#if I had a nickel for every time I was asked the 'how much ribs does a ribcage has' and almost got it wrong because I began thinking about

[kanene-yaaay]

Anatomy teacher: So, how much ribs has a human ribcage?

Me: *war flashbacks*

[endearng]

Doomed

Pairing: Spencer Reid x single mom!reader Summary: If you and Spencer had a nickel every time someone teased you after witnessing your interactions, you'd have two nickels, which isn't much — but it's weird that it happened twice. WC: 4.4k Warnings: Mentions of abandonment and I think that's it. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: HI!!! I'm so obsessed with them... in a normal amount of course. I'm thinking about writing casually for them, who knows... Also,,,, who am I if not a morcia truther….. I hope you enjoy it! Feedbacks are always appreciated <3 neighbor!au masterlist | main masterlist

You were doomed from the moment he bid you goodbye.

"So, who's he?" Victoria inquired, a sly smirk on her face and a bashful expression on yours.

"Who's who?" You asked, trying to feign nonchalance.

She groaned playfully, "You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't." You winked, sitting on your couch again, between the two women. Sex and the City was playing on the TV across from the three of you.

"You're acting like us as freshmen when the seniors looked at us—" she retorted.

"I thought we didn't talk about that," Jude deadpanned.

"You're 'I don't know what you're talking about' me? I thought we were friends!" Victoria poked you in the rib.

"Ouch! He's just a friendly neighbor, that's it." You said, trying to cut the subject. Jude looked at you suspiciously. "White wine time."

From Spencer's apartment, he could hear the sound of chatter, joyful laughter and opening bottles for the rest of the night. He didn't know how to feel by your invitation, now that he had calmed down after looking you in the eye for a moment, technically, all by yourselves. He would definitely feel inappropriate at a kid's birthday where he barely knew the people who invited him, but he thought that Olivia's gesture was amazingly endearing. What could possibly be more childishly adorable than an infant trying to help and making a 'mistake'? And what could possibly be more devastatingly endearing than a mother taking advantage of said mistake to make it right?

Spencer studied the card for a moment. It fit the palm of his hand, tiny and delicate. It had a different address from yours and the time of the party, all of it lovely handwritten, just like the letters from calligraphy practice notebooks. It seemed like Olivia put a lot of effort in trying to perfect her handiwork. It read:

Hey, it's Oli!

I'm turning six and I want to celebrate it with you!

The contents of the slip of paper were adorned by dainty drawings related to birthdays: party hats, cake, gifts, some decoration and so on. It suddenly dawned on him that he was actually becoming closer to the people he always thought lived a perfect life. His mind had a tendency to wander and, for a fleeting moment, he thought about what it would be like to be part of that perfect life.

Olivia was a perfectionist child. He saw the expected behavior of the age in her manners, but the care with her work almost made him think someone else had done it for her. Something told him it wasn't the case, though.

Secured by two magnets, he placed Olivia's birthday party invitation on his fridge. You know, just so he wouldn't forget it — he tried to convince himself.

Everybody knew about his otherworldly memory, but he decided to forget it purposefully.

"Good morning, good ghost. I didn't see you anymore." Olivia greeted as she saw Spencer in front of the elevator. You were just locking your door closed, hyping yourself up for the week ahead of you when you heard it and a shiver ran down your spine. This, whatever it was, was getting out of hand.

"Good morning, Miss Olivia!" He said, a sweet tone of voice. You melted. "It's true. It's been a while. I was here on the weekend, but it seemed like you had other plans." He stuck his hand out for her to shake. She did it in a heartbeat.

"I was with my grandma and grandpa. They took me to the movies and grandpa made me lasagna." She explained as you approached them, adjusting your bag and Olivia's backpack in each of your arms. "Did'ya get my birthday party invitation?"

"Yes, I did! Thank you for inviting me. But, you know, your mother probably needed the rest of them for the other guests." He said as the elevator opened. He gestured for you to enter it first, so you did it with a grateful nod.

"Sorry, mommy. I didn't mean it." Olivia looked at you briefly, ashamed that you would call her out.

"I know, baby, 's okay. Everyone has one now." You assured her with a light tone. Breathe. "Hi, Spencer. Good morning." You said as he joined you in the elevator.

He breathed out, "Good morning. Hi." He had a big smile on his face, standing right next to you, you both facing the door and Olivia in front of you. Internally, he felt like a puppy who had his owners’ undivided attention.

Olivia pressed the button to the lobby. You noticed a book in his hands. Courage. "So, what are you reading, Spencer?"

He gulped. Were you talking to him? It took him a moment to get a grip and realize that he hadn't answered you. Struggling to find the words and suddenly unable to remember what he was actually reading. "Me? I'm just re-reading one of Dostoievski's books. Notes from Underground."

"Dosto-what?" Olivia chipped in.

You looked at her, ready to tell her to not interrupt someone, but couldn't stop yourself from giggling. Spencer watched it fondly. "It's Dostoievski, baby. D'you remember that one book with the 'ugly' cover that mommy was reading the other day?" You asked her, air quoting the word 'ugly'. “It wasn’t ugly. It just wasn’t pink.” You explained it, looking at Spencer. He grinned.

"Yeah. You didn't read to me because it was work." She said, getting distracted with one of her braids.

"Are you a teacher?" He asked, intrigued.

"No. I actually work for a publishing company. Sometimes I have interesting content to revise." You said, a tinge of irony in your voice. He smiled at you, feeling comfortable enough to joke around him without the awkwardness of that first encounter.

The elevator door opened. Olivia jumped out. "I bet it's interesting," was the best he could come up with. Tongue tied.

“Yeah. It’s a good book.”

Like a fucking teenager, he watched as you left with your daughter. Your mixed laughter echoing in the lobby as Olivia spinned around while you carried the weight all by yourself.

He scolded himself for not remembering to offer you help.

Two days later, a few states over, Spencer sat on a chair at the conference room of the precinct they were working with. The case was exhausting and he just wanted it to be over, but it wasn't that simple. He waited for Derek Morgan — he was his ride that night back to the hotel they were crashing on. He was in front of Derek as he and Penelope talked, her image on the computer screen. The man's nonchalant tone was a riddle for her to unsolve — everyone else was aware that there was definitely something between them (an unspoken dictionary worth of words), even if their interactions were deemed as jokes. Penelope, feeling very shy, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked at her lap after a particular comment about her smile. As she did so, her eyes caught a glance of her watch. "Oh, shoot. I have to go," she murmured, relieved to have a way out of the exchange that had high chances of turning her into a nervous wreck. "I'm so sorry, handsome! Tomorrow is one of my friend's daughter's birthday."

A flash of disappointment crossed Derek's features. Not that she'd noticed. Instead of pressing her, he chose to say, "Need extra energy to keep up with the kids, babygirl?" Ah, there was it. The teasing tone. She was definitely imagining things.

"Not as much as I need to keep up with you, tiger," she replied with a wink, the dynamic between them quickly shifting back to the usual playful banter. Both of them wanted more than playful and far more than banter, but none of them had the courage to admit it, to be straightforward about it. Spencer understood it, really. Speaking made things too real. "But, seriously. I totally forgot to pick up her gift. Olivia loves reading, so I'll go to the mall. I'm glad I already bought it, so I won't get home late."

If he was a dog, Spencer's ears would have definitely perked up from how quickly he associated one thing to another. Could it be the same Olivia? Your Olivia? "Okay, mama. Be safe." Derek said.

"I will," she smiled as she hung up.

Idiots.

Maybe Derek was too serious about the "no profiling each other" rule they set.

"Let’s go, pretty boy," The dark-skinned agent stated. Spencer got up, grabbed his bag and made his way to the elevator with her.

As they chatted about nothing in particular, walking out of the precinct, he desperately wanted to ask him if she truly didn't see past Penelope's sudden shyness. It wasn't in his nature to do that, of course, but as Derek and Penelope were two of the most important people in his life, he wondered why wouldn't they be a thing by now, since they enjoyed themselves so much and were so open about their affections towards one another.

He was quickly ripped away from his thoughts when the man suddenly spoke up, “So, what's your deal lately, Reid? What's she like?"

The doctor choked on his own saliva, which made him cough like crazy. Derek laughed, but tried to help his panicked friend. "What was that, man?" he asked worriedly, once he saw Spencer had finally inhaled a gulp of air.

Face as red as a tomato, cough dying in his throat, "what was what?" Derek returned to his normal self once he noticed his friend was able to finally form a coherent sentence.

"You're gonna act dumb now that you almost died when I talked about her?" Derek questioned, teasing tone, "it was just a lucky guess, but I see you, Reid. You're daydreaming far too often for what's acceptable for the boy genius who's as focused as a laser beam."

Spencer looked straight ahead as they got to the exit. He should have cornered Derek first. "Why would you think it has anything to do with a 'her'?" He chuckled, nervous to be caught red-handed — even if he wasn't doing anything wrong.

Was it wrong to want? He felt like it was. All his life, really. Had no chance to want anything because either was a far too distant reality, person, happiness for him to grasp it or it was ripped away from him too soon, before he could even acknowledge what was happening inside him. That's why want was almost a foreign sensation for Spencer. He had been deprived of it for as long as he could remember.

"Because people get a little dumb when they're in love. At least, ordinary people do. Apparently, so do geniuses," he snickered, his mind also set on teasing Spencer.

Maybe it was dumb to reveal his secret, jaw dropping crush on his cute neighbor, but he wanted some sort of relief to that mess of tangled thoughts inside his head and the strange, to say the least, feelings brewing on his chest whenever he saw you. You barely knew each other. But he supposed it was yet another part of the want he wasn’t familiar with: it didn't need much and it took all consciousness out the door. It wasn't uncommon for him to feel like his heart was being ripped out of his chest whenever he was on the field, especially since he was often facing danger. The way the events were unfolding were scarily similar to his cases: he noticed you, made up theories based on your behavior and routine, and slowly, oh, so slowly, started to approach you. Not to put you away, but for more personal reasons.

What was different was the feeling in his heart, instead of the sensation of being squeezed painfully inside his ribcage, often leading to ragged breathing, now felt like it was being held delicately by a pair of caring, dainty hands. Either way, his heart was fighting in the frontline and relied on the other part to be calmed and saved. The least he could do was try to be careful, finally opting not saying anything to Derek.

"Just a lot on my mind lately," he chose to say, instead. Derek dropped the subject, too tired to press it further.

Olivia's party had come to an end an hour ago. You got to see old friends and talked until they got every single ounce of information about your life lately and so did you about theirs. Your daughter had enjoyed her party greatly, and hugged every. single. person. who came to wish her happy birthday and thanked them for being there. She paid little attention to the gifts, too focused on spending time with her friends, playing with them until the sugar rush wore off — all of them had a massive candy intake that day. You didn't spend much time with her, but she promised you that she would unwrap her gifts the next morning with you, the most adorable toothless grin on her face.

Despite everything flowing accordingly, all day long, your stomach churned with anticipation. You wondered if Olivia's dad would show up, since the day she was born was, quote, the happiest of his life. His parents did, and when you looked at them anxiously, his mother shot you a neutral glance. Not a word from his end was its meaning. Your daughter never asked anything about him during the day, which made you even more jittery. You feared she would have a breakdown at any time, so you paid extra attention to her.

It never came.

You had missed the deadline of a book chapter that you had to revise, too caught up on trying to balance everything in your life, so your parents told you they'd stay with her so you could go home to work and take her in the morning. Normally, you wouldn't accept it, but your father had decided you were too tired to wake her to go home, so you complied. Right after the guests left, you did all the steps of her night routine, except for the bedtime story — she was that tired of all the running around in the backyard. You were sure she would sleep all night long.

Once she dozed off, you stood for a moment in her grand-bedroom (she had come up with that and it kind of stuck with you). Your parents had decorated it while you were still pregnant. She needs to feel at home, was what your mother said when you walked in on them assembling her crib. You almost cried, overwhelmed with joy. Your fiancé, then, had rolled up his sleeves to help out. Oh, the irony.

Her room was full of photographs that held many memories of her six years of life. You could never imagine that you could love this much, let alone dedicate yourself so entirely to someone like you did for her. Even though it was hard and you often didn't feel like you were enough to raise her on your own, Olivia was a wonderful child and her gestures and overall behavior assured you you were doing a good job. The reflection brought tears to your eyes. You drove home by yourself.

Currently, in your apartment, it felt a little too big without Olivia in there — too many books, too many chairs, too much space on your sofa, too many toys scattered around with nobody to play with them. You sighed, deciding on going to the kitchen to make you a cup of tea — you felt like your brain was hammering inside your skull and you still needed to spend time in front of a computer screen. Going back to your small office to wallow in self pity and second guess yourself even as you read whatever material it was, you heard a knock on the door.

You checked your watch. 9p.m. On a Saturday.

Weird.

Through the peephole, you saw someone you truly weren't expecting. "Spencer?" You asked as you opened the door, surprise filling your being. "I didn't think you'd come, I supposed you were at work. I mean, sometimes it feels like you barely have a routine, heh. But, um, thanks for dropping by." You said, a little unfiltered. Not even five seconds in his presence and you were already making a fool of yourself in front of him.

He held a small bouquet of flowers in one of his hands and a gift in the other. To a stranger's eye, it seemed like he had missed your birthday and was trying to apologize for it. You blushed at the thought. He shut his eyes, sorry crossing his features. "I know. I'm sorry I missed it, even though I really didn't want to. You were right, I was away on a case." You smiled, dismissing his apologies and soothing his worries once you did so.

"It's alright with me. She was totally expecting you, though. Kept asking where you were for the first hour. Then she got distracted with candy," you told him, "so she's the one you're gonna need to apologize to." You joked.

"T—that's why I'm here."

"I'm just not sure if Olivia is old enough to get flowers," you said, face serious. His eyes went wide and it took him a moment to understand, but once he looked at your serious expression cracking, his shoulders shook with laughter, with you. If you had more attention, you'd seen the moment his ears turned red.

Your laughter died down. A beat of silence. "These are actually for you." He revealed.

You were stunned. "Oh," you said, suddenly at a loss of words. "Thank you so much."

He gave you the flowers and you gracefully accepted. You were mesmerized by them; colors swimming in harmony before your eyes and the scent making you feel dizzy. Maybe not the scent, but the emotions you were feeling with the surprise. He went out of his way to get you those flowers — it's safe to say that it had been a while since you felt that way. "I—I have no words, Spencer. Really. Thank you so much," your voice choked.

You looked at each other for a brief moment. You tried to show how much you appreciated his gesture. You grinned, trying to get out of that haze, "Do you want to come in? Oli's with my parents, so you won't be able to apologize today," you quipped, making room for him to enter.

"Yeah, I'd love to."

"You can place the giftbox on the coffee table." He went inside, toeing off his shoes in the small space you had before the living room. Once he was there, he saw you enter the kitchen to find a vase. He could see you from where he stood. "Make yourself at home. Do you want some tea? I have Earl Gray."

Your voice was distant as he took in his surroundings. "Yeah, I'd like it." He murmured as he looked around. Your walls were a light gray, adorned with pictures of you and Olivia, some people he assumed were some of your friends. The wall behind the sofa was entirely covered by a big bookshelf that went from one end to the other, filled with books and souvenirs from basically everywhere. The dark wood of the furniture complemented the light walls in a cozy way, some toys and kids books scattered around the floor. The apartment smelled like fresh printed sheets of paper and earl gray tea. You had a few indoor plants that looked well taken care of. Spencer was admiring your degree from Stanford, which hung on the wall beside the TV, almost close to the door.

"One of my biggest achievements. Besides Olivia, of course," you approached him with his mug of tea. Turning to you, he noticed through his peripheral vision that you had placed the flowers inside a vase and in your coffee table.

"Thanks," he said.

"So... are you okay?"

The question caught him off guard. What?

You smiled a little. "You always look kinda tired when I see you," you said, not thinking about how your words might be interpreted. Your eyes widened, realizing it. "I mean, no! Sorry! You're still pretty, don't worry. It's just— I asked because you might be going through something. Forget I said anything about your looks."

He would definitely never forget.

Spencer laughed, flustered, eyes softly gazing at you while you rambled like a madman. "I'm fine, thanks for asking. Sometimes my job is a little demanding and I'm forced to see some things that usually people don't even think exist," he confessed.

You bit your lip. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be," he retorted, "I have a great team to work with."

"I'm glad to hear that. Sorry I brought it up, you probably don't want to talk about work right now." You said, sipping on your tea.

"Yeah, you're right, again," he chuckled. "How was Olivia's birthday?" He tried a change of subject.

"That was actually the reason I was moping when you got here," you said, trying to force a chuckle. "It was nice, I guess. I was just on edge all day trying to anticipate her emotions regarding her dad, but I guess they never came. At least, not today." You beckoned him to sit with you on the couch, now facing each other directly.

"May I ask why?" He asked, tentatively.

"Why what?"

More hesitance. "Why wasn't he there?"

"From what I know, he moved away." You said, tone unreadable.

He worried that he was overstepping and wasn't sure that he would like to hear more about it. He was scared to find out unpleasant news, such as you still had feelings for him. "I'm sorry." Was all he could muster.

"Don't be. I have a great team," you repeated his words from earlier and he smiled at you.

His brain and tongue didn't seem to be working together that night, he was so avid to know more. "Did you always have support?"

"My parents didn't like the idea of having a single mother when they first heard it. It hit me hard back then, but then I realized it was better to be alone than to stay in an unhappy relationship, especially since Olivia was already in the picture." You said, setting your own mug on the coffee table.

"What happened?" Stop it.

He couldn't help it, he was too curious. It was his first opportunity to truly know the novel sort of family that you had. Apparently, not so much.

"He was distant before leaving. Someone else, maybe?" You asked, rhetorically, a crease between your eyebrows. "I never found out, but I don't want or need to, either. His parents absolutely love Olivia and they were there today, 's all that matters."

"You’re a very strong person."

"I have to be," you said, softly. "You’re a very good listener."

A rush of courage running through his veins. Deciding on not taking the road of unsaid things, like his friends were earlier. Don’t dance around the subject, take the opportunity. Dare. "And you're just as pretty."

The world stopped. You looked at him in disbelief. It didn't last much. A knock on your door. Scratch that: someone banging on your door.

You pinched your eyebrows together. Spencer stood up, almost as if he was doing something wrong. You looked at him, apologizing, "I'm not expecting anyone."

You walked to the door and he stood behind you, telling you he was going to let you be. You didn't want to and you were already chastising yourself from not trying to talk to him and focusing on your problems instead. You opened the door and in the threshold stood Penelope Garcia, gift basket in hands. Before you could speak, both of your guests spoke at the same time.

A mortified "Garcia?" from Spencer.

A surprised "Spencer?" from Penelope.

Finally, a confused "Do you know each other?" from you.

"Yeah. We work together." Spencer replied. "What are you doing here, Penelope?"

"What are you doing here, boygenius?" Her tone now was teasing, a cheshire grin on her face. You were acting confused, but you were loving to see Spencer so out of place.

"I... I was..." He trailed off.

Poor thing. "He came to drop Olivia's gift. We're neighbors." You explained, trying to save him from further embarrassment.

She glanced between you two, eyes full of mirth behind her glasses. "I'm here to do the same." She said, smiling as she handed you the basket, which you took carefully and thanked her with a side hug. "There's her present, sweetcheeks. I'm so sorry I couldn't be there, you know how much I miss you and Olivia. But I'm sure our genius told you all about it." Her sentimental words truly held emotion, but she turned her attention to Spencer once again. The opportunity was too good to let go.

Spencer looked like a fish out of water. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it. "Garcia, can we talk?" He asked abruptly. "I'm sorry, I have to go." He murmured in a much more soft tone to you.

He could never resume whatever was going on in there because he felt like he had been caught with his pants down.

You were so surprised you didn't even process what was your answer, forgetting to ask if Penelope wanted to come in or anything. "I—Okay. I'll see you, then." With a small smile and slight disappointment in your voice. He all but dashed out of your apartment and took Garcia, who had a mischievous expression on her face, with him. You closed your door and looked at the mix of flowers. A sigh escaped you. Damn, Garcia.

Spencer was escorting Penelope back to her car, ready to bury himself alive because he knew she would run her mouth and knew precisely to whom she would tell about it. And, of course, the endless jokes he would hear during the next few days. "Sooooo..." She trailed off, suggestively.

"I—don't want to talk." She opened her mouth, but had no success in talking. "Not. A. Word."

She entered her car and started the engine as he waited for her to go. But before she started driving, she yelled, "I knew you had it in you, Reid."

From your balcony, work long forgotten, you watched Spencer hide his face in his hands in utter embarrassment.

You were doomed.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Would it be possible to get the aftermath of a heroic whumpee who went up against someone incredibly far out of their league? Kind of along the lines of that one time Dazzler went up against the Juggernaut on her own (A heroine with light projection powers vs a villain with the power of unstoppable force) and ended up being beaten to the point where she was too weak to move. The other heroes become her caretakers for a little while. I loved that arc and could really use something similar.

I can hardly describe how much I love this prompt. I absolutely adore it, and I can only hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I think I’m somewhat familiar with Dazzler, though when I looked through the wiki, I couldn’t find anything about this story? The wiki may just be incomplete, though. It reminds me of a story arc of the original ms. marvel, too!

This is absolutely one of my favorite kinds of whump, and I really hope that I did it justice. Thank you so much for the ask!

CW//Medical settings, poison, therapy, paralysis, inability to speak, self-hatred, low self-esteem, hair-pulling

The metal doors at the entrance to the Metropolis General Emergency Room swung upon with the force of a thunder clap. And, just as thunder, they too heralded lightning.

Or, at the very least, light.

A pair of lab-coats pushed forth a gurney on ratta-tatta-tattling caster wheels, footsteps crashing on the floor in even rhythm. Close behind, an entourage of two sprinted in close pursuit: A pair of heroes in civilian clothes.

“Lux!”

To the person laid upon the gurney, the voice felt to be emanating from a thousand miles away. Or more. Maybe a couple thousand, or a million... It was hard to think about numbers when their mind was stuffed with cotton, and their vision was dominated by blurry white ceiling tiles.

“What in the world happened to them?” The doctor that spoke had had all sense of clinical professionalism drained from their tongue.

“We don’t know.” A hero, outfitted in jeans and sweater, replied in a single, slurred sound. “We just found them, and-”

It was too loud. Far, far too loud-- Lux felt as though the full force of the ocean had made the sudden decision to crash into their eardrums. And, beneath at all, the caster wheels refused to stop their clitter-clatter. Spikes piercing their temples, they let out the tiniest of cries.

A tiny sound, and all eyes were on them.

“Lux!”

“Lux, what in the world happened to you?”

“What the hell did you do?”

“Talk to us!”

“Wake up!”

“Wake up.”

“Lux. Lux, what did you do?”

Lux, what did you do?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

The support beam shook against the force of the body, hurled at it. Shudders rocked from the base to the top, threatening for the thousandth time the structural stability of the building.

And the structural stability of Lux’s ribs.

With several hoarse coughs, the hero struggled to hands and knees, joints wobbling as though the ground they were braced against were the epicenter of an earthquake.

They could taste it.

They could taste what they had been inflicted with, more than they could feel it. The wound upon their side had long since gone numb-- at the very least, the poison had that benefit to it. Now, the sensation had migrated to Lux’s tongue. A bitter flavor of burnt coffee.

Even if they had the chance, they had no desire at all to examine the gash that had been torn across their side. They’d heard the stories, seen the headlines.

Lux knew what happened to Mercury’s victims.

That was why they were here, after all.

“Had enough yet, kid?”

The voice was booming, sounding from the other side of the half-toppled warehouse. In their weakened state, Lux could barely raise their head high enough to meet the eyes of their foe.

Mercury’s height was unimportant, as was their general stature. After all, it was hard to focus on his body. It was hard to focus on anything but the claws-- terrible, wicked things curling outwards from his knuckles.

A single slash from them, and flesh would begin to curl away, to rot. To necrose.

The wound they had been inflicted with was already a death sentence. But, not an immediate one-- Lux had a bit of time left on death row.

A bit of time to make this right.

Shivering, the hero stood to their feet, facing their opponent from a hundred foot’s distance. It was the most ridiculous of match-ups. A chihuahua against a pit bull. A garden snake against a cobra.

That didn’t mean that Lux couldn’t try.

“Firefly wants another round, then?” The villain’s voice curled, almost as venomous as their blades. “Try me, kid.”

And try they did.

Hands balled to fists at their side, Lux took one, single step forth, stomping onto the warehouse’s concrete floor with a decisive strike.

It was as though a bomb had gone off.

The world was swallowed, all at once, by white. Light engulfed each shadow, each color, until the universe was as blank as unexposed photo paper.

It was merely a distraction, a smokescreen. But they needed time to recover. Time to catch their breath.

Time to remember why they were doing this.

In the world of heroes, Mercury had a particular nickname-- “The Untouchable.” He was the lion in the zoo. No one dared get near him, much less touch him. It was a death sentence, to be slashed by his claws. The heroes were terrified of him, and that gave him a free license to tear the world to shreds.

It was from one of their villainous informants that Lux had heard of the plan initially. The water supply. Mercury had found a way to distill the poison held within their claws, and they intended to release it into the city water supply.

To kill every last citizen of Metropolis.

But the others turned merely a blind eye. No one would touch the villain. They had resigned themselves to dealing with the aftermath.

That would mean deaths. That would mean ‘acceptable causalities.’

To Lux, there was no such thing as an acceptable causality. Only a problem that needed to be solved.

Their teammates had insisted, begged, nearly, that they not be so careless. But, when had Lux even been known as the careful one?

Not once in their life.

“Stop this, Mercury!” The hero snapped into the expanse of white. “Just-”

Lux did not so much as see the fist before it connected. Did not so much as feel the claws, raking their neck.

Not before the world went from black to white.

Lux, what did you do?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did it.”

Those were the first words that Lux heard clearly, after escaping from their haze. Consciousness teased them as the world above turned from colors to shapes to vision.

White tiles, spotless and all in a row. Their perfect nature was threatened only by an out-of-place beeping that nearly forced the hero to once more fall to sleep.

But, they managed to cling to consciousness as they turned their head to the side, revealing a figure, interrupting their view of the tiles overhead.

A figure. A person. A-

“You did it, Lux.”

Nora. Nora, their friend, their teammate, their comrade. Not Mercury. Not a villain. If Nora was here, then they were safe. The hero had an almost supernaturally calming way about herself, located somewhere between her wispy tangle of black hair and the way her movements imitated the performance of a dancer.

But, wait- Why wasn’t she in uniform? No, now she bore only the clothes of a civilian.

No. No, of course she wasn’t wearing a uniform. Lux had gone on a mission, yes. But it hadn’t been with their team.

They’d tried to stop Mercury, and-

“The water’s safe.” Nora’s voice was only just as smooth as her movements. “Mercury’s been contained. You did it.”

“And by god, what were you thinking?!”

The shout sent a stabbing agony through the side of Lux’s skull. That was more so the reaction they had expected.

Nickel. The most paranoid superhero on planet Earth.

Lux struggled to open their lips, to bring forth an explanation. To state that they had been doing what was right. That they had been doing what a hero should have done.

And yet...

And yet, their lips refused to so much as twitch. Too, their tongue sat dead in their mouth, numb and useless.

The only muscle in their body that functioned was their heart, which in that moment began to race.

“You could’ve died!” Nickel’s tirade continued, despite the fact that the target was showing not a single reaction. “Or worse! You could’ve died, or worse, or both! That was so stupid.

Don’t give me the silent treatment, dammit. Explain yourself!”

Lux wanted so desperately to do so. Their heartbeat turned, now, to a pounding tattoo within their skull, the pedal of a bass drum, slamming against the inside of their cranium.

They couldn’t move.

A twitch of the head. A blink, maybe. That was all. That was all they had left.

Lux had saved the world.

Their vision began to swirl.

Lux had saved the world, but what had they given up in exchange?

Telling when the hero fell unconscious was nearly impossible. Yet, when their eyes at last drifted closed, it became clear that whatever wakefulness they had had was now extinguished.

That left two heroes, one proud and one paranoid, leaning over a hospital bed. Shivering both in their own rights, Nickel and Nora stood. It was with great care that the room’s entrance was pushed open. The doctor that did so walked backwards-- their hands were quite thoroughly occupied by a clipboard.

Nickel and Nora said not a word, as speechless as their teammate. They both knew that this was the bringing of news.

This doctor was the bearer of their friends fate.

“They’re going to live.”

That was what they started with. 

“With medical care, Lux will survive this ordeal. However, they will need to stay under intensive care until their immediate symptoms subside.”

Nora stared blankly for a long moment, before whispering:

“They aren’t moving. They aren’t talking.”

The doctor could manage only the more sympathetic of nods. Again, they repeated themself, but, this time, with an addition:

“Lux is going to live. But, most likely, they will never be the same. The poison has taken its toll on their system. There’s no cure. No antidote.

One day, they may be able to move, or speak. But, they have a very, very long road ahead of them.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Very, very long was an understatement.

No, the doctor would have been better have describing Lux’s journey as a highway from Moscow to Las Vegas.

“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Da ra’zz spa- ff mm a pla.”

“The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Za ree z’pa fa ma- play.”

“One more try. The rains in Spain-”

“Nnn- oh! No!”

The lab-coated doctor sitting before Lux set down their clipboard with a heavy sigh, sending only another bubble of rage rising in the hero’s chest. They balled their hands into fists, shaking them furiously before placing their open palms upon their temples.

Lux hated this. Lux hated every last minute, every last instant of this. They hated the doctor. They hated the doctor’s office they had to sit in, walls covered from floor to ceiling with charts of vowels and consonants. More than anything, they hated their exercises.

It should have been simple! Eight words. Eight simple words. If they could repeat them properly, then they would never have to go to one of these stupid appointments ever again.

But, they couldn’t. They couldn’t say eight simple words. In fact, they couldn’t even say one.

A month in the hospital, and Lux could not so much as speak. It made them want to tear their hair out! In fact, they would do that, had they had the motor control for it.

But, they didn’t. They didn’t have anything.

The last month had been the longest of the hero’s existence. Hell, those thirty days had felt to be longer than the rest of their entire life, put together! Thirty days and thirty nights of utter hell.

When they had gone off to face Mercury on their own, Lux had been very well prepared to die. They had not been prepared for this.

From the outside, the progress that the hero was making was undeniable. They had begun in a state of complete and utter paralysis, able to move their head, their eyes, and not a thing else. It was only with thrice-a-day physical therapy that they had begun to move. First, it was only moving their head. Then, their arms. Their legs. By the end, they could even sit up, with the help of a helping hand.

Every day, Lux’s teammates visited. And, every day, they congratulated their friend on their progress.

But, as far as Lux was concerned, it had been a month, and they hadn’t made an inch of progress. As hard as they tried, they were still laid up in a hospital. Still broken. Still useless.

They knew that their friends were trying. They knew-- it was evident on their expressions. Those constant, stupid looks of pity. They would never speak about their own lives, about their missions. The villainous plots they’d stopped, the battles they’d won. No. They focused only on the mundane: Where they’d gone for lunch, how they’d spent their evening.

It was out of pity. Lux knew that. It was all pity. But, in all truth, those were the only moments during which they ever felt, truly, like themself. Like Lux.

Like a hero.

So they’d heard, the media had praised them, lauded them for their victory. But they never spoke of the sacrifice it had taken.

Their friends’ visits were the only parts of the day that Lux had to get forward to. The rest of their life was filled with... this.

“Lux.” The doctor coaxed. “You need to do your exercises. You’re already getting so much better! But you won’t make any progress if you don’t try.”

“Don’ thwaa ex- thwaa ta.”

“Don’t want exercises, want talk?”

Lux narrowed their eyes. But, that had been what they were trying to say. The fact that it needed to be repeated, interpreted, however, made them feel sick.

“You need your exercises, Lux. How about we just try one more time? I know you can do it. You’re already doing so well!”

Eight simple words. Eight simple words, and Lux could be a hero again. Eight words, and they could be a person again.

“Okay, Lux. Repeat after me: The rains in Spain fall mainly on the plain.”

“Tha ran-”

Yet, that was all they could make out. Lux’s throat ran dry of words, void of syllables. They couldn’t speak before, and now, they couldn’t so much as make a sound.

They never cried in front of others. Never. Yet, that rule had been broken in the hospital already a dozen times. And, so it seems, this would make thirteen.

Lux’s chest was wracked with heavy sobs as they buried their face in their hands. Soon, tears leaked from beneath their shaking fingers.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“I’m right here for you, Lux. Lean on me all you need.”

Nora’s voice carried the same cadence as water, meandering through a stream. Too, of course, did her gestures. A gentle, yet firm hand took Lux by the wrist, wrapping their arm around their comrade’s shoulder.

“It’s going to be hard, okay? It’s going to be hard. It’s okay to get tired. And you don’t have to get it on your first try. Or your fifth. Or your hundredth.”

Lux stopped listening on the last part.

This was it. The final gauntlet. Nearly an entire season spent within hospital walls-- now came their test. Everything counted on it. As far as they were concerned, it was a matter of life or death.

If they succeeded, they were home free. They could be brought home by their teammates-- of course, while still attending outpatient physical therapy, but still! They would be home.

And, yet, if they failed? They would be placed back in their hospital room. They would continue to be useless, a burden on both doctor and friend alike.

Everything was riding on this. Lux took a deep breath, and opened their eyes to face their challenge:

A hallway.

They had studied it extensively. Seven feet in width, and perhaps twenty in length. A tiny little thing, used only to get between two particular rooms. It was in the very depths of the hospital; that was why they were using it. There was no chance of distraction, of interruption.

“Are you ready, Lux?”

“Yesthh.”

“Okay.”

Their weight was leaned, nearly entirely, upon Nora. But, that didn’t matter. It wasn’t a test of standing on their own. If that was the test, they’d never get out of this hellish place. All they had to do was make it to the end of the hallway, with help. They could go slowly. They could lean. They could rest.

They only had to make it to the end.

Nora placed one foot forward, waiting for Lux to do the same, which they did, slowly and shakily. It was in this manner that they moved. One foot, one foot, staying always in the slowest of locksteps.

For Nora, it was simple.

For Lux, it was agony. Their knees felt mere milliseconds away from buckling, legs straining under the weight of the rest of them, even as the vast majority of it was leaned onto their friend.

Five feet. Five tiny, minuscule steps. That was how far Lux made it.

And then they were falling.

They did not remember the fall, not really. One moment, their knees had given out. And, the next, they were on their side, on the carpet.

Shaking.

This had been it. This had been their chance. All they had to do was walk down a hallway, that was it! Then, they could have gone home. Then, they could have been with their friends.

Then, they could have finally been a hero again.

And they’d failed. They’d failed the simplest of tasks.

In that moment, a certainty struck Lux like a dagger to the chest: They were never going to get better. Never. It didn’t matter how many exercises they did, how many doctors they saw. This whole thing was pointless! They were going to be worthless until the end of time.

On the floor, Lux screamed. It was a babbling, incoherent thing, as most sounds they made were. Too, they began to thrash, slamming their fists into the floor as they howled in anguish.

Then, they weren’t thrashing anymore. They couldn’t.

Lux had no need to open their eyes to tell what was happening. They knew Nora’s footsteps, knew the sound of her racing over. The feeling of her, hauling them into her arms. Holding them close.

They knew, also, the sounds of doors opening. Of more footsteps, familiar footsteps. Of chattering voices. Their friends’ voices.

Their whole-

Lux’s breath caught in their throat.

In order to avoid distraction, it had only been them and Nora in the room. They had assumed that it was only Nora who had visited that day. And, yet, they knew these voices.

Their whole...

Their whole team. Their whole team had come to watch. They counted every voice, every pair of footsteps. Every last one of their friends had come to watch them succeed.

But, they’d only watched them fail. Lux expected heckling, expected to be berated.

They did not expect the half-dozen pairs of arms, wrapped around them. They didn’t expect to be the center of a group hug.

“You’re doing so well.”

“You got so far!”

“Just a little more practice, and you’ll be back out there fighting crime in no time.”

“You’re almost there!”

“That’s the furthest you’ve been able to walk yet!”

“We’re proud of you.”

Lux’s tears did not stop.

And, yet, they realized something:

They were no longer tears of sorrow.

[thetomorrowshow]

unless you take your army back, ch. 6

First  -  Previous  -  Read on AO3!

college life go brrrrrrrr

cw: description of injuries, ptsd flashbacks, paranoia

~

Three more days, Katherine had told him. Three more days of resting with intermittent periods of stretching, then walking the length of the room. The first few times, the room expanded out endlessly before him. Even with Jack to steady him, it was a challenge that sent him straight to sleep afterwards, vision hazy from the exercise and lack of food. By the second day, though, it became easier and easier, until he could slowly make it from the bed to the door barely out of breath. Jack wasn’t exactly pleased with his progress, but Crutchie refused to stay at home a day longer. So, when the bell rang on the fourth morning, Crutchie roused himself with everyone else and slipped his vest on, excited to finally be back among his brothers.

The plan was fairly simple to follow. Jack and Tommy Boy would walk him to get a cup of coffee from the nuns, then they would loiter there and rest for a good fifteen minutes, until Davey and Les turned up with some papers for them to sell. Tommy Boy would go his own way, and the four of them would make the walk to Crutchie’s normal selling spot (“It’s a bit of a walk, Crutch.” “No. This is non-negotiable, Jack. I’m sellin’. At my spot.”), where Jack and Les would break off down the street and Davey would stick with Crutchie.

It seemed simple, at least. In practice?

It was still simple. Easy, even. There was no screwing this up. Which was why, after an exhausting hike, Crutchie found himself at his normal corner, ten papers in his bag and Davey shouting a headline.

The wind was strong today, strong enough that Crutchie’s hat nearly blew off and some dirt got kicked up into his face almost as soon as he stopped on the corner he usually sold at. Crutchie himself would’ve been blown over if he hadn’t been leaning against a wall, still trying to catch his breath from the walk. It was nicer than the scorching heat of earlier in the week, though. At least with the wind he wasn’t sweating through his bandages.

Crutchie limped forward to join Davey closer to the street, digging through his bag to pull out a pape. There wasn’t much of a way to wave it around, not with one arm holding onto his crutch and the other in a sling, but he could at least hold on to it to make for an easier transaction.

“Paper!” he called. “Paper! Man gets--uh, murder! Just last night, murder of . . . a child! You heard it here!”

Davey threw him a disbelieving look. “That isn’t what it says at all.”

Crutchie shrugged. “I didn’t read it.”

Davey sighed, showed him the headline. Something about the governor giving a speech. Boring. “Is there anythin’ better in there?” Crutchie asked hopefully. Davey nodded, flipping open the paper to an article about a fire at the carnival the night before. That was useful.

“Three children, stranded on the ferris wheel for hours!” Crutchie shouted, not bothering to read the rest of the article. Davey burst out laughing, but made a call of his own.

“Fairgrounds on fire, parents abandoning their own children to escape! Read the story here!”

Soon enough, Davey had a customer, then Crutchie did as well. An older gentleman, one who looked at him as if he was diseased. Crutchie tried to smile, but couldn’t make his mouth muscles work. Right, his face was still quite the sight. Not to mention the way he leaned heavily on his crutch, or his immobilized right arm. Still, the man dropped a penny in his left hand (briefly removed from the handle of his crutch) and yanked the paper away from him before hurrying off. Crutchie tucked the coin into his pocket. Only nine more to sell.

Why did nine papers weigh his bag down so much?

Next was the woman he’d seen Buttons selling to the previous week, and she greeted Crutchie with enthusiasm, going so far as to hug him (Crutchie gripped his crutch as tightly as his bruised fingers would allow to keep from making a noise). When she pulled back, her smile froze, truly taking him in.

“Why, Crutchie! Was this all from that children’s strike?” she asked, clearly shocked.

Crutchie didn’t know quite what to say. The hug had startled him, jostled his healing ribs, and he couldn’t quite get words to form. “Uh, no, Miss,” he stuttered, offering a paper. “Got unjustly arrested an’ the like.”

She gasped, leaning closer instead of taking it from him. “Did the police--?”

“Not exactly, ma’am,” Crutchie said. He stepped back to put a little distance between them. “But I’s all right now, it’s good ta see ya again--”

“It was that Snyder, with his children’s jail, wasn’t it?” she asked, and Crutchie’s heart skipped a beat. Mentioning Snyder was not good, not at all, never. In fact, the hairs on the back of Crutchie’s neck rose as he realized--Snyder could be on this very street, he could be anywhere--Crutchie looked around, searching for that bowler hat, those hands always ready to grab--

“Whatever happened, it is so good to see you again, Crutchie,” the lady was saying. She handed him a coin and gently pried the paper from his grip. Crutchie managed to nod at her, still checking everyone on the street. He was here, somewhere, he could feel it. Snyder was one of these people, hurrying by on their way to work or wherever they were headed, and he would spot him if he moved and drag him back there--

“Crutchie? You doing all right?”

Crutchie ignored David, doing his best to examine everyone while also not moving at all. His legs ached, but his back was screaming to not lean against the wall again. Knowing that Snyder was near seemed to be aggravating it, the memories of being whipped so near to his mind.

“Crutchie, if you pass out, Jack is going to kill me.”

“I’m fine,” Crutchie forced himself to say. It came out as a hoarse whisper, almost silent. He cleared his throat and turned to Davey, who was watching him with a considerable amount of concern. “I’m good,” he said louder, every nerve of his body jangling in alarm. He ignored it. “Jus’ . . . got distracted. Is all.”

Davey nodded slowly, brows furrowed. “If you say so,” he said. “But if somethin’ happens, I’m telling Jack it was your fault.”

Crutchie forced himself to laugh, knowing he wasn’t even smiling. Luckily, Davey seemed satisfied and went back to his business. Crutchie looked down to slip the coin into his pocket--a quarter?

A whole quarter?

He stared at it, mouth falling open slightly. The most he’d ever gotten for one pape, on the best day, was a dime.

“Dave--” but Davey was busy, interacting with a customer. Crutchie swallowed, then dropped the quarter in his pocket. It added a strange weight, clearly separate from the penny already there. Even at his most pitiful, he’d never gotten a quarter for a single pape!

He must look pretty bad, then.

Crutchie sold four more papers, three of them to regulars who sought him out. Each of those three gave him more than the penny price, leaving Crutchie almost wishing that he had bargained with Jack for more than ten papes. He was making bank today.

After the eighth paper was sold for a nickel, though, Crutchie realized he wasn’t going to be standing for much longer. His body pulsed painfully with each pump of his heart, he was emotionally exhausted from his constant scans for Snyder--he knew he was here, somewhere, just out of sight, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce--and although it hurt his pride something awful, he knew it was time to tell Davey he needed to go. If he could stay, he would, but Jack would tie him down to his bed to keep him from going out tomorrow if he worked himself too hard today. He couldn’t risk it.

Crutchie waited patiently as Davey finished up a sale, then nudged his shoulder. All it took was one glance at Crutchie’s face for Davey to nod.

“You need to get back in bed,” he said, before Crutchie could even say anything. “Let me go tell Jack we’re heading back. Sit down, okay?”

Davey helped Crutchie lower himself to the curb, then looked around for a few seconds before heading off in a random direction. Crutchie tried not to freak out too much--not having Davey here didn’t make him much of an easier target, right?

It did, actually. So did sitting down. Not selling did as well, made him less noticeable to everyone around. He couldn’t--he was going to vanish, just like so many others, just like Albert that one time, but unlike Albert he couldn’t run away. If Snyder dragged him away right now, he wasn’t even sure that he’d be able to scream for help.

“You sellin’ today’s paper, boy?” A rough voice from above asked.

Crutchie looked up (how long had he been staring at his shoes?) to see a construction worker, holding out a penny. Crutchie nodded wordlessly, struggled with his bag for a few long moments, finally extracted a newspaper to hand to the man. The man coughed into the paper, dropped the penny into Crutchie’s open hand, then hauled off.

Crutchie vaguely hoped he didn’t get sick. He always seemed so much more likely to pick up any illness on the street than the other boys--something to do with his bad leg, probably. In his current weakened state, a bad cold might be enough to push him over the edge.

He still had one paper left--right? He could sell it while Davey was gone. No, wait, he had to save one for Mr. Myers, at the bakery. And one for Dr. Ellis, over at his office a few blocks away. He only had one, though--how was he supposed to get one for both of them? He couldn’t choose between them, they were both his loyal customers and now that he was out here he had to sell to them or else they might think he was ignoring them. What should he do? What could he do?

Crutchie glimpsed a bowler hat before it passed into an alley, bobbing out of view. He froze, even stopped breathing. If he didn’t move, maybe Snyder wouldn’t notice him. He wanted that, right? But maybe if he made a sound, maybe if he was noticeable enough, Snyder would open the door to the closet and let him see some light again, maybe even give him some water if he was feeling kind, maybe even let him out.

But was the risk of being stomped into the floor worth it? That was more likely to happen, what happened any time he got too loud. Sure, it broke up the monotony, gave him a point to focus on, but every attack brought him closer to the end. Was that what he wanted?

Was it?

It didn’t matter right now. Instinct kicked in and Crutchie huddled in closer around himself, protecting the most vulnerable parts of his body. He could stay safe if he was quiet and small, that had always worked. Back when he’d been a beggar on the streets, he’d avoided the bulls by making himself as unnoticeable as possible, tucked into the corner of an alley, mixed in the middle of a crowd of tall folk. It was a tactic that had always worked, it had to be of some use here.

Crutchie didn’t know how long he sat on the curb, head tucked into his knees and arms wrapped around himself. All he knew is that the world grew muted, the sound becoming as empty as the darkness of his closed eyes. His heart seemed to pound in his throat, blocking it and effectively silencing him. There was nothing but himself, his heartbeat, and Snyder--lurking nearby, waiting for him to make the first move and condemn himself.

He was crying, Crutchie realized distantly--only because his nose had begun to block up. He couldn’t open his mouth, couldn’t risk the sound--but he couldn’t breathe, not with his nose blocked, but he couldn’t open his mouth--

A hand--no, no, no--landed on his shoulder, fingers burning into him with a vicious pain, and Crutchie rolled away as well as he could--head knocking into something hard, bad arm and leg twinging as they got caught under his weight--knowing he was in trouble. He was in trouble for not breathing, for trying to escape, for existing--

Blood thrummed in his ears, growing louder and louder and louder as Crutchie coughed, choking on dust, and hands grabbed him again--so rough, just to drag him back to face more abuse--and yanked him by the back of his shirt, his legs kicking out desperately.

They let him go almost immediately, though, and Crutchie cringed, waiting--waiting . . . waiting for nothing? He drew in a shallow breath, ribs aching slightly, and forced his eyes open.

For a moment, the dim figure of one of Snyder’s thugs stood above him, rubbing his hands together, but Crutchie flinched and there was Jack, his face starkly pale, eyes rimmed with red.

“What was you thinkin’?” Jack yelled, breaking the muffled silence. Crutchie’s hand came up involuntarily to cover his ears--Jack speaking was like a dam bursting, and the cacophony of noise from his environment caught up all at once. “Rollin’ out into the road like that, ya nearly got yourself killed!”

Crutchie stared up at Jack, confused. He didn’t really . . . know where he was. Somewhere loud, unbearably loud, but unknown. As he came to that fact, Crutchie’s breath caught in his throat. Why didn’t he know where he was? He sniffled, trying to not cry even more. He didn’t know where he was and he was sure Snyder was nearby and Jack was mad at him, all of which was wrong in every sort of way. What was happening?

Crutchie noticed Davey behind Jack, holding Les’s hand and looking more scared than Crutchie had ever seen him. Why was he scared? Was Snyder behind him?

He glanced over his shoulder, heart racing, eyes scanning compulsively for a sign of the man. Nothing. Maybe--no, nothing. Well, not nothing, but no him. There were plenty of people, which explained why it was so loud.

“It’s okay, Crutch,” Jack said, and Crutchie looked back up at him. He seemed sad, now, less angry. “Sorry I yelled. But you gotta stay outta the road, okay? You was almost ran over.”

A tear slipped out of the corner of Crutchie’s eye, despite his best efforts to hold it back. He didn’t know what Jack was talking about. None of this made sense and he just wanted to go home. When could he go home?

“Can I touch ya, ta help you up?” Jack asked, crouching down. Crutchie nodded, wiping his eyes on his sling. Even with the warning, Crutchie shuddered when Jack reached under his arms to help him stand. Les handed him his crutch--why did Les have it?--and then he was stumbling off, Jack at his side.

Crutchie was shaking so much that he could barely stay upright, not helped by the fact that Jack had a hand on his back. All it did was put him on edge, anticipating a push to the ground. He knew Jack would never, but he couldn’t help but believe it would happen.

He wasn’t quite sure where they were going, but he hoped it was home. Everything was so loud and unfamiliar and overwhelming right now, and he just wanted to go to sleep.

“Ain’t all here, are ya?” Jack huffed. Crutchie nodded, then shook his head, confused as to what Jack was asking. Yes, he wasn’t exactly present; or no, he wasn’t exactly present? He didn’t know which answer made more sense.

They were moving slowly--Crutchie’s bad leg was seizing, his right wobbly. His back and ribs burned with every movement, leaving him gasping for breath in a matter of minutes. Something that was digging uncomfortably into his right shoulder slipped and fell, his belated efforts to catch it inhibited by the sling pressing his arm to his chest.

They halted for a moment, Jack picking up the thing--his bag, Crutchie registered--and swinging it over his own shoulder before wrapping his arm around Crutchie’s lower back, supporting him under his arms. Crutchie gasped as adrenaline pumped through his body, but tried to shake it off. This was Jack. Jack wouldn’t hurt him. Knowing that didn’t help clear his head, though, nor did it keep him from trembling.

“It’s okay, you’s okay,” Jack muttered, helping him along the moderately busy sidewalk. “Just keep movin’. We’s goin’ home, okay?”

Crutchie said nothing, just focused on walking. His head really hurt, but he tried to process what had happened. Something about . . . Davey? And selling papes, and . . . he had a decent bit of money, didn’t he? “Jack. . . .”

“Yeah?”

Crutchie bit his lip. “I . . . can afford a bed tonight,” he offered. Jack chuckled tightly.

“Don’t talk about it here, all right?”

What else had happened? Crutchie knew he was missing so much, everything was so cloudy and exhausting and difficult. Something . . . something like. . . .

He caught a whiff of a new scent in the air, one that grew stronger with every step. Bread, freshly baked. It smelled incredible, yet Crutchie felt his stomach turn. It reminded him--

“Jack, Mr. Myers,” he said, looking around until he spotted the bakery, across the street and a few buildings down. “I gotta--I bring him a pape--”

“I’ll get it to ‘im later, all right?” Jack said soothingly. “Don’ worry about it. Right as soon as we got you in bed, I’ll head over.”

Crutchie wanted to do it himself, but he was too tired to argue. Instead, he nodded, and gave more of his weight to Jack.

When they finally reached the lodging house, Crutchie drenched in sweat and panting, Jack not doing much better (in the last leg of the journey, Jack had had to practically carry the boy), Jack let them in and helped Crutchie up the stairs, slowly, laboriously. With care, he laid him in the single bed by the window, where he had spent so many days already.

“I need ya ta sleep now, yeah?” Jack murmured, pulling the curtains closed. Crutchie nodded blearily. It was so warm in here that he couldn’t help but start to nod off already. Maybe everything would make more sense when he woke.

-

Jack fell into the chair that he usually did as soon as Crutchie’s breathing evened out. It hadn’t been too rough of a day selling, at least for the half hour that he managed before Davey had come to find him. He’d gotten about twenty papes sold, which was surprisingly good for any day. It must have been the cool wind, breaking the heat wave that had been dragging on for days. Now that it wasn’t absolutely sweltering, more people were going places, more people wanted to know what was going on, more people were buying what he was selling.

He needed to get back out there, hawk those headlines, take whatever papes Crutchie didn’t sell and sneak the coins from it into the kid’s pocket later, but he couldn’t make himself leave his side. Jack looked down at Crutchie, the yellowing bruises still marring his young face, and swallowed down a lump in his throat. It was okay, he reminded himself. Crutchie was getting better. Soon the ring of bruises around his neck would fade completely and his ribs would knit themselves back together.

Jack didn’t know much of the extent of Crutchie’s injuries. He knew that both of his legs hurt something awful--his bad leg was expected, but both was . . . unnerving. Distressing. Not being able to walk at all sounded like a nightmare. He knew also that Crutchie had some cracked ribs and fingers along with his broken arm, all of which made Jack grind his teeth angrily. There was something up with his back (whippings, Jack assumed, or maybe Snyder had gotten out that cane) and Jack had seen blood staining the bandage on his chest when his shirt fell open enough, so some sort of cut there as well. But what sent Jack over the edge every time was the sheer amount of bruising on his face and throat.

Sure, the broken nose was tradition, but that had been set well and had almost completely healed by now. Usually Snyder had the guards go a bit easy on the face, though, in case of government inspections. A bloody nose, a bad cut, a couple of bruises--all of those were routine. This painful mural splashed across Crutchie’s face? Entirely out of the ordinary.

There were several identifiable reasons, if one thought about it (which Jack had spent a lot of time doing). The strike, for one--it must've rankled Snyder, to nab only one of the boys responsible, and particularly to miss Jack, even though he had not only been present but leading. And it was also clear that Crutchie was close to Jack, if who he had cried out for had been any sort of evidence. Jack bit his lip as he remembered how near he was, how he could have helped, how he could have been taken in his brother's place. A part of him felt the guilt, the shame that threatened to choke him at the idea of leaving Crutchie there alone. Another part of him, though, felt a sick sense of relief. The combined hate Snyder and Pulitzer held for the union leader would have ended in Jack's death, dragged out and painful, with the strike left in ruins behind him. It couldn't have been him to be taken.

Thinking those thoughts put a bad taste in Jack's mouth. He wasn't any better than any of these boys, deserved the Refuge just as much--and even more--than all of them. Davey would've continued the strike, just as he had when Jack had given up, both times. Katherine had come up with the plan to advertise a childrens' strike. She and Davey, as well as Spot Conlon, would have found a press. Crutchie would've been a decent leader as well, would have kept the boys in line and organized the protesting, while Davey worked things out with Medda to get Roosevelt. The four kids would've made it to Pulitzer's office the same way Jack, Davey, and Conlon had; Crutchie would've made proper deals with the man, Davey and Katherine would've shut down the Refuge, Spot and Crutchie would've called off the strike. And what would happen to Jack, stuck in the Refuge?

Maybe he would've died. Maybe he'd exit as weak as Crutchie had, not even conscious, taking weeks to get back on his feet while life continued around him. Maybe he would walk out, not hurt too badly but skittish and haunted, not fit to lead any longer.

Not that Jack, a two-time traitor, considered himself worthy to lead now.

He needed to tell Crutchie, tell him that he'd scabbed twice. It didn't matter that both times it had been for him, an attempt to protect his brother. Crutchie didn't want that. Jack knew Crutchie like the back of his hand, and the kid would go through all the torture and loneliness and despair again if it guaranteed success for the strike. It was that self-sacrificing quality that made Crutchie so much of a better person. When faced with a threat of possible death, Crutchie would go proudly. Jack would turn tail and run.

"Stupid," Jack muttered, dragging a hand across his face. He didn't know if he was talking about himself or the sleeping boy before him.

-

Specs knew where Jack was going to be without even looking for him--which worked out, because he didn't have the time to search the streets of Manhattan. A bad fight had been on the verge of breaking out when he’d left Romeo and Albert, and Jack was needed as soon as possible.

As expected, Jack was slumped in his usual chair beside a sleeping Crutchie (Specs made a mental note to ask Davey how selling had gone later). He looked up when Specs entered.

“Hey,” Jack said sleepily. He rubbed his eyes, then sat up straighter. “Whaddya need?”

Instead of answering, Specs nodded toward Crutchie. “He all right?”

Jack shrugged. “He didn’ really know where he was,” he said, affecting a tone of unconcern. “Thought he oughtta get back ta bed.”

Specs had never spent time in the Refuge, but he’d helped plenty of newsies recover from their time there. If Jack was having a bad day, he usually shut himself up on the rooftop until he felt in control enough that he wouldn’t seem weak around the others. Others, like Race, would push themselves to work until they ended up so tired they had waking-dreams that they were back there. Based on how Jack was acting, something like that had likely happened to Crutchie. Poor kid.

“Specs, was you gonna ask me somethin’?��

Right. Urgent need and all that. “Uh, yeah,” Specs said. He adjusted his spectacles as casually as possible. “Queens ain’t all that happy with somethin’, they wanna see you.”

Jack glanced at Crutchie, then back at Specs, biting his lip. Jack was nervous, Specs realized with a bit of a jolt, something that Jack wasn’t very often. Never before the strike had Jack ever shown that sort of weakness. Not to him, at least. Certainly not to most of the other boys. Not until Crutchie had been taken, Romeo smashed into the ground, Specs himself slammed so hard into a fire escape that his poor head was spinning. They’d never taken that bad of a beating, and it had shaken Jack badly--Specs had noticed it right away, when he found him at the theater.

“Can it wait?” asked Jack, once again looking at Crutchie. The boy was sleeping peacefully, but Specs didn’t let his eyes linger on his face for long. The still-fading bruises made him feel sick in his bones.

“Uh, not really?” Specs said cautiously. “They looked about ready to soak Al and Romeo, so it’s a bit needing-you.”

Jack groaned, running a hand along his cheek. There was stubble there, Specs noticed. Not for the first time, he wondered who would take over when Jack aged out. It might even be sooner than expected, given his scabbing tendencies. “Can I send you in my place?”

“They sent me ta get you, so. . . .”

Jack dropped his face into his hands, letting out a long breath. Specs shifted nervously. He really didn’t want to see Jack cry, not again. Not to mention, they really didn’t have time. The fight was definitely picked by a couple of boys from Queens, but they had a pretty fair claim that Romeo had instigated it, and Albert had made it worse by coming to his defense. The Queens boys had agreed to make a truce with Jack, and Jack alone--and even then, they had terms to declare. Because of course they did. Because of course one of the boys who had taken offense to Romeo stepping onto their turf had been the leader of Queens.

Jack mumbled something. Specs leaned closer, waited, then had just made up his mind to ask what he’d said when Jack sat up, staring out the window and into the sky.

“No, he’s so new ta this still, he ain’t gonna know how ta settle this,” Jack said, his voice sounding almost raw.

“They did sp’fically ask for ya,” Specs added helpfully. “They ain’t gonna sort this out with anyone else.”

Jack didn’t answer for a long time, so long that Specs started to wonder if he hadn’t heard. When he did, though, his voice was quiet, trembling. “I--I can’t leave him.”

As if sensing he was being spoken about, Crutchie inhaled sharply in his sleep, then shifted a little. Jack froze, watching him carefully. Crutchie, however, did not wake, just sighed quietly and lay still once again.

Specs hopped from foot to foot, curling his toes in his new (to him) pair of shoes. Every minute spent was another that could be a fight breaking out, a punch being thrown, a newsie being shoved to the ground. He hated fights these days, hated to hear of  his friends being in danger. They didn't have the time for Jack's comfort.

"I saw Buttons on my way in, maybe I can ask him ta sell right on the door?" he suggested. Jack continued to stare at Crutchie. Whatever he was thinking about, it didn't show on his face.

"And ya know what, I can prolly find Tommy Boy and ask him ta sell with Buttons, that way you gets some muscle by the door. Sounds good? Ready ta go?"

"I don' want 'im ta wake up alone," Jack whispered pitifully. Specs resisted the urge to groan. Jack had always been protective of all of them, but right now he was acting all soft in the head. Refuge or no, Crutchie could take care of himself, and always had. It was common knowledge that Jack and Crutchie were closer than most of the others, the closeness of Mike and Ike without the rivalry. Other than Race a few times (when he was fresh from the Refuge), Crutchie was the only one to sleep on the rooftop with Jack. 

Some of the boys had thought that maybe something was going on between them, Specs included. Race had assured him it was untrue, but there hadn't been much in the way of proof to the contrary. Even now, now that Jack was maybe Katherine's beau, Specs wasn't sure that he and Crutchie hadn't been misbehaving together. Maybe he should ask one of them, something that for whatever reason had never been an option before. Probably not Jack, seeing how he seemed to be falling apart lately. Crutchie might welcome conversation not focusing on his injuries.

"Okay. Show me where they are, get Buttons and Tommy, then get back ta work, yeah?"

Specs snapped out of his thoughts to see Jack standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He’d have to find time when Jack wasn’t with Crutchie to talk to him, but right now he needed to help Jack break up a fight.

[deafwestnewsies]

you tell me you love her (i give you a grin)

And I'd choose our fate a million times over.

david jacobs x jack kelly (unrequited love)

read it on my ao3!

The grass crumpled beneath his boots. His shadow left a broad dent in the shade

(his body was still a marvel- when had Jack Kelly become so strong? When did Jack Kelly grow into his wimpy shoulders and snivelling ankles? When did Jack Kelly ditch his dreams of a boy to become a man?)

that towered over a lean man who was casually basking in the weak October daylight. He frowned at the sudden loss of warmth, but his eyes danced with mirth as he gazed over his former selling partner, current best friend, and long-time confidant. “Why, Jack Kelly. I thought you stood me up.”

“I’d neva, Dave,” Jack bent down in the mellow grass next to David. “They caugh’ me onna big shipment just as I was ‘bout to leave for lunch. Tell Esther that the market’ll have a good deal on trout tomorrow.”

Their heads nearly touched at the temple, and if Jack had the nerve or the gall, he could move a miniscule inch and connect their homely skin. It would only take a second- and what is a second, honestly? A moment in time? In the everlasting universe? And Jack Kelly wasn’t a very smart man, but he knew that humans only took up a small part of the whole existence of the world and a single second of humanity could manage to be wasted on the shifting of a cold, lonely wrist to lay on the freckled arm of another-

David rolled onto his side, more interested in a patch of dandelions than the market predictions for the next day. “Besides,” scrunching his nose, as if that would clear his irreverent musings on the universe, “not all o’ us are fancy medical men with all the break time they could ask fa’. I’m the big man pullin’ the weight ‘round here.”

(And it was true, to some aspects. Jack brought home honest-to-goodness bakery bread on Fridays so they could practice Shabbat without travelling, as Mayer so liked to do. He gave Les nickels to spend at the fair and bought Sarah hair ribbons for no particular reason. There was the gas bill he had paid one particularly difficult December, and the endless hours of doing various handiwork around the house when David was studying and Mayer’s old aches came to haunt him. The Jacobs’ home was also Jack’s, not because he needed it, but because they needed him.)

(He needed it too, he supposed.)

A yellow dandelion hovered over his nose, gently twirling with the teasing hum of David leaning in so close. Jack’s teeth snapped at it.

“You can drink the milk of these, I read,” David mused.

Jack wrinkled his nose. “Dandelion salad‘s only good tha first five times. Plus, it’d turn Crutchie’s tongue yellow.”

Dropping the little flower altogether, David rolled flat on his back and turned to gently nudge Jack on his shoulder with his premature wrinkling forehead. “Jackie,” he whispered.

(“I love you,” he would go on, later in Jack’s dreams. “I’ve loved you since I met you, I love you like a wildfire, I love you so much I cannot bear it, I love you like every character in all of my books, I love you.”)

“I’ve met a girl.” There was a hint of mischief in David’s tone- and Jack didn’t recognize it. There was suddenly a gated city wrapped around David’s heart and Jack was frantically scrambling for the key; For the first time, he was locked out of David’s life. He was an onlooker upon territory he had memorized by touch, by heart, by memory.

“Yeah?” If David had been paying attention, the word would have pinged around his Tin Man heart- hollow, empty, overused. “The Walking Mouth finally has someone to use it on?”

He relished in the feel of David’s uncalloused palms shoving playfully at his tanned, muscled arm. “Don’t be crass,” the boy chided. “Her name is April.”

(Jack was born on a misty-eyed April morning, with the clouds swabbed over the sun and an ominous wind blowing throughout the emptied streets. His mother had called it a bad omen. His father couldn’t fathom why.)

The crook of Jack’s elbow was full of David’s lingering fingertips; A question he didn’t dare ask left a sour taste on his tongue. He smiled at David’s far away face, his gaze belonging to a girl,

(a girl, a rotten girl, a girl that wasn’t even Katherine because that would have hurt much less, understandable even. She was an unimportant girl and she would never be enough for Davey, his Davey)

(A girl.)

and his smile was full of thorns.

---

“I can’t believe-” the words were practically ripped from his throat. “We’s goin’ so fast!”

David couldn’t drive in the technical sense, but he was captaining a true automobile as the Earth did spin. Jack sat in the passenger seat to crow at any poor little commoners that walked along the beaten path, none of them good enough to ride in the electrical engine Mr. Ford had handcrafted himself.

It had been a graduation present from a fellow doctorate student (one with a wealthy father and ill-meaning connections), a spin in his brand-new electric carriage for his reliable old pal, David Jacobs. Jack’s eyes widened to the size of half-dollars as the man passed over the keys to David- David, who had once put the wrong shoe on the wrong foot and walked around crooked all day, too proud to admit he had made a mistake- and they tried to conceal their excitement as the engine turned over for the first time.

He was going to do it. Right here, right now, in this strange man’s car, with clunky work boots on his feet and David’s spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.

“I love you!” Jack roared over the engine.

“I’m going to ask April to marry me!” David practically sang into the wind.

Jack’s throat closed up, his skin was set on fire, and he suddenly wanted to see what happened when you jumped from a gadget that was moving so fast.

“Wait, what? Did you hear me?” David’s hair was beginning to grow long enough that it was wild in the gust of the automobile. “I’m going to ask her to marry me!”

(When he was seven, another newsboy- only a handful of months older than him- had asked him if his momma had ever taught him about love. No, Jack had replied, both sour about being outsmarted by a kid who picked his nose and not ever having a momma in the first place. “It’s this great big tree that grows on the inside of our tummies,” the boy went on. “And one day, someone ‘s gonna come along and pick all ‘f th’ fruit on our branches, one by one, until all you have are pretty green leaves. That’s love.”)

(That same boy would kiss him in a dirty alleyway seven years later, and Jack would crack a joke about all of his apples still being intact. The boy would stare back with blank, unrecognizable eyes.)

Jack couldn’t even be angry- he wasn’t strong enough to be furious anymore, not when his days were long and the nights were spent clutching at empty bedsheets. He couldn’t be angry at his good, unselfish Davey, the boy who rubbed at his mother’s aching feet when she spent too long at the factory lines and clumsily darned socks when his sister couldn’t feel her slender fingers. There was no resentment for the beautiful, dark-haired girl who had accidentally collided with David at the grocer’s market when they reached for the same can of something-or-other. She had been nothing but kind to the gentle giant who lurked in the shadows of David’s life, telling inappropriate jokes and interrupting their dates. April always made a place for him at their table.

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all year,” Jack called out, and watched his words dance away in the wind.

---

Katherine had struck him, hard, when he asked her to marry him.

He cradled his jaw with a shock that reverberated around his skull. “Kathy, what did I-”

“You are the most selfish, careless man I know, Jack Kelly.” Her skirts whirled around her ankles- the candy-pink cotton matching other bridesmaids’ dresses to contrast the delicate white lace of April’s wedding dress. David Jacobs was now a married man, and Jack Kelly a desperate one. “We all see how you look at him. There’s not a single person who hasn’t noticed. Get it through your thick, unfeeling skull.”

(“They say,” David’s vows were memorized. His voice never wavered. “That only someone in love would truly understand the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: a man walks through the Underworld to save his begotten bride, to only turn around and lose her at the very last second. I’ve spent years pouring over that story, wondering why Orpheus would be such a fool, such an irresponsible, lovesick fool, if he truly loved her. But now, standing before my own darling little bride, I understand. I’d turn around for one last look at you. I’d turn every. Single. Time. I’m your fool, April. And I’d choose our fate a million times over.”)

“He doesn’t love you,” Katherine’s voice was heavy with disgust. “And I’m beginning to understand why.”

---

The train ticket was heavy in his palm. “I just don’t see why you have to go,” David whispered. “Who is my son going to learn his bad habits from? Who’s going to teach him how to hawk a headline for extra change? How to poke fun at his papa?”

“He has Les.” Jack’s voice was a barely audible rumble, rusty with misuse. He didn’t talk much these days, Jack Kelly now preferred to linger in the background of conversations, the memory of a bright young man he used to be. Those days had come and gone without much complaint, even if Jack secretly yearned to be so terribly free that he believed in a future for a gangly, fresh-faced boy and a hardened boy with the silver-tongued lies.

(There were rumors, you know. About horrible men and horrible things, about broken ribs and jail time even the Mayor would disapprove of. Jack didn’t do much to dispel the irrational stories people told about him.)

(To prove a lie is false, you must present the truth.)

(Jack didn’t have a truthful bone left in his body.)

A carefully measured silence stretched between them. “Is this about…” David’s hand instinctively reached for Jack’s rough palm- a second of contact, the flash in the pan, their moment in the universe.

He withdrew from his gentle touch, and taking a bullet to his leg

(Jack was twenty-three and alarmingly brave. David was twenty-two and studying to become a doctor. They both cried as David’s unsure hand stitched an unclean wound back together- David, tears of worry; Jack, hopelessly lovesick and falling apart at the seams.)

had been less painful. “It’s about Santa Fe, Dave. Kiss Esther goodbye for me, won’t you?”

The platform to the train was busy, flowing with New Yorkers that had somewhere to be, a place to go, or a person to meet. Jack was the lone soul that took his time to feel the cobblestone under his worn-down boots, the ragged laces dragging against the streets that raised him as their own. His suitcase, a single-handled brown leather

(the only item inside was a bundle of letters, all addressed to David Jacobs)

thing, had never seen a polish rag or repairman’s case, and he felt as if he had the weight of the world to carry with him all the way to New Mexico, where the cattle roam free and Jack Kelly wouldn’t have a broken heart to board up behind slats of wood. The train whistle blew, sharp and piercing, and Jack couldn’t resist his own dreadful hubris; He turned.

And David Jacobs had already disappeared into the swarm of faceless people with their endless inventory of needs to be met, so Jack Kelly got on a train to Santa Fe.

[noladyme]

Chess. Chapter 3

Y/N never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. She only took what she needed, or what she felt others needed. She’d stayed out of sight for a long time, avoiding anything that could get her in to too much trouble. But for some reason Rick Flag shows up in her life, and in an instant, everything changes.

 TW: sexual harassment/assault, torture, sexual themes

I don’t know how many days passed. In the dark, days and nights flowed together; making it difficult to keep up a daily rhythm that made sense.

I lived from meal to meal. Not that I ate much of what they sent in, which was usually more of those little pellets in water; and every third meal, being something cold and mushy, that smelt conspicuously like canned cat food. It took me about 6 “meals”, to finally accept that this is what it actually was. With the canned food I’d get a thin slice of stale toast. This – along with a plastic cup of water – was all I consumed for a long time.

Every once in a while, I’d hear Griggs voice through the speaker, reminding me he was still there. He’d tell me to get ready; meaning I had to face the wall opposite the door, hands and legs spread. They’d come in then, the guards, usually fronted by the man himself, and flip over the mattress, pretending to search my cell for contraband.

That’s when he’d stand behind me, pressing himself against my back. His hands would wander, patting me down everywhere, even the parts of my body not covered by clothing. After a final squeeze of my asscheek; he’d turn around and proclaim; “She’s clean”. They’d back out the door, shut it, and it would be dark again.

During one of these visits, I’d had enough, and as Griggs hand wandered towards my groin area, I quickly grabbed his hand, twisting his fingers until I heard a crack.

“Bitch!”, Griggs screeched, elbowed me in the side; and as I feel to the floor, I suddenly had three guards on me, kicking me on my sore hip, and on my ribs. One of the kicks pushed the air out of me, and as I desperately tried to regain control of my breathing, they backed out the door, leaving me there alone.

Maybe 10 minutes later, the speaker howled in the darkness.

“That was not very nice, puss”, Griggs said. “You know, I’ve tried to play nice with you; even breaking the budget on those canned foods you’ve been getting. No more. It’s time you settle in for the long haul”.

Music played, at first at a low volume; but then increasing, until it felt like my head was going to explode from the sound. It would stay like that for about 30 seconds, before being lowered again. It continued like this; music turning up and down, with the highest volume being so intense, no amount of covering my ears seemed to help. My heart beat fiercely, and I could even feel the veins of my fingers pounding. I curled up in a seated position.

After what seemed like forever, the music stopped. I exhaled, and removed my hands from my ears; my biceps stinging from how long and forcefully I had been covering them. I laid down, ears ringing; and I could hear the blood pumping through my body. My ribs and my hip were pulsating in pain.

I closed my eyes, and my body began to give in to sleep.

The music started again. Same pattern as before. I screamed, but at the height of the music, I couldn’t even hear my own voice. That’s when I passed out.

---

“Chess”, a familiar voice called. “Y/N!”. I came too, slowly.

“No more”; I whispered into the darkness; lips and tongue dry.

“Cover your eyes. I’m turning on the lights”. I recognized the voice then. Flag. With great effort, I covered my face with my arm, curling up into a fetal position. I heard the sound of the fluorescent lights flickering on. Then footsteps and keys rattling outside the door.

“Three goddamn days? She’s been out for three days?!”, Flags voice boomed on the other side of the door. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”.

The door opened, and through the crack of my bended arm, I saw boots walking towards me.

“We thought she was faking it, sir”, Griggs answered Flag.

I felt a hand on my waist, and winced in pain.

“What the hell did you do to her?”, Flag growled.

“She attacked me, sir. My men might have gone a bit overboard”, Griggs retorted.

I blinked, the light still too sharp for my eyes. Flag took a hold of my arm, pulling it away from my face. My eyes hurt, but I looked up at him. His expression was pained.

Putting an arm around my waist, he pulled me up into a seated position. I looked down at my body. I was filthy, covered in dust; and my arms and legs looked skinnier than the last time I’d seen them.

“Can you stand?”, Flag quietly asked me. His eyes were worried.

I tried to get onto my knees, but was too dizzy; and fell back onto my butt. Flag got behind me, and carefully slipped his arms through mine; lifting me onto my feet.

I was weak, and tried to take a wobbly step forward, falling back into his arms. He lifted my arm, and put it around his neck, dragging me with him.

“Help me out, Edwards”, Flag said, and a man with a stubbled face, standing a few inches shorter than Flag, took my other arm around his own neck. Half walking, half carrying me out of the cell, we passed Griggs, who was standing outside. I saw that his hand was in a cast of some kind; and smiled at the fact that I’d made my mark.

They walked me down a dimly lit corridor. Was I in a basement? The doors we passed were all closed, and I wondered if there were other prisoners behind them.

At the end of the hall were stairs, and the two soldiers dragged me up them, until we came to a new corridor, cleaner and brighter than the one we had come from. They took me to a room, sparsely furnitured with a metal table, and two chairs on either side of it. A clock over the door told me it was 3 o’clock.  Am or pm, I didn’t know. Interrogation, I told myself, and the men seated me in a chair, handcuffing me to the table.

On one wall was large mirror, which I knew would be a two way.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The person staring back at me was someone I didn’t know. Her face was gaunt, eyes dark; and she was black and blue on one side of her torso. Well hello, gorgeous, I laughed at myself.

“Something funny?”, Flag asked me, on his way out the door.

“Just that stick up your ass”, I answered, and smiled as brightly as I could.

He closed the door behind him.

One hand free, I ran my fingers through my hair; matted from my ordeal.

I waited for about 30 minutes. Something smelled rancid, and I realized it was me. I hadn’t bathed for who knew how long; but it would obviously have to wait.

The door opened again, and in stepped the woman from the van, followed by Flag, who was looking everywhere but at me. The woman sat down, and pulled out a paper file folder.

“My name is Amanda Waller”, she said.

“I know who you are”, I said, and leant back in the chair, trying for casual. “I also know you’re here to make me an offer I can’t refuse. Literally. You’ll kill me if I do”.

Waller smirked. “I won’t, but the guards at this place might. Apparently, you broke the captains favorite jerking hand”.

“So you’ve been listening in”.

“We have. And though I am not happy with the way things have turned out, it seems all of this was necessary to keep you in line”, Waller retorted. “Let me get down to the point. Me and the colonel here, lead a group of people with special skills. For some reason you know this already; so you probably also know that each of these individuals are people, who most of the good people of The United States would rather see behind bars, or even executed”. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Before I continue, please humor me; how did you know of us?”.

“I knew about you. I didn’t know about Mr. Tall, Lean and Grumpy here”, I said, and nodded my head in Flags direction. His expression remained calm, but his lips twitched once; revealing that my answer had made an effect.

“Hear that, Flag? Your cover remains unblown. Good for you”. Her cold eyes remained on me. “Now answer the question, Y/N”.

“There are whispers. About a cold bitch who is tracking people like me; to use our… special skills”, I repeated her own words.

“But there really is no one like you, is there, Chess?”. She stood up, and opened the folder. “Y/N Y/L/N. A.k.a. Chess. Short for Cheshire?”.

“Nah, that name was taken”, I smirked.

“Right. You don’t strike me as someone with martial arts skills and venomous nails”, she said, looking down at my chipped black polish.

“I can scrap with the best of them, if necessary”.

“I’m counting on it”. She continued. “B minus high school student, until you had a run in with Jervis Tetch, a.k.a. The Mad Hatter. Experimenting with a device he hoped would render himself invisible, he tested it out on one of his kidnapping victims. You”.

I winced. The memory of that event was something I’d rather have been left alone.

“It backfired. Without going in to the scientific details, it made you able to become invisible at will, without using the aforementioned device. He decided to use you for his own criminal activity, and for a few years, you worked for him as a cat burglar and spy. During one of his stints in Arkham Asylum, you decided to become an independent contractor”.

I sat up straight, daring her to continue. She sat back down.

“Burglary. Car theft. Stealing official documents from the FBI – impressive!”, she smiled. “Kidnapping of a senators daughter. Possession of an illegal drug substance?”.

“Actually those last ones were a two for one”, I laughed. “And it wasn’t so much a kidnapping as great weekend in Vegas. She was fully in to it. We almost got married”. The clerk at the chapel had refused to go through with the ceremony, because he was worried, we were under the influence of drugs. It might have been the smell of the half smoked blunt in my pocket that gave us away. “Stephanie? Tiffany? I can’t remember her name”.

“Melissa”, Flag said from behind Waller.

“Right. Melissa!”, I smirked. “You could bounce a nickel of her ass. Was she an ex of yours?”, I smiled at him. He scoffed.

Waller continued. “You’ve avoided arrest on most of your charges; I suppose, due to your condition”.

“My ability to smile”, I said.

“Yes, that’s right. Before you become invisible, you purr and smile. Is there a reason for this?”, she goaded me on. I knew it didn’t make any sense to be secretive, so I decided to be up front with her.

“I don’t know. That’s just how it is. When I need to disappear, my body vibrates, which sounds like a purr. The smile is what sends signals to my brain, to bend light around my body, or an object I’m touching; which then becomes invisible. Serotonin, dopamine… whatever. It works”. I sighed. “Where are we going with this?”.

“Task Force X, under the day to day leadership of Colonel Flag, has an opening. I want you to fill that spot”.

“Why?”, I asked, genuinely wondering.

“Because making things and people disappear is handy, in some of the missions the Force may have coming up”.

“But what is in it for me?”

“10 years of your sentence, per mission”, Waller replied, and closed the file.

“What sentence? I haven’t done anything in a long time”, I said, voice shaking lightly.

“16 months ago, judge Jeremiah Kelper disappeared for a week, before an anonymous tip led the police to him, bound, bloody and gagged, in a warehouse on Gotham Harbor”. Waller folded her hands in front of her, and met my eyes again. “When he woke up at the hospital, he was ranting about a “ghost” that had drugged him, dragged him to the warehouse; and held him for days, tied to a chair. The “ghost” had beat him several times with a pipe, and… well, let’s not get further in to that”.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Sounds like someone had it in for him”.

“Sounds like”, Waller half whispered. “I also know that Kelpers records are much cleaner than he is. But then there’s the money”.

“What money”, I asked, looking first at Waller, then up at Flag, who smirked at me.

“1 million dollars, cash, disappeared from a safe at Wayne Tower, two months ago. What did you spend it on?”, he asked.

Shit, they got me, I thought. “I donated it”.

“Some of it”; Waller said, and reopened the file. “987.000 dollars were donated anonymously to a local shelter for battered women, two days later”.

I leant forward; and Flag quickly took a step towards the table, putting his arm in front of Waller.

“Calm down, soldier”, I said. “From what I hear, The Wayne Foundation matched my donation to the same shelter, not long after”.

“You’re right”, Waller said. “It seems to me, you want to be one of the good guys”. I smirked again. “But you’re not. You’re a villain, Y/N – one of the bad guys. But you can make that badness have a purpose”.

I leant back again, and Flag relaxed, stepping back. He folded his arms – those arms – and leant against the wall, toying with the id-card attached to his t-shirt sleeve.

“Show me what you can do”, Waller demanded.

“I can’t”, I said, looking back at Wallers now surprised face. “I need energy to smile, and for the last – what – month or so, I’ve been living on stale toast and kibble”, I admitted.

“Flag”, Waller said, and the soldier took a candy bar from his pants pocket, and placed it in front of me. With my free hand shaking, I opened the wrapper, and put it to my lips. Taking a bite of the heavenly chocolate, feeling the wonderful sensation of sugar rushing through my system; I moaned.

“Mhmm”. Flag stepped back to wall again, looking uncomfortable at my sounds. I couldn’t help myself. “Got anything else in those pants for me?”, I purred; and as he quickly looked away from my face, I smiled.

Touching the table with my free hand, it went away in a mist, making the file folder look as if it was floating in midair.  Wallers eyes went wide. I kicked of one slipper, touching the floor with my bare foot, and suddenly, the floor was gone, leaving the three of us as if standing on clear glass.

Looking down, I saw a cell, no bigger than my own had been, though better furnished; with a cot, a toilet, a couple of nudie posters, and a tiny table. In the middle of the room stood a rugged looking man, clutching a toy unicorn in his arms. He looked up, eyes large; before looking towards Waller. He smiled widely, gold tooth gleaming, and though I couldn’t hear what he was saying, it was clear it was along the lines of “I see London, I see France, I see Wallers underpants”. Waller crossed her legs quickly, and looked at me, with a mix of horror and excitement plastered on her face.

“Enough!”, she shouted.

That’s when I made myself disappear before their eyes.

Flag and Waller looked around the room trying to find me, before Flag ran across the invisible floor, towards the chair, grabbing for what I guess he thought would be my shoulder, but ended up being my right breast. Confused at the softness, his brow furrowed.

My energy gave out. The floor, the table, and lastly my body, reappeared. Realizing where his hand was, Flag jumped back, looking at his hand, face reddening. “Thanks for that”, I smiled at him flirtatiously. He turned his back to me and clenched his guilty hand into a fist.

“I think I’ve seen everything I need to”, Waller said, standing back up again, picking up the folder. “Training starts tomorrow. Once the colonel has calmed down a bit, he’ll make sure you get a proper meal”. She went for the door.

“Waller!”, I stopped her dead in her tracks. “Tell me, did Kelpers balls ever pop back down?”.

She smiled crookedly at me. “I hear he’s going to need some reconstructive surgery”.

She walked out the door, leaving me with Flag.

Flag unlocked the cuffs, and pulled me up. “Think you’ll be able to walk yourself this time?”.

I leant towards him, putting my hands on his chest. Fuck, you’re firm, I thought.

“I might need a little help. Feel free to grab a hold of me anywhere”, I beamed at him.

Flag roughly put my arms behind my back, and cuffed them together. “Let’s go, kitten”, he scoffed, and pushed me in front of him, out of the door. My friends The Tweedles were waiting outside. “Get her back to her cell. Make sure the lights are on until 2200 hours. And get her a proper meal”.

As Tweedle Dee and Dum supported my still weak body walking down the hall, I looked back at Flag.

“You like me”, I flirted, and his face reddened again, before he turned around, and walked in the opposite direction.

[paintbrush-stan-babeyy]

uhmmmmm so basic of lly? i get it now. i Understand and i Know. know what, you might ask. 

Him

after ep 14 i did nothing but pace around my house like an excitable fool and while doing so jimmied open my brain cells long enough to finally connect the pieces of knife’s character so liek,,,, here’s a really shitty character analysis for anyone who has trouble writing him like i do dhfgdfhjf **disclaimer: idk how to write a character analysis

1. Da Basics so! knife! what’s up with him? well im here to tell you! he is a bastard nd i like him so much. from the official wiki descriptions we know he is a “ surface level jerk...  with his brash attitude and tendency to bully the other competitors” but then had this turn around in s2 after everyone was like “hey,,, u should be nicer”. there’s more to it but I Will Get There. anyhow the flats of his personality really is him being a dickhead to cover up those soft bits he doesn’t know how to express because he compartmentalizes all the time. who doesn’t do that tho lmao 

2. Da Beginning of a Parable   right now you’re probably thinking “wow rib! that sucked we already knew all that” well watch this *goes stupid goes crazy.* in a show that’s all about the contestants, the only way you can really understand Anyone is to pick apart how they interact with others and in knife’s case he does so Very Specifically. how it works is that so far every major interaction he’s had tends to culminate until it hits a breaking point. for example *points at trophy.* everything that happened there is where i like to mark the start of his character arc. da bully? has become da bullied. it doesn’t last very long but having his softer interests- like dora- exposed, mocked, and then held against him shakes knife up to the very least. having him mention how bad trophy’s blackmail was ten or so episodes later really drives in how Much it stuck with him. it wasn’t the senseless violence he was used too and kind of forced him to realize that “oh shit,,,,,,,, people can?? interact with me???” in ways that got under the walls he set up. *points at nickel nd suitcase* these guys? also reinforced that newborn view he’s looking at. like,,,, he’s still a complete ass and doesn’t quite, Get it? and he doesn’t even know that he’s in a character arc yet but i can confidently say the sarcasm and “random act of kindness” shifted something drastically in him, solely because of how understated these traits are. the biggest issue with seeing knife’s trajectory is the subtlety in it. he is absolutely one of the most subtle characters in the show; his growth shown in snippets, pushed aside for bigger storylines and hidden under his brash nature. he still hides the soft intentions under the asshole and that’s important to remember, but it’s also important to remember that the soft intentions is what you need to focus on.

3. Then Why Is He Acting Like That Now its the subtlety babey!!! its also the compartmentalizing in action. he’s always pushed things into boxes and labels, ie “bully”, “jock”, “nerd”, whatever. in the newest ep he’s doing just that. if you recall, any major external conflict he might’ve had was resolved suuuuper early in the season, so knife has had no way to conflate his problems with the show, unlike other characters. he did all his diagnostics running on the Down Low, influenced by the idea that other characters might know what’s going on in his noggin and then saying “no thanks” to that, all while taking in their advice at the same time. he’s a “take don’t give” kinda guy (except not all the time but I Will Get There). hell, taco technically wasn’t part of the show Either. so basically, his issues? are all internal and ii is really just that to him. a game. y’all might remember a previous post that i made and subsequently lost in the void when i deleted, but when i compared mephone’s memories to the players current situations and then couldn’t for the LIFE of me figure out how knife’s played into it, i was actually lying. my guy’s general “trash” feelings over the show was, at this point, him actually taking it seriously for once. knife got done being “open” once microphone eliminated herself, and it’s back to being selfish because any internal ties, as small as they were, have wrapped themselves up neatly. all that’s left is the game, and gosh darn he really believes he’s got a shot at winning it

4. He Is Not Immune To Being Soft However this is how knickle can still w- “ok then rib, what’s going on in the inside then, huh??” glad you asked! knife has gained delicacy. after suitcase he really did decide to Stop being so thick and actually look at things now, taking up the role of an asshole observer- sort of like mepad in a sense. he got,,, perceptive, coupled with his personal sense of sectionalizing. in the end he likes,,, maybe, three other people, and that influences how he carries any interactions he has later in the series. suitcase? is a ok in his book, and he does give her genuine advice a couple times. microphone is a fairly complex situation that picks up in his box mindset. pickle? hallelujah thats knife’s favorite guy. i can’t say for sure Why he’s knife’s favorite guy but really, there’s no heterosexual explanation on why pickle was the absolute axis of knife’s turning point. ep seven honestly truly is the head of knife’s change overall actually. his random act of kindness Here branches off into any kindness he does Later. suitcase manages to keep up in his head, and microphone probably reminds him of pickle- especially with the similarities of their situations, which is why he pokes and prods at her so much. it’s his very knife way of being nice, it’s him saying “hey, taco? isn’t worth it”. its that hard shell under currented by his arc of playing fair. knife still 100% has a ways to go (apology to marsh in my mouth pls pls pls-) but i can’t wait to see how his one trackedness plays out from here 

[teacup-crow]

Next Friday

*this is a repost because Tumblr broke on me earlier!  I was ill for two days and could only really lie in bed and wrote this. Set after S5M15, based more around M17, warnings for requisite Season 5 sadness, effects of hunger and Australian levels of swearing.

Summary: Nadia, Owen and Veronica plan next week’s movie night.

Owen is an idiot, Veronica has always thought. But lately, he’s their idiot. Popping up in the lab asking her opinions on irrigation techniques - not her area, of course, but the science behind some of it is fascinating. Appearing during Friday movie nights with Nadia, which had always been their thing, but still respecting that. Appreciating whatever they chose. Never pushing things too far. He’s really good at cooking, too, eking out the most flavour possible from their smaller and smaller ration packs - and always making sure they eat before he does. Maybe there isn’t too much going on upstairs, but he’s nice. He doesn’t judge her, or set her off, or sit too close, or try and make eye contact like Ian does. 

“Only liars don’t look people in the eye, Veronica,” Ian had hissed earlier that afternoon. He’d asked some inane question about Sigrid’s taste in wine, and she’d tried to brush him off but he was having none of it. “I know you’re the Minister’s precious little poppet, but I don’t trust you. Nobody likes creepy children who hover around where they’re not wanted. You and your nasty, sneaky girl guide friends… although they don’t really like you either, do they? Not really one for friends your own age, are you?”

She’d stared right ahead, still avoiding his face. “I need to get on with my work, Ian. Haven’t you got things to be doing for Sigrid too?”

He got a tad frostier. “Watch your tone. It’s the Minister to you. And she isn’t here right now, sweetheart, is she?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Say one more thing to me in that tone of voice, Miss McShell, one more thing, and you won’t see your Nadia for a very, very long time.”

The beaker in Veronica’s hand cracked around the base as she squeezed it. What tone? She’d tried to be polite. She could feel his stinking breath on her neck, knew his flat grey eyes would be right there if she looked at them, full of blazing jealousy and spite. And he wouldn’t, couldn’t follow through on that threat, could he? She was here of her own volition.

“Hey, Ronnie! And - oh, hello, I- Commander. We were just going to lunch?” Owen hurried into the lab, his voice bright and giving nothing away, but Veronica noticed from years of analysing it that his posture was stiff for a trained Runner. Beaten, perhaps, or anxious? Ian sneered a little at the sight of him, but backed off, probably appeased by the honorific, and she let Runner Six take her by the hand and pull her away. He’d sat her between himself and Runner Thirteen, and tried to get them engaged in a silly story about the time a koala attempted to steal his mum’s van. She’d ended up explaining to them the high rates of chlamydia among koalas, getting a bit confused when Cameo and Owen found the facts so funny. And the day passed safely - at least until he made a run for it.

The sweat is pouring off Owen’s face now as she attempts to dig the bullet out of his leg, swearing profusely even for an Australian. “Jesus FUCK!”

“I’ve not done this before! I'm trying my best.”

“Fucking Ian, the mangy bastard cu-”

Nadia clamps her hands over Veronica’s ears as if she’s never heard the word before. “Please, just keep it down before someone tips him off!”

Ian hadn’t seen the need to let a ‘traitorous, stupid boy’ use ‘limited medical resources’. Owen is supposed to be back on punishment detail, 5am sharp, or face the consequences. The only thing keeping him from the box is the fact that Cameo is already occupying it. So here they are in the lab, after hours, with a sixteen year old girl trying to stop him bleeding out with very little time, experience or painkillers. 

“Ya know, I’ve been through a fair amount of utter bollocking bollocks this apocalypse but really-“

“Runner Six, will you shut it!” And then, closer to his ear, out of Veronica’s earshot: “Did it work?”

He gives the slightest of nods. She smiles, broad and genuine, though her face is thin. They’re all getting a little more haggard, day by day. Veronica glances at the two of them, lovingly gazing at each other, and resolves that she’ll find some clever way to bring their lack of food up to the Minister. Sigrid is a smart woman; if she had any inkling that her top scientist keeps finding hair on her pillow each morning, that her fingernails are brittle, that three people collapsed in the fields last week, that for the first time since meeting Nadia she can count each and every rib, she’d surely do something to curb Ian’s ridiculous power trip.

She yanks at the bullet. Owen screams blue murder. Nadia shoves a balled up tea towel into his mouth, and deadpans: “So much for movie night.”

“I wasn’t really looking forward to The Green Mile,” Veronica admits. “I don’t know what you have against Planet Earth.”

“The fact that I have seen the same episode of the same documentary a thousand times in the last three years may play a part, Ronnie.”

“...only thirty-three.”

“What?”

“I pick the movie every other week. Because of many changes in circumstance, we’ve only had a hundred and nine movie nights. I pick Planet Earth approximately sixty percent of the time. We’ve seen it thirty-three times in the last two and a half years.”

Nadia sighs, and removes the cloth from Owen’s mouth. “You holding up?”

“I’m sorry for ruining your plans, ladies. Next time I try to escape from budget bloody Percy Wetmore, I promise not to do it on a Friday,” Owen pants, but the pain seems to be receding. “Ya know, if I had a nickel for every time I got shot in this calf, I’d have two nickels.”

“Which isn’t a lot, but insane that it happened twice, right?” Nadia responds with a short laugh. 

“Did you both spend all your time watching children’s shows pre-apocalypse?”

“Hey, I was a kid pre-apocalypse! She has no excuse.”

“Um, ATC work was stressful and I make no excuses for how I enjoyed my free time.”

“But if you’re twenty-four now, you were eighteen on Z-day, Owen,” Veronica points out.

“Eighteen year olds are still kids, Ronnie.” His voice is suddenly quite tired. He squeezes Nadia’s hand as Veronica pulls the first stitch, hissing between his teeth a little.

She juts out her chin. “I’m younger than that and I’m not a child.”

Neither of them dispute that, though she still cuts a tiny figure in a too-large lab coat, sleeves rolled up three times to make it fit.

“How do you know it’s from a children’s show, anyway, Miss-never-watched-Disney-Channel?”

“...I don’t have to answer that if I’m not comfortable.”

Nadia shoots her an expressing your boundaries thumbs-up. She feels the worry in her chest loosen a little. Everything will be fine. She’ll get Owen’s leg stitched, and today’s drama will force Sigrid’s hand. The Minister will come to Abel and fix things, and she can get back to working on the cure, and Owen and Nadia will be safe and look after each other.

“I’m going to head back to my bunk, I think,” Nadia says, a tinge of fear in her voice as she glances through the darkening window. “Better not to be missed too long, and I should check on Cameo. She… she distracted Ian from you for a bit. It didn’t look pretty.”

“We’ll be all right, Naddi, you go on,” Owen squeezes her hand one last time, and lies back on the lab table. Veronica nods, absorbed in her task. They hear her wheels clatter down the ramp and fade across the square, quiet as footsteps.

“So, you like Planet Earth a lot?”

“I used to watch it with Dad.”

“Oh. Makes sense. My mum’s a big Tom Hanks fan. I’ve probably seen every movie he’s been in… well, about thirty-three times as well.”

“You know there’s a video of Castaway in the rec room, right?”

“I brought it back, actually. Years ago, now. But I don’t know if I can watch it, yeah? I’m scared it might make me think about her too much.”

“Owen,” Veronica finishes the stitches, and starts to clean up some of the blood. She’s watched Kefilwe do this dozens of times. Antiseptic. Dabbing rather than smearing. Keep the patient’s mind off the sting. “Do you remember what your mum looks like?”

The silence that follows makes her wonder if this is a faux pas. He eventually responds: “No, not quite.”

“No, me neither. I have a photo, but I can’t picture them as actual living people. Memories are really interesting that way, actually. We’re not as visual as-“

“Ronnie. Can we talk about something else?”

“Okay.” She racks her brains for small talk. “Do you… like it here at Abel?”

“What, now?” He snorts. “With that pinstripe suit cu-”

Veronica clamps her hands over her own ears, knowing Nadia wouldn’t want her to hear it. He smiles, and raises his hands in apology.

“No, not now. Before.”

“It was all right. Home. Safe. You knew Janine was looking out for ya. There was always enough food to go round.”

“But did you feel like you fit in?” she presses.

“...can’t say I did.”

“Me neither,” she says, a little relieved.

“Runners are quite a superstitious bunch. And I’m unlucky.”

Her brow scrunches in confusion. “Bad luck isn’t a very scientific reason to dislike someone.”

“Can you tell that to getting tied to train tracks, set on fire and repeatedly shot at?”

“Actually, Dad was working on a statistical model of danger to Runners in his spare time. I found it a while ago, me and Nadia were repurposing it to make missions safer. When I include Five in the sample, you actually fall under the average for number of dangerous situations encountered.”

“Uh, I think Five is an outlier.”

“You’re probably right.” She wraps the wound in bandages, and tucks them in. “Done!”

“I owe you one, Ronnie.”

“Just… stay safe. Both of you. I haven’t got time to worry about you two as well as curing the zombie plague.”

“You’re only a… you shouldn’t be worried about us at all, squirt.”

She shrugs. “It’s not my fault you do worrying things. If he puts you in a cell and you can’t change the dressings frequently just do your best to keep it clean.”

“Will do!” He swings off the table, avoiding putting weight on his leg as much as possible. “Whatever he does, I’ll try to make next Friday, all right?”

She nods. Next Friday, she’ll pick out Castaway, and they’ll watch it together, and maybe movie night can be Owen’s thing too.

[nickelkeep]

What We’re in For

Pairing: Dean/Cas Rating: Mature Word Count: 5.2K Warnings: Minor Character Death Written For: nickel’s storytime, part 4 of the Runaway Series On Ao3

Dean anxiously paced back and forth in Bobby's study. He was on the phone, and while Bobby was making some noises of approval, he couldn't get a read on the Old Man.

"Sit down." Sam hissed, pointing at one of the chairs by the window. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm making you nervous? Our old man is hunting down an innocent pack, you know, the one that has a member that I accidentally bonded with? How do you think I feel?" Dean snapped before listening to his brother's advice and sitting down.

Bobby set his phone down on his desk. "You both can knock it off." He pointed at the free seat next to Dean. "You sit down too, Sam. I need your head in the game as much as Dean's."

"What did you find out?" Dean reached for the whiskey Bobby kept on the table between the two chairs, only to have his hand slapped at by Sam. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

"And I said enough." Bobby huffed out before covering his face with his hand. He let out a sigh and dragged his hand down. "Looks like an old hunting colleague of ours got himself into a position of power out in Illinois. Name's Kubrick. He took John's application and approved it with little fanfare."

"Sounds like there's more to it." Sam leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knees. "Something fishy?"

"You two remember Annie Hawkins, right?" Bobby waited until Sam and Dean acknowledged him. "Well, I had her look into it. The patron for the license is listed as one Amanda Tapping. However–" Bobby picked his phone back up and turned it to the brothers. "The lady on the left is Amanda Tapping. The lady on the right is the one who claims to be Amanda Tapping."

"Is this Ms. Tapping a family member of one of the people the wendigo got?" Dean asked.

"Nailed it in one." Bobby nodded. "However, thanks to Annie being as good as she is, she found out that this lady on the right here is a woman by the name of Naomi Novak."

Dean sat up straighter in his chair. "Novak? Like Clan Novak." He looked at Sam. "Gabriel mentioned a Naomi."

"Who is she?"

"I'm not sure, Sam. I'm thinking she's their former Pack Leader. Gabe mentioned something about how 'female pack leaders are normally cold, like Naomi,' when we were talking about Maddie in the hospital." Dean ruffled his hair. "Maybe she is, and she was ousted. And now she's trying to get revenge on her clan?" Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

"Calling your wolf?" Bobby sat on the corner of his desk.

"If his old Pack Leader is coming after him, I should probably warn him." He let out a heavy sigh. "Come on, Cas. Pick up." The phone went to voice mail, and Dean hung up before trying to call again.

"Dean?"

Dean hushed at Sam and waited until the phone went to voicemail again. "Shit." He jumped up from his seat and pointed at his younger brother. "Go find Maddie, protect her and her Pack. Bobby, can you get other witches or hunters to Garth and Kate's packs, please?"

He was out the door and behind his Baby's steering wheel in a matter of seconds. Cas simply did not not answer his phone. He'd pick up, say he was busy, and that he'd call back. Something about being polite and punctual. As he sped down the road to the Homestead, Dean tried two more times to call Cas, both going straight to voicemail. He hoped that it only meant that Cas was down in the bunker, and there was no signal for his call to get through.

Once he pulled up in front of the farmhouse, Dean quickly shifted Baby into park and hopped out. He didn't see any of Clan Novak's Weres out and about working, and his anxiety began to skyrocket. Dean ran up to the house and banged on the front door. When no one answered, he tried the knob and let himself in. As Dean looked around, he realized that he had come across the scene of a house left in a hurry.

"CAS?" Dean cried out, running around the house. He searched each floor quickly, pushing open bedroom doors and looking for any Weres that may have hidden. Both satisfied and unsatisfied that there was no one left in the house, Dean made his way outside and started running towards the silo.

Before he made it halfway, a single solitary gunshot rang through the air. "CAS!" Dean cried out. He paused for all of a moment listening for the echo of the shot to fade before determining the location of the shooter. Dean broke out into a sprint, making his way towards the woods on the far side of the house.

…

"Well, I knew I was right in hiding out in these woods. Breaking one or two of your wards was sure to send one of you running out here to check it." Cas fought down a growl as the man standing in front of him aimed the gun at his Aunt Amara. "Didn't think I'd be lucky enough to have a two-for-one special. Granted, I won't leave until I've killed every single one of your Pack members. That's what this nice little permit here entitles me to."

"You were able to procure a permit to kill us?" Amara's voice rang steady, helping to calm and center Cas. "I'm not sure how you achieved that legally, considering we were proven innocent."

"Then why were you so afraid?" The man took another step closer and switched his aim to Cas as Cas started to move between the two of them. "Back up, Mutt. I've been hunting with this my whole life. I'll get you and still get her before she can shift."

"Aunt Amara, if I tackle him, you can run. Please," Cas pleaded. "The Pack needs you."

"Hush, sweet Pup," Amara reached over and ran her fingers through the fur at Cas' nape. "It will all be okay."

"Like hell, it will." The man used the rifle to prod and nudge Amara, causing the distance to grow between her and Cas. "Maybe I should line you two up, no point in sparing a bullet on both of you. It would just be a waste." The hunter lifted the gun, aiming it Cas. "Sorry, Mutt, nothing personal. Just hate creatures, and the money made it so worth it."

Before he could pull the trigger, a bright streak of silver came out behind the man, biting at his arm and trying to knock the rifle free.

"You stupid beast!" The man whipped his arm back and the shirt tore away, revealing a Kevlar arm guard. "You think you're my first creature to hunt?" Before the wolf could get back to its feet, the man delivered a swift and strong kick to the wolf's ribs, sending it tumbling against the ground. "Well, you've got the honors of being the first of your pack to die, friend."

"Inias!" Amara cried out, as Cas howled and started to charge at the hunter.

A loud, solitary gunshot stopped Cas in his tracks, and the hunter turned around, racking his rifle for another shot. Cas growled and prepared to pounce on the man when Amara jumped onto him. "No, Castiel. No!"

"You think you're going to get off the hook? I've got enough silver bullets for over two hundred wolves." The man smirked. "And as far as I'm concerned, there's no one out here to hear–"

"ABI!"

The man flew across the glade and slammed into a tree. He hit with a sick thunk and slid down, collapsing at the trunk. Both Cas and Amara looked to the source of the spell, and Cas' heart started pounding rapidly at the sight of Dean, panting, resting his hands on his legs.

"Inias!" Amara wailed, scrambling to her feet, tripping as she made her way to the silver wolf. Cas watched as Dean ran next to her, and he quickly followed, using his nuzzle to move Amara out of the way. Through their bond, Cas felt as Dean's heart sank, and he instantly knew that his pack member, one of his closest kin growing up, was gone.

"Hold on for me, please." Dean started pushing magic into Inias. "Please, your pack needs you, Inias."

Cas whimpered and nuzzled against Dean. While he knew that Dean could understand what he was saying, he hoped the message was clear.

"I'm sorry, Cas. I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough." Dean got to his feet and helped Amara to her feet. He bent back down and picked up Inais' body, cradling it carefully. "Show us where to go, Cas. I need to get you two to safety before John wakes up."

Cas focused his nuzzling on Amara's hand. "You heard him, Aunt Amara. We need to go."

"I know, sweet Pup." Amara wiped at her face and fell in line behind Cas, with Dean bringing up the rear.

…

Dean stood at the rear of the room, closest to the door. It felt wrong to be there, he felt like an intruder on the Pack's grief. Sure, he had gotten to know Inias over the past couple of weeks, and he mourned for the loss of a pack member beloved to Cas, but this wasn't his place.

So he stood a silent vigil in the back. While it was unlikely John would figure out how to get in the bunker, he wouldn't let anymore harm come to Clan Novak. Dean watched as Cas held his Aunt Amara, and briefly remembered that Inias was his cousin. Was Amara Inias' mother?

As Amara sunk to the floor crying, Dean felt Cas' pain and guilt wash over him. He knew that Cas took his position of Den Protector seriously. The fact that Inias died, coming to rescue him and Amara had to weigh on Cas's shoulders. Unable to cross the room to comfort Cas, Dean thought about their bond for a moment. If he could feel Cas' emotions, could Cas feel his?

Dean started small, pushing through what he hoped was a feeling of comfort. He closed his eyes and imagined pulling Cas into a warm, comforting embrace. Dean opened his eyes and found Cas whipping his head up, their eyes locking instantly. Cas' head tilted to the side and Dean inhaled sharply, knowing that Cas had felt it.

Yet, as quick as Dean had made use of their bond, Cas quickly closed it off. Unsure of what Cas meant by his actions, Dean nodded and turned towards the door, exiting the room. He quickly found the stairs and made his up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Once Dean had a signal, he promptly swiped through his phone, pulling up Sam's number.

"Dean, how are things going over there?" Sam answered after the second ring.

"Sam. He got one. The Old Man got Inias." Dean wiped his hand over his mouth and hung his head. "I was too late getting here."

"You got there as fast as you could, Dean." Sam calmly replied, a valiant attempt at trying to comfort Dean. "I'm sure you saved a lot more of them by calling and getting Cas moving."

"Not enough, Sam." Dean leaned back against the wall and slid down it, sitting in the stair landing. "What's going on outside of here?"

"I'm not completely sure myself. I'm with Maddie's Pack, we're all in their safehouse. Bobby went to Kate's Pack, a couple of their members are out of town, but they called them to keep them out of town for an extra day or two. Rufus is with Garth's Pack, and they're all accounted for."

Dean let out a sigh of relief. "Glad to hear the old man's not had a chance to sow grief and chaos in the other packs."

"Well, it gets better. I was talking to Bobby before I called you. Annie was able to get John's permit revoked."

"Seriously?" Dean perked up and briefly contemplated running out of the bunker to help with any kind of manhunt.

"Seriously. Annie presented the evidence to the rest of the council that that Kubrick guy is on. They were apparently already pissed with Kubrick approving the permit without consulting with the rest of the group. Add on the fact that the evidence was clearly pointing to a Wendigo, not a Were or a pack."

"Cool, so state the obvious, obvious is recognized. Now we go after the bastard." The sound of steps on metal caused Dean to look down the stairs. "Since the permit is considered Null and Void, will that make what John did..."

Sam's side of the call remained quiet, and Dean pulled the phone away from his ear to make sure the call didn't drop. "...illegal kill. That's murder, Dean."

"Good." Dean closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall. So we've already got people going after him?"

"Pretty much. Jody and Donna have already put out an APB, and I know they're personally on the move as well. John hurt a lot of people when he went dark side, Dean." Sam sighed.

"I think they're asking for assistance from the rest of the cryptid community. Specifically, the ones without weakness to silver, like Charlie and Ash, among others."

"As long as they're careful, the more, the merrier." Dean pushed himself back up to his feet. "I'm going to let the Pack know I'm heading out. Having a witch or two could be beneficial to the manhunt as well."

"I mean, don't let me stop you, Dean, but maybe you should stay in place. Cas and his Pack need you right now."

As though summoned, Cas appeared, looking up the stairs. Dean frowned. "I'll let you know, Sam. Keep me informed." Dean hung up the phone and looked at it in his palm. "Hiya, Cas."

"Hello, Dean." An awkward silence fell between them briefly, before Cas spoke up. "You're leaving?"

"I'm just getting in the way here, and if I'm out there, I can bring my father in. They revoked the permit, which means that killing Inias was illegal." Dean cringed at how he said that. "There's no way I can fix that, can I?"

Cas walked up the few steps between them. "I know what you meant, Dean. I know that hunters have their place in this world, we all do. And we know that some people are just evil." Cas hesitantly rested his hand on the side of Dean's neck.

"Cas, I'm sorry I wasn't here fast enough. I should have come right here, I should have..." Dean silenced as Cas placed a finger on his lips.

"There's nothing you could have done, Dean. I, nor the rest of the Pack, blame you." Cas removed his finger. "Inias wouldn't have let anything happen to our Aunt Amara."

"So you don't hate me?"

Cas stood up straight, the surprise evident on his face. "Why would I hate you?"

"When I tried to reach out to you through the bond?" Dean felt the blush rise on his cheeks and focused on the pattern in the steps.

Cas let out a sad chuckle. "You surprised me." Cas brought his other hand to rest on the other side of Dean's neck and pulled him in for a soft, sweet kiss. "You came to save us, Dean. You protected me and Amara."

"I had to, Cas." Dean rested his forehead against Cas'. "I heard that gunshot, and I froze."

Cas nodded slightly before dropping his hand to take Dean's. "Amara and Gabe want to talk to you. And I promise, they're not mad, they just have a lot of questions."

"I would if I were in their shoes too." Dean shook his head and smiled sadly at Cas. "Lead the way?"

…

To say that the warm feeling that Dean had pushed through their bond had been a surprise was an understatement. It had left Cas in shock, and he needed to slam down any mental barriers to keep himself composed. Cas wanted nothing more to experience the bond, to feel it and feed it and nurture it, but it didn't feel right to do so while standing next to Inias.

Inias, who wouldn't get to find out if Hayden, from Kate's Pack, returned any interest. Inias, who had lost his mother early, and was raised by Amara. Inias, who had grown up with Castiel, side by side.

Cas felt bad slamming Dean out, but at that moment, he couldn't handle two overwhelming emotions at once.

When Amara pulled him aside and asked him to go get Dean, he almost refused. Not because he didn't want to see Dean, but because it made him feel worse about being the one to live, and not Inias. However, knowing that Amara would be disappointed in him, he started the search for Dean, quickly finding him sitting on the stairs.

Once back with Amara and Gabe, the main thing on Cas' mind was the brief, but sweet, kiss the two had shared, and how he initiated it. Cas knew he should be listening to Dean explain about John, but he couldn't focus on the words coming out of Dean's moving lips.

"Castiel?" Amara asked, her eyebrow raised in interest. "Dean was telling us about his father. Did you catch any of it?"

"It's okay, Amara. Cas and I can talk about it at another time. You said you had other questions?" Dean took Cas' hand and gently squeezed it.

"If this question is too personal, I understand, but I have this need to know, much like Castiel, I'm sure." She paused and looked at Cas before looking back to Dean. "Are you a natural-born witch?"

"Yes, ma'am." Dean nodded.

"Your mother, I'm assuming."

Dean looked at Cas and nodded again. "Yeah. She was natural-born, as was her mother, and then there's magic woven throughout all of those branches. My brother and I can trace magic back so far in our line that we can go back to the beginning of written history." He turned to look at back at Amara, and Cas focused on her as well.

"That explains a lot." Amara smiled softly and rested her hand on Dean's shoulder. Cas tilted his head and felt anger build up inside of him. "Anna told me that she tried to tell you the significance of Castiel's fur?"

"She had mentioned something about Cas not being able to bond if he didn't want it. And then she had offered to let me in on a secret about his fur." The surprise must have shown on Cas' face, as Dean immediately apologized. "Sorry, Cas. It wasn't something I exactly asked to know."

"I'm not mad at you, Dean. I'm more surprised that she thinks it's okay to share Were Trade secrets."

"To be fair, she was using it to keep me from fighting our bond." Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

Cas felt his eyes go wide. "You wanted to fight the bond?"

"At the very beginning, yes, Cas." Dean turned to face Cas and grabbed his other hand. "You know how guilty I feel that I took your choice away from you."

"While it's commendable, and it does make me fonder of you, Dean, that's not something you would have had to worry about," Amara commented. She pulled their attention back to her. "Tell me, have you heard of the term 'Noćnivuk?'"

Cas let out a heavy sigh, knowing the lesson that Dean was about to receive.

"Can't say that I have," Dean replied.

"As a Cryptid nurse, I'm sure you're aware that all Werewolves have dormant magic. It's what we draw on to shift, what we use for our healing factor. It's what makes us who we are."

"I'm aware of that, yes."

"Noćnivuk or 'Night Wolves' are the wolves whose magic doesn't lay dormant, and can be drawn upon for other things." Amara smiled at Cas, and he let out another heavy sigh. "In our clan, if you have black fur, you're all but guaranteed to be a Noćnivuk."

"Dude, you can use magic?" Dean looked at Cas in awe.

Cas shook his head. "While I can, it's not what one would ever compare to a witch level of skill and training."

"You selling yourself short, Cas?"

"He's not exactly wrong, Dean. Castiel's magic is not like yours, but special in its own way." Amara clarified. "It's why he's our Den Protector."

"Part of why." Cas let go of Dean's hands and crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm like a focus, for the Pack. They can - for lack of a better word - leech magic off of me when they're about to run out."

"So, like a conduit?" Dean offered.

"That's actually a pretty good comparison, Dean." Gabe finally spoke up after sitting quietly for a while. "It might also be one of the reasons why I give you a rough time. You see, Noćnivuk reach out for other magic users. Their power calls out for power. You can't give power if you don't have it or take it from somewhere."

"So, Cas can pull from my magic when we're together?" Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't understand what that has to do with our bond."

"Your magic is incredibly strong, Dean. I can feel it calling out to Castiel like Castiel's is calling to you. Even if you never healed him, the bond would have formed naturally. What you two have between you is profound and rare." Amara smiled at Cas, who looked down at his feet in response. "If you don't mind, Dean, Gabriel wanted to talk to you more about your father. There are some words I need to have with my nephew."

Dean cupped Cas' cheek before exiting the room behind Gabe. The small gesture sent a warm feeling through Cas' chest.

"Castiel?"

"Yes, Aunt Amara?" Cas looked up from the floor.

She tapped the side of her nose. "You're nervous."

"Dean was worried all this time about forcing the bond on me, and here I am, and I would have forced a bond on him eventually." Cas walked over and sat next to Amara.

"Castiel. Do you regret how much you've come to know Dean? How much you've let this grow between you?"

"Of course not. Dean has given me a choice every step of the way. But I can't help but feel like this is spiraling so quickly. We're moving at the speed of light when we both said we wanted to go slow." Cas rested his head in his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"The bond of a Noćnivuk and their partner is life long, sweet pup. The creation of the bond is rough, and it hurts, and there are growing pains. But at the same time, it is swift, it is sweet, and it is thorough." Amara gently rubbed Cas' back. "In the case of you and Dean, when he opened his bond to heal you, I doubt he knew that he was inviting your magic in."

"Great. So I basically locked Dean into a bond while I was sleeping." Cas scoffed. "He's going to hate me."

"Doubtful, Castiel. And as I mentioned before, you two would have drifted towards each other anyway. Certain magics call out to one another. Would it be as swift and quick like it has been?" Amara shook her head. "I doubt it. But that wouldn't be you, and I don't think that would be Dean."

Cas chuckled at that. "Are you saying that I move fast?"

"I'm saying that your heart knows what it wants, Castiel." Amara smiled softly before standing up. "Do not let your cousin's death be in vain. Survive, Castiel. Live and love."

"You make it sound so easy. Inias shouldn't have been there." Cas frowned. "He came running after me because he knew that I went running after you."

"All the more reason to honor his sacrifice." Amara walked towards the archway connecting to the room where Inias was still laid out for respect.

Cas waited until his Aunt left the room before standing up himself. Taking a sniff of the stale bunker air, he found Dean's scent and headed in that direction. He turned down the hallway, stopping in what Gabriel had gotten converted or fixed up into living quarters. Continuing down, he stopped in front of a room filled with several bunk beds. On one, Anna sat, sobbing into Dean's shoulder, their backs to the door.

"You know, I know you think I hate him." Gabe's voice caused Cas to jump in place. "But he is a good person."

"You admitted that you're the one that's constantly giving him shit, Gabe." Cas rolled his eyes and leaned on the doorframe. "Do you believe all of what Aunt Amara said?"

"I believe you have the opportunity that others only dream of. It's not unheard of, but it's rare. And the fact that it's attached to someone that good looking?" Gabe mocked a chef's kiss before turning serious. "In all seriousness, I get your fears."

"Say this situation was you and Meg, instead of me and Dean." Cas crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you really understand my fear?"

"Meg and I are not an apt comparison."

"Humor me." Cas rested his head against the door frame as he continued to watch Anna and Dean, only catching brief parts of their conversation.

Gabe let out a sigh. "Meg and I are like Mentos and Diet Cola. Mix us together, and it's explosive in all the right ways."

"And messy and gross afterward?"

"No. Maybe. Stop, you're knocking me off my train of thought." Gabe paused. "But, just like Diet Coke and Mentos, we're boring as separate people."

Cas rolled his head to the side and looked at Gabe. "I disagree, but continue."

"If it weren't for Naomi arranging for us to get together, it wouldn't have happened. Not naturally. She wouldn't have looked at me twice, and I never would have thought I stood a chance. Our chemistry was forced together, but it ended up working out for the best." Gabe poked Cas' cheek and turned his head back towards Dean. "Your chemistry is natural and flowing freely. But it almost seems like you're fighting it. Let it happen, Cassie."

"Is it natural if it's jumpstarted?" Cas questioned as Dean gave Anna a bear hug.

"Yeah. Just because it's moving a little faster than you anticipated doesn't make it any less natural." Gabe hesitated before speaking again. "You know, he does fit nicely into the pack dynamics, even if he isn't a wolf." Their sister stood and walked towards them. "Go get'em, tiger." Gabe clapped Cas on the shoulder before holding his arm out for Anna.

Cas turned his attention back into the room and watched as Dean got to his feet and stretched. He felt like a creeper and prepared to walk away when Dean turned around, and their eyes met. "Cas."

"Hello, Dean." Cas pushed himself off the doorframe just in time to be enveloped in Dean's arms. "What's going on?"

"I know you can close off our connection, but I don't know how to do the same." Dean pulled back enough to look into Cas' eyes. "I could feel your emotions, mostly of fear and anxiety. And I knew it was because of me."

"Can I explain?"

Dean shook his head. "You don't have to. All I feel right now is the amount of relief flowing from you."

"But, you were worried." Cas cupped Dean's face, stroking his thumb over the apples of Dean's cheeks. "I'm sorry I did that to you." Cas surprised himself by leaning back in and kissing Dean again. He was even more surprised - pleasantly so - when Dean deepened the kiss.

He didn't know or cared who stopped the kiss, but Cas found himself wanting more, chasing after Dean's lips.

"Cas." Dean moved his head to the side and kissed Cas' cheek. "If we keep this up, we're going to do something very private in a not so private area." Dean carded his fingers through Cas' hair, and Cas was briefly reminded of Dean stroking his fur while in wolf form. "And it's probably not a good time to do this."

"I don't understand." Cas tilted his head, frowning. "Do you not want me?"

Dean laughed heartedly, and Cas relaxed a little. "That's the furthest thing from the truth, Cas." He rested their foreheads together. "I want our first time to be us. On our terms, in one of our beds. Not a quick fuck out of horniness and desperation in your safe house."

"Fair enough." Cas readjusted and wrapped his arms around Dean's waist as Dean wrapped his arms around Cas' neck. "We continue to let us grow, we keep nurturing what we have, and when we're past all this..." Cas stole another kiss. "We find time for us."

"Sounds like a plan, Cas. I–" Dean's phone rang, causing Dean to jump in surprise. "I guess I have signal here." He pulled it out and smiled. "Hey Sam, what's the news?" Cas listened to the warbling of Sam coming through the earpiece. With each phrase, Dean's smile turned into a frown.

"Dean?" Cas lightly squeezed Dean's sides, hoping to provide him some comfort.

"Sammy, I'm with Cas. I'm going stop you where you're at and put you on speakerphone, so you don't have to repeat everything twice." Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and held out the phone between them. "Okay Sam, go ahead."

"Alright, so what I've already said. Jody and Donna haven't found our father yet. What they have found is the trail he's leaving behind." Cas perked up at Sam's words and looked at Dean. "He's using his skills from his stint in the military, and his time at war, to stay hidden. John's doing a good job of making himself scarce, and he's constantly staying at least one step in front of them."

"Basically, he knows that the permit's been voided," Dean commented, and Sam confirmed with a hum.

"Sam, you said he's left a trail?" Cas asked, holding his breath, as he hoped it wasn't what Cas thought Sam meant.

"Besides Inias, he's killed a human officer, a vampire, and a vetala. Which will end up killing another vetala as they were a mated pair. At each scene, he's left the same, exact message." Sam's voice was trembling, and Dean lost all color from his face.

"What's the message, Sammy?" Dean moved the phone out to the side as Cas pulled him back into a tight embrace.

Sam's swallow was audible. "The long and short of it? The Old Man is here on a job, and he's staying until the job is finished. He's been offered a large amount by one Naomi Novak, and he intends on collecting it. John is demanding the children of Naomi Novak, or he's going to continue to take out innocent people until he finds them."

Cas' knees went out from under him, and he barely registered Dean calling his name or calling out for Gabe and Anna.

The world spun around him. And then it was dark.

[kalypsichor]

oh darling [ beatles x reader ]

summary: backstage on the England leg of your tour, you meet the four Liverpool boys of your dreams

prompt: can i request a reader who’s a musician/singer and a big beatles fan so they sing their favorite songs at a concert (my peronal faves are “honey pie”, “oh, darling!” or “for no one”, but you can choose!) and the boys were secretly there!! the boys meet them after the show and the reader just loses it?? maybe some romance?? warnings: too much backstory, badly researched 60s slang

i’m fudging the timeline around so that in this fic oh! darling was released in the early 60s instead of in abbey road and reader is meeting them in the mid 60s. reader is american and I incorporated some romance but left it open-ended. more notes at the end!

masterlist

This is what you love most about touring. A thousand faces shining with the glow of the stage in dark concert halls; the satisfying dig of guitar strings into your fingertips; each inhale of breath that rushes into your lungs and is converted to notes ringing with clarity, clashing with dissonance; and the raw electricity of it all.

As the last chord of the song fades into the air, you allow yourself a giddy, adrenaline-fueled smile. The crowd roars and stomps their feet and you can feel the ground vibrating underneath your feet. It takes a while to get them to quiet down, and when they finally do, you lean in towards the mic.

“I’d like to thank y’all again for coming to tonight’s show!” Cue more screaming. “We’re going to close out with a song by a band you probably haven’t heard of— very underground, very obscure, you know. One of your lot. This is Oh! Darling.”

The crowd erupts into more cheers and you allow yourself to reminisce about the first time you’d heard this song on the radio. A few years younger and without a nickel to your name, your band had been just a hobby during the off-seasons of school. In the sweltering New Orleans summer, crammed into a friend’s garage, you wrote and played songs inspired by the local rhythm and blues so popular at the time. It was all just for your own enjoyment, of course— you didn’t think that anyone outside of Louisiana would like your kind of music. But you loved the slow grinding tempos and the strong backbeats that were so fun to dance to, even if you and your bandmates were the only ones who’d ever sing or dance to them.

Until, of course, you changed a radio station one day and suddenly heard that very same rhythm and blues from some internationally known band called The Beatles. “Well,” you said, turning to your bandmates, “if some pasty English boys can play it on the radio, why can’t we?” So the band began booking gigs at local bars, then theaters, then across the world as its popularity grew. All the while, you fell in love with the English band, buying every new record and learning your favorites on guitar.

And here you were on tour in Britain years later, living a dream you could barely believe. A giddy smile spreads across your face as you realize the enormity of being here at all, thousands of miles away from home and singing the song that started it all. Your fingers pluck the familiar strings and you feel yourself settle into a nostalgic beat.

Oh! Darling, please believe me I’ll never do you no harm…

When it’s over and you take your last bow, sweat beads your face and neck and you want nothing more than a cold shower and a bottle of champagne. The din of cheers and claps follows you into the wings of the stage where your manager waits with an odd smile on her face.

“Some people here to see you,” she says. You grab a cup of water from one of the assistants and down it like, well, water.

“I thought we weren’t letting fans backstage today.”

“Yes, but these aren’t the usual fans. They’re… you have to see for yourself.”

You set down the glass, already wishing you were in bed. “Look, Grace, I’m sorry but it’s just not a good time. I don’t care if it’s the Kennedy’s or Jesus Christ himself, tell them to come back later.”

“It’s been said that we’re bigger than Jesus, y’know.”

If you turned your head any faster you would’ve gotten whiplash. That familiar Scouse accent that you’ve only heard in records and interviews… but there was no way it was—

“John Lennon?” It’s your drummer, Thomas, who speaks. “You’re John Lennon. God, that’s unreal. I’m talking to John fucking Lennon.”

“Oh, don’t mind us, we’re just backdrop,” grumbles one of the other three. He’s got dark, intense eyes under heavy brows and a mop of hair. This is George Harrison in the flesh and blood, and he would seem very serious if it weren’t for his toothy, almost canine grin. You feel a thrill race down your spine from the almost predatory look that he gives you.

Kate, the bassist, peers over your shoulder. “Y’all are a lot shorter in person,” she comments. Then, quietly to you, “Close your mouth, honey. You’re catching flies out here.”

You really hope you’re not drooling. It’s no big deal, right? Except that your idols are standing right in front of your eyes, mop-tops and all. You suddenly become hyper-aware of how your hair is plastered to your face and yet somehow also sticking up in eighty different directions. Why didn’t you use more product? More importantly, why haven’t you said a single word yet? They must think you’re some kind of idiot. Okay, do something before it becomes awkward. A handshake! A handshake is good.

You stick out a trembling hand. “Hi,” you say, voice breathy and high like some kind of schoolgirl with a crush.

Too late, you realize that there’s no way all four of them can shake your hand, idiot, and you’ve already come up with four different ways to fake your own death and never speak to anyone again when Paul McCartney (Paul! Freaking! McCartney!) takes your palm with a gentle but steady grasp. He brings it to his lips in a mock bow, eyes peering up under fluttering eyelashes.

“M’lady.”

(Is this what cardiac arrest feels like?)

“Down, boy!” John pats the back of the bassist’s head, smirking, and before you can mourn the loss of his touch they’ve begun bickering like an old married couple.

A different hand takes yours. Thick, calloused fingers. Cold metal rings press into your skin. “Don’t mind them, they’re children. I’m Ringo.” And here was Ringo Starr with the signature grin. Something about his sweet, wide smile makes you relax instinctively. He’s just human, like you. They all are. Underneath the fame and fortune, you’re all just messy humans with a love for music. And with that realization, you let yourself settle back into your usual self.

“They’re not so bad,” you say. “I’ve seen worse. At least they’re potty trained, right?”

This gets an adorable laugh from him as well as George, the latter of which had been talking to Kate about guitars until now.

“Great job up there, by the way.” You blush at the compliment and George goes on, “Those are some wicked brilliant riffs! You’ve got to show them to me sometime.”

“What, and let you steal our band’s secrets? You’ll have to try a little harder than that, mister.”

The three of you fall into an easy banter, mostly gushing about each others’ musicianship. Eventually, John and Paul break their fight, realizing that they’re no longer the center of attention.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John says a little breathlessly, still laughing from something Paul said. You try not to notice how pink his cheeks are or the way his hair falls perfectly into his eyes from the toustling. “Say, why don’t we take this somewhere with a booth and at least three pints of alcohol?”

“There’s a pub two blocks down,” Paul chimes in, “and they always let us take the back door. The fans can get crazy, y’know.”

Pru, the other lead vocalist, swings an arm around your shoulder and answers before you can. “Sounds boss. I’m ready to split if you are, mop-tops.”

They look confusedly at one another and you huff, elbowing her in the ribs. “What she means is that we’d be delighted to go. Right, Pru?”

She scoffs something along the lines of stuffy Brits but nods. With that, the two bands begin making their way to the exits, melding into one raucous group of overlapping conversations. Before you can make it there, however, your manager grabs you by the arm and looks you in the eye with a steely glare.

“I better not being seeing your face in the papers tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, Mom.”

“And be back at the hotel before three! You’ve all got interviews in the morning and I do not want another situation like Toronto on my hands. You hear me?”

“That reporter was a sexist pig and I meant what I said. Also, I wasn’t that hungover!”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” George pipes up, “We’ll get her back in one piece. Maybe two, if we’re unlucky.”

You pat Grace’s hand and her glare softens. “Alright, get outta my sight.” She waves a hand and walks off, already rattling off instructions a mile a minute at some poor intern.

“Is yours like that too?” you ask, looking after Grace fondly as she picks up a costume rack without slowing down. If the terrified look on the intern’s face is any indication, she’s still berating him to high hell.

“Honestly,” George replies, “I think all managers are. Mum away from home, y’know. Eppy’s always right and it’s annoying as hell.”

You share a knowing smile before surging on to catch up with the group already at the door. John’s at the lead. Elbowing your way through, you make your way to his side.

“It’s a side entrance so it shouldn’t be too bad,” he says, pushing on the handle.

Immediately, a barrage of sound smacks you in the face hard enough to do a double-take. Apparently, you and every other person in London knew about the side entrance because you’re met with a sea of clamoring fans. Heads turn toward the opened door in a mesmerizing, horrifying ripple of motion. Someone mutters a heartfelt fuck under their breath. It’s probably you.

“There she is!” a girl screams.

“I love you! I LOVE YOU!”

“Is that the Beatles?”

“MARRY ME PAUL! I WANT YOUR BABIES!”

Amidst the chaos, someone intertwines their fingers in yours. It’s John. He looks down at you with a boyish grin and, not for the first time, you lose a bit of yourself in his gaze. The other three boys share the same wild glint in their eyes. He leans close until his lips brush your ear and for a moment you let yourself believe that you’re alone with him and nobody else.

“This is the part where we run, darling.”

And so you do.

notes: because i’m horny for music history, i spent way too much time researching oh! darling’s musical composition. the song is heavily influenced by new orleans rhythm and blues as well as louisiana swamp blues, music styles originating from african-americans/creoles/cajuns in the 50s (read more about it here!). so in my mind, reader is of the same ethnic background as the music she creates, but you’re free to interpret it however you want! 

[supervillain-smut]

Edward Nygma Fluff Alphabet

Anonymous requested I do a Fluff Alphabet for Edward Nygma, so these are a thing you can request now! Here you go, Anon! This one’s pretty long. - Mod Babydoll

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?) He's a huge fan of people's eyes. He always makes a point to look everyone in the eyes and yours completely floored him.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?) He likes being a rogue too much, and already has a daughter whom you take care of to the best of your abilities. She's 15 now and completely accepts you.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?) Whenever you cuddle with Eddie, it's usually all arms and legs tangled up with you lying on his chest or him spooning you once he's finally come to bed.

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?) Extravagant, pricey, more often than you'd think. He'll only take you to the Iceberg Lounge if you're comfortable with Oswald.

E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…)) Greatest Riddle. He can never fully figure you out, and once he thinks he has it you change it up again. He loves it, keeps him always guessing and on his toes.

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?) First, it was your eyes. Sure, they were stunning but that's not all it takes to swoon the Riddler. No, it was the way you carried yourself, the way you barely payed him any mind and loved to attempt any Riddles he had for you. Even if you got some wrong, you laughed it off, admitted defeat and asked him what the answer was. It was like the game he had always intended his riddles to be. That's when he was in love.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?) Eddie never shelters you, but he always touches you as if you were made of glass. The mosaic kind. Something to be admired and coveted.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?) Not so much in front of other rogues, considering he's mostly concentrated on the task at hand or what someone else is saying. In private, however when all his attention is on you, even if you're just watching a movie he'll intertwine your fingers and pull you into his lap.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?) He thought you'd never want anything to do with him same as everyone else, or you'd just want him for his scores like a couple before you.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?) Oh yeah he does. He will literally stand in between you and Dent, and glare daggers at Jonathan when he kisses the back of your hand after you finished a very in-depth conversation with him. Of course Jonathan does it to mess with him and he would never dare chase you, in fact he's among the few rogues you actually get along with and Eddie trusts enough to leave you alone together. Besides, he's Asexual. Eddie gets jealous but he's not possessive, he knows that's wrong of him.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?) The brave Edward Nygma did in a moment of pure anxiety and trust. He kisses deeply and with a lot of passion every time. A little liquid courage didn't hurt either even though he hates drinking, he needed it.

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?) Edward, right after he first kissed you. He looked like he was ready to cry and his voice cracked mid-sentence, he's never looked so terrified and unsure. He immediately sighed when you kissed him back and said that you loved him too.

M = Memory (What’s their favorite memory together?) After you found out he was the Riddler. You didn't get mad, you weren't afraid of him and recoil from his touch like he thought you would after he came in all tattered, distressed and bruised after the Batman had found his hideout. You just slowly nodded your head at the sight of him. 

Question mark tie all askew, domino mask half broken with a bruised cheek and a split lip, clutching his rib cage breathing hard yet shallow. He had tears in his eyes as he begged you for forgiveness and a place to stay, and was confused as you took excruciatingly slow steps towards him and breathed a shuddered sigh as you took his face in your hands and removed what was left of his mask off his face and kissed his bruised cheek as gently as possible.

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?) Oh, absolutely! He doesn't do it to show off, either he just loves when your face lights up. Depending on whether you're a jewelry person, or just simply nostalgic he will do everything in his power and maybe a little more to make you happy. At the end of the day though, he only wants you from you. He feels unworthy of any expensive things you get him, he's supposed to spoil you, dammit.

O = Orange (What color reminds them of their other half?) Whatever your favorite color or shade is, whenever he sees it when out on a job or on his own or hell even in Arkham he can't help but smile to himself. Once, a doctor in Arkham had a clipboard the same color/shade and he was grinning like an idiot. Considering he's always miserable when under analysis, they inquired why he was suddenly so happy and he confessed that he had someone special in his life that he loved very much and would do anything for, including staying in Arkham to get better (which would probably never happen, you asking that of him I mean.)

P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?) He doesn't really... Use pet names. It just never really was a thing, he's passionate about loving you but he's not all lovey-dovey.

Q = Quaint (What is their favorite non-modern thing?) Unsolved mysteries, reasons behind cryptids, debunking photo-shopped images, images too old to be photo-shopped and theories.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?) Sit inside, preferably with a little fireplace and a book or classic movie. He doesn't like the horror ones too much, especially the more modern ones.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?) He delves into his work, refuses food and anything else to distract him from whatever’s hurting him. If he doesn't mention it, he doesn't want to talk about it. In those times it's best to just hug him while he works and eventually he'll snap out of it and go cuddle with you, and maybe tell you what's bothering him.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?) Anything deep. What is the meaning of life? Is religion real or just a hoax meant to keep everyone in line? Give him tongue twisters for some fun, or do a puzzle with him for quality time.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?) Massages from you are his favorite, but a blanket burrito will do the trick as well as your company.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?) He's proud of his ability to keep up with you, what you like and what you like to do. He shows off in many ways, whether it's just you on his arm or what exciting thing is coming up next for the two of you.

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?) The rogues have to help him out on this one, and he sends you on a scavenger hunt throughout their 'trials'. Answering questions about him or things the two of you did, in each rogues fashion. Such as what significant things happened in the winter as you walk through Victor Fries' winter world, or what was the best time you had while out for some fun as Jervis guides you through wonderland. Crane would ask what was the hardest thing you've had to go through together, etc. Finally it all leads up to Eddie and he asks you to marry him in the dorkiest riddle ever, so easy even Batman could answer it! 

You tie the knot at the Iceberg lounge, where Oswald decided to cover the whole thing because it's Oswald and this is his best friend we're talking about. Batman is invited, and shows up in a tux and cowl along with Selina on his arm. Crane and Harley are also there as Best Man and Bridesmaid respectively. Oswald turned down best man and Eddie handed it to Crane because Crane never shows up to any rogues events and everyone was surprised he agreed. This all comes after many hardships and years together as a couple.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?) Edward gave you 'Do I Wanna Know' by the Arctic Monkeys, and you gave him 'Everything At Once' by Lenka.

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?) In your first two years, no. He was terrified of the commitment and the fear of betrayal was all too much, that and he figured no woman except for Harleen would want to marry a Gotham Rogue. About four years in, however he considered it almost every week and once he confided in Oswald and Jonathan they would help him figure out when was right and how.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?) He always enjoyed the loyalty and smarts of dogs, but also the cunning and adaptability of cats. Probably one of both, for a dog he would bring home a puppy easy to start training like a Chocolate Lab or a German Shepherd. Maybe even a mix if he could find one. For a cat, classic tabby is just fine. 

Selina fosters cats, and one day as Eddie was stopping by she was finishing up on a stray kitten with one green eye one blue eye and it warmed up to him immediately. As soon as he heard Selina was looking for a home for the little curious rascal, he swooped in and claimed she wasn't getting it back. She was fine with it, of course.

[hbostolemysoul]

Band of Brothers fluff alphabet: Donald Malarkey

A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)

I think the question should be, “what doesn’t he find attractive about you?”.

Don has literally been head-over-heels for you since the moment you met.

B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)

Malarkey has always wanted a family. You two used to talk about it back in Toccoa, hushed whispers in the night.  During the war those conversations stopped. The focus shifting to just trying to stay alive, and sane.

After the war Don asked you to come back to Oregon with him. You two hadn’t really talked about the future, but there was some unspoken promise between the two of you that eased any insecurities you had. It was only a few months after you two had settled into your modest home that you found out you were pregnant. Don lit up when you told him, you could see a small glimpse of the man he had been before the war.

C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)

He needs to be the big spoon. After loosing Muck, Penkala, and Buck he needs to wrap himself around you to reassure himself that you are still there. Still alive. He doesn’t get much sleep, but he finds that he rests a bit easier feeling your steady breaths against his chest.  

D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)

During the war you two couldn’t exactly have conventional dates, so you two would try and sneak away from the boys to just talk or share a cigarette. That being said once Muck and Penkala found out you two were an item they gave you their fair share of ribbings, but the up side of that was that they would cover for the two of you should you need a bit more…private time.  

E = Everything (You are my __ (e.g. my life, my world…))

“You are the only thing that makes me feel alive”

F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)

It was while you were running up Currahee. Sobel had just finished screaming in your face about how you were too weak and pathetic to make it as a paratrooper. You just ran faster and made it to the top of Currahee before any of the other boys. The look on Sobel’s face, and the smile on yours just did it for him.

G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)

He is a gentle bean. That being said when the mood is right he has no problem putting those strong arms of his to use and hoisting you up and having his way with you.

H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)

Fingers intertwined, his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the back of your hand.

I = Impression (What was their first impression?)

He was surprised to see a woman amongst a company of men, but your first day of training took away any doubts he may have had. He saw what a determined badass you were and knew that no matter what Europe threw at Easy you would have their backs.

J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)

He broods. The war has taken a lot from him, and even though logically he knows that you love him he has these moments of overwhelming doubt.

K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)

You kissed him. It happened on one of the rare nights Sobel hadn’t revoked all of your weekend passes. You were pleasantly buzzed and had worked up the courage to ask him to dance. His face had almost been as red as his hair. Eventually the two of your stepped out of the warm bar, leaning up against the wall outside. You looked over and he had this far away look on his face as he looked up at the stars. You stood up on your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of his mouth.  

L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)

He does. It was right before you jumped on D-day, you and Malarkey has been assigned to different planes, Don just looked at you with those big brown eyes and pulled you to his chest. The kiss you two shared put all previous ones to shame, he muttered the words against your lips. That was the first time Don had seen you cry, and he immediately started to panic. You just shook your head at his hurried apologies and pressed your lips against his again, “I love you too Don”.

M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)

The first time he was able to feel the fluttering kick of your baby. He had taken to talking to your belly from the moment he found out you were pregnant, so feeling the baby respond to his voice and nudge against his palm had been one of the proudest moments of his life thus far.  

N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)

Flowers. Every Tuesday he comes home with a bouquet of flowers for you. Always something bright and cheerful, you both have had enough gloom and doom for one lifetime.

O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)

Green. It’s a colour he pairs with strength and reliability. You have always been a pillar of strength and support for him.

 P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)

Some cute abbreviation of your first/last name.

Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)

His grandparents record player. He will sometimes put a record on and dance with you in your kitchen. Usually slower songs, he craves the closeness of your body and the soft way you smile up at him.

R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)

You two usually play cards. It’s a habit neither of you had wanted to break after the war.

S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)

Sometimes you two just need to lay on the couch and hold each other. The radio softly buzzing in the background.

T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)

He didn’t talk about Muck and Penkala much after the war, until Buck came to visit the two of you. After that he opened up more and started sharing some of the ridiculous things he and the boys had gotten themselves into. Talking about them still hurts from time to time, but Don has come to realize its also a way of keeping their memory alive.

U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)

Showers, or rain. There was so much rain in Europe that you would have thought Don would be tired of it. But something about the steady sound of it hitting your roof, or the tiles in your bathroom helps calm him.

V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)

Your baby bump/baby. Talk about proud father. Once your baby is born he loves pointing out how much your child looks like you.  

W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)

It’s a simple outdoor wedding. Malarkeys family is there, so is Buck. Your white dress just slightly hugging the curve of your growing tummy, his brown eyes shining happily in the soft summer sun.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

Iris- The Goo Goo Dolls

Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)

Yes. You two did things a little ‘backwards’ but the day you agreed to marry him was one of the happiest in his life.

Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)

You two hadn’t really talked about it. It had been raining and Don had been a bit late coming home from work. You had been worried until he raced in the front door with a wet box in his arms. You heard mewling before two tiny kitten heads popped through the top of the box. He just smiled cheekily. “What do you think about Muck and Penkala?” you said, he just grinned and kissed you. (True to their namesakes, Muck and Penk were absolute shits)

[storysick]

Rust Along the Horizon (Short Story)

Rust Along the Horizon

Warnings: Contains graphic violence and angsty gay cowgirls.

______________________________________________________________

‘No matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you.’

- Zora Neale Hurston

______________________________________________________________

She pressed the back of her hand, sticky-warm and flaking rust, to her mouth and breathed sharp and quick. It didn’t do much for the rising nausea clawing up her throat, boiling in her gut like black-sin tar. The body was flat on the ground and if she imagined real hard with her eyes squeezed shut, like she had done often back at the Pink Pearl, she could almost imagine he was sleeping. 

She cracked an eye open; his chest didn’t rise in calm slumber, his skin was pale and greying, lips blue and bloated. Right between glossy, un-seeing eyes was a  neat hole leaking red surrounded by split skin, ivory flecks of his skull lodged in stringy hair and painting the wall behind him. She lurched to the side, retching by still, worn boots. 

She had never killed someone before. A shock, considering the world she’s lived in, the places she’d worked. Sure, she wasn’t a stranger to death, knew it would come for her and those she knew somewhere down the line. She had seen the mutts and horses in the Saint Denis slum’s alleys, emaciated with flies and strays picking on the diseased cadaver. She had cleaned the whorehouse linens, boiled them for newcomers to drive away the sickness that had killed the previous owner (she remembered that girl, sweet and young, miserable like a sunflower locked in a basement. She had fed Balisse the good bits of her dinner, smiled at her as she passed. She was decent. She died from consumption on her 17th birthday.) 

Balisse sniffed, swallowed back another bout of nausea from the stifling stench of a settling body. She wiped a hand across her mouth, blinked hard the prickling in her eyes and the shaking fear trembling against her ribs. She had to get out, leave the scene of her crime for some other schmuck to find; by then, her and Lettie would be far from this shack and picking up the bounty down in Rhodes. She hung the repeater from her shoulder by it’s strap, stumbling to the door and across the threshold, as clumsy as a newborn foal. 

 Lettie was there, her dark eyes were fathomless but Balisse knew every part of her from the top of her braided head to the tips of her steel-toed boots. She could see the scrap of concern in those eyes, the sympathy in the downturn of her lips. “You finished, Liz?” Balisse nodded, sharp and jerking. Lettie sighed, stony face softening as she stepped close, thumb brushing the top of Balisse’s right cheek to smooth down over pink scar tissue. “It’ll get easier. I’m sorry I had you do this… but I don’t regret it,” Lettie was firm, hand falling from her face to squeeze the red-head’s shoulder. “This is how things are done out here, and this ain’t gonna be the last time you kill a man. Not with the jobs we got now." 

Balisse couldn’t un-stick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, so she just nodded, blinking away the image of the man’s surprise; his snarl and the burst of bright red his head became after. 

She nodded, and Lettie smiled. 

______________________________________________________________

"I love you, you know that right?” Lettie’s smile was feral and wild, free and dangerous and it sent a singing thrill down Balisse’s spine. There was blood smeared across the bridge of her crooked nose, her smile bright and toothy, at odds with the black gleam in those untamed eyes of hers. That smile, that question- all of it could’ve made Balisse forget that she was in the middle of a gunfight with a group of Del Lobos. 

“‘Course I do! Can we get back to the matter at hand?!” Balisse ducked, round whistling over her head, displacing the air above her. Lettie laughed like a gunshot, loud and sudden; right at home in the moment. She aimed her revolver, catching the gleam of the lowering sun along the nickel plated piece. She breathed, held a twitching finger over the trigger. 

The boulder she had been aiming at revealed the peeking head of a Lobo. 

She squeezed. 

* +-*-+ *

There were bodies scattered about, eight in total, all dressed in brown and black, but painted with red. Lettie breathed, licking the cut on her bottom lip (from a member that had gotten too close, whipped her with his pistol before he had his head blown off by her partner,) and she turned to Balisse with eyes that sparkled brighter than her knife’s blackened steel. “We make quite the pair,” she smiled like one of them sharks in the paper, the ones that spoke of exotic islands and beaches, and pressed close enough that Balisse could smell copper, see where scar turned to new skin on the hollow of her throat. “That we do…” Was all Balisse could breathe before that storm of a woman lunged. 

Lettie kissed like a punch. 

And Balisse was never one to turn down a fight. 

______________________________________________________________

Payment after a job well done was always a celebratory time for the duo; they would get to the nearest saloon and drink down at least a quarter of their paycheck each. They only did quarter 'cause anymore and Lettie might wind up killing the next man that had too smart a mouth (it was an experience in Rhodes that was not to be repeated.) 

This time though, Balisse had something special in mind, even if it wouldn’t be as pricey or as lively as how they usually celebrated. It had been two years since she’d escaped the brothel in Saint Denis, two years she’d been running with Lettie Davis. Maybe it was naive and foolish, too much so for a woman that’s lived a life like she, but Balisse could see herself running with Lettie for as long as the woman would have her- and she had a feeling that that would be quite a while indeed. 

Annesburg smelled of coal dust and misery. Balisse never enjoyed the stops here that Lettie would always call for (family maybe? A fence? Lettie was always mum about it when Balisse asked.) But she did enjoy the land that surrounded the mining town; while Lettie rode off towards the mines with a blasé “Meet back at the general store once you’re ready to get a move on,” Balisse made for the forest above Annesburg. Before her father had kicked the bucket, the trips they’d take to try and connect (which always fell flat before they began,) would be to the surrounding wilderness. That’s where Balisse learned to hold a gun, to steady her aim and squeeze, not jerk, the trigger. 

She was surprisingly good at hunting- in another life she could’ve made a living off of it. But this wasn’t another life, and instead she made bank by killing whoever she was paid to think needed killing and stealing from folk more decent than her. It was a strange existence, but it wasn’t one she minded some days, not when Lettie was there existing with her. 

The light seemed to have a physical presence as it filtered, soft and diluted, through mist around the green-brown stretch of the surrounding trees. Rabbits and squirrels skittered in front of the great hooves of her Belgian roan, squealing as they narrowly missed the beating of his steady canter. She stopped at a clearing, thick tall trees placed apart near the river that ran near Annesburg, squirrels scuttling in the underbrush and up the towering trees. She could hear the call of turkey nearby, the low wail of a deer herd and chirping bark of fox. This was prime hunting country, and Balisse felt the previously hidden knots of stress release as she slid from her saddle, strapping on her varmint and bolt action, tucking away various types of bait into the pockets of her leather coat. She paused in the moment, letting the heavy sunlight lay soft against her cheeks, warm the strands of her loose hair. 

Patting her hefty mount on his flank and leading him towards the river, she let him drink his fill as she scouted the surroundings. There were deer tracks leading deeper into the wood, no doubt from the herd she could hear in the distance. She smiled and pulled her rifle into her hands. 

She found them grazing on a hill, green grass and a smattering of flowers. It was ideal, so Balisse settled close as she dared and took aim. There was a moment she always experienced as she raised the sights of a gun to her eye, felt the cool metal of the trigger under a steady finger; control, the ability to take a life with the twitch of her hand. It was something both frightening and awe-inspiring. 

She breathed, held it, and squeezed. 

The gun bucked into her shoulder, the bull elk she had been aiming at, a large one with an even larger rack, crumpled as the doe and fawn around him wailed and sprung away. Balisse rose from her crouch, reaching the warm body of the buck she had downed with her hunting knife drawn. 

It was a clean kill, straight through the eye. She set to skinning him, huffing as she harvested meat and antlers, wrapping the lot of it in the thick pelt. She hefted it onto her shoulder and made her way back to her horse. The sun was beginning to lower, bright light giving way to low amber and dusky skies. The trees were intimidating in a beautiful way against this light, black-green leviathans that watched over the forest, groaning with the gales. 

The leaf-litter on the ground was damp and gave under her boots and were she any less steady on her feet, she could’ve slipped. But she had learned the value of a sure foot and good eye through the years and kept a good pace. 

She couldn’t have expected the pit trap. 

If she had been, she would’ve realized the litter before her was too dry to be normal. But she hadn’t, and when her sure foot landed on that abnormal stretch of leaves, it truly gave beneath her. Like the elk she had recently shot, she crumpled, falling for a while before she hit the ground with a snap, her load falling atop her with a thump and clatter. 

A scream bubbled up her throat, but she clenched her jaw shut with a groan. It wouldn’t do to attract predators when she was this ripe for the pickings. Breaths ragged, she sat herself up, pushing off the bundle from her legs. She hissed when she saw her ankle; black and blue and bloated, it was definitely broken. “Why are you such a goddamn fool, McCarthy?!” Balisse pressed her palms to her eyes, grinding them into the sockets until stars burst behind her lids. 

She could die here, and Lettie would be left to wonder if she had finally bolted.  

That thought was what dragged her from the ever-spiraling fears that had taken a hold of her in that moment, at the bottom of some pit trap in the middle of a darkening forest with a broken ankle and a long climb. Balisse had to get out, she refused to rot away in a grave she had fallen into. 

They came as she righted herself, putting pressure on the knot of needles and hellfire her ankle had turned into. She could only breathe shallowly through it, whimper in her throat like a dog with a mangled leg (she remembered, suddenly, one mutt that had always hung behind the Pink Pearl, skinny as a twig with as many bald patches as it had fur. It’s leg were so eaten up with disease and infection, it hardly looked like a leg. She had named him Patches and fed him the leftover chicken bones and bacon grease from the kitchens. It stopped coming around after a few months and she later found it’s corpse in the trash heaps near the Saint Denis bridge. She wondered if that would end up her fate as well if she couldn’t get out, rotting in some shallow grave, decomposing alongside fallen leaves.) 

“Lookie what little mouse found our trap, Travis!” Balisse snapped her head up, glaring at the faces she could barely see against the back drop of the dark sky. She could smell them though, like wet dog and unwashed skin, trash piles and age-old blood. She was about to reach for her varmint rifle when the click of a cocked gun caught her attention. “Nuh-uh-uh, not so fast lil’ missy. Move a muscle and I’ll blow your head off so goddam’ fast you won’t have no time to beg for mercy,” she didn’t move. 

She heard a voice on her left, the one that must be Travis, chuckle and shift closer to the rim of the pit, chunks of dirt and tree nettles tumbling onto her head. Her heartbeat picked up, an old fear sending her pulse to dance. She was outgunned and injured to boot; at the mercy of two deranged individuals that were no doubt apart of the infamous Murfree Brood. 

She had seen what they’d done to women. 

“Get on down there Travis, take her guns and make sure she ain’t got nothin’ to stick us with.” The figure named Travis edged towards the pit, lowering bare feet and long legs into it to drop down beside her. He had a revolver in hand and a cruel, insane quality to his eyes. Balisse didn’t like it- not one bit. 

She decided that if she were to die, she would want to go down fighting to her last breath. 

She waited for Travis to get near, lower the revolver as he laughed at her faux meek exterior. He grabbed her harsh around the arm, yanked her to him to paw at her stomach. She waited long enough to apologize to Lettie for her own stupidity, before she struck. 

Travis doubled over when her knee met his stomach, his breath rushing out of him with a retching sound. She grit her teeth, rushing to pull out her hunting knife as her other hand held tight to his bird thin shoulder. Travis recovered faster than she expected. His face was a snarl and he hauled back easily, Balisse stumbling on her broken ankle with a cry before his fist met her cheek. A burst of pain, taste of copper sharp on her tongue before her back met packed dirt. Travis was skinny as a rail but he made up for his size with inhuman ferocity, roaring as he slammed her repeatedly against the ground by the lapels of her coat. She was dazed, head thick with a pained haze. 

“Move you damn idiot so I can shoot the bitch!" 

"I got her, I’m gonna teach her a lesson myself.” Travis’ grin was mottled black and yellow, mean as a poked bear but cruel as a killer. His hands were tight as a steel vice around her throat and Balisse kicked, swallowing down what air she could. A gleam caught her eye: there, by the patched knee of Travis’ pants was her knife, sitting there pretty as a prayer waiting to be used. 

She stretched, choking as blood rushed to her head, and her fingers scrambled for the knife. The hilt was warm and comforting in her hand. 

Travis’ blood was warmer and slicked her palm as she rammed the knife into his throat. It caught bone, slid through muscle and vein and emerged from the other side. The Murfree had a comically surprised look on his face, slack as blood ran sluggish from the holes in his throat. He tilted and fell forward atop her. Balisse could barely recover the air he had squeezed from her before there was howling above, at the mouth of the pit. 

“How could you?! That was my brother! I’ll make you pay, whore!" 

Shots rung out in quick succession, each one finding their mark with wet squelches. Balisse huddled under the body above her, her shaking hands finding the rusted revolver near the dead man’s belt. The body jerked, back blown open by the rounds in his body. None made it through the muscle and tissue, but it wouldn’t be long before they did. 

The revolver held tacky to her bloodied palm, but she didnt shake when she pulled back the hammer. She waited for the break in the fire, when the crazed Brood would have to pause and reload. It came soon enough and she rolled from under the corpse to take aim. 

That feeling came to her like it always did, the control and the racing of her pulse. The sight was to her eye and finger over the trigger.  

She squeezed. 

  * +-*-+ *

She left the pelt behind when she finally crawled from the pit, her whole body aching worse than even the beltings back at the brothel had left her. It had taken a while to climb from the pit and a lot of painful struggling, by the time she had, the night was a black stretch across the sky, only the tiny glitter of millions of stars pressed into the expanse to light her way. Her horse was, surprisingly, still milling about the clearing she had left him in. He whinnied when she approached, eyes widening as he pawed at the ground. 

She hushed him, grabbing up his reigns and dragging herself into the saddle with a breathless groan. She was so, so tired- if it weren’t for Lettie waiting back in Annesburg, Balisse questioned whether she would’ve ever made it out of that hole in the ground. With only a nudge of her heels and jerk of her reigns, her Belgian was off, back onto the path to the mining town, back to Lettie. 

She faded in and out for most of the ride, the blackness at the edges of her vision made by exhaustion was only inspired further by the sharp throb of her ankle and glass in her throat. The rocking of her horse’s gait lulled the blackness closer and eventually, it settled like a veil across her eyes. She slumped against the strong neck of her steed. 

  * +-*-+ *

She didn’t awake until much later, the sun golden as it streamed through the window and suffused the dust motes with its bright light. She was very clearly not on her horse, and very clearly not in the woods, in that damned pit. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she sat up, wariness worn into her bones. It was a neat room, as neat as an Annesburg home could be; the quaint robin’s egg blue walls were streaked with the soot that covered the town like a curse, chipped at the corners. There was sparse furniture, what there was obviously second-hand, cracks on the doors of the armoire, chips in the spindly legs of the nightstand with worn rings on the top of it. 

She looked down at the blankets that covered her, they were scratchy and thin but looked clean enough. What unnerved her though, was her lack of protective layers; just clad in the thin men’s shirt and long johns that made up her underclothes. Her anxiety cooled some when she saw the wooden chair by the door, her clothes clean and folded on the top of it, gun belt wrapped up neat atop the bundle. She stood, gasping between clenched teeth at the sharp shock that tingled up her leg when she, foolishly, applied pressure to her ankle. It was splinted and wrapped, and a part of her not itching to make her escape wondered who she should thank for this treatment. 

She dressed as quickly as she could with a plum bruised back and injured ankle. As soon as her belt was buckled around her hips, the door creaked open a well dressed man with a shiny tin star on his breast strolling in. He stopped short when he saw Balisse, surprise shifting across his mustached face before he smiled. He had a dimple at the top of his left cheek. 

"Good to see you awake Miss McCarthy, Lettie was threatenin’ to shoot up the whole town if you didn’t,” he chuckled as if that wasn’t a viable cause for concern, hooking his thumbs into the belt on his hips. Balisse tried not to let her surprise show, or the fondness she could feel soften the constant downturn of her brows- she tried, but it was obvious she failed by the smug smile that grew on the lawman’s face. “Now, normally I’d have you stay a day or two longer, whoever accosted you did quite the number,” he paused, shifting his booted feet with an audible scuff and ring of spurs, “But I know how Lettie is, and since you ride with her, I can take a gander as to how you are, too.  I won’t keep you, your partner’s just out in the parlor." 

He held out his hand, that smile softening into something warmer, almost paternal as he stared down at Balisse. "Me and that girl out there go way back, so if y'all ever ride back in, know you always got a place with Marshall Doc Keaton.” Balisse clasped his palm, shaking firm as she smiled back, “We will. Thank you, Marshall.” He held tight even as she was ready to pull back, leaning in with a serious look in his gunmetal eyes, “Take care of that girl, a'right? She’s as wild as the west but loyal. I’ve seen how she is when it comes to you, she’d kill and die all in your name. Keep that in mind,” he patted her on the shoulder, mindful of the bruises that colored her back and turned and left Balisse to the silence. 

For some reason, those words hung in the sunlit air like a bad omen. 

______________________________________________________________

“We really gotta escort these fools? How much money are we missing out on if we leave ‘em to themselves?” Lettie snorted beside Balisse, swatting her playfully on her shoulder as she gave her a lazy side-look. The crown of her braids that gave way to her mane of curls was tucked into the collar of her coat, a halo of fluffed black and brown. Balisse had to catch herself from staring too long; in the company of these gruff hired guns, too longing of a look could bring unwanted comments. The younger woman didn’t want Lettie maiming anyone after only a few days into their escort job. “Play nice, Liz- you know how much money these stuffed-shirt folk are willing to give out for some slingin’ expertise,” Lettie’s words were serious but her smile was not, this job danced on her nerves just as much as it did Balisse’s. She sighed still, just for the theatrics she knew Lettie secretly found amusing, and spurred her horse on further, to eavesdrop on the men riding ahead. 

They had taken the job down in Rhodes (after paying off the bounty from that drunken incident,) to escort a wagon to Riggs Station. They weren’t briefed on what the wagon held, only that a few gangs through their path would try seizing it. It had to be valuable, depending on the number of hired firepower alone. Balisse wasn’t interested, but Lettie had been quick to accept it and, of course, the two were joined at the hip. 

They settled for camp in the Heartlands, near the crossroads to Flatneck Station. The campfire was surrounded by sour-faced mercs, cleaning guns and smoking together. Lettie stood a ways from them, brushing down her buckskin mare and pausing every other stroke to squint up at the sky. Balisse stood by the wagon, gun cradled in her hands as she kept first watch. She had to fight for the position, funnily enough, a few boys kicking up a fuss about a genteel young lady watching over them as they slept. 

A few nice threats helped shut their mouths, but it might make their sleep a little harder to come. It was worth the ugly looks, especially when Lettie smiled as wide as she had then. 

“You’re lookin’ as pinched face as them old men over there, what’s on your mind?” The woman that kept her thoughts spoke up behind Balisse, the sheep skin and fur-lined coat she wore tucked tight around her against the nip in the air. Balisse turned slightly, enough for her partner to see the soft, implied curve of a smile on her mouth. It fell quickly when a collective roar of laughter came from the campfire, dashed away like embers kicked up into the wind. It brought back to mind the damn job, and a statement told to her by a Marshall-Doctor a year ago. 

“I got a bad feeling ’s all, with how little we know bout our cargo. With the danger we could be facing,” Balisse pointedly emphasized the last sentence, even when Lettie shook her head almost exasperatedly from the corner of her eye. “It’s just a boring ol’ wagon job- not much trouble except from stubborn, stupid bandits. We’ve faced worse by ourselves, but now we got more men in on the job,” Lettie grimaced slightly at that, no doubt thinking about the cut profits, “This’ll be a breeze, Liz.” Lettie moved closer, but not too much- not with the group of men just a stone’s throw away, she didn’t rest her hand against the small of Balisse’s back, press herself along her side and rib her about that worrisome mind of hers. Not like she wanted to. 

Balisse sighed, shoulders slumping just-so. She shrugged, “I suppose…” She turned to Lettie, held her gaze for far longer than appropriate with a look too fond (almost loving, if the word weren’t so corrupted in the mouth of this woman,) to be just friendly. “But, if things do go sideways and I can’t be saved-” Lettie shook her head, scowl etched deep on her face with a furious glint that sparked in her black eyes. Balisse stopped her, setting aside her repeater and dragging her closer to the wagon so as to keep away from wandering eyes. “Listen to me, please. For once, listen to me,” Lettie kept her mouth shut, pressed tight as her brows were knitted. Balisse could tell she was practically vibrating with anger as she shrugged off her hand from her arm. She continued, 

“If the time comes, I want you to run. That’s all I want Lettie." 

It was silent, the tension between them tight as a taut bowstring. Until Lettie sighed, the air halting as it passed her lips. Balisse had hope that Lettie understood, that she would comprehend and obey that one wish, until she turned those dark eyes back onto her and Balisse saw that ember of anger, of refusal buried deep in the dark. "How dare you ask that of me, Balisse McCarthy, how dare you. I have always listened to you. Always."  She paused, letting the burn of her glare smolder enough to make Balisse’s skin prickle. “But I won’t when it comes to this." 

   * +-*-+ *

That night, the women slept apart, something ripped raw between them. In the morning, they rode side by side in silence. Balisse felt… torn; she didn’t feel the need to apologize, not for a wish like that, she couldn’t regret asking. But neither did she enjoy the intense quiet between them, not when that bad feeling lingered and anything could happen on this shady of a job. She didn’t want to face her possible death with a rift between her and the woman she-… with her closest companion. 

They reached Bard’s Crossing, the bridge looming high above them and casting long shadows across their entourage. That’s when Balisse approached her. Lettie was at the back of the wagon, riding as rearguard and she rose a brow when she saw her partner approaching, slowing her horse’s gait enough to let Balisse settle beside her. They rode like that for a while, quiet as they approached the Dakota Crossing until Balisse coughed. "I know what you’re gonna say, and it’s alright,” Lettie smiled, not that lethal, wild one but the one she saved for the soft sweetness of their time together. The one she gave her on the road out of Saint Denis, when she was 18 and Balisse was 17, when freedom was new and theirs to explore. 

“I’d expect the same from you, this ain’t just some special condition that applies to just me, McCarthy.” Balisse smiled, “Whatever you say, Miss Davis, whatever you say.” It was as close to an agreement as Lettie would get and she knew it. 

“I mean it, Liz. I want a promise- promise me you wont try and save me if there ain’t no savin’ to be done.” Balisse sighed, their horses reaching the river bank and beginning the wade through the shallow water, the wagon was already halfway across, the point guard on the other side of the bank. 

“I pro-" 

”Up ahead! Watch up ahea-!“ The shots rung down upon them, as hot and bright as hellfire. 

And to Balisse, it surely had to be Hell that they happened upon that day. 

______________________________________________________________

Gunsmoke and sweat stung at her eyes but her aim was true even still. She lost count of how many bandits she had put down; all she knew was that the sand was now tinted red and bodies drained into the coloring river water.  The wagon had stopped moving, the horse shot from their harnesses; the point guard had all been gunned down or scattered into the chaos. It was a mess of lathering horses and ricocheting bullets, screaming cowpokes and hollering outlaws. 

Balisse didn’t care about the pack of bandits trying to pry at the reinforced wagon door, she just knew that she had to find a buckskin mare and the woman that rode it. She fired into the twisted face of a pockmarked scavenger, blowing wide his cheek and knocking his head to the side. Her ears strained for the sound of Lettie’s howls. 

She found them. 

Wheeling her workhorse about, she carved a path back, through the thick of their ambushers. There, buried beneath the screaming body of her horse, was Lettie and a bandit poised like a vulture over her proudly raised head. He raised his gun. Balisse spurred her horse on. The hammer cocked back. Lettie grit her teeth and snarled. A man jumped in front of Balisse’s roan, leveling a shotgun to her stomach, she twisted the reins around her hands but it was too late. 

She saw Lettie’s eyes as her horse stumbled beneath her; they were wide and black, as expansive as the night sky. There were stars that sparkled in the depths, welled up to catch on the thick drape of her lashes. The tears fell and Balisse heard herself scream. 

Two gunshots rang out. 

It was a blur of pain and impact, the shotgun was close and strong enough to blow her from her saddle, flaying open and mulching the skin beneath her layers. She was knocked windless once, a second time as she hit the muddied waters. 

She gasped wetly, tasted flecks of blood at the back of her throat. She moaned, warmth and itchiness harsh in her eyes. She sobbed, clasped her chest, clasped the buckshot riddled wound in her side. It was like a physical equivalent to the buckshot that tore through the tissue of her heart. The bitterness that fell from her eyes, ran rivers deep down her cheeks to mingle with the reddening waters beneath her body. 

She watched the sky, turned her head to feel cool river sing into her ear and lick into her mouth. It tasted like copper, like iron and life. Like how Lettie kissed her with a split lip. She knew it was her own blood; she was probably dying. 

 She blinked, one eye close to the lapping crimson of the disturbed waters; like this, the setting sun looked more red than the old sins that stained the cracks of her hands. 

Balisse watched the rusted-sin sky melt behind the mountains and cast it’s red shadow into the scattered clouds above. It looked like the spray of her first kill, it looked like Lettie’s one dress. 

 She watched, until she couldn’t anymore. 

She should’ve told her… 

She should’ve… 

 (I love you, too) 

[saphscribes]

The Moon’s Best Friend [Something by The Rembrandts, Part I]

“What did Nyx do now?”

“I did absolutely nothing but bring good tidings, and present the opportunity for you to watch Crowe Altius turn into the most useless lesbian you’ve ever seen.”

In which Lunafreya returns from traveling abroad and sets in motion a healthy rivalry between baristas, a serious negotiation over coffee and pastries, and questionable professional relationships regarding ASMR recordings.

Rating: PG-13 (for language and mild sexual themes); future parts may have higher ratings, but this should be good for now

Originally written for the Day 5 Modern AU Prompt over at @glaiveweek! Enjoy, and give this baby a reblog if you enjoyed it!

Tagging:  @wolfgoddess77 @vashiane @sailorprompto  @sedge-butt @marianne-dash-wood @me-yasato @alecair @toranyx @goodmorningawfulbye @paopusunshine @noxhighwind @sailormars109 @bleucommelhiver @elloquench @ultimoogle @kidolegend @rhysspeaces @theyearofdiamonddogs @ghostl0rd

There were three reasons, and only three reasons, why Crowe Altius would be cranky during opening:

1) It was a Wednesday, 2) She was still mildly hungover, or 3) Nyx had his eyes on someone, again.

Today was two of those things.

Okay, to be fair, what kind of a name was “hump day” for Wednesdays, anyway? It had to be, like, the single most unattractive day, and here it was, touting its nickname every week like it really fuckin deserved it. Why not, you know, Saturday? It even sounded attractive. S for Saturday, S for sexy. God damn, she was a genius sometimes. The world would miss her intellect when she was gone.

And what business did Nyx have practically dancing around The Hearth before he’d even laid eyes on anyone else? Anyone else besides her, of course, because all she was apparently good for was a ruffle of long, messy hair and a chirrup of “Mornin, Little Bird.” But come on. The guy was standing on tiptoe to place cups of yogurt and mixed fruit in the refrigerated display case. He didn’t even have to stand on tiptoe; he only ever did it to make fun of the places she couldn’t quite reach. It was like every motion of his was hard to control.

(Not that that was saying much. Nyx was always hard to control, once something grabbed him by his weird hair and ran away with him.)

“All right,” she finally said, with a defeated sigh; she was halfway through writing the baked goods lineup in a careful script. (It had to be careful, or else it’d turn into the chicken scratch that just barely helped her pass her exams.) “Spill, Nyx.”

“Pretty sure that’s not on the opening checklist.” Nyx was all stupid, dreamy grins as he smoothed out his apron, a navy blue color with a shade that they were all lucky enough to pull off. Crowe wouldn’t have been surprised if that was some secret part of the hiring process here. Or maybe it was a job restricted to hopeless cases. Drautos was always touting the word “potential” like it was meant to be plastered across the bumper of his car.

“You know what I mean,” Crowe said with a roll of her eyes. “What’s got you all… you know, this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Um, yeah.” She gave him her trademark are-you-fucking-kidding-me look over the low, hazy buzz of the playlist she’d flipped on to get her through the shift—she’d have to thank her past self for that. Treat herself to one of the more expensive drinks or something. “That’s kind of why I asked.”

If it was even possible, Nyx’s smile grew. “Our lady’s back in town.”

The chalk tumbled from Crowe’s poised fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter; she barely registered how tightly she was gripping the edge of the counter, how wide her eyes had gone. “Shut the fuck up.”

“If I had a nickel for every time I heard you say that…” That was Pelna unlocking the door and slipping into the shop now, halfway out of his scarf and making a beeline to hang up his coat. Two years of friendship—barely counting how long they’d actually known each other—and Crowe still hadn’t quite put together how he managed to have a casual cheer about him every morning. “What did Nyx do now?”

“I did absolutely nothing but bring good tidings, and present the opportunity for you”—Nyx paused his work to jab a finger at Pelna, who was pulling his apron over his head—“to watch Crowe Altius turn into the most useless lesbian you’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not useless…” Crowe muttered. “And I’m bi, thank you.”

For a few seconds Pelna didn’t move; it was only as he began to brew the coffee that he said, flatly, “I don’t think I even want to know what you’re talking about.” That was Pelna for you: mostly silent and focused on his work, with a few wisecracks up polo shirts or ribbed sweater sleeves.

Crowe, for her part, let out an exasperated sigh and returned to her script, embellishing the chalkboard with a few designs. She was never particularly good at it—as much as it begrudged her to say it, this was more of Luche’s thing (if he ever took a damn opening shift for once)—but she made it work.

That was The Hearth for you. Four walls and a tiled backsplash of making it work.

She liked to think they all fit sort of nicely here. Even Luche, for all his insistence on 12 to 7 shifts.

“C’mon, Pel.” Nyx was rounding the counter to examine the opening checklist, throwing an arm around Pelna’s shoulders and pointing outside, like they had more than ten minutes before the first customers arrived. “You can’t tell me you aren’t about to get all gooey when you see Lunafreya Nox Fleuret walk through those doors.”

“Sure I can,” Pelna said simply, unmoving in Nyx’s grip. “I’ve never met her.”

Nyx’s mouth fell open. Crowe didn’t see why it was so surprising; Pelna had only started working here about a year ago. Just after Lunafreya had gone back to England—to find a little more of herself, she said, but Crowe had always had the feeling that she didn’t want to let on that she was homesick in the whirlwind of her job, or ever could be. But that didn’t mean that Pelna wouldn’t fall like the rest of them. An impressionable, well-meaning guy like him? He’d be hopelessly wrapped around her every whim in seconds. Crowe was sure of it.

“You’ll meet her soon enough,” Nyx was saying. “And then you’ll memorize her order like the rest of us. And, you know. Never be able to take it, because you’re too lost in her gorgeous eyes…”

“Or the color of her scrubs,” Crowe added, throwing a towel over her shoulder. “You know they call her the Angel of the Pediatric Ward at the hospital? That’s how good she is.”

“And don’t forget her accent.”

“God, her accent—”

Okay, so maybe the two of them were leaning more than a little hopelessly against various pieces of equipment. Just a little. But Nyx was worse than she was; she practically swore by it. At least she could say hello to Lunafreya. Nyx could barely get through one sentence without stuttering or making an ass of himself with some pickup line he read in some abandoned paperback he’d picked up from a subway bench. Crowe knew Lunafreya was only laughing at the lines out of pity. There was no way they actually worked on her, for all of Nyx’s proud strutting behind the espresso machines once she’d left with her usual order.

Crowe was more than sure she’d have an arm and a leg up on him and everyone else in this damn shop when Lunafreya Nox Fleuret walked through that door today.

…If she walked through that door today.

———

“All right.” Pelna was leaning against the counter between surges of mid-morning customers, arms folded and eyebrow raised, a challenging glint in his eyes. “What’s this ‘Lunafreya’s’ order, then?” God, Nyx and Crowe were all about this mystery woman ever since opening. Like they were expecting some holy being to brighten their doorway, hand them a few blessed bucks, and be on her merry way. And sure, some might categorize him as some kind of disaster, but they seemed so convinced that it was only a matter of time before he went tumbling down with them. At least he wasn’t frantically looking at the clock every time he filled an order.

...He wasn’t that bad when he saw someone cute, was he?

Nyx responded first. “Medium green tea with spearmint, two sugars.”

“Unless she’s not feeling well,” Crowe chimed in. “Then she treats herself a little. Small white chocolate mocha, one pump of raspberry. And a slice of cranberry cake.”

“And how do you know when she’s not feeling well?” Pelna asked.

“You know.” Nyx dried his hands on the front of his apron, seemingly not caring about the dark splotches left in their wake. “She tries to do a good job of hiding it—because, you know, that’s how she is—but you know Lunafreya long enough, you see it in every little way she carries herself.”

Because that wasn’t creepy at all.

Pelna sighed and rolled his eyes. As grateful as he was that Crowe had gotten him this job, and as much as he cherished his coworkers like family, they sure as hell got on his nerves sometimes. (Maybe that was part of the whole family deal. Maybe he’d just played himself all along. He’d have to get his own congratulations in order.) “How do you even know she’ll come in today? You said her flight came in, what, two days ago? You ever consider that she’s probably unpacking? Or sleeping off jet lag?”

“It’s a five-hour difference,” Crowe said, as if that was supposed to prove her point entirely, and nudged him toward the till again to greet another customer. “And she’s incredibly efficient. It’s practically her middle name.”

“I thought Nox was her middle name.”

“That’s her last name,” said Nyx with a sigh as he cleaned off a steamer. “Nox Fleuret Honestly, Pel, keep up.”

“Jesus. Sorry I’m getting a crash course in my coworker’s courting competition.” Pelna wrinkled his nose. He’d have to be more careful with his words; alliteration sounded so tacky sometimes. Or maybe that was some distant lecture from Luche coming to the forefront of his mind. All this time being a barista, and you would have thought Luche Lazarus would let go of the whole I was a French Lit major in college vibe basically whenever he existed.

That was assuming, of course, that Luche Lazarus let go of anything that wasn’t a stranger in his bed.

Pelna couldn’t help but wonder what kind of horse he had in this game.

“All I’m saying,” he went on in between scribbling names on nondenominational winter cups and sliding them across the bar, “is not to get your hopes up. Travel takes a lot out of you. She’s probably getting used to being here again, if she’s been gone as long as you say she has.”

“What d’you think she was doing there for a whole year?” Crowe mused. “It’s not like her to just… up and leave her commitments behind. You think something happened to her brother?”

“First of all, you really think that’s our business?” Nyx shot back. “And second of all, yes.”

Pelna was starting to get the feeling he could turn this into a game. Try to parse out the things Nyx and Crowe learned directly from Lunafreya, and the things they’d put together from poking around her social media accounts—if she even had them to begin with. But if his own grandmother had had one before, there was no reason some busy nursing student didn’t. At least for networking purposes. From what the others were saying about her, she had to be able to do that much.

“And anyway,” Nyx was saying, giving Pelna a nudge he wasn’t expecting, which threw him just a bit off balance, “If she’s back, I can guarantee that within forty-eight hours, she’ll have visited Insomnia. Which means there’s no reason she wouldn’t stop by The Hearth.”

“So what you’re telling me is”—Pelna stopped to wipe down a spill, to hand off a latte with a typical toothy grin—“Lunafreya Nox Fleuret is going to visit the bakery one block over, and then miraculously have the appetite to visit a cafe right after.”

“It’s less about the pastries and more about the people, y’know,” Crowe explained. “Obviously she’s got to make her rounds and greet everyone she knows. That’s practically in her blood, too.”

“You know, you can just say outright that she has connections to Reggie What’s-His-Face without putting her on a pedestal.”

“And you could actually remember to respect that Regis Lucis Caelum is the reason any of us has a job at all.”

Oh, Pelna remembered. He just couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard a name as ridiculous as Regis Lucis Caelum. His son barely counted—a scrawny college-aged kid named Noctis who came every day for a week straight, twice a semester, ordered a dirty whatever-goes-well-with-espresso, and claimed he was ready to fight God when asked how many shots he wanted. A year into this job, and he still had no idea what Noctis Lucis Caelum’s major was, or anything beyond the fact that he barely wanted anything to do with Insomnia.

Crowe sure got touchy about these job things when it came down to it.

Before any of them could speak up again, the bell above the shop door signaled an entrance, and both Nyx’s and Crowe’s faces went deathly pale, then furiously red, almost at the same time. Near-instantly, they turned to busy themselves with the closest thing to them—an espresso machine that needed cleaning, a restocking of the display case. If not for the click of high heel against tile, Pelna might have thought that Drautos was making his entrance for the day—if it had been Luche, he would have made himself known. It was like he was legally obligated to, whenever he came in for his shifts.

“Good fucking luck,” Crowe hissed as she all but shoved him to the register, flashed a sunny smile outward, and went right back to tidying up the counter, and Pelna found himself face-to-face with the calmest, saddest blue eyes he’d ever seen, complemented by a too-polite smile.

Oh.

Oh, God.

This was Lunafreya Nox Fleuret.

To be fair, she certainly was pretty; her cheeks were flushed from the cold weather, golden hair tied in a high ponytail and accented by a couple of braids that, on first sight, Pelna almost mistook for a headband. And she wore a fashionable winter coat—grey, and probably wool—that looked more like a dress than an actual coat. He couldn’t help but feel soothed as she stood there, wallet in hand.

But Pelna tossed a glance at the others, gave her his signature smile with a cup in one hand and a marker in the other, and asked, “What can I get for you, miss?”

He could practically hear their mouths fall open, and rewarded himself a little victory glance out the doors.

Which was, of course, his biggest mistake. Because there, tied to the lamppost just outside, were two dogs, settled side-by-side, somewhere between sitting and standing as they attempted to peer into the cafe. As if waiting for someone. As if waiting for her. Longing for her.

God, why did he have to be so weak for dogs? No, better question—why did dogs have to be so good and pure practically all the time? Did they know how good they were? Did he know how much he loved them? All of them? Did they know—

Lunafreya cleared her throat then, soft but pointed, and Pelna snapped back to attention with a sheepish blush, still holding the cup. “Sorry ‘bout that, I, uh…” Vaguely, he pointed out the door, almost ashamed of himself for having been distracted so long. “Do you mind repeating your order for me?”

She smiled again—just as polite as the first time—and she spoke quietly, with an English accent. “A small white chocolate mocha, please. With one pump of raspberry syrup. And…” She leaned to the side to peer at the pastry case, quirking her lips. “Have you got any more cranberry cake?”

Pelna had to bite back the urge to ask if everything was all right. Far be it from him to tumble into that rabbit hole. “Yeah—yeah, we do,” he said, and rang her up without a hitch, scrawling her name on the side of her cup. L-U-N-A-F-R-E-Y-A.

Maybe a little more elegant than Reggie What’s-His-Face.

Lunafreya was still smiling, still hiding something in her eyes, when he handed her the order. “Are you fond of dogs?” she asked, casting a glance outside.

“I love them,” Pelna said almost immediately, feeling almost grateful that there was no one behind her in line, and that he could safely go on his break. “Almost broke my ankle running to pet one once… I guess I’m making up for the fact that my landlord doesn’t allow pets.”

“They’re mine, you know,” she mentioned between sips of coffee, and for a fraction of a second, in the moments that Pelna was mixing himself an iced tea, it almost felt like his life was falling together in the best of ways. “Would you like to say hello before we continue our walk?”

Pelna glanced between his drink, Lunafreya’s eyes, and his coworkers’ slack-jawed expressions in a matter of seconds, and offered her another smile. “You know? I’d really like that, yeah.”

Before they exited the shop, Lunafreya made a point to greet Nyx and Crowe, her fingers reaching up to delicately touch the pin in her hair, and Pelna could have sworn he saw Crowe’s soul leave her body for approximately three seconds.

———

“I’m borrowing him,” Nyx declared in the back room at the end of their shift.

“You can’t borrow him,” Crowe protested, free of her apron and halfway into her trusty leather jacket. Nyx remembered she’d had the damn thing ever since she settled up on his couch with the remains of her first ever paycheck. How long ago had that been again? “He’s my best friend! I took him under my wing!”

“Fourteen years together, and you have the gall to have a best friend who isn’t me or Libs.” Nyx clutched his chest in mock offense, then drew himself to half-height against a nearby shelf. “And really? You took him under your wing. Is that what you call what happened in the walk-in fridge?”

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Crowe whip her head around and grab him by the front of his shirt so fast. Maybe street smarts did that to a person. “That was one. Fucking. Time,” she said through clenched teeth, in a voice that intimidated even him. “And it was two years ago. Let it go, Nyx.”

He wasn’t exactly stunned into silence as she shrugged on the rest of her jacket, but there was something pointed about the way neither of them spoke.

“Anyway,” she said, fluffing out her hair over a slightly-worn infinity scarf, “you can’t have him. Get your own wingman. I’m sure Libertus still owes you a few favors.”

“C’mon, Little Bird. You really think I keep tabs on what we owe each other?”

“He does.”

“He would.” Nyx rolled his eyes. Fourteen years of this bullshit. “You realize this is hardly fair. You’ve got someone who’s practically immune to her, and for all we know, he could turn us on our heads and become Rival Number Two. He got her number today, for Christ’s sake.”

“He got her number to walk her dogs, genius, not to take her on a date.” Crowe folded her arms, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned against the doorway, like he was the only thing between her and freedom. (To be fair, he probably was. Not that he cared in the moment. He was a man on a mission, and she knew how he got.) “You’re overthinking this.”

Nyx grinned, scratching at the stubble along his jaw and finally making a grab for his coat. “You mean the way you were overthinking how she touched her hairpin today?”

Crowe’s eyes narrowed, but only for a moment, before a self-assured little smile crossed her face. “First of all, it was a graduation gift, and secondly, you’re missing the entire point. I can give him something in return.”

“What’s that?” Nyx asked. “Another tryst? A heart-to-heart over a pint of ice cream?”

Crowe’s smile grew almost deviously, and she turned on her heel. “Pelna likes a girl.”

[ursulaismymiddlename]

My new uniform makes me look/feel like someone right out of the 1940's and now all I can imagine is Bucky coming into the restaurant everyday at the same time and flirting with the shy (and rather cute in his opinion) waitress but never ordering anything and she gets really annoyed but flustered and all the older women there are encouraging it as well as betting on when she'll crack, a little teasing on their part is involved as well ;)

Okay, I only have one minor adjustment to make to this beautiful beautiful headcanon, and it’s that no one, no one, especially in the 40s, would’ve let him stay sitting there for very long without ordering something.

And thus is born Bucky Barnes’ love for shitty, thick as tar, black sludge masquerading as coffee.

Just about everyday, or at least every shift you worked, like clockwork, there strode in probably one of the single most handsome men she’d ever seen in her entire life - and she were counting the films she’d seen at the cinema, because holy cannoli was he beautiful.  And he’d park himself in her section, whether at the counter or a table or a booth, slap down a nickel and a smile so bright she thought sure she’d tan inside the diner, and ask for a cup of coffee.

And that’s it. A nickel cup of coffee with free refills.

Nobody drank the coffee at this place.  Nobody but overnight truckers and drunks and this handsome fella with more looks than good horse sense apparently because the coffee was three-cents pricier down the block, but ten times as good.

But that’s what he got, every damn time.  And because it came with refills, she always stopped by his seat on her rounds to check on the contents.  Busy days, he didn’t stay too long; she got the impression maybe he worried about being a nuisance.  But slow days, he would linger for a good long while. Oh he was nice enough, not forward or grabby like some guys could get, but flirty enough to make her blush.  He’d chat a little, about the weather or the ball game or something that made the news.  Charming and pleasant, though she found herself getting a little self-conscious now and then as she helped other customers, like she could feel him keeping his eyes on her.  Now, normally, that might’ve made her skin crawl, but something about him doing that only made her flush a little.  A couple of times, she even caught him looking and he just smiled sheepishly and went back to his coffee.

He’d chat up the older gals, too. And they positively adored him.  Especially the few times he brought in his blond buddy.  Kid was skinny as a rail, but had a face just as handsome and she wondered if there might’ve been something in the water where those two grew up.  The blond guy, Steve apparently, and the brunet, whom she eventually learned was named Bucky of all things, would sit across from each other in a booth, still in her section.  Steve couldn’t have any coffee on account of a heart condition, and really that was probably for the best in this case, but Bucky still ordered a cup.  Sadly, there was an order mix-up that afternoon and the kitchen found itself with an extra tuna melt, which somehow ended up on the table between in front of the blond as he sketched in his little notebook.  And if she thought he was surprised and delighted, the look on Bucky’s face could’ve knocked her right over.

Of course, after that the old gals would rib her on the regular. “Oh, here comes your boyfriend, sweetie!”  “That handsome fella is gaga over you!”  One time, Helena even slapped her hip and smirked “Put a little more wiggle in that walk and you’ll have him drooling right into his coffee cup.”  It only made her blush at first, but with enough teasing and enough of him smiling at her with that devilishly handsome grin of his, she eventually had enough.

It took her three rounds of her section to screw up the courage to say something to him.  She wasn’t real used to talking to customers in anything but a pleasant, professional tone, and talking to people personally was never her strong suit anyway.  Still, she found herself just having to know what was going on with this guy.  So, when she noticed his coffee cup nearing empty, she walked over with the pot in hand and started to pour, unable to meet his eyes.

“I gotta ask ya, buddy,” she smiled slightly.  “Why the hell do you keep comin in here?  The coffee just ain’t that good.”

He snorted out a laugh, hiding it behind the back of his hand like he knew it wasn’t polite.  “You’re right, honey.  It really ain’t.”

“Then why,” she plied, straightening back up to watch that sly grin spread across his face.  And for the first time, as he leaned his elbows on the table and leaned in toward her, she realized exactly what it had meant this whole time.

“Ya ever think, maybe I been comin in here just ta get a gander at you, darlin,” he chuckled.

She gaped at him a moment.  “I… well…”

“Damn, you are so cute.”  His chuckled became a full on laugh, lighting up his already beautiful eyes.  “And sweet, too.  S’why I never need any sugar for my cuppa tar.”

“But the coffee,” she managed to squeak out, which only made him laugh again.

“It’s the cheapest thing on the menu, and I been savin up,” he beamed.

“For… for what,” she shook her head, confused.

At this, he got a little sheepish again, and the red that brightened his cheeks still somehow managed to seem handsome.  “Well, I was thinkin’a askin ya out, but I wanted to make sure I could take ya someplace real nice before I even asked… except…”

The look of disappointment and sadness on his face only served to deepen her confusion.  “Except what?”

“My number came up, sweetheart,” he shrugged, but tried to look light-hearted again.  “And I didn’t wanna take ya out only to have to disappear on ya later.”

She stared at him for a moment, knowing exactly what he meant and what it meant for him.  Leaning down again, she pressed her hand over his and gave it a gentle squeeze until his eyes met hers and she smiled.  “Take me out anywhere you like, just so long as it has better coffee.”

And the grin he gave her was brighter than the noonday sun.

Fast forward several decades and quite a few wars and police actions, and Bucky’s sitting at the kitchen counter one morning with a steaming cup of motor oil pretending it’s coffee as Sam scrunches his nose.

“I know the future is bright and scary,” Wilson frowns, sipping from his own cup, from an entirely different coffee machine that he insisted upon whenever he realized just how terrible Bucky’s taste is.  “But we have much better coffee nowadays.  You ever considered switching from that swill to something halfway decent?”

Bucky gives him a hard look across the counter, raising an eyebrow and his cup.  “Yeah, I considered it.”

And he leaves it at that, though Sam can see the wistful way the corners of his mouth turn up as the smell hits his nose before he takes a sip from the mug.  Wilson may not know everything, but he knows a fond memory playing out in the hard lines of a soldier’s face, no matter how old and world-weary they are.  He never says another thing about it.

[awakeningofthedeath]

Awakening of the Death-Chapter #5

The constellations are so different here. I never seen so many...but theres more starts here then in London. Too bad though that they will fade soon. I never realized that the city is really growing. Will my sanity be like these stars? How much longer can I hold on to my sanity until nothing but blackness clouded my mind.

Jack stared up into the constellations from the rooftops, his mind seemed to be still with only a single moral thought screaming in his mind. 

I could of killed Hellen. 

True, he killed before, but mostly templars and never seemed to of moved him. Yet when he is in his darkest thoughts and his memories come upon him like a tiger upon a deer.  He still had horrors of when he seriously injured Jacob five  years before in India. Yet this time, he had nothing to strike at to release his tension and strength. He just ran through the streets and all of central park and finally, to the place where he and Hellen stay. He couldn’t bear to bring himself inside. So he sat on the roof, watching the twilight fall and seeing the night in it’s radiance. He heard the sound of light footsteps, He turned on his knees, hidden blade out, heart pumping.

“Whoah! Easy there thunderhead!” Hellen raised her hans in surrender. Jack sighed in relief. He shelved back his blade and resumed sitting down without saying a word. Hellen walked towards the man. “I figured you’d be here. Assassin’s intuition, or just instinct to be up here. Seeing from on top of the world.” When Jack didn’t say, nor as given a tinker’s curse to even look at her; Hellen sat right next to him, looking up into the sky. “Beautiful night, eh Jack. Bet a nickel you don't see any in this mass in London.”

Again he never replied.

Hellen was beginning to lose patience. She took a breath. “We...well you won about a hundred and twenty dollars today. I’d never even knew you'd be worth as much as a racing horse in bets.” Jack’s eyes seemed to darken from what Hellen saw. “Okay...obviously you’d hate praises. Okay. But..we have enough to last us a long time if we get...”

“How could you be like this?” Jack snapped. The suddenness of the mood caught Hellen of guard.

“What the hell are you talking about Jack?”

“i could of snapped your neck right off your shoulders and you’d be jolly as if that fight was from a holiday. Damn it! I could of killed you Hellen!” Jack’s hands shook. “I’m not sure if I’m worthy of your...”

“Stop Jack!” Hellen placed a hand on his trembling shoulder. “Trying to prolong an apology will only make the wheel deeper in the mud. I’d forgiven you if I could see the purpose of that punch. But hell that was what I called a punch. Haven been hit that hard since Old man Bowmen’s mule kicked me square in the ribs. My point is. I have a thick skull, and it will take a man with the strength of a thousand Hercules’s to break this thick skull.” She tapped the top of her auburn head.

Jack resumed looking outward, eyes distant, as if in another moment, another place. One which Hellen was determined to understand for Jack’s sake.

“Hhmmm... I can tell by your expression that you are missing someone. Perhaps your parents? Your sibling? Friends... Or... Um...a girlfriend?" The last question sounds more little bit down tone. Hellen then realized that he already expressed that he didn’t have a girlfriend. But each question that she asked, Jack never responded.

Jack still staring and not moving a mussel, looking into the city that never sleeps and into the night sky. Hellen exhaled she scotched closer to him. "I m sorry, I didn't ask about yourself, Jack... Did you... Had a family?"

Jack turn his face a little bit. "I only had my mother... When I was six years old... she was murdered by my own mentor..." 

Hellen gave a small gasp. Sir Jacob Frye? " How that happen...?" Hellen try to make herself as comfortable as she can, preparing for listen Jack’s story. Time for a come to Jesus moment pa. I hope he’s really as open as I hope. 

"It's all because of that day. The day when I was a young boy, useless, I did nothing! But only witnesses for my mother's death." Hellen touch her mouth with her tips of her fingers. "But when that happen, there was only one man, who could of prevented it from happening. But he didn't do it! He choose to runaway! And let my mom's die, dying on the street! She stared at me, ordered me to run. I can still see her eyes, her blue eyes looking at me. Terrifying, holding her pain from death, her pale face... looking at me... begged me to run..." Jack voice started to tremble, Hellen could see in the waters of Jack’s eyes shimmering in the blue orals.  

He closed them, placed his head on his knees, and exhaled a shaky breath. He was exposing his vonerabilaty to this stranger.

Not a stranger!

Ally!

Jack inhale then exhale. He lifted his head and continued "And that man who's running from my mother was my mentor... Jacob Frye..." His eyes turn to darken, very evil looking, like there's a demon hiding there and prepare to awaken. 

Hellen saw this Jack turned to be someone else. Something dark. But she keep steady and trying to relax. 

“A injured maverick (wild horse) only needs trust and a soft hand before the healing begins”

The quote from Hellen’s father danced through her mind. Hope your right pa. Hellen thought.

"So... What happen to you then... And Jacob Frye?"She asked calmly

Jack clenched his fist. Trembling. "The Templars arrest me and throw me at the madhouse, Lambeth Asylum." 

Her eyes widened. She heard stories of neglect and experiments through those hospitals "Oh my God..."

"I spent more about ten years inside there. I have some... torturing, injection, overdose..." Jack stop talking. He gulped, braced himself from the anger. "Every minutes, every second I prayed to God that I will get revenged for all of this to Jacob Frye."Jack shut his mouth and back to stare at night sky. His face was little bit more reddish. He just realize it was the first time he told everything about his hellish childhood to someone he barely knows. But hell, the words all out now.

Hellen stared at him, she felt pity and sadness for this man. I'd she can do anything to makes him happy right this. Right now, she knew she’d had to do it. "That was incredibly sad, Jack. I wish, I can do more for you to be happy..." She look at Jack’s face and placed her bruised hand upon his own bloody hand. Jack stared at her too. They're​ faces blushed and they realized in the privacy of their own individual thoughts that some stupid things are developing inside their hearts.

Hellen quickly withdrew her hand, rubbing it as if to check on the injury that was never really present."Uh oh... Sorry... I mean... I had a rough past too. Jack.” 

Jack scoffed. That made Hellen’s brow wrinkle, but she kept going. “Your not My pa was killed by a pack of Templars. I was fifteen years old. Ten years ago to be exact. Or was it eleven? Hell what does it matter...”

“IT DOES MATTER!” Jack cried out. “To lose a parent, is a great loss. I watched my mother die!”

“I had to listen! Jack! He told me to hide, and I obeyed...I had to listen to him die! That is worse then watching!” Hot tears threatened to escape, yet she pinched a nerve in her hand to get her mind off the tears.

Jack took a breath. “Please. Tell me. Tell me about...that day.” He turned and devoted attention to Hellen. Jack positioned himself in order to be more relaxed, and he started to listen. She rubbed her eyes and took a breath.

“It was like any other day. Though days prior, my pa and my godfather, Collin Anderson, we’re in a serious discussion in regards of a man who came and asked my pa questions about his bloodline. And by bloodline, I’m not talking about racehorse type you know.” Hellen chuckled at the observant of the joke. “Right. A day before, my pa gave me...an object to keep in my pocket. He told me to never leave it out of my trousers nor out of my sight. The next day...”

Hellen looked down to blink the tears away. Jack couldn’t say anything at that point. Not when this girl is prepared to unearthed her soul to him.

“He hid me under the hollow floor boards of the homestead, back home in Missouri. We always had a hidden area for leftover tobacco bushels. We were tobacco farmers and well as horse brokers.”

“Horse brokers?” Jack asked.

“We trained horses. That was what my pa did best. And a headshot with on top of one, even before the war.”

“He served?” Jack asked yet another simple question.

Hellen nodded. “Commander of the Union Calvery region. Veteran of both the border and the civil part of the forsaken war. Yet, he was an assassin before, during, and after the war. He’d never told me he was one, nor of a war still going on to this day. I found out after he died. I wished he'd told me sooner, then I could of...” Hellen took a shaky breath that transfigured into a chuckle. “Sorry...I get side tracked when I...”

“Please continue Hellen.” Jack insisted.

Hellen turned to look at the horizons of New York. “Before I hid underneath, he’d told me to keep silent and wait to the outcome of whats to come. He told me if things went south. That means wrong to you Brits. I would wait for the clearance and run for the town of Liberty, where Collin Anderson lived. He was the Omega of the Kansas/Missouri border.”

“Omega?”

“It’s complicated, I’ll explain later. ”  She waved a hand in the air. “He kissed my cheek, embraced me, and said “I love you Hellen. You’ll always be my honeysuckle. Be strong and be tough as a maverick.” I told him I loved him as he closed the trap door that was under the table in the parlor room. It was quiet for a few minutes, then the hard pounding of the door came. There was a crash. There seemed to be a fight going on. I remember hearing the crash of the table above me, so I crawled forward silently. A large thud sound came above me, and as I looked up...with my gift. A gift I thought only I had and never told a soul...I think my pa knew all along about it...for I believed he had it too. As I stared through. I noticed two men holding my pa, each one by the arm. About four or five more stood around. And at that moment, they’d began beating on him. I wanted to do something! But I couldn’t. Then there was the sound of footsteps coming towards him.”

Hellen paused, her fingers tightening on her knee. “A man with a scottish accent began talking to him. He’d explained about how he’d knew all about my pa. Of him being an assassin, the one who was “the Cormac bane of the templar rite”. I discovered later that my pa was a key figure in the fall of the American Rite after Grand Master Tweed’s arrest back in’63 and before and beyond that. The man also taunted my pa, saying that...he knew of my pa’s  family legacy. How he knew that my pa was the last known guardian of the relic ring that belonged to Captain Kidd. He also knew of me. He mocked saying “Typical of the assassins to now place the burden of your creed upon children. What a damn shame.” My father then made the boldest statement I’ve ever heard, “You’ll never grab her will, nor of the people McGriffon. The people of this nation, including my daughter are mavericks*...” 

*Authors Note*

Maverick is a term, usually referring to cattle, for an animal that does not carry a brand. In the period of the United States open range, such animals were relatively common.  

“... they are meant to be unbranded, free from the enslavement of any false ideals that aren't associated with the Lord Almighty. Take your father of understanding and rot in hell.” My father was then beaten up pretty badly for that. I was stunned eve, hearing my father making bold remarks like that. Then the man, McGriffon, he took the revolver to my father’s temple and asked again where the piece of Eden was. When pa didn’t answer, McGriffon was stroll around and said, “It be a damn shame is something happens to that “maverick” daughter of yours. She would of made a suitable wife to someone of grand statures...” My father then uttered, “No one touches my daughter!” From what Collin examined later when he...”

Hellen found a stray tear sliding down, yet she’d dared not to cry in front of this man she only knew for a couple of weeks. “McGriffon placed the colt in the back of my father’s left shoulder and recited “riposare in pace” there was a loud bang...” He hands began to shake. Jack took Hellen’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Jack had a sense of rage towards this McGriffon. He mocked the creed before killing Jeremiah. This man is almost to Starrick’s rank of cruelty. Jack thought.

Hellen continued. “I was underneath where my father was placed. And as I waited until the sound of the footsteps of the men left, I remember, feeling a stream of hot blood spilling through the cracks of the wood floor. I knew then, that it was my pa’s. So I crawled back and up into the parlor, and there I found him. My father. The commander and veteran of the cruel civil war, murdered...shot in the back of...”

“We can stop there if you need to.” Jack’s interruption caught Hellen off guard. She looked to see her hand gripping his so tight that it caused Hellen’s bandages to come undone. Hellen let his hand go and traced her left ear. 

“Sorry...it’s just...I never really...only Collin heard this story...”

“Seems like this Collin means so much to you.” Jack asked in an analyzed look upon his face.

Hellen wasn’t sure what he’d meant at first, until she’d understood a second later. “Oh God No! Collin Anderson and my father served together in the war. He’s my godfather. Why?” Hellen raised an eyebrow with a smirk. “You suddenly...”

“No.” Jack turned again to the city, staring coldly. “No...I...I now have a better understanding that...you...we...had been though the same horrors of hell.”

As Hellen was about to continue, when Jack placed a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t, have to finish the story tonight.”

Hellen didn’t say another word. She only looked out of the horizon, scotching herself closer to Jack. “The city...it has a beauty to it. But I’m sure it’s nothing like London to you.”

“I never notice the city at night.” Jack said coldly.

Hellen looked up into the sky. “Obviously you’ve never known the constellations at night time. It’s funny really. My pa and I used to have there “Confessions on the roof. My pa always said, “When theres not a church near by, the stars in the blanket of night are the original Sistine Chapel.” to which I agreed. There so many countless stars that you swear that some adramida or constellation has it’s own story.”

 Both assassins sat upon the rood for what seemed like hours. Hellen’s eyes began to take weight from exhaustion from the days events. Her tired head was placed upon Jack’s shoulder. He gasped silently feeling the weight; but he didn’t brush her off, only watched her for a bit. When she’d began to shift in her sleep, Jack carefully placed one hand on her shoulder and the other to support her head. He lowered the sleeping woman upon his lap, even if he was uncertain on why he did it. But seeing Hellen sleeping in such a peaceful matter gave him a curiosity about her. For she looked of that of Sleeping Beauty or Snow White stories from the Grimm Brothers volumes of stories. 

Jack touched a stray curl from Hellen’s head. He could tell how silky it must of felt. Yet he’d never fully touched a woman’s hair without force for killing or any rational reason. Taking off his leather gloves, Jack traced his callused and bruised fingers through Hellen’s auburn hair. He never realized how lovely it looked in the moonlight, like that of dark blood with magic light glowing. Her skin glowed with old sweat and youthfulness for a quarter of a century year old woman. He’d traced a stray curl onto his large index finger, and yucked it into Hellen’s torn right ear. The ear Jack noticed that Hellen always seemed to hide or touch when the subject of her father came up. 

What Happened to you Hellen? He’d asked in his thoughts, tracing along the torn edges, making Hellen shutter in his lap. When he’s withdrawn, Hellen relaxed again in his lap. Jack lightly stroke her head, looking down. “I think...I think I’m falling for you.” Jack whispered, yet his tone was a hybrid of doubts and certainty.

Jack and hellen sat for another few hours. Jack thought again about his past and of his goal back in London, yet something is pinning him down. When his eyes too began to become heavy, Jack took Hellen into his arms and he gently climbed through the opened window into the living room, went into Hellen’s bedroom and placed her upon the bed and covered her with a blanket. As he’d took himself to leave, he saw upon the dresser window an old photograph of a photograph of a Union soldier in uniform. He was wearing a Army Calvary Commander’s uniform with a brace that seemed too familiar to any assassin. His face looked strong and determined. He had a bit of a five o’clock shadow going on his face at the time, yet never diminished his handsome face. Jack could only guess that this man was Hellen’s father. He was drawn to learn more about him; for some reason in his mind, the name put together, Jeremiah Patterson, seemed very familiar somehow.

Jack quietly shut the door behind, removed his shirt and collapsed onto the couch where he’d fallen asleep. Somehow, the space felt incomplete without the head weight upon his body.