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eyecreatestories · 21 days ago

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High Fantasy Magical Fiction | Light of Ordre Crystal

Chapter 1: The Birthday Party

The light and her familiar, comforting voice started to fade as I rolled over with my exhausted body. I could hear their voices down the hall as I awoke to a burnt smell that fated Saturday morning, December 3rd, 2022.

“WHAT IS THAT SMELL?” I yelled.

“TREVON DID IT!”

“DID WHAT?”

“BURNT OATMEAL IN THE MICROWAVE!”

Oh-my-gosh was an understatement. The house was a messy disappointment, reeking of smoke and burnt breakfast, and my four children were sitting in the living room two arguing over the Xbox game. I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with the sibling war going on. As a mom, sometimes you must tune it out and keep moving or never get anything done.

Before heading out of the bedroom, I remember glancing at my ragged face in the mirror, still drained from the long shift I’d worked the previous day. I was mentally praying for the strength to make it through the day. After gathering my thoughts and the clothes I wanted, I went out to see what the children were doing.

I signed to my deaf son Trevon, “How did you do that? You better clean that mess up!”

My frustration shifted with a quick smile when I received a warm hug from my youngest son, Princeton.

“Happy Birthday, baby!” I told him with a hug and a fat kiss.

He beamed excitedly and returned to playing with his toy action figures on the floor.

It was chaotic as usual, getting everyone ready to go somewhere. I yelled at the boys as I rushed to finish my daughter’s hair or tried to get everything packed up. Serenity had a tender head of long, kinky hair, and she always gave me a hard time doing it.

“Ouch! That hurts!” Serenity wiggled and whined while I was trying to comb her hair.

“I’m almost done, sweetie; here’s some bubble gum, but you need to be still, ok?” I told her. Something sweet usually did the trick of keeping her distracted.

With Serenity sitting on the floor between my legs, the two older boys occupied with the video game, and the little one engaged with his toy action figures, I started worrying we would be late.

“Kevon, tell your brother to help you clean up in there so we can get ready to go. Serenity, I’m all done. Your clothes are on your bed. Get dressed, sweetie. We need to hurry up so we can get there early.”

It was a miracle that my children listened, and we managed to leave the house on time. Thank God!

While I finished loading up a few things in the van, some guy who walked by started hitting on me. This was the norm around my block.

Some days, it was, “Hey, sexy momma, you need some help with that?”

Or any variation: “Hey, come here, what’s yo name?”

“Where yo man at?”

“You fine; you need a thug in yo life.”

It got to the point where I stopped replying to them. I usually just rolled my eyes and kept it moving because Lord knew it wouldn’t be anything nice if I did respond.

That day I was in a rush, and his ass was left standing there as I got in the van and slammed the door.

The kids were at it, arguing again. “Would ya stop!” I said.

Trevon had a scowl on his face. “She always sits here!” he signed. “It’s my turn!”

“I was sitting here first!” Serenity cried.

“Look, CeCe, let your brother sit there, and you can sit there on the way back,” I told Serenity to diffuse the situation.

Serenity didn’t want to move and started to whine.

“Move over, Cece, we don’t have time for this!”

She sucked her teeth and finally moved out of the seat.

Packed and ready, I drove to the well-anticipated Planet Lamark, a family fun recreation center. It was always a good feeling to drive away from my home in Miami, which was in the projects, or what some would call low-income apartments. Either way, you wanted to describe them; nothing about them felt like home.

It seemed like someone was always getting hurt or killed in our community. And if there weren’t any killings, there was a robbery and other petty crimes. Some were disrespectful and untrustworthy. Some were loud and messy, throwing trash everywhere or blasting music any time, day or night.

You always had to watch your back and hope no one would try you. I barely let my kids outside to play, worried someone might hurt them or they would catch a stray bullet or something. However, I had to accept my conditions and make the best of them, no matter what. I kept the faith, knowing that one day, my work at the fast-food joint would be replaced with something more financially rewarding. I always dreamed of a way out because there was no peace.

Little did we know, this was the last time we’d ever see our home.

“Mom, can we get ice cream when we get there?” Kevon asked.

Princeton chimed in, “Oh, I want some ice cream too!”

“Yes!” I answered.

We arrived at Planet Lamark to see a packed parking lot and the sun shining off the ocean on the other side. My kids couldn’t wait to get out of the van. I signed to my son Trevon and told my oldest son to help get the stuff out of the back and to be careful; Princeton didn’t see any of his birthday gifts.

“I can’t wait to get on the flying tunnels,” Trevon signed.

“You all need to behave in there,” I reminded them. “And Princeton, stay close to me.” They all seemed to be listening, though it was clear their excitement levels were maximum as we approached the building.

My homegirl Amy greeted me at the entrance with her three-year-old son holding her hand, and over to far-right inside sat a few other guests.

“Hey, girl,” Amy said.

“Hey!” I said, excited to see her.

Another good friend of mine, Shawny, also came up to say hi. “Girl, look at them; they are getting so big!”

“Yes, they are! Thank you both for coming!”

“Mom, can we go play?” Kevon was practically bouncing on his feet.

“Yes, go ahead, but Princeton and I will be over there.” I pointed to an area near our table for smaller children to play.

They dropped the bags and ran off without looking back. Shawny helped me pick up the few bags, and we went to the table to set everything up.

After the final finishing touches on Princeton’s cake and decorations, I took a seat.

The day finally started to lighten up a little. It was nice to see all the young gens running around and playing. Amy was chasing behind her little one, yelling, “Get down, come here!” like twenty times, and Shawny’s two big boys were playing with mine. It was so great to see my girlfriends. We didn’t always get together much because we all worked our asses off.

“No, now stop your crying, or we are going home!” Amy snapped at her son.

It was a little chaotic in Planet Lamark that day because it was crowded, with kids running every which way.

I kept an eye on my children while I snacked on some french fries. God knows I loved them dearly. I would’ve done anything to protect them. I was blessed with four: my oldest boy, Kevon, fifteen; my twelve-year-old son, Trevon; my ten-year-old daughter, Serenity; and my youngest son, Princeton, who was turning six. Trevon had developed hearing loss due to chronic ear infections, and it had been an emotional challenge to overcome and come to grips with. But I never treated him any differently from my other kids or treated him like a handicap.

I had bathroom moments where I would cry about certain situations that took a toll on a hard-working single mother. However, one thing I refused was to allow my children to see me hurt and crying. But at times, it was too much, too depressing and draining. I worked my ass off day and night at a fast food joint, making only a little over minimum wage. I didn’t have family support or much help with the kids, besides the food stamps, child care assistance, and housing discount, which helped me barely get by. Oh, and their father, don’t even ask about him—thinking about him just added to the depression.

As far as any other family, I had none; I’d grown up in a group home, praying my mother would walk in looking for me one day. Sometimes, my dreams felt so real I could hear her calling my name in my sleep, “Crystal, wake up, let’s go.” I would jolt awake and be blinded by a blur. But she never did show up.

So I gave up on those dreams of ever seeing her or having a family and ended up on Miami’s rough streets, selling drugs and experiencing things I had no business around. It wasn’t until I met my kid’s father out there and ended up pregnant with Kevon that my whole perspective on life changed. I finally had a reason to want to live and do better.

Life taught me a lot the hard way. Still, despite it all, I always managed to keep enough strength to get whatever needed to be done DONE. And I continuously reassured my children how much I loved them. My kids gave me the power to keep going.

I learned that time heals everything, keeps going, and doesn’t wait for anyone.

* * *

I sat there that day in Planet Lamark, happily watching my daughter play on the other side of me with her long, thick hair swinging wildly because she’d lost her hair bows like always while Princeton was enjoying himself on the vending machines. My two oldest sons were picking on each other inside one of the playrooms.

I gazed through a huge glass window that displayed the endless ocean, daydreaming occasionally. Since the days of living at the group home, I always caught myself in a deep daydream, sometimes not even remembering what I was thinking.

“Crystal, girl, let me tell you!” Shawny snapped me out of my thoughts as she came over to me. “Ok, so I went to the store the other day, and guess who was there and acting stupid?”

“Mmm, let me guess? No, thank you, I don’t even want to say the wrong name,” I responded with a smirk.

Before she could say the name I dreaded hearing, Princeton approached me.

“Momma, Momma, can I open it, please?” He jumped with excitement, clutching a gift in his hand.

“No, not now, wait just a little bit longer,” I told him.

But Princeton was persistent like he always was, and I gave in and let him open it. I had to save up a lot for the one gift he would love the most.

He ripped open his gift to find a blue superhero action figure—Ground Zero—that he’d seen on TV and begged me to get him. He stared at his toy with happiness, looked up at me, and thanked me. He gave me the sweetest hug and immediately started playing with his toy.

“Wow, Princeton, that’s a cool toy!” Shawny expressed.

It felt good to see his happy face. Working all those extra long hours and saving up for his special day had been worth it.

“So tell me, Shawny, who was it?”

Shawny smacked her lips and said, “Girl, Corey.”

I rolled my eyes. “I figured it was him, and I don’t want to mess up my day talking about him.”

“Right, I hear you, oh, dog!” she said.

Princeton returned to me a few minutes later because he was thirsty, so we headed to the concession stand. This dark, tall, older, pretty lady approached us on the way. She had an afro, big earrings, and a friendly smile. I didn’t see where she’d come from; it was like she just popped up right in front of us.

The lady smiled at Princeton and told him, “Happy birthday, little prince of Lamark.”

Princeton was too busy playing with his toy, so I got his attention. “Princeton, she said happy birthday to you.”

He looked way up towards her face, a little confused.

“Say thank you, baby!” I told him.

Princeton said thank you in his soft voice.

“You’re welcome, Prince. Have fun on your special day,” the lady said, smiling at us before walking away.

Princeton and I walked over to the concession counter. Still, I watched the woman walk away, twisting my mouth a little. I had a strange feeling I knew her from somewhere but couldn’t place it.

“Yes, can I get four small fruit punches, please?” I told the young guy behind the counter.

After he handed me the drinks, I gave Princeton his and carried the others back to the table. On the way back over, I caught sight of a window and frowned. It became gloomy and dark outside, and I knew it was about to storm. It was the fastest weather change I’d ever seen. The sun was slowly disappearing, and an ominous feeling overwhelmed me as the clouds slowly turned three shades darker over the ocean.

“Is there a storm coming?” Shawny asked from behind me.

“Looks like there just might be,” I said. Everyone else nearby was starting to notice, too. Some parents were wrapping up and leaving because they didn’t want to be caught in any storm. I wasn’t worried until the wind blew even harder, rattling against the windows.

Amy walked over to us, looked out the windows, and widened her eyes. “Oh, wow, it looks bad outside. I didn’t hear anything about a storm today on the news.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” I said.

“I’m so sorry, Crystal, but we better head out since it’s a two-hour drive back home,” Amy said.

Her little one was clearly getting tired, too, so I didn’t blame her. We said goodbye, and then Shawny and I started wrapping everything up to leave soon. Though my children sure didn’t look like they’d be happy about it.

Suddenly, a massive brush of wind against the windows shook the whole building and startled everyone.

“Oh shit,” Shawny said. “Girl, I’m going to head out before it gets too bad outside. Will you be ok?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” I said. “We’re getting out of here now, too.”

I went to round up the children, and in a matter of seconds, the wind had picked up so hard it was taking down trees and throwing debris around outside. My heart began to drum hard as I looked on anxiously. The wind roared, and the ocean waves rose to threatening heights; people ran wildly on the sand, racing back to their cars. I quickly grabbed Princeton and yelled for my daughter to come on as the panic sank deep into my skin. By now, everyone was rushing out of Planet Lamark.

With the youngest two accounted for, I urged them to hurry to get the older boys.

“MY TOY!” Princeton cried out and pulled away from me. He ran back in the opposite direction.

“Princeton!” I yelled as I grabbed Serenity’s hand to chase after him.

We pushed through the messy crowd to find Princeton grabbing his action figure toy off a chair. I took his hand and hurried back towards the playroom.

The building was shuddering so hard, and it sounded like it was ready to cave in on us. I glanced outside to see cars were upside down, sliding across the parking lot, and I damn near fainted when I saw Shawny’s car being tossed over in the wind.

Her name escaped my lips in a yell, even though there was no way she could hear me.

I was standing there in shock when everything went silent, and the world seemed to slip into slow motion. My kids were tugging on my arms and calling my name over and over. Suddenly, a big man rushing past bumped me back into awareness.

I grabbed their hands and rushed to the playroom with the maze of high tunnels connected to the ceiling.

I spotted Kevon coming out of a slide and yelled in fear, “Let’s GO! WHERE’S YOUR BROTHER?

“Up there!” He pointed to one of the tunnel tubes.

“Hurry, go get him!”

We stood there fearful as Kevon returned to the tunnels to get him. Meanwhile, the chaos heightened further as the wind entered, first attacking the roof. I was losing my mind and my balance. The ground beneath us was moving! It went from people yelling and trying to get outside to their cars to them screaming, running, pushing and shoving, and frantically trying to get back to safety indoors. The wind’s forceful howls clashed with the people’s cries, and the world boomed with a mighty noise.

My oldest ran to me wide-eyed, saying, “He won’t come! He won’t get down!”

He tried pulling and grabbing his brother out, but all to no avail. He refused to get out and come down. Trevon couldn’t know what was going on deep inside the tunnels because, to him, everything seemed normal, and he couldn’t hear the madness surrounding him below.

I could locate him crawling through a tunnel with see-through windows, and I caught his attention. I looked up at him indignantly.

“GET OUT! WE NEED TO GO NOW!”

He looked back at me blankly and blinked.

“But I don’t wanna go,” he signed.

“LET’S GO NOW,” I huffed at him.

He always seemed to try me in any situation, and now he was having too much fun to take me seriously. My hands were held by my two frightened and shaking young ones. But with all the loudness and my fear rising by the second, he must’ve realized something was wrong because he finally listened to me and started crawling out.

I was fighting back the tears, and my chest hurt from the terror as I clenched my children close. Trevon was making his way to me through the tunnel, but suddenly, the whole jungle gym and tunnel shifted and started to fall apart. I damn near lost my mind when I saw the other end crash to the ground.

“Trevon!” I shouted, running over, praying he wasn’t inside.

“Here he is, Mom!” Kevon said behind me.

I spun around to see Kevon helping Trevon out of the other end of the gym. He was ok.

“Trevon, look around; we have to get to safety!” I signed to him.

“What’s going on?” he signed.

“A hurricane or something is happening!”

At that point, Serenity was crying, and I had no idea what to do. Now, with all my children by my side, all I could think of was getting to a safer place indoors. So we took off through the swarms of people and a deteriorating building.

Mother Nature was sure pissed off, and she had turned deadly. Ceilings cracked loudly, glass windows shattered, the walls shook, and stuff began flying around in the wind. My mind could mute the sounds long enough so I could think and react. Although my heart was pounding, I felt a drive take over that made me forget the fear.

At first, we were hurrying toward nowhere until I suddenly spotted the woman from the snack bar earlier go through a door at the end of a hallway, so we headed in her direction. The lights went out before we could reach the door, drenching us in darkness. We needed to get out of the hallway and into any room I could find. The kids were panicking and staying close to me as I tried the first two doors near us, but they were locked. Finally, we found a door at the end of the hallway, and it opened.

Utter darkness greeted us on the other side. I tried for a light switch but couldn’t find any—and it probably wouldn’t have worked anyway. I couldn’t tell what kind of room we were in, but it was a small room, which felt more like a closet.

I quickly closed the door behind us, softening the shrill sounds, and told the kids, “Get down, get closer, and cover your heads.”

Then, there was a shake on the doorknob, and the door opened. I glimpsed a tall body and what appeared to be a young child.

“Is there anybody in here?” a man’s voice said.

“Yes, there are people in here.”

“Can we come in here with you?” he asked.

“Yeah, come in.”

They scooted inside; I shut and found a way to lock the door. We were cramped in the space. Then I wrapped my shaking arms around my four, more worried than I’d ever been in my life. I was picturing the worst and hoping for a miracle to happen.

Suddenly, there was a startling loud BOOM, shaking the whole room. My daughter screeched with fear, and my heart ached. I felt weak and faint. All I could do was drop my head down in exasperation.

As I faced the ground, I noticed something weird: a sparkling purple light near the floor that lit up on and off. Next, there were clinking metal sounds, and without warning, the whole room jerked and jumped, tossing our bodies into one another. Dizziness took over; my body felt light, as if it were floating.

There was another jolt, and my body was sucked back to the floor as the room took off like a racing roller coaster. I couldn’t understand what was happening as small black shades slid up on the walls, revealing glass windows to the outside.

We were in the sky, moving away fast from destruction, and the pressure was becoming unbearable. My children’s cries were heard faintly in the background, but my eyes and head were heavy, and the dizziness was too much to withstand, and then there was only darkness.

Thank you for reading! If you liked this story, please like and share it with others; until next time, happy travels!

FOLLOW ME & READ CHAPTER 2 THIS WEDNESDAY

#short fiction #fantasy #lightofordrecrystal #short stories #supernatural

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keelywolfe · 4 years ago

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FIC: Gentle Sins ch.1 (BAON)

Summary: Stretch was pretty used to waking up alone. But the day after being kidnapped? Not so much.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Established Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Aftermath of Kidnapping

Notes: Time to deal with the aftermath of Just Swimmingly! Good luck, boys...

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Stretch was pretty used to waking up alone.

Even on the weekends, Edge wasn’t one to lounge around in bed when there were things he could be doing. It always amazed Stretch a little that Edge could sit at a desk for hours every day; that endless energy of his was similar to Papyrus’s, only more contained, banked like the coals of a campfire and ready to burst into flame whenever it was needed. It tended to escape him through his hands, whether he was typing or kneading bread dough, or touching Stretch with care that bordered on reverence. Sure, his injured leg might’ve slowed Edge down a little on the jogging front but it sure wasn’t stopping him anywhere else, his hands were still perfectly fine and he was putting both of them to good use whenever he could.

Which did not include lounging around in bed.

So, yeah, waking up alone was pretty much the norm. What he hadn’t expected was for it would be the norm today. Today, of all days, after everything that happened last night, the drugging, the kidnapping, the Judge—

But he didn’t want to think about that right now, thanks, Stretch’s mind was all full up and that shit could wait. What he was focused on right now was waking up alone in the bed he shared with his husband with the sheets on the other side already cool to the touch.

Stretch pulled his hand back from Edge’s side and rolled over on his back, looking up at the ceiling through the dimness and trying not to feel the aching hurt settling inside him. The last he remembered the two of them had been sleeping on the sofa, so that meant at some point Edge carried him upstairs and left him here. Not really a surprise that Edge didn’t stay, but it sure was a disappointment. He’d been expecting…well. Something else, for sure.

The bedroom had room darkening curtains, a thoughtful addition Edge put into place before Stretch even moved in, ensuring that he got plenty of sleep without the sun poking its way in before he was ready for it. Even they could only do so much, a narrow beam of brightness was coming around the sides and yeah, he was being stupid right about now. It was probably the middle of the afternoon, what, was Edge supposed to lay here all day, watching like a creeper while waiting for him to wake up? Sure, some overprotective cuddling and maybe a good handful of unreasonable demands for him to stay safe at home would have been nice, but it wasn’t exactly fair of him to expect it, now was it. If he wanted schmoopy cuddles, he’d just have to go out and harvest his own.

Stretch kicked off the blankets long enough to spread out, joints popping luxuriously as he groaned, and then yanked them back up before the chill of the air conditioning could make him shiver. He reached for his phone only to belatedly remember it was missing in action. There weren’t any other electronics in the room with a clock in them, Edge liked the bedroom to be dark as a grave, and damn, that was a thought to have today.

Anyway, there wasn’t really a good way to tell the time without his phone. At a guess, it was at least past noon, probably a lot later considering they went to bed after sunrise.

Welp, if his day was beginning, he needed his morning coffee to function even in the afternoon.

He decided to get dressed instead of going down in only his bathrobe, burying himself in the familiar comfort of one of his extra-worn hoodies. It smelled like the laundry detergent Edge preferred, strong and fresh, different than the one Blue used. Stretch paused as he was pulling it on, tucked inside the body of it like a cotton womb as he breathed in the clean fabric scent. He was sweating a little by the time he pulled it down over his skull, absently wiping his forehead on his sleeve as he dug out a pair of pants and some comfy socks.

Normally he’d grab a pair of his own, he had scads of ‘em, socks with pictures of chickens or pizza, lace ruffles at the cuffs or rainbow ones that pulled all the way up over his bony knees. Whatever caught his fancy ended up in his overflowing sock drawer, he loved them, even if pairing them all at laundry time was a bitch. This time, he took a pair from Edge’s side of the closet, plain white crew socks, the same as he wore with his motorcycle boots and Stretch paused briefly, remembering the clothes he’d been wearing last night. They’d been Edge’s, too, and now they were trash. Or more likely, they were evidence, there was a zero percent chance that Red’s team hadn’t found them, at least one tracker had to have been hidden on them somewhere and wasn’t that suspicious, that those assholes thought to strip them away and send them into the dumpster.

Even if Red were willing to give them back, something that was probably right below never on the scale of probability, Stretch didn’t think he’d want to see them again. Fuckers ruined them, ruined everything they’d touched, and they deserved what was coming their way, deserved retribution and—

Stretch firmly shook that thought away before it could hit more than a simmer and went back into the bedroom. He went to the window and pushed the curtains back, turning the narrow beam of sunlight into a flood. It illuminated the contents of the bedroom, the bed filled with rumpled blankets, the dresser with his zombie hand ring holder, Edge’s little collection of cologne bottles and the fancy box where he kept his cuff links, bathing it all in a haloed light.

On one wall was a full-length mirror, one that Stretch rarely used. He used it now, standing in front of it to look at himself. Too tall, skinny bones hidden under an oversized orange sweatshirt with swirls of black covering it like smoke, and a pair of plain white socks still clenched in one hand. There were rusty stains of exhaustion under his sockets, the light of his magic in his joints dimmer, darker. He needed to eat, that was all. Some food and coffee would go a long way to getting him back on the right path.

He sat on the bed to pull on the socks and when he was done, he wiggled his toes, watching them waggle beneath the shield of plain white cotton. Then he headed on downstairs. Wearing something of Edge’s was nice enough but he was kind of looking forward to getting up close and personal with the man himself.

From the fragrant smell filling the living room, he had a pretty good guess where Edge disappeared to.

When he went into the kitchen, he could see the oven was on, something rich and yeasty baking away. Typical, Edge liked to make bread when he was stressed, kneading the dough with a fierceness usually reserved for…actually, Edge did everything with a sort of fierceness, didn’t he, and it was always worth watching.

That show was already over. Edge was at the sink washing dishes, a few damp patches showing on the front of his apron. His cane was leaning against the counter, too far away to be useful, but at least he was wearing his leg brace, a small favor but Stretch would take it.

Edge looked over his shoulder the second the door opened, no pretending not to hear it so Stretch could ‘sneak’ up on him, not today. “You’re finally up.”

His voice was always on the rough side and that gravely timbre always sent a tingly thrill up Stretch’s spine. Today it was rougher than normal, brambles and thorns hiding velvet underneath.

“mostly.” And he wasn’t going to complain about Edge being gone when he woke up, he wasn’t, nope, not even a little— “couldn’t sleep in even a little, babe? i stay tucked in a few hours late and you had to get down here to get your betty crocker on.”

It sounded more accusatory than he’d meant. A strange expression crossed Edge’s face, almost wounded, and that went a long way towards soothing his own lingering hurt. Stretch was already regretting opening his stupid mouth when Edge said, “Love, you’ve been sleeping more than a few hours. You slept around the clock, it’s Wednesday.”

Wednesday. It’d been ass o’clock in the morning on Tuesday when he’d gone to bed, no wonder he was so fucking hungry.

“oh, shit, really?” Stretch blurted, his stupid mouth wasn’t done having its way, “haven’t done that since i don’t even know. guess i can’t blame you for not hanging around in bed.”

“You can, but I hope I can be quickly forgiven.” Edge stripped off his apron, tossing it carelessly on the counter and ignoring as it fell instead to the floor as he stepped around the kitchen island to gather Stretch into his arms. Yeah, okay, Stretch was a dick for ass-of-u-and-me-ing that Edge ditched him to hit up the cookbooks, but he was still going to take advantage of every hug Edge wanted to give him. He buried his face into Edge’s clavicle, breathing in the smell of his soap, the spiciness of his magic, hyperaware that he probably stank of old sweat and too much sleep. Edge didn’t seem to mind; his arms were strong around him, and Stretch couldn’t hold back a small, contented little sound as the embrace he’d been craving since he first woke up finally became a reality.

Edge made a sound of his own, low and soothing, then asked, “How are you feeling?”

“i’m not sure,” Stretch admitted. Too much had happened and most of it not yet properly assimilated. Mostly what he felt was still tired, the sticky brain-fog surrounding him that came with simultaneously too much and not enough sleep.

Edge nodded, his pointy chin digging lightly into the top of Stretch’s skull. "That’s fair.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “Love, my brother wanted to see you as soon as you were awake."

That made his soul clench in his chest, his gnawing hunger fading. There was no putting it off, Stretch knew that, no room for negotiations when it came to giving out the details to Embassy Security. Wanted was a polite euphemism for needed and right now. He was lucky to have gotten off as long as he could, luckier still that Red would probably talk to him here rather than dragging him downtown, and still, there was a half-hearted urge to flee, to hide somewhere until they gave up and let him start working on forgetting that it ever happened.

Stretch shoved that urge down hard, until it was only a distant echo. If there was one thing therapy taught him, it was that eventually you’d have to face things if you wanted to get over it, and it was a hell of a lot better when it was on your own terms rather than having the ghouls tumble out of mental closets to haunt your dreams at night.

"yeah, okay,” Stretch said determinedly, “go ahead and call him."

Edge drew back enough to look at him, his deep crimson of his eye lights searching over Stretch’s face and that glance in the mirror earlier made Stretch pretty sure of what he was seeing. He wondered if Edge was contemplating a little fleeing of his own, maybe a gentler version of kidnapping where he hid Stretch away from the world until he was ready to let him loose again. Whatever it was he saw, it wasn’t enough for him to lean into spousal abduction. Edge only nodded a little, accepting, reaching up to cup Stretch’s face between his hands as he took a suspiciously tender kiss.

"Call him?" Edge said when he drew back, faintly amused. "I was simply warning you that he'll likely be here soon."

He'd barely finished the sentence before there was a staccato rap on the front door.

Okay, yeah, time to face the music, not literally and wasn’t that a shame because Red wasn’t a half-bad singer, a little armchair karaoke might make this more bearable. Stretch wriggled loose and was halfway to the door before Edge could limp his way out of the kitchen, yanking it open without looking through the peephole.

Red was standing on the other side of it, hulking on their front porch and only slightly livelier than a typical gargoyle. Him knocking at all was unusual, even wrong. Red tended to announce himself by bursting through the front door and even almost catching them a couple times in flagrante del-dick-to hadn’t slowed him down. There was certain unmistakable caution in the hunch of his shoulders this time, his hands tucked unthreateningly into his pockets as if Red was unsure of his welcome and all Stretch could feel was a weary sort of grief.

As if he didn’t know Red, long before all this, knew him way down deep to the bone. Nothing the Judge showed him in that brief glance was anything like a surprise.

The Judge. Yeah, he didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t run away from it, either, not anymore than the assholes last night could.

It’d been years but apparently being a Judge was like riding a really fucked-up bike; you never really forgot no matter how much you tried. The heat of it in your soul, not like the volcanic burn of LV, no, this was an unfathomably icy fire that surged and flowed through to chill every limb, every bone, churning its way upward into your frostbitten skull to force its way out through your eye socket as it filled you…him. Filled him with unbearable knowledge that he’d never wanted and an overwhelming, endless power that he despised using.

For the briefest of seconds in that warehouse, he’d been ready to let it loose, to let the Judgment come boiling out like it had so many times before. Until Jeff stopped him. Reeled him back in with a single word.

Don’t.

(Jeff’s sins, such innocent little transgressions; stealing a piece of candy from a store as a child, lying to parents who would only use the truth against him. Filled with the soft green glow of a compassionate soul, filled with gentle kindness. No judgement.)

Then it was like trying to stuff all-mighty toothpaste back into an otherworldly tube and the flash-bang of seeing Red as he came up the stairs hadn’t helped.

(red didn’t kill that man, no, only persuaded him to do it himself, don’t gotta make it look like a suicide if it already is, saves time, evil fuck threatened red’s whole family, his entire life, and red talked to him quietly for hours, watched the tears and snot run down his face pitilessly as his own Judge recited a horrifying list of sins that did not start with that attack on the bus)

Stretch blinked that memory away and looked down into Red’s eye lights, a subtle shade deeper crimson than Edge’s, and remembered Red calling him brother.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him that Red was the one who kept Edge from losing his everfucking mind and tearing the town apart looking for him, the same way Papyrus must've kept Blue in check. Stretch wasn’t entirely stupid, was, in fact, a genius and he had the damn paperwork to prove it. He’d sent his one shot at a message to Red, trusting him to not only be the one to save them, but to get the dark side of the joke from the song he’d chosen to play.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him that Red had laughed.

Hell, in some ways he knew Red better than he knew himself, but since he did know himself pretty damn well, Stretch made a point of acting like it. He left the door open and went to plop down in the sofa, propped his bony feet in Edge’s socks up in the coffee table, and said, “couldn’t let us sleep for another hour, asshole?”

The fractional easing of tension in Red’s shoulders was blink-and-you’d-miss-it quick, so it was a good thing skeletons didn’t really need to blink. He sauntered into the house with his usual big dick energy and kicked the door shut, ignoring Edge’s outraged hiss as he said laconically, “we need to talk some, honey bun.”

Stretch only nodded. “figured. have a seat and i’ll give you the whole novel, from the start to the footnotes.” Edge was still standing close to the kitchen door, leaning on his cane heavier than normal and clearly torn between staying and giving them privacy if Stretch asked for it. Heh, as if. “hey, babe, knock knock.”

Edge let out a perfunctory sigh as he said, flatly obedient, “Who’s there?”

“water

“Water who?”

Stretch grinned and slid an arm along the sofa back in invitation. “water you waiting for, come over here and hold me.”

The struggle to hide exasperated humor was eclipsed by a fierce solemness and Edge was next to him on the sofa in an instant, settling Stretch into a gentle embrace. The hugs he’d been missing this morning were coming back tenfold and if Stretch closed his sockets, he could feel the trembling desperation in Edge’s touch, his grip so tight the bones under it ached, and how the hell had he kept from flinging himself at Stretch the second he came into the kitchen?

He’d been waiting for Stretch to come to him, Stretch realized, not wanting to overwhelm him or slather him in the sort of manic overprotectiveness he usually balked at. The swell of his love for his husband nearly choked him, filling his soul to bursting, and he snuggled in, basking in his warmth, his scent, the purity of his adoration.

The silence dragged on without even a disgusted groan or a cleared throat, and when Stretch slit open his sockets to have a look, he found Red watching them, an unreadable expression on his unusually somber face.

Stretch patted the sofa cushion on his other side, “hey, you, come here?”

Red actually took a step back, his sockets going wide, as if Stretch had offered him a nice, firm slap on the ass instead of a seat, except he might have accepted that, if only to be an asshole. For a second, Stretch wondered if he’d shortcut out, fleeing from the subtle threat of affection and maybe sending Sans back to take Stretch’s statement instead.

Better not to wait for him to try and Stretch reached deep down inside for a little coaxing, the same way he’d forced himself to reach out months ago to a tiny kitten hiding in the bushes at the bus stop despite the unreasonably terrified thundering pulse of his soul. “c’mon, you can record over here, i know you’re gonna.” There was another beat of fraught silence before Stretch added, quietly, “please?”

That blank face twisted, emotions running beneath it too quickly to parse as Red scrubbed a hand over his skull and muttered aloud, “ah, fuck, honey bun.”

His boots managed to thump loudly as he stomped over despite the carpeted floor and the rough, exasperated sound from Red as he flung himself on the sofa sounded a hell of a lot like winning. Stretch hauled him in against his other side, ignoring his snarls and flailing, tucking him in comfortably despite him stiffening like a corpse. Minutes ticked by as Red reluctantly relaxed, all the surprising weight of his small frame leaning into Stretch.

Edge said nothing, only shifted his hand minutely until his knuckles were pressed tight to Red’s upper arm.

Yeah, this was what Stretch wanted, no, needed. Caged in on both sides by the people he trusted to keep him safe, trusted with his very soul, and Stretch took a long slow breath, letting it out slowly as he braced himself to dive into his unpleasant, perfect memory of the night. “okay. i’m ready.”

Next to him, Red shifted and Stretch waited for the click of the recorder before he began, the words rising in him like the tide as he sank under the surface into memory.

“so, andy and i were supposed to be checking out bands for that big embassy party ass-gore is throwing—"

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #underfell sans #by any other name

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trillian-anders · 5 years ago

Text

marked

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, violence.

word count: 10748

description: soulmate!au; just because you’re meant to be together doesn’t mean it always works out that way. what happens when you’re not completely ready to meet your soulmate?

prompt: “that’s not how soulmates are supposed to react to each other”

note: happy belated birthday love, i hope this year finds you well and i hope you don’t get too hungover (sorry this took so long)

for @jbbuckybarnes;; birthday challenge

You’ve had their tattoo your entire life. That’s what you called it too. Their tattoo. It didn’t feel like yours. The tiny brand of their fated love. Whoever they were, they were already a fully formed adult by the time you were born. The nurse who wiped the blood and mucus off of your little body gasping seeing the soft little bloom on your chubby arm.

You parents had been a little alarmed. The tattoos forming once the partner was eighteen years old, the age gap startling. But the fates were to be trusted. So life went on.

At first when you were a little girl, you’d loved the little string of flowers on your forearm. You’d colored it in with markers and outlined it every day, but you didn’t understand what it was then. They were called bleeding hearts. The strand of them across your entire forearm.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to get it until you were an adult.” Her name was Amy. You didn’t get along with Amy. “Does that mean that you’re going to be with an old person?” A cackle from her group of friends. You sunk lower into your desk, covering your arm with your hand and pulling it in tight to your body.

It became something they’d tease you about for years.

The bleeding hearts that your Mother had planted, you came to resent them. The ones painted onto your childhood bedroom’s walls you’d begged them to be covered up. You started using makeup to cover up the black outline of the offending flowers, trying to gain some kind of normalcy.

It’s funny how a couple of cruel kids can totally change your outlook on something that should be so simple, so easy.

But it made you think, what if he was an old man? By the time you were eighteen he would be almost forty. That is, if he was exactly eighteen when you were born. There were possibilities outside of the norm, like usually people would be wondering what their partner was doing right now. What did they want to do with their lives? This person, whoever they were, man or woman, must have been alarmed that their flower never showed up. Their right arm staunchly blank until you yourself turned eighteen.

You wondered that night, as your family celebrated your birthday, as you blew out your candles, if they were just as panicked as you were.

The doctors stalled. Their movements halted, and the asset didn’t know why. What were they doing? New procedure? They murmured to each other. Passing by closely, a nurse resumed strapping him down, his bones still chilled from cryostasis. “Soulmate.” He heard.

It scratched at him from the back of his mind, the word. He’d heard it before. He knew what it meant of course, soulmates. He’d separated one from another many times. Instructed to dispatch one and let the other live, it didn’t matter which one.

He did his job, quickly and efficiently. He had to.

A mouth guard placed between his teeth and his heart began to race in a Pavlovian response. Fingers clenching and unclenching with anticipation. His legs and arms being restrained before the metal plates would close over his face and the pain would begin.

“I have a new mission for you,” Alexander Pierce. The man who was in charge. His boss. His master. “It’s ongoing. Concurrent with any other missions I ask of you, do you understand?” He felt himself nod, mind still scrambled, dazed. “You see this?” His wrist was harshly turned over, the black lines swirling around it he’d never seen before. “If you ever see this on someone else, this exact tattoo, you bring them here. Do you understand?” The asset’s eyes glazed over, unfocused. Pierce smacked him upside his head, gripping his face tightly and pulling his gaze into his. “Do you understand soldier?”

“Yes, I understand.”

The sun rose and set with no event. You hadn’t found him. Years passed and your life went on. The apprehension and the fear of finding him out there somewhere would never leave. Your friends found their soulmates, they got married, some even had kids now. And you were still alone.

“You don’t want to meet him?” Your best friend, Nia asked. She wrapped a perfectly curled strand of hair around her finger, tightly pinning it with a clip and spraying it with hair spray. Her tattoo was of a set of constellations, it was on her collarbone. Her husband’s matching one was found in your first year of college. The two found each other in a chem lab and babbled to one another over renewable energy and found they both wanted to work for the same ecological lab that was currently designing a plastic made from trees, something they worked together to produce.

You watched her in the mirror curl your hair for another college friend’s wedding, the bride and groom having met each other in a perfect meet-cute, their dogs both racing towards each other in the middle of central park. Screaming and tripping and tumbling into one another and realizing they had the very same perfect little heart on their ring fingers.

“It’s not that I don’t want to meet him,” You explain, watching Nia’s perfectly manicured fingers twirl another perfect curl away from the iron, “I’m just apprehensive.” And that was the truth.

You wanted what all your friends had, really. It’s just what happened was you didn’t see an issue in having an older soulmate until your classmates pointed out it was weird to have an older soulmate and now that it was pointed out to you that it was weird to have an older soulmate now you think it’s weird to have an older soulmate.

But that’s hard to say to people.

“Everyone is nervous to meet their soulmate,” Nia soothed, “But that person is the other side of your coin, they’re someone who the fates have created specifically for you.” And that’s what is so scary. Someone is out there waiting for you and it gives you a shit ton of anxiety.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this Buck?” Steve stood in the doorway behind him, geared up, watching Bucky tighten the laces on his boots.

“Gotta get back into it sometime don’t I?” Bucky looked up at his long-time friend. Steve’s jaw was clenched, clearly on the fence about letting him back in the field.

“If you feel it at all going south, just let me know. We can get you out of there, and fast.” Bucky stood, clipping his holster on his back he said,

“I’ll be fine, let’s just go.”

The wedding was beautiful. In Central Park where they’d met. The early summer sun was warm, but not overbearingly so. It was a perfect day for a wedding and you were already a little drunk. They did this thing with champagne and chambord that was really quenching your thirst and for whatever reason your glass seemed to never be empty. It was easy to lose yourself in the happiness of the day, dancing, drinking, and eating your weight in hors d'oeuvres.

“Here, c’mon, let’s get a picture.” There was a large floral background weaved with beautiful blooms and greens. The group that were your best friends in college, the ones you smoked way too much weed with and drank yourself blind on twisted teas with, and the groom, whose bathtub you’d woken up in more than once, a group picture at his wedding that you were sure would start endless conversations about late night Taco Bell runs and do you remember this embarrassing thing you did this one time?

But you couldn’t quite remember what happened after that. It all happened so fast. Spillover from some Avengers fight nearby. There was an explosion, smoke, then triage.

You couldn’t breathe. The coughing was hard on your throat, gasping for breath. A clear plastic mask was fitted over your face, pure oxygen began pumping into the mask, you could feel yourself shuffled around, doors to an ambulance closing. Your blood was thin from the alcohol. You heard something about a transfusion and then it was dark.

Bucky’s heart was racing as he came out through the fog. It was just like when they would pull him out of cryo. Muddled and cold.

“Buck.” Steve’s voice called. “Can you hear me?” He couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t move his legs. “Bucky?” It was a tiled ceiling. White. It hurt his eyes at first glance. He was at the compound.

He didn’t know how it went south so fast. The mission was going to be intense, he knew, but he didn’t realize the series of tunnels that twisted through the city would lead them to central park. Right into a trap. The explosion he remembers, resurfacing he remembers, what he doesn’t remember was what happened when he was trying to grab civilians out of the way. It all became a blur then.

“What happened back there?” Steve’s brow pulled in concern, he was changed, freshly washed and sitting in the chair next to the bed in the med room.

“I don’t know.” Arms flexing against the restraints, “Let me outta here.” A buzz and a chink sound and the metal restraints unlocked and retreated back into the frame of the bed. Bucky sat up and swung his legs over the side, eyes locking onto the bleeding hearts on his arm and halting, before hastily tugging his sleeve down to cover it.

“I think you need to talk to Shuri.” Steve stepped back and let Bucky stand, “There’s still something going on in there.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

Have you ever had a trach? A large plastic tube down your throat, it helps you breathe but it’s uncomfortable, and startling when you wake up and you could feel it hard against your tongue and throat. Tears pooled in the corners of your eyes from the harsh lights. A steady beep in the background as you reached consciousness and realized your surroundings.

“Hey sweetheart.” Your Mom, brushing hair out of your face and soothing your rising heart rate, “You’re okay, you’re okay. Let me get the nurse.”

Everyone for the most part was fine, the blast came from the ground, feet away from the reception. There were guests in critical condition in the ICU but no one had died. Bride and Groom were in the same condition as you were, bruised and with a broken bone or two but mostly fine.

A cast sat, freshly dried on your right arm, from wrist to elbow. Your soul mark covered by plaster. Your throat hurt after the trach was removed and you were left to recover in your childhood bedroom.

“It’s unbelievable.” Your Dad sat in his recliner, feet up, drinking what must have been his third cup of coffee that day. “Ross is a joke.” The news had been all about the Avengers and what happened in central park. Wedding guests who hadn’t been injured were interviewed, joggers, a family visiting from some other state with two small children. There was a replay of events, in between the rubble and smoke were the Avengers fighting a group with steel masks on, one with white scratching in the shape of a skull and ‘x’ scraped on the chest plate. They called him Crossbones. He was their leader. Supposedly.

“If he were to just let the Avengers do their job, these criminals wouldn’t be getting so close to the city.” A gruff response to the newscaster talking about what Secretary Ross had issued in a statement earlier.

“We are doing everything we can to find the perpetrators responsible for the Central Park bombing,” A simple, practiced response, “We will be working tirelessly until they are caught and brought to justice.” Your father scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“They’ll sit on their thumbs until the incident is forgotten and then maybe by then whatever group this is will have another bombing ready to go.” A knock on the door. Your Mother leaving the other side of the couch where she was listening, but not really while scrolling through her facebook page on her phone.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The pleasant chirp of her voice. You couldn’t hear what was on the other end but moments later she reappeared in the living room, two men in suits in tow. “Y/N, honey, these men work with the government, they just have a couple questions for you about the incident.”

The two men looked straight out of men in black, almost comically so. They said that they worked with the Avengers and it made your parents skeptical of them. Why would the Avengers send someone out to talk to you in the first place? You already had given your report to the police in the hospital. It didn’t make any sense.

But you answered their questions and about an hour later they were on their way out the door and you hoped they wouldn’t be back. Something just seemed off about them.

Life went on, as it does.

You were back at work, girls nights on Thursdays having margarita pitchers and tacos at Nia’s penthouse apartment, her and her husband had the good fortune of working for a leading ecological engineering company where they both worked side by side in a lab attempting to mass produce reusable and biodegradable alternatives to the current norm. Chinese takeout containers in your fridge and the same bag of salad you throw out and replace each week. Normal.

Except for one thing that made you feel a little crazy. You felt like you were being watched.

Something was wrong, Bucky knew that, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was itching at the back of his mind. Something he had forgotten. Something he couldn’t piece together. It was killing him.

He remembered everything from before. Every hit, every instruction, every time he was put in that chair and his brain was scrambled. Everything except one thing in particular.

Those bleeding hearts on his arm.

He knew that he didn’t have them during the war. It was a point of contention for him, never getting his soul mark, he was endlessly sensitive about it. Insecure. He wondered if maybe the fates hadn’t chosen one for him. Maybe he was a mistake, a flaw in the soulmate system. He didn’t have one. Which is why in that little apartment in Bucharest that he found himself staring at the thin and dark black lines on his right arm.

Was this always meant to happen? He wrought his brain in those early days, when did this happen. When did his soulmate become an adult? How long ago was it? How old are they now?

The apartment smelled like shit. Plumbing was out somewhere, the neighbors next door constantly screamed at each other, but it kept him hidden. It gave him time to think before he would let Steve find him.

But those flowers.

He couldn’t remember. It was gone.

“It would have interfered with their plans,” Shuri explained, “If you had a soulmate that person might have been overwhelming enough to you to deter your mission.” The lab had been updated since he’d last been here. New gadgets and equipment scattered about in an organized but cluttered way.

Shuri was always working on something new and she frequently called him down to work on his arm. Something to give it more feeling, now he couldn’t just feel pressure and temperature, he had actual nerve endings. “They’ll immediately close at the hub if something were to happen, though I don’t imagine you being able to destroy this arm easily.” The dark vibranium and gold.

Bucky nods in agreement, “That makes sense.” She gives him an odd look.

“We could go deeper,” She continues, “They’ve probably buried it deep into your psyche.” It wasn’t a painful process, but it was uncomfortable. Bucky trusted Shuri and he wanted to know. He had to know.

This person, whoever they were, was made for him. He knew that he wasn’t ready for them, for that relationship, but he could at least figure out when the flowers bloomed on his arm and put a timeline together. That’s what he needed.

It was like falling asleep in the bath.

Warm and comfortable, a little foggy. Sleep sets on and you find yourself sinking, slipping further into the heat. Then the inhale of water, burning against your lungs and you’re leaning over the side, fully awake and coughing liquid.

Then again,

And again.

Until it’s clear.

He needed to stay far away from you, whoever you were.

If there was one thing you loved about taking the NYC subway it was people-watching. Not able to happen when it was rush hour and you’d be shoved between an overweight man with a staring problem and an older woman who refused to sit because it was sexist, but on your way home after a late shift. When you had your seat and there were only ten other people in the car with you.

This observance showed you an old man headed home with a cloth tote of groceries. You assumed he was a professor because who else wears tweed on top of a vest and tie. The leather attache case also seemed very professor-like.

There was a group of kids, probably fresh out of high school, laughing loudly and joking around at the front of the car. One of them recording the other three on their phone, a short clipped tune playing on the phone. Probably something for TikTok.

There was a couple and both had a bike with them. The girl was in loose cotton overalls and had lavender hair. The guy’s hair was long, reaching just below his shoulders, heavily tattooed, and thin. He had tapered cuffed jeans and a floral button down on. They would kiss every couple minutes in between talking softly.

The weirdest group were the three men at the end of the subway car. They gave you a weird vibe, but being around seven other people made you feel a little more safe.

They weren’t talking to each other, looking at their phones, but something made you feel like they were watching you when you weren’t looking. You just hoped they weren’t getting off at your stop.

“This paranoia,” your therapist explained, “Is most likely rooted in the incident. You were comfortable and your guard was down.” And then the attack. “It’s perfectly normal to be experiencing some PTSD after being through a traumatic event.”

But it felt so superficial. Other people have had worse situations. No one was hurt that badly. Yes, your cast itches like hell, but you didn’t have to live through the blip. You were one of the ones who blipped, so it was like it never even happened.

You had two parents who really loved you and supported your decisions. They didn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to and they always were there if you needed help.

You had a good group of friends who were reliable and got together once a week like adults do. You had a nice studio apartment not too far away from the good part of town and a job that you excelled at.

There were people who had a bad day, every day. And you had a truly bad day once and now you were this paranoid mess that always felt like the other shoe was about to drop.

“Your worst day is your worst day,” is what she said, “Don’t compare yourself to others, their trauma does not discount your trauma.”

But it still didn’t feel right.

You were regretting bringing your tumbler out to work. Always at the end of the night, full of water or tea, and not wanting to carry it anymore you dumped it out on the street. Another block and you’ll be home. Only one of the men got off at your stop. Tumbler stored in your backpack you white knuckle your keys in your fist. He was headed in the same direction.

It became kind of like tunnel vision. The only thing you could hear is his footsteps. Hard, clacking against the pavement and also the side of your skull. Your heart was racing and you could feel a cold sweat break out on your forehead and the nape of your neck. Your hands are shaking.

The steps to your building have never felt more comforting, but the final slam of the passcode protected door was definitely a little more comforting. The shadow of the man continued to walk by. No glance in your direction.

And you felt foolish.

You were just paranoid, you were sure of it.

“So I was thinking,” Nia took a sip of her margarita, the table full with nachos, guac and chips, and various small street-style tacos. It was a local spot not too far from your apartment, a basement restaurant that was the friend group favorite since freshman year of college when you’d sneak in with fake IDs. “Maybe we upload your soulmark to one of those search sites.”

You roll your eyes, licking the salt of the rim of the glass before taking a long pull of your drink. “I don’t think that’s for me,” You shrug, leaning back in your chair, “I just want to let it happen, it’ll happen eventually.” It’s not that you had anything against those sites. They really helped people and it’s completely possible that it’s how the fates planned for them to meet, but seeing as you were fine as you were at the moment, you didn’t really want anything to help you speed up the process.

Nia sighs, but relents, “So are you going to come to Gin’s gallery opening?”

“What do you have on Rumlow?” Bucky just freshly back from Wakanda greeted Steve.

“How was it?” Bucky shook his head, changing the subject, “Do we have anything on him? His location? Anything?” Steve looked at his friend, understanding, but not wanting to drop the subject.

“We’ve got a couple leads to flush out, but honestly Buck, are you okay?” There was a dark look in his eyes, the look he had often had when he was fresh from the ice and going through Shuri’s process for the first time. The memories he’d face everyday.

“I’ll be fine.” And that was that. Not further questions. He didn’t want to be asked and Steve knew he would come around eventually.

He told himself he was fine, because he was, mostly. This fence he straddled of wanting his soulmate and the before final resignation that he didn’t have one, he was finally on a third side. He couldn’t find them.

Not if he didn’t want to hurt them.

The fog cleared.

He remembered bursting from the ground, flung recklessly by the bomb, landing on his feet. Crouched. Knees shocked in protest, from catching his body weight. He remembers instinctively, standing, making one pass and realizing there was a large group of people in the smoke. He got to work, pulling people out, getting them out of the way before going back in.

Then there it was. As clear as day, he could see it. The bleeding hearts. And then he didn’t have control over his body anymore.

He snapped your arm.

He was ripped away by someone on Rumlow’s team. But he snapped your arm. His eyes focused on your unconscious body as he felt himself fighting others. He didn’t mean to break your arm.

He didn’t mean to.

But he did. And it sat in his gut. Toxic and acidic, rolling and cresting up his throat until he was spitting up bile. Laying over his toilet, gagging and unable to vomit.

He had to stay away. There was no other option.

“They wanted you to bring her back to them?” Shuri asked.

“But they don’t exist anymore.” Bucky offered. Shuri nods, scrolling through the datapad.

“I can take the mission objective from you,” She explains, “But you’re going to have to deal with these negative feelings with your therapist.” The fear. The anxiety. The longing.

“It’s a string.” He remembers his grade school teacher explaining. “A string that’s loose at first, but the tension pulls you closer and closer together until you meet.” A string that bonds, wraps itself around you and fuses you together.

Shuri continues, “You’ll see her again.” It’s a certainty. “Hopefully by then we will have this taken care of.” The trains moving the vibranium, Bucky watched them, disassociating. It was so relaxing seeing them pass on a schedule, quickly and efficiently. Always on time. “You deserve to be happy, James.” That brought his eyes to hers, still unfocused and wanting to leave. “You deserve to be with her.” But he wasn’t so sure.

“Let’s go.” Steve’s voice was soothing, familiar when he feels like he’s drowning. It always brings him out. It pulls him back to the surface.

He’s in the jet. The jet just landed. Another base. Another search for information. Far away from New York. Far away from you.

“All these bases look the same.” Sam sounds annoyed, the concrete structure buried halfway into the ground. Old Hydra bases that Rumlow knew. The ones that Bucky also knew. The ones that Rumlow knows that Bucky knows. Breadcrumbs found in the forest leading them into the evil old woman’s oven.

It was abandoned and recently so if the empty rotting food containers and spoiled milk in the fridge was anything to go by. Robbed of the guns and ammo, the last few bombs left over from the old regime kept under lock and key behind steel doors.

“Where do you think they’re going next?” It was no secret that Rumlow hates Steve, Bucky, and Sam. Sam is the reason his face is burnt to shit. Bucky was the golden boy of Hydra and Steve… Steve was one of the big three. Steve’s face was plastered on billboards and they sold action figures of his likeness. Rumlow was the jealous type. Always.

If Rumlow had been chosen to be a Winter Soldier he would have taken it with pride. He wouldn’t have suffered or had to have been scrambled like Bucky. And as far as Bucky was concerned Rumlow could have taken it. But it wasn’t that easy. And Rumlow had been 60 years too late.

“Onto the next one?”

You could swear that was the same guy from the other night. Maybe. Possibly. Were you crazy? Your leg shaking with anxiety, bouncing to try to release any kind of energy building. The paranoia. The fear. He rode this train the other night. The guy who gets off on your same stop. But maybe that’s just his stop. Maybe he lives on your block. Maybe you really are crazy.

You were trying to look preoccupied with your phone, but from the corner of your eye you could see him. Black t-shirt and jeans. Hands held placid in his lap, staring out the window. Not much to look at when you’re underground, but if you looked up you can see your own reflection in that window.

Trust your gut.

That’s what all of those true crime shows and podcasts have told you. Trust your gut. And something was wrong with this guy.

Your cast itched like hell.

In your phone you created a note. What color were his eyes? How tall was he? What was his build? Any distinguishing features? Scars? Tattoos? Did he have a visible soulmark?

Your stop came. And as expected he also got off.

The pounding of your heart matched the dual footsteps. A thump in your ears as you listened to the blood rush through them. Above ground you quickly dialed someone you hoped would answer.

It rang once, twice, three times.

Four and five.

He seemed close. Like he knew you were onto him. Like he knew that you knew his intentions were sinister.

Six and Seven.

Keys fisted in your opposite hand you prayed under your breath that Nia would wake up. Fucking Christ Nia answer.

Eight and Nine.

A chill down your spine, a harsh grip against your cast, arm yanked out of socket. The man pulled relentlessly, other hand coming to grip your neck. Your fisted keys meeting his cheek and eye socket. A scream. Phone dropped. A sore, broken and still healing arm, bruised and blue, now in the open air. A fist meeting your face and your back hitting the brick wall of the building behind you.

Directed to voicemail.

“Is it bad?” Natasha sniffed the cup in front of him before taking a sip, “Tastes fine to me.” The coffee he didn’t realize he’d been glaring at. Too caught up in thinking about the flowers on his arm. The ones revealed by his rolled up sleeve.

“The coffee’s fine.” Bucky sighs, yanking down his sleeve, looking up at Natasha’s prying eyes. A beat of silence. “It’s fine.”

“No it’s not.” She protests, grabbing his arm and yanking the sleeve back up, “What’s going on?” Bucky shakes his head, picking up his mug and creating a distance, tugging the sleeve back down over the offending ink. “You haven’t been yourself since Central Park.”

“I haven’t been myself since I enlisted in the military.” Not untrue.

“You know what I mean,” Nat leaned against the counter, peering at him, a calculating look in her eyes. “Did you see them?” The way his back tensed she knew she was right, brow pulling together tight. “Bucky-”

“Drop it.” He could hear disappointment in her voice,

“You not talking to them isn’t going to make it hurt any less.” He knows. He knows. But it would hurt you less. So that’s what he’s going to do.

“You have to learn to trust yourself,” His therapist said, “You have to trust that you’re a good person and that you weren’t in control, you wouldn’t have done these things normally, would you?” Well no, but he still did those things. The guilt will never go away. He just has to learn how to come to terms with it.

It’s a process.

But he needed to keep you from him.

It’s not that he believed he would break your arm again or worse, but maybe. It’s a possibility and it gave him enough anxiety that he isn't sleeping well anymore. Those blissful eight hours dwindled to six hours full of tossing and turning. Being too hot and then too cold. Nothing was helping, jogs, hot baths, cold showers, time spent with a punching bag, reading, meditation. He wondered why Pierce never removed the skin on his arm.

If he didn’t want him to have anything to do with his soulmate that is.

“They could have used them to control you.” Shuri had speculated, “Make you more compliant.” Makes sense.

But he could have just brought you back and then what? They use you to torture him. Give you to him as a reward? Let you play house for doing a good job?

He shudders with the thought.

His room was a nice reprieve from the questioning. From Nat, Steve, and even Sam had started to ask about his more than chilled demeanor recently. But he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to focus on. He didn’t know what he wanted.

But it seemed like someone was going to choose for him.

You hated hospitals. The smell, the noise, the way the sheets felt against your skin. The only good thing about it was the socks, for whatever reason they are the thinnest yet warmest socks ever created. Wild.

“We think you should move home,” Your Mother was pacing, “We never liked you moving into the city in the first place.” You knew this.

When you were freshly graduated from high school and told your parents that you wanted to move to New York it was definitely a hard subject for a while, but you’d been living in the city for a while now and truth be told this was only the third time something bad has happened to you since moving here from North Jersey.

The first one was years ago when you were still in college and to be fair, it was a bad part of town, it was very late at night, and you and your friends were as naive as you were young. The guy didn’t make off with too much money anyway since all of you were broke, but regardless, still a shitty situation.

The last two were just this past week, the wedding, and now the guy who took your wallet and ripped the cast with unbelievable force from your arm. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Your arm had been pulled out of socket as well, so now you were in a fresh cast and a sling.

“The city is getting worse,” Your Father agrees, “I don’t know if I can honestly take another call telling me you’re in the hospital.” You could agree with them.

When you were younger and the Avengers first became a thing it was a steady increase in crime. Then Daredevil and Spider-Man didn’t help. Every criminal in New York wanted to test their chops against the big guys. King Pin became a thing and a bunch of superpowered criminals became rampant, kept only in check by the constant monitoring of heroes on the streets.

But it wasn’t always like that, 99% of the time it was just another normal day. The problem is your parents loved watching the news, and everything on the news was bad. They didn’t see the good things about the city, they didn’t see the good people in the city. Like the older man in your building who you could call at any time with a plumbing issue and he’d be right over to fix it, the housing office will get back to you anywhere between 7-30 days. There’s another woman with a large family who, even when they’re not there, cooks enough to feed an army and is more than happy to deliver leftovers to your door.

You’ve never felt more like yourself before moving to the city, there was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t be moving out of New York any time soon.

“It’s just bad luck,” You sigh, closing your eyes against the harsh fluorescent light, “I’ll be fine really, I told you that you didn’t even have to come up here.”

A knock at the door, your nurse. She walked in and placed the little paper cup with two pills on the tray next to the bed.

“These are for pain, you have some other visitors,” Other visitors? “Are you okay to be questioned?” You’d already given your statement to the police.

“Questioned by who?” The nurse looks over to your parents apologetically.

“It would probably be best if they questioned her alone.” Begrudgingly your parents left the room, two Avengers taking their place.

“So one of Rumlow’s goonies attacked this girl?” Sam looked down at the file in his hands. The car scenery changes from the woods and forest of upstate into the skyscrapers and metal of the city. Bucky’s stomach was churning, but he faced the window and didn’t speak.

“She was also one of the vics at Central Park.” Steve directed the car down the exit ramp, into the heart of the city. Bucky felt like he was going to vomit.

It’s her.

“So dude gets a good look at her, thinks she’s pretty, follows her for days afterward?” Sam speculates. Bucky’s neck feels hot.

This whole car feels hot. He cracks his window.

“I’m gonna wait here.” Steve and Sam look at him in the rearview, Sam even turning in his seat as Steve navigated a spot in the parking garage. “What?”

“Everytime there’s something Hydra we can’t pull your nose out of it,” Sam began, “But all the sudden, ‘I’ll wait in the car?’”

“Are you good, Buck?” Steve’s voice with more concern, killing the engine.

“No.” He grumbles, “I’m not.” He couldn’t go in there. He just couldn’t.

“If it’s okay,” Steve began, “We would just like to ask you a few questions about the man who attacked you.” It must have been a big deal, the guy who followed you. Why would two Avengers be in your hospital room if it wasn’t.

“Of course.” The chill of the hospital room was slowly warming, a nervousness was growing. Who was this guy? And why did he attack you?

“When did you first notice he was following you?” The Falcon, he stood further back, almost against the wall. His arms crossed and legs in a wide stance. Captain America was in a much more comforting position, sitting in the chair next to your bed, leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees.

“Uhm, well… I was in the hospital for a day or two after the attack.” You shift in bed, suddenly wildly uncomfortable, “I was on the subway, headed home, and he was with two other men.”

“Did they also follow you off the train?” You shake your head,

“No the first night I saw them, they seemed to know each other, but they stayed on their phones most of the time. The man who attacked me was the only one who left at my stop.” The two men had been on the subway sporadically, not always with him. But more often than not.

Whoever they were, they must have thought you were dumb enough not to notice. But you were also dumb enough to think your paranoia wasn’t real. Maybe you should be going to therapy once a week instead of twice a month. Maybe then you would have learned the difference between markers of past trauma and an actual gut feeling of danger.

“What did he look like?”

Bucky’s leg anxiously bounced in the backseat. His fingernails were no longer interesting and his phone, no matter how often he checked his apps, gave him no solace.

“Maybe just a peek.” He reasoned, leg halting its movements and he looked out the window of the car to the door, entry to the hospital. You were so close, his heart was pounding. He steps from the car, but pauses at the glass sliding doors long enough for them to automatically close again before finally venturing inside.

Bucky hated hospitals. The smell reminded him of the lab. How sterile it was. How cold. It made him wildly uncomfortable.

His heart clenched painfully in his chest. The arm. The one he knew that your tattoo resided because that’s where his was, covered in a cast and a sling. There was bruising down the same side, starting under your right eye and trailing down and disappearing into your hospital gown, before reappearing on the small sliver of skin between your sleeve and the top of the sling.

This was his fault and he knew it.

But he’ll handle it.

He’ll make sure that Rumlow and his thugs were safely behind bars on the Raft. Either that, or buried in a shallow grave somewhere in Siberia.

“She might have seen something.” Steve slammed the car door and Bucky pretended to be preoccupied with his phone.

“We’ll have to tail her for a while,” The engine starting, Sam continues, “He’ll come back.” Bucky’s jaw clenched.

He wouldn’t give him the chance.

The paranoia. The fear. It was palpable. You constantly looked over your shoulder. You’d bought another deadbolt for your door. Checking the windows twice before bed. You bought blackout curtains. As soon as the sun set. Windows checked, curtains pulled. Deadbolts are always locked.

You didn’t leave unless you had to. The two Avengers didn’t comfort you, why was this guy after you?

“We’ll do everything we can to find him,” The Captain, just like the words of Ross, aimed to soothe but it really showed you that they had no idea either.

“Maybe you should take a break,” That’s what your therapist said, “Go stay with your parents for a little bit.” But you couldn’t. Because it felt like he was winning. And you were far too stubborn for that.

You started carrying a knife.

It bounced against your hip as you walked, to and from work. The heavy metal you’d run your fingers across if you felt too anxious to continue. The routine helped. It helped the stress, the depression, the anxiety. You found yourself missing the comfort of the tattoo.

It gave that to you.

You never noticed it before now. When by force you can’t actually see it, now you wanted to see it more than anything, but your arm was encased in an inch of plaster and was still terribly sore. It was a comfort to know that there was someone out there that would have been able to help you through this. But you didn’t know who they were, or where they were. And it didn’t matter anyway.

What good would you be if you couldn’t help yourself?

“Have you felt an increase in thoughts of this nature?” Your therapist was a nice woman who wore her hair messily piled on top of her head. Gray streaks throughout and proud of them, always in all black and always had a fresh iced coffee whenever you met with her. You’d been seeing her for years.

Insecurity about one's soulmate often led a person to seek help, the strange self-loathing and anxiety that grew as a teenager was what gave you a final push in college when you turned to abusing adderall in order to tackle your busy schedule and just keep you from thinking all together.

“Just since the assault.” And that was true. You’d been so good for such a long time.

“Progress isn’t linear.” She always tells you. And you’ll try not to criticize yourself even further for falling behind. Or what you think is falling behind.

You try to hold those ideas close. Because your soulmate isn’t who is going to help you get past this. You are.

It didn’t take long. Not for the Winter Soldier. And definitely not for a man who was personally wronged by a sloppy thug who left tracks like mud on white linoleum.

It was his soulmate they were after. The tug on his heart strings as he remembered the way you face looked, eye socket swollen and black because of this asshole’s fist. The anger that bubbled and rolled, acidic and hot in his gut.

It took him less than 36 hours to find the guy.

“What does Rumlow know?” Fuck all if Brock thinks Bucky Barnes was going to call him Crossbones. The man’s eyes were rolling, head lolling, drool coming from the corner of his mouth, strapped to a medical table that Bucky could still feel against his back. He sighed in frustration. Maybe he hit the guy a little too hard. That’s fine. They had time.

This place gave him the creeps. The facility that he’d searched with Steve and Sam just a day or two ago. It was eerie seeing it empty. The way he remembered it, back in the 90s when he was here, right before Howard and Maria, it was booming with personnel. Men and women devoted to ‘the cause.’ Hydra’s better tomorrow.

The better tomorrow that he helped shape.

Natasha set the bomb off. He was cleaning up the rubble.

“What does Rumlow know?” The man’s eyes met his, fearful, a hard swallow. Tongue seeking out the tooth that Bucky already ripped out. The cyanide. Another hard swallow, his fate resigned. Bucky leaned forward, the metal chair rusted and screaming in protest. “What?” Bucky couldn’t help but bite, “You had no problem beating a woman on the street.” And now the coward wanted to be afraid. “Start talking.” The tools Bucky kept on him lay out on the medical cart. Pliers and a couple different knives. A pick he used to unlock doors. Mostly for show.

Mostly.

Fingernails were the worst. That’s what Bucky started with, but the guy was more of a coward than he thought. He got two fingers in before squealing,

“He just wanted a picture of the tattoo.” Fat blubbering tears. Snot across his nose. “He wanted to see her soulmark.”

“Well?” Bucky pressed on the raw flesh, hard. “Did he see it?” If Rumlow saw the tattoo, if he had a picture, and he knew where you lived, he had to move fast. The man squirmed, crying, “Did he?” Bucky yelled.

“Yes.”

You wondered how these kids got so talented. Truly. A ten-year-old who tells Gordon Ramsay that he’s making a Bearnaise sauce. Like what even is a Bearnaise sauce?

From the comfort of your home, a blissful day off, you’d gotten a lot done. Probably one of the most productive days you had in a long time and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that cleaning your entire apartment ceiling to floor and listening to an audio book completely cleared your mind. It gave the sinking feeling in your gut that you couldn’t shake a twelve hour break as well.

This ramen that took three minutes to make from a plastic bag looked paltry in comparison to ten-year-old Grace’s filet mignon that she was presenting to the judges, artfully drizzled with her Bearnaise sauce, but it was the best you could do planning to go grocery shopping tomorrow.

The broth was hot, spilling on your pants as a series of hard knocks met the wood of your front door. Anxiety spiking. Stepping from the couch, you backed away from the door. Setting the bowl on your counter,you backed yourself down the hallway, towards your bedroom where you knew your phone was charging on your night stand.

The person stopped knocking, voice coming muffled through the door. “Y/N, this is James Barnes.” The Avenger? Your steps halting, you stood in the doorway of your room, straight ahead was your front door. “I have reason to believe you’re in danger.” There was an internal struggle. Was this guy telling the truth? Do you go look out the peephole? You weren’t even sure you knew what this guy looked like to know if it was him or not. What if this was a trick? What if the man who assaulted you was on the other side of that door?

Heart racing you took a step forward, heading to the door to look through the peephole when you were yanked back hard enough to hurt your neck. A scream leaping from your throat as a hand covered your mouth, a strong arm pinning your arms down and keeping you from lashing out.

“I’ve got you,” A whisper, “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” You could feel your body trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “That’s not James Barnes.” There was a slight breeze from where your bedroom window was open. “I’m gonna let you go, but you’ve got to listen and trust me to get you out of here. Can you do that?” His body was hot against your back, the hand over your mouth cold and metallic. James Barnes had a metal arm, didn’t he? You could feel yourself nod, the man releasing you slowly and letting you take a step away before turning back to face him.

His hair was short, ruffled, with a thick scruff on his face. And the bluest eyes you’d ever seen.

“Let’s go.” The banging on the door resumed, but this time, the hinges were bending, metal warping with each hit. The man you were supposed to trust jumped onto the windowsill and held out his hand to you, “We don’t have a lot of time.” Your eyes flit between the front door, now splintering, and the open metal palm of the man who broke into your apartment. Adrenaline rising you made a split second decision, the door falling off its hinges you let the man pull you out of your apartment and down the fire escape.

It was close, almost too close.

Apartment window locks, the old ones anyway, were an easy lift and pop out of place. The banging on your front door gave him cause for alarm, but you’d already been making your way back to him. Steve had a lot of questions, but was enroute nonetheless. All he had to do was get you as far away from Rumlow as possible.

“They’re on their way to take care of the guys breaking down your door,” He explained, trying not to think about how soft your hand was in his. “Steve, Sam, and a couple other agents.”

Your eyes were shifty, he knew you didn’t trust him, at least not all the way.

“Are you okay?” The swelling was gone from your eye but it was still a violent shade of blue and for a second Bucky thinks he went easy on the thug before turning him over.

You’re three blocks away, the late night traffic and noise was a little disorienting. A car was in front of you backed into an alley, blacked out windows, the Avengers insignia in gray paint on the side. Maybe this guy was the real deal.

“I’m fine.” Truth was you were terrified, your feet were cold and you were surprised you didn’t step in glass with how fast he’d dragged you three blocks without shoes on. He gave you an odd look before opening the passenger door and gesturing for you to get inside. There was hesitation. His eyes locked with yours, seeming to debate something before taking a step closer to you.

You stepped back.

“I need you to come with me.” His voice was soothing, reassuring, but you still couldn’t quite be bought.

“Listen, I don’t know what kind of situation you got me out of back there, but this is all a little too strange for me,” There were police sirens, flashing lights sped down the street behind you, towards your apartment. You look back at the man in front of you, arms wrapped around yourself and toes now going numb. “I just don’t know exactly who I can trust right now.”

The metal digits moved to his sleeve, tugging the fabric upward, his pale skin a stark contrast against he black ink of bleeding hearts.

His bleeding hearts.

Your bleeding hearts.

“Trust me,” he says, voice desperate, “Please.” And in an instant, you did.

It made sense.

It made complete sense.

He was over eighteen when you were born, because he was born a century ago.

There was silence in the car as you left the city. Both unable to speak. Where did you go from here? You weren’t ready for this. You don’t know if you could do this. Your hands were shaking, your shoulder was aching and you suddenly felt wildly uncomfortable.

There’s an expectation with soulmates. Is it what he expected of you? Like was this you jumping into the deep end of dating and meeting families and getting married and spending every waking minute sappy and in love?

You weren’t ready.

You couldn’t do this.

You were safe. That’s all that matters. Bucky’s hand hurt from gripping the wheel so tight. His heart was racing now that you were so close. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do here. Does he start a conversation? Does he tell you about what just happened? No. He doesn’t want to scare you more than you probably already are. Rumlow is a conversation for later. When there can be a rational conversation outside adrenaline and fear.

But where do you go from here? Bucky didn’t know. Should he be asking you on a date? Are you going to ask him on a date? His anxiety spiked thinking about it. He just started doing well enough in therapy to go back on field missions, he didn’t know if he was ready to take on a committed relationship. The rolling feeling in his gut was back.

“Here,” The compound was sleek and minimalist, “If you want to rest until the rest of the team gets back, it might be a while after interrogation and processing.” A room for you to sleep in, the sun already sunk below the horizon well before you were pulled hastily from your apartment, the fatigue finally settling in.

“Uhm, thank you,” You didn’t know what to say, but it seems like he didn’t know either.

“I’ll uh…” He took a step back, “I’ll come get you in the morning.” Okay, okay. “If you want to take a shower, it’s right through there. And there’s spare clothes in the drawers.” Avengers sweats and hoodies. Nondescript undergarments.

The bottom of the shower, arm hanging out the side. You didn’t know how long you sat there, the water never went cold. But by the time you were done and you slipped under the covers the rest of the world just seemed to disappear.

“She’s your soulmate?” Steve looked at his friend incredulously. “Bucky why didn’t you say anything before?” He was stubborn, and he didn’t know what to do at the time.

“I don’t know.” Steve was annoyed. Hands on his hips, wide captain stance, authoritative voice annoyed. Disappointed dad annoyed.

“We would have had a strict detail on her,” He paced, “We could have brought her here for christ’s sake.” But Bucky didn’t want that. He wasn’t ready for this.

“She didn’t seem really interested in it Steve,” he shrugs, “And neither am I.” Sam scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

“You don’t want to be with her?” A strange look, “She’s literally made for you, and you for her, and you don’t want to be with her?” Sam’s eyebrows pulled tight in confusion.

“That’s not how soulmates are supposed to react to each other.” Steve adds. Both men didn’t understand. When they found their soulmates everything seemed to click into place. They weren’t as damaged, they weren’t as scarred. They wouldn’t understand.

“I’m not ready.” Bucky’s chest felt tight. “I’m just not ready. Not yet.”

You never had to see him. This Rumlow person. Crossbones. The next morning, when you woke up, James Barnes was waiting for you at the door.

“Are you hungry?” He seemed nervous, but so were you. He leads you out into the main common room. A plate of food covered in a metal lid, eggs, bacon, toast. A plate set aside for you from their early breakfast, he explained that most of them wake up for early morning training. Paperwork for the incident yesterday. It was quiet. Awkwardly so. But you didn’t know what to say, and it seemed like neither did he.

He busied himself making a cup of coffee and you watched him move. The ease in which he moved about this kitchen in where you imagined he made his meals, where he bonded with those other Avengers. Celebrities. It seemed surreal almost. Domestic. It’s why in all of those magazines they take candids of celebrities going to the grocery store, coming from the gym, faces clean of makeup.

They buy food. They work out. They have wrinkles and acne. Just like us.

They make coffee. They have awkward conversations. They don’t know what to do. Just like us.

It’s why your Mom loved watching reality tv shows. Not because she liked the people on them, but because sometimes it was interesting to see how the 1% lived. What they worried about. What their worldview was. How black and white they saw things.

You briefly wonder what an Avengers reality show would be like.

This was your soulmate.

The person created for you. And he drinks his coffee black. He had dark circles under his eyes. His arm was black, gold detailing, shaped just like his flesh arm. You were trying to remember the guy from the history books, what he looked like, but fifth grade was so long ago and you were more worried about growing out the bangs you’d cut at home in your bathroom.

It was hard to believe.

But it was real.

And right on his arm as he turned to join you at the kitchen bartop. You felt your back straighten, your fork continuing its path, pushing eggs from one side to the other. What do you do now? Say something? Anything? You couldn’t tell if he didn’t want this as much as you or if that’s just how he was. Silent, standoffish, the gears in his head turning and turning with thought. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the movement of your fork. Seemingly snapping out of it when you lay your fork to the side, his eyes met yours, a forced smile.

This isn’t what you expected, but the bubbling in your guy was going to spill from your lips before you could possibly help it,

“We don’t have to do this.” Whatever this was.

You’ve seen soulmates meet and you’re sure he’s seen soulmates meet in his lifetime. It wasn’t uncommon. Passing on the street, they see the soulmark, tears, hugging, maybe even a kiss if the pair was passionate enough. At your place of work it happened once with a new hire. It happens, constantly, around you. But this wasn’t like that at all.

He lets out a sigh of relief, “Thank god.” Your heart clenches, a feeling of rejection, smothered down, swallowed with a sip of orange juice.

“Wow.” His mouth opens and closes,

“I didn’t mean it like that,” shaking his head, he runs a hand through his hair, “I’m just not ready for this.” An understanding,

“Me either.” You both mirrored each other, relaxing against the chair back. You stare at one another for a minute, the silence comfortable for the first time. There was a simmer of rejection in the acid of your stomach, like maybe if he’d just been into it. If he wanted to be together now and do those things together now, you’d push aside your fears and leap into it.

But this was being an adult? Making the choice that you need to make and not the choice that you want.

There was that feeling there, you wanted to ask him questions. You wanted to know everything, this curiosity nagging at your brain. But this was good enough for now.

“Do you have anywhere to stay?” He asked. You let out a heavy sigh, realizing you wouldn’t be able to go back to your apartment for a bit. The door was bashed in “...and the fight was in your living room.” So the entire front of the apartment was mostly destroyed. “You won’t be able to go back there for a while.” You mourn the $300 you’d just spend finishing the living and dining area. “I mean, I’m not going to kick you out.” He continued, “But I’m not sure you really want to stay here.”

“I don’t.” He watches you rub your eyes and lean over, elbows on the table. “I can go stay with my parents for a little while.”

He didn’t think about how you would have living parents. His were long gone, buried in a cemetery behind the church they’d gone to their entire lives. It gave him pause,

“If that’s what you want to do.”

“It is.”

There was silence for a moment more, Bucky debating something before beginning, “I uh… just got cleared for field work, I still have some stuff I need to work through before I can be in this relationship.” Shifting awkwardly, “Fully.”

He watched your eyes widen a fraction, before releasing a sigh, “I understand that,” You lean towards him, “It’s weird cause my whole life I thought you were gonna be some guy old enough to be my father.”

“Technically I’m old enough to be your great-grandfather.” A laugh, the tension vaporized from the air.

“I wish I paid more attention in social studies,” You shake your head, “After central park,” A swallow, “I started to have nightmares and I felt so paranoid, and then that guy attacked me on the street, and now…”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” His eyes soft, fists clenched under the bar top, “That’s my fault.”

“I know they were after you,” you could see it across his forehead, the way his shoulders were tense, the guilt, “but it’s not your fault they attacked me, and central park was just a coincidence.”

“I know.” He knows. “But I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.” You paused, not knowing to say, but it makes sense. His line of work was dangerous, and it means that you might be put into danger every once in a while.

“We will just have to find new ways to cope then.” You could see the appeal, the way his eyes were looking down at the bartop, then snapped up to yours. It felt like the breath was knocked from your lungs. Is this what it feels like?

If he had asked you in that moment to stay, you would have, without hesitation.

“If you need anything,” You couldn’t see his eyes properly in the dark of the car parked outside of your parent’s house, “Just call, and if I don’t answer send me a text.”

“Okay,” you look down at your hands in your lap, then over at the front door, the porch light on and you could see the TV through the window, your parents probably watching Brooklyn-99 reruns and trying to stay awake until you arrive.

“Hey,” His hand slipped into yours, pulling your eyes back to his, “You can stay at the compound if it would make you feel more safe.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” He’d taken you back to your apartment, behind the caution tape and helped you pack a suitcase before driving an hour outside of the city, well into New Jersey. Your belly fluttered as he pulled the suitcase from the trunk, carrying it to the front door where the two of you now stood under the porch light.

“Just check for me,” He said, “You’ve got my number and Steve’s.” You did. “You’ve got the number for the compound direct office.” You did. “Okay, okay.” A pause, “Let me just give you Nat and Sam’s numbers too, and Shuri’s.” You huff a sigh as the phone is taken from your hand, numbers quickly punched in.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He looked at you from beneath his lashes, thumbs quickly entering the last few digits.

“If anything suspicious happens, and I mean a neighbor takes their dog on a different route, someone passes the house one time too many…”

“I’m gonna be okay Bucky.” Your heart warmed with the concern, but you were also comforted by the fact that you’d agreed to take this slow.

“This is more for me than you, more for my peace of mind.” You could understand. He let out a deep breath, eyes meeting yours while he handed the phone back. There was a beat of silence, a creeping tension creeping up your spine, something pooled in your lower belly. Not awkward, not awkward at all. Something else. You took a step closer to him,

“Can I just do one thing before you go?” Bucky’s tongue peaked out, wetting his lower lip, rosy and pink. “I’m just-”

“Yeah,” A whisper. His fingers were soft on your arm, warm. And you pressed your lips to his. Hard to explain, how right it felt. Like you had a puzzle you’d been working on all your life and you were close to finishing, putting the whole thing together and he came up and handed you a piece you didn’t know you were missing. But it wasn’t complete yet, not yet.

Lips parting as you kissed him again, that pink tongue brushing against your lower lip. A breath away, “I should go.” Another kiss, soft and languid.

“Yeah.” It was hard to catch your breath, setting back down on your heels, stepping back. The air suddenly chilled, your body missing his warmth.

“If you need anything…” You smiled as he took step off the porch, mouth grinning, stupid and sweet.

“I’ll call.”

taglist // @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @gifsbysimplysonia @alwaysbenhardysgirl @beck-alicious

#jbbuckybarnesbirthdaychallenge #bucky barnes x reader #soulmate au #sebastian stan #captain america #the falcon and the winter soldier #bucky barnes #steve rogers #sam wilson #natasha romanoff #the winter soldier

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kumeko · 5 years ago

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A/N: For the @bnha-fantasy-zine ! Is it a surprise I wrote about big three and Eri again? I think not

…

“HAAAAHHHHH!” Mirio yelled as he charged forward. Shield raised, he blocked an incoming attack before deftly slashing with his own sword. His opponent, a rough-looking thief, grunted as she jumped back, narrowly missing a killing blow. Not that Mirio’s sword missed by much—the cut on her arm was sure to sting.

“I can’t find their leader!” Tamaki shapeshifted into a wolf, pouncing on the thief before she could recover. His jaws tore through her flesh, leaving a bloody wound on her shoulder. It was too much for her—the wound, the blood, the wolf, and she fainted.

“Thanks.” Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Mirio glanced around the cave, the hideout for a gang that terrorized a local town. A huge system of tunnels and caverns, it had taken them over an hour to find this main chamber. Another twenty minutes to clear it of the thieves and rogues that called it home. Whatever ones were still alive would be taken into questioning, but considering how hard they fought, there might not be many. “I don’t see him either—they said he had a crow’s mask, right?”

“It might just be a beaked mouth, maybe he’s a shapeshifter too,” Tamaki suggested, his voice oddly gravelly. Maybe it was the wolf vocal chords. No matter how many times it happened, Mirio still couldn’t get used to hearing a human voice from an animal. “I’ll check.” Tamaki sniffed the air. “There it is!”

Before Mirio could stop him, he bounded off down a corridor. Damn it, they weren’t supposed to separate. Mirio scanned the room: the bandits were all down, either dead or groaning with pain. None of them seemed capable of getting up, let alone fight. Satisfied, he ran after his friend. “I’m coming!”

“Hurry up!” Tamaki howled, more wolf than man. His cry echoed through the shaft.

That didn’t sound good. Gripping his sword tighter, Mirio sprinted down the dark tunnel. On the right wall, Tamak’s tail disappeared through a door. “Here!”

Barely slowing down to turn, Mirio bounded into the gloomy room and slipped into a fighting stance. Just like the rest of the cavern, the lighting here was a single, flickering bar on the top. No one popped out at his entrance. “How many?”

“One.” Tamaki ran toward a corner, where a bundle of blankets was piled up. He started nosing it. “Hiding. They smell—”

“Smell what?” Mirio heard a hard crunch as he stepped forward. Looking down, he spotted a dirty doll. In a bandit’s hideout. Did it accidentally get mixed in with the loot? Tamaki still hadn’t responded and Mirio’s brow raised. “Tamaki? What is it?”

“Mirio,” Tamaki replied balefully, wolf ears drooped down. He was sitting on his haunches now, his gaze fixed on the blankets. “What do we do?”

“What do you mean?” Leaving the doll behind, he quickly trotted to his friend. They’d fought a whole gang together. Just what was left that could stump his friend? “We—”

Catching sight of the bundle, Mirio cut himself off. Nestled in a cocoon of blankets was a little girl, fast asleep.

-x-

There were few things on this planet as magical as Nejire’s grove. Mirio would know—as a knight, he had travelled to lands near and far and almost nothing took his breath away as that first view as he entered her lands. Graceful willow trees and towering oaks ringed her field, a wide, open field littered with wildflowers. A dirt path led to a secret grotto, which was perhaps his second favourite place.

It was a pity he couldn’t appreciate any of these things. Instead, most of his attention was focused on the little girl in his hands, sound asleep. In the few days he had known her, she had barely said a word, only looking at him and Tamaki with big, worried eyes. A kidnapped child? Possibly, but no villages had reported missing people or even a ransom. Most likely scenario, an orphan taken in or a child of the gang. Either way, she had to have seen terrible things, especially considering how she had trembled when he’d first held her hand.

“We’re almost there,” Tamaki muttered, trotting nervously next to him. He’d taken on the form a giant elk, fierce horns jutting out of his skull. Only animals could find the way to Nejire’s home. “You have them, right?”

“What?” Shaken from his thoughts, Mirio raised a brow.

“My clothes!” Tamaki whispered nervously, his big eyes darting to and fro as though Nejire would pop out at his words. “I need to change before she spots us.”

“Afraid to be caught buck-naked?” Grinning, he couldn’t resist the obvious pun. It was just there. And obvious. It’d take a greater man than him to ignore it. Patting the bag looped over his shoulder, he added reassuringly, “Don’t worry, I made sure to grab them.”

Tamaki sighed in relief. “Thanks—”

A breeze ruffled through his hair before he could add anything and Mirio could almost hear Tamaki’s groan. Within seconds Nejire appeared before them, forming out of the wind itself. She hovered over the ground, her simple white dress fluttering around her knees. At the tips of her blue hair, mini-tornadoes formed, harmless to touch. Her bright eyes were open and staring at them as she floated in the air. “Hey, you’re here!”

Surprised, Tamaki transformed back into a human out of reflex. A burst of smoke rolled off him, hiding him from sight, but not before they both caught a glimpse of his bright red skin. With a yelp, Tamaki dived into the bushes. Nejire blinked, surprised. “Tamaki?”

The bushes rustled and Mirio could just barely make out Tamaki’s eyes peeking out of the leaves. “My clothes.”

“Hey, hey!” Nejire landed on the ground and crouched in front of the bushes. With a frown, she started to reach into the bushes. “I’ve seen you naked before.”

“Accidentally!” Tamaki hissed, clarifying immediately. He swatted her hands away.

“It was multiple times!” Nejire grumbled, rubbing her sore hand.

“Every time was an accident!” Tamaki’s hand poked out of the bush, as red as a lobster’s. “Clothes!”

Mirio chuckled. Well, that was to be expected as a shapeshifter. Animals didn’t really wear clothes, after all. Shrugging off his sack, he dropped it into Tamaki’s waiting hand. “Here you go.”

“I don’t get it.” Nejire puffed her cheeks, sulking as she stepped back. “What’s the big deal?”

“Uh…” Mirio scratched his cheek, not sure how to explain any of this. Especially to a sprite that only started wearing clothes because Tamaki was going to die of a heart attack every time they met otherwise. “Well, he’s shy?” It was partially correct, at least.

“Sure.” Nejire clearly didn’t believe a word but she let it go. Rocking on the heels of her feet, she glanced at him. “What’s with the blankets?”

“Right.” Mirio glanced at the bundle in his arm. He’d almost forgotten why they were here in the first place. Fortunately, Eri hadn’t woken up yet. “I need your help.”

“My help?” Nejire clapped her hands excitedly, her powers spiking and making her float. “We haven’t gone on an adventure together in ages!”

“Last month,” Tamaki corrected, emerging from the bushes fully dressed. “We went together last month.”

“That was long ago!” Nejire argued, before grimacing. “Why are your clothes so bad?”

Tamaki looked away, rubbing his arm uncomfortably. “It’s easier to slip out of them.”

Mirio couldn’t argue about that—while everything Tamaki wore now was oversized and ill-fitted, he didn’t have to worry too much while he was shapeshifting. His pants, so loose they actually needed a belt to stay on? It’d just drop off as he transformed. An irregular tunic? Cheap material that wasn’t a loss if Tamaki tore right through them. They’d learned the hard way what happened to nice clothes the last time they attended a banquet.

“Yeah, I get that.” Nejire rolled her eyes, leaning forward to poke at his chest. “But there’s fashionable baggy clothes.”

An old argument. Mirio stepped between them before they got trapped in it again. “Anyways, I need your help.” He uncovered Eri’s face, showing her to Nejire. “This little girl—”

“You’re pregnant?” Nejire shrieked, her hands pumping excitedly as her eyes darted from Eri to Mirio. “She doesn’t look like you. Is that normal?”

“WHAT?” Mirio felt his ears burn and he was sure his skin colour was only a shade away from turning into Tamaki’s at this point. “I’m not…t-this isn’t…”

“People don’t work like that.” Tamaki’s lips twitched, clearly suppressing his own laughter.

“Yeah!” Mirio shook his head furiously. “Also, she’s three. That’s not what a human baby looks like.”

“Oh.” Nejire’s shoulders slumped, disappointed. “I see.” After a second, she perked up again. “You got someone else pregnant!”

“No, we were catching a gang of thieves and found her at the hideout!” Mirio clarified quickly, before the misunderstanding could get any worse. He knew nymphs and other magical creatures had different norms, but even this? Seriously? If his skin got any redder, any hotter, he could cook an egg on it.

“You got a gang member pregnant?” Nejire looked at him pityingly. “Mirio…that’s a tragic romance.”

Mirio hit his head against a tree.

-x-

“We’re almost there,” Nejire chirped cheerfully, skipping ahead of them on the forest path. “But do we really need to talk here? What’s left to even discuss?”

“Something important.” Mirio glanced down at the little girl clutching him tightly, as though she would get snatched away the second he let go. Her tiny hand wrapped around his finger. He’d never realized just how small she was until now. Even during the ride to Nejire’s place, he’d been more wrapped in on what he had to do. “I think the gang might try to take her back and we need to talk somewhere safe.”

“Safe, huh.” Nejire grinned, turning around walking backwards. She rubbed her nose, proudly puffing her chest. “Hey, hey, nowhere is safer than my field.”

“Yep.” Tamaki pulled his hood tighter over his head. Ahead of them, the forest path ended, opening up to a field of wildflowers. “I can wait here.”

Eri glanced at him nervously, her lips curving down. As her wide, worried eyes bored into him, Tamaki looked away. “…I’ll stay.”

“Hey, hey.” Nejire pointed at herself, feeling a little left out. “I’m a good person too.”

Eri shuffled to her left until she was partially hidden behind Mirio’s legs. Her head peeked out as she studied Nejire. She’d been like this ever since she woke up in the middle of their reproductive argument. Which, in hindsight, was hopefully something she didn’t hear any part of. Not recognizing any of their surroundings or Nejire, she’d hid behind Mirio until he managed to coax her into walking beside him.

To be perfectly honest, Nejire wasn’t really what you’d call a normal person, so Mirio could understand her fear. Crouching down, Mirio patted Eri’s head gently. “She’s a good friend.”

“Your friend?” Eri whispered, her voice cracking from disuse. Her body pressed against his as she took in Nejire.

“Really,” Mirio confirmed, straightening up. He held out his hand for Eri to grab. “I know you’ll like her.”

Doubtful, Eri grabbed his finger again. Well, it wasn’t much, but it was a start. Though, clearly Nejire didn’t see it that way, with the way she dejectedly continued to lead the way. As they entered the clearing, she half-hearted gestured at the expanse. “Welcome.”

“Wow!” Eri gaped as they entered the field of wildflowers and Mirio felt his own jaw drop. It was even prettier than last year. While the forest surrounded it, the field was filled with only flowers, more colourful than a rainbow. Her head turned this way and that. “Pretty.”

“Very pretty,” Mirio agreed, crouching next to her. He broke off a pink flower and tucked behind her ear. “And now you’re pretty.”

Eri’s chubby fingers touched flower tentatively before she broke into a shy smile. Glancing at Nejire, she leaned forward and whispered into Mirio’s ear, “She looks like a princess.”

“Oh.” Mirio felt a wave of relief at that—so she wasn’t really scared of Nejire. Just nervous. Just shy. Nodding, he whispered back, “You should give her a flower, she’d like that.”

Eri’s eyes widened. Her fingers nervously twisted her shirt as she glanced at him, and then at Nejire, before finally shaking her head and hiding behind him. Mirio laughed, maybe it was a little too fast for that then.

“Mirio.” Tamaki tapped his forehead, worry colouring his voice. “We have to ask.”

Mirio glanced at him, then at Eri. The reason they were here. A part of him was scared to ask, because he knew that once he asked, he couldn’t unask. Couldn’t unhear. Still, if he was scared, how much more scared was Eri? Putting on a brave smile, he asked, “Hey, Eri, could you show Nejire your forehead?”

Eri pulled back and blinked. Her head cocked to the side, not comprehending.

Nejire had an identical expression, confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Eri has this little bump on her forehead.” Mirio gently coaxed Eri to stand in beside him, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Slowly, he pulled the hair away from her forehead, exposing the growth to the sunlight. Her little body trembled but she didn’t pull away.

“There’s something magical about it.” Tamaki rubbed his shoulder, averting his gaze when Nejire turned to him. “I can smell it…it’s strong.”

“Strong, huh?” Nejire crouched in front of Eri. Her hand on her knees, she peered up at the girl. “Is it okay if I touch it?”

“Y-yes.” Eri swallowed, nodding her head slowly. Her big eyes followed Nejire’s hand as she reached up to touch it. At contact, she winced and squeezed her eyes shut. When nothing happened, she timidly opened her eyes once more.

“Huh.” Nejire’s smile stayed on, but her tone dropped a notch, more serious than silly for once. Her eyes narrowed. “I can feel it.” She pulled her hand away suddenly, staring at it. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Mirio wasn’t sure if that was good or not.

“It’s…an erasing magic? Something like that.” Nejire tapped the horn again before sitting back on her haunches. Pulling a lock of hair, she drew it forward for him to inspect. “See?”

“See what—” Mirio’s jaw dropped as he realized that Nejire’s hair actually looked like hair for once. No tornado curls, no bits and pieces disappearing and reappearing. Just human-like hair, to match a very human-like girl. All of Nejire looked human-like for once, even her usually sparkling eyes seemed dimmed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Nejire waved away his concern. “It’ll come back.” When Eri’s face fell, Nejire added, “Don’t worry, your magic isn’t that powerful yet.”

“Magic?” Tamaki winced, pursing his lips together. “Then…a witch’s coven…”

“That’d probably be the best place to take her. They can help her control it.” Nejire stood up straight now, stretching her arms above her. “But enough of that gloomy talk!” Tapping the side of her head, she grinned. “Hey, that flower looks really pretty on you.”

Flustered, Eri brushed her fingers against the flower. A shy smile bloomed on her face. “T-thank you.”

“And you’re all staying here tonight.” Nejire rested her hand on her hips, gazing determinedly at the forest. There was an almost predatory gleam in her eyes. “I’ll get food. Berries and meat, right? That’s what people eat?”

“How do you not know that?” Tamaki muttered, staring at her in disbelief. “You’ve seen us eat.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen little yous eat.” Nejire replied matter-of-factly, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. After all that they’d discussed today, Mirio wasn’t sure what was common sense anymore.

“That’s not what a…” Tamaki rubbed his forehead, a headache forming. Giving up, his shoulders slumped. “Fine, whatever.”

Mirio chuckled. Nejire was a force of nature, it was almost impossible to argue with her. Even harder to win an argument against her. Feeling a tug on his shirt, he glanced down to find a bright blue flower. Eri held it out to him. At his stare, she mumbled, “So y-you’re pretty too.”

His eyes widened, for once not sure what to say, how to look. When she shifted nervously, Mirio caught himself and curled his hand delicately around the bloom. “Thanks.” There was a burning sensation in his throat, his eyes watery, but he pushed it away. “It’s beautiful.”

Eri’s expression brightened and she turned to the other two. Feeling a little more courageous, she took a step toward them. “For…you two.” She held out a hand, two flowers resting in her sweaty palm. “So you’re pretty,” she added, anxiously.

Her other hand clutched the hem of Mirio’s shirt and he wiped his eyes before they got anymore watery at the sight of a tiny, brave girl.

Nejire had no such complications. The second she spotted the flowers, her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “Awww,” she cooed, taking a pink flower. She tucked it behind her ear immediately. “What do you think?”

Tamaki picked the other one, an orange blossom. “It smells nice.”

“…you look like a princess,” Eri mumbled, shyly looking down at her toes.

Speechless, Nejire’s jaw dropped. Her arms flung around Eri’s, giving her a tight hug. “We’re keeping her.”

“What?” Tamaki stopped sniffing his flower. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Nejire pulled back, gazing at Eri. “You want to stay with me too, right?”

“Huh?” Eri’s eyes widened, the thought never crossing her mind before this. “I can?”

“I see. I have to win you over.” Letting go, Nejire pulled back. She squinted, scrutinizing Eri. “You’re hungry, right?” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and sprinted to the forest. “Hey, hey, you’ll have the best meal ever.”

“What in the—” Tamaki sighed, his shoulders slumping. He glanced at Mirio. “We have to stop her.”

“Yeah.” Mirio twirled the blue flower in his finger before tucking it behind his ear. “Yeah, of course.”

Yet Eri’s hand was still holding his shirt and he wasn’t sure if he could tell her to let go. He wasn’t sure if he could let go himself. He was a knight. Nejire was a nymph. Tamaki, a shapeshifter. If the three of them couldn’t protect a little girl, who could? Maybe, just maybe, it’d be better if they all stayed together.

“She’s so fast!” Eri chirped, looking up at him with a wide, bright smile. For once, she looked like an ordinary kid, open and eager to explore. Entirely unlike the child he’d found in the bandit hideout, shaking and terrified.

Maybe Tamaki was right, maybe they couldn’t keep her here. None of them had any skills with raising a child. Yet, for that smile, he wanted to try. Nejire could teach her magic and he could teach her everything else and maybe, just maybe, Eri could know a little about what an ordinary life was like.

#bnha #eri #tamaki amakiji #mirio togata #nejire hadou #miritamaneji #fanfic #enjoy my attempts at action

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experimentalmadness · 5 years ago

Text

Cin Vhetin Ch. 8: Judgement

Chapter Summary: Din and Zethu are out on assignment and things get tense.

In which absolutely no one talks about their feelings and everyone is still firmly in the enemies to lover slowest of burns moods.

Pairing: Din x OC/Reader (however you prefer to read it)

Masterlist: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7

Ao3 Link

It’s a long one, folks just an fyi. Feel free to swap over to the Ao3 link if it’s easiest. And please lemme know if you are liking this story. :)

***

Zethu was still expecting a trap.

She had raised all kinds of hell when the Mandalorian had stated point blank they’d be taking his ship and leaving her’s behind. But in the end she relented. It made a kind of sense she didn’t much feel like arguing over. Two ships were always more noticeable than the one. Besides if the Mandalorian didn’t intend to take her back to Nevarro to claim what’s hers, she could always kill him.

Zethu shifted herself awkwardly into the seat behind the pilot’s chair. Her ribs hurt. Her face hurt. Her bones hurt, but she kept her mouth shut tight. Maybe the bounty hunter was just waiting until they were in deep space before blasting her out the airlock. Maybe he was waiting for her to let her guard down just long enough to slip a vibroblade between her cracked ribs. She fidgeted, hating everything about this entire situation.

The Mandalorian seemed oblivious to Zethu’s distrustful stares boring into the back of his helmet. He took them up and out of Nevarro’s atmosphere and Zethu gave one last mournful look through the viewport at her lovely Lancer. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding when they reached the relative quiet of space.

The Mandalorian began punching in the coordinates in the nav computer to make the jump to lightspeed. Zethu braced herself as space warped around them. Normally she enjoyed that initial rush, the flow of energy as light and time distended and contracted. Now all she noticed was how it aggravated her injuries.

She’d be trapped on this ship for at least a day.

No way out.

Something moved against her leg. Zethu jolted and immediately regretted the action, holding her side. She tried to lean forward to see what had brushed against her, seeing one tiny green claw batting at her calf. With one eyebrow raised she reached down and was rewarded with a childish giggle as she held the kid up by the collar of its little brown robe. “Don’t look now, Mando,” Zethu snickered, “but we have ourselves a stowaway.”

Zethu laughed at the double take the Mandalorian immediately performed. “What the—you’re supposed to be with Cara!”

The child offered up what Zethu was certain was an articulate excuse, but alas, it was in baby nonsense. She set the child down on her lap. “Sneaky little bug, aren’t ya?”

“Get down from there.” It was extremely satisfying watching him gesture for the kid to leave Zethu’s lap.

“Aw, I’m not about to hurt the kid.”

“Now,” the Mandalorian clarified.

Balancing itself precariously the kid hopped down from Zethu’s lap, trundling over to the Mandalorian and hopping up onto the console instead. Still chuckling to herself, Zethu cautiously stood up from her chair, stretching out bruised muscles. The Mandalorian was mumbling quietly to the kid, huffing something about “what am I going to do with you?” and “Cara is gonna lose it.”

So she was surprised when he suddenly snapped his attention back to her as she made her way out of the cockpit. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh? Clearly not out into space?” With that she dropped down the ladder into the ship proper.

It wasn’t much. Neither was her ship either if she was being honest. She tapped a few slats and prodded obviously sealed closet and storage spaces. Punching a few buttons revealed a veritable armory. She whistled as she surveyed the blasters before the doors were suddenly shut in her face.

The Manadalorian was at her side, kid swaddled in one arm, the other jabbing accusingly at her. “Don’t touch anything.”

Zethu backed off innocently enough, slumping down and sitting up against the opposite paneling. The kid squirmed out of the Mandalorian’s arms and went toddling back over to her. It seemed to be interested in examining the buckles on her boots. “You know I have no idea why the imps want this little bug. Gonna be honest though, they also failed to tell me I’d be going up against a full blown Mandalorian when I took the job,” she grinned. “After Raydonia I upped my price. They were...not happy.”

“Who do they say you’d be after, then?” he leaned against a crate and even through the helmet Zethu could tell he was watching the kid closely.

Zethu shrugged. “Just some hunter who reneged on a deal. Think they were afraid standard mercs would back out if they knew. You guys do have a bit of a reputation, you know.”

“Still gonna collect?”

“Yup,” Zethu said without a moment’s hesitation. “I also have a bit of a reputation, Mando,” she winked.

“So,” the man crossed his arms, “what’s the plan for Coruscant? I wouldn’t advise going in blasters hot.”

“Hah! Not unless we wanted to get arrested by the Republic. No, I got a little germ of an idea. If your friend’s info was correct and you can get me into the tech center I might be able to draw out Gedos without firing a shot. At least until we get him somewhere more secure.”

She ran a gloved finger down the kids’ long ear. It giggled, wiggling its head and playfully batting at her hand. She didn’t much want to think about Gedos Sal, or what was going to happen on Coruscant.

“The other Offshoots who saw you wanted you dead,” The Mandalorian pointed out. His modulator gave him a similar flat affect to his voice as Zethu’s own once did, but he hadn’t put in any of the regulators she had done to tune the emotion out. She heard his curiosity...tinged with a bit of disgust. Honestly, his judgement of her life was getting tiresome.

“Gedos won’t.”

Your parents would be proud of you. She was eight years old again, dirt-faced and bloodied as she kneeled, bent over in electro-stocks, hands and neck shackled by the sparking blue electricity. Remember you’re the best of them.

“His mistake,” Zethu snapped. “It’s to our advantage. We get him secure, we get him back to Numidian—”

“And then we settle this.”

Zethu stared hard at the tinted visor of the Mandalorian’s helmet. “Yeah. Once and for all.”

***

Din couldn’t remember the last time he had been near Coruscant’s orbit. Flying into the heart of the former Galactic—now Republic—space was not the norm. Sure, hunters made the trip all the time in search of marks and the galaxy’s biggest city had a fairly lucrative underworld, but it was no place for a Mandalorian. He glanced over his shoulder at his reluctant companion and saw Zethu Desh looked equally concerned as she stared hard out the viewport. She probably wouldn’t want to come this close to the Republic either.

The Crimson Dawn operative had called her a terrorist in Arkanian space. It didn’t take a particularly good imagination to wonder what she could have done to be slapped with that crime. Sedition against her own people and murder were the other charges leveled against her. She clearly had little love for her kind. But whatever her flaws at least she fought like a hell of a warrior. He could respect that.

Din brought the Razor Crest in for a landing and his dislike for Coruscant rose tenfold. There were no good hiding places to land out of sight. The massive city rose up before them complete with traffic, skyscraping spires, and neon sign postings. He swore under his breath.

“Head out to the Works,” Zethu mumbled into her hand. Her face was pressed into her palm as she rested facing the viewport.

“The what?”

“Abandoned factory district. ‘S quiet there. We’ll have a bit of a walk towards the city proper but it’s better than paying Coruscant landing prices. Less noticable too. You wanna go east from here.”

Staring at her would not determine if she had an ulterior motive for the landing site, and Din didn’t have another viable solution to refute her. Shrugging, he took her advice and headed east, keeping his altitude as high as he could to avoid possible sensors or trackers. Who knew what the New Republic had installed in the atmo to count incoming ships. He traveled at Zethu’s directions until the skyline leveled and a trail of black smoke entered the sky.

Fire and ash gushed from pipes across the surface and rusted over factories dotted the landscape. Din took the Razor Crest in lower, doing a quick scan and sensing no living heat signatures. In the end, he decided on landing the ship in the shadow of one of the larger factory shells. There was plenty of flat available surface nestled between the abandoned structure and the massive pipes.

“Alright,” Din swiveled in his seat. “You are going to stay here in this time!” He pointed at the child who had once again, despite his insistence, found its way onto Zethu’s lap.

“Sure, keep the kid in the ship on one of the biggest cities ever. It’s not like its known to wander off, right? That sounds like a great idea,” Zethu mocked.

She had a point. He hated that. “I’m not taking the kid into a fight.”

“If we do things right there won’t be much of a fight,” Zethu stood up, gently placing the kid back on the ground. “The little bug’ll be fine. More than I can say for leaving it here on the hope it doesn’t disappear without a trace.”

“Didn’t seem to care for the kid’s well-being when you were trying to blast us out of the sky months ago.”

Zethu only shrugged, a sharp-toothed half grin appearing on her face. “Not trying to do that today, though am I? Honestly, Mando could we try and stay in the moment?” She dropped out of sight down the ladder.

There wasn’t much for it. He gathered his weapons and the child and disembarked. Instantly, Din was glad he hadn’t left the kid behind. The Works were a vast, ashen-covered district with trap after trap for a small womp rat like the kid to get lost in. And it had a terrible habit of trying to sneak out. They’d have to work on that.

Zethu hadn’t been kidding about that walk back to the city. Without a speeder or an air taxi it took the three of them well into the early evening to bridge into the underbelly of the city proper. “How long do you think a work day is here?” Din asked. “Any chance of Gedos still being at the tech centers by the time we could reach them.”

“Fair point,” Zethu shrugged. “Luckily we got plenty of options for a stake out.”

“What? No. I’m getting us a speeder and we’re heading back to the ship.”

“Like hell we are!” Zethu laughed. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather sleep in a bed.”

“Zethu!” but she was already walking away, hands in pockets. “Zethu!” with another curse he chased after her. “Maybe this will come as a shock to you, but I need to keep a low profile.”

She rolled her eyes at that. “You’re on Coruscant, Mando. No one cares who you are or what you do, or where you came from. Here, you just let me do the talking. And give me the kid.”

“No.”

“Look, I’m not gonna—”

Din drew his blaster and pressed it none-to-gently into ribs he knew were still heavily bandaged. “I said no.”

Zethu batted the blaster away, but backed off, glaring at him and rubbing her chest. “Fine,” she growled and Din heard her curse in Arkanian.

They picked up an airtaxi without an issue, heading in no particular direction, but Zethu seemed to have a vague idea of direction. Din wanted to ask her when the last time she had been on Coruscant had been, but Zethu didn’t seem to be in the sharing mood anymore. And she had been right about one thing, no one seemed to be paying them any serious attention.

His armor caught a few curious glances, but for the most part the city was teeming with folk just trying to reach their destination. Most never even bothered looking up from where they were driving or walking. Zethu continued to steer them on. They rose a few levels in the planetary city, but not too high. Judging from the decor they were still in the seedier underbelly, and that was fine by him.

Din was in danger of getting completely lost but Zethu brought them to a dimly lit hotel where a female Rodian greeted them in her language. As Zethu promised she did the majority of the talking.

“A room for me and my partner, please,” she said.

The Rodian said something that made Zethu laughed. Admittedly his Rodese was a little rusty, but he was positive they were talking about him. “What? No, you think he’s a real Mandalorian? Trust me, friend, you don’t want to know what he had to do to get that armor.”

At the Rodian’s response Zethu reached into her pockets for a handful of credits, sliding an appropriate amount over to the receptionist and, with two fingers, sliding a few extra back. “A tip,” she winked. “We were never here.”

The Rodian responded with a little bow, taking her extra credits. “Hah! Exactly, city’s so big all types of people come this way,” Zethu said with another big smile as she gestured for Din to follow her to the lift.

The minute the doors sealed she let out a breath and the jovial expression on her face melted away. “Rodians are so easy,” she said without malice or much of anything at all. Those colorless eyes held no visible animosity, but there was a hard line around her mouth. All business again.

The lift let them out in a suitably comfortable space. The child, as if sensing they were in a relatively safe area, wriggled free of his grip and wandered into the room, climbing up on one of the two beds. “This’ll do,” Zethu shrugged out of her crimson jacket. “I’d say make yourself comfortable, but I doubt you will.”

Neither was she. She wouldn’t stay still for a moment, checking cabinets, drawers, and thoroughly shaking out the bedsheets. Looking for possible surveillance? Hidden weapons? Probably both given their shady location. “You know I’ve always wondered, do Mandalorians actually sleep with their helmets on?” she sniggered as she finished her sweep.

“While you’re here? Yes.”

“You’re funny, Mando,” Zethu winked as she unlatched the transparisteel screen, leaning out onto the miniscule balcony. The sounds of the city filtered into the room, speeders and hawkers, droid whistles and a steady thrum of music playing in one of the many clubs of the Undercity. “Never really had an excuse to get to know most of my marks before.”

“You seem to know your way around. When was the last time you were planetside?” Din ignored her attempts to rile him up. He meticulously laid out his arsenal on the edge of his own bed, shifting the kid away from the rifle and vibroblades each time it waddled too close.

“Eh...long time. Works good on Coruscant if you can get it and not upset the local mercs, but I prefer living in the Mid to Outer Rim,” Zethu wasn’t looking at him, content to sit herself by the balcony ledge and stare out towards the city.

“Away from the Dominion.”

At that her gaze did snap back to him. She glared hard for a moment, before a little of that anger seemed to slough off as she gave a large sigh and roll of her shoulders. She leaned her head back against the screen. “Yeah. Away from them.”

“A terrorisim charge must make getting bounty work hard,” he counted the rounds of ammunition he still had, hearing Zethu’s hateful laugh.

“You know for some crime syndicates it makes them give me a higher starting offer. When most people hear of you evading the Arkanian Dominion for two whole decades word gets around.”

“When people hear you kill your own without hesitation I imagine that gets around, too.”

“Oh fuck you, Mando.” Din had never heard such malice from the merc before not even prior to their marathon fight. He turned around half expecting to see her ready to fling herself at him, weapons out, but she was still sitting patiently by the balcony, only her face showed the real wrath. Her body was poised and still.

“I got the terrorism charge slapped on when I blew a couple of Adascorp facilities sky-high. Didn’t even know about it until I saw my name show up on someone’s datapad. House Adasca never leaves loose ends, but screw ‘em. Screw the damn Adascacorp, the Dominion, and every. Single. Arkanian, left on that iceball wreck of a planet. You don’t get to judge me, Mando. I was born in a dark, abysmal mineshaft with Arkanian overseers so harsh they wouldn’t even let my own mother off her shift long enough to give birth to me. That’s how much an Offshoot miner’s life is worth where I come from. We were genetically invented to obey and scrap and bow to our Arkanian masters. My parents tried to incite the miners to rebellion. Some great uprising of my Offshoot brethren that would “unite us all” or some absolute spacejunk. All it got was them shot by a firing squad while the rest of “my” people went on like nothing changed. I stole a freighter first chance I got. Should never have let anyone else on it. But some people in my mining crew found out. Said sure, why not. Better than going into the galaxy alone, right? Serves me right. Second we get spotted by Dominion ships half of them are blubbering about maybe we should just head back and ask for forgiveness. I wasn’t going back. So I shot the three who begged. That’s my big crime against my people, Mando. And I’d do it again. Survival is everything. What sins have your Mandalorians committed to stay alive that you get to judge me for mine?”

Din had nothing he could say to that. Zethu’s eyes never shifted from him, never flinched. The wind tousled her silver hair across her face as she shook her head at him, turning to stare back out the window. She took a deep, controlled breath in and it was only then Din saw how tight she had been clenching her fists against her lap.

“I hate this damn planet,” she said quietly, the anger leaving her voice bit by bit so that she sounded smaller...sadder even than Din would have guessed possible. “You can’t see the stars here.”

#The Mandalorian #Din Djarin x OC #Din x oc #Mandalorian x OC #long post #Cin Vhetin #in this house we get absolutely bonkers carried away with fics that were only supposed to be a few chapters but is now a fucking novel #;_;

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deathtouch · 6 years ago

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Somebody was moving something big. Ashe didn’t know what, and she didn’t know when, but she knew it was coming through her territory and she knew it was going to be soon. She’d had the supreme misfortune of coming upon shipments guarded by Helix Security before. It was a bad idea to try and take them on, but maybe if she had the right information... If she learned a little more about what Helix was doing swarming, her town and her bar. Maybe she’d be able to work something out. Cook up a plan, score big, keep the gang happy. “You want another beer, Ms. Ashe?” Ashe tipped her head up, looking out from under the brim of her hat at the new gang member that had joined the ranks just last week. She looked past him, over to the bar where a handful of strangers stood drinking. She took in the display of muscles, the brown bomber jackets, the aviator sunglasses. Helix, alright. “It’s just Ashe, sugar.” She said, sliding off her stool. “And I can go and get it myself. Keep playing pool.” She left her vantage point in the corner with its perfect view of all the entrances and exits and it’s inconspicuous location next to the pool tables. She cut passed a few Deadlocks lingering around, leaning on pool cues, sipping from their own mugs of beer. She made her way to the bar, subtly situating herself next to the only Helix loner, some woman sitting all by herself instead of with a cohort of colleagues. Ashe slid her empty mug across the bar and tapped the bar twice with two fingers. It was her signal that she didn’t want service but an excuse to speak to whoever was next to her for as long as possible. Ashe would see to the bartender at the end of the night, toss a couple bills her way in exchange for any information she happened to pick up while pouring drinks. “You folks ain’t from around here, huh?” Ashe said conversationally. She pinned an elbow to the bar and tucked her fist under her jaw, making it obvious she was ready to sit here and chat awhile. The woman next to her turned to look her over, brandishing a face tattoo that Ashe couldn’t help staring at. She was pretty. The kind of gal Ashe would like to take home, with a face she would be happy to ride for hours. “No,” was the diminutive reply. “Name’s Ashe,” she flashed her teeth in a smile. “...Fareeha.” Reluctant, but not a lost cause. Ashe could charm her. By the end of the night they would be good pals. Normally she left this kind of grunt work to the grunts, but there was something in the air tonight. She was itching to get things done herself.

.oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

Ashe was surprised to see it wasn’t entirely dark out just yet. She’d been in the bar since 7 and it was nearly 8:30 now. Summer meant that the sun was setting later and later each day. The horizon was painted in vibrant colors; gold and peach clouds on a warm purple sky. The air was hot, dry, and gritty with dust rucked up by warm wind.

Fareeha followed her out the door trying to hide the smile on her face. She must not get much attention from many people, because she was like a moth to Ashe’s flame. All Ashe had to do was play it sweet, flirt little, bat her eyelashes and stroke a finger over Fareeha’s muscled arm.

Now alone with no prying eyes to watch, Ashe shamelessly reached out to hook two fingers in the belt loops of Fareeha’s jeans. She dragged her in close and backed up against the side of the building. She pressed their lips together, mouths hot. Their tongues tasted like the beer they had been drinking but sweetened with the pleasure of kissing someone soft and pretty.

Ashe pulled away just enough to ask, “You got a place around here we could go? Just you and me?”

She was hoping that the Helix Security folks were all set up in one spot, probably the motel up the road if she had to guess. There was plenty to be gleaned from getting a look at where they were staying. Who knows what she might come across?

Ashe was definitely in it for the score, for the tantalizing prospect of a job she and the gang could work. She wasn’t mad at the idea of going home with Fareeha, though. God, she really was a good-looking gal. Ashe liked the feel of her, the taste of her, the smell of the sweat on her skin from the June heat. She looked good enough to eat.

There was something itching under Ashe’s skin, this need she couldn’t identify. She normally didn’t get this riled up or invested in her marks. Maybe she needed a good hard fuck to settle her down some.

Fareeha didn’t answer. She pressed her lips to Ashe’s jaw, her neck, her throat, her collarbone. Ashe tipped her head back and let it happen, staring up at the sky where she could see the color changing before her eyes. The purple was smothering the gold light, turning it pink and then red.

The moon was on the rise.

.oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

Ashe woke with a pounding in her head. She cursed herself for drinking too much. She hadn’t gotten black out drunk in a good long while and she was too old now to be doing that kind of thing. She blinked, catching glimpses of a motel room she didn’t recognize, before shutting her eyes to the bright morning light filtering in from the open window. She laid still where she was, eyes closed. She tried to remember what had happened last night. She remembered going to the bar, and the Helix goons filling up the place. She remembered drinks with a pretty woman, though she couldn’t quite recall her name. They must have gone off together… Ashe had this soreness in her muscles like she’d spent the whole night fucking. Her jaw ached and she wondered just what kind of use her mouth had been put to. She was sticky with sweat already. The motel room’s A/C wasn’t running, and if it was it wasn’t cranked up high enough. When she could manage it, she sat up. Her head throbbed. She looked down at herself and her naked body and was immediately shocked into sudden alertness when she found blood on her hands. Not just on her hands but soaked into the beds of her nails and all the fine wrinkles of her fingers. It wasn’t just her hands, it was everywhere. Her thighs, her stomach, the bed. The bed! There was so much goddamn blood on the bed. She scrambled off of it, damn near knocking the lamp on the side table over in her haste. There was blood on the carpet too, pooled black and thick. Ashe frantically grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find, an oversized threadbare t-shirt with a peeling Bruce Springsteen decal. She yanked it on over her head, pulled it down enough to cover her nudity, and went running out the door. It had been left wide open so that the desert heat could come rolling in. There were bloodstains in the parking lot, on the gravel and sidewalk. She wasn’t sure where they lead to and she wasn’t about to stick around and find out. She needed to find a phone, to get one of the fixers in the gang to come out and fix this. Something had gone terribly wrong last night, but she couldn’t remember what.

.oOo. .oOo. .oOo.

Ashe watched the pool balls go rolling across the green felt of the table in front of her. She couldn’t quite stop her foot from tapping against the bar stool she was sitting on, a steady rhythm of anxious energy thrumming through her body. She was trying her damnedest to act natural. She had gone out drinking like usual, refusing to deviate from the norm in any suspicious way that the law might pick up on later. She couldn’t catch the heat for this. She just couldn’t. She was so careful everywhere else; there was absolutely no way they could ever pin her Deadlock crimes on her, no matter how guilty she was. That didn’t matter, though. Al Capone went down for tax evasion, after all. She would be furious if her whole operation fell apart because of some botched murder she couldn’t even remember. Deadlock had already been decimated by the authorities once, she wasn’t going to let it happen again. If she could just remember who she killed, or why, or anything about what had happened last night it would be different. She couldn’t. She couldn’t remember a damn thing. It was all a blank. What was worse, her fixers couldn’t fix anything because there wasn’t a crime to fix. If someone was dead somewhere, they sure as shit couldn’t find the body. Any evidence that Ashe had ever been in that hotel room was gone and that was the best they could do. “It’s a full moon tonight,” The new kid was saying, trying desperately to make conversation with her. It would serve him much better just to shut his trap and quit sucking up, but Ashe didn’t bother telling him that. Talking to him was just about the best distraction she had from her own paranoid thoughts. “I thought it was a full moon last night.” She remembered that. She remembered seeing the moon in the sky. Big and white and glowing, a beacon in the purple haze. She got a weird itch between her shoulder blades thinking back on it. It was the same feeling from the bar last night, the one that had her all riled up and raring to go. It was back again and twice as bad. “Almost.” He lined up a shot, took it. The seven ball sank into a corner pocket. “The moon looks so full the night before and the night after most people can’t tell the difference.” Ashe stood abruptly, unable to sit for a moment longer, all this talk about the moon was making her antsy. She needed a smoke or something to settle herself down. The Deadlocks hanging around the pool tables parted ways for her and she disappeared into the dimly lit back hallway. Ashe went out the rear exit. It opened up to a sad looking parking lot where the bartender’s beat up old truck was parked. The dumpster was propped open and stinking of sour booze. The sun wasn’t quite set yet but almost. She could probably smoke inside, no one would care, but stepping out where it was quiet might do her some good. She took out a cigarette and fought with her lighter. It was thirsty for more lighter fluid and unwilling to light. She sparked it again and again, cursing under her breath at the damn flame that just wouldn’t ignite. In a split second she went from trying to light her cigarette to being throttled up against the side of the building, head banging back against its brick exterior. She knew better than to cry out or make noise, though it hurt like a son of a bitch. Anger followed her surprise like a chaser, flashing through her, making her furious. “You,” The woman pinning her hissed, voice vicious. Fareeha. Ashe recalled her from the previous night. It was hard to forget that tattoo. “What the hell did you do to me.” “What did… What did I do to you?” Ashe repeated back, incredulous. She grabbed at Fareeha’s wrist, trying to pry her fingers back. “What the hell are you doing to me! Get your damned hands off my girly, I’m warning you.” Ashe needed absolutely no reason to throw down. She was ready to tear something to shreds with her bare hands. Fareeha had gone and given her the excuse, anyway, slamming her up against the bar like this. It was getting dark with the sun sinking down below the horizon. Visibility was getting low. In the pale evening light, she swore she could see the brown of Fareeha’s eyes blazing gold. She had this savage expression on her face, lips curled back in a bloodthirsty snarl, and Ashe thought she saw the other woman’s teeth growing longer… getting pointier. Her own jaw began to ache in some odd form of empathy. Her own teeth felt wrong, too big, like they were filling up her mouth. Her skin was itching again. She felt violent. “What did you do to me!” Fareeha demanded, shaking her like a rag doll. Her voice was pitched down low, unearthly and chilling. When Ashe dug her nails into Fareeha’s wrist she found that they were nails at all but long black claws. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Ashe realized she recognized the driver of the dusty old Camaro rolling down the road and immediately felt relieved. It was the new kid, the one always running his mouth. A little sad that he was driving something with four wheels and not maglev, but Ashe wasn’t about to put down her savior. Not to his face at least. “Ms. Ashe, that you?” He said, slowing to a stop by the side of the road. “It’s just Ashe, sugar.” She reminded him, gesturing to the crumpled blanket in the backseat. “Hand me that, will ya?” She certainly was a sight. Naked as the day she was born, baking in the hot morning sun, walking slowly but surely down the Interstate back towards town. Or what she hoped was back towards town. She was so far out she couldn’t quite tell. The bottoms of her feet were burning from treading barefoot on the hot sand and asphalt. The new kid hurried to snatch up the blanket from the back and shove it out the window to her. She wrapped it around her middle, trying not to be too concerned about the stains on the fabric or the stale smell. It was better than being naked. She felt a bit bad that she didn’t remember his name, but Deadlock was a big family and he hadn’t quite made his mark yet. She’d go on calling him sugar, that was fine. “How’s about you give your boss a lift back into town.” Sugar seemed confused but he nodded, reaching across to open the passenger door for her. She slid inside, wincing as she moved. Her whole body ached liked she’d been run through the ringer. Maybe she had been. The last thing she remembered was Fareeha accosting her outside the bar. Had they gotten into a fight? Ashe didn’t know. She didn’t seem to have any bruises, but something had happened. Something. “…Just out for a walk then?” Sugar asked awkwardly, shifting the car into gear and pulling away from the shoulder. This was an unreasonably undignified position for her to be in and she knew it. She couldn’t explain it. She’d awoken this morning in the middle of nowhere, dunes of sand and scrub grass all around her, with no idea how she got there. She’d possibly lost a fight? Or won one? Or maybe this was some failed attempt to bury Ashe’s body where no one would find it? “The less we say about this the better, Sugar,” Ashe told him. “You keep this between you and me and I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of on the next job. Got that?” Sugar’s eyebrows went up and he brightened considerably. “Yes, ma'am.” As soon as they hit 50 MPH he was grinning like an idiot. New gang members were easy to please. “Guess it’s a good thing I saw you. Gang’s been talking about some wild animals near town. Wouldn’t do either of us any good, you becoming some wolf’s breakfast.” A wolf? Ashe adjusted the blanket, covering herself up a little more before casting Sugar a look. “There ain’t no wolves in these parts. Whoever told you that’s fucking with you.” “Somebody saw one. A white wolf running down the highway. Some kinda coyote too.” “Uh-huh,” She nodded. “Just shut up and drive, Sugar.” .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. “It wasn’t no coyote.” Being at the bar was probably a bad idea. Suspicious deviations from her usual routine be damned. Something bad was happening, to her specifically or around these parts in general Ashe couldn’t quite tell. She wasn’t sure where else she should be, though. She was safe here at the bar. Half the gang was here with her, a dozen men, women, and omnics ready and willing to go to bat for her if she needed them. It seemed like every time she stepped out these doors things went sour, so it was best just to stay put on her favorite spot in the corner. “Small though, right? Sure it wasn’t a dog?” “No, it wasn’t no dog either!” The rumor about animals passing through town, wreaking havoc and running amok, was spreading through the gang like ripples on water. Ashe supposed she was grateful for these stories, dumb as they sounded. She would rather have everyone in town talking about this massive white wolf and its tiny dog friend than about her waking up naked in the middle of the scrubland and strolling down the interstate. Sugar had done well enough to keep his word about the whole thing, but he kept sending her odd glances between his turns at pool. He would lean up against the cue and gaze at her as if waiting for something to happen. Ashe felt like she was waiting for something too, but she didn’t know what. “It had marks on his back, black and white. I never seen no dog and no coyote with marks like that.” Her skin still itched, right square in the center of her back. It wasn’t as bad as yesterday, but it wasn’t a good feeling either. She tried not to pay it any mind, but it was easier said than done. Even with everything that had happened to her these last few days, with all the things she should be worried about, this was what was bothering her the most. She wanted to sink her teeth into something, tear it apart with her hands, chase it through the dust and the dirt of the desert until her body ached. “A jackal?” “...the hell? A jackal? In New Mexico?” The bar door creaked open, the noise of it almost lost to the din of drinking and shooting pool and the endless conversation about who had seen what type of animal. Ashe looked up from under the brim of her hat to see a handful of those Helix Security types wandering in. Slices of golden light from the setting sun fell across the barroom floor. Fareeha was the last to enter, backlit ominously. Ashe felt eyes on her immediately. “Makes about as much sense as a white wolf.” Without even the pretense of buying a drink first, Fareeha made her way over to the pool tables. She looked ready to raise hell. Something about her presence and the way she approached set the entire gang on edge. The pool playing slowed to a stop. The conversation died down entirely. Everyone turned to watch her. Fareeha was fearless in the face of this threat. She stood in front of Ashe, a good few feet away, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her muscles were bulging gloriously. “We need to talk.” “Yeah, I suppose we do,” Ashe agreed reluctantly. She slid off her barstool intending to take this conversation somewhere more private. “You want someone to come with you, Ms. Ashe?” Sugar spoke up. “Not now, Sugar.” Ashe waved him off and nodded for Fareeha to follow her right back out the front door she’d just come in. .oOo. .oOo. .oOo. Ashe bounded through the open expanse of desert, the sand dunes painted pale grey in the moonlight. Her feet carried her far faster than she had any reason to be going. She cut through the quickly cooling wind as it ruffled her white fur. Fareeha was faster, quicker, far ahead of her, making a break for the horizon. By the end of the night she would be in Ashe’s clutches, that was a certainty. She could run but she couldn’t hide. Giving chase was fun but she wouldn’t last forever sprinting like this. Ashe would catch up to her one way or another. Above them the stars glittered in the sky, twinkling white in a dark blue blanket. Out here, in the middle of nowhere with no light pollution to speak of, they could see just about every glittering spec and glorious constellation. The moon, round and full, beamed down its pristine silver light. The two of them were basking in it, soaking it up, letting it wash over them. Fareeha bounded up the side of a sharply rising slope. She stopped, perched perfectly on the peak, to pant open mouthed. She cocked back her head and brayed up at the moon in the sky. Her howl was uniquely high, curiously sharp, and it pricked at Ashe’s ears. She burst forward with newfound speed, scaling that same slope in record time. She launched herself at Fareeha, tackling her, taking her down until they were tumbling, rolling, spilling out across the sand and brush. She nipped at Fareeha’s neck, not hard but enough to set her whimpering. She submitted easily, rolling onto her back, offering herself up. Ashe licked down her pointed brown muzzle pink tongue catching the saliva at the corner of her mouth. Fareeha tasted good. Unlike anything Ashe had ever tasted before. She thought she had Fareeha good and pinned but the twisty little thing managed to wiggle out from underneath her and go darting away. Ashe gave her a head start before chasing after her again.

i’m taking femslash february suggestions year round send requests or prompts ➝ here follow me on twitter ➝ here thanks for reading ✩°｡⋆

#femslash februray #overwatch femslash #ashe #pharah #ashe/pharah #fanfic #femfeb #femfeb 2019

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lisatelramor · 6 years ago

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Lay In the Atmosphere Ch1

So as I was writing Not Left To Stand Alone, the idea for this fic, with Kaito's history with the Kudos, was nagging at the back of my brain and the second I was done writing the bulk of NLTSA, I was writing this fic. ^_^;;; Which... emotional whiplash as NLTSA ends on happy notes and this is ANGST-DEPRESSION-TEARS for Kaito. >_> I mean it's not 100% angst, but let's be real, most of this is a grief and anxiety spiral mixed with shit life choices that Kaito eventually manages to drag himself out of. That said, if you haven't read NLTSA this should stand well enough on its own as a separate story.

I was listening to Panic at the Disco almost nonstop when I was writing this so the title comes from “A Casual Affair” which is kind of ironic since Kaito, Shinichi and Ran don’t do casual anything. ^_^;; A more fitting piece of music for this fic is “Smoke and Mirrors” by Imagine Dragons, but that could just be my current music binge talking. :P Hop on the angst train, guys, hope you enjoy sadness catharsis and bittersweet ends since this fic is Kaito at a very low point in his life.

Chapter 1

Kaito shuffled a deck of cards absently as he and Jii leaned over a map. It was covered with Kaito’s notes and annotations about guard shifts, traps, and escape routes. “I think that about covers it,” Kaito said. “It’s only a small role you’ll be playing this time, Jii-chan.” He flashed his assistant a grin, “You shouldn’t have to worry about anything tripping up those bad knees of yours.”

“My knees are perfectly fine, Kaito-sama,” Jii said with a sniff. He was older, much older than when Kaito first met him, and he’d looked old then. His gray hair was going mostly white now, what little he still had left of it, his glasses that much thicker and his hands a bit more gnarled than before. He was still a capable magician in his own right though, keeping up with Kaito like he was half his actual age.

Still, Jii wasn’t getting any younger, and sometimes Kaito worried that he was asking too much. Ever since the divorce with Aoko, Kaito had been holding more heists again, and it was taking a toll on both of them. Kaito sat back with a sigh. “I think we’ll take a break after this one,” he said. “Rest a bit and do some research. Leave the police guessing. Work on some new gadgets to keep them on their toes.”

“Active resting,” Jii commented, amused.

“You know me, always doing something.” It was a joke, but it wasn’t; Kaito hadn’t rested much at all since Takumi was born, not even before then with school and Kid work, but especially not after Takumi. “Buuut, you should actually rest. You’ve been saying you wanted to go on vacation. Why not close up shop for a bit? Go to Okinawa and get that time on the beach, or heck, go to France for a few weeks.”

“I don’t know...” Jii gathered papers together, conflicted. “I couldn’t leave all the work to you to do. You should take a proper vacation too, Bocchama.”

Kaito was hardly as young as he used to be, but he couldn’t help a lopsided smile. He’d always be the ‘young master’ to Jii. “It’s fine. I’m not planning on doing much. Just scouring webpages. I promise that I won’t do any legwork until you’re back.”

Jii returned the smile. “Well, if you insist...perhaps a short vacation would be nice.”

“Of course it would. You’ve earned it.” The deck of cards fanned from one hand to another and vanished up Kaito’s sleeve. “We’ve earned it,” he corrected at Jii’s pointed glance. “I promise to do actual resting.”

“Perhaps take a real vacation of your own?” Jii said pointedly.

Kaito considered. How long had it been since he went somewhere just to relax? Since he didn’t have work or school or Kid or child-rearing? He drew a blank. That was probably Jii’s point. “If I take a vacation I don’t think I’d go anywhere, or not far. I don’t want to miss spending time with Takumi.”

“Then take him with you. A family vacation.”

“That could be fun.” Takumi camping or taking him to visit a zoo or to see the sights in Kyoto. Kaito could show him how to do coin tricks and do every fun thing he could think of that a child might enjoy for a week. Aoko would never go for it though, so it would never happen. Not a weeklong trip like he desperately wanted. Kaito shook his head. Maybe he’d just settle for taking Takumi to an amusement park sometime soon. Take Takumi and Momoi’s kid, Shiemi, since they got along so well, let them get hyped on sugar and run it all off between rides. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Jii said. He smiled, the sort of proud, doting smile that always made Kaito wonder if this was what having a grandparent felt like. Probably not. Grandparents didn’t defer to you.

Kaito stretched. “Get some rest, Jii-chan, we’ll have a lot of work tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Kaito-bocchama.” Jii collected the notes into a neat pile to stash away in his office like so many other heist prep days before.

“Night, Jii-chan.” Another late night, another early morning, but nothing out of the norm for either of them. Kaito fixed tomorrow’s plans in his head one last time as he left. It had been a while since he pulled a supposed teleportation trick. They got harder every time he had to think up a new way to make one work. Thank goodness Jii was still quick as ever. The usual firm resolve solidified around the plan’s concept. He’d get it done. He always did.

***

The jewel-inset mirror in his hands felt abnormally heavy as Kaito raced through prepared retreat paths. His heart pounded overtime with adrenaline and the steely satisfaction of leaving Nakamori-keibu in the dust, cuffed with his own cuffs to a guard rail. “Jii, I have the mirror,” Kaito said, curt as he saved most of his breath for running. “Get yourself out.”

Ideally, Jii would already be on his escape since his role in the teleportation trick had ended, but knowing Jii he’d stuck around. He had the habit of doing it to make sure Kaito had someone watching his back, and it had helped Kaito more than once out of some bad scrapes over the years. There was an affirmative through the earpiece; Jii would take the north route while Kaito kept attention his way a little longer before he pulled his final vanishing act. Good.

Kaito dived down a stairwell leaving a smoke bomb bubbling thick blue smoke behind him. A slap of a hand on a trap trigger, and somewhere his dummy should be taking off, one more diversion.

The number of diversions he needed were ever increasing. There had been no gunshots during the heist proper this time, nor the time before that or the one before that either, and the gap had him feeling twitchy. It was usually every couple heists that there was some sign of the crows he attracted with his shiny displays. Nothing.

A face switch, clothes switch, quick change and makeup in record time for a young woman to emerge around a building and watch for a moment as the task force scrambled by a few minutes later, going straight in the direction Kaito had been headed.

There was a burst of static on the com. “Jii?” Kaito checked the mirror. The gem was dull in the moonlight and the faint neon light a short ways outside the alley Kaito hid in. Not Pandora. He slid it away again. There was another burst of static. Kaito glanced up just in time to see his dummy going down, perfectly silhouetted against the moon. The false glider made a V as it tipped straight down.

The crows or Nakamori? Kaito shivered. “Jii-chan?” Kaito tried again.

Nothing.

That didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong. Jii could be somewhere he couldn’t answer for fear of being caught. Or maybe he hadn’t heard—he was a bit hard of hearing in one ear...the ear that didn’t have the earpiece... Or maybe he’d been forced to drop the earpiece altogether for some reason.

Kaito clenched and unclenched his hands, staring back toward the route Jii would have taken.

He turned back.

No one paid any attention to a young woman dashing down the street—she wasn’t running away from the scene of the crime but toward it after all; Kid wouldn’t run back toward it and ruin his escape. Kaito was glad for the anonymity as he slipped past a few stray groups of officers doing rounds and circled around to Jii’s escape route. The north route had less bolt holes and twists than the path Kaito took, but Jii should have been plainclothes, back to being a seemingly frail old man. Even if the police stopped him, it wasn’t like they’d hold him. He wouldn’t have a mask and Kid was well known to be a young adult.

“Come on, Jii, where are you?” Kaito murmured under his breath. If Kaito was Jii and sure that he wasn’t needed anymore for the heist where would he...? Kaito ducked down an alley. Jii had a stiff knee and a lot lower stamina than Kaito. He wouldn’t have climbed, but he’d probably run until he found a good place to stop. This alley came out on a side street and there was another even narrower alley up ahead with a fence that was easy enough to put between him and a pursuer...

Kaito rounded the corner, inching past an over-full garbage can and froze. “...Jii...chan?” A shape was huddled at the end of the alley near the fence, on its side in almost a fetal position. Kaito took a step forward. “Jii—” He saw the blood. Too much blood. One more step and Kaito recognized the scarf, had given that scarf to Jii a month ago for his birthday, had joked about the four leaf clovers woven into it marked him as a Kuroba in all but blood. The clovers hadn’t brought Jii any luck as part of his face was missing where the bullet must have exited. Kaito’s stomach clenched.

Jii. Jii was on the ground, broken, bleeding. Dimly, Kaito guessed he’d been climbing the fence. When he was hit. The earpiece had fallen out, blood-soaked now. The shot and the fall the bursts of static? Or had Jii realized...? Kaito reached for him—to check what he already knew, move him, cover his face, Kaito wasn’t sure—but as he bent a shot cracked just past his head into the concrete wall beside them.

He dropped on instinct. Jii three feet away, but bullets. But Jii. Kaito bit his lip hard enough to bleed. Another shot made the choice for him, sending him back out of the alley and its deadly narrow confines. Each footfall was a reverberation in him, ache spreading out from his chest like he’d been the one to get shot, throbbing like a bruise. Beat-beat-beat and Jii left behind him.

The alleys and roads were a blur, indistinct and unreal compared to the scene by the fence and yet so sharp in focus Kaito could remember the glint of broken glass on the pavement like dozens of knives and the cold press of metal searing into his palm when he ducked past a fire escape to get to another bolt hole and change identity again.

Nothing from the earpiece, broken, nothing to receive.

Kaito was a middle aged business man when he got back to his neighborhood, inconspicuous. Another person walking home. Another person possibly drunk. He didn’t need to affect his stagger. Each step was heavier the closer he got to his own door.

Change to himself, go home, hide the mirror, check the phone for messages on automatic because maybe Kaa-san or Jii—

Feed the doves. Sit in his childhood bedroom come home again.

Kaito sat and stared at the same walls he’d stared at the night after meeting Jii years ago. On his desk was a note about looking into vacation spots. If Kaito stared at them long enough, maybe it would all prove to be a bad dream and Jii would still be planning a trip south and Kaito would call Aoko and make a bargain to get Takumi an extra night so they could have an adventure.

The moon was still bright and silver out the window. Light enough that it could reveal anything, even what you didn’t want to know.

Kaito wanted to believe Jii was okay. That he’d walk around the corner any moment and apologize for making Kaito worry. But death was a lesson learned young.

—Kaa-san with her hand across his eyes, “Don’t look, Kaito, don’t look,” the impression of a fireball burned into his retinas as tears dripped down his face without him knowing why, yet, just that something was terribly wrong—

Kaito touched his cheek. It was dry. Funny. It felt like he was crying inside.

On the desk, his phone buzzed. He didn’t remember putting it there, but the body would follow routine when on automatic. It showed Aoko’s number. Kaito watched it ring, the phone buzzing and buzzing before it rolled over into voicemail. A minute later it buzzed again with an incoming text message.

The thought of talking to Aoko right now was too much. Kaito left the phone buzzing and headed to the bathroom, stripping out of his clothes and stepping under water as hot as he could bear it. Its sting left his skin red and aching.

If he’d been faster...no, Jii would still be dead. If he’d pressed Jii to go on vacation sooner... If he hadn’t gone with a doppelganger teleportation plan. If Jii had been safe at home tonight. If, if, if. He looked like he had a full body sunburn by the time he shut off the water. It gurgled down the drain, chased by drips and drops as he stayed hunched over the shower knob. He hurt all over, inside and out now, and it wasn’t quite enough still.

Kaito left a trail of wet footprints back to his room, not bothering with a towel. Kaa-san was away. No one would care if he was naked because there was no one there to care. His phone showed several missed calls from Aoko and four texts.

Kaito, what the fuck. They just ID’d a body as Jii. What’s going on? Kaito closed his eyes. Jii... to be found be some unknown person like that... Kaito wished he could have taken him from that alley. But then what? He looked at the next message. Kaito? then, Pick up your phone dammit. The phone started ringing again as he held it. Kaito read the last message with a squirming feeling of guilt inside the numb grief and horror: You’d better not be dead too. The caller was Aoko again of course. He answered.

“Aoko.” There was a long silence on the other end. Kaito wasn’t sure what tone his voice had had.

Aoko let out a breath. “You’re not dead.”

“No.” That was Jii. Kaito wasn’t hurt at all for once.

“What happened?” Aoko demanded.

“I don’t know. He didn’t answer and I found him like that. Had to leave when someone shot at me.”

“...fuck.” There were goosebumps all over his arm and legs now. He ignored the cold, listening numbly for Aoko’s voice. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but they’re reviewing this as a mugging because Jii didn’t have a wallet on him. The only reason he was ID’d is because one of the officers that found him remembered him from seeing him around us over the years.”

“A mugging? With that angle of a shot? And high caliber rifle bullets?” Kaito said, disbelief leaking through the shock that had followed him from the scene of the crime. “Anyone with eyes could see he was climbing the fence when he was shot.”

“Look, I didn’t see the details, that’s just what I’ve heard.” Aoko was tense, upset. She had been close to Jii once too, even if since the divorce they cut contact.

“A cover up,” Kaito said. He could almost laugh because of course. Of course it would be covered up, swept under the rug and dismissed as quickly as possible. Kaito was willing to bet the case wouldn’t even last a month. Old anger curled through him at the unfairness. They took his father and now they took Jii and both of their deaths would be seen as chance happenings instead of the premeditated murder they were. “Dammit.”

“Was Jii at the heist tonight, Kaito?” Aoko asked. There was the cold, judging tone he had come to expect from her. The one that laid blame on his shoulders every time she spoke to him or looked his direction.

Kaito didn’t answer that question. Answer or no answer, it would damn him either way.

“Damn it Kaito,” Aoko said. “It’s not enough to just be you, but Jii?”

Kaito didn’t answer that either and for a while there was just Aoko’s ragged breaths over the line and Kaito’s controlled ones. The world was falling out from under him but he still had control over his body. He could walk out of here and in the path of a bus and die smiling if he felt like it, a convincing smile even as he couldn’t cry. Not tears that were his own anyway.

He licked his lips, mouth feeling dry, swallowing past the lump in his chest. “How soon do you think the body will be released?” It was Kaito who would arrange a funeral. Kaito who was the officiator of Jii’s will. Kaito who had been everything to Jii once he stepped up into his father’s shoes. It felt a bit like betraying Jii, worse than failure, that he was in this position now, stuck fulfilling these roles long before either of them thought he’d need to.

“I don’t know,” Aoko said. “Until they close the case. If they don’t find any leads or if someone is framed...”

“Okay.” He could handle this. He was an adult. Almost twenty-six. He could handle this and Jii’s loss. “Okay, thanks.”

“Kaito—” Aoko’s voice low and sharp with anger or a threat, he wasn’t sure, but he hung up on her anyway. She’d take that out on him some way later, probably when she dropped of Takumi on the weekend. If she dropped off Takumi on the weekend. Fuck.

Kaito scrubbed at his eyes.

Just...fuck.

Jii was dead and it was Kaito’s fault. There was no going back from this.

***

Jii left him everything. His business, his collection of magician paraphernalia, his house, his savings—everything. Kaito wasn’t sure what to think or feel about that. Jii’s body had been released only two weeks after his death when a supposed mugger turned himself in, pled guilty, and got a life sentence. Kaito looked into the mugger, but whatever they had on the guy to make him be a scapegoat, Kaito didn’t find it.

And now here he was, holding a memorial in Jii’s bar for him because his body was already cremated and he hadn’t left any specifications for his burial. There were frequent patrons drinking to Jii’s memory and old magician friends. Not Chikage. Kaito hadn’t been able to get ahold of his mother in the last few weeks. Of all the times for her to pull one of her radio silences, this was the worst moment for it. She should have been here. As Toichi’s wife, one of Jii’s older friends, she should have been here but she wasn’t and might not have even seen any of Kaito’s messages to know Jii was dead yet.

Alcohol burned down his throat. He’d poured himself a glass of Jii’s favorite whiskey to drink for him and hadn’t stopped drinking since the memorial started. It was a bad idea but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

There were two regulars—Ryousuke and Yuuta, both people Jii had been on first name basis with—in front of Jii’s memorial photo at the moment. They had offerings of alcohol and the mochi from a shop a few miles away Jii had loved.

There was something restless rising in Kaito, had been rising for the last few weeks since Jii’s death. He wanted to take a pool stick and shatter it. Jump off a building and wait until last moment to deploy his glider. Bait the police and the organization on his tail until there was no room for thinking beyond what was needed for survival. There were two dozen half-planned heists on his desk in the hidden room at home. Kaito hadn’t slept much lately. The only time the restless feeling was quiet was when he was pushing his body in the small hours of the night, seeking out what he needed for the next heist, the next, the next, however many he had to do.

There’d been a moment where he wondered if it wasn’t better to quit. It got Oyaji killed, got Jii killed. It’d probably kill Kaito too. But that moment had passed quickly and it felt like there was even less reason to stop. They kept taking and taking and he’d have to be the one to stop them somehow. He had to.

The whiskey tasted like nothing. One more liquid swallowed down. At the door, Aoko and Takumi entered, dressed for a proper funeral instead of...this. Kaito swallowed again, though there was nothing in his mouth. “Hey.”

“Kaito,” Aoko said. She looked around the room and the people at various stages of drunkenness with a small frown. “This is...lively.”

“Yeah, well...” Kaito shrugged. He had let whoever showed up, show up. Some of them might only be there for the alcohol. He crouched down beside Takumi to give him a hug. Small arms hugged back. Takumi was six now, already so big, and getting bigger every time Kaito saw him. Aoko who lived with him every day probably didn’t notice little things like how Takumi’s hair was just shy of needing a haircut or how he’d gained a centimeter that month alone. “Hey. You doing okay?”

“Yeah.” Takumi settled back on his feet, glancing at the rest of the room. He’d been here before. Jii had a holiday party most years, and he’d babysat Takumi a lot, especially in the first few years. “Kaa-san said Jii-chan died.”

“Jii-chan did die,” Kaito said, heart heavy. Takumi was old enough to understand death, had been for a while. This was just his first encounter with it being someone he knew.

“Is he like Yuki?” Takumi asked, referring to one of Kaito’s doves that had died a few months ago. She’d died of old age and they had found her body in the dovecote when they went to feed the birds one morning. It had been a chance to talk about life and death. Kaito was glad they’d had that talk because Takumi was glancing around like he expected a body to roll off one of the pool tables.

“Not quite like Yuki,” Kaito said, “but he’s passed on like she did. There isn’t a body because it’s already been cremated—burned up.”

“Oh.” Takumi bit his lip and Kaito gave him another careful hug. He hadn’t drunk so much that he’d lost control of himself, but he’d had enough that Takumi needed his full concentration. “That doesn’t hurt right?”

“No, he was already dead.” Kaito glanced at Aoko, and from her expression, he guessed that this was something Takumi’d asked already and he was getting a second opinion on. “You can’t hurt anymore if you’re dead.”

“Oh,” Takumi said again.

“There’s a memorial if you want to say goodbye to Jii-chan,” Kaito said. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear from you. Ok?”

“Ok. I’m going to tell him I’ll miss him and I hope he’s happy wherever he is.”

Kaito forced a smile for Takumi and patted him on the head before Takumi marched toward the memorial with a determined look in his eye. That left Kaito with Aoko.

“He cried when he heard,” Aoko said.

“He loved Jii-chan,” Kaito said. Takumi was in front of the memorial, hands clapped together and his face screwed up like he was trying to will his prayer to reach Jii through sheer determination. It was uncomfortably similar to how Kaito used to stand in front of his father’s memorial as a kid, face screwed up as he promised he was working hard to be a magician.

“You’re drunk,” Aoko said, and Kaito realized she’d been studying him. Sober, he would have noticed immediately.

“I had a few drinks in Jii-chan’s memory,” Kaito said. “He ran a bar, Aoko, it’s how he’d have wanted it.”

“That doesn’t mean you should go get drunk.”

“Maybe you need a drink.”

Aoko glared at him.

Kaito held up his hands. “Fine. Stay sober.”

Aoko crossed her arms, clamped tight around her middle like she was holding herself together. “This shouldn’t have happened,” she muttered.

“No, it shouldn’t.”

“I know he was helping you,” she said, not looking at Kaito at all. “He’s the only one who could have been all these years.”

“I never denied it,” Kaito said tightly. His hands itched to fiddle with his cards or perhaps pour another drink. He settled for rolling the buttons on his cuffs between his fingers. Takumi’s serious expression had softened into something sadder. A bittersweet expression better fitting on an older face than a six year old’s.

“They killed him for it.”

“I know.”

“Like your father.”

“I know.”

“Like they’re trying to kill you.” Aoko gave him a pointed look.

Kaito hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. “I know, Aoko.”

“Hasn’t stopped you from throwing yourself head first into danger.”

“Who the hell else is going to do anything, Aoko? The police? You? The police just arrested a man for mugging Jii when anyone with eyes could see that wasn’t what happened. The police can’t stop a damn sniper from showing up at heists. The police have done jack shit in getting rid of any of the crows.”

“Oh, because committing crimes is vigilantism and everyone knows how effective that is,” Aoko said, scathing.

Kaito’s hands clenched into fists. He didn’t want to have this argument. Not again, and not here. “Drop it.”

“Kaito, Jii’s dead. How many more people are going to die before you’re satisfied?”

“Aoko, shut up,” Kaito said, teeth gritted.

“No. You’re out there on a grudge mission and who the hell is benefitting? Jii-chan was like a grandfather to you and he died for your damned selfishness. Who’s next Kaito? You? Me? My dad?”

“Dammit Aoko, not now!” Kaito’s throat hurt and he realized he’d just shouted. Everyone in the room was looking at them and he couldn’t grip his control at all in that moment. “This is a funeral,” he said, still loud, but not quite shouting, anger burning through him because couldn’t they just...just feel sad about losing Jii together for one moment? “If you’re going to get mad at me, you can leave.”

Aoko stared at him, and he realized this was one of the only times he’d raised his voice at her. Aoko yelled. Aoko was flashfire anger, outbursts that burned quick and died when she let that anger out. Kaito didn’t yell. Kaito tried not to ever yell at all even if he was angry, and he’d screwed up this time. In the mass of faces looking at them was Takumi, eyes wide with something a lot like fear. It hit like one of Aoko’s mop swings to the gut.

“Please,” Kaito tacked on, quiet again. “Not today.”

Aoko’s lips formed a tight line. “I’ll say what I need to say to Jii-chan and we’ll go.” She was across the room in a handful of strides and Takumi was still staring at Kaito like he’d never seen him before.

The other people in the room looked away, trying to pretend they hadn’t been staring and Kaito sat heavily in the closest chair.

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Aoko was marching back toward the door. Takumi trailed after her, hesitant.

“We’ll talk later, Kaito,” Aoko said to him before she left. When Kaito offered Takumi a hug, he held on to Aoko’s hand and didn’t accept it.

That was another blow to Kaito’s heart. He’d messed up bad. When the door closed, Kaito buried his face in his hands for a moment. “Fuck.” Years of trying to at least look like he and Aoko didn’t fight in front of Takumi, years of keeping his voice down and not escalating things and he’d fucked it all up in one moment.

Was it the alcohol or his own emotions betraying him? Both? His patience finally reaching a limit? Why didn’t matter, it had happened either way. “What am I supposed to do with this mess, Jii-chan?” he mumbled to himself. Around him the funeral was continuing, people moving on from his family’s outburst and returning to celebrating Jii’s life.

Well, Kaito had already fucked up and he was already halfway to drunk. He might as well bury himself deeper. Kaito poured himself a new glass and forced himself to mingle with the other people. Jii would want to be celebrated so Kaito was damn well going to try.

***

Kaito gripped the toilet as his body did its best to physically remove his stomach via his esophagus. The alcohol burned twice as bad coming up as it had going down and left an even worse taste on his tongue. Ugh. He hadn’t had this bad of a hangover since... since maybe forever. Kaito hadn’t even drank that much at his own wedding. Ugh. Never again. He wasn’t touching alcohol ever again. Sorry, Jii, all of it went to paying customers only. Kaito would leave a bottle on his memorial instead of drinking a glass in his memory...

Ugh.

It would be bad enough to be glued to the toilet with his insides roiling, but Kaito’s conscience was nagging at him too. He’d been drunk when he argued with Aoko last night, but not so drunk that he didn’t remember Takumi’s fear or rejection. Fuck. Kaito was the worst father. He’d scared his kid and lost his temper and for what? Getting shitfaced in an ill-advised moment of trying to forget he existed? He deserved each and every moment of agony he was experiencing.

What had he been thinking?

Kaito had work in an hour. Work and then he had to take Jii’s ashes to his family grave. Kaito wiped his mouth as his stomach twisted again. No vomiting this time. Just a steady nauseated ache that filled his whole body. Tomorrow he was supposed to have Takumi for the day. He’d planned to take the day off work and spend it with his son at the zoo or something, following Jii’s advice to take a break back when they were planning a vacation. Kaito had put in the request for the day off and everything, but it was kind of hollow now. There was still the opportunity to make up for scaring Takumi. Put on his happy mask and do fun things and make Takumi laugh because hearing his laughter always made Kaito feel lighter inside.

He could fix this screw up even if—

Kaito shoved away from the toilet, flushing its contents like it would erase the last half hour from happening. Move, he had to move, get dressed, drink water and get out the door. Don’t linger in the kitchen with its unwashed dishes and the table where he’d laid out dozens of heist plans over the years. Don’t linger on the urn in his bedroom. Don’t linger on the new set of keys or paperwork to be filled out or any of the other official odds and ends that had been dumped on him. Definitely don’t linger on the photo hanging in the hall of Jii and Kaito and Aoko at Kaito’s wedding.

Somehow Kaito made it out the door and to work without being late. The glass of water had had middling success of staying down and the pill he took to counteract the headache only soured his stomach more, but he made it. Another day at work, another day his coworkers couldn’t see him hanging on to his sanity by the skin of his teeth.

He forgot to pack a lunch, but then he wasn’t really hungry anyway.

***

There were three heist plans spread across the table, all of them for the next month. He’d planned to have a break, but now it felt like if he stopped even for a moment, life would shatter apart at the edges. Takumi hadn’t come over on the weekend—Aoko said he didn’t want to come that week, and Takumi had agreed when Kaito asked to talk to him, and this wasn’t the first time this had ever happened, but for it to happen now... So no Takumi and still no Kaa-san around the house and too much time and space to himself just like in high school, Kaito had to fill it with something.

All of the heists were ones he’d started compiling information on a while ago, things Jii had gathered preliminary information on. Now Kaito would have to do all the legwork and research himself. This was fine. This was fine, he could handle it. The first was at the museum and he knew it so well by now that he could plan an exit at any point in the building in his sleep at this point. And the other two were owned by collectors and he’d been chipping away at figuring out the defenses on those for a while. There hadn’t been any callouts from Jiroukichi in a while so he should keep an eye out for challenges soon as that would be on schedule any time now...

Kaito lost himself in minutia, going over things with a fine toothed comb and composing the first of his heist notes bit by bit.

It was easy to lose track of time in Kid’s hidden room. Especially when there was no one there to drag him away from work.

Kaito wasn’t getting much sleep these days.

***

He’d said he wasn’t going to touch alcohol again, but that was a lie. Funny thing about being left a bar; there sure was a lot of alcohol in it. Jii’s whiskey glinted golden in the light, one light in the back because the bar was closed. Just Kaito and a bottle of imported whiskey and a heist note.

He needed to hire someone to run the bar. For now it made a nice place to be when he didn’t want to go home. The back room smelled like Jii—cigars and cologne and a particular brand of aftershave all mixed into one scent that lingered. Jii’d lived out of that back room. The bar was a home and a business and the back room was testament to it with its shelves of collector items and Jii’s futon folded away in the closet and his scent seeped into the tatami. The bar was Western, but the back room was Japanese. Jii’d served them tea under a kotatsu in the corner, peeling tangerines and plotting new magic tricks.

The room spun a bit as Kaito sat up from the floor. He didn’t remember lying down, but he must have at some point. There was the heist note. The note he meant to do something with tonight. Send it?

He used a children’s substitution cipher, worked it into a poetic format that read like a nonsense poem until you pieced its clues together. It mentioned blackbirds. Would anyone notice the significance? Would anyone care if they did? The police didn’t catch his watchers often. They were like literal shadows sometimes, more slippery than Kaito as Kid when they sent out the snipers, the professionals, the assassins, not just the run of the mill thugs.

The golden whiskey—no, it was amber, wasn’t whiskey always amber? Kaito couldn’t decide if that mattered or not—caught the light one last time before it slid down his throat. Gone. (More in the bottle, but—) Kaito set the glass down hard enough to smack over the bottle. It had its cap on though, nothing spilled, wow didn’t want to spill Jii’s whiskey. The room went a bit hazy on the edges, tilting as Kaito stood, or no, that was him tilting and he had better muscle control than that.

Steady. In control. His hands didn’t shake, his body didn’t waver. Deliver the note.

To who? Nakamori—no, too loud, bad choice. Not Aoko. Couldn’t be Aoko, Kaito couldn’t be around Aoko that would hurt worse and if he hurt worse—not Aoko. The owner? Too far, trains weren’t running this late. Maybe the paper, but the paper was last note and there was such a thing as too predictable and maybe he should choose a police member... Kudo! Kaito grinned, wavered in place a moment. Kudo hadn’t been to the last few heists and that wasn’t right, Kudo saw things better and he noticed the shadows even if Nakamori didn’t and Kudo still owed him for helping take out the crime organization a few years back. Give Kudo a note and he had to come and that would make the heist harder, but that just meant Kaito would have to work harder and working harder meant less time feeling and Kaito wanted that even if it was too hazy right now to pinpoint why—

Jii.

Kaito frowned. The room was empty, just a light and a bottle and a glass and Kaito. It smelled like Jii and whiskey where Kaito spilled a bit pouring, though that was his sleeve not the room. Jii wasn’t there and Kaito was alone. His throat went tight and his hands went clammy and the room spun in a way that wasn’t from the alcoholic haze in his head.

Note. Note to Kudo and then home, sleep, work, heist.

Jii’s bar was closer to Beika than Kaito’s home. It was closer, but by the time he reached the Kudo manor, his head was a bit clearer, enough to wonder what the hell he was doing, but not so clear as to change his mind and back out.

Even drunk it wasn’t hard to avoid Kudo’s surveillance cameras. Kaito had visited before, a few times, all the way back in high school, and while the security was better than back then, it wasn’t that much better. A light’s on in the study, and another upstairs. Kaito perched outside a second-floor window, glimpsing Kudo Ran in a night-light lit hallway pacing back and forth with a child in her arms.

Kudo had a daughter. Kaito’d forgotten that, but there she was, still a toddler, so little that it hurt to look at her because it brought up all sorts of memories. That had been Kaito once. Kaito, pacing with a crying Takumi, woken up by nightmares and Aoko living in the police dorms during her training so there had only been Kaito to hold him. Whispered words and hummed songs, little silly stories and soft reassurances in the dark until Takumi had calmed and slept again. Long, achingly exhausting nights that Kaito sometimes wished he could live again because for all that it had been hellishly difficult, it had been happier too. Simpler. Ran’s lips moved and Kaito could make out syllables of a lullaby.

He tore himself away, moving to the next window and the next with a clumsiness he blamed on the alcohol, then back down toward the glow of the study.

Kudo sat at a large wooden desk, paperwork strewn in front of him. Not that anything was getting done. Kudo kept starting to write then stopping and glancing at the door. If he wanted to check on his daughter, he should just check on his daughter.

Kaito fiddled with a pen in his pocket, filled with the urge to add a personal note to the heist note. Kudo should know not to waste what he had. If it was Kaito he’d—

Kaito flattened himself to the wall as Kudo glanced up at the window. The light inside would make it hard to see anything outside, but the mirror effect meant nothing if Kaito was all but pressing his face against the glass.

Kudo stared for a minute before shaking his head. He rubbed at his eyes with the weariness of a man that didn’t get near enough sleep as he should. Kaito knew the feeling well.

Go, Kaito thought. Go to Ran-san. Lo and behold, Kudo did, giving his work a last look of distaste.

The light in the study went dark. It took a matter of seconds to get the window open and land amidst Kudo’s stacks of papers. Kaito staggered a bit on the landing, the room spinning a bit. Still drunk. The papers on the desk were gibberish until Kaito’s brain clicked and the writing resolved itself into English. English case files? He could pick out the words, but the meaning wasn’t forming a whole. Kaito gave up snooping and set the heist notice in the middle of Kudo’s desk where he’d be sure to find it when he went to do paperwork tomorrow morning.

Kaito always thought Kudo would be neater than this. Files, files everywhere, with an organization system only Kudo would know. They’d tell him what Kudo was up to now, but it wouldn’t give Kaito any information he could use. He tiptoed around them, back out the window and into the dark. He should leave now. Instead, Kaito climbed upward again.

Ran was still in the hall with the night light, but Kudo was there too, arms around her and gently running a hand over his daughter’s hair. Kaito ached inside alongside a bitter twist of jealousy. Stupid brain, he had no right to be jealous when he ruined things himself. But Ran forgave Kudo. Why couldn’t Aoko forgive me?

His hands hurt, clenched tight on the window frame. No wonder Kudo hadn’t been to many heists lately. He had this to come home to. This to protect. He didn’t need the distraction of Kid heists like he did once. Didn’t need the danger they could bring either.

Kaito could climb back down and take his note back, plant it somewhere else.

But Kudo dealt with murderers and Kid’s heists were no more dangerous than Kudo’s daily life most of the time.

If Kaito opened the window, waited for Kudo to let Ran put their daughter to bed, waited for him to turn and walk down the hall and find Kaito there, how would he react? With fear? Block off his wife and child and stand defensive in the hallway? Or would it be like in years past, when Kaito had time to bother him more? Would he roll his eyes and complain after that first tense moment of anticipation? Kaito’s hands itched to open the window, to see if Kudo saw Kaito as a threat or not. To see what would happen simply for the sake of curiosity.

He shifted in his perch and—slipped. He was falling before the sensation registered as falling, a beat too late to stop. Only muscle memory had his arm flinging out and catching a thin tree branch to slow the fall. It broke with a sharp crack, wrenching his arm and leaving him to smack face first into Kudo’s azalea bushes.

“Owww....” He hadn’t done something that clumsy since high school when he was constantly flying by the seat of his pants.

Upstairs, the window opened. Kaito flattened himself against the wall.

“...No, I don’t see anything. Maybe a tanuki?” Kudo’s voice said.

Adrenaline pushed the last of the alcohol haze away. Wait...wait... The window closed. Kaito dashed for the walls and was over them in record time. He was two blocks away before he realized he’d taken the tree branch with him. He left it at the next trash site he ran across.

Yet again, Kaito vowed not to drink that much anymore.

***

Normally Kaito felt at least a bit of a rush from heists. Even the ones he was least excited about brought on the adrenaline rush of a performance, the thrill of having eyes on him that would always happen because he was a performer at heart. Since Aoko joined the grunts in the Kid task force, though, that rush hadn’t been as sharp. Since Jii’s death, well, Kaito wasn’t feeling much of a rush at all.

There was still a flow of emotions animating his movements under his skin, but it wasn’t a performer’s high where everything came together in the moment. No, it was closer to desperation and the chilling certainty that he was always dancing on a knife’s edge these days. With Aoko, with Kid’s goals, with his own sanity.

His cape billowed white around him, snapping in the wind. Rooftops felt a bit like freedom. Jumping from them felt a bit like absolution.

Kudo stared him down, there before Nakamori or Aoko, one step ahead as always. That, at least, Kaito could rely on. He’d take what little slices of normality his life could get.

“I see you accepted my invitation,” Kaito said, pulling his hat at a better angle to shade his face.

“Considering you broke into my home to leave it...” Kudo said, trailing off as he narrowed his eyes. “What’s your game this time, Kid?”

“Game?” Kaito smiled. It was easier to smile with Kudo right there, easier to play the part when he had a foil to work against. “Can’t I just miss having you chase me? It’s been, what? Over half a year? You’d think I wasn’t your favorite thief anymore.”

Kudo huffed. “Kid, I work homicides.”

“Then this is like a vacation. With less bodies. Your vacations always end up bloody.”

For a moment Kaito thought he would get a smile from Kudo, but he got an eye roll instead. Pity. Kudo had a sense of humor unlike some other detectives Kaito knew. “Give the gem back, Kid,” Kudo said, one hand held out like he thought Kaito would comply. Oh such optimism. There was open air behind Kaito’s back and even with the search lights combing the wrong direction, there was nothing stopping him from jumping.

“Has that ever worked in all the time you’ve known me?” Kaito said.

“Mm, if you feel threatened enough.”

“You’re not chibi Inspector Gadget anymore; somehow you were more threatening a meter high with a soccer ball.”

That did get a flicker of a smile. Good. Good, something bright to spark a bit more life into the hollow thrill. Kudo had a gun. He didn’t aim it in Kaito’s direction though. Instead he...pointed? “Who says I don’t have any more gadgets, Kid?”

Kaito’s eyes widened as there was a flicker of something— He fell backward off the roof before whatever it was could hit, activating the glider. That had been too easy. What was the catch? The air caught, jerking him from a plummet into a glide. Kudo was left standing on the edge of the roof, watching. No further attacks, no gunshot-cracks or stinging pain from a glancing blow. Far below police lights flashed blue and red in little clusters, lost to his misdirection. Their lights didn’t touch him here, and the bit of him wound tight since the start of the heist uncoiled. Kaito exhaled slowly, letting lingering tension leave his body.

Exhaustion creeped at the edges of his consciousness, but for now it was ignorable. Just fly a bit more, change to something less noticeable, and get home.

Halfway to his rest point, Kaito noticed a small white object on his sleeve, almost unnoticeable except that it was a shade too bright compared to his suit. A tracker, tiny and intricately made, and something that had to be Agasa’s work. Ha. Kudo almost had him there... Kaito made sure to slip it onto a neighborhood cat collar when he changed clothes; they liked to linger near a convenience store a block away and would lead Kudo on a frustrating chase.

***

Aoko was up late again, nursing a cup of coffee from what Kaito could tell from his vantage point. Doing paperwork, writing reports, some of them probably relating to the third heist he’d pulled this month. Kaito could almost feel the beat-up wooden kitchen table under his fingertips and smell the sour scent of coffee brewed too dark too long. Aoko would have her hair pulled back and the tired frown between her eyes and her free hand tapping away as she tried to put things into objective, unemotional accounts. Kaito used to sit across from her and see her get closer and closer to boiling over before doing something little, like a shoulder rub or refreshing her coffee with something better for her to get the persistent frown to melt away into a tired smile. There was no one to do that now.

Takumi slept upstairs, had been asleep for several hours now. He came over to Kaito’s home over the weekend, but he had spent most of his time with Kaito’s birds and none of Kaito’s attempts to engage him in things that would normally brighten his day had worked.

This wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had happened. Kaito knew that it was hard on Takumi whenever Aoko and Kaito were more at odds than usual but... It still hurt.

It felt like he was missing all the important things in Takumi’s life. He was in first grade, and his best friends were Momoi Shiemi and Fujitaka Gen, and right now Takumi loved frogs and sentai shows and anything he could learn on animal origami. Last year it had been kites and things that flew and Kaito had helped him make a giant kite in the shape of a penguin because Takumi had insisted that penguins should get to fly. But Kaito didn’t see the day to day. He didn’t see Takumi get excited on the first day of school or when he made a new friend. He didn’t see him come home every day and hear what he thought about each new thing he learned. Kaito heard it after the fact, on weekends when Takumi would rather draw pictures or go to the park or practice simple magic tricks than talk about things like school.

It was Kaito’s own fault he didn’t have that and life never stopped shoving it back in his face.

At the kitchen table, Aoko made an unhappy face at the taste of cold coffee. That was Kaito’s cue to leave. He could only get away with looking so long. Somehow, eventually, Aoko would notice and she’d be mad.

Sometimes Kaito needed to see them breathing to know what was real though.

***

“I’m so sorry about Jii, Kaito. He was a good man...”

“He was so much more than that,” Kaito said into the phone cradled in his hands. A phone call, not even a video call, but a phone call. He couldn’t even see her face to see how much she meant it, though she had to mean it. Jii was important to Kaa-san too. “Where were you? Where are you, it’s been weeks—” He caught himself before his voice broke.

“I’m so so sorry, Kai-chan,” his mother said, voice soft like it was when he was little. It was too little too late to soothe him now though. “I should have called... My suitcase got lost and I only just got it back. I didn’t know. I didn’t know...”

Kaito stared up at him father’s painting, the side with Toichi, not Kid, and Kaito was almost as old as his father had been when he had Kaito. A few more years and he’d have outlived him age wise. A small, unfair part of him wondered if she would notice if he was the one that died tomorrow, not Jii. Chikage had been globe-trotting for years now, this wasn’t anything new, just a bit longer than they usually were out of touch for, just... He wanted to cry, but there weren’t tears to do so, just a clogged up feeling in his throat and a tight chest like when he’d broken a rib and he’d been wrapped in bandages for weeks. He breathed and it didn’t show at all.

“...How are you holding up? Do you need me to come home?”

Yes, Kaito thought. Yes and Please and I need someone so much right now, but what came out of his mouth was, “No.” Kaito marveled at how calm it came out. “No, I’m fine. I’ll be fine. You’re busy doing...” She hadn’t said what she’d been doing this time, or where she’d been going that led to losing her suitcase. “You’re busy. I can handle things. I’ve been handling them. Jii left me the bar and I hired someone to run it. I was thinking about hiring Momoi Keiko—you remember Keiko?—to keep track of stock and finances...” In his spare time—ha—Kaito was looking into what it took to run a business and what he’d need to know to make sure the bar was running properly. He’d moved anything Kid related far from Jii’s place and he’d managed most of the other trying details that death left behind. Paperwork. Emotional weight. Kaito managed for the last twelve years well enough without his mother to turn to at all times, he could do this now. “I’m fine.”

Part of him hoped she’d insist on coming home anyway.

The rest of him wasn’t really surprised that by the end of the call he still didn’t know when she would be back home.

***

Blueprints and messily handwritten notes laid spread about the table. Kaito’s pencil tapped at an increasingly rapid tempo as he scowled at the executive office diagram. “It’s like they designed the room to be as restricted to get to as possible. Not only is it the top floor, it only has one window of bulletproof glass, and can only be accessed by a private elevator.” The CEO had recently obtained an ornate antique clock set with large gemstones at four quarters of the clock face, and of course he’d chosen to have it displayed in his office. An office that was ridiculously secure. The man had to be paranoid. Maybe justifiably paranoid if he’d risen to his position under suspicious means, but that wasn’t Kaito’s main concern.

“Ugh...” Tap-tap-taptap-taptaptap. “I could probably impersonate an employee to get in there, but that’s the first thing they’d be looking for. Maybe if I climbed the elevator shaft...? Jii, what do you—” The tapping died as Kaito froze, realizing his mistake. He stared blankly at the papers in front of him for a moment. “Shit. Right,” he said. “Right.”

The silence he’d momentarily forgotten felt too loud. The house was too big, the rooms too empty. There were photos of dead men on the walls in the hallway and all the decorations were chosen by a woman that spent less than a full month a year in the house. The pencil lead snapped under the pressure of Kaito’s hand.

“Right,” he repeated under his breath.

He clicked out a new length of lead.

It was harder to get back to work now that he’d remembered he was alone.

***

It felt a bit like when Takumi was a toddler; Aoko at the police dorms and Kaito juggling school, a baby, and Kid all at once. Only now it was Kaito juggling work, attempts at bonding with his son, and filling every spare hour he had with Kid until it felt like he was more Kid than Kaito. Kaito had loss and family struggles hanging over his head. Kid had targets and research and traps to funnel energy into and Kaito was funneling more energy into them than he had in the last five years.

If he held still too long, the world would catch up to him, so he kept going. Delved into gem trade records and museum collection records. Scrounged through rumors and imports and legends. He ran through blueprints and pieced together traps and smoke bombs and a new knock out gas. He constructed new tricks and practiced them until he saw them in his sleep. Mirrors, wires, speakers, training doves to go to new places and carry new things.

Kaito sent his attention in a dozen directions and felt each new task stretch him a little bit thinner. He was caught in the arc of shuffled cards but he didn’t know who held the deck or what card would come out on top.

He’d learned how to balance things, once. He knew how to take breaks and appreciate little moments and build relationships with coworkers and informants and what not. Kaito had learned to enjoy early mornings with cups of coffee and the sound of doves waking up in their roosts and the orange glow of the sun peeking over the horizon. There weren’t any of those moments now. He slept when his body gave out and he woke to the shrill of his phone alarm with enough time to get to work. The ate a lot of take away and instant meals when he remembered to eat at all, and it was only in the moments Takumi was there that time seemed to slow into anything resembling the calm he’d found.

It was better this way though. It was better because Kaito would rather keep busy, burn himself out, than find out what would happen if he stopped moving.

#detective conan #magic kaito #minor character death #fanfiction #lay in the atmosphere #my writing #all aboard the angst train guys

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themurphyzone · 7 years ago

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Aspects Ch 6

Warning: Stuff goes down!

Ch 6: Thoughtless

Aside from a permanent frown, the aspect didn’t have any distinguishing traits that separated him from the normal Heinz Doofenshmirtz. But Vanessa didn’t like the way his eyes bore through her, scrutinizing her every move as he waited for her to make a mistake.

Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

“Alright, back into the penthouse you go,” Vanessa said, not giving him time to react.

Heinz scowled at her. “Don’t even think about buttering me up just so you can get a tattoo. Cause it’s not working.”

“What? No! I don’t care about that stupid tattoo right now!” Vanessa protested, finally getting the door open. She quickly pulled the aspect inside before he had the chance to escape.

He waggled his finger at her, as if he were scolding a naughty child. “Don’t lie to me, Vanessa. You can’t wait to be independent. But you’ll just run off to who knows where and leave me behind. That’s the way it works.”

The others weren’t nearly as difficult to handle, even though they fought all the time.

Vanessa turned away, deciding to break up the fight between the Father and the Scientist so that she could preserve some of her sanity. While her dad lacked a filter at the best of times, he wasn’t usually so direct about his varying issues. From what she’d observed of nemesis battles, Perry usually had to pick out the real problem from a bunch of trivial, rambling fillers.

“Can’t a guy just install modifications to the showerhead so the water will be the perfect temperature in peace?” the Scientist complained.

The Father scowled, his eyebrows knitting dangerously together. “I don’t want my kids to be blown up by a self-destruct button in the shower! Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“Norm won’t even fit in the tub! He’ll be fine! I wonder what kind of circuitry he’s got that makes him waterproof....”

“You’re not treating Norm like a science experiment!”

Before the Father could lunge at the Scientist, Vanessa stepped in between them. Holding both aspects at arm’s length, she glared at the Father in disapproval. He leveled one last threatening stare at the Scientist before backing off.

“Both of you knock it off,” Vanessa said sternly, before turning to the Scientist. “And you should be getting back to the repairs.”

The Scientist perked up. “I’m almost done with the barrel. Maybe a fresh coat of paint wouldn’t hurt either. I’m thinking forest green. Not too hard on the eyes like neon green, and definitely not ugly to look at like army green.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Vanessa agreed.

The newest aspect folded his arms, scoffing at the Scientist as he stopped to gather several bolts that were lying around on his way back to the lab. “You’re really gonna let this guy build a machine for you? He’ll ruin everything with a self-destruct button. Or blow up cause he matched the wrong wires. Or it won’t function as expected. You’re banking on way too much.”

“I can try again,” the Scientist muttered stubbornly. “With a few minor adjustments-”

“The physical parts don’t matter,” the aspect said cruelly. “No matter how many times you’ve checked your math, no matter how many times you tighten a screw, the results always end in failure.”

Norm raised his finger to interrupt the tirade. “AT LEAST DAD BLOWS UP AND DOESN’T GIVE UP,” he stated bravely.

The Father grabbed Norm’s arm, tugging him in the direction of the closet. “I appreciate the spirit, Norm, but maybe we should just go into the closet for the time being. You can pick the game this time.”

Now that the aspect’s attention had been directed away from him, the Scientist stood up and made a break for the safety of the lab.

“As for you,” the aspect snapped. “Stop pretending Norm is your son. He’s a hunk of scrap. There’s nothing that separates him from any other inator.”

Norm’s permanent smile flipped downwards, and he took a step backwards.

Before Vanessa could react, the Father launched himself at the thoughtless aspect, knocking him onto his back.

She couldn’t find a better word to describe him.

Thoughtless.

As the two aspects hurled insults and used the nearby furniture as projectiles, Vanessa could only hope Perry was coming soon. She averted her gaze, doing the only thing she could.

“Come on, let’s find something to do,” Vanessa said, leading Norm away from the battle.

Interfering would only cause more pain. And she wasn’t keen on taking Perry’s job.

After dragging the Performer away from five different pedestrians who didn’t have the time to listen to a monologue or song, they’d finally reached the door to the penthouse.

“Not exactly grand, but I guess everyone’s gotta start somewhere,” the Performer commented. “At least it’s lively.”

There was a loud crash on the other side, which worried Perry. His mind jumped to several possibilities, and none of them were good. He didn’t bother with the keys, and simply went for a well-aimed kick that broke the door off its hinges.

“You should really perform with me sometime. Those kicks would completely dazzle an audience! Really, chorus girls don’t hold a candle to that sort of thing,” the Performer suggested. “Whoa, are those guys stuntmen or something?”

Two aspects were throwing every piece of furniture they could reach at each other.

“So you think you’re actually a good father, huh?” the other aspect jeered. The Father paled, rubbing his arms in an attempt to reassure himself. “Maybe if you hadn’t leeched off Charlene during your short-lived marriage, you could’ve had a whole family. You wouldn’t be stuck living on alimony for the rest of your life. You could’ve seen your daughter every day. Home movies, reading to her, comforting her. You couldn’t even give something as simple as that to her!”

Perry had heard enough. He stormed up to the other aspect, who still hadn’t let up on the harsh insults. Perry swept his tail forcefully against the other aspect’s knees, sending him tumbling to the ground. Feeling his phone buzz with a text message, Perry quickly pinned one of the aspect’s arms behind his back as a warning.

Found another aspect but couldn’t text you right away. Sorry bout that. Calling him Thoughtless cause everything out of his mouth is an insult. Norm and I are in the storage closet. Don’t worry, we got games here.

-Vanessa

Perry sent her a thumbs up emoji and put his cell phone away.

The Performer was already leading the Father away, trying to lighten the mood with some nonsensical rant against plastic flamingos. Perry waited for them to leave the room, then he released his hold on Thoughtless.

“Oh like you’re any better than the rest of them,” Thoughtless snapped. “Why don’t you leave too? Go on. Find some other nemesis who’s higher on the threat scale. Get a higher paycheck from breaking their toys.”

Perry folded his arms. Heinz should’ve known him better than that. OWCA could send him on a literal wild goose chase, refuse to let him take vacation days, or reassign him to a completely new area without his consent all they wanted. But his heart belonged to the Flynn-Fletcher and Doofenshmirtz family entirely.

Nothing the agency did could change that.

“Besides, what do you need me for? Absolutely nothing,” Thoughtless sighed.

Thinking of nothing else he could do, Perry placed on a hand on Thoughtless’s knee and squeezed.

“NOW THAT YOU ARE 83.3% CLOSER IN YOUR QUEST TO HAVE DAD NOT BE NICE TO ME ANYMORE, PLEASE TELL HIM I LOVE HIM BECAUSE HE WON’T HEAR IT FROM ME,” Norm declared. “DO YOU HAVE ANY SEVENS?”

Vanessa picked through the wad of cards in her hand. Maybe it was time to find a robot-friendly pack that was resistant to tearing and crumpling, she thought. She handed two sevens to Norm. “You can tell him, Norm. Just do it in front of me or Perry, and we won’t let him try to wriggle his way out. Promise.”

“OKAY, SIS. DO YOU HAVE ANY ACES?”

“Go Fish,” Vanessa said.

It was strange. She’d never spent so much time in the storage closet before. It needed some sprucing up. Some extra lights,a few posters, and a couple tchotchkes would do wonders for a room. Then her eyes wandered back to the cardboard flaps that served as Norm’s diary.

They had the Shell, who existed and nothing more.

The Father, who held nothing but love for them.

The Scientist, with the brilliant mind and enough curiosity to kill a thousand cats.

The Performer, who revelled in the attention his musical number brought.

The Thoughtless, who pushed everyone away to protect himself.

So who were they missing?

“Norm, you saw them when Dad used the inator on himself,” Vanessa said. “Who’s the last aspect we need?”

Norm remained silent. “IF I TELL YOU, YOU’LL TELL PERRY,” he said in the quietest voice Vanessa had ever heard from him.

Vanessa set her cards aside, taking Norm’s large hand in her own. “I’m sorry. But you don’t have a choice. I just want to know what we can look for.”

“IN THAT CASE, I’LL MAKE A CHOICE,” Norm told her, his usual smile flipping upside down. Smoke quickly started to pour from the soles of his feet. “I’LL FIND HIM BEFORE PERRY THE PLATYPUS AND YOU CAN’T TAKE HIM AWAY.”

Vanessa bolted for the door, barely managing to make it to the outside before the smoke enveloped the storage closet. Perry was by her side in an instant, a rare look of alarm on his face. Seconds later, a loud crash shook the entire penthouse.

They raced out to the balcony, only to see a hole in the roof and an angry, desperate Norm in the distance.

AN: Thoughtless is the self-loathing side of Heinz. He lashes out at the world, which only brings further misery on himself. He hurts himself with self-defeating thoughts and the ones he loves by suggesting they abandon him.

#aspects #phineas and ferb #vanessa doofenshmirtz #norm the robot #perry the platypus #heinz doofenshmirtz

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lowkeyenvy · 7 years ago

Text

Just Like This - Prom ‘59

Synopsis: Inspired by David Harbour's tweets: "Hawkins class of '60. She and Lonnie went to Prom winter of '59 and Hopper sat outside in his steel blue GTO smoking' camels." And "Joyce and I never slow danced. Lucille by Little Richard. On the dance floor we tore it up. We'd go somewhere else to do things slow."

Over 8,000 words of my take on the events that led up to why Joyce went to prom with Lonnie, along with the after effects, including Joyce and Hopper taking things slow. Pre-series fic.

Author: Lowkeyenvy Characters: Joyce Byers x Jim Hopper Chapters: 1/1 Words: 8,128 Rating: Explicit Warnings: NSFW, Smut Tags: @strangerthingsfics Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. All rights and credits are to the Duffer Brothers and Netflix.

Author’s Note: This one shot is based loosely on David's tweets and does not follow exactly how he envisioned it, but I think it gets pretty close.

Hawkins 1959

“C’mon Hopper, if I’m late for Homeroom one more time, Cooper will write me a Saturday detention,” Benny complained from the passenger seat of Jim’s Oldsmobile.

“It’s Homeroom Benny,” Jim responded, “it’s not even considered a class. Cooper’s being a hardass and you know it.”

Benny glared at him, “I don’t care if he’s being a hardass or not, if I get Saturday detention because you want to spy on your girlfriend—“

Jim held up a hand and Benny instantly quieted. “There’s Karen’s car.” He tipped his head in the direction across the parking lot as a light blue Thunderbird pulled in.

Slowly, he slid his oversized aviators down his nose so he could peer overtop of them. He placed both of his hands on the steering wheel and leaned forward, squinting as he tried to get a better line of vision. As bad as it sounded, he wished he had a pair of binoculars in the car. He heaved a sigh, “Where are they?”

The car was parked, but no one had emerged just yet.

Jim blinked, internally speculating how this morning was about to go. He was either going to see Joyce emerge from the passenger side of that Thunderbird with Karen and all would be well. Or this morning was about to turn upside down if she didn’t. He reached in his pocket for his pack of Camels. Without averting his heavy gaze, he lit the tip of a cigarette and inhaled deeply. If this morning was going to go sour, he might as well prepare for it.

As if reading his mind, Benny asked, “Do you really think this is a good idea? Homeroom starts in six minutes Hopper. Six. Minutes.”

Jim ignored his question and simply inquired, “Do you really wanna miss witnessing me knock Byers’ teeth in if she doesn’t get out of that car?”

Benny chuckled. “Trust me, everyone would want to witness that. But aren’t you and Joyce over now? I thought you guys broke up last weekend.” He was treading lightly. “ Look Hop, it’s been almost a week now. She didn’t even show up to the drive-in last night and it was half off Wednesday!”

Jim shook his head obstinately, pressing his fingertips into the steering wheel. He was gripping it so tightly that it left his knuckles a shade of ghost white. If he pressed any harder he was sure he’d leave indentations. “We did not break up. It was just a fight.”

Benny frowned. “You haven’t spoken to her since. We’ve all heard the rumors Hop… sounds like Byers couldn’t wait to swoop in and snatch her up.”

Jim grimaced. He focused back in on Karen’s car, watching intently as he tried to keep his temper under control. Byers hadn’t shown yet either. If Joyce didn’t get out of Karen’s car, then there was a very likely chance that she would get out of Lonnie’s. If that happened… well he meant what he said. He’d knock Byers’ teeth in.

The driver’s side door to the blue Thunderbird finally opened. Jim watched as Karen stepped out into the parking lot. She threw her bag over one shoulder before pushing the door shut. Jim found himself holding his breath as his eyes narrowed in on the passenger’s side. “C’mon,” he whispered. Karen smoothed out her sweater dress before heading towards the high school. She was officially alone.

“Son of a bitch!” Jim hit the steering wheel with such force that Benny flinched.

“Hop, I know you’re pissed, but I have to be in Homeroom in two minutes.” Benny threw open the passenger door. Before getting out, he placed a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you after third period.” He got out of the car and leaned down, one hand on the car’s top while the other rested on the door. “Try not to kill him.” He said before shutting the door and heading towards the school.

Jim brushed Benny’s comment off. There would be no trying of anything. He was going to sit in that car until he got eyes on Byers. Then he was going to drag him out of his own car and beat the shit out of him. Something he’d wanted to do for months now. Ever since he entered the picture, he and Joyce fought often, which wasn’t out of the norm to begin with. But it was a lot more often so to speak, since Lonnie decided to act on the thing he had for Joyce.

He slumped back in his seat as the school bell rang signaling that Homeroom was starting. He reached in his jacket once more to pull out his pack of cigarettes. He figured he was going to be here a while. God only knows what Joyce and Lonnie were up to. He wondered if they skipped together. The thought made his blood boil with rage that was threatening to overflow. After flicking his lighter on and lighting the end of his cigarette, he tossed the lighter onto the dashboard.

Staring straight ahead, he kept his eyes on the entrance to the student parking lot.

It wasn’t until he heard the sound of heels click-clacking on the pavement behind his car that he peeled his eyes away. His gaze flickered up to the rear view mirror.

His view was blocked by a small petite figure. She was wearing an oversized grey sweater with a pair of light wash jeans. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Even though the mirror cut off the upper area of her body, Jim knew exactly who it was. Especially since he looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of a black Buick speeding out of the back lot, which undoubtedly belonged to her father. He felt like a jackass.

Huffing out a deep breath, he pulled on his door handle and nudged the door open with his foot.

Before he could get out however, she had strode over and slammed the door shut once more. He was barely able to pull his foot away from being squashed, but it did still end up pinching his pinky toe. “OW! What the fuck, Joyce!”

He hurled the door open this time, swinging it with such force that she had to dodge out of the way to avoid being knocked over by it.

“Were you trying to spy on me?!”

“No,” he lied, through gritted teeth. “I just pulled up.”

Joyce crossed her arms across her chest once more and tilted her head to the side to glare at him. “Oh really? Then why isn’t Benny with you? I know you picked him up this morning. The bell rang three minutes ago and I also know he had to be in Homeroom this morning or he’d get Saturday detention.”

Jim cursed under his breath. He really wasn’t helping his case. “Yeah well, maybe I wasn’t spying on you at all, maybe I was waiting for Chrissy Carpenter so we could skip.” He didn’t mean it. He just wanted to hurt her and make her feel the way he had only minutes ago when he thought she’d show up with Lonnie.

“I’m sure you were,” she muttered.

He glanced down at her and looked at her, truly looked at her, for the first time that morning. She was really, really beautiful, he thought angrily. Her dark brown hair that reached her shoulders was messy, but not in a bad way. Her oversized sweater clung to her skin along with her light wash jeans. She had a pair of black leather combat boots on that laced up in the front, with just enough heel to allow her to reach his shoulders, rather than his chest on most days. Her cheeks were a light shade of pink and her forehead was covered by two wavy strands from where her bangs had fallen loosely.

The most beautiful woman in the world was standing before him and he hated her for it. He hated how beautiful she was to not just him, but everyone else. He was selfish. He didn’t want anyone else to relish in her beauty or realize how wonderful she was. He wanted her to himself. It was her fault Lonnie was coming between them. If she wasn’t so beautiful then maybe Lonnie wouldn’t have paid her any mind.

His mind flashed back to what she initially had muttered under her breath. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Joyce snorted. “Seriously Hop? Do you not remember why we broke up in the first place? Aside from your arrogance, your obsessiveness, and your ability to ruin everything!”

“It was a fight! Since when did we break up?!” He asked, incredulously.

She rolled her eyes, “Oh I don’t know, maybe when I said; I’M BREAKING UP WITH YOU!”

“For what?!” He yelled.

“You are unbelievable Jim Hopper!” She yelled, scowling at him. “You cheated on me with Chrissy Carpenter!”

“NO I DIDN’T!”

“YES YOU DID! I SAW YOU!”

Jim’s blood was positively boiling at this point. He merely leaned back against the Oldsmobile and asked mockingly, “If that’s the case then who’s really spying on who Joyce?”

“I wasn’t,” she said, more calmly this time, however her voice had become grave, “I was invited to Earl’s party too so anything I saw there is not considered spying.”

He shrugged, “Fine, but this is school property so if I want to sit in my car and observe my surroundings then that’s not considered spying either.”

“Fine,” she said gently, her voice soft.

“Fine.” He retorted.

Joyce hugged her arms to her chest. She was so angry with him, but the energy to fight was draining her dry. Her eyes were rimmed with a deep purple shade from dark circles. She hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since her and Hopper broke up. Nervously, she began switching her balance from one foot to the other as she stared down at the pavement. She could feel his gaze scrutinizing her. She sucked in a deep breath, knowing that what she was about to say was going to send him flying off the handle once more. “I’m not going to prom with you.”

Jim tossed a cigarette butt off to the side.

“I’m going with Lonnie.”

“What?” he said disbelievingly. He resisted the urge snap at her, trying his absolute best to maintain a calm demeanor. Maybe he had heard her wrong.

“You heard me.” She replied, her tone was stern.

The silence that followed between them was deafening. He and Joyce fought all the time. All the time. They’d been together for two years now and they argued at least every other day but it had never come to this.

Jim’s voice was monotonous, “I’m going to kill him.” He pushed past her, nudging her shoulder and making her stumble sideways.

Joyce’s eyes widened and she hurried after him. “Hop, wait—no!” She matched his quick pace, breathing heavily next to him. “Stop!” She reached out for his arm, but he shook her off. “JIM! STOP!”

He rounded on her instantly, making her already tiny frame, shrink even further into herself. His usual crystal blue eyes were now clouded grey with rage. She’d never seen them this dark before. The grey admist the blue looked like rocks against the shore that destroyed ships. They were torturous and above all… dangerous.

“You did this, not me,” she said breathlessly, her annoyance with him sounding diluted.

He placed his hands on his chest, mimicking a ‘me’ motion. “I did this? You broke up with me Joyce! For no goddamn reason other than—”

“Because you kissed Chrissy!” She interjected defensively, not allowing him to finish.

“SHE KISSED ME!”

“I SAW HER ON YOUR LAP!”

Jim threw his arms over his head in frustration. He pointed a finger at her, nearly jabbing her shoulder. “I’m going to tell you one last time Joyce. I did not kiss Chrissy. We were at Earl’s party, there were some drinks involved--not on my part. Chrissy was drunk out of her mind. You know she’s always been sweet on me. I’m assuming she took you not being there and her newfound confidence through alcohol to climb on my lap and kiss me. I. DID. NOT. KISS. HER. BACK. I pushed her off of me! But I guess you didn’t stick around long enough to see that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not? Because your new boyfriend told you a different story?” He paused, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Yeah that mother-fucking asshole probably couldn’t wait to tell you that made up bullshit.”

Joyce cringed at his choice of word usage.

He slowly leaned forward invading her personal space. Their noses were merely inches apart when she felt his hot breath against her face, “Enjoy your prom Joyce.”

Pushing past her, he left her standing there with a frown on her face. She could feel her eyes watering, blurring her vision as she looked over her shoulder to watch him walk away. It wasn’t until he reached the school’s main doors and was out of sight that she allowed the tears to spill over.

(XxXxXxXxXxX)

Joyce sighed and buried her face into a pillow. “Oh my God, Karen. How am I going to get through tonight?”

“What?” Karen replied hoarsely, “Your voice is muffled.”

Joyce picked her head up and gazed bleakly at her. “What if Hopper shows up? What if he and Lonnie see each other? What if tonight is disastrous? I mean, this is my life we’re talking about.”

Karen shrugged. “That’s too many what ifs.”

Joyce rolled over so that her back was lying on Karen’s bed. She stared up at the ceiling as she waited for her best friend to finish getting ready. The Winter Prom was tonight and she was dreading it. It’d been two days since her latest fight with Hopper. She hadn’t heard from him and she made no attempt to contact him herself either, at first. However, yesterday she did go outside between fifth and sixth period to their usual spot for smoking, but he wasn’t there. The thought of how empty she felt when she went under the steps to find him not there was agonizing.

“Almost done,” Karen chirped from the corner of the room. She was curling the last few strands of her hair. She looked at Joyce in the mirror. “Are you sure that’s what you want to wear?”

Joyce lifted her head up so that she could glare at her. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Karen yawned. “I’m just asking, okay? This is our junior winter prom! Your dress isn’t exactly…”

“What’s wrong with my dress?!”

“Nothing! I thought you’d want to have a dress that’s more prom-like that’s all.”

Joyce looked down at her dress. She was wearing a short, long sleeved, skater black dress that was tight around her chest and waist area, but flowed out at her hips. She had on a pair of black tights to match along with black heels. She also had a black leather jacket that she planned to wear overtop. Sure it was simple, but it was her. She’d never been into the fancy outfits that Karen always wore. In fact, she got this dress on sale and used at the local community aid store.

“Do you at least want to put some make-up on before we leave? I have red lipstick.” Karen held up a black tube and dangled it between her fingers.

“No.”

Karen shrugged her shoulders, “Suit yourself.” She fluffed her curls up with her hands and stood from her vanity. Her pale pink dress was over the top. It had ruffles and flowed effortless as she did a few twirls in front of the mirror. She stopped suddenly and turned around slowly to face Joyce.

Joyce spotted her uneasiness right away. “Karen. What is it?”

Karen gave a nervous sort of laugh. “It’s nothing, really Joyce. I just… I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Joyce arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t want me to get upset about what?”

“Promise that you won’t get mad at me!” She paused, waiting for Joyce to promise. When she stayed silent, staring at her intently, Karen continued, “I thought it’d be better to just let you see for yourself but now that I’m thinking about it, I think it’d be better if you could prepare yourself.”

Joyce sat up fully on the bed and was leaning so far forward that if she moved any further, even by just an inch, she would fall off the bed. “Prepare. Myself. For. What.”

“HopperaskedChrissyCarpentertopromandshesaidyes!” She blurted out suddenly.

Joyce’s eyes widened.

“They’ll be there tonight, together.” Karen finished softly.

Of course. That was just the icing on the cake to this week for Joyce. She wasn’t sure if she was hurt or angry. Or both. Hopper swore up and down that he didn’t cheat on her with Chrissy and that she was the one who kissed him. That it meant nothing to him and he had pushed her off of him. But here he was asking her to prom. She scowled. She knew he was only doing this to get back at her for going with Lonnie.

Seeing her change in demeanor, Karen eyed Joyce critically, “Look Joyce, like I said, I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you to be upset. But I also didn’t know if I should tell you because I wasn’t sure you’d even care. You’re the one who broke up with Hop. I thought it was pretty clear that you chose Lonnie over him.”

Joyce shook her head obstinately, digging her fingernails into the bedsheets. “I didn’t choose Lonnie over Hopper! I was mad at him because I thought he cheated on me with Chrissy! So I started hanging out with Lonnie more to make him jealous.”

“But I thought you like Lonnie now?” Karen questioned.

“I do!”

“But you still love Hopper?”

“Yes,” Joyce responded, sounding faintly annoyed. She really did like Lonnie. He had a crush on her since middle school. He was sweet, nice, and funny. They got along so well and she actually grew to like him since they started spending more time together. But he wasn’t Hopper.

Karen flipped her hair over her shoulder. She moved to stand in front of Joyce and placed her hands firmly on her hips. She held one hand up so that it hovered just in front of Joyce’s face. She was holding the tube of red lipstick. Smirking, she raised her eyebrows and whispered, “Then let’s go get your man.”

(XxXxXxXxXxX)

Prom wasn’t as horrible or disastrous as Joyce imagined it would be. And although her dress and makeup wasn’t as extravagant as the other girls, she felt beautiful. The cruella red lipstick on her lips popped against her all black outfit and pale features. She would never admit it, but she was glad Karen talked her into wearing it.

Her and Lonnie had spent about forty minutes on the dance floor tearing it up with a group of friends. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, but the thought of Hopper in the back of her mind kept her on edge. She found herself looking towards the gymnasium doors every five minutes or so to see if he’d show with Chrissy.

“Joyce?” Lonnie’s loud voice rang in her ears as he tried to be heard over the music, and pull her from her thoughts.

She turned to face him, “Yeah?”

“What’s going on, are you okay? You keep looking at the doors like you’re going to make a run for it.”

Joyce laughed, “No, no, I’m fine! I’m going to go to the restroom, I’ll be right back!”

She hurried out of the gymnasium and slipped through a side door into one of the school hallways. She didn’t even really have to use the restroom, she just needed to get out of there. She was practically suffocating from everyone’s warm bodies surrounding her, and her mind wondering in different directions with more thoughts of ‘what if.’

Still, she found her way to the restroom and thankfully it was empty. She stared at herself in the mirror for a few moments, her eyes narrowing in on every blemish. Shaking her head, she sighed and moved to leave, but she heard voices on the other side of the door.

Quickly, she went into a stall and locked it just as a group of girls entered the room.

“Chrissy you’re forty-five minutes late! What took you so long to get here?!” A voice asked, echoing off the walls.

Joyce cursed under breath. Of course it was Chrissy and her friends.

“She was probably getting down to business in the back of Hopper’s car!” Another voice chimed in.

“Girls!” Chrissy’s voice interrupted, scolding them. “Jimmy and I were late because he was late picking me up. He said he stopped to get me flowers.”

Joyce rolled her eyes. She hated hearing her call him “Jimmy.” It made her want to gag.

“Awe! He got you flowers! How sweet!”

“How sweet,” Joyce mocked in a whisper.

“That’s not all he got me,” Chrissy beamed. “He said that after the dance we could get a room down the street.”

The girls all let out a resounding gasp. They immediately started giggling and whispering but Joyce was too stunned to hear what they were saying. Her vision was blurring and she had to put her hand on one of the walls of the stall to steady herself.

“What about Joyce?” Someone asked.

This brought Joyce back to reality. She held her breath as she waited for someone else to speak.

“What about her?” Chrissy’s tone was ice cold.

“Yeah what about her?” Another girl followed.

“Jimmy dumped her last weekend,” Chrissy said matter-of-factly. “Besides, after tonight, after I’m finished giving him the time of his life… he won’t even remember who Joyce is.”

The girls all giggled again. “Let’s go get some punch! I heard some of the boys saying they were going to spike it!” The group retreated out of the bathroom.

Joyce emerged from her hiding place.

Shock.

It was not a word powerful enough to describe quite how she was feeling in that moment. Her jaw hung open and she gazed absently around the room, looking for confirmation that she wasn’t dreaming. That simply could not have truly just happened.

Joyce had only been in there to find a moment to relax in peace and quiet and get away from everyone. Of course Chrissy and her band of mean girls had to enter at the exact same time.

He said that after the dance we could get a room down the street.

Joyce ran to the nearest sink and braced her hands on either side of it. She turned the faucet on and splashed cold water onto her face. Her lipstick was still perfectly in place as she looked at herself in the mirror once more. She wasn’t going to let this ruin her night. She patted her face dry with a paper towel and then left the bathroom.

Keeping her head low, she headed in the direction that lead back towards the gymnasium.

“Joyce?”

She halted at the sound of his voice. Slowly, she spun around on her heels to face him. She swore she stopped breathing in that exact moment. He was wearing a black suit with a white button up under shirt and a black tie. His hair was trimmed and combed back. He looked very dashing and Joyce couldn’t remember the last time she saw him like this--if ever. The look he was giving back to her, told her that their thoughts weren’t very different.

“Hi…” she finally mustered before turning to walk away.

“Joyce, wait!” Jim called out to her.

But she did not slow her pace. She did not turn to look at him. Instead, she kept going in the direction of the gymnasium, but instead of going there, she cut down to the mathematics hallway.

Jim hurried after her, eventually closing the gap between them and when he did, he took hold of her arm. He froze in shock when Joyce wretched her arm out of his grasp and threw him an icy glare.

“Joyce, what’s wrong?” Jim asked, frankly taken aback by her behavior. It seemed like all his question did was worsen her mood.

“You better get out there Hop,” she spat back at him, “there’s a woman awaiting your attention.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Joyce flung her hands up in frustration, “Chrissy? Ringing any bells? You’re getting a room for the two of you!”

Jim stopped dead in his tracks, staring at her incredulously. He could not have heard the words that just came out of her mouth correctly. She was already walking away from him again, but he took hold of her hand. Joyce spun around and met his eye, though there was still anger in her gaze, there was also hurt. She did not pull away from him as resolutely as she had the first time. Instead, she averted her gaze, not at all wanting to look at him.

“Look Hopper, I’m sorry, okay?!” She blurted out. “I only agreed to come here with Lonnie to make you jealous. And I only broke up with you because I was mad at you!”

Jim watched her, his eyes softening. A horrible feeling churned in his stomach. He hated seeing her distressed, and he hated being the cause of it. But really, the idea of the past week’s events seemed almost laughable to him now. Joyce knew he loved her and he knew that she loved him. They spent the last week desperately trying to get back at each other over something so silly.

“I only brought Chrissy here to make you jealous too.” He admitted.

“And that’s the reason you’re getting a room?” She shot back with a scoff.

“Don’t be ridiculous baby, I’m not getting a room with her. You know she means nothing to me.” He tried to speak gently.

“Then why is she telling everyone that you are?”

Jim moved towards her, ducking his head closer to hers as he tried to cup her cheek. He just wanted to calm her. “Joyce listen to me, I’m not getting a room with Chrissy. I’m sorry I brought her here tonight. I’m sorry that all of this started over something so stupid. I never wanted her. It’s always been you Joyce. And it always will be.”

Joyce closed her eyes and leaned into his touch as he held her face in his hands. “I don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired of fighting.” She whispered.

“So am I,” Jim took Joyce’s hand in his, caressing her open palm gently with his thumb. “Joyce…” he said softly and met her gaze, “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

The words rung out around them and then there was silence. The truth can be a heavy thing, and in that moment, both of them alike felt its weight. They knew if they kept fighting in this way that it would only lead them down a road of destruction and heartbreak. One where they would both lose each other. Neither one of them could bear to think of that.

“You won’t,” she promised.

Jim smiled at her response.

“Do you want to go back to the dance? They’re playing one of your favorite songs.” Joyce offered.

They both listened as the lyrics to Little Richard’s Lucille played off in the distance.

“Lucille , please, come back where you belong. I been good to you, baby, please, don’t leave me alone.”

“It’s a slow one,” Joyce teased.

Jim smiled at her and moved to wrap his arms around her waist. “I was actually thinking we could go somewhere else to take things slow,” He pulled her towards him so that her body was flush against his. He could feel Joyce’s heart beating at a rapid pace. “You know my favorite part about us fighting all the time?” He asked with a chuckle.

Joyce found herself holding her breath, waiting for him to answer his own question, although she was pretty certain she already knew the answer. “Hmm?” She hummed.

He gave her a sly smile. His face moved closer, his lips nearly touching hers as he whispered, “Making up.”

Joyce grinned and before she could respond, his lips were on hers. He was gentle at first, nibbling at her bottom lip before they got more demanding, firmly massaging hers. Moaning, Joyce curled her hands around his neck as she kissed him back, moving her lips against his, shivering as heat flushed through her body.

He lifted her easily off the ground and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. Her arms were still hooked tightly around his neck and she pressed her body against his, as his lips continued to kiss hers. Jim ran his tongue along her bottom lip before biting it gently. She let out a small gasp at the gesture.

Hardly able to control himself any longer, Jim stumbled forward, pressing Joyce’s back against the nearest classroom door. She moaned into his mouth as his tongue continued to dance with hers. Unhooking her arms from his neck, she gripped his shoulder for support with one hand and used the other to reach around and turn the door’s knob.

Jim stepped inside the classroom and kicked the door shut with his foot. He pulled away from her suddenly, both of them out of breath. They looked around the dark classroom, both of them taking a few minutes for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Oh my God, we’re in Cooper’s classroom.” Joyce said, throwing her head back as she laughed.

“Well I hope he doesn’t mind if we borrow it,” Jim said with a smile. He held her up with one arm and used the other to clear off a section of the desk at the front of the room.

“Hopper,” Joyce breathed against his lips as he pressed her down onto Cooper’s desk.

His mouth attacked her throat, his stubble scratching against her skin as his teeth scraped just above her collarbone. Exhaling a trembling breath, Joyce surrendered to his touch and let him pull her up into a sitting position so he could pull her dress over her head. Jim tossed it to the floor as he reached an arm around to unclasp her bra, pressing hot kisses along her shoulder blade as he did so. She shrugged out of her bra and he tossed that away alongside her dress.

The chilled air in the room had already hardened her nipples and Jim’s intense stare made them peek up, begging earnestly for attention.

Jim smiled as he pushed her back down onto the desk once more and Joyce smiled back, gasping as he flicked his tongue over her nipple. He sucked it between his lips, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive flesh.

“Hop…” Joyce moaned, her hands gripping his head when his mouth started to kiss dangerously slow down over her belly, resting right above the hem of her tights.

Jim peered up at her with a devious look in his eyes, “I told you we’re going to take things slow tonight.” With that, he hooked his fingers around the waistband of her tights and panties and slowly pulled them down. His fingers slid steadily down from her waist, to her hips, and then all the way down her legs to her toes.

From there, Jim started at her toes and worked his way back up her body, intent on giving her more pleasure than she had ever felt before. His teeth grazed against her smooth, silken skin as his tongue licked and sucked in various spots.

“Please,” Joyce tossed her head back, her body arched almost completely off the desk as she begged him to end the sweet torment he was performing on her body. “C’mon Hop! I want you.”

Jim scraped his teeth across her hip before he raised his head to look at her. His blue eyes met her brown ones, both of their gazes heavy with lust. “You have me, baby.”

A groaning sound was ripped from her throat, “You know what I mean.”

With a grin on his lips, Jim shook his head. “Slow, Joyce. We’re taking things slow.” After a week of not being able to touch her, to worship her and love her, he was intent on taking his sweet time in reacquainting himself with her body. He wanted to drive her absolutely insane with need.

A whimper escaped her mouth as he lowered his head once more to trail hot, open mouthed kisses along her inner thighs. She wanted him desperately. She didn’t know how much more she was going to be able to take and they only just started. She was all for taking things slow--but this was agonizingly slow.

He pushed her legs further apart and kneeled before her. He licked at his lips at the sight of her and with anticipation. Joyce shuddered as she felt his hot breath blow against her.

Slowly, she felt Jim’s fingers move her lower lips apart, exposing all of her to him. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out as his tongue found her wet center. Slowly, his tongue traced circles on her clit, over and over. He began to flick his tongue against her wetness, touching her just enough to make her squirm. He grazed his teeth over her clit and Joyce’s fingers tangled into his hair.

Jim slid a single digit inside her all at once, making her moan aloud. He pumped it in and out at a steady pace, plunging deeper each time as he continued. He added his middle finger, now pumping both into her slow and steady. His eyes were on her the entire time, watching as Joyce turned her head to the side, closing her eyes tight, and moaning sweet music to his ears.

Joyce writhed in pleasure as he went deeper, and she wrapped her legs around him to push him even closer to her quivering sex. She could feel the start of her climax build up as his fingers curled inside her into a ‘come hither’ motion. His mouth was back on her center at once, sucking on her clit between his lips and his tongue swirling. This, added with his fingers still thrusting into her, and the feel of his stubble brushing against her thighs from time to time, made the warmth that was pooling in the pit of Joyce’s stomach grow deeper and deeper. She could feel herself getting so close to the edge.

She sat up using her elbows as support, her eyes barely open enough to see his features--to see his hair against her skin, this man that she loved, worshipping her between her legs, so focused on her pleasure--on fulfilling her desire, as well as his own. Her eyes fluttered closed once again and she squeezed them tighter. Her back arched and she dipped her head back, her fingers reaching out to clutch onto his hair tightly. Subconsciously she moved closer to him, pushing her desire into his face more.

“Fuck, Jim,” she moaned. Her breathing became short, and continued to grow shorter as it hitched in her throat. She could feel herself pushing past the edge of no control.

“Cum Joyce,” He says and it’s all she needs to bring her undone.

“Oh my God,” she mumbled in a barely audible voice. Her entire body shuddered all at once. She could feel her walls clench and tighten around his fingers that were still thrusting relentlessly into her. Her muscles of her inner thighs tightened as well. All of the burning warmth that was pooled into her belly spread itself slowly throughout her entire body. Her hands, which were holding onto his hair tightly, began to slowly loosen their grip as she came down from her high.

His fingers slipped out of her and he maneuvered himself so that he was now hovering over top of her.

Joyce smiled as she reached up to hook her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a deep kiss. Their tongues swirled together and she could taste how sweet she was, with just a hint of bitterness. The product of her own want for him. The pleasure caused only by him.

As she continued to kiss him, her lips being bruised in the process, she gripped the collar of his suit jacket and stripped it off. Jim opened his arms to help her shrug it off. Her hands toyed with the buttons of his dress shirt, unbuttoning each as quickly as she could. Fuck going slow when she was in control. She stripped that off of him as well, tossing it to the side with the pile of clothes that was beginning to build up on the floor.

She pulled away from his kisses long enough for her eyes to drink in the sight of him. Ever since joining the football team, his usual lean frame had toned out. She raked her fingernails down his chest as he sucked and nipped at various spots on her neck, being sure to leave marks. He wanted everyone to know what they did here tonight, to know that she was still his.

Joyce’s lips mimicked his own, against his neck, planting kisses as her hands moved to unbuckle his belt. She unbuttoned and unzipped his pants eagerly, pulling away from his neck so she could completely take his pants off. She pulled them down with both hands, Jim shifting to help her. He kicked them off in one swift motion. Joyce licked her lips, seeing him in his navy briefs, and slipped her fingers in the waistband. She pulled them down his legs, taking them off as well and tossing them aside. She watched as his cock sprung out, hard and throbbing for her, precum already oozing from the tip.

She took his cock in one hand, holding him at the base to guide him inside her.

Jim halted her movements suddenly, gently gripping her wrist to move her hand away.

“Joyce.” He warned.

She looked up at him with her big brown eyes and whimpered. She positioned herself below him and began to move beneath him, thrusting her hips up to meet his as she ground against him.

“Slow. Damn it, Joyce. Go slow.”

“I can’t.”

Jim wrapped an arm around her torso, pulling her impossibly further against him. Giving in, and not wanting to torture her any longer, he thrust his entire self into her, filling her up entirely.

Joyce cried out loudly, causing Jim to clasp a hand down on her mouth. “Shhhh, baby, don’t want anyone to hear us.”

She could feel him fill her all the way up to the hilt. She moaned loudly against his mouth, pleasure shooting through her as she tightened around him. He groaned in return, pulling out entirely from her.

She whimpered again in response, causing Jim to chuckle softly. He once again thrust himself into her.

Joyce moaned again, stretching her arms out around her in response, knocking various classroom instruments off of Cooper’s desk.

Seeing the effect he was having on her, Jim stopped playing his game of taking things slow entirely. Instead, he now thrust himself into her fast and hard. He didn’t even give her a chance to steadily adjust to his pace.

He replaced his hand with his mouth, kissing her with a fiery passion mixed with want, need, and possessiveness.

Joyce groaned and dug her fingernails into his back as he plunged in and out of her at an unforgiving and relentless pace. Once more the feeling of warmth pooling up in the pit of her belly. She knew that her inevitable release was beginning to build up.

Jim grunted as he gripped her hips tightly, leaving bruises. He groaned loudly, burying his face in her neck, allowing the pleasure that her tight cunt was giving him to course through him entirely.

“Jim,” Joyce moaned his name into his ear. In return, she felt Jim’s hands tighten on her hips, making her back arch for him. She let out another loud moan as he kept going--and going, and going. Her entire body felt hot.

Her breath hitched in her throat once more and she felt him let go of his tight grip on her hips. He moved his arms up to cup her face in his hands, pressing kisses all over her face. She reached out an arm, her hand clutching onto the edge of the desk as tight as possible, her knuckles white.

“Fuck, Hopper, please,” She begged.

Jim groaned loudly after she spoke. “I’m so fucking close baby.”

The room was filled entirely with the sound of their pleasures.

Then it finally came, where Joyce finally fell over the edge once more. She moaned his name loudly as the feel of the familiar warmth spread through her. Her toes tingled as she clenched around him, soaking his hard cock with her juices, dripping down her thighs and all over him.

And then Jim followed soon after her. She could feel his cock twitch inside of her, his hot cum filling her up, as he let out one last groan of satisfaction. He threw his head back in pleasure. His thrusts slowed, sighing heavily as he finally felt his own release. Once he finished, he pulled out of her slowly, his eyes looking at their intwined bodies.

He placed one last soft kiss against her lips. When he pulled away to look down at her, they were both smiling at each other. “I love you,” she whispered.

Jim closed his eyes, the words were like music to his ears. He pressed his lips to her forehead, “And I you,” he replied.

He climbed off of her so that he was now standing. Reaching his hands out, he took her own into his and gently helped her up from the desk.

Quickly, they hurried to put their clothes back on. Jim finished dressing first. He bent over to pick up the various objects that Joyce had knocked off the desk. He held up a plastic pencil sharpener that was cracked along with a broken tape dispenser.

Once she was fully clothed, Joyce looked up. She laughed with a shrug at the broken objects. “Oops.”

Jim laughed with her, “Fuck it.” He tossed the objects back on the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement at one of the classroom windows. Looking in that direction, he breathed her name out, “Joyce.”

She looked up at him as she placed other various objects from the floor back onto the desk. She followed his gaze to the window to see flakes of snow shimmering under a street light. A cheerful demeanor lit up her face and she smiled a smile that reached her eyes. She held out an outstretched arm towards Jim, offering him her hand. He took it and allowed her to lead him out of the classroom. She hurried, nearly dragging him behind her through the high school’s halls. They finally reached the main doors and Joyce let go of Jim’s hand to push them open.

The cold, crisp air hit her skin instantly and she relished in it. Joyce ran to the middle of the parking lot and looked up at the sky as the snowflakes continued to fall. She spun around in a circles a few times, laughing. She held up a hand and caught a few snowflakes on her palm, watching as they melted away into tiny droplets. “Look at them Hopper! Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It sure is,” he admitted, but he wasn’t talking about the snow. He moved to stand next to her, staring down at her as she continued to stare at the sky.

Joyce averted her gaze to him. They were standing so close that Jim could see each crystal of snow that stuck to her eyelashes. She reached up and trailed her fingertips over his cheeks and down his jaw. She pulled him down towards her mouth.

The gentle touch of her lips to his made his heart stir. When she pulled away her eyes fluttered open to look into his blue ones. He reached an arm into his back pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held the pack up between them and Joyce smiled.

They found Jim’s car in the parking lot and leaned back against it. Jim took out his lighter and flicked the flame up, lighting a cigarette. He took one short inhale before passing it over to her. She was looking at him carefully. “What?” He asked.

“Hop…” She spoke softly and averted her eyes down to the ground. “What do you think we’ll be like twenty, twenty-five years from now?”

Jim raised an eyebrow at her question. He wasn’t expecting it and he could tell it was something she had been wanting to ask him for a while now. He let out a sigh and moved to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close against him. He held her close as she wrapped her arms around his waist, returning his embrace. He ran a hand through her hair and placed a kiss on top of her head before answering,“Just like this.”

(XxXxXxXxXxX)

Hawkins 1983

Joyce stood in the parking lot of Hawkin’s Middle School, leaning against her 76’ Ford Pinto. She looked at the ground, her mind plagued with thoughts of everything that had happened. It had been one month since Eleven closed the gate, but her nightmares never stopped. Even now, as she stood outside the gymnasium, listening to the music from the Snow Ball, she wondered if her life would ever go back to some sense of normalcy.

Her thoughts were interrupted and she felt his presence before he spoke, “Hey.”

Looking up, she smiled as Jim walked towards her, “Hey.”

“Thought I might find you out here.”

She shifted nervously the closer he got. “Will wanted me to give him some space,” she shrugged a shoulder, “so I’m giving him a few feet.”

Jim smiled and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He tapped on the box twice, “What do you say? I’m pretty sure that Mr. Cooper retired in the 70s so we might be okay.” He joined her against the car, their legs brushing against each other.

He took out his lighter and lit a cigarette between his fingers.

Joyce placed a trembling hand over her arm and gazed up at him. She couldn’t help but smile at how the two of them had come full circle. It seemed that only yesterday they were at their own winter dance, sharing a cigarette out in the parking lot. She watched as he inhaled a hit, before passing it over to her. “Gimme that,” she said as their fingers brushed together.

She took one hit and had to stifle a cough. He really was smoking the strong ones these days. But she supposed he needed them with how their lives had been in just the past year. She handed it back to him and her gaze fell back to the ground.

“How are you holding up?” His voice broke their silence.

Her hand came to her lips and she fought the urge to bite her nails—a nervous habit she had taken up recently. “You know.”

“Yeah, that feeling never goes away.” Jim took another hit, blowing the smoke out before continuing, “It is true what they say, you know. Every day it does get a little easier.” He passed her the cigarette once more.

She breathed in another hit, but didn’t meet his eye. She glanced up at him, wanting to believe him, that one day this she would wake up and this nightmare would be over forever.

Sensing her distress, Jim wrapped an arm around her, hugging her against his side. Holding his hand on her shoulder, he pulled her close. She placed her hand overtop of his, intertwining their fingers together as his thumb traced comforting circles on her arm.

Joyce closed her eyes and allowed herself to fully submit. She snuggled into his chest, wishing that she could freeze this moment in time. Where her and Jim could stay forever. Just like this.

#jopper #stranger things #joyce byers x jim hopper #jim hopper #joyce byers #stranger things fanfic

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antoine-roquentin · 7 years ago

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At some point during the fighting in Libya a few years ago, Nato planes attacked pro-Gaddafi forces near an oilfield in the north-east. A number of smart bombs hit a storage facility belonging to the oil company for which I worked. The facility contained thousands of barrels of chemicals, worth millions of dollars, which are used in the process of drilling for oil. Most of the barrels were destroyed outright but a good number remained intact. Exposed to the extreme heat of the explosion and subsequent fires, the chemicals inside the surviving barrels were altered permanently. At around the same time, as the fighting in and around the field intensified, Libyan employees of my company (the expats having cut and run a long time ago) worked frantically to move high explosives and detonators used in the oil extraction process to a safe location so that none of the various factions involved in the conflict could get their hands on them. For some reason, the employees made the decision to leave the live explosives in the bunker and take the detonators – the piece of kit they judged most useful to any would-be bombers. In their haste, they left the bunker compound gates open and the door to the bunker unlocked.

Since the attack on Gaddafi and its aftermath, the Libyans working for my company had got used to having to act on their own initiative, often in danger and under extreme pressure as the fighting took hold of the country. But then, during a lull in hostilities, the employees responsible for dealing with the chemicals and explosives decided it was time to update HQ on what had happened. They also had a more serious problem on their hands. As well as using chemicals and explosives, oil companies deploy radioactive materials in their quest for oil. Nuclear probes are inserted into potential wells in order to determine whether they are suitable candidates for further exploration. These probes also happen to be the perfect size to use as the core of a dirty bomb. As a consequence, in all jurisdictions in which they are used they are heavily regulated. But in Libya there was no longer any regulation. My company’s store of nuclear materials was kept in a bunker designed to withstand the force of a massive explosion and was normally heavily protected by specially trained troops. Now the bunker lay completely unguarded. It seemed that the warring factions hadn’t yet discovered its existence but the employees believed that it was only a matter of time before this bunker, too, was overrun and plundered. What should they do to make the materials safe? Should they try and smuggle them out of the country? Should they keep them in the bunker and pour concrete over them? As the compliance lawyer with responsibility for the region, I was invited to join a conference call to discuss these questions, along with the operations manager for the oilfield and the regional head of security, an ex-special forces officer on secondment to London from US HQ.

Also on the call was the new country manager for Libya. While operations managers – the people who deal with the practicalities of getting the oil out of the ground – work out in the field, the country manager sits in the city, near the seat of decision-making power over the award of contracts. In companies like mine, country managers are powerful people, as much imperial proconsul or colonial governor as businessman. They can run the business in their countries as they wish. The only thing that matters is that they return a profit. The country manager for Libya was a company high-flier, who was sent in to Tripoli as soon as Gaddafi had fallen in the expectation of rich pickings, and who now spent his days shuttling from one hotel to another in fear of assassination. It was clear that he hadn’t had any involvement in the matters under discussion and he remained silent as the rest of us trawled through possible solutions to the various problems.

Sitting in a bland conference room in London, listening to disembodied voices relaying facts over the phone, it felt as though we were participating in some crisis simulation exercise. Almost casually, we came to some conclusions: the barrels of chemicals could stay where they were. Nothing could be done with the remaining stock. There was nothing we could do about the explosives either. In the fog of war, people make strange decisions and at least the detonators had been removed and were under company control. It was the best we could hope for. We decided that the risks of smuggling the nuclear materials out of the country and into Egypt were too great and that the employees should bury them somewhere in the Libyan desert.

Then, as the call drew to an end, the country manager spoke up. ‘I want to talk about something,’ he said. ‘I want to talk about the theft of company property.’ He was angry. One of the employees had taken advantage of the chaotic conditions to steal a number of company trucks. ‘And now that it is more stable over here,’ the country manager continued, ‘he’s holding the trucks to ransom. He’s refusing to give them back. His tribe wants money for them. They might attack our base.’ He told us that he had personally been out into the desert to bargain with the employee and his tribe. Negotiations were ongoing, but he insisted he was going to solve the problem. ‘I call the ball,’ he said. He was convinced that this misconduct was only the tip of the iceberg. ‘I want you to come and see what is going on here,’ he told me. ‘I want you to come and look into matters. They need it.’ After the call, he made an official request for a compliance audit – a review of the fraud and corruption risk in a country – for Libya, and coming from a well-connected hi-pot, his request went to the top of the organisation. The company, worried that it might be losing more money than it should be, in a market so bad that the smallest profit would be considered a miracle, agreed with him and sent me to Libya.

I flew into Tripoli in the first week of Ramadan. As I walked through the baggage collection hall looking for my luggage, the first thing I noticed were the groups of sub-Saharan Africans being shepherded through the airport by North African minders. After an hour of searching, it became clear that my luggage wasn’t going to turn up, so I made my way to arrivals, where I was collected by a driver and a security contractor employed by our company – a former NCO in a Scottish infantry regiment who served in Iraq and Afghanistan before becoming a corporate mercenary. He was hired to act as a bodyguard for expats but his only remaining client, he told me, was the country manager. ‘But now he never leaves his hotel room when he’s here and spends as much time out of the country as he can.’

We drove to the contractor’s quarters, a small, dusty lock-up in the suburbs. Sitting outside at a camping table, he gave me a neat PowerPoint presentation on his laptop about the security situation in Libya. ‘Frankly speaking,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit shit.’ Libya was dangerous. Tripoli was dangerous – not as dangerous as Benghazi but still dangerous. Random, lethal violence was to be expected. There were no police officers, no official law enforcement of any kind – only tribal militia, who ruled the roost. He told me to be careful of ambushes while being driven around the city.

‘What should I do if I get ambushed?’ I asked.

‘Well, standard operating procedure in the army is to shoot your way out. Don’t be static. Push on, fight back.’ I pointed out to him that I was an unarmed middle-aged lawyer who would be sitting in the back of a rickety saloon car when the moment came. He shrugged. ‘As I say, it’s a bit shit.’

After the briefing, we went on to my hotel, which is used by diplomats, journalists and those on (mostly oil-related) business. At one end of the driveway that swept past the hotel entrance, there was a traffic barrier operated by armed guards. No such obstacle existed at the other end. Men in various degrees of military dress stood outside the entrance, smoking or talking together in the lobby. I was greeted by the receptionist, who spoke in a broad Dublin accent. He (and his identical twin, also on duty at reception) was a young Irishman with a Libyan father who had decided to come and experience the free Libya and was now wishing he hadn’t. Then I headed for my company’s office. The car that took me there, like most of the others in Tripoli, had small cubes of sponge stuck to its doors to prevent bumps while driving on roads that were no longer policed and where traffic rules were now purely a matter of convention rather than enforceable norms. As we drove along the Corniche, the deep blue of the Mediterranean on one side, I noticed that most of the old traffic rules were still being obeyed. In an environment in which robbery, kidnap and death were commonplace, people still seemed to want to give way at roundabouts.

My company’s offices were in one of a cluster of tall tower blocks overlooking the sea, a once prestigious address. The tower blocks were set in a deserted concrete courtyard. The entrance lobby’s cool, airy silence was a contrast to the intense heat and white light of the afternoon outside. I took the lift up and was let into the office, where I was shown into an empty room with a desk. I spoke with the first of the people who had been asked to come for interview. As with every compliance audit, on my list of interviewees were those exposed to higher than usual risk of corruption – including members of the sales team, anyone in a leadership role, and anyone who had contact with government or public officials. I also talked to those who were in a position to prevent corruption or spot it if it occurred, such as members of the finance department or human resources. Some of the employees had made great efforts to attend. One of the sales directors had come from Benghazi, and the various operations managers – those who were in charge of actually drilling for oil in the field – had travelled in from their desert bases and rigs.

At first, the interviews followed a script in which I asked a list of set questions relevant to the interviewee’s role. But soon, picking up on a remark or an answer, I would take the opportunity to broaden the conversation. Formality would dissipate and people would start to talk more generally about the company and the wider environment in which they lived and worked. Some common themes emerged. No matter whether they were for or against Gaddafi (and it soon became apparent which side someone was on), most people thought that having him back would be better than the current situation. There were shootings and kidnappings. House break-ins were rife and everyone had a Kalashnikov at home for defence against burglars. One woman I spoke to had just returned to work after having her teeth knocked out with the butt of a gun in a robbery. A man told me that a range of weapons from handguns to SAM-7 surface-to-air missiles were openly for sale in the street just a few minutes’ walk away from the office. But there was one thing that united the pro and anti-Gaddafi factions in the office: their hatred of the country manager. Echoing the security contractor, they told me that he rarely appeared in the office and never visited the oilfields. He was arrogant, incompetent and a coward.

I asked several of the interviewees about the theft of trucks by the employee and got a story very different from the one given by the country manager. They told me that in the middle of the fighting, the employee, rather than let the assets of a company for which he had worked for many years be stolen or destroyed, had decided he would drive a number of the company’s vehicles to a safe location and hide them, with the intention of returning them when the situation became more stable. As soon as the country manager arrived he made a big show of going out into the desert to demand the return of the trucks. But the employee had refused to return them without a reward.

‘What did he want in return for the trucks?’ I asked one of the interviewees.

‘He wanted a certificate of thanks for his behaviour.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. And the country manager wouldn’t give it to him.’

‘But he would have given all of the trucks back if we had given him a certificate?’

‘Yes. The country manager refused and told him he was in breach of the code of conduct.’ I could see why the country manager had taken to changing hotels on a regular basis.

In a series of calls and emails over the first few days of my visit, the country manager gave me the slip, making various excuses as to why he hadn’t been around to speak to me. Finally I arranged to meet him in the lobby of my hotel: we were to go for dinner at a restaurant close to the magnificent Arch of Marcus Aurelius. As we sat at a table outside, making small talk and waiting for the call to prayer to end the day’s fast, it occurred to me that the company couldn’t have made a more inappropriate match than this one between the country manager and the failed state of Libya. A dapper, American-educated corporate droid, he was a prisoner of management speak: he had ‘reached out to’ employees, he told me; they hadn’t ‘embraced the new reality’. He didn’t seem able to adjust to the fact that he was operating in a warzone, dealing with people who were suffering, many of whom had demonstrated great loyalty to a company that abandoned them at the first sign of trouble. He was keen to tell me that he was now close to resolving the truck issue. ‘You can’t trust these people,’ he told me. ‘They just don’t get it.’ Then his phone rang. ‘Sorry, I’m going to have to take it.’ This hunted, scared individual suddenly inflated with pride as he talked. After a few minutes, the call ended.

‘That was the CEO. He wants me to head up a new project team when I get out of this fucking place.’ Somewhere in the city there was the crack of a rifle, sounding like a cheap firework set off in the street. And his face said: if I get out of this place.

The next morning, I was sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for my car to the office when a man approached me. He was dusty and tired and wearing shabby street clothes. He introduced himself and immediately handed me a memory stick. His name was Ahmed and he told me that Yusuf, one of the operations managers I had met and whom I recalled as a physically huge but softly spoken man, coated with the grime of the oilfield yard, was muscling in and taking over the business in Libya.

‘He’s very well connected. He’s close to some of the tribal sheikhs. He’s also a gangster. There’s no doubt. He’s controlling many of the suppliers. It’s all on the USB.’ And then Ahmed made a plea for complete confidentiality. The consequences in this broken state of being revealed as an informant could be dire.

Later that day, in between interviews, I read the contents of the USB. There was clear proof that Yusuf had been buying up local firms that supply to the oil business and then putting contracts in place on extremely favourable terms between them and my company. In his own, admittedly criminal way, in predicting that eventually, despite all appearances, the oil market would pick up, Yusuf was showing more confidence in the prospects for Libya than the company’s senior leadership. They saw it as a basket case but Yusuf, like the best hedge-fund managers, was playing the long game with his investments and had picked the very best time to pull off this kind of scam, now that monitoring of the goings-on in the business in Libya had all but ended. Many of the company’s transactions had to be performed manually in Tripoli rather than through the centralised electronic finance systems in the US or UK. This meant that there was no longer the usual intense oversight of where money came from and went to. Instead there were numerous opportunities for an unscrupulous employee to make hay while the country detached itself from the world.

That evening, just before midnight, I was driven to British Home Stores in downtown Tripoli to buy some new clothes, since my luggage still hadn’t turned up. When we arrived, the driver sat in the car with the engine running while the security contractor stood at the shop entrance. I had ten minutes to go around the deserted aisles putting socks, pants and shirts into my basket. ‘Any longer,’ the contractor said, pointing to the shop assistants, ‘and their mates could be over to pick you up.’ But the two women at the counter seemed completely uninterested in my supermarket sweep. They didn’t lift their chins off their hands as I shopped, and they took payment from me with as much curiosity as if I were buying clothes on a Saturday afternoon in Oxford Street.

The next day, one of my scheduled meetings was with the oilfield operations manager who had been on the call a few weeks earlier. We worked our way through the scheduled questions and answers and then he said: ‘Can I ask for your opinion on the chemicals?’ He reminded me of the story of the damaged barrels in the warehouse and I expected him to ask for compliance advice regarding their disposal, as he had done with the explosives and the radioactive materials. But instead the conversation took an unexpected turn.

‘We’ve been approached by the authorities in the east of the country,’ he said. ‘They would like to buy the chemicals to use for drilling for water.’ He explained that there was a desperate need to repair infrastructure and restore running water to areas that had been ruined by the fighting. ‘The company won’t allow us to use the chemicals that survive the attack to drill for oil. They no longer meet our quality standards. But the Libyan authorities would be happy to buy them from us. They’re not proud.’ And here was the bit that made it all worthwhile. ‘They will pay us millions of dollars for stock that we will otherwise throw away.’ He showed me photos of the damaged chemicals and the letters requesting the deal from the authorities. ‘We need this deal,’ he told me. ‘We haven’t had any significant revenue for years.’ This would mean that at least some people would keep their jobs for a little while longer. A draft contract had already been drawn up and legal approval had been given. He showed me the approvals from the commercial lawyers and a chain of emails from our leaders showing their desperation to screw some profit out of this situation. But the authorities were running out of patience. They had a window in which they had to get drilling and if we couldn’t help them they would need to find someone who could. So time was of the essence and all that was lacking was the compliance seal of approval.

Over the next few days, I went over the areas of possible risk created by the opportunity – legal, commercial, reputational. The operations manager called daily, asking whether I had made my decision, reminding me that the clock was ticking. I spoke with our commercial lawyers and with finance. I made sure that the chemicals actually existed and I got assurances that there really were functioning authorities in the east of Libya. My training and experience had made me very sensitive to the signs of fraud and corruption and I was confident that I’d covered off those avenues. But I was still very uneasy with the deal. Then I realised I might have missed the most important risk factor of all. I got hold of the names of the chemicals and rang a senior company chemist to ask him to carry out an analysis of each of them to make sure they couldn’t be used as chemical weapons. The analysis came back: all clear. None of them, either alone or in combination, could be used in chemical weapons.

I let the operations manager know that he could go ahead. He was delighted. ‘This is really going to make a big difference to the bottom line for my business,’ he told me. It also meant that he would get his bonus and lots of kudos for having the winner’s mindset: he would keep his job for at least the next quarter or so. I was relieved too. The pressure had been building, and for me to have turned the transaction down at the last minute would have provoked a shitstorm in the region and even higher up the chain. As promised, the operations manager sent me the confirmation documents with the various legal restrictions and covenants that the authority had agreed to abide by regarding its use of the chemicals. In a matter of days, the sale was completed. We had sold countless barrels of useless chemicals to the Libyan water board for a huge profit. The perfect deal.

During the remainder of my time in Libya, Ahmed continued to provide me with evidence about Yusuf’s acquisition of suppliers. It was so compelling that, as a first step, I blocked the suppliers in the central accounting system. This meant that no matter how hard Yusuf tried, his supply companies couldn’t receive any significant payment from my company. I concluded the compliance audit and left Libya. My bag was waiting for me when I arrived at Tripoli Airport. As soon as I picked it up from the airline desk in departures, it was seized by a man wearing an old police jacket and grubby suit trousers. He took me to a small room at one side of the departures hall and ordered me to unpack every single item onto a large table in front of him. Everything was covered in dust. When I finished he told me to repack it. I checked my luggage in and made my way once again past the gangs of sub-Saharan Africans travelling from misery into misery, past the stall selling tatty Free Libya merchandise, to the plane.

Then the oil price collapsed. It was already bad but now the price of a barrel had really tanked. There was a lot of talk about permanent structural change in the industry. Firms like mine fired thousands of employees in a matter of weeks. I made sure that Ahmed was put on a protected list of essential employees as his reward for doing the right thing. Somehow, the Libyan senior managers, Yusuf included, found out about this almost as soon as it happened. I received a series of increasingly desperate emails from Ahmed. He knew what was about to happen and thought that I had betrayed him. The emails stopped abruptly when he was fired. When I raised Ahmed’s case with a senior HR manager, I was told that it was unfortunate but that, given the state of the market, it was a matter of only a few weeks before all the employees on the protected list were going to be fired anyway. Any concern for Ahmed got lost in the huge wave of redundancies that the low oil price brought.

I went ahead anyway and presented the allegations against Yusuf to senior management. Despite the evidence, they didn’t find them convincing and the matter was closed with no further action taken. The supply companies that were the subject of the investigation were unblocked in the system. In the rapid restructuring of the company in Libya in response to the manically deteriorating market conditions and worsening violence, Yusuf was promoted, along with the operations manager who had arranged the sale of the damaged barrels to the water authorities. This was to fill the gap created by the departure of the detested country manager, who had managed to get out of Libya with a plum posting to a new project back at US HQ. Not long after I left Tripoli, a large car bomb was left outside my hotel, driven through the entrance, which was undefended by bollards. Thankfully, it was defused.

Eventually I caught up with the regional head of security about the sale of the chemicals. ‘They didn’t want the chemicals you fucking idiot,’ he said. ‘They wanted the barrels.’ He was sure the whole deal was a scam, that one of a number of groups – tribal, terrorist or government – was tapping available sources for the basic ingredients to make their weapon of choice, the barrel bomb. There was no proof of this. I had done all I could to verify that the deal was genuine but in my heart of hearts I knew that it smelled. The regional head of security just found it bleakly funny that one of the most advanced weapons in the world – a laser-guided bomb – had spawned hundreds of the crudest airborne weapons possible, responsible for so much indiscriminate killing. But there was a silver lining. ‘Look, we made a few million bucks. With Brent Crude at sub-$40 a barrel for the foreseeable future and Libya eating itself alive, that’s an awesome result,’ he said. ‘As long as the company logo doesn’t appear on a report by CNN, no one is going to give a shit about where those barrels end up.’ And, as it turned out, he was right.

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thelionshoarde · 7 years ago

Text

heading for a small disaster; part 1

I have no excuse! I started writing a magical au for obiyukiweek17 day 2 and lo! The first chapter is done and I have NOT YET touched the day 2 prompt. Regardless, here is this thing.

Mosquitoes swarmed the area, incessant and hungry. Tucked into a hollow above an ancient, gnarled tree limb, Obi re-applied his anti-bug charm for the third time. The moist, warm air sat heavy against his skin, slicking him with sweat, his clothing damp and stifling; but the marsh was made mysterious and interesting in the dark.

Nothing lit the gloom where he hid save the swollen moon, yellow and cragged and half-hidden by the trees. What light filtered through mostly caught on the duckweed, leaving the spaces between black as pitch. The splash of water somewhere in the distance - a fish, perhaps, or an alligator; one of those big, man-eating snakes he’d heard about coming closer, if Obi was lucky - kept him alert, curious. A whole world was thriving here, secreted away in the dark, and Obi found it both familiar and comforting.

Except for the frogs. It might have been mating season, Obi guessed. They were especially loud.

The raven came through just as Obi was trying to decide if that pale flash a few yards out was duckweed drifting by, or something more disconcerting. He snatched it from the air, mid-flight, its brittle parchment bones snapping in his grip. The spell broke. With a rustle of crisp paper its wings unfolded, and Obi tilted it toward a faint stream of moonlight.

Shirayuki, read the spider scrawl of blue ink, the letters dark gashes on the ghostly parchment.

Where had he heard that name before? Frowning, Obi caught a small herb sachet as it slid down into his waiting palm. He brought it to his nose, sniffing - but none of the scents were familiar to him, save that together they gave him the distinct impression of being medicinal. Only the lightest touch of magic was imbued into them; something crisp and competent, that pinched against Obi’s skin as he studied it.

He couldn’t place it - the magic or the name.

No matter. It wasn’t as though he needed a back story. If there was anything he needed to know to do his job, Obi was certain he’d learn it once he’d spotted the mark.

Pocketing the sachet, he let the kill order drift down. When the edge of the parchment nearly grazed the heads of a patch of milkweed below his perch, he jerked his finger at it, twisting a bit of magic along the arc of it. A shard of fire struck it on the fluttering edge. The heavy parchment caught, and a moment later ash drifted onto the murky waters of the marsh.

By the time the pale specks settled Obi was already gone, a specter in the dark leaving no trace. The night sounds never once ceased.

His tracking spell brought him through rugged lowlands and along a curiously curling trail over rolling hills, dotted with well-kept villages and towns. Obi stopped in one - Aeesghi, which was rumored to have the best beer on tap in the entire county, as well as a truly fine underground gambling ring - for just a night. By morning’s light he was richer by nearly seventy goia, a laugh caught in his chest and lip rouge smeared across his neck. Miles away from the town while a truly sour gentleman no doubt rampaged through whore houses trying to find that bastard Nanaki.

All in all, not bad for a solitary night’s mischief.

Fifteen goia went to buying a horse from a carter two towns over, and another week of hard travel found him boarding passage at a busy shipping channel, the waters rough and choppy and the seagulls mean, to bring him from Postilia to Rechiv. From Rechiv it was just a short stroll down the coast to the unmanned border of Tanbarun.

Obi squinted up the sheer cliffs, noting the roaring wind and narrow, rocky ledges. There was no way up but to spend an exorbitant fee for a mule that turned out to be far more malicious than the horse he had left at port.

In his pocket the herb sachet tugged homeward.

That was the trouble with tracking spells, he thought. They took you in as straight a line as possible, ease of passage be damned.

But the only other ways into the country were a full day’s journey in either direction, where he’d run the risk of checkpoints and soldiers. Might as well go the hard way. The easiest paths weren’t always the safest, in the end, and Obi had the scars to prove it.

At the top, the cliffs transformed into jagged mountains. Obi and the mule glowered out across the only available path. “There’s just the one,” the mule seller had told him, “And it’s treacherous at the best of times. Lead you right into trouble, too, if you’re not careful. Up there’s the Lion’s domain.”

Treacherous seemed too kind a description.

Obi wove hastily drawn spells to help the mule keep his footing, grasping at shadows before the noon sun chased them away, and tried to keep his breathing easy and light. So high, the air was thin and sharp; the fall no doubt long and hard. There was no room for a misstep.

Despite the danger, they came through with little trouble. Obi let the mule loose close to the village and made a path for himself, scrabbling down rocky inclines and using stubborn, stunted trees to ease his way back up, until the mountain he’d been climbing down began to settle into terraces that rolled more than they jutted, little valleys and coves opening up. Grass carpeted the ground and trees began to grow straight and strong.

A day later and Obi breathed a sigh of relief. The sachet tugged him straight to a moderate sized town half-way to sea-level before his tracking spell dispersed, job done.

Finally.

Time to pinpoint which of these townsfolk were his mark and be done with it. Climbing mountains was not his preferred method of travel, and he was tired of shaking pebbles out of his boots. He was actually starting to miss the frogs. The marsh may not have been his best choice for laying low between jobs, but it had its perks, and not being a mountain was apparently one of them.

Obi shook off dust and debris, pulled illusion and charm around him, enough to make him normal, to blur his scars and hide the cold glitter of his eyes, before heading into town.

Oh, he thought. Her.

Shirayuki stood in the center of a cobbled yard surrounded by kids. Tucked up high on a steepled roof, one arm hooked around a dented weather vane, Obi counted seven - no, nine - of the hairy little beasts romping around her full blue skirts. The goat herder was an aging man, but long of limb and agile, ducking down to nudge aside one of the kids before it nibbled a hole into the woman’s hemline.

Obi wanted to bring a breeze to carry their words to him, but after seeing the flutter of her hair, thought better of it.

The name Shirayuki had led him to the south-eastern outskirts of town, to the lone cottage of a Mage that Obi knew vaguely by reputation. The Mage of the Mountains, some called her. Obi had also heard Scarlet Witch hissed nervously from the mouths of more simple-minded folk. But that moniker was far out numbered by the reverent Red Lady that dropped from the lips of her more awestruck neighbors.

There were few enough who ever called his mark by name. No wonder he hadn’t realized who she was.

Obi pursed his mouth, considering the woman. She was small of stature, hands clasped politely at her waist. Even from this distance Obi could easily read the sharp angles of her body language: polite, but stern.

The goat herder bowed at the waist and led his charges down the road, ushering them out of the Mage’s yard with a line of frayed rope. Squinting, Obi managed a peek at the spell laid onto it - a nice bit of small magic, neat and tidy. No goat would manage to chew through the lead anymore, not even where it had been worn down to barely a few lingering threads.

And this was the woman who had lifted an entire village from its bedrock amidst a spring flood?

It hardly seemed likely; what Mage with that type of prestige would stoop to this level of paltry magic? There was strength in the spell she’d laid for the goat herder, but it was in the skill of it, how she’d interwoven each piece carefully into an interlocking whole. It lacked the raw power he had been expecting.

But the wind once again lifted the long tail of her hair over her shoulder, a banner of vibrant red.

There was no mistaking it. Only one Mage had hair that color in all of Tanbarun. Shirayuki and the Mage of the Mountains were one in the same.

Obi narrowed his eyes, unease prickling along the back of his spine. By all accounts the Red Lady wasn’t a trouble-maker. Obi hadn’t been aware of any conflicts. No whispers of enemies bent on revenge. Until this point it had seemed her strangest power was the ability to make friends with everyone she met. And while it was a skill Obi didn’t take lightly, he would hardly count himself as the norm.

What was a name like her’s doing on a kill order?

But - Obi forcefully pushed the question from his mind. It was not his place to wonder at the motivations of his employers, only to see the deed done. He tilted his head back, squinting at the passage of the sun.

Hours yet til evening, and though the daylight ate at the smoke and shadow of his magic, his illusions would hold for a while yet. Beneath the mellow autumn sun the red shingles were warm, and with a gentle breeze blowing in from the north Obi was content to loiter for a while. Maybe he could catch a nap, wait until the stars came out, washing the world in glitter and shine, to give him shadows to wrap round his body. The sleepy bustle of a mountain town was near enough to a lullaby, really; even if his illusion slipped with sleep none of these soft, milk-fed creatures would notice him, even out in the light as he was, a black blot against the day.

He propped himself on his elbow, craning his head for one last look toward the Mage’s quaint little cottage, a half-mile out from where he lay. She had a piece of scry-glass held before her eye, trained right on him. Obi could just see it glinting a cloudy blue.

“The fuck,” he yelped, leaping to the balls of his feet in a hunched crouch, tensed to run.

A frantic check told him his illusion was still in place - she shouldn’t have been able to see him. Shouldn’t have even noticed him. Even weakened with the sun full on him Obi was still a master at his craft, and some country Mage shouldn’t have been able to mark him. Not even one with her reputation.

And yet -

I was warned about you, whispered the wind. Zen said something like this might happen. Well. We’ve both seen each other, now. No point in pretending otherwise. Why don’t you come down and have some tea with me?

Zen? Obi thought, bewildered. She couldn’t mean that Zen - could she?

After only a second’s hesitation he pitched his voice back at her, swatting the breeze with his palm to swing it round: What an interesting offer. Don’t mind if I do! But you wouldn’t begrudge me taking a nap first, would you, Miss Mage? I’ve traveled quite a way.

Battered by the wind, her voice still came through dryly amused: I wouldn’t dream of it. You know where to find me when you’re ready.

Obi waited, watching as she dropped her arm, the distance too great for him to make out the expression on her face. Her shoulders, though, were still stiff, polite and stern. Probably she had been aware of him all through her exchange with the goat herder, waiting until the man had safely left before deciding to confront him.

Huh. Interesting.

Turning on her heel, blue skirts flying up as though in exclamation, Shirayuki strode in through the open door of her cottage. To Obi’s surprise, she didn’t bother to close it; he had gathered she left it open during working hours, to invite any of the townspeople to come inside, for poultice or charm, a warm welcome waiting for all. But that was before she knew an assassin had been sent to kill her.

What was she going to do if Obi took it as invitation as well?

With night came clouds; a storm rolling in from the south, causing the easy breeze of earlier to buffet and whip about. A hot cup of tea in doors sounded delicious. Obi swung down from his perch with a faint, predatory grin. Unlikely as it was that she had meant the offer, there was no reason he couldn’t imbibe after the job was done. He imagined a Mage known for her potions and tonics and healing touch would have many a special blend.

All he had to do was kill her.

His grin faded. Tension coiled in his shoulders, hands flexing with uncertainty. Knowing she could find him had chased all ease and carelessness from him; he spent the intervening hours between their first contact and now honing his blades, readying his spells, checking and double-checking the strength of the wards stitched into his clothes.

As much as he would have enjoyed that nap, Obi found it difficult to treat anyone perceptive enough to pinpoint his illusion with anything less than wariness and respect. Though she had yet to show the depth of power she was rumored to have at beck and call, it was more than enough to set his teeth on edge.

He should have known. Most of the more challenging, obstinate marks went to him, after all. Why would this Shirayuki be any different?

Just before her wards Obi paused, examining them. They were set up precisely across the entirety of the Mage’s grounds in a method almost elegant in its exactness. Obi took the space of a breath to admire the handiwork, unease once more scratching at his spine. But Obi was good at picking locks, at coaxing spells to budge over and give room, and it was only a matter of time before he’d found a corner he could pluck and pull at, tucking it in to make space between two rows of herbs in the back garden.

He crept in, wary of any silent alarms he might trigger.

But it seemed the Red Lady hadn’t thought to set anything further than base perimeter wards. The path to her little stone cottage was clear. Gaily painted shutters were latched shut, her door closed with the fall of night, but spools of golden light eked out between the slats. The ivy crawling along her stone cottage swayed madly, and the winds scattered the smoke from her chimney.

A circuit of the house gave him all he needed: the Mage sat in her front room, body relaxed, mind distracted. Perfect. Obi allowed himself to think that, despite the earlier surprises, everything really would be all right. No matter her skill set, she was no match for him in the dark. There was only one way for this to end. In and out, with barely a scream - his thoughts turned slow, hazardous, imagining blood down her throat, a stream of red to match her hair. The tension in his body eased.

Yes, he thought. Like that. No fuss, no drawn out game.

He could give her this, at least, the Red Lady, the Scarlet Witch, the slip of a woman who had pinned him with her scry glass and offered him tea. A kinder death than he’d given some. Thinking of the clever way she’d worked her wards, the intricate texture of the spell on the goats’ lead, he thought - I can be kind, just this once.

Obi drew the night down around him with a wrenching twist, until he was made of smoke and storm, the owl’s steady gaze and the bat’s silent wing. He became the dark heart of the sky between the stars; the waiting shadow of a shallow grave.

He ran into trouble immediately.

The only way forward was through the back door, the barest gap left open for him to pour himself through. On the other side Obi found himself in a homey sort of kitchen. Glazed tiles and checker-print curtains, an old, nicked table buffed to a honey-gold glow with a basket of bread set in the center. Dishes were drying to the side of a sink, towel still dripping next to them. Embers smoldered in the stove, an empty kettle set to the side.

The domesticity of the scene made Obi’s skin itch.

Treading carefully he headed toward the only available door. The kitchen led straight into the front room, a bare expanse of hall between. Obi could feel the clever folds that hid the rest of the Mage’s house from view, and he thought that, with time, he could wedge his way inside, unrolling Shirayuki’s careful system.

But he hadn’t the time - a fracture, hair-line but dangerous, had already begun to snake its way through his spell.

Obi hadn’t noticed the start. By the time he was aware of it the damage was already done. Stunned, Obi pressed his hand to the wall, papered in bright yellow with white vertical stripes, vivid against the black leather of his gloved hand. For a moment he stood there, staring wildly at the contrast. Somehow his illusion was unraveling. Obi had once laid on the side of a busy market street, bleeding copiously and half out of his mind, and still his illusion hadn’t dropped, not once.

What had this Scarlet Witch done to him?

Stubborn, he pulled the edges of himself together and held them tightly through sheer force of will. But the damage was done already; his easy confidence in the Mage’s yard was shaken, unease once more worming its way through him. Get a grip, he raged at himself. He flexed his hand against the wall, jaw tight. You’ve dealt with worse circumstances.

Just a few more steps and he would be in the room with her. Perhaps he was making more of this than he should. After all, she might be clever, but so was Obi, and it was for times like this that he trained with steel, with wire and arrow and the strength of his bare hands. He had nothing to fear when his magic was only one part of him, and not even the part that made him lethal.

He let his breath out in a slow, controlled exhale.

There was still a chance to do this right. From the front room the only noise came from a crackling fire, and the slow turn of pages as Shirayuki read. Obi could just see her bowed head, the fall of her bangs hiding her face, her bare feet tucked up beneath her. As he eased forward his feet made no noise, and his breath did not disturb the air. Obi was made of the waiting dark, the shadows out of view. But still a voice murmured: “Just a moment, please. I’ll freshen up the tea when I’m done with this page,” as he crossed the threshold into the front room.

Obi went still.

It was one thing for her to have found him that afternoon, scry glass in hand and sun high in the sky. Another, entirely, to have done - this.

The splintering in his spell widened, yawning wide. Thinking furiously, Obi let the spell grab hold of his own, prying at him with clever, meticulous fingers, and followed it out to see the scope of it. His breath left him in a startled rush as understanding set in.

Shirayuki had not wasted time with alarms. Instead, she had laid a trap so strange that Obi hadn’t registered it until he was well and truly caught within. It was as though the very nature of this place was pulling him into relief, setting him on display. The very warmth and hominess of her little cottage turned against him, calling into contrast Obi’s own magic, an obvious spill of nastiness, like soot tracked across her well-swept floor. He could practically feel it crowding him, very gently but sternly pushing him into compact form, giving presence to his very lack thereof. The spellwork had been so subtle, laid out with such a light hand, that Obi hadn’t even noticed until after it had taken hold.

He flickered where he stood, there then not.

Stars and stones, he thought, that is impressive.

Obi’s face crumpled in thought, curiosity plucking at him. The spell she’d laid was almost gentle, nothing to harm him, nothing to actually trap him. It merely took away his ability to hide, running on the same principle that the stronger the light source the deeper the shadows. She could have tried traps to bind his magic, to strip him of his ability to harm her, spells to maim or murder him - all things that Obi would have seen and dismantled with ease.

She had chosen, instead, to simply see him.

Sliding a dagger - etched with an anti-magic sigil directly into the steel - from his belt, Obi spun it on his finger. He had a clear line of view. The room was not large. Shirayuki sat in front of the fireplace, nearly in the center of the room. From where he stood nothing blocked the path his dagger could take to reach the tender line of her throat. He could risk it; take the chance that Shirayuki really hadn’t laid any more traps out of sight, that the one spell she’d cast was the extent of her cleverness.

One well-aimed throw, and she might be dead.

But - he eased the blade back into place, fingers lingering for just a moment. It had been a long time since he felt both off-kilter and delighted by it, and Obi wasn’t one to turn fun away when it presented itself to him. Shirayuki was - more than he had expected. As soon as he’d crossed her wards his plan had fallen to ruins.

Crossing his arms he leaned back against the wall. She was still his mark; Obi still had a job to do. But this was no simple in and out. Obi had a feeling that it would take more than one well-thrown dagger to end this woman’s life. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, he found himself almost eager to discover what would.

Obi felt a grin stretch at his mouth and let it curl there, crooked.

Time to change the game, then.

The Mage of the Mountains finished her page, placed a ribbon to mark her place, and turned to him with solemn green eyes. “You may join me, if you like.”

She gestured at the paisley-print chair beside hers, angled so that they faced each other. A full tea tray sat at a jaunty angle on the round table between them. Obi watched as Shirayuki placed her book on the clear space before it, and then rapped her knuckles on the teapot. It was ceramic, painted with red and yellow flowers nestled into curling, whimsical green leaves. Steam rose abruptly from the spout, eager to please. Apparently, Shiryauki had actually meant it when she offered him tea.

Obi let his spell go with a snap loud enough to sound like a thunderclap.

“Oh,” Shirayuki breathed, blinking. “You’ll give the townsfolk a fright if you keep that up.”

“Storm’s almost here,” Obi said easily, crooked grin firmly in place. “Surely a little thunder and lightning in the distance isn’t anything to be afraid of. They’ll never realize the danger.”

Those green eyes of hers narrowed, just slightly, before flicking away. She bent to pour water into two matching teacups, little sachets of tea leaves already waiting at the bottom. “I suppose not,” she mused, voice pensive. “I’d appreciate it if it stayed that way, please. And -” her eyes darted back toward him, gaze sharp, before returning to her task, “I really do wish you’d come and sit.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like sitting when other people are standing,” Shirayuki muttered. “I’m short enough as is, I don’t need to feel shorter.”

A faint flush crept up the back of her neck beneath where she’d coiled her hair. Now that he was closer, Obi could see that she was no great beauty, though she was pretty enough. A wide mouth, a pert nose, a stubborn chin. And those eyes, like still summer ponds, green and deep. The high neck of her dress only highlighted the graceful column of her throat, the elbow-length sleeves calling attention to the subtle strength of her forearms.

Hey now, Obi thought, lazily amused, am I here to ogle her or to kill her? Finding his gaze latched onto the curve of her waist, he figured it was both. He always had been attracted by competence.

“I would never wish to make a Miss as lovely as you feel inferior,” Obi sniped, finally pushing off the wall to amble casually across the room.

She set the teapot down onto the tray with a strident clink. “I never said anything about feeling inferior, especially toward you. Would you like honey or sugar?”

Obi laughed. “Neither, thank you.”

If he weren’t so curious - so mind-bogglingly stumped - about how to proceed, he would never have been caught dead in the chair Shirayuki directed him toward. It was a plump, stiff affair that Obi had to settle into cautiously. Usually he did his utmost to avoid chairs like these, which somehow managed to make all of his cultivated casualness awkward. The padding of the high back pushed him forward, so that he felt hunched over his own lap, uncertain what to do with his arms or legs.

If the kitchen had been enough to make him itch, the Mage’s front room nearly had him clawing his skin off.

Glow-globes floated gently near the ceiling, spinning slowly in an unknown orbit, so that the whole room was lit with soft light, cheery and bright. Her work room must have been tucked away in the hall, because the front room was nothing more than a parlor, a room to welcome visitors within. Book cases filled the wall from floor to ceiling in between wide, arched windows. Little ornate tables sat below with elaborate potted plants set atop them.

Every other spare inch of wall was taken up by beautiful beech-wood frames, dried flowers and herbs pressed between the glass. Behind them the fire was merry, crackling and warm, with a cauldron hung from an iron hook. A lid kept its contents hidden, but Obi smelt magic like spring rain bubbling inside. Across from them was a couch with a low table between, this one cluttered haphazardly with books and journals, pens and half-finished cups of tea.

Obi peered into one, dismayed to find something growing inside.

“That is disgusting,” he said, finally leaning his forearms onto his thighs. He tilted his head to watch her. Guilt flared across her face just as she dropped one cube of sugar into her tea with a loud plop. Obi grinned. “You’ll ruin this whole charade you have going on here if you leave these out and about, you know.”

“I don’t - I don’t know what you mean.”

Her hand hovered over the sugar bowl, tongs tight between her fingers. Obi snorted, drew power through his arm and sent all four dirtied teacups dancing through the air, into the kitchen. They landed gently in the sink.

“Oh,” Shirayuki said, looking down the dim hallway. “Thank you.”

Humming, Obi lifted his arm up in front of his face, examining the crooked knobs of his knuckles, his blunt fingertips. His thumbnail had a crack down it where he’d banged it too hard scaling a stone wall; there was a scrape circling half of his wrist, disappearing beneath the leather of his glove. Holding it there, he let his magic reach out and brush against hers.

She felt like a babbling creek, quick and strong, but not too deep at first glance - she slapped his magic aside, and Obi was surprised to find the cheerful force of her raw magic turned cool and nearly clinical with use.

Obi dropped his arm and admitted, “I didn’t expect you to notice me.”

“No? Not even as you killed me? I’d like to think most people are capable of seeing death when it’s right before their face.” The honest surprise in her voice had Obi looking at her again, just as she tried to sneakily add a few extra cubes of sugar to her tea. Obi’s throat tightened at the thought of how disgustingly sweet it likely was; he snatched up his cup before she could decide to give it the same treatment.

Obi was amused to note that the matching teacups did not match the teapot. “You think so? Hm, that seems very kind of you. Please, do keep on thinking such nice and innocent thoughts, regardless of reality.” When she sent a stern, unimpressed stare his way, Obi merely grinned brightly, asking, “Hey, what kind of tea is this?”

“The healthy kind,” she said smartly. “You look like you could use a whole pot of it. I didn’t expect my assassin to look so - scruffy.”

“Scruffy!” Obi yelped, a laugh caught in his throat.

Shirayuki squinted at him from over the rim of her teacup. “Malnourished?” she tried. “Er - no, that sounds worse, doesn’t it? Ah. Travel-worn, perhaps?”

The laugh spilled over, enough to send his shoulders shaking. Tea splashed over the rim of the teacup, touching his skin. He checked it quickly: not poisoned, or brewed to make him sleepy. No magic at all, in fact. The tea was simply tea. Still chortling, Obi brought it up to his mouth to try a sip, pleased to find it fruity and mellow.

“How about rugged?” he suggested, arching his eyebrow in a way he knew made him look rakish and charming. “Rogue-like?”

Both the Mage’s eyebrows shot up, lost beneath the messy fall of her fringe. “Ragged, maybe.” Her tone was perfectly dry, that sense of humor Obi had heard through the wind even more fetching when it wasn’t distorted. “Though you do look a rogue, I’ll admit. Fitting, I suppose. Were you really sent to kill me?”

Obi sipped his tea, thinking hard.

“I wonder. Tell me, Miss Mage, is there someone who wants to kill you?”

It was like watching a door slam. Shirayuki’s face closed down, and that was the moment Obi realized how cautiously open she had been in the first place. Her body drew in tighter on itself, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of her teacup. “I had hoped there wasn’t,” she murmured. Then, louder, “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern. Unless you are my would-be assassin?”

“For someone who hoped for a misunderstanding, you certainly didn’t leave much to chance,” Obi teased, flicking a finger toward her dress. “That is quite the slew of sigils, Miss Mage. How long did that take you to whip up?”

Self-conscious, now, Shirayuki smoothed one free hand over her knee. Wards and charms and protection spells were embroidered into the blue fabric with matching blue thread. Only close up was Obi able to make out the gleam of the spell-work. She was armed to the teeth with defensive spells. Even if she hadn’t noticed him, Obi wouldn’t have been able to lay a hand on her, not with her dressed like that. He’d made the right move in not throwing that blade.

“A friend of mine had it made for me.”

Obi sipped more of his tea, wishing he dared lean back in his chair. But he hadn’t the slightest clue how Shirayuki managed to curl up in it so comfortably. Magic, maybe. A secret spell known only to a few. He shifted in his chair, teacup held easily between his knees as he studied her.

“That’s some friend,” he said, soft. The dress must have cost a fortune.

Shirayuki’s face tightened.

Obi winked, and let his voice drawl out, knowing he sounded mean, wanting to see what she would do if he pushed, if he threatened: “I guess any would-be assassin would need to find a way past that dress to get to you, Miss Mage.”

The lid atop the cauldron behind them rattled, the potion bubbling ferociously for a moment. Shirayuki’s knuckles tightened against the handle of her teacup before she forcibly relaxed them. The scent of fresh rain and young, spring growth intensified.

“I suppose you may be correct,” Shirayuki said. “But as that seems very unlikely to happen, I think I’m quite safe, thank you. The dress is quite well-made, and I have more like it. Even nightgowns, if you would believe it!”

“Yes,” Obi agreed, voice grave. “I see a few sigils there - just below your left armpit - that make quite certain you are the only one who could take off that dress. But,” his voice lifted, became a curling, crackling tease, sharp and sly, “all your would-be assassin might need do is, ah, charm you out of it.”

“Charm me - oh!”

“That really is a fetching blush, Miss Mage,” Obi grinned from behind his teacup.

Shirayuki was flushed, her face nearly a red to match her hair. Every inch of her was turned prim and proper with embarrassment, her eyes snapping with outrage. Taking a bracing sip of tea, she cleared her throat before speaking. “As I said: that seems very unlikely to happen. I am not a fool.”

“No,” Obi agreed. “But I can be very persuasive.”

Between them, the very air seemed palpable, nearly crackling with sudden tension. Obi felt it throb through him, his hands very delicate against the warm ceramic, ready to drop it in an instant. Power crackled through him like the storm nearly upon them; the wind shook the shutters, as if called to brutality by Obi’s bold declaration.

Then Shirayuki’s feet slid out from beneath her, the long fall of her blue skirt rippling. Standing, Obi wagered that she’d barely come up to his collarbone. He watched her from beneath his lashes, not moving, yet, but every muscle poised for action. Shirayuki clutched her teacup in both hands, held awkwardly at her waist, and said, “I think you’ve had enough tea for one evening. Please leave.”

“Aw, come now, Miss Mage. Things were just getting good.”

Frustration tightened her mouth. Her chin jerked upward, obstinate, and Obi felt the shift as her magic crowded beneath her skin, clear and clean, like sunlight on waves. All at once his chair bucked him off, and he gave a mangled curse as he stumbled three feet before he slid into an easy stance, facing her, teacup held aloft by one hand.

“Didn’t spill a drop,” Obi taunted.

“Impressive,” she said, voice flat. “Now, if you would.”

Before he could react, the teacup was out of his hands, spinning swiftly through the air to return to its place on the tea tray. The front door swung open behind him. Obi hesitated, gaze heavy as he studied the Mage of the Mountains, still with a flush bright on her cheeks. Outside, a clap of thunder announced the arrival of the storm.

“All right,” Obi finally said, forcing his body into an easy posture. He let a smile take hold on his face, and wondered, meeting her hard gaze, what she saw without his illusions to soften the blow. “If you’re going to be like that about it, I guess I’ll go.”

Obi backed up slowly toward the door, hands outstretched at his sides as if that could possibly make him any less dangerous. He felt the press of the night at his back, the howling storm and the darkness, and let it comfort him. Shirayuki might be a tough nut to crack, but Obi would find a way. All he needed was patience.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he promised.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Please, don’t.”

Then his feet edged past the threshold and the door slammed shut, a bare inch from his face. Obi laughed, relieved and somehow not. Tension was jangled up inside him, impatience and curiosity. It felt as though the storm lighting up the sky overhead was somehow trapped within his skin, a seething tumult. In an instant he flickered, the night drawn down around him. He was shadow once more, flitting from the Mage’s yard as the rain began to pour.

He let the storm move him; ran along lightning and chased the wind, howling, letting the rain wash him clean, until he was nothing but flesh and bone again, breath rasping through his lungs, hair plastered to his scalp. He stumbled through the door to the town’s inn, surprising the night clerk.

“A room, if you please! And a hot meal and even hotter bath, if you have one. I’m afraid I rather got caught in a sudden storm, you see.”

“Ah - yes. Of course,” the night clerk stammered, reaching blindly behind him for a key while Obi dripped charmingly onto a rug. “Just for the night?”

In his mind he imagined her, red hair tangled down her back, a nightgown sewn with protective sigils fluttering about her thighs, the thin material brushing against her nipples with each breath; he remembered the stubborn set of her jaw and the snapping fire in her eyes, the steady cleverness of her mind. Obi smiled, a bare curl of his mouth.

“No,” he murmured, “I think I’ll be here for quite some time.”

#my fic #ans #obiyuki #heading for a small disaster #OBI IS NOT NICE IN THIS #just so you know #he's a bit bloody minded and threatening toward shirayuki #be warned #MAGIC AU #i used too many words again #sob

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dinacharya · 5 years ago

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Chapter 2. aka, Adele 25 therapy

what are tumblrs for if not for ridiculous oversharing and creeping into people’s lives you have no business being in, right?

disclaimer: it’s a saturday night, 11:45pm to be exact, and i’m 4 hours deep into listening to Adele’s 25 album on repeat. i’ve also micro-dosed. or maybe regular dosed, depends who you ask. For all intents and purposes here, I’m calling it a micro because i very much have a grip even if my trusty wall tapestry is doing pretty things, and I had a very clear intention diving in.

the tl;dr is that this 25-year old’s solo post-break up trip is a fucking cleanse and this is the vibe I’m fully on right now:

lol so, how did we get there:

well waking up from last night’s binge smoking, gaming & sugar session (which was honestly much needed - shout out to the peeps who were there for that) didn’t feel the hottest, obviously. but crushed that shit with more sleep and getting back into jillian michaels* in my living room and eating a healthy lunch and whatnot.

*side note: i’m sure she’s made millions already, but in this era with all the IG fitness models and influencers out there i still think jillian michaels is queen and underrated. 20 mins of jumping around and flailing weights, guided by her via TV is literally all i need to be like woh bitch i’m back. haha.

now: you know how there are just those random people in your life that perhaps weren’t around all that long or maybe they had an impact on you that you only realized later? or maybe you just never shared with them how much they meant to you, because you didn’t even know. so there are a couple of those i’m going to bring up here (no names).

starting with one - a friend from my NYC juice bar days, we spent many a wintery days and hours cooped up in that tiny shop kicking ass honestly with grade A difficult customers. she was one of my favorites to work with - so fun to laugh, with gossip with, just share a space with. i have so many fond memories of night shifts there, snow falling outside the windows. people coming in for smoothies at 10:45pm making us wonder what the fuck?

she was stunning, tall, beautiful effortless skin and bone structure and all that, she just glowed. she was always lifting up other girls around her while shaming herself. i get it, that’s just what we do, that’s what I do. but fact is she was a straight 12/10 no question. anyways, we lost touch. we all know how that whole restaurant went down in sad flames with our owner locked up at rikers (if you don’t know of the psycho saga via vogue’s coverage, and want to hear a first-hand account, that’s for another day, it’s honestly a fun one to tell). so all the people in my life from the restaurant, who were what felt like home to me in NY, kind of faded out with time.

anyways, she’s one of those people for me that still pops into mind from time to time and i just wonder what she’s up to and miss her. so today in my idle morning of moping around, she popped into mind and a quick social media search led me to find her humble page and podcast she’s just recently started - and i ended up listening to a couple episodes because, lord knows i’m a podcast nerd. but i had a chance to hear her story and how much i didn’t know of her background when we were friends back then, and what a light she still was to those around her was pretty amazing. she did say that her time in nyc was a bit of a blur that’s hard to remember because she was struggling at the time. it hurts my heart to know that, but at the same time i definitely can relate. generally i’d say living in nyc, as a student or not, can feel very isolating and while i have a lot of very vivid memories and recollections, a lot of that time is also a blur for me now the more distance i get from it.

anyways, so kind of reflecting on all that this afternoon while mozy-ing around in bed was one part of today’s journey. one bit that was also huge was hearing her talk about her overeating/binge & restrictive eating disorder during that time, which is something i’ve tried to vocalize to my friends and family and even doctor but generally isn’t taken all that seriously. when in fact these habits i haven’t addressed are probably the most crucial detriment to my health. it turns out there’s such a thing as overeaters-anonymous. like AA but for people with compulsive eating problems. that’s 100% me, so this was a HUGE discovery today for me that something like this exists. i’m not going to say i’ll walk straight into a meeting this second, but i’m definitely interested. as carly whose lived with me for the last 3 years could easily tell you better than anyone else, i have a hell of a fucking problem and i don’t even know if i understand it fully myself.

part 2:

coincidentally, around mid day I happened to get a text from an old NY roommate, someone I hadn’t heard from in over a year probably, so it was pretty out of the blue. I always perceived her to be like an older sister figure, a funny lady from Malaysia with a heavy accent and a strong attitude, doing her best to fit into American culture, dating apps, heavy into the astrology shit, and all. Anyways, she hit me up because she was concerned she couldn’t find me on social media anymore (quickly resolved) and she mentioned that she enjoyed seeing my DIY stuff on IG stories and that it was serving as inspiration for some future business she’s been envisioning once she gets out of corporate life in Pittsburgh, PA. It was all endearing and sweet. i have heard from friends before that my IG could be turned into something more if i wanted to, but i’ve never had the heart to put more structure to things that just feel like natural parts of me that i want to remain free, if that makes sense. but it’s still nice to know that out there somewhere in pennsylvania the random things i do in my kitchen and share into the IG ether can serve as a little inspo for a roommate from 5 years ago. also it was just a nice reminder to self that in the same way i have these people i admire and root for and wonder about from a distance, maybe there’s room for me to be someone like that for somebody else i’ve crossed paths with. that makes me happy.

So, part 3: hello, Adele.

i haven’t been shy about admitting the last couple months have been a struggle for me. basically since turning 25. even leading up to the big number, all year really i’d been kind of dreading what this age meant. it just feels like it’s gotta be messy whether i want it to be or not. considering every prior year has been a positive & fairly steady uphill climb, i figured at some point i’d have to pause/break/falter. don’t ask me why, age has always been something i’m glued to. (it’s funny because i don’t own a clock, the one watch i have is tucked into my wedding planner e-kit and only comes out on those days. given my job title and being a virgo and all, time has oddly never been a day to-day concern for me. (those who know me know i am never on time for anything, sorry) but i’ve always been hyper concerned about my age and the expectations (self imposed, inescapable) that come looming with it*. so birthday season usually is just a very introspective time every year where i evaluate where i’m at, the progress i’ve made, what’s holding me back, what i’m proud of, what i’m not proud of.

*quick side story, the person i’ve dated all year always would say our age difference was nothing. but that statement always irked me because it’s far from the truth. every year 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 i’ve felt i’ve learned exponentially about myself and grown. so yeah, there’s a HUGE difference, emotionally/self-awareness, all that, between 22 and 25 if you ask me. like bless my early 20′s for being stoned fun & shit, but girl’s been putting in work too ya know?

anyways, back on track: come time for my birthday this year i didn’t really want to think too hard about it and just wanted to have fun, and i did! it was definitely one of the more fun/eventful birthdays i can recall.

but now, 2 months post-birthday, fresh off of a break up, I’m beginning to see more clearly why I pushed all that usual introspective evaluation under the rug. essentially it’s what i’ve done all year, pretending 22 - 25 is nothing, and that all the work i’d done to get here was whatever. i’d taken steps back self-esteem wise, kind of let my work fall by the wayside just as something to do and not something i was excited about (which is more my norm), and i realize i wasnt being present in the right ways to friendships that mean the most to me. All in favor of some shiny beacon of excitement, being sucked into this vortex of conditional relationships* and “fun” where i frankly just had no place being.

*linked there ^ is a stellar article, when you’re ready for it

THANK GOD FOR MY FRIENDS. seriously i don’t say this enough. I have been FREAKING BLESSED by the people who choose to be in my life. like fuck yo i know it’s FACT i have not been the most pleasant to be around or hear from this year but the true ones persisted and showed me love when I needed it most, were there for me constantly through all the thick of it and still are. like those calls every day just to chat about what the fuck ever, those random “i’m thinking of you’s” and “let’s hangs” mean so much to me in my isolated world of working from home and just being a general homebody type. let me just promise to all of you once i’m out of this present messiness, that I’ll be back on track. i’ve hated being that girl, i’ve heard myself, and i’ve hated it. so while I’ve been kind of MIA morphing into something i haven’t been proud of, thank you to every single friend who’s reminded me there was still something here worthy of your time and your energy and your attention.

*now, much less saving me, I get to start showing up for you guys better too.

i’ve explained this to close friends before who have experienced it with me - psychedelics are one of my favorite ways to get a grip on my life. of course, i understand their role in fun experiences too, but i’ve always valued it first and foremost as a powerful mind-opening tool. (so naturally, i adore michael pollan’s latest book “how to change your mind”.) when i’m feeling overwhelmed or at a crossroads or muddled, i’ve found it to be the most affective way for me to tune into myself, see things with a fresh perspective, and commit to the choices i need to.

so having been on a fucking ride with these breakup emotions, knee deep in self-pity, not knowing what to make of the past year, past month, past week, & where i’m at... i was like,

why the fuck not?

just what i needed on a night to myself to give my soul a fucking cleanse. it’s a convenient weekend to have the house all to myself. read: a good place to be singing at the top of my lungs haha and doing whatever the fuck my single ass wishes all night. somehow along the way, i managed to cook up a pretty A+ tikka masala sauce and prepped a brussel sprouts salad for a dinner with friends tomorrow night, don’t ask me how. i’ve had a spiritual fucking connection to every single song on this Adele 25 album, obviously. idk why it hadn’t occurred to me until doing this that i’m now 25 listening to this album :) so all of this is to say:

Thank you, Adele.

for being a girl i can identify with who marks progress with age, unabashedly tunes into her emotions, and provides breakup comfort like no other. even though i refused to listen to this album until like a year ago

(also can we just take a moment to appreciate that Adele posted this on her own IG profile)

Thanks to those who aren’t necessarily at the frontlines of my life, but have a place in my heart, whether you know it or not, and bring forth some amazing shit or tune in at the right times.

Thank you, most sincerely, to each and every one of my friends that I won’t name here.

Close and far, you’re the ones pulling me out of a drudge of a year where I lost myself and you’re reminding me what I love to do and who I am and it feels good to get a footing again.

~ ciao, finally @ 1:43am.

p.s. below is THE picture of what i’ve been like for the last couple weeks ~ can always count on a new girl reference to have my back heheh

*we can also mark this as the night where i FINALLY get over my weird thing about not liking “Hello.” That shit’s a fucking masterpiece who was i to say anything otherwise hahaha

#journal #woh this some reaaal journaling huh haha

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blueanddeepblue · 7 years ago

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10/6

I've seen my dad once in the last seven years. We haven't spoken in the past year and a half. We're not even Facebook friends. When I came home from college one semester with a Rolling Stones CD with the song Bitch on it, he told me either the CD had to go, or I did. Before that, when I left for college, he told me I was throwing away a god-given gift by not playing college basketball. He may have been right about that one. ----- Right now A and I are sitting in the car in the middle of the Sturgeon River National Wilderness in Michigan's Upper Peninsula escaping the weather. Our tent is holding fast; it is both dry and secure, but I've spent too much of the past 24 hours losing to A at gin rummy to want to be trapped in there any longer. Mozart's Piano Concerto No. 15 is playing on the car radio, and we've reached the climax. Earlier, we ate dinner underneath a tarp in the cold and rain. Dinner was absolutely stellar. There were moments before the rain, as I got the fire going and A prepped our dinner, where the sun came out for a rare appearance, shooting light up towards the gold and red of oaks and birches and maples beginning their fall display. Our camp is along a bend in the river five miles down a dirt road, and we're the only campers here for the second night running. The solitude of the forest is immense after the din of tourists at several of our previous Michigan stops. Today when I went to rinse a dish in the river, a Bald Eagle flushed from his perch and A yelled "Up, up, up!" until I heard her above the babble of the rapids and looked to see him rise over the pines and out of sight. ----- I think some small portion of my love for birding is due to my dad. He would always point out hawks as he was driving, ducking his head so he could get a clearer vantage point beneath the windshield. I'm not sure he took much interest in birds in general, but he showed the excitement of a child whenever a hawk made a highway appearance. When he drove, he always had a toothpick to chew on, a holdover from his smoking days, which I never realized was the case until I quit smoking two and a half years ago. On the dashboard, he'd also keep a comb with all the rounded bristles knocked off so to better scratch his head as he drove. I don't remember him ever getting a traffic ticket. And one of his claims to fame was that he was never in a car accident, not even a fender bender. It's hard not to write about him in the past-tense. Sometimes I feel like the part of my life that had him in it was eons ago, and I was a different person. Now, when the family gets together for christmas, it feels whole and healthy, it doesn't feel like there's a missing piece; it feels like a weight has been lifted. But of course, there's this hole that exists, somewhere, even though I know it's better this way. This past week, talking with my uncle, I noticed, how he too, referred to his brother in the past-tense. ----- One of my favorite parts about traveling is the people you encounter. The relationships that A and I have fostered along this trip are of a certain mettle only tempered through the road. In Virginia we see my friend, Ava, and her and Mike's new baby, Onyx. They live on a farm on the bend in a creek near the Appalachian Trail with chickens and a garden and a self-built sauna and diesel powered hot-tub. They are the type of people who inspire you to do. To find ways to improve your life by your own means. To build a treehouse or learn to fly a plane. To live according to your own rules and not be bound by cultural norms. Ava and I met in undergrad, on a study abroad trip in Mexico. I've kept several friends from that study abroad trip, maybe because forging a friendship in a place outside your comfort zone helps you know that miles-between don't really matter. I remember joining Ava and her family one time at a Gary P Nunn concert in Luckenbach, Texas. I remember eating BBQ and dancing and having too many drinks and laughing at it all, every one of us crammed into the same small hotel room afterwards. I remember being struck by how her parents could still talk amicably after divorce. How they could even laugh a little at each other. How experiences could be shared because they were family. Seeing Ava and her own family is beautiful. We eat french toast and drink too much coffee. Mike is already out on the tractor, discussing methods of hauling brush with a neighbor. We leave feeling torn, lingering longer than intended, wishing we could stay to help the small community that's gathered to help cut down trees and make space for Onyx's outdoor play area. In D.C., we meet up with A's friend, Rhonda. We crash on her couch and wander the town, being tourists and visitors. Rhonda shows us the nearby farmer's market, and spoils us with drinks and stories and delicious meals. Years ago, A used to nanny Rhonda's boys, who are 16 and 14 now, all grown up with deep voices and polite manners, as driven and intent as their mother. Rhonda is a burst of constant energy, a whirlwind of goodness.The kind of person who radiates action and fortitude. As most everyone in D.C. does, Rhonda works in government, balancing home life and the nearly impossible demands of her job. In the garden, she found a caterpillar capable of devouring an entire tomato plant in one night. According to the internet, the appropriate remedy for such a pest is to cut it in half with a knife. Rhonda opts to leave him out on the sidewalk in hopes the birds will find him a tasty morsel. On a nearby leaf, a similar caterpillar is discovered, immobile, and riddled with white wasp larvae devouring it from the inside out. The best practice for a caterpillar being devoured from the inside out is to leave it alone, let nature to do its bidding. There is a theme brewing, a pattern; here, too, a father (but not a husband) stays involved with his kids, cajoles them about their homework, takes them rock climbing. ----- Later, in Pennsylvania, we stay two nights with my best friends' mom, Ann, and her husband Rocky. They live on a farm in the hills surrounded by cornfields and little villages with picturesque churches down winding country roads. When the wind blows, the corn rustles like the rattling of hollow bones, like a million wind chimes made of old newspaper. We have dinner on the patio overlooking the garden and the 100 year old barn and the next-door church and cemetery. We eat mussels and caprese and Rocky's own Golumpki recipe. Rocky and Ann regale us with stories of sailing adventures and hiking trips, tales of family and old friends, and opinions on politics and philosophy and life. I tend to wax poetic. Rocky tells good jokes. Evening on the patio turns into night and new bottles of wine keep appearing. It feels like home away from home. The next day we kayak on a nearby lake and lunch by a waterfall. The trip is also beginning to revolve around waterfalls. When we paddle back, there is a kingfisher and a little green heron and I can imagine the lake when the leaves fall. How it turns into a liquid carpet of gold and orange and red that the boat cuts through like a knife. In New York, we eat pho and gawk at passerby. Chinatown flows by, and we're mesmerized once again by the energy and the pace. New York is a city of no limits, no boundaries. In many ways, you are invisible. Always, everywhere, there is someone louder, more stylish, crazier, more artistic, or more outlandish than you. We stop to see A's friend who's opening a gallery. Later, we stay in the Bronx with my friend Jill, whose wife, Jess, is out of the country helping with hurricane relief. We share a dinner and beers and conversation, the three pillars of almost every good interaction. I fall asleep astounded at the goodness of people, at the way my life is surrounded by amazing people, humbled by the hospitality we're shown stop after stop. ----- My dad was 31 when I came along. In pictures from this era he appears rugged and handsome. He wears cut-off jean shorts and waterskis, barefoot, on some Texas lake, maybe even Canyon Lake, where I grew up. His hair is dark and wavy, and his eyes flicker a mystery, belying the thrill of speed, the roar of a powerboat, the splash of the wake against a barreled chest, strong arms. The pictures themselves have the golden tint of years past, the nostalgic glow of easy living. In one set of pictures, he sports a thick mustache and throws a football to friends. He drinks beer from the types of cans that advertisers have brought back into vogue now that enough time has lapsed, now that the trends have come full circle and they can again benefit from the aesthetics of collective memory. I did not know this version of my father. The one who lived easily among friends. The one who drank beer and waterskied and rode motorcycles and found ways to live fast and large. Or maybe I should say I did not often know this version of my father. Maybe these pictures of him are really card tricks, fanciful sleight-of-hand maneuvers that the mind plays on perception. Maybe the amber-tinged version of my dad is a mythology I've constructed, a story I've built up over the years to protect myself, to help explain why he's faded into the background of my life. Instead, I knew the version of my dad who couldn't handle it when the toothpaste wasn't rolled up from the bottom or the laundry didn't make it into the correct bin. The version who pulled us from sunday school because the message wasn't strong enough. Who changed the channel when beer commercials came on. Who had few friends that seemed to last. Who felt slighted and wronged by the world. Whose eyes shot sideways and clouded over with righteousness when he was begging to lose control. This too, is an illusion, a shifting myth tinged by the murkiness of memory. He also laughed at himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He took us fishing and played basketball with us, even though he grew up near Detroit, Michigan, where hockey is the sport of nobility, the sport his Texan kids would never quite comprehend. He wrestled on the floor with us or made himself into a launchpad at the pool, hurling us up and out across the water until we imagined ourselves to be birds, spaceships, shooting stars. ----- Here is a partial list of birds that A and I have seen thus far: Black-Throated Green Warbler Yellow Billed Cuckoo White Breasted Nuthatch Pileated Woodpecker Downy Woodpecker Black Buzzard Eastern Wood Peewee American Goldfinch Hooded Warbler Dark Eyed Junco Golden Crowned Kinglet Red Breasted Nuthatch Canada Goose House Sparrow Raven Grey Jay Green Heron Cedar Waxwing Blue Jay Belted Kingfisher Pine Warbler Northern Flicker Red Tailed Hawk Red Bellied Woodpecker Hairy Woodpecker American Robin Wild Turkey Crow Eastern European Starling Great Blue Heron Tufted Titmouse Brewers Blackbird Yellow Rumped Warbler Black Capped Chickadee Brown Thrasher Bald Eagle Wood Duck American Redstart Turkey Vulture White Throated Sparrow Least Flycatcher Ruby Crowned Kinglet Common Loon Hermit Thrush Northern Mockingbird Some of these are new birds, like the Hermit Thrush and American Redstart, birds that flash new color and make us hold our breath, or others that require we lean in to see the subtlety, those that mystify through the mundane. Some are as familiar as friends - a Kinglet among the underbrush. Other times, we jump to our binoculars at the flash of movement among the trees, against the sky, only to be disappointed by another mangy robin, another buzzard riding the thermals along the cliffs. We camp along every single one of the Great Lakes, marveling at the oceans of fresh water, at the gentle pulse of the waves lapping the shore or at the rainbow of color among the rounded stones. We stand underneath the falls at Niagara and on the boat that takes us in closer to where the mist shoots like needles into our eyes, where the sound is deafening as eternal thunder. Along the shores of Lake Michigan, we haul our camp chairs to the beach and look at the Milky Way among the night sky. We drink box wine and watch the fog roll in. Later, we swim in Superior, clear as glass all the way down to our toes. We emerge fresh and alive, reborn. We also run away from the biting flies, layer up to avoid the gnats, the mosquitos. Nature churns on according to its own whims. We're merely visitors here. ----- So much has gone by that I can't cram into this post. So many thoughts and feelings slipped through the cracks. Elusive. Flitted away. Things I glimpsed but that I could not identify. Ways to cinch the threads on this loose narrative. I am sitting in my sister's home in downtown Minneapolis. My niece is building blocks on the living room floor in front of me. I am aware that she is where the secret exists. That the most important person should always be the one right in front of me. That these memories I revisit and these things I chronicle are also fleeting. My sister and her husband have a wonderful family. The nieces share and play together wonderfully. Their home is wonderful and the meals we share around the table are wonderful. It's grey and rainy on the streets right now, but the warmth inside this home seems to stem from something deeper than an efficient central air system. My brothers camped with us in New York. We swam in the lake and fed spiders to the fish below the dock, watching them emerge from the depths like in the best Attenborough documentaries. We hiked around the lake. We watched a sunset explode over the hills behind us. We shared a fire and ate s'mores. We drank beers and swapped stories as the fog rolled in. I'm proud of my little brothers, who are bigger than me and have been for quite some time. I'm proud of their decisions and the people they've become - solid, thoughtful, caring, and articulate. I'm proud of their ability to grow up. Proud of their tenacity and perseverance. Proud of the kindness that seems innate. I'm proud of them. I'm proud of them all. My sister and brother back in Texas who aren't as much a part of this story merely because this trip and their paths have not yet intersected. I'm proud of the family we've become. The people we are. ----- There are no tidy endings here. No clean conclusions. Narratives seek a wrap-up, a way of putting all the pieces back together, but this is real life; it is neither as messy, nor as poetic as I make it seem in this account. I know that Dad is a part of the family we've become. I know that he, too, has much to be proud of. That he, too, should look at his grown children and see their success as part of his own. But I also know that he is broken. As all people share in brokenness. And that his brokenness keeps him from sharing in our success. Keeps him from calling, or writing, or staying meaningfully involved in any of our lives. In Michigan, we met up with Dad's brother and his wife. We kayaked down the Au Sable river and stayed at their home along the shores of Lake Huron. We slept with windows open to the sound of a lapping lake and woke to sunrises made of gold and fire. I wasn't planning on writing any of this. Not really. But somewhere along the dirt roads of the Upper Peninsula, or while passing a ski boat towed by an eager truck, or while walking on a sandy beach of Huron (all of these places of Dad's own childhood, fragments of the stories I remember him telling), or maybe even before all that, maybe before the trip began, I noticed a thread. Somewhere in all this space and beauty, somewhere in the rush of a waterfall, in the purple of a flower, somewhere between hiking-strides or in the sweep of a vista, I noticed a memory that hasn't quite yet finished playing itself out. A memory that is stranger still because it holds no finality, because there is still a chance at redemption, at a happy ending. So I'll put this here, mostly for my own benefit, like a soup simmering on low, to come back to at a later time. When I'm ready. And I'll walk with the realization that life isn't passed on, it's shared. That beauty is right in front of you, inviting you to get down and share with someone, inviting you to pick up the pieces and build something.

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october2013wy-blog · 7 years ago

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My goal of this post is only to help better paint a larger picture of rape and sexual assault. Yesterday, October 16, 2017, I stumbled upon the #MeToo campaign on my social media feed. I support the movement, and was happy to see so many in my network voicing their story, or even participating by changing their status to something along the lines of: “Me too.” However, as I kept scrolling and reading into the movement more, I noticed that a large majority of the posts included some copy-and-pasted context for the movement that reads: “If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me Too.’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.” (Below is a handful of screenshots I found within a few minutes span of scrolling through my personal Facebook feed. Not only are there many that ask only women to change their status, but one that even outlines that men, in particular, should be the ones listening.) I was almost ready to share my story when I read this and felt like it was a movement exclusive to women. This post is not to tell anyone they are wrong, silence someone, or in any way hurt or target an individual. First, I want to share my story, so you know where I’m coming from and my background. Then I’ll give my best attempt at explaining why this movement could be silencing many victims. Hopefully by doing this, I can help bring attention to the conversation around sexual assault and shed some light to some corners of the conversation that might otherwise be dark.

It was Halloween night of 2013, my freshman year in college. I had just broken up with my girlfriend of nearly a year a few nights prior, and I was going out with some new friends who I had been living with in the dorms at the University of Wyoming. They picked me up outside the dorms and said we were going to a bonfire in the national forest just East of town. I knew one person in the car, but the rest had unfamiliar faces. We arrived at the bonfire where there were around 20 other people, who I assumed to be students at the University as well. There was about a foot and a half of snow on the ground, it was dark, and the fire had just been lit. I recognized my friend Andy who was sitting on a broken down pile of wooden pallets, so I went and sat next to him. To ease my shyness, I smoked a cigarette and talked to him to pass the time. As more and more people began to arrive to the bonfire, a girl approached me and introduced herself with a handshake and began our conversation by offering a drink from her bottle of Vodka. I had never drank much, so the taste of vodka sickened me, but I wanted to be ‘a man’ around all of these new friends, so I swallowed the drink and chased it with soda. Between this point and regaining consciousness, I do not remember what happened. I remember waking up around 40 yards from the fire in an old truck bed, the boots on my feet and the bottoms of my jeans were soaked from standing in the snow and I was cold. The brunette on top of me began kissing me, although I could not recall how we ended up in the same place, and I wasn’t sure what was going on. My vision was blurry, my body was lagging. As we were making out, I remember asking “what is your name? Do you go to school here?” No answer. As she fumbled to take off my pants, I remember her saying “Why won’t these come off?” I laid there trying to calm myself, I knew this wasn’t what I wanted. My body was lagging, I was frozen, and as I lay in that truck bed unable to move I remember her saying “Why won’t this thing work?” When I finally gained the courage to tell her to stop, she simply said, “C’mon, don’t be a pussy. You want to fuck me.” I remember feeling weak, worthless, and unsure of myself for not enjoying any of it. After a certain amount of time wasted being molested in an attempt to made to be aroused, the owner of the truck, who I still don’t know, must’ve noticed two people in the bed of his truck. He stumbled over to the car and yelled “what are you doing in my truck?!” And, with a loud “ugh” in my ear, the girl moved away and headed back towards the fire, with a simple “Seriously? What the fuck, dude?” the owner of the truck followed. Honestly I’m not sure if he knew exactly what was happening, but all I could feel was another man looking down on me, like I was wrong for not desiring her. Hell, at the time in my mind I would’ve even agreed with him, what kind of excuse for a man was I? I remember being barely conscious enough to put my clothes back on before I passed out in the truck again. I’m not sure how much later, my friends woke me up, walked me back to the car, and safely got me back into the dorms, making stops along the way for me to vomit on the side of the interstate. This is my story of sexual assault, one I was too prideful to ask my friends about the following day. Of course I wanted it, I was an 18 year old boy, why wouldn’t I? Right? The same question comes up time and time again as I tell this story: “Isn’t that the perfect scenario for a young guy?”. I still get a lump in my throat when I have to explain why my answer is “No, it isn’t.”

In 2010, a study by the Center for Disease Control found that 1 in 21 (4.8%) of males have been made to penetrate someone else, while 1 in 71 (1.4%) of men have been raped or suffered an attempt within their lifetime. This of course pales in comparison to a 2011 study where nearly 20% of all women in the United States suffered attempted rape or rape sometime in their life. The comparison, however, isn’t the point of this post. Rape is rape, no matter who the victim and rapist are. Given the story of how a certain situation was handled, we must decide what ends up being right and wrong, what is fair and unfair, who is to blame and who is to commend for their bravery. That is our responsibility as humans.

The #MeToo movement is a wonderful way of giving a voice to the many victims, and also helps the same victims come together, share their stories, and ultimately feel less alone. But if this is a movement exclusive to a certain type of victim, what good is it doing besides isolating those who need to band together? Beyond this movement, there are many times when I’ve personally been silenced or had my opinion thrown out the window simply because the general consensus is that men aren’t as familiar with sexual assault as women, and I’m not the only one. Not only does this social norm cut out important opinions from the conversation, but it stigmatizes the stories of many who continue to be silenced. Melbourne psychologist Dr. Sarah Crome says “For every reported case of male rape, there are another 10 that go unreported. …this is because social progresses 40 years behind in the area of male rape, and men are treated differently by the courts.” She then goes on to say, “(we) also need to encourage men, well men themselves need to … (legally) start coming forward and talking about how they need to be treated and supported rather than transplanting a model that suits women onto them.”   It is essential that every victims story is heard, and it is even more essential that no victim is pushed away due to any social stigma or societal barrier. If feminism, a topic I hardly touch on during this post, is to succeed in todays society, each situation of sexual assault must be placed on an equal playing field, male or female. This objective is of course much broader than only the #MeToo movement, but we have to start somewhere.

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letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked · 8 years ago

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Holding on for Dear Life

Steve X Reader, Avengers X reader

A/N: Angst. Angst. Angst. Is there anything else I know how to write?? I have a few other things in the works! I am procrastinating on my project for college, right now, so enjoy this fic I wrote instead of my project! LOL I wrote this very quickly, so don't judge me if it's crap!

Song: Chandelier by Sia

Warnings: Alcohol, drugs, swearing, villainizing the avengers… etc.

Masterlist // Part 2 // Part 3

Numb. That was all I wanted to be.

After spending four years of my life with them. With all the guilt, anger, and sadness… I just wanted to be numb. Alcohol and drugs had become my crutch. My way of turning off what makes me a freak, numbing me from the inside out, and making me forget. Even if it’s just for a little while.

I was an Avenger another life ago.

I had saved Clint during the invasion in New York, and was invited to join their team shortly after. I had decided to dedicate my life to helping people, a long time ago. I was trying to make up for what happened when I was a child. I was five years old when I found out I was pyrokinetic. I had thrown a tantrum over something stupid, like any other five year old would do, and burned my house to the ground with my family inside. I was the only survivor, thrown into foster home after foster home. I never used my powers again. That was, until I was in New York volunteering at a homeless shelter. Creatures started coming out of a hole in the sky, and I needed to save as many people as I could. That had included Clint Barton.

After four years of trying – and failing – to fit in with the Avengers, I was thrown out for making a fatal mistake. I abandoned my post during a mission. I fell for a trap – set by HYDRA – and an agent was killed. Then, after a near-fatal attempt to save me, Natasha Romanoff was in a coma for three weeks. I knew I fucked up. I felt horrible and there was nothing I could do. No one would allow me to see her in the med wing, and no one talked to me for days.

The first one to talk to me was Steve… telling me I had fifteen minutes to pack my shit in a bag and get the fuck out. I was done. All the hard work I had done was over. I was crushed. They had left me homeless, poor, and alone. I couldn’t get a real job, because SHIELD had erased me from public files when I joined, and my cards were frozen the second I stepped out of the building. I had a bag of clothes, twenty dollars in cash, and nowhere to go…

Party girls don’t get hurt/Can’t feel anything, when will I learn/I push it down, push it down/I’m the one “for a good time call”/Phone’s blowin’ up, ringin’ my doorbell/I feel the love, feel the love…

Going out to get fucked up had become my new norm. I was effectively numbing my abilities and my emotions, at the same time. Every night was the same: drink, dance, sing, puke, pass out, and repeat. Maybe go home with someone every once in a while, or snort a line to shake things up.

Tonight was no different. My roommates had dressed me up – it was someone’s birthday – and we started walking the strip once the sun went down. My looks had seen better days. My hair was growing long, I was getting too skinny, and my – once coveted – skin looked dull. My roommates did a good job, tonight, but no amount of makeup and hair products could fix the dead look in my eyes. That reflected how I felt inside.

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3 drink/ Throw ‘em back, till I lose count…

Dancing was one of the things I had always loved doing, no matter what song was playing. If I was out for a night of fun, I was on the dance floor the majority of the time. There was something calming about closing my eyes and losing myself into whatever genre of music was playing. It was like none of my problems mattered, because I was living in the moment. No matter what I was feeling in life was overshadowed by the feeling of peace as I let the music consume me.

I’ve had way too many drinks. The pulsing of the beat was starting to become a swirling sensation in my head. I felt like I was floating. Maybe that was the coke? Whatever. It felt good. I was perfect. That was, until some grabby little fucker decided to press his dick against my ass.

“Fuck off.” I mumbled, trying to remove his hands from my waist. I may have been trained by the Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, but the alcohol was fucking with my coordination. I stumbled in my heels, falling into the guy as his hands roamed around my chest.

Without warning, I was ripped away from the pervert, a woman’s hands on my upper arms to keep me from stumbling. “Y/N?” I know that fucking voice.

The last time I had heard that voice was about a minute before she was shot into a fucking coma.

“Natasha.” I slurred, shrugging off her hands and taking a step back. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but…” Steve stepped behind her, brows pulled together. “Oh, hell no. I’m out.” I stumbled towards the bar, signaling to the bartender that I was ready for another by doing a swoop with my finger.

“Y/N, where the hell have you been?” Steve’s voice said bitterly from behind me, “We’ve been looking for you.”

I took the drink, handing the bartender a wad of ones and turning around to face Steve, “Around. Now kindly fuck off.” I tipped around him, taking a swig of my drink. I can’t deal with this tonight. I need a smoke. I headed towards the hallway for the alley, but was pulled sideways near the tables.

“Y/N.” Clint yelled into my ear to be heard over the music, “What the fuck happened to you?”

I groaned, “Oh for fuck’s sake. Why can’t you all just fuck the fuck off?” I turned, pushing his hand off my arm.

“Where have you been?” Wanda’s voice was in my other ear. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“I’ve been right here.” I slurred, trying to search for their faces in the flashing lights. “Now let me go smoke!” I yanked myself away from them, heading back for the hallway, again.

I shoved the doorway to the alley open, slamming it against the brick walls of the building. Fucking people think that they can just abandon me and act all concerned. They sure weren’t concerned while they thought everything was fine. I pulled my smokes out of my bra, using a lighter since my ability was dulled by the alcohol. I inhaled deeply, blowing the smoke to the sky as I let the nicotine calm me down. Leaning against the brick wall, I continued to let the smokes soothe me.

I’m gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier/I’m gonna live like tomorrow doesn’t exist/Like it doesn’t exist/I’m gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry…

“Y/N?” Steve’s voice came from the mouth of the alley. He wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by my old ‘team’. “What the hell happened to you?”

“You did.” I laughed, chugging the rest of my drink and throwing the glass onto the ground, the shatter drowned out by the thumping of the music from inside the club. “When you fucking threw me out like a piece of fucking trash.” I took another drag, blowing it in Cap’s direction. He hated cigarettes. “I had nowhere to go. I had no money, no way to get a job, no home, no friends… Nothing but a backpack, twenty bucks, and a broken fucking heart.” The whoosh in my ears were starting to get bad. I needed to either drink more, or go home.

“What do you mean ‘thrown out’?” Natasha snapped, looking around the group. “You all told me she left.”

“I left?” I barked out a laugh, throwing my cigarette butt on the ground. “That is fucking hilarious.”

“Y/N-” Steve started, taking a step towards me.

“No, Steve!” I yelled, having a hard time focusing on him. “You know exactly what went down!”

“Y/N-” Wanda tried, but I had about enough of the bullshit by that point.

“NO!” I screamed, throwing my hands up in frustration. “My whole life I have always felt like a freak, when I’ve done nothing but try and help others. When you guys asked me to join you, after New York, I thought I would finally have my chance to fit in somewhere. I spent four years of my life doing nothing but try to become a hero, instead of the sad little girl who hides her abilities from the world. I was still treated like an outsider.” I could feel the tears start to stream down my face. “I was always there for all of you, and I was thrown out after one fucking mistake.”

“Someone died, Y/N.” Tony said from my right. I think.

“That’s rich coming from you.” I spit back, “A lot of someones died because of Ultron, Tony. Fuck off.”

I took a deep breath, finally finding his face in the lighting of the alley, “Agent Timothy Carlson, age 34. He had a wife named Diane, whom he had been married to for 9 years. They had two kids together. A six year old and a two year old. He had people who loved him, and I took him away from them. I have to live with that every day, for the rest of my pathetic life.” I let out a sob. “I needed you. All of you. You threw me out like trash!” Wiping my eyes, I was pretty sure my makeup was everywhere. “I’m fucked. I can’t get a fucking job, because SHIELD wiped all of my records. I technically don’t exist! I have no license, job, money… NOTHING.” I steadied myself, getting ready to go back into the club. I looked back at Steve, whose face looked guilty as hell, “So, as I said before: kindly fuck off.”

And I’m holding on for dear life… / Keep my glass full until morning light… / Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down won’t open my eyes / Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I’m just holding on for tonight…

Back in the bar, after ditching Earth’s Douchiest Heroes, I ordered another drink. I briefly noticed that I couldn’t find my roommates. They must have gone home with someone.

I couldn’t believe that I had seen my old team. There was so much more that I had wanted to say to them, but my pesky emotions got in the way. I need to be numb, again. I downed a shot, signaling for another. The bartender gave me a look, but kept pouring. I had practiced in my head what I would say to them if I had ever seen them, again. The conversation we had outside was a lot more polite than the one I had planned out.

“Y/N.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Steve.” I snapped, slamming my shot glass back on the bar in annoyance, “Why won’t you leave me the hell alone?”

He sighed, running his hand through his golden hair in nervousness, blue eyes looking away from me, “I feel guilty. This is my fault. I-”

Oh shit, I’m gunna puke.

I took off towards the alley, shoving people out of my way as I ran, holding my hand over my mouth. I had puked in that alley more times than I could count, but tonight I had an audience. Steve had followed me.

Bile and alcohol shot out of my mouth as I leaned against the brick wall, practically painting it with my vomit. The wave of nausea causing tears to run down my face and world tilt sideways. Strong arms held me up as I continued to throw up on the brick wall of the bar. Fuck, this is embarrassing. I wiped my mouth when it was over, “I’m fine, Steve.” My voice sounded small, “Please, just leave.” I took my flask out of my bra, rinsing out my mouth with whiskey and spitting it in my vomit. “Please.”

His blue eyes were shining, face showing pity, “Let me get you home.”

“I don’t need you to-”

My head swam, and the world went dark.

Sun is up, I’m a mess / Gotta get out now, gotta run from this / Here comes the shame, here comes the shame…

Oh, god. My head was pounding. Did I make it home, last night? I felt the heat from the sun shining through a window, and slowly opened my eyes. I was not in my apartment. Whose apartment is this? I looked around and noticed a picture of Steve, Bucky, and Sam on the wall. Steve’s apartment? How the fuck am I in Steve’s apartment? Oh, god, my head is fucking pounding. I dug into my bra for my flask, unscrewing it to take a sip.

Hair of the dog that bit you. Bottoms up.

I noticed a piece of paper with my name on it, sitting on the night stand.

Y/N,

Lock the door on your way out.

-Steve

Sighing, I brushed my tangled hair out of my face, tearing the note in half and throwing it to the side. Standing away from the bed, I made my way over to the bathroom to assess the damage.

That was a mistake.

My hair was in tangles, and it smelled like smoke and puke. My makeup was running down my face, and lip stick was smudged down my chin. I looked like a train wreck. No wonder the team was shocked. I looked sick.

I splashed my face with water, the coolness waking me up a little more. My head was still pounding, but nothing was going to help that until I had a little bump when I get back home.

Looking around for my shoes, I feel the shame start to creep through my wall. I can’t believe that I blew up at the team, last night. They must all hate me even more, now. What the fuck did I care? They abandoned me. At least they know how I feel, now.

Once I finally had my shoes on, I looked back at a picture of the team hanging on the wall.

I’m not in it.

That was all the reminder I needed to throw open the front door and leave, going back to my life without the Avengers.

Help me, I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down won’t open my eyes / Keep my glass full until morning light, 'cause I’m just holding on for tonight…

#avengers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #captain america #angst #holding on for dear life #sia #chandelier #alcohol #sad #sorry

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