingly to what else 2020 has left in store for us.

But then again, this is the sad reality. No matter how hard I try to make it sound less dramatic, it is what it is. I am the voice to many who find it difficult to take in every piece of what’s happening. It is overwhelming. Anxiety levels have gone up beyond normal. Fear of the future and of what’s gonna happen next is in the minds of many of us. The uncertainty that comes with the succession of dispiriting events linger amongst us. Many are jobless, thousands have lost their livelihoods, people are dying of hunger, frustration, exhaustion, and the worst part… is losing whatever you’ve worked hard for, whether it’s a career or a business or losing your loved ones as if life is a mere hair strand.

I am lucky, because even if I have a mental incapability of absorbing everything all at once, I have the resources to help me cope with it. I have medications to keep me calm, I have a psychiatrist monitoring my mental health, I have numerous outlets. I worry more not for myself, but for the people who do not have these resources. I would like to reach out to that minority, the people who suffer in silence, because of a society that dictates that Mental Health is something you’re supposed to suppress and get over with.

WAKE ME UP WHEN 2020 ENDS

I was excited to celebrate the New Year. I was excited for 2021. I’m just so done with 2020, that I wish to skip November and December and go straight to 2021. I WAS JUST SO THRILLED, but then again I have a Mental Disorder. My hopes would always be partnered with doubt. My anxiety asked me back, “What makes you think it gets better in 2021?” For a while, I held on to that thought. I was uneasy, I was upset, but the occurrences happening around us now are things and events that we have no control of. These are things that go beyond our power. What we can manage though is how we react to our circumstances. YOU CAN’T ALWAYS CONTROL WHAT GOES ON OUTSIDE, BUT YOU CAN ALWAYS CONTROL WHAT GOES ON INSIDE. Something at the back of my mind tells me that it gets better. THERE IS ALWAYS LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL. 2020 IS JUST A LONG TUNNEL. I took my schedule diary and begun writing my plans. This is it. Life doesn’t stop here. The world will keep on revolving and evolving. I figured, if I keep on dwelling about what has happened and what is currently happening, it will eat me up alive. Eventually, I’ll end up weak with depressive thoughts and severe anxious distress. Now, I am focusing more of what I can do in the future. What can I do to make living more meaningful? How can I extend my help to the people in need? How can I be a part of that change that I’ve always wanted to achieve? I have decided to choose which energy to feed. The positive or the negative.

LIFE was never a problem to be solved anyway. Through the loss of a friend, the fear of the future, the uncertainty that comes with everything, I have learned so many lessons in more ways than one. 2020 may not be the best, but it was a whole year full of life lessons. It was like a movie, a series of unfortunate events, we just can’t wait to see how it’s gonna end. Maybe it was meant to teach us something. Maybe, this is God’s way of showing us His handbook about living life. Faith is what keeps us strong. According to Murphy’s Law, “whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.” Whatever that’s going to happen will happen, whether we worry or not. The choice is ours.

Lastly, we are not alone. YOU ARE NOT ALONE! These may be the darkest days of our lives. I know it’s terrifying, but sometimes the unfortunate things that happen in our lives put us directly on the path to the most wonderful things that will ever happen to us. Keep up the faith and keep on praying! We may not understand everything now, but everything is planned according to God’s will. The Lord is watching.

Be contented with what we have now, cherish the people we spend our lives with. Because our lives are only borrowed, it was never ours to keep.

To you reading this… I AM WITH YOU THROUGH PRAYERS.

NOTHING IS PERMANENT IN THIS WICKED WORLD-NOT EVEN OUR TROUBLES

-Charlie Chaplin

When things happen that I can’t control, I feel powerless. I long to follow God’s plan, but how can I when all I see is vastness surrounding me? There’s no paved road pointing the way and no one there to offer a helpful word of advice. (Genesis 21:14).

Emptiness can be scary. It reveals our insecurities, telling us we are alone and validating our fears. But with God, emptiness doesn’t equal loneliness. During those times when we don’t have a clue which direction to go, we can let the stillness push away all distractions so we sense God’s presence more than ever. He will calm our anxious thoughts and give us the direction we seek. “Your own ears will hear him. Right behind you a voice will say, ‘This is the way you should go,’ whether to the right or to the left,” (Isaiah 30:21).

When hardships come, it’s easy for me to slip back into my familiar pattern of what-ifs. “What if it doesn’t work out? What if God doesn’t answer my prayer?” My need to know the outcome takes over. I come face to face with the unknown, and I panic. I forget that God’s promises never change.

We will have struggles, and sometimes we have to stay there a while. So when we feel stuck, we can trust that God “will never leave us or forsake us.” (Deuteronomy 31:6)

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” – (Jeremiah 29:11)

In Memory of Lee Tuazon, a son, a brother, a good friend, and a ray of sunshine to many.

      2020, Please Slow Down. I Can’t Keep Up. was originally published on WanderBitesByBobbie

[thesffcorner]

Kill Creek

Kill Creek is a horror novel written by Scott Thomas. We follow Sam McGarver, a best selling horror author who is suffering from a massive writer's block. He has separated from his wife and is teaching at a university, while trying to write his next novel. He gets an invitation to do an interview for WrightWire, a pop culture website known for putting on massive, scripted shows, and he accepts, not realizing that not only will he not be alone during this interview, but it will also take place at the notorious Kill Creek Manor, a house with a dark and haunted past. The idea of this book sounded awesome; 4 horror authors have to spend a weekend at a haunted house for an interview; kind of like Until Dawn, but instead of teenagers the victims are masters of the genre and could therefore have a unique approach and even predict what the house would throw at them. The first half of this book was excellent; I liked the set-up, I liked the characters, the history of Kill Creek was suitably dark and twisted, and I really liked the direction of the plot. Unfortunately, as soon as the characters arrived in Kill Creek, much like his own lead character, Thomas’ story quickly devolved into cliches, nonsensical plot twists, characters acting completely opposite to what they did before for no reason, and this really interesting premise was squandered. The book never recovers from the wasted potential that is the interview, so I figure I should start with the positives. For a start, I appreciated that all of the characters, while not all likable, were at least relatable and consistent. With the exception of one, each character had an understandable starting point, and though they all end up doing questionable things, I still rooted for them, and wanted them to survive the book. I liked the way each character’s personal trauma and past informed the ways in which they interacted with the house, and for the most part found all of them equally intriguing, at the start. The house itself was really well done. A lot of the book relies heavily on the Southern Gothic tradition, which I enjoy. It’s a big house that has been abandoned for decades, in the middle of nowhere in Kansas, and it does all the things creepy houses do; cold spots, sounds, apparitions, power turning off and on, rooms that go nowhere, creepy crawl spaces, etc. I almost wish, considering the role the house played that we got to spend more time inside it, and really delved into it’s dark history, like Del Toro did in Crimson Peak. I also liked what we get to see of Sam’s classes. His 5 elements of gothic horror were brilliant and I kept reading the book wondering and theorizing about how everything fit in them. I also liked the interview, where Sebastian was explaining what true horror means to him; it was a great deconstruction of Lovcraftian horror and I really liked that the queer character was the one who gravitated most to it. There were other scenes that left an impact: Sebastian seeing Richard for the first time, Sam hugging Wainwright after he tells them what happened to Kate, his stunt with the Underground, Daniel mourning his daughter. The moments of humanity and genuine kindness made me root for the characters, which is something modern horror desperately lacks, often treating its characters like disposable blood bags. Unfortunately, there are more issues than positives. Now, I am by no means a purist; different genres can borrow and modify elements from each other, as even Sam points out in his lecture. There are elements that make a specific piece of work ‘Gothic’ horror, but that same work can also fall under the slasher, body horror or even religious horror category. What Thomas is essentially trying to do here is to take 4 genres of horror fiction: Lovcraftian horror, southern Gothic, slasher and erotic horror and piece them together into one book. And the effect is much the same as the one you get at the end of Cabin in the Woods; confusing, predictable and not particularly effective at any of the genres. I am never scared of Gothic horror; the most I am, is unnerved or unsettled. However, when I watch/read anything pertaining to torture-porn, body horror or even slasher, I am terrified, and there wasn’t a single point in this book where I was even slightly unsettled. Gothic horror and straight up slashers don’t mix, at least not the way Thomas has done it here. For example, we have quiet scenes of Sebastian being haunted by the mistakes of his past, the dread of losing his memories, losing his ability to tell stories, and in the same breath we have Moore getting the shit kicked out of her, or Kate slicing her arm open, Ghosts of Mars style. These simply don’t work together, and the end result is an uneven feeling throughout the book where I’m not sure what I should be scared of, because anything goes. The other main issue was the horror element. The idea that the house was never evil, but people believing that it is made it haunted was just… unsatisfactory. How can rumors actually make a house haunted? And I don’t mean, oh because people think this place is bad, anything even remotely strange or distressing that happens in it is automatically prescribed to the location; no I mean somehow people’s notions that the house is haunted created or called a primordial, decaying evil that has a physical form, and can take on the shape of specific people enough to fool others that it is human, save people from dying, and also kill them in unrelated bus accidents? What? The ending was such a mess, because there are no rules to this creature! It can do absolutely anything, and there was no suspense left in the climax or the epilogue, because I knew exactly what would happen. Thomas just borrows tropes from other horror works, and does nothing to subvert them; he just let’s them play out with no critical eye, which is why we get such a dumb Bloomhouse ending, to what was otherwise a book that really seemed to respect the genre and it’s traditions. There were also major issues with the characters. Let’s start with the ones I had the least amount of problems with: Kate, Wainwright and Sebastian. Kate was boring as hell; she had no personality other than being southern and black. There is a line in the book about how her dad would hate that she’s sleeping with Wainwright not because he’s her boss but because he’s white, which is a can of worms I don’t want to touch with a 10 ft pole. There was an attempt to tie her to the history of the house, seeing as a freed slave woman who lived there was lynched, but we know nothing about Kate or her relationship with Wainwright, other than he is white and she is black. Wainwright at least had a lot of potential to be interesting. There are hints to his personality throughout the first half which never pan out; he has daddy issues, he feels inadequate and like a fraud, he has a temper that fires off when things don’t go his way, he is willing to do anything for clout. I thought the reveal was that he would rig the house for the interview Until Dawn style, or he’d trigger the haunting with something he does, but nothing of the sort happens. I thought maybe his temper and aggressive streak might make him abusive to Kate, but that also never happens. Sam hates and suspects him, but there is no reason for it; he’s just a rich boy who gets way in over his head and nothing beyond that. Sebastian was the character I liked the most, but he was wasted on this book. He is old, he has been closeted his whole life, he has lost the love of his life to cancer, and his father to dementia and is now aware that he too is slowly becoming forgetful. How interesting would it have been if Thomas actually grappled with his past, the wife he betrayed by using her as a beard, his fear of losing his memories of Richard, his desire to remain famous or at least remembered because he himself is starting to forget. How novel to actually have a queer protagonist in a Gothic novel where their sexuality isn’t punished by death of suffering. But no, he’s just barely in the book, and though I appreciate that at least Thomas didn’t have a third act twist where he suddenly became evil, it was clear Thomas had no idea what to do with him. Then we get to the characters I actively hated. Daniel I liked for most of the book; I hated the way his character was treated by the author however. I have never seen such little respect for a religious character in anything; I legitimately felt like I was watching God’s Not Dead, except Daniel was losing his faith instead of finding it. If I had to guess, I’d say Thomas doesn’t like religion, and doesn’t have any interest in actually exploring the complicated relationship characters who are religious have with themselves, their church, their families and God. Daniel is religious because he survived a spider attack as a child, and though he seems to be questioning his faith, we never really get to see why, or what drives him to be a Christian author at all. Every debate Daniel has with Moore is dumb, and the way he answers questions is purposefully written to have Moore come out on top, instead of presenting reasons as to why a person would believe certain things. It came off as fake and disingenuous, especially because the relationship Daniel has with his daughter was so good, and the scenes with him and his wife at the house were heartbreaking. But then, because Thomas needs a villain it’s just Daniel, for no reason other than… Thomas hates parents and/or religious people. I also didn’t appreciate how many fat jokes the other characters made at his expense of how everyone treated him like he was dumb just because he was excited to be around authors who were his peers and influences. Then we have Moore, who was probably the worst female character I’ve ever had the misfortune of reading; worse than Mara Jade, worse than Razorgirl. She deserves to be taught in class as an example of how not to write female characters; a complete caricature of feminism, and ambitious career driven women. She’s rude, abrasive, a massive inconsiderate asshole that is constantly constantly defensive, takes every single gesture in the absolute worst faith but also still has to be a) straight and b) hot. I actually wouldn’t have minded a female writer who started out as an indie erotica writer whose work became successful and her writing darker. I liked that she was clearly an Objectivist with an Ayn Rand level of strict work ethic, who is also rude and unpleasant. But the way she was written made absolutely no sense, and her fucking insulting backstory, about how she was severely abused by her ex, was just the icing on this shit cake. She oozed with ‘I’m not like other girls’ and ‘strong women as imagined by men’; she has an unnecessary and frankly unbelievable romance with Sam, is the only one who is described to write in the nude and is also the token woman in the male group, and if I can say one positive about her character is that it at least stayed consistently rude and disgusting to the very end. Sam was clearly the writer insert character and for the most part he was fine; at least he read like a real, flawed human, not a human-shaped robot. There were many moments where he describes other male characters as beautiful or comments on how attractive their eyes or faces are, so I got excited that maybe this book would explore his sexuality, but no; he is a boring, bland straight protagonist. I appreciated that he had depression and anxiety and was actually being treated for it, I liked that he explored toxic masculinity in his stories, but there was still the ridiculous ‘romance’ between him and Moore, and the reason why he refused to tell anyone what happened to his mother was… unclear. Like he’s clearly an adult and mature enough to know that therapy works, but still childish enough to cling to what his brother told him to protect him when he was 10? Ok? Also I didn’t like that he made no effort to make things better with Erin and he still got her back in the end. If I could recommend half of a book I would, because everything in this novel, up until the authors have their interview was great. Everything past that point kept becoming more and more convoluted, and what made the book interesting, the characters and the mystery of the house completely unraveled. I would be interested to see what else Thomas has written, because there is a good story in him; it just wasn’t this one.

goodreads

[java-induced-daymares]

"He knows about you."

There's so much weight to that sentence, for a second Miley thinks it might burry her. It's a avalanche of realization, brought to life in such a short string of vowels and consonants. Xavier is so beautiful, in a way only men can be pretty, with sharp piercing blue eyes, a sly little smirk and a fall of raven hair that always falls into his eyes, just so.

"What does that mean, I mean, for us?" She asks with a hopeful look. He has to have a plan. Right?

His long look speaks so much. It says he is sorry. That perhaps, he always recognized this possibility, but chose to ignore it. Of course he did. He always knew his other self was a sociopathic murderer, it's just her that's slow to the uptake. Miley shifts uneasily, breathing in deep, and exhaling slow and pointedly.

"What can I do?"

His wince is another answer. No one accuses Xavier of being overly wordy. Perhaps it's unnecessary, with such a expressive, eye catching face. This is probably the part of the conversation where she should regret saving this troubled, deeply erratic man. Her empathetic impulse always lands her in trouble, but this time...this time it's deadly.

"What's he like?"

His forget-me-not blue eyes blink rapidly. She's caught him off guard. Bemused by the rarity, Miley sips her dark espresso and waits for him to collect himself. It's a loaded question, after all.

"I don't..." His brow furrows and his teeth clench, "Obviously, we've never met." Her dry smirk echoes his wry sentiment. "I only see the carnage afterwards. I've never..." He clears his throat, awkward in a way only the impossibly handsome can be while being so shy and open. "I don't attach myself to people. I don't know how he will react, but I don't suspect it will be nice."

Miley feels her palms grow wet, even as she maintains her dry tone, "Is he..." She lowers her voice to a whisper, as if what she says is too dark to speak full volume, "Do you think he wants to kill me?"

Another wince from her blue eyed friend and she feels her stomach drop. Xavier is peculair, in a way more unique than his movie star good looks. Every day at seven pm he becomes someone...not Xavier. This other person, who lives and breathes in his body, who takes him over, likes to call himself Jack. Perhaps like the Ripper. It seems the sort of gruesome appeal that the theatrical killer night subscribe to. She's never asked. Xavier doesn't like to talk about him. They are always careful. Leaving no signs of interaction. Always in public, never touching, their meetings so brief they had hoped to never be discovered. But it's all for naught. Jack is too clever by half. Even Xavier is afraid of him, and he fears very little.

"I'd tell you to run, but he er-" bashful now there's a light, becoming blush on the man's high cheekbones. Xavier is dreamy. It's a wonder so many passed him by in the street, bleeding and near death, but then he didn't look nearly as appealing then. "He likes the chase. I'm afraid it'll excite him more if you do."

Miley nibbles her lower lip. Trying to digest this fact analytically. It seems so wrong, so adverse to everything Xavier, this shy handsome man who stutters around social interaction, so adorably awkward and blunt, to imagine him preying on others. Hunting humans like cattle and butchering them so candidly, with blood lust only equaled by his enjoyment. Yet of course it isn't him, not really, it's Jack. A persona she doesn't know, and has no desire to meet. Yet it seems the choice has been stripped from her. Jack knows about her. Only time will tell what consequences such a thing will bring.

The sounds and smells of the coffee shop permeate the air. Filling the tense silence with the hiss of milk being steamed, the ding-da-chink of the register popping open, the idle chatter of patrons and baristas alike. It seems so normal. So wholesome. A dreadful contrast to their illecit conversation. It hasn't really hit her yet. She means for it to. The brunette pushes her hair behind her ears and eyes her counterpart somberly.

"You have to tell me about him, it might be my only chance," she presses. Xavier baulks. He doesn't like discussing Jack. Aside from the racy headlines, she knows so little. If he hadn't had that profiler's sketch drawn of him a few months back, a face unmistakable, Miley wonders dejectedly if he would have even told her of his other half's existence. Jack is dehhabilitating to Xavier, ruination and despair. A part of him feels inordinately guilty, as if he is somehow responsible for something so beyond his control. And who could blame him? Two personalities, one body. She suspects the man before her wonders who is real sometimes, him or Jack. To her he is real, very much so, but he isn't fully convinced. Didn't expect her to believe him at his word. Logically, perhaps she shouldn't, but she feels it. Deep on a part of her where doubt can't touch, Xavier is Xavier. He couldn't kick a puppy, let alone butcher another human being in cold blood. It's hard to say how she knows this, considering they aren't so very close, have only met sporadically over the passing months. She just does. Like how she knows the sky is blue and the ocean has waves. It shocked her at first, yes, even almost repelled her, but she's made peace with that now, and that determination isn't the sort to be lightly cast aside.

""Xav," she says it like 'Xave' a shortening she only uses rarely, to keep it's intimacy from scaring him off, "Please." It's the please that does it, he sips from his hot Zen tea idly, but she can see the fine tremors in his hand he tries so hard to quiet.

His whole body sighs, and with a air of reluctant defeat he monotones, "Jack doesn't like to share. Especially me. He won't be happy to know I've formed a-" he searched for the right word absently, "attachment, outside of him. He wants all my focus. My suffering is just as important to him as his victims'."

Lost blue eyes meet her own green-hazel ones forlornly. "When we were kids, if I liked some toy, he broke it. If I got close to someone he hurt them or drove them off. He won't let this go Miley, he can't."

She nods, profuntury, trying for disinterested even as her heart pounds a frantic rhythum in her chest. She's seen the headlines. The gruesome torture and rape, the blatant violence and sickened showmanship of a psychopath making art out of corpses. Her skin needles and she fights the dizzy distortion of realizing very soon she might be facing a real monster. Not the ones of her childhood with dripping fangs and glowing eyes that hide under beds and in closets, no. This one will appear in the guise of a close friend, someone she started to feel protective of and cherish before she actually meant to. It's all very distressing.

"He takes over at seven, right?"

His sullen nod is answer enough. Miley sips her espresso, feeling the hot liquid slide over her tongue thoughtfully and hoping beyond hope it won't be her last taste. Her last time seeing her friend. Or her life. She doesn't have much of one, obviously, or else she might have not been so drawn to Xavier and his plight, but it's still her life. The only one she has. Sad to think it might not last. Ended pathetically at age twenty five.

"I want to be there."

He cringes. Actually, physically cringes. "I don't think-"

"He knows about me, you said it yourself, he likes the chase. Very predator and prey, I imagine," at his shocked grimace she shrugs, "What? I watch documentaries and cops shows. I get the idea, I think. Maybe if I'm there-"

"He won't admire your bravery, that's not how he works, it'll be like a lamb to the slaughter," Xavier immediately feels bad, she can see it as his shoulders sag, "I didn't mean-"

"No, I get it. But what else is there? You're really smart Xav," she smiles fondly, "You haven't been caught even with your picture everywhere and everything he has done. I can only imagine Jack is just as smart. Brilliant really. Even if he's a wackjob."

His hallow laugh makes her blood curdle. "Yeah, he's smart."

"Well I'm just ordinary. Regular. I don't have much cunning and let's face it I don't even know how I would run if I wanted to," she muses dejectedly, "I make minimum wage, remember? Hardly the sort of lifestyle that accommodates international flights or a life on the lam. Facing him is going to happen sooner or later. Maybe if it's on my terms he'll I don't know..." Miley rolls her eyes, "Give me a shot?"

""Okay, okay, too much optimism," she relents at his pained expression, "but I want this to be my choice. Since it seems I won't have much longer to be making them. Maybe it'll surprise him, you never know."

"I'm so sorry," Xavier looks away, uncomfortable and edgy, "You don't deserve this. You saved me, us, I guess." He chuckled self depreciatingly, "I bet you wish you hadn't."

"Nope," she pops the word, trying in vein to lighten the dark mood, her hand finds his. He startles. They never really touch. Not ever. "No regrets, you know, YOLO, and all that."

"Did you just anagram me with a Facebook catch phrase?" He's incredulous, slashing black eyebrows lifted. She giggles, bright eyes flashing.

"Maybe."

[la-appel-du-vide]

THAILAND 2019 - Day Thirteen {Krabi}

After a relaxing beach day yesterday, our schedule was back to full today. We had a busy tour planned, with trips to the Emerald Pool/Blue Pool, the Klong Thom hot springs, and the Tiger Cave Temple. It was a pretty smooth morning, and we even got some more toast while we waited to be picked up.

Our only issue with the ride, was that we were the last ones to get picked up, so we didn’t get to sit together. I had to sit in the back with all the strangers, and Beach had to sit in the passenger seat next to the driver. It made for a kind of awkward 45 minute or so drive to the Emerald Pool. Once we got there, we piled out and the driver led us to a “tour guide,” who essentially just told us that we had an hour and a half to explore as we wanted before lunch. He showed us the trails to follow, and left it at that. We hiked about a mile to the Emerald Pool, but continued another 800 meters, whatever that means, to the Blue Pool first.

The Blue Pool is a stunning, deep blue color. You aren’t allowed to swim in it, so we just got to look. It is so clear too – you can see all of the logs right through it. I wish we could have swam there, and I’m not sure why you can’t? But I’m sure there is a reason. Still, fun to look at. But we were definitely getting hot.

So we walked back down the trail to the Emerald Pool and jumped right in. This water is just as it sounds – perfectly Emerald. Again, it was so clear, you could look right through it and I loved that so much. It was wonderfully cool, and we enjoyed swimming around for awhile before we had to head back down for lunch. This was my main issue with this tour – everything felt a little rushed. We just needed more time in each spot. But the water felt so good, and it was a nice break after our “hike.”

Beach and I left a bit later than we should have, so we were a little late for lunch. But it all turned out fine. We had cashew chicken stir-fry  and hot and sour chicken soup (just like I made in class!). It wasn’t terrible, but the best part was the fresh watermelon. I wished we could have had more of the watermelon, it was delicious.

Then we piled back in the van for a ten-minute drive to our next stop – the Klong Thom hot springs. They looked beautiful in photos, and lived up to it in person. We had to walk down to them again, which got hot of course. But this time, instead of the refreshing Emerald Pool water, we got in the hot springs hahaha. The water was like 95 degrees, and it was 98 degrees outside, so you can imagine that it didn’t feel too good. There were warning signs in the area telling people to only stay in the water for less than 20 minutes. I’m pretty sure no one even wanted to stay in longer than that, but even if they did, they’d definitely overheat. The hot springs were gorgeous though, and I love how all hot springs seem to form smaller subsections, making a lot of little pools in one.

Good news though – running along the hot springs was a river, and the temperature was just perfect. We climbed down the dock, and got to cool off, which was much needed at that point. My only regret, is that while I was swimming, I ended up kicking a big rock with my shin SO HARD. It hurt so much, and left a giant goose egg. Ow.

But still – a perfect, afternoon swim.

Then we walked back to the van to head to our final stop of the day, which was one we were equally excited for and dreading (that happens to us a lot it seems haha) – The Tiger Cave Temple! We’d heard great things about it, and it was supposed to be absolutely beautiful, with a gorgeous view, BUT the catch is, to see it you had to climb 1,271 stairs. O. M. G. I don’t even like climbing stairs on a good day, let alone in Thailand’s heat and humidity.

But hey, when in Krabi, you do all the things. It’s just the principle. (;

We pulled in, and the “tour guide” pointed us toward the stairs and said we would have an hour and 45 minutes until we left. He told us that on average, it takes people 45 minutes to get up the stairs and 30 minutes to get down. We were determined, so we grabbed some water bottles and headed that direction. Of course, because it was a temple, we got stopped because we were wearing shorts, and they made us rent long skirts to wear.

We put them on for a minute, but once we hit the stairs, we couldn’t take it anymore and we had to take them off. No way was I going to climb almost 1,300 stairs in a long skirt.

ESPECIALLY ONCE WE SAW THE STAIRS. They shouldn’t even BE CALLED STAIRS. I’d say the more accurate term is VERTICAL CONCRETE LADDER OF DEATH WITH PRONGS 2 FEET APART OH MY. We stood at the bottom and looked up at the ghastly climb ahead, did a couple Hail Mary’s, and started up.

I am not exaggerating when I say this was one of the hardest physical activities we have ever put ourselves through. We literally had to stop like every 100-200 steps because we were so freaking winded, and our legs were on FIRE. I can’t believe how bad it was. We’d take a couple minutes to catch our breath and give our legs a rest, and then we’d push on another few minutes. It took us closer to an hour to make the climb, but I was real proud that we made it.

You’d think for as often as we go to the gym, we would have done better than that… but no. It was the actual worst thing. There’s NO gym with a stair-stepper that could prepare you for that. Promise.

Once we finally got to the top – soaked in sweat and tears – we really did enjoy the view. It’s amazing to me that somehow, the Thai people built this giant Buddha on top of a mountain like this. Howwww. How did they do that? I could barely get myself up there, let alone like a million pounds of gold.

The breeze up there was great, we could see for miles, and it was really enjoyable. But once again, we felt rushed because he said that the average person takes half an hour to get down, and we only had half an hour until we were supposed to meet them at the van. So reluctantly, we headed back down.

We CRUISED going down, especially compared to the way up. It was less of a big deal, though you still had to be careful stepping down the extremely steep stairs, because one mis-step and you’d be falling down the mountain.

The coolest part was that we ran into SO MANY MONKEYS on the way down, which is sort of weird because we didn’t see any going up. But literally, there were tons. Sitting on the stairs, jumping through the trees, playing with each other, climbing the stair railings, taking people’s water bottles… it was unreal. I’ve never been so close to wild monkeys. It actually made us a little nervous, because the tour guide had warned us we might encounter them and showed us photos of monkey attacks on tourists. I guess it’s really important not to touch them or approach them, because they’re aggressive, and they’ll bite. Knowing that, we were tip-toeing around them, and I’d get nervous when the bigger ones would seem to stare me down. Ahhhh hahaha. I didn’t want to go to a Thai hospital for a rabies shot! It’s ok though, we made it down monkey bite free. So it was really cool.

We had like five minutes to spare, so we went quickly to check out the tiger cave part of the temple. Legend says that a giant tiger used to live in the cave, and roar at night to warn off predators, until a Buddhist priest moved in and took over the territory. Then the tiger was never seen again.

We walked into the cave, and quickly got reprimanded to put our skirts back on. The lady tied them up for us real quick. Oops.

It was all marble on the inside, and we climbed up a few stairs to see the smaller parts of the cave. A beautiful little temple overall, but we liked the top view the best. (Though this one was WAY less of a problem to get too.)

We returned our skirts, and went back to the van for our rides home. We were actually one of the first groups to get dropped off, which never happens! We had originally thought we’d be last like usual, so we could ask to be dropped off near Walking Street to find some dinner, but it didn’t work out like that.

In the end, it’s probably better. We got to shower, so we weren’t so nasty walking around at night. We got a taxi back to our little restaurant we loved from the first day, but it was crazy busy. We ended up wandering the night market while we waited for a table to open up for us. Beach decided to buy a Thai pancake from one of the booths, cause we were starving. We’d seen them a lot of places, but hadn’t ever tried one, so she just sent it and got one topped with chocolate and sugar. It was actually super delicious! I was impressed! I decided I’d have to get one after dinner.

Dinner was great, too. I tried to order pasta, but apparently they were out of it. So I ended up panicking and ordering a BLT, which is unlike me, but it turned out to be really good. Plus, we got some beautiful milkshakes. They sure can make pretty food.  Also at dinner, we saw our European doppelgangers. And by that I mean, sitting next to us were two girls backpacking around Thailand, and during dinner, they whipped out Skip-Bo! They carry cards while they travel together, just like us. We were impressed.

We were so full after dinner, but I got a Thai pancake anyway. I thought I could try banana with mine, but it went differently than I’d pictured. I thought she would just slice it up and place the bananas on top, but she ended up cooking it inside the pancake. I’m weird about eating warm fruit, so I didn’t love it. Beach’s was definitely better. Lesson learned the hard way I suppose.

Then we got a taxi back to our hotel, so we could figure out what we wanted to do on our free day the next day.

[terreisa]

The Savior and The Scoundrel: Best Laid Plans

Emma has had a few titles attributed to her in her life: princess, captain, pirate but none sat so heavily on her shoulders as Savior. When fate forces her to step into the role prophesied before her birth the only saving she wants to do is to bring back the man she loves. Fulfilling the Prophecy along the way is an additional reward. Sequel to A Crown and A Captain.

Prologue, Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4

ff.net, AO3

“You’re going to wear a path into the stone.”

“I’m going to do more than that if you don’t shut up.”

Roland stuck his tongue at at Emma as she passed by him once more.  She almost reciprocated but thought better of it as she ground her teeth, fearing she’d bite off her own tongue in her agitation.

“You don’t know if he’s truly upset with you.”

Emma stopped mid-stride and spun to face him, “The King of Balliolshire, the one with no heirs and enough troubles in his own kingdom, hasn’t decided to come here to have a cup of tea and discuss the weather.  The last time I saw Liam we were only civil to each other because we had to be.  It was also the last time he saw his brother.”

“He can’t blame you for that.  I don’t blame you for it, none of us do,” Roland stated emphatically, his warm brown eyes boring into hers.

“He can and he will.  Even if he’s making me wriggle on the hook by taking so long to get here,” she grumbled and resumed her pacing.

“You know, if I had known that all I’d needed to do was cast a curse to meet so many royals I would have done it years ago,” Roland commented lightly after a few minutes.

“We’d be hunting you down, not seeking your advice.”

“True,” he said thoughtfully, “Let’s see, Belle doesn’t count because I’ve known her for years.  I’ve met you, Princess Emma of Misthaven, Prince Killian of Balliolshire, Princess Charlotte of-”

“Can’t you just say the names and skip the formalities?” Emma huffed, resigned to listening to his ramblings.

“I could say your whole title if it’ll help pass the time,” Roland smirked.  It turned to a wide grin as she rolled her eyes at him, “Now where was I?  Right, Princess Charlotte, Prince Lucas, Princess Sophie and her twin Prince Josef-”

“And all of them were swept up in the curse.  I hope you weren’t trying to make me feel better,” Emma groaned.

“A secondary goal that’s failing apparently,” he said, shrugging apologetically. “Shall I continue?  I think I will because all that’s left is your mother Queen Snow and now King Liam.  I think meeting the Savior tops them all don’t you?”

“No, and I told you to stop calling me that,” Emma snapped.  She took a deep breath and cast about for a less fraught topic, “I didn’t know Belle was royalty.”

“She was,” Roland said slowly. “But while she was held as Regina’s prisoner her kingdom fell to ruin after her father’s death.  When Will helped her escape there was nothing left for her to return to.  My father told her she was always welcome to stay with us and she hasn’t left since.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Emma whirled around to see Belle standing in the doorway of her study.  She and Roland had been pouring over maps of the kingdom before her nerves about Liam’s arrival had gotten the better of her.  It was two months past the spring equinox and none of them had any clue as to when he’d arrive.  Equally frustrating was the continued lack of any substantial information to be found in any of the books left in their possession, despite Belle and Snow’s determination to go through them all.

“I had sacrificed myself to save my kingdom and had resigned myself to never sitting upon a throne.  When I discovered that my cousins had squabbled so thoroughly over what would have been mine, that there was nothing left to inherit I was almost relieved.  I have been much happier with my life as it turned out than what it might have been,” Belle said fixing on Emma with a knowing look.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Emma said, wondering uncomfortably how much Snow had told Belle about her continued reluctance to become queen.

“Don’t worry about it Emma.  You would have learned about it eventually, Will loves to go on about how he’s swayed two queens to leave their throne for him.  Even if I was only ever a princess.”

“Two queens?” Emma asked unable to help her curiosity.  Especially if it would give her something to hold over Will, who still seemed to regard her with a wary eye.

“His first wife Anastasia was a queen in Wonderland.  She was killed by the Queen of Hearts.  It’s part of the reason he hates magic wielders so much,” Belle explained almost apologetically.

“Oh, I- I didn’t know,” Emma whispered, horrified that her petty need for dirt on Will unearthed something much more personal.

“It was a long time ago,” Belle assured her with a gentle smile.

“I thought he hated magic because of everything Regina and Zelena have done,” Roland said in mild accusation.  Emma looked back at him in shock and he shrugged, “Like Belle said, it was a long time ago and he’s been married to her for much longer than he had ever been with Anastasia.”

“We celebrated twenty three years of marriage this past fall,” Belle said modestly.  Then she frowned, “I didn’t come up here to natter on about my life.  I think we’ve found something.”

Emma stilled.  She was afraid that if she made a single move or even breathed that what Belle had said would prove to be another cruel dream.  In the tension filled weeks since the announcement of Liam’s intent to speak to her she had dreamed of Killian every night.  While none had stuck with her as that first one had she had come to anticipate and dread laying her head down for the night.  It was never a guarantee that the dream, when it came, would be good.

“Really?  What?” Roland asked eagerly.

He jumped up from his seat and raced past Emma.  She blinked rapidly before slowly following him to Belle’s side.

“Come with me to the library and I’ll explain along the way.”

Belle started walking without waiting for either of them to agree to her request.  Roland shot her an amused look before following.  Emma trailed behind in a daze, still trying to convince herself that she wasn’t dreaming.

“After Will pointed out that Zelena’s curse probably took everyone to a different realm Snow and I decided to alter what we were looking for.”

She smiled to herself at Belle’s diplomatic way of reminding them of the time will had called them all ‘bloody idiots’ for not even considering the missing had been transported to a different realm.  Emma had snapped back using language that made her mother blush to tell him that not everyone ran away from their problems to a completely different realm and therefore didn’t see it as an immediate option.  It was a pointed guess on her part that had struck home almost too accurately.  What had ensued was a yelling match between them that had the others scrambling from the room and ended with every candle and fireplace in the castle set ablaze and Belle sending Will on an extended hunting trip.  Alone.

“We didn’t know where it might have sent them so we started by searching for everything we could about realms apart from ours.  Will had told me about Oz and Wonderland and both Snow and I had read of other lands in the past.  It quickly became clear as we learned of more and more lands that we had no way of knowing which one Zelena chose.  There were dozens that we had read about and probably hundreds that we hadn’t.”

Roland groaned in frustration while Emma was not surprised.  Snow had told her as much after a particularly frustrating day of listing numerous realms that she and Belle had come across.  However Belle sounded far from discouraged as she ushered them through the doors leading into the library.

“Even if we had a way to travel to a different realm we’d have no way of knowing which one to choose.  On top of that if we happened to choose the right realm we could spend years searching and still never find the people we were looking for.  It seemed no matter what the odds were against us succeeding,” Belle said solemnly but Emma could see an excited look in her eyes.

“You’ve found a way for us to do all of that haven’t you?” Emma smiled widely, feeling elated that they were finally making some kind of progress.

“Yes,” Snow answered, beaming at them as they approached the table she was sitting at. “We might even be able to find a way to the new realm at the same time we find the object we need to guide us.”

“What is it?” Roland asked eagerly as he hurried over to the book laden table.

“This!”

Snow held up a large tome and flipped it around for them to see.  Amidst the words Emma wasn’t close enough to read was an intricate drawing of a compass.  There seemed to be nothing in the sketch that indicated the compass held any spectacular abilities beyond indicating direction and Emma hoped the text proved otherwise.

“A compass, Your Majesty?”

Emma snorted at Roland’s attempt to sound impressed instead of disappointed.  He shot her an annoyed look.

“It’s not an ordinary compass,” Snow said patiently.  She tapped on the drawing with her finger, “This particular one was enchanted to aid those traveling through a portal.  Specifically if the traveler is not quite sure of the destination.”

“How?” Emma asked stepping forward to get a better look at the sketch.

“According to this whoever is holding the compass only has to think of what they’re trying to reach.  It could be a place, a thing, or a person as long as they keep it fixed in their mind,” Snow explained as she passed Emma the book.

“But it only works with a portal?” Emma peered closely at the words to read the purpose of the compass for herself.  It took a moment for her to realize it was written in a foreign language and another moment before she slowly recognized it as the written version of the fairy language, something Blue had taught her to read along with her practicing her magic.  She sighed, “Magic beans are not easy to come by.”

“Which brings us to where the compass was last seen,” Belle said reaching around Emma to grab another book that looked more like a journal. “According to this it was amongst a hoard of treasures discovered a little over thirty years ago during the war with the giants.  Your father mentioned seeing a compass, here, in his journal and there’s every chance it’s the one we need.  Since contact with the giants has been essentially cut off since then it’s possible the compass is still there.”

Emma looked sharply at Snow.  It had been because of Prince James, not her father David, that the war with the giants had happened at all, that nearly all contact had ceased between the giant’s holdings high in the sky and the humans down below, and that only one lonely giant remained to guard and remember it all.

“We can’t.  We signed a treaty,” Emma protested, heart sore for a different reason than she had been as of late.

“Anton will understand why we need it.  He’ll let us use it if we promise to bring it back once we return-” Snow grasped her hand, “Sweetheart, he knows better than anyone what it’s like to lose family.”

“You want to ask about the beans too, don’t you,” Emma said flatly.

Disappointment and hope warred in her veins.  She tried to reconcile herself with the idea of going back on the promises they had given one of their most tentative allies.  Reaching out to the giant Anton, the only survivor and last of his people, was one of the first acts of diplomacy she had spearheaded.  Even at the age of thirteen she’d recognized the need to try and mend one of the many bridges that had been burned by her uncle’s blackened heart.  To approach him with the singular goal of exploiting his own heartaches to soothe hers left a foul taste in her mouth.

“I feel as though I’m missing something,” Roland said slowly as he looked from Snow to Emma, a scowl forming on his face. “The giants have been extinct since the war.  Your father killed the last of them for some treasure and glory before chopping down every beanstalk so no one could attempt to raid for gold as he had done.  Even raised by thieves I know when a man has no honor.”

“You are missing something,” Snow bit out in a voice laced with steel, “My husband did not commit those acts

“Forgive me Your Majesty, but everyone knows of the deeds your husband committed under the guise of heroics before he met you.  You may have brought about his change of heart but you cannot make us forget the suffering his ego caused before that happened,” Roland sneered, lifting his chin slightly and squaring his shoulders as though preparing for a fight.

“Knock it off Roland,” Emma snapped wearily. “That wasn’t my father, it was his twin brother James.”

“His twin?” Roland blinked quickly, clearly caught off guard.

“And there’s still one beanstalk left with one very lonely and very mistrusting giant at the top,” Emma continued, ignoring his mouth opening to most likely question her further.  She turned back to Snow, “The first time Dad and I went there Anton didn’t believe we were only there to talk.  He made it clear that he destroyed every bean he had.  If we’re looking to create a portal we’ll have to find another way.”

“He might know where others might be.  There was a time where humans traded with the giants for beans, it might even be how the compass ended up amongst their treasures,” Snow fired back undeterred.

“There have been accounts and rumors of beans scattered across the realm since the last skirmish with the giants,” Belle chimed in hesitantly. “Perhaps we don’t even have to ask your giant friend, Anton, where they could be.”

“But we’d still need the compass,” Emma pointed out, trying to ignore the roiling in her gut as she realized she had already begun contemplating the best way to persuade Anton to give her the compass.  There was a dry click in her throat as she swallowed, hating what her next words would be, “I’m going alone then.  If we’re going to ask this of him it has to come from me.”

A volley of arguments broke out around her.  She let each of their reasons for accompanying her wash over her as she strengthened her resolve.  Finally, once they began to repeat themselves, she cut in.

“Anton will refuse outright if I show up with strangers in tow,” she said, addressing Belle and Roland first. “Belle you need to stay here and try to see if you can find anything that will lead us to a bean and I mean anything.  Even a whisper of a rumor will do at this point.  Roland you’ll help Grace and my mother prepare for King Liam’s arrival-”

“Exactly why you should wait and then I can accompany you!” Snow broke in quickly. “Liam is coming here to speak to you.  It wouldn’t do for you to not be here when he arrives.”

“Then he should have been here when he said to expect him and not months later!” Emma snapped.  She took a deep breath to calm herself, “Look, I’ll only be gone three days at most.  The beanstalk isn’t far from here and talking to Anton will take an hour or two regardless of his decision.  Most of my time will be spent climbing up and down the beanstalk.  We know they only threat will be me falling off the thing and even if someone was with me there’d be nothing they could do for me if that happened.”

“But Liam?” Snow protested once more but Emma could see that she knew it was a weak argument.

“He won’t turn around and go back to Balliolshire just because I’m not here.  There’s questions he needs answered and I… I’m the only one that can do that.”

Emma ended her statement in a near whisper, blinking down at the toes of her scuffed boots.  She wasn’t running from what would happen when Liam finally arrived but it was a near thing.  Worrying about how to approach and convince Anton to give them the compass was the perfect opportunity to get out of the castle and out of her own head and her swirling thoughts.  If only for a moment.

“You should take something with you, a gift to assure him that you’re not there to merely take the compass with no regard for him,” Belle suggested softly. “I think I have something that will be perfect.”

“No, Belle, I can’t-”

“When are you leaving?” Belle asked with a stubborn set to her jaw.

“If I leave soon I’ll make it to the beanstalk before nightfall.”

Belle pursed her lips thoughtfully, “I’ll meet you in the kitchen in twenty minutes?”

Emma nodded and watched bemused as Belle walked away from them muttering to herself with the journal that belonged to James still in her hand.

“If you insist on doing this now I’d wish you’d take Roland or Grace with you.”

Her mother was giving her a small, hopeful, smile.  Albeit one tinged with a resignation that Emma could see easily in her eyes.

“I’m sorry but I can’t.  You need them here more than I do.  Especially if Liam and whomever he brings with him do finally arrive.”

Snow gave a quiet sigh, “Then give Anton my best wishes and tell him I regret being unable to be by your side when you ask him for the compass  And be careful, sweetheart, it’s been a very long time since any of us were able to visit him.  He may not be pleased to see you at first.”

Emma frowned as she considered that startling fact.  Before Zelena’s attack their family had visited Anton two to three times a year to not only prove to him that they wanted nothing more than to be allies but also to assuage the crushing loneliness of being the only giant left in the realm.  In the years she herself had been on the run Anton had been left more isolated than even Snow had been in her island tower.  She at least had had guards to keep her company.

Quickly shaking herself from the melancholic thoughts Emma said goodbye to her mother, promising to stay safe and that she would keep them informed of her progress through her glittering messenger birds.  As she turned to leave she wasn’t surprised to see a grim expression on Roland’s face.  He followed silently as she left the library and headed towards the stairwell.

He remained quiet all the way to her quarters and stood just slightly inside her doorway with his hands clasped behind his back as she packed.  She moved about her room in agitation as his taciturn silence and dour expression began to grate on her nerves, throwing items she thought she needed haphazardly into the pack she had emptied upon their settling into the castle so many months before.

Realizing she needed one more thing she gritted her teeth and stuffed a pair of trousers into her pack with a bit more force than was necessary.

“Close your eyes.”

“I beg pardon?” Roland’s hands dropped to his sides in surprise.

“I have to get something for the climb and I don’t want you to see where I keep it,” she huffed, waving her hands at the room at large.  Then she tilted her head, considering him, “Turn around too.”

“Close my eyes and turn around?” He asked indignantly.

“You said it yourself, you were raised by thieves,” Emma shrugged and then squared her shoulders for the fight she knew had been brewing since she’d snapped at him about his misjudgment.

Roland’s mouth dropped open in shock, “You don’t trust me.”

“I do but I can’t help letting what rumors I hear override everything I’ve learned about someone by actually getting to know them,” she said pointedly, arching her brow at him. “Now close your eyes and turn around.”

He did as she asked without further protest but not before she caught the look of hurt in his eyes.  Emma knew it had been a low blow but his earlier accusation had been just as low.  Her years as sailing under the guise of pirate had inured her to all kinds of suspicions and labels but she had never been able to ignore slights against her parents.  It had caused more than her fair share of bruised knuckles and even once or twice being forced from a port earlier than anticipated.

As soon as she was sure Roland wouldn’t sneak a peek she moved to the foot of her bed.  Geppetto, with Pinocchio’s help, had carved the beautifully intricate frame her down mattress laid upon.  There were depictions of scenes from her favorite stories, including her parents’, on the headboard, mythical creatures from land and sea wrapped themselves around the posts that held the canopy aloft, and on the footboard was a finely detailed, down to each individual feather, carving of a swan floating on calm waters.  With a final check on Roland she unerringly pressed the second feather of the wing above the waterline and smiled to herself at the sound of the secret compartment unlatching.

Pinocchio had made the hidden drawer for her at her request blending it seamlessly into the waterline beneath the swan.  At the time she had merely wanted somewhere to stow her childhood treasures where a nosy maid or her mother wouldn’t find them.  Many of those trinkets still remained and she sifted through them quickly before she found what she was after.  The plain, black leather cuff was scuffed and weathered, hardly looking like anything of value but it was essential for her to wear it when she climbed the beanstalk.  It had been enchanted by Blue to counteract the magic used to keep humans from making the climb.  There was another to match but Emma didn’t know where her father had hidden his.  Another reason she had to make the trip alone.

Emma grabbed it and quickly shut the drawer.  She crossed back to her pack and stuffed it deep under the clothing she hadn’t bothered folding to fit nicely inside.  Her trust in Roland only extended so far and if he knew what she had grabbed she didn’t doubt he would scour the castle to find one exactly like it to follow her.  Whether he wanted to protect her or discover Anton’s side of the story Emma didn’t know and didn’t have the patience to find out.

“You can turn back around,” she said as she cinched her pack closed.

He turned and quietly watched her for a moment as she fiddled with the ties before saying quietly, “If your father isn’t James then why continue with the charade all these years?  I doubt the people would object or feel betrayed by the subterfuge.  Your parents were fair and just rulers.”

Emma bristled slightly at both his use of the past tense and his essentially calling what her parents and even herself had done as lying to their subjects.  No matter how true his words were.  She sighed and moved back to her bed where she flopped down onto it, finding comfort in the way her body sunk into the mattress.  She knew she looked like a petulant child as she threw her arm over her eyes but the answer to Roland’s question made her feel like throwing a childish tantrum at the unfairness of it.

“My grandfather isn’t truly my grandfather,” she began with another sigh, clenching the fist that was at her side. “It’s a long story that I don’t want to get into but the Dark One was involved.”

Roland made a choking noise and Emma wondered what his history could possibly be with the imp but tucked it away to question him about later.

“While my mother was fighting to retake the kingdom from Regina my father was fighting to keep my mother safe from King George.  They succeeded together against Regina but the fight was far from over with Grandfather.  He couldn’t expose my father without exposing the weakness of his own kingdom for having no heir but he promised to stop at nothing to end my father’s happiness.”

“But your kingdoms are at peace now.  What happened to change his mind?”

“I did or at least that’s what I’ve been told,” she grimaced.  Removing her arm from her eyes she propped herself up on her elbows, “After my parents announced that I had been conceived Grandfather changed his tune.  He tried to form an alliance, one that benefitted him and his kingdom over my parents and Misthaven, but they refused.  It took months but they finally settled on terms that prevented either kingdom from attacking the other, as long as an heir united them.”

“As long as you continue to live, then?” Roland said with distaste.  He walked over to the side of the bed and hesitated, only sitting when she patted the space beside her, “But his wrath couldn’t have ended just like that.  You are a singular woman but to put a stop to such a contentious feud.”

“Grandfather’s kingdom was failing long before my father took James’ place and I was the saving grace-” she shot him a wry smile, “His vendetta against my parents nearly brought his kingdom to ruin and he has never had any kind of magic on his side, unlike the loyalty of Red, her grandmother, and the assistance from the fairies that my mother enjoys.  She had also proven herself as a champion of her people through her years of struggle against Regina.  If Grandfather had tried to attack my mother or father or attempted to take the kingdom by force he would have been defeated thoroughly and he knew that.  Peace with Misthaven became his only course of action.”

“So your father had to remain James to appease your vicious grandfather?  Seems like an unfair deal, keeping your true identity a secret and being saddled with the reputation of a man without morals.”

“My father didn’t seem to mind so much.  There were a few who knew and even they called him James in private.  I think he realized that he could do more with the reputation of a prince that had found his soul than a shepherd who had married into a crown.”

Emma sat up fully and was relieved to see that Roland was nodding in thought to himself.  She somehow knew that he wouldn’t protest her leaving quite as adamantly as he would have before her tale.

“I promise not to go looking for your hiding place while you’re gone,” he said pleasantly, giving her a cheeky smile. “It’s a cupboard or drawer of some kind, am I right?  Nowhere near where you had your pack, perhaps closer to this side of the room.  I’d wager it’s somewhere in this astonishing bed frame.”

“Thief,” she grumbled good-naturedly as she heaved herself off the bed.  Belle was most likely waiting for her down in the kitchens and she needed to get a move on if she wanted to get to the base of the beanstalk before the sun had set for the day.

“For a pirate I’m surprised you don’t take better care with hiding your treasure,” Roland stood beside her, his smile sliding into a teasing grin.

“If I really didn’t trust you I would have made you leave,” Emma said hoping he’d hear the apology in her words.

“I know and I’m sorry that my words made you doubt me, Highn-”

“Ugh, enough of that.  I need to go meet Belle.”

She grabbed her pack as Roland chuckled at her annoyance, following her as she headed down to the kitchens.  They were discussing exactly how much food she’d need to take before she realized that they were almost to the kitchen doors and she could hear Will speaking to someone inside.  While she wasn’t thrilled to have to speak to Will herself before she left she was glad for Belle’s sake that he had returned in one piece.

Emma pushed through the doors, ready to trade barbs with Will and stopped short at the sight of too many bodies before her.  She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar faces before her and Will, smirking at her as he stood from the stool he had been perched upon.  He was blocking her view of someone behind him but before she could crane her neck to see who it might be one of the men moved forward and bowed.

“Your Highness, it is an honor to see you again,” the man straightened and she felt a niggling in her memory of the face looking back at her. “Despite the circumstances of our visit rest assured that we offer our assistance in any way possible.”

“We?”

Her confusion slowly melted into awareness as she took in the appearance of the half a dozen men in front of her.  They were all in uniform and while most of them appeared to be low in rank the one who had addressed her was much higher.  With a jolt she suddenly recognized him, the colors of his uniform, and recalled his surname, Turner, but worst of all remembered exactly who his superior was.  It was at that moment that Liam stood from his own seat and stared hard at her from over Will’s head.

“Came across them on my way back to the castle.  Thought it’d only be proper to escort them in, as it were,” Will said with a smirk, seemingly enjoying her discomfort.

“Bloody hell, that’s Liam?” Roland whispered behind her.

Turner glared at him, “His Royal Majesty, King Liam, requests an audience with Princess Emma.”

“King Liam can ask for one himself,” Emma snapped, focusing her anger at the situation on Turner instead of the man whose eyes reminded her so much of Killian’s.

“I- but Your Highness- he shouldn’t-” Turner spluttered as he looked helplessly over in Liam’s direction.

“It’s alright, Turner, we both know that the princess has the manners of a pirate.  Even with her seemingly miraculous return to the throne.”

Emma wanted to draw her sword, even though she wasn’t wearing one, instead she carefully made sure that she gave no outward appearance that Liam’s insult had affected her, continuing to look at Turner alone.  She knew her tenuous hold on her temper would break sooner rather than later but she didn’t want it to happen in a room full of people that already held a low opinion of her.  Roland was the only one she counted as being on her side.

From the corner of her eye she saw the men step aside to make way for their king to approach her.  Turner gave a deep nod as he stepped back, leaving her staring into the depths of the kitchen as she continued to ignore Liam’s presence.  From behind she could sense Roland’s hesitation and then the movement in the air as he bowed deeply.  She couldn’t help the roll of her eyes at that.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” Liam’s voice dripped with insincerity, “I would like to formally ask for an audience, in private.  If you would be ever so kind.”

Like, Turner and Roland he bowed beside her.  Emma knew it wasn’t out of respect.  She hadn’t held hope for civility from the man but she had thought that in the months that had passed since she had informed him of his brother’s fate his temper would have cooled.  The soldiers and Turner shifted uncomfortably as their eyes skittered away from the two of them.  She felt a gentle touch at her elbow.

“My lady?” Roland asked hesitantly.

He stepped to her side, setting himself between her and Liam.  She recognized the gesture for what it was and gave him a grateful smile.  By placing himself in that exact spot with his back to Liam he was not only declaring his loyalty to her but insulted the man and the crown he represented as well.  Still facing Turner she saw him scowl deeply at Roland, making her smile.

She turned to Roland, keeping her eyes firmly on him.  It was easy enough when he was both taller and broader than Liam behind him.

“If His Majesty requests an audience, then I’m happy to oblige,”  Emma said in a saccharine sweet voice.  Roland’s head tilted slightly at her tone, “Roland, why don’t you go and fetch my mother.  I’m sure the Queen would appreciate know our honored guest has finally arrived.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Roland replied with a smirk, catching onto her game.

“Could you also inform Lady Belle that her husband has returned as well?  I doubt he did so himself seeing as how he brought the King here to our humble kitchens instead of a more appropriate room.  It seems his time away did little to improve his manners,” she shot Will a smile that matched her tone.

He scowled back.

“Consider it done.  Shall I also escort His Majesty’s guard to the rooms we’ve prepared?” Roland asked seriously, lips twitching.

“No, Will can do that,” she turned back to Turner. “I’m sure Mister Turner will want to inspect His Majesty’s rooms.  They may not be much, sir, but they’re the best we can offer considering the state of the castle.”

Emma watched with joy as Turner bristled at her thinly veiled insinuation.  From the minimal time she’d spent with him back in Agrabah she knew he prided himself on his proper conduct and manners.  By the flush she could see creeping up his neck it was easy to tell he would have done exactly what she’d suggested, but only after he was out from under watchful eyes.  She could also tell he was bursting to correct how she addressed him as a commoner instead of using his proper rank title she had determined from the embroidery on the cuffs of his uniform.

“I’m sure they’ll be more than sufficient, Your Highness,” Turner said tersely, with a curt nod of his head.

“Gentlemen, Will, allow me to escort you out and leave His Majesty and Her Royal Highness to their discussion,” Roland said, smiling widely at her before gesturing for the others in the room to proceed him out the door.

“Now wait a bloody minute, I won’t be havin’ you tell me what to do!” Will snarled, stalking towards her.

Roland’s hand struck out as quick as a viper and snagged Will by the upper arm.  Will winced.

“You swore before me, your wife, and our men that you were loyal to the royal family of Misthaven.  Which means following the Crown Princess’ orders,” Roland said in a dangerously low voice.  Will’s nostrils flared in pain as Roland seemed to tighten his grip further, “It’s high time you prove where your true loyalties lie.”

Will stumbled back slightly as Roland released him.  Emma sensed that there was a history behind the confrontation.  More than just Will’s attitude towards her.  She didn’t get a chance to dwell on it, becoming distracted by Will storming from the room and Liam’s guard stumbling over themselves to catch up.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Emma said softly to Roland.

“It’s been a long time coming,” he sighed.  He looked at Turner who was whispering feverishly with Liam, “Come Mister Turner, it seems I’ll be the one to show you to the quarters we’ve prepared for His Majesty and yourself.”

“That’s Vice Admiral Turner to you,” Turner said disdainfully, lifting his chin to try and stare down Roland who stood half a head taller than him.

“Of course, Vice Admiral Turner, Sir.  If you’ll follow me.”

Emma laughed to herself at Roland’s mocking tone and watched as he strode from the kitchen without waiting.  Turner looked at Liam seemingly aghast at the lack of manners afforded him.  Liam chuckled, something Emma studiously ignored, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.  As the door swung shut behind Turner Emma found herself alone with Liam for the first time since Agrabah.  Back when they had been informed of his father’s death and had discovered who each of them truly were.

“I’m impressed, Swan.  If I didn’t know who you really were I’d say you were fit to be queen.”

She realized her mistake a moment too late as her eyes locked onto the ones that looked so much like his brother’s.  Behind the brilliant blue was a fire and a rage that she’d only seen in Killian’s once and not in any way directed at her.  Fighting the instinct to step back or even look away she stared back trying not to show how affected she was by his gaze or that he’d called her by her moniker instead of her title.

“And who do you think I am?”

“A woman who fancies herself a princess when we both know the scoundrel pirate is her true nature.  After all, only such a person would find that a bloody letter would be enough to suffice when alerting a king that the second in line for the throne had vanished without a trace.  Not to mention that with those same unfeeling words you informed a man that for the second time in the span of a year that a relation, his own brother and last remaining member of his family, was gone.  They say that Queen Elsa has a heart of ice but you, Your Highness, have no heart at all.”

“You’re wrong,” Emma said, hating the shake in her voice.

“Am I?” Liam snorted, but there was no amusement in the sound. “When we were first ordered to go after the Brooke I admit I was intrigued.  Who had made such a powerful enemy of the Queen that she strong armed my father into sending his heirs after them?  I had heard the many rumors about the captain of course but merely chose to believe that it was a personal grudge that had escalated too far.  My mistake of course.

“Killian looked forward to your capture as a grand adventure, something to attribute to his name other than philanderer.  I merely saw it as a way to keep ourselves from suffering at the Queen’s hands.  It was his enthusiasm and eagerness to prove himself that became his downfall.  That and your pretty face.

“I shouldn’t have told him to go with you.  I knew he was already losing his head around you but I wanted to stabilize our kingdom first and in turn get the Queen on uneven footing in her own.  You were a means to an end.  I just didn’t realize it would be at the price of countless lives and cause ripples across the realm that have turned to tidal waves.”

“The people lost are still alive,” Emma said with conviction through gritted teeth.

“Perhaps, but the price of a life isn’t always death, Swan.  Although there has been plenty of that where you’re concerned.  Hewitt and Thompson would still be alive if I had listened to my good sense instead of trusting you and from what that Scarlet fellow has told me the loss of life didn’t end there either.  You are a maelstrom that destroys everything that comes near it.  I’m only glad that Killian isn’t here to see how you truly are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s clear you didn’t expect to be here when I arrived.  The surprise on your face when you entered and the pack over your shoulder are proof enough of that.  Merely running from your problems, your obligations, again,” Liam’s eyes flitted to the doorway and back. “While he never said as much in the few letters I received from him I knew Killian had fallen for you.  I wasn’t entirely sure his affections were returned and now I’m convinced they weren’t.  Tell me, Swan, did you drag that oaf of a man into your bed before or after the sheets cooled from my brother’s disappearance?”

Emma registered the sting in her palm before the action that caused it.  Liam’s head had rocked slightly to the side, an angry red mark rising on his cheek as the sound of her slap echoed in the vast space.  Without pause she curled her other hand into a fist and sent it careening into his jaw with more force than finesse, causing his head to snap back to the other side.  She felt a flash of pain in her knuckles that did little to quell her ire.

“How dare you,” she spit out, taking satisfaction in the blood welling at the corner of his mouth. “I have been doing everything I can to get everyone back and it’s not enough.  You don’t know anything about me or what I’ve had to struggle against my entire life.  You have no right to judge me when your only hardship has been watching your kingdom thrive through an alliance with Regina-”

“My father died-”

“And my parents were imprisoned for eleven years!  My kingdom was no longer mine, I was without a home, torn from my family and I did what I had to to survive.  You can’t look me in the eye and tell me that you wouldn’t have done the same,” Emma scoffed.  She shook out her hand that had begun to ache, hissing against the sharp pull across her knuckles.  Looking down she saw that a split had formed across them, blood trickling down her fingertips.  The sight caused the fight to leave her, “You were right about one thing, however.  I don’t have a heart.  How can I when Killian possesses it wholly?”

She wouldn’t say that she loved Killian, not in so many words.  She had promised herself that he would be the first to hear the declaration out loud.  Liam’s jaw ticked, his mouth tightening into a frown.  He grimaced, his hand moving to his mouth and looked at the blood on his fingertips with indifference.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can garner any sympathy from me with crocodile tears or more tales of how unfair your life has been,” Liam said with disdain.

“I don’t want your sympathy or worse your pity,” she spit back, stalking to the small stash of liquor they kept to tend to her hand.

Emma wanted to hate him but found that she couldn’t.  He was hurting and had likely not had any outlet for it.  As a king he would have had to remain strong for his people and hide behind a mask of stoicism to prevent anyone from seeing weakness in their new ruler.  She wondered if even Turner had seen anything close to the strong emotions she had seen from Liam in the short time they’d been fighting.  Breathing deeply she willed herself to not hide her own emotions as she turned to him.

“I know you hate me and abhor the idea of working with me but I’m asking you to put that aside.  I can’t find Killian and the others on my own.  Please, for him, will you help me?”

Liam stared at her with a hard, flat gaze.  She stood unflinchingly under his scrutiny but couldn’t help herself from noticing the tiny details that made his face different from Killian’s and the ones that were painfully the same.  They both had blue eyes that sparkled brightly, contrasting with the darker coloring of their hair and skin, making them stand out all the more.  For the first time in months a clear image of Killian was forming in her waking mind but differences in their noses, the shapes of their jaw, the way they looked at her kept his true likeness from taking shape.  She wanted to close her eyes against the visual assault but knew Liam would perceive it as her backing down and they needed him and his resources.  Her pain could be boxed up once again.

“I will help you,” Liam said slowly, formally. “Not only for my brother but for the sake and stability of the realm.”

“Fine-” Emma nodded once, letting out the breath she had been holding.

Turning back to the bottles behind her she pulled out the rum.  She moved about the kitchen grabbing strips of cloth from the rag pile and two pewter mugs from a cupboard, ignoring Liam for the moment.  When she had everything she needed she sat herself down at the table, across from the seat he had occupied when she had first entered the kitchen.  Indicating he should join her by pointing with the bottle she went about pouring out a measure of rum for the both of them before holding the rags over the mouth of the bottle as she tipped it upside down.

“Bloody waste,” Liam harrumphed as he sat down across from her.

“It’ll get the job done,” Emma hissed as she dabbed at her knuckles with one of the rags.  She tossed the other to Liam, “We don’t have anything to make a poultice and I’d rather not die from infection.”

“If you’re implying that I’m diseased-”

“I wouldn’t bother with being subtle about it,” Emma said rolling her eyes.  She smirked at his frown and pushed one of the mugs towards him, “I’d just say it.”

She had just placed the rim of her own mug to her mouth when the kitchen doors swung open, revealing Snow.  Her mother’s eager face twisted into confusion as she took in the sight of them and Emma groaned under her breath.  She had never been very diplomatic with visiting royalty when she was younger and she had a feeling Snow was more disappointed than surprised that blood had been spilled.

“Queen Snow, forgive me for not finding you sooner to pay my respects,” Liam said as he stood and bowed.

“It seems as though other matters took precedence,” Snow frowned briefly at Emma before looking back at Liam, “My apologies, King Liam, for not being able to offer you the service or accommodations that you are used to but you are aware of our circumstances at the moment.”

“My men and I are honored to accept whatever you are able to provide.”

“If this round of formalities is going to take a while I think I’ll find Belle and be on my way,” Emma said already halfway off her stool.

“But Emma-”

“You’re leaving-”

“Leaving, not running,” she said pointedly, staring at Liam. “We think there’s something that can help us find where the curse took the missing people.  That’s why I had my pack.  I should be back in a few days.”

“Emma, now that King Liam is here I think you should wait to leave,” Snow held up her hand to stop Emma’s protest. “At least until we’ve learned what information each of us has to share.”

“That brings me to why my arrival was delayed,” Liam said with a grim seriousness. “Because of the sudden disappearance of the ruler of Misthaven there has been a void of power that has disrupted the peace between kingdoms in the realm.  Many, whom you mentioned you’ve written to Queen Snow, are trying to maintain stability in their own kingdoms but there are a few poised to strike.  I’ve spent most of my time in Camelot, placating King Arthur and trying to stem his ramblings about a Savior and a prophecy about his kingdom.”

Emma’s hand twitched and she moved to grip her mug to cover the reaction.  Luckily Liam appeared not to notice.

“I’ve written to Arthur, he seemed eager to help us if needed,” Snow said, sounding far from convinced at her own words.

“Arthur is a duplicitous snake and you should be wary of any help he offers,” Liam sneered.  He frowned, “But he’s not the one you need to concern yourself with at the moment.”

“What do you mean?” Snow’s eyes darted to Emma’s in worry.

“I have it on good authority, from my own spies and missives from other kingdoms, that King George is planning on taking control of Misthaven.  He’s been assembling troops and with no defences once he crosses into this kingdom he’ll be successful.  That is the true purpose of my visit.  I come to offer myself and my soldiers to help you win this fight.”

Snow looked stricken.  Emma could do nothing but laugh.  They had found a step forward only to find another thing that was pushing them back.  She caught the confused looks of her mother and Liam and it just made her laugh all the harder.  When she could manage she downed the rum in her mug and poured another healthy measure into it, sliding it towards her mother.

“I have a feeling we’re going to need a lot more of this before the day is done.”

As she rose to grab another mug for herself she tried to push down the thought that fate would have its way no matter what choices she made.  The prophecy was still months away from being fulfilled as it should.  She couldn’t help but wonder what else would happen before her twenty eighth birthday came to pass.

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Tagging: @teamhook, @galadriel26

[readbookywooks]

ABOUT noon I stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and medicines. He was lying very much as we had left him, only a little higher, and he seemed both weak and excited. "Jim," he said, "you're the only one here that's worth anything, and you know I've been always good to you. Never a month but I've given you a silver fourpenny for yourself. And now you see, mate, I'm pretty low, and deserted by all; and Jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now, won't you, matey?" "The doctor - " I began. But he broke in cursing the doctor, in a feeble voice but heartily. "Doctors is all swabs," he said; "and that doctor there, why, what do he know about seafaring men? I been in places hot as pitch, and mates dropping round with Yellow Jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the sea with earthquakes - what to the doctor know of lands like that? - and I lived on rum, I tell you. It's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to me; and if I'm not to have my rum now I'm a poor old hulk on a lee shore, my blood'll be on you, Jim, and that doctor swab"; and he ran on again for a while with curses. "Look, Jim, how my fingers fidges," he continued in the pleading tone. "I can't keep 'em still, not I. I haven't had a drop this blessed day. That doctor's a fool, I tell you. If I don't have a drain o' rum, Jim, I'll have the horrors; I seen some on 'em already. I seen old Flint in the corner there, behind you; as plain as print, I seen him; and if I get the horrors, I'm a man that has lived rough, and I'll raise Cain. Your doctor hisself said one glass wouldn't hurt me. I'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, Jim." He was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me for my father, who was very low that day and needed quiet; besides, I was reassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended by the offer of a bribe. "I want none of your money," said I, "but what you owe my father. I'll get you one glass, and no more." When I brought it to him, he seized it greedily and drank it out. "Aye, aye," said he, "that's some better, sure enough. And now, matey, did that doctor say how long I was to lie here in this old berth?" "A week at least," said I. "Thunder!" he cried. "A week! I can't do that; they'd have the black spot on me by then. The lubbers is going about to get the wind of me this blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to nail what is another's. Is that seamanly behaviour, now, I want to know? But I'm a saving soul. I never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it neither; and I'll trick 'em again. I'm not afraid on 'em. I'll shake out another reef, matey, and daddle 'em again." As he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty, holding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and moving his legs like so much dead weight. His words, spirited as they were in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in which they were uttered. He paused when he had got into a sitting position on the edge. "That doctor's done me," he murmured. "My ears is singing. Lay me back." Before I could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his former place, where he lay for a while silent. "Jim," he said at length, "you saw that seafaring man today?" "Black Dog?" I asked. "Ah! Black Dog," says he. "HE'S a bad un; but there's worse that put him on. Now, if I can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse - you can, can't you? Well, then, you get on a horse, and go to-well, yes, I will! - to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all hands - magistrates and sich - and he'll lay 'em aboard at the Admiral Benbow - all old Flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left. I was first mate, I was, old Flint's first mate, and I'm the on'y one as knows the place. He gave it me at Savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if I was to now, you see. But you won't peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that Black Dog again or a seafaring man with one leg, Jim - him above all." "But what is the black spot, captain?" I asked. "That's a summons, mate. I'll tell you if they get that. But you keep your weather-eye open, Jim, and I'll share with you equals, upon my honour." He wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after I had given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark, "If ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me," he fell at last into a heavy, swoon-like sleep, in which I left him. What I should have done had all gone well I do not know. Probably I should have told the whole story to the doctor, for I was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of his confessions and make an end of me. But as things fell out, my poor father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on one side. Our natural distress, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on in the meanwhile kept me so busy that I had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less to be afraid of him. He got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual, though he ate little and had more, I am afraid, than his usual supply of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing through his nose, and no one dared to cross him. On the night before the funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of mourning, to hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was, we were all in the fear of death for him, and the doctor was suddenly taken up with a case many miles away and was never near the house after my father's death. I have said the captain was weak, and indeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than regain his strength. He clambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea, holding on to the walls as he went for support and breathing hard and fast like a man on a steep mountain. He never particularly addressed me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but his temper was more flighty, and allowing for his bodily weakness, more violent than ever. He had an alarming way now when he was drunk of drawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table. But with all that, he minded people less and seemed shut up in his own thoughts and rather wandering. Once, for instance, to our extreme wonder, he piped up to a different air, a king of country love-song that he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the sea. So things passed until, the day after the funeral, and about three o'clock of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, I was standing at the door for a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when I saw someone drawing slowly near along the road. He was plainly blind, for he tapped before him with a stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose; and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed. I never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure. He stopped a little from the inn, and raising his voice in an odd sing-song, addressed the air in front of him, "Will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious sight of his eyes in the gracious defence of his native country, England - and God bless King George! - where or in what part of this country he may now be?" "You are at the Admiral Benbow, Black Hill Cove, my good man," said I. "I hear a voice," said he, "a young voice. Will you give me your hand, my kind young friend, and lead me in?" I held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature gripped it in a moment like a vise. I was so much startled that I struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with a single action of his arm. "Now, boy," he said, "take me in to the captain." "Sir," said I, "upon my word I dare not." "Oh," he sneered, "that's it! Take me in straight or I'll break your arm." And he gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out. "Sir," said I, "it is for yourself I mean. The captain is not what he used to be. He sits with a drawn cutlass. Another gentleman - " "Come, now, march," interrupted he; and I never heard a voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man's. It cowed me more than the pain, and I began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and towards the parlour, where our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with rum. The blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist and leaning almost more of his weight on me than I could carry. "Lead me straight up to him, and when I'm in view, cry out, 'Here's a friend for you, Bill.' If you don't, I'll do this," and with that he gave me a twitch that I thought would have made me faint. Between this and that, I was so utterly terrified of the blind beggar that I forgot my terror of the captain, and as I opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered in a trembling voice. The poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him and left him staring sober. The expression of his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness. He made a movement to rise, but I do not believe he had enough force left in his body. "Now, Bill, sit where you are," said the beggar. "If I can't see, I can hear a finger stirring. Business is business. Hold out your left hand. Boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right." We both obeyed him to the letter, and I saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's, which closed upon it instantly. "And now that's done," said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as I still stood motionless, I could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance. It was some time before either I or the captain seemed to gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same moment, I released his wrist, which I was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm. "Ten o'clock!" he cried. "Six hours. We'll do them yet," and he sprang to his feet. Even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor. I ran to him at once, calling to my mother. But haste was all in vain. The captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy. It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.