#iii think shes there . though . no confirmation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ginnsbaker · 8 months ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (6/?)

Part summary: "You like Leigh, and that should be that. It shouldn't stop your world from turning, but it does."

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5.520 | Warnings/Tags Unrequited feelings and pining | Author's Note: Thank you so much for the warm reception to this story :) I can't promise that this is the last bump in the road.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

You came in early, already nursing a Mai Tai, having decided that facing this conversation sober wasn’t an option. The alcohol doesn’t make the situation any less twisted, but it dulls the edge of frustration just enough to keep you seated.

“Let’s get right to it,” you start, not bothering with pleasantries as you take another swig. “Danny.”

He winces slightly at you calling him by his real name, a telling sign of guilt or maybe just discomfort. It’s hard to tell. “Yeah, about that—”

You're not here for the runaround. Hence, the Mai Tai and the vodka that came before it.

“Look, Nick, or Danny, or whoever you are today. I just need some answers—”

“And I’ll give them to you if you promise me one thing.”

You raise an eyebrow, utterly flabbergasted by his nerve. “I'm not here to make any deals,” you state flatly. “I'm here for answers that I believe Matt owes me. And since he’s dead,” you say, not shying away from stating the grim reality in his face, “and you're in on Matt's little game, you owe me too.”

Danny looks like he doesn't want to challenge you on that; in fact, he looks downright worried.

“Please,” he implores. “This is important to me.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. Why is he suddenly acting like a dog with its tail tucked between his quivering legs?

“Okay, what is it?” you ask, signaling the bartender for another drink. Danny orders a drink for himself—a shot of whiskey. That's when you realize things are likely to get even crazier for you before they start to improve.

“It’s Leigh,” Danny says, and something in the way he mentions her name lets you know he's sincere about how important this is to him. “She doesn't know the half of it. She doesn't know I’m Nick, or that I helped Matt to... to be with you.”

You blink several times, rapidly, trying to clear the little haze in your head because you can’t believe what you’re hearing. He's asking you to keep a secret.

After he lied to you.

“And what, if I tell her you pretended to be someone else and helped her husband cheat on her, then what? She's—” you stop mid-sentence, the pieces suddenly clicking together in your mind. Danny doesn't want you to rat him out for being Nick, about his direct involvement in Matt's cheating, because he's… with Leigh?

They’re together?

As if he's tuned into your thoughts, Danny confirms your hunch. “I love Leigh. I think I always have. And if you tell her this, it's going to be the end of us.”

The first thing you feel is this urge to be all possessive about Leigh, coalesced with a sour taste in your mouth knowing someone else got there first. Except, you know Leigh would never look at you like that. So, it embitters you even more admitting you shouldn't be feeling this way at all.

You take a long sip of your newly arrived drink, buying time to think. Telling Leigh is supposedly the right thing to do, but it could also destroy whatever happiness she's found with Danny.

But is she though? Is she happy with Danny?

“So let me get this straight,” you say, the alcohol lending you a blunt courage. “You orchestrated this whole scenario—Matt meeting someone else—just so you could break him and Leigh up? You love her so much you'd do that to your friend?”

Danny looks even more defeated—as he should when he reveals, “Matt's not just some friend. He's my brother.”

You're midway through a sip of water when the words hit you, and you nearly choke on it, barely stopping yourself from spitting the water out.

“You’re despicable! And to think that—”

“But I didn’t orchestrate anything, okay? Do you think I’m some kind of god, picking you randomly to throw at Matt? You guys really met and fell for each other by chance. I had nothing to do with both of your feelings.”

You scoff, incredulous. There's no way you're going to believe anything he says next. You just can't.

“So, your big plan was what? Just to hang back and hope to catch Leigh on the rebound?” you say defiantly.

The look he gives you, and the fact that he’s not outright denying it—

“Look,” he drones, raising a hand as if to temper your barrage of questions. “There was no plan, all right? Matt met you, and he just couldn't shake you off his mind. It was all him. And yeah, it was merely chance he saw you again, going into your clinic that afternoon. He told me about it, and I went with him to talk to you because he asked me to. I was just as thrown when he introduced me as ‘Nick’.”

You're skeptical, to say the least. “Why would Matt do that? Why go through all that trouble?”

Danny shrugs. “I’m not sure, but I went along with it. Probably because deep down, Matt knew what he was doing wasn’t right. Maybe he felt guilty, or maybe he wanted to be someone else in that moment, someone who wasn't Matt Greer with a brother named Danny, who was at his wedding to Leigh Shaw. I don’t know. I mean, I know my brother, but that doesn’t mean I understand all his reasons.”

A sick part of you can't help but feel less sorry about Matt's demise. It's a disgusting thought, harboring anything less than sympathy for someone who's gone, yet you can’t feel anything but enmity for being duped. Not just by one, but two people who played you for a fool.

“God, what a mess,” you mutter, shaking your head. No amount of alcohol could’ve prepared you for this.

And then another thought occurs to you.

“You were the one who told Leigh about me and Matt, weren't you?”

Danny doesn't respond immediately, his gaze dropping to his lap.

“And you did it... to get Leigh for yourself. To make her hate Matt, hoping she'd turn to you,” you piece it together, one after another.

“No,” he counters quickly. You smirk into your cocktail, as if you've just heard the punchline of a joke.

Danny looks up, his dark eyes earnest, almost pleading for you to understand. “I didn't tell Leigh about you and Matt because I wanted to ‘have’ her. That... that wasn't it. That thought came much later, and honestly, only after Leigh started... showing interest in me. I never pursued her, not after Matt died. I kept my distance, respected her grief. I loved her quietly, without ever letting on.”

You look away, knowing a thing or two about loving someone in the shadows.

“I told Leigh because if she was going to mourn Matt, she deserved to know the full truth about who she was mourning. Matt wasn't just the loving husband she thought he was, and she had the right to know that,” he finishes.

You shake your head, dismissing his attempt to appear noble by betraying his own brother and tarnishing Leigh's memory of him. It just doesn't sit right to you, using someone's absence to get ahead. Matt's not here to tell his side, to explain things. His only defense being crumbs of himself he left behind like those texts Leigh stumbled upon on Danny's phone.

With a tad of vendetta in your words, you turn Danny’s reasoning against him.

“Then Leigh deserves to know about you too. About how you were a willing participant in Matt’s deception and helped him pull one over on her,” you tell him, not missing the shock that flickers across his face. “She deserves the truth if she’s going to be with you. Not just your cleaned-up version where you come out looking like the good guy.”

Danny's face goes a shade paler, and for a second, he looks like he's about to argue, but then nothing. He just sits there, kind of deflated, like he's finally realizing the predicament he's in isn't just going to disappear.

You've had enough of his excuses and signal the bartender for the bill. As you pull out your wallet, Danny finds a bit of his backbone again.

“It'll be your word against mine,” he laments, twirling the ice in his glass leisurely. “Me and Leigh, we've known each other for years. Who do you think she'll believe? Because from what I understand, Leigh caught you in a lie too. She doesn't trust you. So good luck trying to ruin our happiness just because you can.”

His challenge makes you bristle, but you square your shoulders, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Do you think Leigh loved Matt?” you ask.

Danny looks momentarily unsettled by your question, as if it's the last thing he expected from you. But then, without hesitation, he answers, “Yes.”

“Yeah, she would've stuck by Matt, even knowing everything,” Danny continues. “She'd convince him they could start over. Leigh loved... loves Matt so much,” he corrects himself, a bitter smile on his lips as he admits, “I envied my brother for that.”

The bartender slides the bill over, and you hand off your credit card without even a second look, thoroughly pleased with how Danny’s response has played right into your hands. Once you’re done paying for your drinks, you turn back to Danny.

“You latched onto the idea of me and Matt right away, not knowing if I’m going to love Matt the way Leigh loved him, or even more. But you didn’t care,” you say evenly. “All you saw was an opportunity to get the woman for yourself. You’re selfish.”

Danny’s quick to defend himself this time. “You wouldn't say that if you were in my shoes,” he shoots back. “I love both of them. I wanted Matt to be happy, and he wasn't anymore, not with Leigh.”

“And you were more than happy to nudge him away from his wife, thinking that'd fix everything?” you counter sharply.

He squirms in his seat, looking like he’s run out of excuses. He can’t find the words that’ll make you see his side of things. It also dawns on you that he’ll never see your point either.

After a tense silence, he asks, “Are you going to tell Leigh?”

You stand up and let out a heavy sigh. “Honestly? I don't even know if Leigh wants anything to do with me anymore.” Just as you’re about to leave, something compels you to throw Danny a lifeline and you swivel on your heel to give him one last thing to think about.

“If this thing you have with Leigh is real, don’t let her find out about the skeletons in your closet from someone else. It's better coming from you.”

Walking away, you can’t shake off the regret of not taking your own advice, more than you’d normally like to admit.

Suzie's been on edge about how you've been acting lately. She's always on the dot with your meals, but you barely give them a glance before packing them up and handing them off to homeless people on the street who need them more. Your days have blurred into a continuous loop at the clinic, skipping breaks, and hovering around even when it's technically Foreman's shift to take the lead.

Today, Suzie's hit her limit watching you mope and brood in your office's corner. Without a word of warning, she marches in with a bottle of red and two glasses. You’re startled, feeling somewhat cornered, as she locks the office door behind her. Ignoring your shock, Suzie starts pouring a generous glass of wine for you, filling it right to the brim.

“Alright, out with it,” she orders, pushing a full glass your way.

Your gaze sweeps the room, looking for a way out. “Suzie, I don’t think it’s—” Yes, you own the place. But owning it doesn't mean you're about to bend your own rules about drinking on the job.

“Let's drink it out, girlie.” She sets her own glass down, already filled, and takes a seat. Last time I saw you like this, your team lost the Superbowl. And let's be real, the only other thing that had you this down before was that Matt guy ghosting you.”

You eye the glass of wine, your mouth feeling very dry all of a sudden. “What about the patients waiting outside?”

“Foreman's on it, as long as we save him some for later. I said we would, but let's be honest, this bottle isn't really enough for two,” Suzie says, giving you a wink.

You let out a sigh, your fingers instinctively inching towards your glass, yet you stop short of actually grabbing it. You're usually the vault, not the one doing the talking. You absorb everyone else's life stories, nod sympathetically, and maybe offer advice on occasion. The only reason Suzie even caught wind of the whole Matt situation is because he made his interest too obvious—showing up at the clinic multiple times with flowers, chocolates, books, and all those little things he discovered you couldn't resist. It wasn't so much you telling her, as it was Matt's grand gestures speaking volumes, making it impossible for anyone, especially Suzie, not to notice.

Taking a deep breath, you realize maybe it's time to open up to someone, to share the absurdity of your situation with someone who might just understand—someone who, at the very least, also likes women.

“Okay, so here's the thing... I've got this weird crush,” you say, letting that sit for a moment, partly because you're still wrapping your head around it, partly because you still can’t believe it. You can't pinpoint exactly when you started tumbling down a rabbit hole from which there was no climbing back out.

“On Matt's wife.”

Suzie's reaction is as you expected—her eyes go wide, her mouth drops, and the wine glass she's holding almost slips from her grasp. “You what?” she gasps, looking at you like you've grown a second head. “How in the world do you end up falling for your ex's wife?”

You never said anything about falling. But you suppose that's how it looks, given how much you've been out of sorts ever since Leigh called you a liar.

Sitting in your car across from Leigh's house, you feel like some sort of stalker. You tell yourself this is a one-off, not a habit you're planning to develop. Though, if you don't catch her tonight, you'll likely be back here tomorrow, or the day after.

After that wine-fueled heart-to-heart with Suzie, you left the clinic with a buzz and her words echoing inside your head: Just walk up to Leigh and say you were an ass and that you're sorry. And here you are, taking her advice a bit too literally and too soon.

It's getting late, and you've been watching Leigh's front door as if it might sprout legs and run away. You're semi-drunk, definitely not in the best state for making apologies, but Suzie's pep talk has convinced you that you need to do this, and now. “This is a terrible idea,” you mumble to yourself, checking your phone again to see if, by some miracle, Leigh has responded to one of your texts. Still nothing.

Just as you're starting to question your sanity and consider driving home, you finally spot Leigh’s car turning the corner. Your heart starts doing somersaults, threatening to beat its way out of your chest as the car pulls into the driveway. But as the car parks and the door swings open, your hopeful anticipation crashes hard into disappointment. It's not Leigh stepping out onto the curb; it's Jules. So, it's a family car, and today, of all days, you didn't get the driver you were hoping for.

A headache begins to brew as you scold yourself for even showing up here. “What am I even doing?” you mutter under your breath, rubbing your temples as if that could erase the last few hours. Leigh might be at Danny's for all you know, making this stakeout even more pointless.

In those few seconds of self-berating, you're completely oblivious to Jules spotting you from the sidewalk. So, when she taps on your side of the window, you nearly jump out of your skin, hand shaking as you roll it down to face her.

“Hi,” she says simply. She’s smiling, like she knows something you don’t.

“I'm not a stalker,” you say defensively. “I'm just…” An idiot.

You weren’t aware you said the last part aloud until Jules chuckles. “Well, at least you’re an honest idiot. You waiting for Leigh?”

“I was, but... I'll just go,” you stammer, ready to make a retreat and save what little dignity you have left.

“You won't get anywhere far on those flat tires though,” Jules comments offhandedly, nodding towards the back of your car.

“Flat tires?”

You quickly unbuckle your seatbelt to check. Sure enough, when you step out and circle to the back, both of your rear tires are depressingly flat, deflated against the pavement.

“Great,” you groan, raking your fingers through your hair and tugging in frustration. “Just my luck.”

You’re not drunk enough to find the situation funny, nor sober enough to deal with flat tires.

“Maybe you should call a tow or something and wait inside the house until they get here,” Jules suggests.

“My phone’s dead,” you say in response.

“No problem, I can call them for you.”

You're chewing over the thought, when your stomach decides to join the conversation with a loud rumble.

Jules grins and adds, “Plus, I've got pizza.” The thought of waiting it out with the comfort of food suddenly makes the idea of intruding a lot less unappealing.

“Why do you even like my sister?”

You're mid-bite on your first slice when Jules launches that question out of the blue and you nearly choke on your own spit. Crumbs dust your fingers as you set the slice down, buying yourself a moment to think. It's not like you've never asked yourself the same question. It's just that the answer doesn't make any more sense to you either.

“She, uh, has a way of making an impression. Mostly, I appreciate her candor—”

“You find her bitchiness… endearing?”

You’re stunned by the way she frames it, but it also makes you smile, recognizing the blunt honesty in her words—something that apparently runs in the family. You guess Jules could say that. Leigh’s sour attitude offended you one time, and then you heard her laugh and saw her smile, and it’s as if the sun never set for you.

“Her... directness is refreshing. In a world full of people trying to sugarcoat everything, Leigh just says it like it is. And yes, it can come off a bit strong, but there's something genuine about it. Plus, she's incredibly passionate about what she believes in. She has this authenticity that’s rare to find nowadays.”

Formidable. You think of the perfect adjective to describe it a tad too late, but you keep it to yourself, thinking you’ve gushed enough about her sister.

“Is that the alcohol talking or do you like, like Leigh?”

It's one thing to harbor a secret crush, quite another to have it recognized and named by someone else, especially Leigh's family. “I don’t—”

“I thought I caught a whiff of red on your breath out there on the street. Here, drink more water,” Jules says, pouring you a tall glass. “I’d offer you a beer but we stopped having those around here because I’m seven months sober.”

“Oh. Congratulations,” you say.

“Thanks.”

She seems to have moved on from her question, getting busy on her phone a moment later, but you haven't, and it leaves you feeling spotlighted in a way you weren't prepared for. “I, um…” You're scrambling for the right terms, something to deflect but not deny. Because the more you've denied it, the more your feelings have grown.

Determined to see you continue to squirm at the kitchen bar, Jules starts talking about Leigh almost casually, as though she's discussing something as mundane as the weather.

“You know, Leigh had a girlfriend in college, before Matt, of course. So, you don't have to worry about her not being interested in girls,” she says, her eyes not leaving her phone screen.

“She did?”

By this time, you're not even sure if Jules is just pulling your leg, and you're baffled as to why she's sharing details about Leigh that Leigh herself probably wouldn't tell you outright.

“Yeah, she was totally into her, just like she was with Matt. Then, out of nowhere just tossed her aside like that,” Jules snaps her fingers, “she completely cut her off. They had been together for two years, and she didn’t shed a single tear over the breakup. So, maybe that's what you should be worrying about,” Jules says, putting her phone facedown on the table.

The pizza suddenly looks less appetizing as you stew over this. It's one thing to worry about whether Leigh could reciprocate your feelings; it's another to consider that even if she did, there’s the reality that it might not go down the way you hope it would, given the chance.

You've always been told you're too much of a dreamer to be a doctor. That became even more apparent when they saw you couldn't help but cry alongside pet owners every time a pet didn't make it or when you had to make that tough call for mercy's sake. You've been in relationships before; after all, you're twenty-eight years old. But you've always treated them like free trials, never getting too serious, especially during those times when you couldn't stay in the same zip code for more than a few weeks. Then, the moment you decide it's time to plant roots, your concept of romance skyrockets to something out of a fairy tale, something as grand as the universe conspiring to unite two souls, forever. It’s how it happened for your parents, being each other’s first loves. You figured, the same should happen for you.

You like Leigh, and that should be that. It shouldn't stop your world from turning, but it does.

“Liking Leigh is moot,” you say after some time. “It’s a bad idea from the start.”

Jules tilts her head. “Why is that?”

You let out a sigh, fiddling with the bracelet on your right wrist. “It’s just... there’s something between Leigh and Danny, right? And it doesn’t usually end up with the mistress and the wife together. Besides, Leigh hates me right now. Most obvious reason being that I stole Matt from her before he... before he was gone for good.”

Jules hums thoughtfully. “Sounds like you've been doing a lot of thinking.”

“It's all I've been able to do since I met her,” you say.

Jules glances at the slice of pizza on your plate, now cold and forgotten. “You gonna eat that?” she asks, nodding towards the lonely piece.

You shake your head, sliding the plate her way. “Good,” Jules responds with a grin. “I'll save this slice for Leigh, then.”

Your ears perk up at that. “You’re expecting her home?”

“Yeah, any minute now. She texted a bit ago saying she was on her way. Plus, she's not working too far from here today.”

“Oh? Where's she at?”

Jules is just about to answer when the front door swings open, revealing Leigh as she hurries inside, her eyes quickly finding yours. There's no mistaking it—she's seen your car. She throws you a pointed look as she heads upstairs, her message clear without saying a word. Then, she murmurs a quick, “We'll talk about this later,” to Jules, who simply snorts in response and starts tidying up the dining table.

The sound of Leigh slamming the door prompts you to rise from your chair, but it's clear you have no plan. Should you go after Leigh? It's precisely why you came here, but now, the wine's effects have faded. Your feet are getting cold.

“You're wrong, you know,” Jules drones, her back to you as she wets a towel under the sink. “About Leigh and Danny.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs. “I think she's with Danny as a form of revenge.”

You stare at her back, confused. “For Matt cheating on her?”

“Exactly. Matt was aware of Danny's feelings for Leigh. I knew about it, Leigh knew, and that's partially why she had such a strong dislike for him before she began to... well, you know,” Jules explains, her expression contorting slightly in distaste. “It's kind of absurd when you think about it, especially since Matt's no longer here. But Leigh holds onto her beliefs in the afterlife, so it's like she's putting on a performance for Matt's spirit or something.”

You look up at the ceiling, as if expecting to see through the hardwood floors. “And you're telling me this because...?”

“Because you've given up already,” Jules states matter-of-factly.

You're confused. “So, you don't approve of someone you've known for years, but you're okay with the idea of me, Matt's other woman, being interested in Leigh?”

Jules just shrugs again. “It's weird. Scandalous, even. Something none of us saw coming.”

(In your head, you wonder, ‘Who's ‘us’?')

“But when Leigh was hanging out with you, when you were attending her class, she wasn't with Danny much, I think,” Jules goes on. “And that’s enough for me.”

“You don’t even know me,” you argue weakly. Inside, you're kind of doing cartwheels because Jules doesn't seem to mind that you're into Leigh. Somehow, that feels like a win.

“I know Danny well enough. I've got nothing against him personally, but he somehow manages to bring out the worst in Leigh. My sister was… agreeable when you were around. She actually talked about you, even mentioned she thinks you've got gorgeous brown eyes.”

“She does?”

Jules cracks up, noticing your cheeks go pink. “Oh, absolutely. And I've got to say, seeing those eyes up close—they're kind of striking. Annoyingly so, even.”

Her tease draws a reluctant smile from you, a swarm of butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach. It's comforting to know that there's at least something about you that Leigh notices.

“I should talk to her,” you say with resolve.

“Yeah, you should,” Jules nods, her laughter settling into a warm smile. “I'm not playing Cupid or anything, but I think I like you, Y/N. Leigh could use someone like you around. Most people just back off when her less charming side shows up. When she’s intolerable. I've done it too, sometimes. But I can't really leave her hanging because, you know, she's family and I love her, so…”

Hearing Jules say those things about Leigh transforms her from someone intimidating into someone truly worth sticking around for. And if your feelings eventually lead nowhere and quietly fade over time, then at least you could be the kind of friend to her who doesn't run at the first sign of trouble.

“Jules?” you say, stopping at the foot of the staircase.

“Yeah?”

“I think I like you too.”

Approaching quietly, you've left your shoes by the stairs, the cool floor under your bare feet making you feel all the more vulnerable. Jules had given you directions to Leigh's bedroom—right at the end of the hallway. Downstairs, you hear the murmur of the TV; Jules has turned up the volume, probably more to give you and Leigh some semblance of privacy than for her own viewing pleasure.

When you reach Leigh's door, panic floods back in. You keep swallowing, but it's like the desert in your mouth won't let up. “I got this,” you mutter under your breath, trying to psych yourself up. You lean in, ear against the door, trying to pick up any sound. It's silent until you catch the ping of a laptop, followed by fingers typing away noisily. She might be at her desk, probably by the window, or maybe lying in some awkward, back-breaking position on her bed. Knowing she's awake strips away your last excuse to back down. You lift your hand, pause for a split second, then tap lightly on the door. Your heart's pounding so loud, you're half-convinced Leigh can hear it from the other side.

“Leigh?”

No answer.

“It’s me,” you say a little louder. “Can we talk?”

She doesn’t answer.

You don't want to push her into a corner, to demand her to open up when she's clearly not ready. But walking away without laying your feelings out isn't an option either. With a heavy sigh, you slide down until you're seated on the floor, back against her door. It's a small surrender, but it doesn't feel like defeat. Not yet.

“I know you can hear me,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “It's okay if you don't want to talk. Really, it is. But there's just something I need you to know.”

You take a deep breath before the plunge. Here we go.

“Look, you were right,” you start, whispering almost, as if you're sharing a secret with the wood of the door itself. “I did downplay what Matt and I had when you asked me. But, to be completely honest, I didn't even realize I was doing it at the time.” You run your finger along the wood grain of the door, savoring the texture against your skin. Unknown to you, Leigh is on the other side, sitting with her back pressed against the same spot, hugging her knees to her chest.

“By the time you came to me, I hadn't heard from Matt in three months. I was... sober from him, and whatever we had felt like a distant dream. I can’t recall the specifics, just that it was... nice. And maybe intense at the moment, but looking back, it was more about lust and similarities than anything.”

Slowly, you lean your head against the door, closing your eyes as you continue, “I'm not telling you this to make excuses for myself. I don't want to justify the deceit. I just... I need you to understand that any impact he had on me was gone long before you and I met.”

Opening your eyes, you glance down at the space under the door, hoping to see a shadow, a sign that Leigh is right there, listening. She is, but you miss it. The hallway is dark and there’s little to no light coming from Leigh’s bedroom.

You keep talking, now more for yourself than for her. “If there was something real between Matt and me, it wouldn't have vanished so effortlessly. And he... he likely wouldn't have just vanished either, leaving me in the dark without any explanation.”

The door flies open suddenly just as you finish your thought. With no time to react, you're sent tumbling backwards, landing with a thud on the floor. The shock of the fall momentarily stuns you, but it's the sight of Leigh, upturned, that really takes your breath away. Her eyes are hard, her expression unreadable, but it's clear she's been listening to every word.

“You could've mentioned he slept over at your place. Not having sex with him that night didn't mean it was a dismissible detail,” Leigh says, her voice thick. “Do you know how intimate it is to sleep at someone's house and not have sex? To just be there, for the sake of being there?”

You're on the ground, staring up at her. You know it now. Dressing her wounds, that was intimate. Her hand correcting your posture during yoga, that too was intimate. Sharing burgers in the car, intimate.

Whenever you do anything, or find yourself somewhere, just for the chance to be with someone—that's intimacy right there.

“I—I don’t know why I didn’t tell you,” you say. You silently promise to her that lying about your feelings for her will be the last lie you ever tell her.

“You don’t know?” Leigh sneers. “Then think!”

You push yourself into a sitting position, unsure if you should get inside her bedroom or inch back outside. In this position, you're acutely aware of the power imbalance—her standing, you on the floor. It compels you to admit some of your truth.

“I didn't want to cause you any more pain than I already have,” you say softly. “Which is funny because my very existence is likely a constant reminder of that pain.”

Something shifts in the air. You’re the first to look away and you end up just waiting for Leigh to kick you out for good. But she doesn't do what you brace for. Getting a read on her has always been like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands, and it feels like it always will be.

Slowly, Leigh extends a hand to help you up. You take it, feeling the cool dampness of her skin.

Just as she’s about to shut the door again, she stops short, locks her eyes with you, and says, “I can handle pain just fine.”

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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jetblack4realz · 3 months ago

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lake days iii - jake "hangman" seresin x reader

summary - jake becomes a regular to your family's adventures and a regular in your life

warnings - def no

word count - 4.5k

pt i , pt ii , pt iv

______________________________________________________________

when jake was the first one pushed into what was deemed the 'murder tube', he was less than pleased. it was a rather large blow up toy, looking like saturn with a big ball in the middle and a ring surrounding it. there were handles every so often, meant for five people to ride, but he was certain that they wouldn't be enough to keep him from flying off.

you jumped next to him, gripping a handle next to him to keep from slipping down as you shot him a quick grin. "you ready?"

"as i'll ever be," he grunted, looking up quickly as he heard his name called.

"catch me," finn instructed the man. jake scooted forward, holding his arms out as logan gently tossed finn into the tube. jake grabbed him around the middle easily, shooting the boy a grin as he helped him maneuver to his own spot on the tube.

"leila, you gonna come sit with me?" you asked, holding your arms out. she smiled, jumping to join you just as logan leaned to give her a boost. your eyes widened as you moved to catch her quickly, sitting her next to you. "you gotta hold on tight, okay?"

brynlee stepped on in between her kids, the final circle complete as darren pushed you guys off. finn was practically shaking with excitement next to jake as the man wiggled his eyebrows at him.

"i don't think you're ready for this guys," brynlee mused with a laugh as you looked over at jake.

"i beth i'll sthay on longer than you," leila taunted in her usual lisp, grinning at jake.

"game on, sister," he said back, returning her excited and slightly competitive smile. seeing him with the kids made your heart warm and you were sure brynlee could tell based on how she was grinning at you.

logan called back to make sure you were all hanging on tight, receiving five confirmations and an eager yell to start from the five year old.

jake turned his attention to you, smirking a bit as he leaned towards you. his voice lowered as the boat started off slowly: "i bet i'll stay on longer than you."

you leaned closer to him, smirking as well. "game on, hangman."

his brows furrowed, surprising you as he pulled his head away. "i like it better when you call me jake."

"what?" you asked, but suddenly you'd gotten up to speed and your attention was on the handles to your sides. leila shrieked in excitement next to you as the tube started to rotate on the ball part, spinning the five of you.

"oh shit!" jake yelled leaning towards you to keep from falling on finn.

"language!" you laughed, your face falling suddenly as you got dragged the opposite way.

logan was not afraid to pull you guys quickly around the water, even though his own children were on it.

you realized later that maybe it was because they were his kids when brynlee and leila switched out for everleigh and kyrie and he slowed down his rather aggressive efforts. jake enjoyed it more that way, taking the time to mess around with finn and trying to stand up. he pulled at your hand that was closest to him, resulting in you smacking him instead.

he laughed, dramatically holding his bicep before turning on his stomach with his feet against the middle and offering his hands to you and finn. logan was still going slower and not making aggressive turns, but you both saw him acknowledge jake's newfound confidence and reach for the throttle.

he held a hand out to you. "you gotta keep me on!"

he was eying you with a little smirk, nodding at his hand as he shook it in front of you again.

"you wouldn't want me to fall off now would you?" he asked.

"you'd be surprised," you answered with a laugh.

"grab his hand!" finn shrieked as the tube started moving faster, spinning as it grazed the water. jake grabbed your hand instead, pulling you swiftly off of the little grip you had on the tube and down onto the ball next to him.

"jake!" you yelled, reaching for a handle that was slightly too far over as he laughed, managing to grab onto one finn was supposed to have a grip on but was holding onto the other with both hands instead.

you held his hand tightly in yours, pulling yourself closer to him when you started to slip down. when logan pulled the boat straight again, you let go, jumping forward to grab your handles again just as it flipped on its side.

you dangled off the edge, feet skimming the water with a yell. jake and finn laughed loudly before they got flipped over too and you all three were just hanging on for dear life as everleigh giggled from the other side of the tube.

you hit a large wave and saw finn go flying, logan immediately pulling the boat to a stop as you pulled yourself back up. you rounded back to where finn had landed, gideon pulling the boy out of the water as he giggled.

"that was fun, dad!" he yelled as he sat next to his mom on the seat.

"yo, you two are out!" darren yelled as gideon climbed onto where finn had been.

you laughed as you climbed out, taking your teenage brother's hand to step onto the surf deck. you turned to help jake back on as darren replaced you, but he was standing on the edge of the tube, back to the water. he winked at you, mock-saluting before back-flipping off the edge.

you cheered, clapping as he emerged from the water, his hair in his face. he wiped it back as he swam towards the surf deck, accepting your hand as you pulled him up to stand in front of you.

"you're so cool," you told him with an amused grin.

"i know," he said, winking before crossing by you and dragging you to the front of the boat. instead of sitting in the designated seat across from brynlee, he sat where you had before with his back to the bow, patting the spot next to him. you obliged, letting your legs lay across the seat as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. you leaned your head on his, making direct eye contact with brynlee and kyrie who'd traded her spot to leila. their grins are spread the widest you'd seen all weekend.

you just rolled your eyes.

you and jake didn't get back on the tube for the rest of the drive and when you returned for lunch you spent it laid on the surf deck, a sub sandwich in your hands and sunglasses on your noses.

well, each other's sunglasses. he had insisted the moment you pulled yours out that he take yours, smiling cheesily as he explained how you liked his better anyways.

after lunch you messed around on the kneeboards again, spending most of your time bullying gideon with splashes and crossing in front of him to mess up his board. darren went with jake and bullied him, you yelling all your techniques to jake with an amused grin as you leaned off the back of the boat.

that weekend was finished with more boat rides, tubing craziness with your nieces and nephews, and a final family barbecue. throughout the last two days your sister-in-laws wouldn't get off your back, always making sure to note how comfortable you seemed around him and he with you. between the small smiles, inside jokes, and hugs the two of you shared they were certain he was smitten with you.

"he's just... jake. he's jake, this is how it is," you told them, eyes lifting to where he was throwing a football around with barrett, who had a lot of pent up energy from staying on the beach with his pregnant wife and was excited to have you all back to mess around. jake tried to run from finn and keep the ball from the boy, but pretended to let him overtake him and steal it from his hands. it brought a smile to your lips, something they wasted no time in pointing out.

"you're in love with him," kyrie insisted. "and i can't blame you there, sweetheart. he's the picture of a gentleman, is so sweet with the family, obviously cares about you so much, and gosh is he a looker."

"no," you laughed with a shake of your head. "i mean, yes. but, we're friends. good friends. i could never change that."

"hey darlin'," jake said with a grin, standing behind you with his hands on your shoulders, rubbing mindless circles with his thumbs. "are you ladies talking about me?"

"definitely not," you laughed, while alice just smiled and nodded a, "maybe?"

he looked down at you with raised brows, his grin widening slowly. "all good things i hope?"

"they're convinced that we're a thing," you told him simply. it was not the answer he expected, that was for sure, but it didn't keep him from smirking and looking to the other women.

"whatever do you mean?" he asked, playing coy as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before running off to where logan had joined josh and finn in football.

you sighed as he ran off, watching as he barreled into your big brother's side, grappling for the football before finn slipped between the two, pushing it out of their hands and into his own. you couldn't help the smile that returned to your lips. you didn't even look at the girls surrounding you, instead holding up a finger as you continued to watch jake play around. "don't even. i know."

when you returned to your house, you desperately wanted to clear the air. all the little touches, teases, kind words, and the wonderful way he treated you and your family was getting to your head. this was hangman, he couldn't be seriously into you. you, of all people, his wingman, a navy girl, and someone you never would assume he would go for normally.

"you're really good with finn and the kids," you told him with a smile as you tossed your keys on the kitchen counter. "i didn't know hangman seresin had a soft side like that."

he laughed lightly, resting his arms on the countertop as he stood across from you. "yeah, i guess i do."

"what were you saying earlier..?" you asked, avoiding his eyes for a moment. "about me not calling you that?"

"calling me what?"

"hangman," you answered quickly. "i mean, i always call you hangman."

"nothing," he hummed. "just weird hearing my callsign when we're not on base."

"i'll stick with jake. if you want," you offered.

"whatever you want to call me i'm fine with darlin'," he told you, smiling gently. "but i'd be lying if i said i wasn't partial to jake. or babe. or honey, darling, sweetheart, husband." he continued on, earning a laugh from you as he grinned at you.

"husband is crazy," you told him, the smile never leaving your lips. "at least take me to dinner first."

"that can be arranged." he leaned closer to you, his smile infectious as ever. you breathed an awkward laugh.

"you serious?"

"why wouldn't i be?"

"because you're hangman."

"jake," he corrected. "and i would love to take you out to dinner. on a date. as soon as possible."

"are you serious?" you laughed again, his eyebrows shooting up as he joined in your laughter.

"yes! dead serious, i want to date you y/n," he told you.

"oh, more than one date," you teased.

"if you'll have me," he answered and you realized that he was, indeed, serious. "this weekend of seeing you with your family just solidified what i already knew about you. you're funny, and sweet, and adventurous, and if i'm being completely honest, seeing you play with the kids is the hottest thing i've ever seen you do. next to you surfing yesterday - you really know how to work a surfboard, sweetheart."

"yeah, i do," you agreed with a laugh.

"so," he started. "you think you'd go on a date with me?"

"when would we even have time?" you asked, reminding him of the mission you both were set to begin that thursday and would take at least three weeks.

"well," he hummed, moving around the counter to stand in front of you, glancing back at the time on the stove. "right now works for me."

"jake, it's seven o'clock and we have to leave early for work tomorrow morning," you said, letting him take your hands.

"didn't say we had to go out. we've had a very busy day, i'm happy to order us a pizza and we could watch a movie," he suggested.

"jake seresin doesn't want to go out?" you mused with a short giggle.

"jake seresin just wants to be with you," he answered quietly, smiling softly at you.

"i've liked seeing this side of you, jake," you told him, squeezing his hands. "it's always been easy hanging out with you, but the way you've been treating me - i like it. i like you."

"is that a yes to pizza?" he asked, grinning.

"yes," you laughed. "you order it, i'll get the movie up, and then we'll get started."

"sounds like a plan," he said with a nod. as you stepped away, he pulled you back, hand dropping yours and coming to your cheek as he tugged you close and pressed his lips to yours. it was short and quick and he was grinning widely. "been wanting to do that for a while."

"well i've been wanting to do this," you told him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close, indulging him in a much longer, much sweeter kiss than he'd initiated before. he smiled into it, arms around your waist holding you against him.

when you pulled away he pulled you right back in, earning a smile from you. you slid your hands down his shoulders and onto his chest, pushing him away slowly. he chased after you, kissing you one, two, three times before you finally stepped away with a giggle.

"i didn't expect this weekend to end this way, but i'm so glad it is," you told him, pressing another short kiss to his lips. "now, go order a pizza and i'm gonna pull up a cheesy romcom that is gonna show me if you really like me or not because you'll watch it with me."

"i'll watch it," he told you. "hell yeah, i'll watch it."

"good, it has ryan reynolds in it and it's my all-time favorite," you laughed.

"well, now that i know it has ryan reynolds in it i'm definitely watching it," he told you, kissing your lips again with a smile. "want hawaiian?"

"how'd you know that?" you asked.

"it's the only kind you ate when they bought us pizza after deployment," he answered with a shrug.

"you're my favorite," you laughed.

jake saw your family frequently in between missions over the next few months. they occasionally took the boat out for a saturday and a time or two you stole it away from logan's house using jake's truck to just go out yourselves. the lake was your favorite place to be, jake quickly learned. and you quickly learned that the wilderness was jake's.

it was a few weeks after a month-long, carrier-dwelling mission that you couldn't tell finn about even though he asked a million times, that jake was on another adventure with your family.

darren had suggested that you bring him along on a four-wheeling escapade with logan, josh, your dad, and one of darren's friends who'd grown up with you all. gideon had returned to houston, so it was back to just the four of you siblings. jake was a little offended you hadn't suggested this before, but you simply hadn't thought of it. whenever you had a full day off with guaranteed no calls in you really only thought of your boat.

jake drove to pick you up, then back down the road to your parents' place to collect the atv's. he'd begun driving you everywhere as you searched and searched for a suitable truck online. you didn't want to blow $13,000 on a brand new ford, and frankly you didn't like the look, but you wanted a cool truck that could pull the boat.

jake had managed to find an old 1986 f-150 for sale by a guy the next town over for only $2,000. it was old and beat to crap, with a few engine problems, but he insisted that he could fix it. when you told him it was a little small to tow the big ole boat trailer, he only looked at you with a grin and said, "well, that's fine. my truck can pull it." you'd never felt more attracted to a man before. and frankly, the promise that he'd be around long enough for you to rely on that made you a little giddy inside.

"my favorite brother-in-law!" darren exclaimed as you and jake hopped out, a laugh on your lips already.

"y/n, when did you get married?" his friend, frankie, asked you with furrowed brows.

"i'm not married. this is jake, my boyfriend."

"he's a pilot like y/n," darren said with a wicked grin. "only a lot cooler."

"that is so rude!" you exclaimed, whacking him in the shoulder.

"nice to meet you," frankie said with a laugh, shaking jake's hand.

"where's dad?" you asked.

"just gassing up the quads," darren told you. "got the side by side too if you and jake wanna take that."

"why? where's my quad?" you asked quickly, eying the boy accusatorially.

"in the garage. don't know if it still works though, you haven't been around to drive it," he hummed, looking to the side dramatically.

"oh that's bull, i know you've been driving it," you told him.

"it's cooler than mine!" he sighed.

"then buy a cooler one, you can't drive mine," you said.

"i tried to get dad to buy a 600 like yours but he said it was too much," he answered.

"that's because you weren't the one buying it," you said with a roll of your eyes. "i had to buy a quad for myself when i was your age if i wanted to ride with the boys."

"i can't afford it!" he cried.

"because you spend it all on food," frankie said, causing you to laugh.

"seems fitting," you hummed. "you take the side by side with frankie and then josh can take yours."

"why does he get mine?" he asked.

"because his is broken and you have a guest, so suck it up."

you all approached the toy garage where your dad, logan, barrett, and josh were waiting.

"hello jake," logan said, smiling as he clapped hands with the man at your side.

"what's up, dude?" jake said, nodding at josh and barrett as they all got on their respective quads.

you skipped up to your black and blue beauty of a four-wheeler. "hello sweet thing!"

"you are my favorite person ever," jake mumbled in your ear as he grinned at your excitement. he'd never been with a girl like you, so adventurous and well, texas.

you laughed as you climbed on, patting behind you for jake to follow. he joined you, arms resting on his thighs next to you.

"you been four-wheeling before, right jake?" barrett called from next to you.

"of course i have, i am from texas after all," he answered with a grin.

"good, you'll have fun with the trails we've got over here," josh said. "maybe not with y/n's driving, though."

"what?" jake laughed, looking at you. you shrugged.

"i'm a little more... conservative with my driving," you told him.

"but you're crazy driving the boat?" he said.

"yeah, well, falling in the water hurts a lot less than falling into the mud," you said.

jake laughed loudly. "just don't be dumb and you won't fall off."

"you calling me dumb, seresin?" you asked, turning to look back at him.

"not yet, we'll see after this," he answered, smirking.

"come on lovebirds!" darren yelled, soaring past you as you quickly started up the quad. logan, barrett, josh, and your dad all followed after him, you taking the back.

you all started down the back trails of the forest, the beautiful pines zipping by as jake wrapped his arms around you, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

"you really are slow, aren't you? taking the back so you don't slow down the group," he hummed, chuckling in your ear.

"it's more scenic," you said, having to yell a bit over the wind. he pulled away from your ear, laughing.

"sure it is."

the views really were beautiful though, as you all followed darren and frankie up to the top of a hill you all called olympus, since it was the highest point on your property. well, that you could reach on the quads at least.

jake's arms stayed wrapped around you even though you definitely weren't going fast enough for him to have to. he was warm against your back and you were not complaining, just enjoying the feel of the wind on your cheeks and your boy behind you.

there were a few times that your brothers stopped for a minute, sending dramatic looks your way as you pulled to a stop. "what?"

"hurry up!" logan called, zipping away quickly as jake laughed, squeezing your waist.

"catch him!" he encouraged, but you still waited for everyone else to follow him the rest of the way up the mountain.

once you reached the top, you all got off your rides and stood out over the edge.

"pretty, ain't it?" you asked, coming up next to jake with your arm around his torso. he wrapped his around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"not as pretty as you," he whispered.

"you did not just say that!" yelled logan as darren and frankie laughed next to him. josh and barrett just exchanged grins, your dad rolling his eyes at the boys' antics.

"leave them alone," he told them. "don't want to scare him off."

"i don't scare easy, sir," jake said, turning to face them with a grin. "if the boat trip wasn't enough to prove it, i've got a few tricks up my sleeves when it comes to quadding."

"you want to drive?" you asked with brows raised.

"of course i want to drive," he answered.

"let's do it then," logan said, climbing onto his quad with your dad behind him. "let's see what jake's got."

"come on," jake whispered, quickly mounting the quad with you behind him and starting it up. "hang on."

and he was off. you squealed as you wrapped your arms around him tightly, looking around as he expertly descended the mountain. there were beautiful fields around you, stray cows munching on the grasses, but jake wasn't interested in that area. nope, he wanted to get into the real trails. he turned right, zipping into the forest, rocks trampled under the big wheels and jake grinning as he dodged puddles.

he wasn't sticking to the trails, moving around the edges and dodging between trees and rocks. he was focusing more on the off-roading portion and not enough on the speed part when josh suddenly rode past him. as per most situations, jake took this as a challenge.

he turned back onto the trail, following josh as he directed them back out onto your main riding trails out by the meadows. the road widened and jake took the opportunity to pass josh, mock-saluting him as you cheered.

"you can always drive!" you yelled over the wind as you leaned into him.

"oh, we doing this again?" he teased.

"as much as you're willing for as long as you're willing," you answered.

it had only been a few weeks, but you and jake spent even more time together than you normally did, with a lot more intimacy than normal, and you were loving every minute of it. he squeezed one of your hands around his torso and you could hear the smile in his voice when he answered, "i'll always be willing, darlin'."

you rode around for a few hours before you had to be the one to drag them back to the house. "i've got to go buy me a car."

"you're actually getting yourself a car?" darren asked. "you ain't driving mom's old thing around anymore?"

"jake found it. old 1986 ford f-150 some dude is selling for $2000," you answered as jake parked the quad back in the garage.

"does it even run?" josh asked with a chuckle. "no way you're getting a vintage ford for that cheap."

"well, it's brakes are crap, transmission might be blown, and the upholstery is so trashed, but for what they're asking for and the condition the body is in i am willing to pay to have it fixed," you answered.

"a blown transmission? you know how much that will cost?" logan asked.

"like, my monthly salary," you sighed. "but i really love it. and it's blue and white, it's literally my dream."

"i'll do the work on it, so that'll save on mechanic prices," jake said.

"you know cars?" your dad asked.

"i like to think so, yeah," jake laughed. "worked to get a '92 silverado running when i was in high school and fixed up a '78 bronco for my pal in the navy a year or two ago. better with the old ones than the new."

"me too," you dad smiled, high-fiving him.

"so, we will see you later," you said, giving your dad a hug and waving to your brothers before walking backwards to jake's newer f-150. you waved to frankie. "good to see you frankie!"

jake grabbed the door for you before hopping in on his side and following your apple maps' directions to where the guy selling the truck lived.

"you wanna do the negotiating?" you asked him hesitantly as he held your hand over the center console. "i don't really know cars and i don't wanna get screwed over here."

"yeah, i got you baby," he said, shooting you a smile. "i'm pretty good at talking down a price. especially if we're gonna be investing a lot of time and money into it."

"you really don't have to," you told him. "it's gonna be a lot of work and a lot of time. i don't want you to have to spend your weekends off working on my truck."

"you willing to help?" he asked, grinning as he watched the road.

"well, of course."

"then i'll be spending my weekends with my girl, fixing a truck. it's every guy's dream, darlin'," he answered. you laughed.

"if you say so."

"and like i've said every time you drive anywhere, i can't be seen in a crappy old subaru. it's damaging to my ego."

this made you laugh harder, him squeezing your hand as you whacked him in the arm. "whatever."

"really, though. i'm happy to do it. happy wife, happy life," he hummed with a smile.

"take me out to dinner first, seresin," you said, grinning.

"still haven't been able to do that, have we?" he asked.

"nope. we prioritize take out and movies over a nice restaurant apparently," you hummed.

"and four-wheeling."

"and boating."

#glen powell #glen powell x reader #glen powell x y/n #hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #top gun imagine #top gun maverick #fanfic

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winterarmyy · 2 years ago

Text

Plot Twist | Part I

An arranged marriage with mafia!bucky.

Run-through: I just need to get this out of my system. Most of arranged marriage mob/mafia!au I've read has a strong/bratty reader. And a really mean/asshole Bucky. Which is absolutely fine btw but its getting repetitive for me. I wanted to see a reader who's actually soft but fierce when she wants to be. And Bucky who is generally cold and seems to be married to his job but notices small things that the reader do, thus subconsciously started to care about her. They don’t hate each other, nor do they are infatuated. I don’t know if this exist, so I decided write it myself just in case. Enjoy!

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III* (end) | Extra

Words: 1.1k++

Pairing: beefy mafia!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: just fluffy and wholesome stuff here. Nothing graphic or explicit.

P/S: I like to write in 3rd pov btw. There's a few mentions of y/n sometimes too. Beware of the grammar mistakes, English is not my first language. This might be 2-3 parts type of fic, so tell me what you think so far.

Read my other works here: Masterlist

“He's late.”

The soft clinking sounds of his rings colliding with each other and onto the dresser woke her up from her deep slumber. Though her body remained still, her mind continued to wonder,

“Late. Again.” She thought.

The sound of fabrics rustling about hinted her of what was happening beyond her closed eyes. The shut of the bathroom door confirmed her speculations.

“So, what if he came back home late? Why does it concern you?” She questioned herself.

Only a fool would believe if she said that she didn't care at all about the whereabout and well-being of this man. He is her husband after all.

Six months ago, she stood on the alter with that man. They swore an oath. They sealed the kiss. He was hers and she was his.

James Buchanan Barnes; Bucky was what he preferred to called. He is what every man wants to become, and every woman wants to be with.

An Adonis of a man; impossibly tall, 6'5"; body armored with thick layer of muscles. Bucky is huge, that if he trapped her against the wall, she might just see the resemblance of him to a grizzly bear. His dark hair flowed just above his shoulder and his steel blue eyes were as cold as his personality.

Though she wouldn't compare him to a frozen blizzard during the winter, he was more like the first day of snow, when the white flakes started to fall.

Cold enough to make you shiver and warm enough to lure you out but most importantly, obscenely beautiful.

However, of course, the main reason of the marriage set up by her father was not because of how beautiful he is, but to fulfil his hunger for power. As if the territories that their family has wasn't enough, her father arranged this union to extend his reign.

Y/N protested at first but knew better than to fight against her father. Being raised in such family, at a very young age she learned to think always ahead; pass the emotions and intuitions. What's the rational and logical way to solve a problem.

Took her a week to wrap her head around the matter, research about Barnes and go through the agreement between her father and her then husband to be. Barnes had listed some main demands regarding the union and although most of them were about their business, but one particular demand had caught her attention.

“After marriage, the couple must be faithful to one another. Any romantic/sexual relationships prior must be severed/resolved immediately. Failed to do so will result to termination of the contract.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” She thought.

Not that she was in any relationship at the time, and all the research result to possibly positive outcome. So, in the end, she complied.

Which then explained why she was sleeping in Bucky's bed six months later.

“I know you're awake.” Bucky's gravel voice startled her internal thoughts. She could feel the indentation of the mattress on his side of the bed, the fresh and clean scent wafting from him. She nearly purred from a sniff of it.

She slowly opened her eyes as if she was trying to peep and god what a sight to see after a restless sleep; Bucky's idea of pajamas was basic pants and nothing above and Y/N didn’t know what to feel about that. Does she hate it? Absolutely not. Does she like it? Well, he is easy on the eye indeed.

The room was dimly lit, but she could see his slightly damp hair; it looked longer than it is dry. Her eyes followed the outline of his body leaning against the bed. The soft light reflected on his metal arm particularly follows the gold lines decorating the dark surface.

She often had intrusive thoughts of tracing the lines; what would it feel like against her fingertips. Does he feel anything? Is it cold? Will it feel good?

“You do know that it’s a waste your time to wait for me, right?” He huffed a heavy breath. She could hear the fatigue in his sigh.

And how does Bucky know that she waited for him before admitting her defeat to the drowsiness? Somehow, Bucky always managed to know things, to the littlest matter, even when he’s million miles across the world.

Just like when she found a copy of Pride and Prejudice on the bed a few months ago. The day before she received it, her copy was drenched in coffee; a young woman bumped into her in front of the café she often visit. He was in Russia that time. “Was it Clint? Did he tell Bucky?” she wondered.

“Whoever said I was waiting for you?” She scoffed, yet if the room was well lit enough, Bucky would’ve seen how playful her expression was.

He hummed a deep voice, “Hmm.” there’s a hint of doubt in his tone.

Y/N quickly follow her previous sentence, “I was simply enjoying my reading, that I lost track of time.” She shifted to face him and tucked herself further into the blanket, hiding the lower half of her face as she looked up at him. She wondered if he could tell that she was smiling just from her eyes.

Bucky’s gaze remained still on her, as if he was trying to reach into her soul, before he leaned closer to peek on the book on the table. Pride and Prejudice written on it.

He chuckled, which was rare. At the least the real ones are.

Of course, she had seen him smile and laugh countless of time. Especially during those gala they often attend. But those were just another set of armor he wore on a daily basis.

Bucky tried to bite back a smile, sinking his teeth into his lower lip, “Lost track of time, huh?” Yet, somehow Y/N can hear the smile in his tone.

“A good read?” he asked as if he did not know why his wife brought up about the book. She never said anything about the gift; not a thank you or a complaint.

She simply cherish it in her own way. He heard from Clint that she rearranged her whole bookshelf just to make space for the book he gave her. Maybe this was her way of saying thank you.

He had been giving her books every week, since.

She pulled the blanket away from her face, lips curled into a genuine smile, “Always.”

Bucky preened to her reply before suddenly, “Okay, enough chit chat. It’s late.” he said almost monotone sounded, as he made himself comfortable under the blanket.

Before she could overthink of what went wrong, why the sudden drop of chemistry; that was when she felt his hand roamed to find hers. Bucky brought her palm closer to his face, she could feel his hot breath against her cold skin.

He leaned his lips on her palm, leaving a soft and tender kiss as he mumbled, “Goodnight, doll.”

Rush of red shades bloomed on her cheeks, before caving into the feeling of his stubble on her hand. She gently caresses the side of his cheeks, hoping it soothes him to sleep.

The corners of her lips curved upwards into a smile, "See? Like, the first day of snow."

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: It’s my first fic so... share your thoughts? ily 🤍

#winterarmyyfics #plottwistfic #mafia!bucky #mob!bucky #bucky barnes au #mafia!bucky x reader #mob!bucky x reader #arranged marriage #husband!bucky #beefy!bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

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uptondixon · 5 months ago

Text

Upstead Foster Daughter

Did you ever wonder how Upstead would be as foster parents for a teenage girl? Like Hank and Erin, Hailey and Jay welcomed Olivia to their home when she was 16. Olivia holds a lot of grudges and is full of mischief, but she is also incredibly sweet and has a tremendous need to feel like she belongs. To her surprise, Hailey and Jay will give her exactly that.

Masterlist

Word count: 2k-ish

[Chapter III] “What if I'm far from home?”

Jay recovers well and three months later Olivia finds herself face to face with him and Hailey again.

“Hailey,” Jay’s rough voice woke Hailey from a light sleep on the chair next to Jay’s hospital bed.

“Jay!” she got up and held one of his hands between hers, leaving a chaste kiss on it.

“Hi, my love,” Jay smiled, the effort to do so appearing bigger than it should be.

Hailey smiled back, “How are you feeling?”

He made a face and tried to change his position on the bed, a huff leaving his lips, “Everything hurts.”

“I’ll call the nurse.”

“No, wait,” Jay grabbed her hand. “Let us be for a while, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

Hailey stared at her stubborn husband. She knew he hated hospitals, and he also wasn’t known for admitting his pain, but she let him be for now.

“What happened?” Jay asked. “I mean, with my CI and the case?”

“What about hearing about yourself first, huh? The surgery was a success, but the doctor said you must take it easy for a while otherwise it won’t heal properly. You scared me, Jay. I can’t see you in this situation again.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve waited for you. You’re my partner, we do this kind of stuff together.”

“I should’ve insisted on going with you. Maybe if you had backup…”

“You can’t know that for sure, Hailey. If anything, you could be in my place right now so I’m happy I was alone.”

“Jay…”

“Let’s leave the what-ifs behind, okay? I’m here and I’m not going anywhere,” he was the one to kiss her hand this time. “I love you.”

“I love you too, always.”

Jay smiled, “Where’s my kiss? Or do I have a bad breath? I don’t know how long I was out.”

Hailey laughed, kissing her husband’s lips softly. “It’s been a day and a half.”

“Wait!” Jay said. “What about the girl who helped me? Olivia. Is she okay?”

“She is, it’s a long story though. We found out she had run away from her foster family.”

“Why?” Jay asked with a frown.

“I don’t know, we talked with her social worker but nothing was wrong, it seemed like a teenager thing.”

“Really? You guys went there to check?”

“We did, Kev and I talked with her foster mom. She seemed good, and the social worker confirmed that.”

“Well,” Jay rearranged himself on the bed again. “Hopefully she will be okay. We can keep an eye on her just in case.”

“I exchanged numbers with her social worker. Told her to call me if anything happened.”

“Of course you did,” he smiled, but then his expression became more serious. “If it wasn’t for her… I don’t even know Hailey.”

“Yeah, I was terrified hearing from another person that you were shot, but I was happy you weren’t alone.”

“Me too, I still remember her eyes staring at me in a panic. She must have been so scared, Hailey. But she still did everything I told her to.”

“She was a little shaken up afterward, Kim and Kev said she barely said a word to them. But she was brave.”

“Oh, about the case,” Hailey started. “It was closed rather quickly, I’m sure Platt and Voight pulled some strings,” she laughed lightly and so did Jay.

“The team found out your CI was still working for his old gang, when you called him asking for info on our case he told them and they sent someone after you.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jay said.

“Both your CI and the guy who shot you were arrested."

Jay looked like he wanted to ask a million questions but Hailey spoke before he had the chance, "But now I just wish to never think about this again, can we do that?”

Jay nodded, “You don’t have to, I promise this was the last bullet to my count,” he said with a smile.

“It better be, Halstead!”

⭑*•⊱ 3 months later ⊰•*⭑

Hailey's phone has been ringing for the past 5 minutes, her ringtone waking Jay up. Hailey came running out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, her long hair dripping water everywhere. Jay smiled lazily at the sight.

“I'm sorry Jay, I forgot to turn it off. I came in so desperate for a shower.”

It was around 1 am when she arrived home from an extra shift. There was a situation in a women’s shelter and she and Kim decided to go and lend a hand.

Hailey did a double take at her phone when she saw the name ‘Martha’, she was Olivia's social worker.

Jay noticed her shock and said, “You're good? Who is it?”

“It's Olivia's social worker,” she said while picking up the call. Jay sat up, all the traces of sleep suddenly vanishing from his brain. Something bad must have happened for her to call at this hour.

“Martha? Hi, yes I can talk. What's going on? Is Olivia okay?” Hailey said. She felt Jay's presence by her side.

“Of course, no, don't worry about that it's not a bother at all. I'm glad you called, my husband and I are going right now, bye.” She hung up the phone and turned to Jay.

“What happened? Is she okay?” Jay asked straight away.

“She ran away again.”

2:00 am on a Wednesday, in Chicago. Jay is doing the best he can to avoid thinking about all the possible scenarios that could happen to a 15-year-old girl alone at night. He and Hailey drove around Olivia's foster family neighborhood, checking places she could have run to. No sign of her. After checking all the places the family said she likes to go, Hailey and Jay started to think further.

“Maybe we should call patrol to help out on the search? Call in the team?” Jay said, already sounding way more stressed than he intended to. He knew she wasn't missing long enough to follow all the missing person's protocol, it's been 3 hours. One of the kids that shared a room with Olivia woke up to drink a glass of water and didn't find her on the bed and her clothes were gone from the closet. However, Jay can't help but think the worst. A lot of things can happen in 3 hours, right?

“Let's check the nearest bus and train stations, if she's not there then we'll see what we can do at the station,” Hailey said, her tone filled with worry.

They got nothing from the bus station, it was almost empty and no one saw a girl walking around alone. But their luck changed at the train station. They noticed her from a distance, sitting down on a bench, a backpack by her side. She was waiting for the train that would come at any minute now. Hailey and Jay looked at each other with relief, moving in the direction of the girl.

“Olivia,” her head spun toward the feminine voice.

“Hailey? Jay?” Olivia stood up, putting her bag on her shoulders.

Jay immediately tensed up, afraid she might run from them.

“Olivia we just wanna help, okay?” Hailey said with a small smile. “Come and talk to us.”

Jay watched in silence, hesitant to say anything that could scare the girl away.

Hailey continued, “Please, Olivia? Whatever you're thinking, it's no good being alone in Chicago at night, we know you know that.”

Of course, she knew. Olivia was scared, she didn't want to run away in the middle of the night, but it was the best time to do this so she had to gather the courage and go. Always looking over her shoulder the whole way.

“We're taking you to the station,” Jay spoke for the first time, “You're not in trouble, but we can talk there, you can tell us what's going on. How does that sound?”

Hailey nodded in affirmation to Jay's words.

“Fine,” was all Olivia said. She followed them to the car quietly. The train arrived when they left. If they had got there 5 minutes later, Jay thought. 5 damn minutes and she would be gone.

Olivia did not say a single word on the way to the station. Hailey and Jay tried every possible topic of conversation they could think of but it was useless. She shut herself completely. Hailey was the one driving and after giving up the small talk, she and Jay were exchanging worried looks in silence. Jay, especially, was in a lot of thought. Of course Olivia shut them out, she did not know them. Between that day at the alley when they first met, Jay being in the hospital and Olivia being sent back to her foster family, neither he nor Hailey had a real conversation with her. Jay realized that he didn’t even thank her.

“I never thanked you for saving my life, Olivia,” Jay said after a long silence.

“It was nothing,” Olivia answered in a low voice.

Jay looked at Hailey in surprise, he was not expecting an answer at all. “What do you mean it was nothing, I could have bled out if you hadn't called my team,” Jay looked at her over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

It was around 3 am when they got to the district. The three of them went over to the Intelligence break room to talk.

Olivia sat at the small table close to the window. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Jay asked.

“No,” Olivia mumbled without looking at him.

“I’m just gonna go straight to the point Olivia,” Hailey said, pulling a chair and sitting in front of the girl. “What’s happening with your foster home? Why are you running away?”

“You don’t get it,” Olivia said, still not looking at them.

“Then make us understand,” Hailey said calmly. She looked at Jay silently asking for help, he came and sat beside Hailey.

“We just wanna help you, but we can’t do that if you don’t open up to us,” Hailey tried again. Olivia looked up, looking between them both.

“You don’t know us and we don’t know you,” Jay started. “But we want to get to know you, we want to help you.”

“Why?” Olivia asked.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Hailey answered. “You’re a good kid, you deserve to be happy. If your current foster home is not giving you that then we need to know.”

Olivia thought for a moment. She never expected to see Hailey and Jay again, let alone have this conversation. They were nice to her and she knew they were grateful for what she did for Jay. They probably think they owe her something and that’s why they’re doing this. Whatever the reason, maybe they can help her.

“Fine,” Olivia said looking at the pair. “There is nothing wrong with the foster family.”

Hailey and Jay stared at her in confusion. They did not believe she was running away for the sake of it, it made no sense.

“They feed me, they are nice to me, they give me fresh clothes and a warm bed,” Olivia said. “But that’s all it is.”

“What do you mean?” Hailey asked.

Olivia took a deep breath before saying, “I’m just another kid to them. They’re good people and everything but that is not my home. I feel like an intruder there. I know I should be grateful, a lot of kids are not this lucky when it comes to foster homes, but I can’t help feeling like this. So I made a plan.”

“A plan?” Hailey asked.

“Yeah, I planned to leave Chicago and the foster system behind. I would miss Chicago but at least I was going to be my own family.”

Hailey and Jay looked at each other in realization. So that's why she was running? She just wanted to belong.

“I know the system's not perfect Olivia, but running is not the solution,” Jay said calmly. “How would you live? And the people who know you? They would be worried as hell.”

“We would be worried as hell,” Hailey said.

Jay nodded, “We would be the first ones looking for you out there.” Olivia smiled softly at that.

“Will you let us help?” Hailey asked.

“Mm-hmm, okay.” Olivia honestly had no idea how they could help, but it was worth a try, wasn’t it?

Here we go! How you guys like this chapter? Thank you again for all the love on the previous chapters!

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emperyans · 1 year ago

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Can I request a soulmate!AU with a Clark Kent x reader? Where your soul mates name is on your wrist?

Clark Kent.

It shows up sometime around your twelfth birthday. There’s no warning before it happens- you’re absentmindedly eating breakfast one day when you glance at your wrist and all of sudden it’s there, in neat, slanted writing.

You’re at a loss for how to react at first- hell, this is the name of your soulmate. A few minutes are spent staring in awe at the words on your wrist, before the shock falls away and you’re left feeling a little giddy- you finally know their name.

Every advice column ever written about the matter says not to obsess over it, but your pre-teen self can’t help but fixate on the markings whenever they come into your line of sight.

II.

Clark is not a very widespread first name, you discover. It always ranks around the four-hundred mark in popularity polls, both in North America and the UK.

Despite that, you run into a lot of them. Enough for you to begin to suspect that fate is playing a cruel game- really, how many Clarks can one person meet over the course of their lifetime?

To your dismay, you end up hating every single one of them. Thankfully, none of their last names even resemble Kent.

III.

Clark means scholar.

You wonder if he’s the academic type.

A lot of questioning is done on your part when you’re bored and have nothing better to do. Even more so when you're feeling lonely. Is he tall? What’s his favourite colour? Does he enjoy whole-wheat bread?

When you were a teenager, you had decided he was quite possibly going to be the most perfect person on earth. Your best friend at the time had laughed, telling you that no one was perfect.

You’re older, now. And while you no longer think Clark Kent, whoever he is, would be perfect, you still can’t stop yourself from picturing what he might be like after you have a bad day.

IV.

The first time you encounter it, you’re taking the subway home.

The newspaper is discarded on a scratched up subway seat. The headline is something about Lex Luthor - it always is in Metropolis- but that is not what catches your attention.

It’s under the headline, smudged to ruin by the previous reader's fingers. And yet still discernible enough to make your heart beat faster.

By Clark Kent.

Finding out how to contact the newspaper is easy enough. You cant figure out how to reach him, though, and you wonder what the point of modern technology is if you knew someone’s full name yet still had no way of reaching them.

When you call them, the receptionist tells you that Mr. Kent is out. Leave a message.

You give her a reasonably vague excuse to have him contact you, double checking that she has your name written down correctly. There’s a hint in her voice that tells you she suspects what is going on, but she doesn’t comment on it. You’re infinitely thankful.

VI.

By the time you leave work, there’s a missed call and a voicemail left on your phone. You wait until you get home to listen to it, and it’s a smart idea, because you didn’t know you could get this unreasonably anxious just by hearing someone say your name.

“This is Clark. Uh, Clark Kent. I hope- did I say your name right? Never mind- I was hoping we could meet up?”

He’s stumbling over his words and you can’t help but laugh- at least you’re not the only one completely overcome by nerves.

The voicemail ends with an address and a time to meet up (“ That is, if it’s okay with you-“ ) tomorrow.

You send a text confirming that you’ll be there.

VII.

You’re at the designated meeting place- one of Metropolis’ many parks. How they manage to put them in a city with such high density is beyond you- still, you weren’t here to question their urban planning prowess.

You swear you can feel him before you see him.

The first thing you notice is how tall he is. Very, very tall. He’s dressed in a dark grey suit- carrying a briefcase, clearly having just gotten done with work. It’s not what you imagined- yet somehow, it’s better than anything you’ve ever dreamt up.

He has glasses, you note. They have the effect of making him look impossibly endearing.

You’re not aware you’re gaping at him until he says your name.

“Nice to meet you, Clark.” It’s hard to keep the grin off your face. “You’re saying it right, by the way.” You stick your hand out for a handshake, making sure to angle it so the words on your wrist are visible.

He takes it, a smile playing at his lips. Warmth envelops your hand immediately. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

#clark kent x reader #superman x reader #dc imagine #[ writings ]

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sweetestpopcorn · 5 months ago

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Hello popcorn! Could you send me the link to the source that says that Daemon didn't exist in Martin's drafts? please

Hi there,

A very special thank you to @xenonwitch who helped me to answer this ask and retrieved most of the screenshots used here :) you rock lady!

So, there is multiple evidence highlighting that Daemon was not created until around 2012, which would mean his character was born only after the release of "A Dance with Dragons", more specifically around the time "The World of Ice and Fire" was being written by Elio and Linda with George's help. It was around this time that George wrote the Dance and created I would say most of the information and characters we know of today. He actually gave Elio and Linda so much material that they couldn't use it all and afterwards George published much of it in the short stories "The Princess and the Queen" and "The Rogue Prince", even later (around 2017) using it when he compiled his fake history in "Fire and Blood". If you go to the original link of the screenshot below here you can the sources listed in the text for yourself

It is no secret that since he began writing A Game of Thrones, that George has changed several aspects of the Targaryens. For instance, Rhaenyra was originally only one year older than Aegon II, though as confirmed by Elio that they were never meant to be fully-blooded siblings and from the first family tree in 1999 George meant for Rhaenyra to have an Arryn mom and Aegon a Hightower mom originally named Lysa (hehe). I think Alicent has a much better ring to it personally. Later he actually changed their age difference from 1 year to 9 years, and later still to a decade's difference. I do remember a time when it was 9 years actually instead of the 10. But with Rhaenyra being born in 97 AC and Aegon in 107 AC that would make it 10 years.

Aegon III and Viserys II have existed since the original family tree, but of the two originally only Aegon III was Rhaenyra's son. Viserys was meant to Aegon III's fourth son. George changed this when he realised timeline wise it wouldn't work.

I do own an edition in which this is shown in the appendix but currently I don't have it with me. However, if someone else has it feel free to add it to this thread.

There were other changes to the story being made throughout the years, including some confusion regarding who Alysanne's father was, and while doing the research for this I actually saw that it was never Maegor unlike I know many of us thought.

Critically, a number of changes were done to the character of Rhaenyra. First she had been given a Lannister husband with whom she had no children. This was no earlier than 1999. Later, that was changed for him to become Lyonel Strong, Hand of the King, with whom she would have three (legitimate) children that would all perish during the Dance.

Below you can see the information regarding House Strong while Lyonel was her husband and this is from “A Song of Ice and Fire Campaign Guide” published July 2010:

There was a male Targaryen she was known to have married after husband#1 who would father Aegon III and in this moment of time Viserys III. But no other information was known about him. This was Rhaenyra's wiki page from 2013. Once again, no Daemon.

In fact, around this time people were speculating what was her relationship with Targaryen Husband with suggestions ranging from brother to cousin.

Also note what Elio says regarding "A really notable figure or two are completely missing."

Discussion goes on, and yes, it does seem he only came to be as a character in 2012. There was evidence of some foundation being lain for him, but nothing concrete - i.e., no name, no specific relationship to her, no details whatsoever, just a male Targaryen figure who would be the father of Aegon III and Viserys II

And even more importantly and related to my point that Daemon did NOT exist in the first version of George's family tree has noted by Elio himself below:

Other evidence of him not existing comes from the main books themselves where although many characters are mentioned, including a Hand named Otto Hightower - you can look for this yourself, sorry I don't have the electronic copies and this was already a lot of work for me and xenonwitch so this is your homework hehe - there is no mention whatsoever of Daemon Targaryen.

This is particularly compelling since many other Targaryens are mentioned either when they are specifically talking about them remembering them, OR when something they created appears - e.g., the Sept that Baelor erected, the Red Keep Maegor had build etc. Yet there is no mention of Daemon anywhere with relation to the Gold Cloaks, something that would be mandatory given his established importance to them, critically the fact that he gave the City Watch their gold cloaks, which yes is a thing in the main books, but the same cannot be said of Daemon Targaryen. This would have been another great opportunity to mention him, as notable members of the City Watch, just like Prince Aemon the Dragonknight is mentioned as a notable member of the Kingsguard. But once again, no mention of Daemon is given.

Yet another opportunity would be in relation to Daemon Blackfyre who existed and who we are told in "The World of Ice and Fire" to have been named after Daena's grandfather who she admired. Yet once again, this does not happen. Related to this please see the point made by Elio above regarding him not existing when Daemon Blackfyre was created. That was added AD - After Daemon, whose earliest mention was, as far as evidence shows, at around 2012-2013.

Lesson of the day, like much the rest of what George writes, Targaryen history was a garden that he shaped along the way. Crucial aspects of the story were missing from "A Game of Thrones" all the way to the last book "A Dance with Dragons".

If one wants to talk about the books one needs to use and refer to "Fire and Blood" (Conquest to Dance) and "The World of Ice and Fire" (post-Dance) which holds up until now the most accurate and true information about the pre-asoiaf characters. Referring to books like "A Feast for Crows" is pointless and shows a lack of understanding of how the Targaryen history and pre-asoiaf history was written, and can only result in statements and information that used to be true and canon, but no longer are true or canon, and characterization of certain character becoming non-canon.

If a butterfly can change the course of history, try to imagine what you get when you base your Rhaenyra on an account where there was no Daemon.

In sum, no, George was not even close to having all of his history and pre-asoiaf characters during his writing of the main books. Yes, he changed a lot and we need to update content published before "The World of Ice and Fire". Daemon Targaryen remains a fairly new character in his universe, and one you will only get to fully enjoy and understand the genius of if you consider the ASOIAF version of his character.

#daemon targaryen #canon daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #canon rhaenyra targaryen #the rogue prince #the princess and the queen #fire and blood #pre asoiaf #the world of ice and fire #valyrianscrolls #popcorn answers #house targaryen

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softboo · 8 months ago

Text

love me, ever so gently - part II

pairing: austin x reader

summary: you recently moved to a new apartment, making some new eccentric friends along the way. but what you didn't expect was falling in love with a stranger. a stranger you somehow couldn't stop thinking about

words: 2.8k

warnings: more hints of domestic abuse, dark themes in relationships

author's note: soo i made a part II and i made it so quickly that it kinda blended into part III. i also want to say thank you to everyone who read part I because my heart melted. like i was already excited when it hit more than zero lol. but wow thank you so much!! it truly means the world :3 i hope you like this next part heh c:

previous part // next part

part II

you piled the books onto the cart, the last group needed for organizing before the store closed. today was pretty slow as customers came and went, but your thoughts were somewhere else. on someone else rather.

it's been almost a week since the fair and this stranger was eating away in your head. maybe some part of you wished you would see him again. but what were the odds of that happening? the days started to blend into each other and you were so afraid that if you stopped thinking about him, just even for a little bit, the memory would disappear.

the more time that passed, the less you thought he would show up again.

but you missed seeing him. you wished for anything just to talk to him just a little bit longer than the last. you felt crazy for feeling so attached to him, but there was something so pulling about him. the way he would listen to you talk about the stories you loved and hated. the way his eyes would just gaze right through you, like you were someone he had missed seeing.

oceans filled your head, the calm waters flowing through your heart. but knowing it was going to disappear just as quickly as it came.

because he was only temporary. the waters weren't yours to stay in.

the backdoor swung open and you heard george hobbling over at you, almost tipping you both off balance as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

"look who it is! my favorite girl!" he smiled, completely disrupting your last task before you had to close the store. he flashed a toothy grin as cassandra appeared right behind him.

"george please, you're going to fall on the poor girl." her tone annoyed, but with a hint of concern. "do me a favor and go to the storage room to get the books for the events before i throw something at you."

she shot him a glare before he waved goodbye to the both of you. cassandra came towards you, picking up a few of the novels on the cart to help you finish.

"you're still thinking about him, dear?"

you quickly turned your head to look at her, eyes widening at the sudden accusation.

"how did—?"

"sweetie, it's written all over your face. and you've had that same expression since the fair. i'm not clueless."

you gave her a weak smile, confirming exactly what she thought. you couldn't look at her now though, feeling as if she could see right through you if you did.

"am i crazy cassie?"

she let out a small chuckle, settling the last book down on its appropriate shelf. she shook her head.

"no, you're just being young. and there's nothing wrong with that." she reassured you, not realizing that she completely finished organizing the rest of your books.

"if he ever decides to show up again, then you'll have another chance with him. if not, then you learn to move on."

that last sentence was something a part of you didn't really want to accept. your heart was still holding on to that possibility. but the more days that passed since the fair, the more you wavered on your certainty.

~ ~

"there's only two new neighbors cassie... why did we make three welcome gifts?" evelyn stated, all four of you were now squeezed into your apartment, staring at the gifts on the kitchen counter.

"because the other one is for our favorite girl!" george exclaimed, jumping up to give you the last gift. cassandra swatted at his arm, glaring at him.

"you ruined the surprise." cassandra remarked, as you gave them a weak smile.

it's been almost a month now and the thought of you ever seeing him again was fading even more. you reassured them that you appreciated the surprise anyway and george pulled you into a hug.

"if i only knew it was for her, i would've baked more cookies." evelyn stated, but you truly did appreciate the gesture regardless. they all knew something was wrong for awhile, but cassandra was the only one that knew why.

"it's okay, thank you. really. i love the gift."

cassandra caressed your cheek again as evelyn added, "if anything, i can bake more tonight and stop by to drop them off."

you smiled and nodded. "i would love that."

evelyn gave you a warm smile with her rosy little cheeks. she loved cooking for all of you, even remembering the first time she gave you your personal welcome gift when you moved in. and you remember it vividly because george ate half of those cookies.

"alright let's go drop off these gifts," cassandra stated, "george and i will go downstairs. you two will go to the one across the hall."

you all held your respective gifts and walked to where you needed to go. you and evelyn approached the apartment, evelyn knocking on the door as you held onto the gift.

you could even smell the cookies inside as it fogged a bit of the plastic, knowing how much hard work evelyn put in them. george made the little welcome sign, cassandra wrote the card with all the events planned for the year, and you placed two books. each from the ones that the store no longer needed.

it took a while for someone to answer, evelyn had to knock a few times but soon enough, the door swung open and suddenly something caught in your throat.

there she was. the same dark haired woman from a month ago. you couldn't believe it, the fact that she was your new neighbor. the fact that you saw her a month later instead of him.

and the fact that she stood there, her eyes in flames as you both somehow were at fault for knocking on her door.

"how can i help you?"

her tone was dark, it almost felt like she spat at you. evelyn noticed the slight negative connotation in her voice and opened her mouth to speak, but you came in first.

"we just wanted to drop off a gift to welcome you to the building." you gritted through a fake smile and evelyn saw you tense up. she just couldn't figure out if it was from annoyance or something else.

"oh how thoughtful," her voice was so empty. there was nothing behind it other than wanting to push you both out of her apartment.

"we also added a list of events that happen in the building like a cooking class, taught by—"

"my boyfriend and i are not interested thank you."

she cut you off again and you felt that spark of a flame growing right inside your heart.

"i'll take the gift though," and the woman snatched the beautiful piece from your hands. "austin loves this kind of thing."

she gave you a big toothy grin, something that vaguely made you uneasy but also reminded you of a poorly painted clown. she didn't even say thank you before shutting the door on your faces.

you couldn't even fathom any words, just blankly stared at the closed door. you glanced over at evelyn who was as shocked as you, opening her mouth to speak.

"what a bitch."

~ ~

your mind was racing as you ate your dinner, your favorite tv show playing in the background. the thought of austin's girlfriend being your new neighbor placed a sour taste in your mouth. like you couldn't catch a breathe as the whole situation wrapped around your throat. you had no idea if austin was living with her, but if he was, you weren't sure if you could face him with her breathing down your neck.

or if she'd even allow him to be in the same vicinity as anyone else but her.

the things you saw during the fair flashed in your head, the bruise on his hand. the tight grip of her arm around his. you shook your head, doubting that that possibility could be even true.

but if it was...? you weren't sure how you would react.

a sudden knock on your door broke you from your thoughts as you slowly got up from your chair to check who it was. as you looked through the peephole, you didn't see anyone.

you hesitated for a moment before opening the door, to find something that shattered your heart into a million pieces.

your welcome gift was staring back at you from the floor. the plastic wrap was ruined and the sign was ripped. the card splattered with wine stains and the cookies looked like they were stepped on. the only thing that was missing were the books and the event page.

you had no idea what to do, all of your hard work. everyone's hard work was ruined. a kind gesture completely taken advantage of and it was fueling your hatred even more.

you tossed it to the side, gently placing as much of the gift together as you could before closing the door. you wondered if austin took those missing things. if he knew how badly his girlfriend was treating other people and if he was even aware of the hold she had on him.

maybe that part of you was right.

~ ~

you sat in your assigned seat, the second table from the center. evelyn was busy up in the front, preparing her demonstration table full of ingredients. the kitchen right behind her with all the other food items needed for their meal. you could see how nervous she was with the way she kept fidgeting the same utensils and pans, making sure it was facing a certain way.

george appeared from the kitchen entrance, carrying supply bags out so it was easier for the class to get what they needed. he was beyond ecstatic for this as he was not only going to see a huge turnout of people again, but he was excited for the secret batch of food evelyn promised she would make for them when this was over.

you noticed cassandra passing through, a sign up sheet in her hand and you noticed a compile of names, each having their own seat and assigned table.

"so why can't i look at the list of names?" you asked her when she passed your table. all she did was smile as she handed you your name tag.

"cassie, he's not going to come." you remarked and she shook her head at your negativity.

you weren't able to tell anyone about your suspicious, thinking it probably wasn't your place to begin with. it wasn't until evelyn talked about "the dark red haired bitch from 4B" that cassandra started to connect the dots.

you just weren't sure if they were connecting all the dots.

weeks passed since the incident and each passing event with him not being present made it harder to stop thinking about him. even so when he would put his name and not show up.

this was yet, another one of those times, which was why you were doubting cassandra's optimism.

"we'll see. you never know dear," she let out a soft smile, "but if he does, give him his name tag for me?"

she handed you the tag with austin written on it, just like she did for all the other events. and yet each time, your heart skyrocketed in hopes that he was actually going to show up.

soon enough, the class started and evelyn began her introduction. the turnout was quite a lot; families, some friend groups, a few couples, an empty table in the back, and you.

with one empty seat next to yours.

~ ~

you were halfway through rolling the dough when you heard the main entrance door open. you didn't really have time to look because your stupid dough wasn't flat enough.

but it wasn't until you heard the footsteps and the water that followed suit from the rain that your now empty seat was occupied.

and your heart stopped.

"hi i'm so sorry i'm late. i'm usually not like this," his voice wavered, he sounded so flustered and embarrassed. so different from when you first met him.

you finally had the courage to look at him and you saw those same calm waters in his eyes, except they weren't as blue anymore. it was muted, like a greyness overshadowing its true color.

he had a hat on that covered his wavy blonde hair and some kind of shadow near his eyes, but he no longer had a mask and you could've sworn you heard your heart beating against your ears.

you were so overwhelmed by who he actually was that no words came out so you could respond to him. a part of you was so grateful he didn't see you as he was so preoccupied with his mistake of being late.

and when he finally settled into his seat and placed his things down, he looked at the nametag you placed on his side of the table. he quickly pinned it on his sweater to hopefully catch up on what he missed.

"i'm austin," he introduced himself, hoping you would say something to him. anything.

"hi."

your voice was so meek compared to his, even when he was the one all flustered.

"how much did i miss?" his was soft, and somehow sounded like he was comforting you.

"oh um... just the mixing part. i have the dough ready, but i can't seem to..."

you stopped as you noticed yourself ramble, completely avoiding his gaze as you looked right at the roller and your very stubborn piece of dough.

you heard him chuckle and it made your heart flutter slightly.

"can i?"

you just nodded as he placed the dough in front of him, taking the roller to knead the whole piece out. it wasn't long until he flattened it to the perfect shape that he gave you a small smile. he even followed the next few instructions from evelyn, placing the dough into a pie crust pan.

"have you cooked before?" you asked him, as he noticed the way you looked extremely impressed. and something about your expression made him flustered all over again.

"not really, but i do love cooking. i even thought about becoming a chef."

"really?"

"yeah," he let out the softest little laugh, pressing against the dough to form the crust, "that's why i moved here. i wanted to take a break for awhile and learn about the things i love to do... like cooking."

"you live here?"

a part of you wished he wasn't going to say it, but you already knew his answer.

"yeah on the 4th floor, apartment 4B."

and your heart sank to the ground.

"do you live around the area too?" he asked curiously and you nodded absentmindedly.

"yeah, i think we're neighbors. i'm 4A."

and you could've sworn you saw the blueness come back in those storm covered oceans.

"really?"

"yeah..." you hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not you should say the next part, "my friend and i actually dropped off a welcome gift for you."

and the blueness left as fast as it came.

you bit your lip, scared he might react a certain way. you started to doubt yourself. what if he was the one that ruined the gift, not the girlfriend.

he paused for a moment, going quiet as he finished mending the dough in place.

and you panicked.

"i totally understand if you didn't like the gift."

"no i liked it... i liked it a lot actually."

there was something hanging in the air now and you felt this immense guilt that you ruined the whole thing. you've thought about meeting him again for months and now that the chance arose itself, it felt like you were sabatoging everything you ever wanted.

"whenever you're both done filling your pie and adding the top crust, you can go to the kitchen and place it in the oven," evelyn instructed, smiling at the both of you as she passed your table. she cut the tension between you two for just a moment before it all came crashing back again.

you filled the pie pan and topped everything with another dough crust. the silence wrapped around you two as you finished the pie completely.

"i'll put it in the oven," austin offered, but as he got up, he winced in pain, clutching at his torso.

and that was all the confirmation you needed.

"let me, it's okay."

you took the pie from him, his body settling down on the seat again. he seemed so exhausted all of a sudden, like he no longer had the energy to put up a front anymore.

and it killed you on the inside that you had to sit there and watch.

when you came back from the kitchen, you noticed he took off his hat to fix his hair.

and that's when you saw his eyes. just above his eyebrow was a bruise and few cuts, a small bandaid on his upper temple, right where the brim of the hat would be.

but what broke your heart was the way he no longer had those lights in his eyes anymore. he rubbed his face for just a moment and you saw something else stain his hands.

it was makeup.

#austin butler #austin butler fic #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x you #austin butler x reader #fic writing #first fic #i want to cry #i hate him #romance fiction

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bl00dlight · 6 months ago

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A Song of Shadow & Flame

CANON Dark! Aemond Targaryen x OC niece Targaryen. | SERIES

Warnings - Mentions of SA, child on child violence, graphic description, fatherlessness, Aemond gets fucked up, morally grey slay, questionable fathering, where are their parents?

Author's note ● Well, this is it. This is the last 124 AC chapter before we pick up six years later. Thank god, lets get to the SMASHING already!!! I just want to also state, that yes Visenya has raging father issues and yes that absolutely is going to evolve into something more disturbing, this may turn into a dead dove fic, purely because of the psychological fuckery I am about to pull. But hey, that's canon for ya. My girl has major problems. She IS going to make Aemond worse. Oh and this isn't edited, sorry for typos. I'll get to it later.

Word Count ~ 3.5k+

Index

i ● ii ● iii ● iv ● v ● vi ● vii ● viii ●ix ● x ● xi ● xii ● xiii ● xiv ● xv

vi ~ 'An Eye'

123 AC

They charged through the rock pools, making their way to the alcove which contained the lower passage into High Tide. Visenya had let go of his hand by now, she hadn’t muttered a word, too fuelled by adrenaline and disgust, but mainly shame. Shame for what Aegon did to her, shame she was too fearful to stop him.

As they came to the darkened impasse, Aemond’s hand reached to grasp her wrist, and Visenya’s eyes widened as she felt the warmth of his hand coil gently, a poor attempt at affection. She looked to him, her gaze one of shock… her heart swelled at the action, a glimmer of vulnerability in her eyes, though his beamed with uncertainty.

Aemond's gazed sternly at the Princess, her silver hair glimmering under the torch light. No one had ever retaliated against Aegon, especially not for him...no one had ever bothered – not even his father. Aemond’s gaze softened as he glared at her, he felt shame rear its biting head in him as he recalled how little he had done to do the same for her. His grip upon her wrist slid down slightly, until his hand met the palm of hers, enclosing like a shell, as if done in thanks. Though Aemond did not know how to say such things, how to express it. Even this felt terribly odd, his brow furrowed.

Stillness settled, and the two young Targaryen’s stood face to face, their hands intertwined. The princess was in shock, her eyes gleamed with a slight affection for a moment – something warm tugging at her chest before she met the hard and dour gaze of his. She felt herself grow disturbed by the action, suddenly snapping out of the moment and ripping her hand away.

“What do you think you are doing?” She whispered intensely, her expression darkening before she could gauge why. Visenya wasn’t even sure why she pulled away.

Aemond looked down at his empty hand and then, met her gaze, “You defended me.” His voice plain, clinical.

“No one will believe you.” She gritted her teeth, her eyes beaming with tears as she went to turn. Fear and guilt overcame her, she couldn’t let him see how such affection warmed her heart for she could barely admit it herself.

The young prince scoffed, “I did not intend to speak of it.”

Suddenly Visenya whipped around fiercely, her gaze mad, as though his actions upon her were cruel. Aemond grew confused as she stepped towards him once more.

“Do not do that again!” Her voice a harsh whisper.

“What?” The boy shook his head, watching as she narrowed her eyes.

“Did you think we were friends? I took pity upon you! Pity, because you are but a dragonless bellyacher who was made to fuck an old whore.” The words fell from her mouth before she could stop herself. She was livid and terrified of herself, she felt like a dragon gnawing at old bones. Visenya turned again as silence dropped quickly between the two.

As the princess turned, Aemond felt his heart shatter. He wasn’t sure what he felt for Visenya, what spurred him on to hold her hand, but her words confirmed everything he had already thought. Vain, spoiled, evil little… “Bastard.” He spat.

Visenya took a breath as the word rang, her heart felt like it had been ripped from her chest, as she turned her head to gaze upon his stiff and arrogant expression, “What did you say?”

“You are a bastard-“ Aemond’s brow flickered, tilting his head in a smug, flat gaze.

Visenya felt her rage pierce through her, her hands suddenly meeting his chest as she shoved him straight to the floor. Her gaze unrelenting, brutal as he looked up to her with a wrath so apparent his very face heated. Aemond rose to his feet, fists clenched as he grasped her arm with all his might, The Princess winced, his grip tight and unyielding.

Aemond felt something beyond his understanding burn through him, his gaze no longer cold, but heated by years of pent up fury, his words like knives as he twisted her wrist, “You and your pitiful brothers may shove or taunt me all you like. It changes nothing, Visenya! You are bastards born of your mother’s whoring.”

Visenya winced again, finding the strength in her to rip herself away as angry tears fell. She clutched the tender flesh of her wrist before her words came out with a desperate intent to hurt him, “And you are a dragonless, second son, who despite being a boy grown likely still wishes he could suck at his mother’s tit!”

“I care not for what the likes of a spineless slut calls me.” His voice cold as his demeanour was composed rapidly.

“Slut? You… did you just?” The princess coughed out, stuttering in disbelief as she clambered back.

“Indeed. Your behaviour is far suited to Flea Bottom than the Red Keep. You did not protest my brother’s leering upon you until he acted upon it. You weeped out of fear, once his attentions transcended your liking. However, any honourable woman would have refuted his comments in the beginning. Not you though, for you are vain and indulgent, so it is no wonder Aegon took a liking to you, he only pursues those who he knows shan’t say no.” Aemond’s voice matter-of-factly.

She nearly jumped upon him again, though his words made her ache beyond what she had ever felt. Shame beckoning through her like dragonfire, “You blame me?”

“Yes.” The prince nodded.

Visenya roared, lunched forward as she raised her voice, though Aemond did not flinch, “Your brother is a rotten degenerate, would you say the same if it were to happen to Helaena?”

The prince gave her a judgement look before speaking with arrogant clarity again, “It would not. My sister would not engage with such attention. Perhaps you should take after her beh- “

“Your sister is a witless doll!” She raged forward, tears streaming as she clenched her fist.

Aemond’s expression flickered with anger once again at her cruel words of his sister, his tone warning, “Do not speak against her.”

The young princess scoffed and laughed harshly, her tone outraged and contrasting his cool composure, “You have spoken far worse about my brothers and my mother! In fact, there are many things I might say, Uncle. Your brother is a lecherous craven, your grandfather a scheming traitor and your mother is a treacherous…. viperous cunt!”

Aemond felt his cheeks burn brighter, he wished to strike her… no to grab her by her hair and smash her pretty face against the rocks, watch it splatter upon the rocks. She was nothing, a bastard. A cruel girl with a wicked tongue; a whorish mother and a lech for a father. Before he knew what had happened he felt the harsh sting of his hand after it made contact with her damp cheek.

Visenya’s face turned, her hand clutching her cheek as tears fell. The Princess winced, his hand had whipped across her face so swiftly, leaving her no time to react. Slowly, her eyes met his and a long, bitter silence was exchanged before a familiar dark voice rang.

“Visenya?” Prince Daemon stood, cooly observing the two young Targaryen’s, his eyes glazing with a slight rage as it was clear he had seen the tail end of the events unfold. In fact, he had heard the bitter words of his daughter and nephew echoing throughout the impasse. His face stern as he looked upon his Visenya, then flickering to Aemond with a cold, warning glare. The young Prince took a step back, his eyes coming to the ground as he felt his uncle’s glare bore into him. Not him. Aemond thought.

Her eyes widened upon seeing Prince Daemon, his demeanour calm, unaffected as he extended a hand. “Come. Your mother sends for you, Princess.” Daemon’s voice carried softly throughout the cove, and Visenya said not another word before walking to him, gripping his hand as he led her away.

He brought her through the door leading into High Tide, she looked up, terrified. His gaze seemed familiarly dark as he dragged her along. Visenya whimpered, begging for him to look down upon her, to soothe her as tears fell, her heart filled with dread before she pleaded, “Please, do not tell mother… I.”

With a sudden grunt Daemon turned and forced them both into a shadowy nook within the hall, his hands forcing her shoulders into the wall as he looked down, he muttered lowly, “I care not for your murmuring Visenya. Not today. You swore you would cease this endless trouble making, and now I come to witness the Hightower boy provoked to the point of putting his hand upon you!”

Visenya shook her head, disarmed by him once again, “He-“

Daemon grabbed her chin, shaking his head as his words grew firmer, “Enough! Do you understand the difficulty that comes with me refraining from intervening? Nyke care daor qilōni fucking rhēdan ziry, nyke care bona ziry keliton lēda zȳhon ondos striking ñuha tala's laehurlion!” I care not who fucking started, I care that it ended with his hand striking my daughter’s face!

As he looked upon her frightened gaze, how the tears fell down his daughter’s sweet face, the grip upon her chin loosened as it came to cupping her cheek gently. Visenya continued to look up at him with simpering eyes, she understood her father’s wrath. This was his wife’s funeral after all, and here she was again causing more trouble than need be. Making matters worse within their House.

Daemon’s tone softened further, he sighed and regained a sense of authority, “So yes, I shall tell your mother, and yes you shall deal with the consequences, as shall the Hightower boy. I want justice and if I cannot seek it, Rhaneyra shall.”

The princess merely nodded at her father’s words, she watched his expression unfolded before her, feeling the warmth of his hands wipe her tears from her cheek. Daemon gripped her chin again, forcing her head to side so the light would catch upon her face, revealing what that little Hightower swine had done. He stroked the tender flesh as whispered cooingly, noticing reddening bloom upon her pale skin.

“Issi ao ōdrikagon?” Are you hurt? He crooned gently, still examining her face before pulling it to centre.

Visenya shook her head, her gaze and tone fierce, “Daor” No.

A wry smile came to the Rouge Prince’s face before he chuckled lowly, amused by his daughter’s stern front, “Nēdenka zaldrītsos.” Brave little dragon.

His gaze lowered again as he spoke more sternly, rage coiling within him as he thought to what his nephew had done to her, Daemon’s eyes met hers, “Se hembar jēda ziry raises iā ondos naejot ao, kessa sagon se mōrī ēza ondos.” The next time he raises a hand to you, shall be the last he has hands.

Visenya shook her head, a need to admit the truth of it; that it was she who incited the fight once again, “Nyke inditan zirȳla, kepa.” I pushed him, Father.

Daemon’s brow flickered in surprise, not of his daughter initiating the trouble – but for the odd look of shame within her eyes about it. He grunted lowly and scoffed before speaking, “I’d imagine he deserved it, dōna riña” Sweet girl.

Her gaze weakened, she knew the truth of it, and this time; no, Aemond didn’t deserve it. She was the one who was cruel to him. He had tried to reach out, tried to find some sense to her actions, letting himself display the faintest hint of vulnerability and she punished him for it. If Daemon knew… knew that she had let Aemond’s hand linger upon hers, felt such warmth in her chest, such overwhelming affection– he would surely look at her with disgrace.

Visenya leaned in as her father’s hand brushed against her face softly, before pulling her in to a swift embrace. The small affection he could only give to her when none other might be watching. She let him believe her to be innocent, to have been justified in her actions against Aemond. Just for the simple fact, it would keep this brief moment of shared love going. Just so she would not have to watch as his doting eyes hardened. Yet, there was a dull ache that settled in her chest, a pulling familiar to her. Guilt.

How could she admit that her own pride, was wounded so easily that she was able to use her tongue as though it were a blade. That she was able to shove him without remorse. Visenya locked away those threads of thought, locked them away so she did not have to face the truth. It was her who ached, not him. Not Aemond. No, she only meant to inflict her own pain back upon him, and did so, so that she might close her eyes at night peacefully.

●

Upon that very night, in the early hours of the mourn, Visenya laid in her chamber, sleeping soundly. She felt soft hands gripping her arm shaking her to wake. The muffled whispers, like gossamer in the air as the Princess groaned softly. Her eyes opening dazedly, seeing a glimpse of moonlight locks atop a small frame. Baela.

“Sister… sister wake up…” Her light voice fluttered as she shook Visenya further.

The elder princess stirred properly, slowly sitting up, “Baela…?” She yawned lazily and leaned back, noticing her youngest sister, Rhaena standing aside – the young girls expression frazzled.

Visenya felt herself shift upwards at her sister’s worried look, concern coiled as she whispered, “Sisters, has something happened?”

Baela nodded, “You must come… somebody stole Vhagar!” She exclaimed softly.

Before Visenya knew what had happened, she had haphazardly thrown on her night robe as her siblings dragged her out from her chamber. Her eyes widened further as the sight of her two brothers, stood in the hall.

“Jace? Luke? What are you-“The princess furrowed her brows, panic ensuing within her as her eyes flickered between the dark haired boys. The halls of High Tide were deathly quiet, with only the sound of the low rumbling tide to cover their whispers.

“Come sister, we must go! Somebody has- “Jace whispered softly in the darkened hall, before he could continue, Visenya stepped forward and shook her head.

“Yes I know, somebody stole Vhagar. I suggest we all go inform the Sea Snake.” Her voice firm as she looked upon her array of siblings. Their faces coiling in protest.

Jace gritted his teeth, challenging her, “No! We shall go ourselves.”

The princess swiftly leaned forward, gripping her young brother’s arm, she felt frustration burn through her, “I am in enough trouble as is, if something happens it shall be who is blamed for not putting a stop to this!”

Jace, with all his strength pushed at Visenya’s chest, forcing her away from him. The two exchanged a startled look before he cleared his throat and spoke again, “We are going sister. Come or don’t.”

Visenya simply stood in the hall as she watched her siblings disappear into the night, her gaze wide, shocked by Jace’s actions against her. Fine, if he were to treat her in such a way, let them go get themselves harmed! She thought, though as more time passed she could not help but feel that familiar pull of regret stirring. No, she couldn’t let them go by their lonesome.

Without another thought, she ran after them, looking around to see where they may had gone too. The Princess crept around the main halls of High Tide, peering to try and find her siblings. Logically, they likely went the route of the alcove leading out to the shore, she crept down the passages, hearing familiar voices echo.

“It’s him.” Rhaena proclaimed.

“It’s me.” A deeper one responded; the haughty spite rife on their tongue.

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” She retorted back.

Her heart thundered as saw the warm glow of the opened door to the alcove, she knew it was her siblings in there, and the other voice, well, how could she not recognise his… Aemond.

“Your mother’s dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now…” Aemond beckoned.

Rhaena’s tone fierce, “She was mine to claim.”

As Visenya approached the door, her wide eyes were met with the scene. Her four siblings all opposed a smug Aemond, she peered through, wanting desperately to join in the confrontation, though she knew she couldn’t. Not with what had already happened today, not with her mother’s reputation already waning.

The silver haired prince raised his brow smugly, and sneered as he stepped forward, “Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

Just as the words left his lips, Visenya’s eyes met his and for a brief moment she saw the anger increase tenfold as he noticed her gaze, so much so in the split second he had been distracted, Rhaena charged, growling at Aemond, instantly being thrown to the floor by him. Baela charged, punching him squarely across his pale face and he fell to the sand a low grunt leaving him.

Just as he had fallen he rose, with swiftly precision striking Baela, knocking her to the ground leaving her wincing. Aemond snarled, leaning over the young girl as she clutched her cheek, shuffling away from his hammering voice, “Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!”

In response, Jace charged but Aemond evaded his throws before the silver haired boy threw Jace to the ground – a sudden cry of Luke rang in Visenya’s ears as she watched with horror as her small brother lunged upon Aemond and his fist ram straight into Luke’s small face, forcing him too, to the ground. Luke’s cry filled the alcove before Aemond looked up again, scoffing as he saw Visenya peering once more. Suddenly, Jace lunched once more, pushing Aemond to the floor and one by one her siblings descended upon him.

She didn’t know what to do, nor why she couldn’t move or speak. It was like one of those horrid nightmares where she found herself unable to scream or unable to run – just awaiting doom to befall her. Her eyes locked on the sight, her four siblings kicked and punching at Aemond as he writhed upon the ground whining. Baela’s fist repeatedly struck him in the chest over and over again until Aemond managed to shove Jacaerys to the floor, then Baela.

As Luke raised his fist in anger, Visenya all but gasped as Aemond gripped her younger brother’s small neck she nearly stumbled down as she saw Aemond’s blooded face sneer.

His hand rising up with a large rock gripped, ready to strike Lucerys head. “You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond proclaimed, his voice gritted and wrathful before he looked up once more, the word practically spat from his mouth, “Bastards.”

Lucerys weeped, struggling against his much older Uncle as he choked for the slightest full breath, his voice simpering “My father’s still alive.”

Just like that, a wry haughty expression came upon Aemond’s face, as he looked to Jace letting his hand fall to his side, “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” The silver haired boy flashed a satisfied scoff before the sharp sound of an unsheathed dagger rang.

Visenya’s heart nearly dropped as she found herself finally able to move, her feet forcing her down the few steps as she looked upon the sight of her brother pointing a dagger to Aemond, she cried, “Jace!” Her feet soon reached the sand as she stopped herself, Baela and Rhaena looking over their shoulder in fear, cowering backwards as Visenya reached for them, swiftly forcing them away. The boys began fighting once more and Jace was back upon the sand whimpering when she turned her head.

As she did so, the princess stepped in front of her half-sisters and slowly moved towards Jace as he clambered on the floor. Aemond stumbled back for a moment, regaining his footing before raising the rock up over Jace, Visenya’s eyes widened in fear as she froze, unsure of what to do.

Her gaze came to Aemond’s pleading for him to stop and as he looked at her, her chest nearly caved in upon itself as nothing, but a breathy snicker left his mouth. He was taunting her, enjoying the look of fear and helplessness upon her face as he dangled the rock over Jacaerys’ head.

Neither he nor Visenya noticed as Luke picked up Jace’s dagger and suddenly a throw of sand made its way into Aemond’s eyes causing him to break the contact with Visenya and wince in pain. As he looked back, there Luke was her small, harmless little brother clutching the blade, standing before Aemond and with a fierce pained cry, Luke slashed the blade across Aemond’s face.

It happened in seconds, before she could even register the violence before her, she only saw how Aemond had toppled to the ground, the blood splattering upon Luke’s face. Their Uncle’s unfamiliar cries of pain filling the space as he clutched his face. She hadn’t seen what was truly done, but she did see the blood pool from beneath him, tainting the white sand below.

As the Ser Harold came thundering in, she felt the small body of Luke lunge into hers, his arms wrapped around her tightly, the stench of Aemond’s blood now staining her nightrobe. She slowly embraced her little brother, pulling him tightly against her, tucking him away as she watched the writhing Aemond.

For a brief moment the silver haired boy’s wide eye met hers and princess turned away from him, shielding Lucerys from the mess he had made.

○vii○

#hotd #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #got #daemon targaryen #rhaneyra targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fanfiction #targaryen #daenerys targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #dark! aemond targaryen #canon aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x niece

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wttcsms · 8 months ago

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daylight [pt. iii (1/3)] ; colt grice.

pairing colt grice x f!reader word count 22k synopsis colt grice's life has never been easy, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. content contains sw!reader, canon discrimination against eldians, derogatory terms towards women, deployment author's notes this is a shortened version of the chapter; i got too excited to share my work with everyone, and also, i know your attention spans are all lacking. if you survived reading 20k+ words in one sitting, pls soldier on and leave a comment expressing ur thoughts x much love <3

part three: no falling in love

“Name?” The bored voice of the administrative assistant tasked with filing away the paperwork for all deployed soldiers stares at Colt with a mixture of disinterest and delight. It leaves him feeling unbalanced, halfway wanting to put on a good show for her and halfway wanting to disappear into thin air. She’s bored, probably thinking about what she’s going to eat for lunch after this, but Colt knows all too well that bored Marleyans make for the most dangerous ones. Best not to get on her bad side and remind her that prior to doing this lineup, she was the one who had checked him in and confirmed his name.

“Colt Grice.” He answers, and she frowns, like she was expecting any other answer than the one that actually answers her question.

“Unit?”

“Warrior.”

“Blood type?”

“O negative.”

“Race?”

The energy in the room comes to a standstill. He knows that this is just a formality, that she’s just doing her job, but he also knows that she’s staring directly at his armband. He also knows that most people tasked with dealing with people like him don’t enjoy doing their jobs and would actually prefer to do anything but.

“Eldian.” He says, and she repeats it back, slowly, exaggerated.

She makes a note on her clipboard, checking all the boxes that correspond to the answers Colt has given her. The bright red pen of hers matches the bright red she coats her lips in, and she tears at the perforation in the paper, handing Colt the lower-half of the sheet.

“Turn this in to the people running the clinic.” She tells him, looking more disinterested than ever now that her interrogation with him is over and that Colt has proven himself to be a very boring and painfully polite young man.

When Colt gets to the clinic, which is nearly half a kilometer away from the administrative office, he turns in the slip. The lady at the front desk glances at it, then hands him a clipboard with a form for him to fill out. He’s not sure how to feel when he realizes that the form is asking the same exact questions that the administrative assistant asked him, and he feels like he should point out the fact that all the answers the clinic needs have already been turned in to them through the slip of paper he just handed them.

He doesn’t say that, though, because he knows doing so will only slow down the process some more. So, he fills out the form, hands it to the front desk lady, who then looks down at the form and compares it to the slip of paper he gave her, as if checking to see if there are any discrepancies.

“I’ll let you know when the doctor is ready to give you your physical.”

Colt spends the whole day like this: just going through the motions and complying with anything the Marleyans ask of him because that just so happens to be the natural order of things around here, around anywhere. For a country that prides themselves for their innovation and intellect that helps them maintain their superiority over everyone else, Colt (and perhaps every other Eldian soldier forced to waste their time with this deployment process) thinks he can spot some internal inefficiencies in their military.

(Not like he’s going to say anything about it. Not like he can.)

After being poked and prodded by the doctor (who, just for good measure, wastes five minutes to ask Colt for his name, unit, blood type, and race), Colt is then sent off to the on-base barber who shaves his hair off to the standard buzzcut given to all Eldian soldiers who are fresh to the fight. Colt isn’t vain by any means, but the haircut takes less than a minute to complete, and he feels foolish for hoping that this process would be just as lengthy and meticulous as everything else he’s had to endure. His last stop of the day is to the uniform repository, where Colt is given a brand new uniform and dog tags to wear for when he’s sent off to the war.

The sun is already setting by the time Colt makes his way back to his barracks, and when it seems like the world is giving him a good and proper beatdown, it usually sends him somebody to mock his misery and make the sting of being the universe’s punching bag burn deeper.

“Heard the news,” a familiar voice stops Colt in his tracks. Porco stares at the crisp uniform Colt’s holding, and scowls. “For deployment?”

“Yeah,” Colt says, even though he knows that Porco knows.

He snorts. “Great. Maybe the enemy won’t bother shooting at you once they realize what a shame it’ll be to let top-tier drycleaning go to waste.”

Once again, the world is ending when Porco makes a valid point. The whole process of preparing for his deployment feels silly and senseless; after all of this, all Colt has in his brain is “Name: Colt Grice, Unit: Warrior, Race: Eldian.” The craziest part is that no actual combat-active military official has given him any details on what’s happening at Fort Helena, and why he’s been chosen to be deployed there.

The uniform feels heavy in his hands, and the weight only becomes more burdensome when Porco asks him, “Hey. Does Falco know yet?”

It’s Falco’s first year in the program. Because he’s so young and still too early in the process to be considered as a Candidate, he stays in the youth barracks, which are appropriately stationed far away from the actual soldiers. From the ones who will actually have to answer the call to arms.

“No. I just got the letter last night.”

Something indiscernible softens in Porco’s features. “I’d hate to be the one who has to tell him.”

Colt forces himself not to make a face. Falco won’t take the news well, no matter how Colt gives it to him. Believe it or not, this isn’t the first time someone hasn’t wanted to be in Colt’s shoes. Sometimes, not even Colt wants to be himself.

“Yeah.” He finds himself agreeing with Porco. “What an unlucky guy.”

All soldiers cleared for deployment are confined to staying on base at all times, probably because when you tell young men that you are essentially sentencing them to death (or, at the very least, forcing them in a situation where it’s more likely than not that they are going to lose a limb — and most people happen to like having all their limbs, thank you very much), they get scared and start thinking up stupid things like deserting their country or trying to kickstart a munity.

Then again, the only people who are allowed to be frightened enough to pull stunts like that are the same people who have nothing to lose. Colt has a titan to inherit, a family to feed, and you. All of the Eldian soldiers getting prepared to be shipped off to Fort Helena are in similar boats.

The Marleyan unit assigned to Fort Helena, however, is in a state of all sorts of distress and chaos, and Lieutenant Michael Sells is enjoying every second of it.

Sitting criss-cross applesauce on the top bunk of the barracks, Michael looks down at his fellow Marleyan soldiers who fucked up badly enough to be receiving the same punishment as him. Marleyan soldiers aren’t supposed to be the ones who get sent to the frontlines; sure, there are some idiots with ideas of grandeur, and those are the ones who volunteer to see some “real action,” but for the most part, joining the military just seemed like a better alternative than spending their young adulthood stuck in a university’s lecture hall.

The thing they forgot to consider is that when you mess up in college, you get sent to the dean’s office. When you mess up in the military, you get sent off to the shitty deployments that no one wants. War is war, an enemy soldier who doesn’t know anything about you but is hellbent on shooting at you is a pain in the ass wherever you go, but like with everything else in life, there is always something better. Considering that Michael is on this assignment, and every soldier here has a long list of transgressions (long enough to the point where their officers can no longer turn a blind eye to them), this is an indicator that Fort Helena is going to be literal hell on earth.

Early on in the war, the first wave of soldiers to come back from the battlefield all complained about rats in the trenches and the lack of plumbing. One group was fighting closer to a mountainside, though, and they actually had sufficient enough coverage from the enemy to set up a decent camp. Trenches or tents. Both aren’t screaming luxury, but one is infinitely better than the other, that’s for damn sure.

“We’re fucking screwed!” Jude scowls, kicking at the uniform hanging by his bed.

“Can’t be that bad,” Elliot rationalizes from the top bunk across from Michael. “They’re sending off Eldian units with us, and they outnumber us by quite a large margin. Chances are, we won’t even be on the frontlines.”

“It’s true,” Oliver is sitting at the singular desk crammed in the barracks. He claims he’s writing a farewell letter to his girlfriend — all three of them. “This is just a scare tactic to get us back on the straight and narrow. You think they’d be willing to sacrifice us for that fort?”

Jude’s frown doesn’t disappear, but he’s silent. Elliot and Oliver have a point, and everyone here knows it. That’s because the boys in this barrack aren’t enlisted soldiers, but officers. They’re the ones who’ll get the nicest benefits package, the better meals, the high ranking titles. They’re the ones who society holds up to a pedestal. Elliot, just like Michael, is a legacy — someone who already has a generation of their family who served as an officer. For most Marleyans, this is something you can boast about.

“Don’t worry, Judy. If Captain Baron decides he’s sick of us and forces us to be human shields for the Eldian soldiers, he’d pick me first.” Michael sounds too cheerful at the prospect, and Jude glares at him.

You either love Michael, or you don’t. There is no inbetween, there is no merely tolerating him — only like or dislike. Everyone else in the barracks is on decent terms with the lieutenant, even going so far as to consider him not just a comrade but a friend, but Michael’s the type to sniff out the few who despise him, and then he antagonizes them for sport. Jude belongs to the group who dislikes.

“Don’t call me Judy, and don’t spout off bullshit like that, either. Don’t act like you wouldn’t willingly fight alongside those damn devils. We all know why you’re here.”

“Really?” Michael’s eyes go wide. “Why am I here?”

In the office, there is a big, fat file labeled SELLS, MICHAEL (LT.) with a very long record of transgressions committed by the angelic-looking young man who is anything but. What a shame, the officers who have to update his file muse, that he is nothing like his father who was honorably discharged as an Admiral for the Navy. The only thing Michael seems to have inherited from Admiral Sells are his looks.

The fact of the matter is that Michael is here because he is a problem child who manages to stir up trouble no matter where he is and no matter who he is with. At least on a battlefield, they can make good use of his restless energy, and hopefully the fear of being killed in action will be enough to get him to behave.

He’s been a pain in the ass since the moment he came into this world (a C-section baby, which is a universal indicator that someone is destined to be annoying), and he’s only grown into a walking, talking, migraine-inducing bastard ever since.

“Don’t act all innocent. We know you started the fight with Brutus.” Jude sneers, as if Brutus the Brute didn’t deserve the one singular punch Michael managed to get on him before getting his ass handed to him.

“If you can call that massacre on Michael a fight.” Oliver pipes up.

“Hey! Whose side are you on?” Michael asks him, not offended in the slightest.

“The real question is, whose side are you on?” The look Jude gives Michael reminds him of the same glare one of the other Marleyan officers, James, gave him during visitation day. The visitation day where James’ girlfriend couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of Michael. It’s a look that’s full of contempt and vitriol.

Everyone likes to act all holier-than-thou when it comes to Michael, and it’s because nobody is more openly rebellious than him. They think that he can’t keep a secret, that his heart is constantly on his sleeve, and they’re right; too bad no one can actually read him. Michael gets into fights all the time, and he’s either stupid or brave with the way he shows no fear in attempting to take on guys twice his size. In middle school, he lost a tooth (that has since been replaced with a fancy implant that blends seamlessly with the rest of his pearly whites, despite the fact that he thought the gaping hole would’ve added character) because he picked a fight with a high schooler about to graduate. Everyone misinterprets his bold actions for recklessness, but he does stupid shit like this because he cares. No one knows he picked that fight because the boy said something downright vulgar and disgusting about Claire, one of his older sister’s friends. Just like how no one knows that Michael didn’t swing at Brutus because he took the last brownie during dinner, but because Brutus was the one who nicked Colt’s face.

“The right one.” Michael cheekily answers, not elaborating further. Let everyone make their assumptions about what that means.

Alize Evans is no one’s fool.

When the universe deals you a shit hand in life, the least you can do is not be stupid. Alize might’ve came into this world as an accident, the result of a drunken mistake (perhaps she inherited bad luck from her mother; she can’t be certain, considering that the only mother figure in Alize’s life had been the stern mistress of her orphanage), and it’s because of this that Alize is very careful in not making mistakes in her life.

Maybe ending up at The Gentleman’s Club wasn’t exactly a part of her master plan, but Alize remains adamant that she is not stupid — just down on her luck.

It isn’t stupid to walk the streets of the red light district alone. Alize knows the area better than the back of her hand. She lives here. She knows the strip of street to avoid unless she wants to have the stray dogs’ shit under the soles of her too-tight shoes. She knows that the drunkard who looks like the type to harass women is quite the opposite; in fact, he’s probably one of the kindest men who stay around this area. She bought him a bottle of cheap liquor once, just because decent people are hard to find and the least she can do is show her gratitude in a way that doesn’t automatically demean her. (Deep down, she knows that he wouldn’t have accepted free rein of her body, the only currency she has unlimited access to. It had cost her a week’s worth of wages to gift him that bottle.)

Turns out, he’s not stupid either. He’s just down on his luck, too.

Alize’s bad luck seems to be on a winning streak. Not only did she wake up late, but the bruises scattered on her body have turned a ghastly shade of purple with a sick, faint green ring around one of the abstract shapes. In the winter time, she’s paler. She already sees a lack of sun, and the darkness of this season doesn’t do her any favors. She likes it when it’s spring; she tans easily, for one, and everyone says spring is the season of possibilities, of new beginnings.

Alize isn’t stupid. She doesn’t believe in those sorts of things. But it’s nice, she supposes, to indulge every once in a while and believe in things like that.

Her bad luck clings to her as she walks down the street, quickening her pace. She knows the creepy, distorted shadows in the corners of her eyes are just figments of her imagination; the street lamps are all cracked and now line the street just for show. They don’t actually work. The whole district is shrouded in darkness, with only the censorious moonlight to look down on her. She hates moonlight. Nothing good has ever happened to her when it makes its appearance.

That fact won’t change, either. She knows this when she hears the predatory whistle coming from behind her.

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows she doesn’t stand a chance if she tries to run. She knows that there is nowhere to run. She knows that she wants to try, anyway. She knows that things will only be worse if she does.

Alize pauses. She takes a deep breath. And then she turns around.

It’s a Public Security Authorities officer. Mid-forties, at least. He looks like today is his lucky day.

She wonders what that might feel like.

“What’s a young girl like you doing around these parts? Don’t’cha know it’s dangerous?” He smirks, and she can see every wrinkle and crease on his face, all thanks to the moonlight. She curses the wretched thing. She hates everything that looks down on her. Not even the solar system can escape her wrath.

She doesn’t say anything. He’s leering at her, licking his chapped lips as he eyes her, his excitement evident as he openly admires the armband circled around her left arm.

A piece of fabric that defines her entire being. A piece of fabric that is the reason why she receives the worst customers in the brothel. Men like the one standing in front of her liken her to something inhumane, filthy, but they’re the ones who fuck her like savages, like devils. The irony isn’t lost on her.

“Let me walk you home, sweetheart.” The man grabs her left arm, gripping her armband. He tugs her with such a force that she almost wishes to see the piece of gray fabric come loose. She remembers when someone used it to choke her with it, and then she decides that with the way her luck is going, he’d probably have the same idea. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe he’ll be quick. Maybe Willa will feel bad and brew her a cup of tea when she manages to limp her way to the brothel.

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows to let the man drag her away. She’s resigned to her fate.

And then, the strangest thing happens.

Another man is strolling down the street. Traffic here is usually light considering that there isn’t much in this area, save for abandoned buildings and the occasional homeless trying to seek shelter from the harsh, biting wind. Alize thinks her luck is getting worse when she notices this one is wearing a cream colored uniform, too.

When he comes closer, she’s pleasantly surprised. At least he’s cute. Say what you want, but having an ugly bastard slobbering over her is awful. If she’s going to be used, why can’t she at least have a decent view? It might distract her from everything else.

“What’s going on here?” The young man says, blue eyes focused on the officer before traveling to Alize. She looks at him briefly before focusing on the gravel underneath her feet.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” The officer spits on the ground. “Go run along and find your own hole to get your dick wet in.”

“See, when you say stuff like that, it does make me start to worry.” Alize dares to take another look at him. He’s blond. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he has such an easy-going manner about him. The top two buttons of his military issued coat are undone, and she spots a peek of bright white cotton from his undershirt. He’s tall. Taller than her, and even taller than the man who has her in his grip. “I don’t think she likes the way you’re handling her.”

“You think I give a fuck about what a bitch like her likes?”

The blond man’s eyes narrow. Gone is his easy-going manner. Alize can feel the shift even from her current position, which is her being all cowered and looking like she wants to be as small as possible. Apparently the man senses the change in his demeanor, too, seeing as he loosens his grip enough for Alize to slowly free herself.

“I think you should give a fuck on how I feel about it.” He says, taking a step forward. “You know that PSA officers with a rank as low as yours are only allowed jurisdiction in his designated internment zone.” Another step forward. “This isn’t an internment zone.”

“You’re a fucking greenie. You’re barely a second-rate private in the military.” The man snarls, spotting the lack of any high ranking adornments on the blond’s uniform.

The blond shrugs. “Yeah, but this isn’t an internment zone, meaning that as an officer in the military, I have more authority here than you.” He smiles. “Bet you give a fuck that a greenie like me can tell you what to do, and you have to sit down like a good dog and listen.”

Alize isn’t stupid. She knows that she has the opportunity to run. But she’s frozen in place, admiring the way this young soldier seems to greet a fight like an old friend, with welcoming arms. If it came down to physical blows, she thinks he’d win, easily.

The man’s hand seems to gravitate towards his side, but the blond is quicker on the draw. Before the PSA officer can grab his gun, he finds himself staring down the wrong end of this private’s pistol.

“I’ll let you take out yours, too, if you want. It’s only fair that you show me yours after I showed you mine.” The moonlight illuminates the smug expression on the soldier’s face. “But know this: the law won’t give a damn what went down here. All they’ll care about is that a PSA officer broke the law and drew his weapon against a Marleyan militant officer in the military’s jurisdiction. You think you’ll have any power from a jail cell?”

“I have connections.” The man snarls, still hesitant to whip out his own gun.

“Really? What a coincidence, so do I.” The soldier releases the safety on his pistol. “Do you mind sharing who those connections are? My uncle, the commanding officer of the PSA, might be interested in knowing, too.”

The man’s face pales. “You’re that Sells kid.”

“Yeah. Trying to make a name for myself, though, so take out your damn gun and let’s try to make headline news, okay?”

They don’t make headline news. Instead, the man apologizes to this “Sells kid”, and then he turns and apologizes to Alize after the Sells kid tells him to.

“Get on your knees and kiss the ground she walks on.” The soldier commands him to do. Alize feels a sick sort of satisfaction witnessing the man slowly get down and press his lips to the dirty ground. For once in her life, Alize is the one who is looking down. What an addicting feeling.

When the soldier gets bored of humiliating the man, he sends him off by tapping his shoulder in farewell; he does so with the barrel of his gun, whose safety is still conveniently off. One wrong move, and a bullet could be pierced through the man’s shoulder blades.

“You want me to walk you to where you wanted to go?” The soldier asks her, clicking his gun and sliding it back into its holster.

Alize isn’t stupid. She nods, and he lets her lead the way.

She starts to foolishly believe that maybe her luck can turn around.

But then he drops her off at the front door of the brothel, hands in his pockets.

“What’s the matter?” He asks her, when she doesn’t immediately walk in. “Is it not safe for you in there?”

He sounds like he actually cares. Gone is the stern soldier with the cocky attitude and smirk. The gentleman standing here doesn’t seem like he just shoved his gun in someone’s face less than ten minutes ago. He’s interesting, this soldier.

She shakes her head, giving him a tiny smile. This brothel might actually be the only safe haven for her here, perhaps even safer than the shitty apartment she rents a couple of blocks away.

“Will you come in and join me?” I won’t even charge, she wants to add.

He seems to pick up on her suggestion, and he gives her a small smile, too, while shaking his head. “I’d feel a lot better knowing that you’re somewhere where you feel safe. I think some time alone would be good, don’t you agree?”

Alize’s never been alone for long stretches of time. She grew up in an overcrowded orphanage, then traveled with a small group of runaways when the original mistress died and got replaced by some creep who eyed like the girls in the house like a butcher looking at a prize pig. Even when sleeping and begging on the streets, she always had at least one other person right with her. Renting this apartment is the first time in forever that Alize’s ever lived on her own, and even then, she spends so much of her time in the brothel, surrounded by her chosen sisters, blanketed in their warmth and comfort, that she forgets all about living on her own.

“I don’t know how else to repay you.” She admits. Out of all her meager belongings, she’s come to terms with the fact that her body and Eldian fetishization are her most valuable.

“You don’t have to repay me.” He says, and she almost wants to roll her eyes.

Alize isn’t stupid. Life is a series of transactions. You receive, you have to give back. Otherwise, karma will intervene. Karma is a sick and twisted bitch who balances the scales in the worst way possible. Her luck might be starting to turn around, but she’s not going to push it.

“I can’t have you walking around with my favor in your pocket. Let me pay you back now.”

He waves a hand carelessly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

For once, Alize dares to go against a soldier and stand her ground. “No. I really do owe you.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum, staring at the closed door of the brothel.

“Fine.” He says, but then he follows it up with something she isn’t expecting. “Pay me back by going inside and taking care of yourself. Take it easy tonight, okay?”

Alize isn’t stupid. She takes the offer.

But, of course, seeing him changes her perspective on things. Meeting him while flat broke, weak, and defenseless proved to her that her luck could change at any time. This hope that builds up in her causes her to seek him out, to expect him to walk through the brothel doors and maybe the story Willa tells her comes true. The story about the girl who saves the businessman and gets her happily ever after.

Alize is stupid. He doesn’t come back. Which means he doesn’t come back for her. Luck can turn around, but it can go back right where it was, too. The disappointment that follows serves as a cruel reminder of what being stupid does to a girl.

When she looks into the worn faces of the girls working alongside her, Alize decides right then and there to protect them from the soul crushing discovery that no one in the world is coming to save them. Don’t even bother dreaming about it.

So when she turns her attention to you, demanding you to spill the details on the soldier, you mistake this interrogation for being an unwanted intrusion. If you had realized sooner that it came from a place of care, you wouldn’t have immediately played dumb.

“What soldier?” You ask innocently, perhaps playing a bit too dumb.

Margaret lets out a loud laugh. “You’re so full of shit! ‘What soldier,’ my ass! Nadia, can you believe her?”

Nadia looks at you for guidance on how to react, what to say. All you can do is shrug helplessly. Hurricane Alize has already touched down, and there’s no stopping this force of nature.

“The soldier who visits you and brings you gifts and just wants to talk.” Alize says, crossing her arms. “Tell us about him.”

“I don’t know much about him.” Besides the fact that he ran away from the girl who gave him his first kiss. Besides the fact that he loves his family, especially his little brother, Falco, as easily as breathing. Besides the fact that he kisses you with poorly concealed restraint; you think you can taste the hunger for more on his lips, but he’s too much of a gentleman to cross that line. You don’t know much about him, besides him enlisting in the military for his family. He was supposed to go in sooner, to prove his family’s loyalty after his uncle got exposed for being an Eldian Restorationist.

He had been a sickly child, he tells you, back against the wall as he resigns himself to the floor, letting you have your bed all to yourself. He’d be bedridden and useless to the Marleyan military if they took him in, and luckily, they saw some sense in that. His parents foolishly dared to dream that the government forgot about wanting to take him, but after his father falls ill and it lands on him to handle his family’s finances, of course he enlists. Of course they remember him. Of course they make him pay for everything with interest. Always waiting for him to slip up, always delighting in punishing him. Mocking him.

You know that he had to learn how to take it all lying down. To grit his teeth and bite back any protests. To resist the urge to ask the Marleyan officer what did I ever do to you?

You know that he’s gentle. Genuine. Sweet. Soft.

No — maybe soft isn’t the right word. You’ve felt the smooth ridges of hard-packed muscle underneath his shirt. You’ve seen the flex of his biceps, felt the rough calluses of his fingers every time the ghost of his touch lingers on your skin. You’ve seen the way he delivers his words, how he can say something with such strong conviction. He never raises his voice to make a point, but the stern look and his steadfast adamance that he wants you to be happy, even if it’s not with him, because he cares about you, was strong enough to knock some sense into you. You think of how it’s his natural instinct to protect. You think of the way his body immediately went to shield yours when that bar fight broke out, his stance that seemed so formidable, unyielding to any external force.

You think of his casual discussion of the abuse subjected to him. How he tells you, in the same soft voice he always uses, as if he’s telling you the weather today, about how one time some Marleyan soldiers pulled a prank on him and handed him his food in a dog bowl, with DEVIL DOGGY crudely etched into the metal. He had to eat out of it, he explains, because he was hungry. This was his only meal of the day, and it was one against too many. He’d never be able to get a lunch tray.

Despite it all, he didn’t let it turn him bitter. Vengeful. Mad at the world and seeking to take it out on others. You wouldn’t blame him for turning cold; anyone else would. But Colt lets it bounce off of him.

You like that. You like everything about Colt, you realize, but you like his resilience. His unwavering good character. He isn’t soft; maybe tender. You could cut him to the bone, but he still wouldn’t lose shape; he might even put up some resistance.

“Really?” Alize narrows her eyes. “So what exactly do you two talk about then?”

Everything. A story for a story, you decide one day. You’re sitting on your calves, knees digging into the stiff mattress, and the excited expression on your face makes Colt give in to your whims before the request even fully leaves your mouth.

A story for a story, he agrees.

You tell him the bits and pieces of your childhood that you remember. You tell him about how it feels strange to cling to a culture you think is dying, that soon no one will remember, but stranger yet to not take pride in it, to not want to hold on to what generations before you have held on to. He tells you about how he doesn’t like the feel of a gun in his hands, but that he’s such a good shot, his officers want him to constantly be on the frontlines, armed with it. He’s never been on the frontlines, he reassures you, when he notices your horrified expression. A couple of simple deployments, as a reserve in case the battle doesn’t turn in their favor, is all the action he’s seen so far. Probably will be that way for the foreseeable future, since the military doesn’t like risking the Warrior Candidates with the most potential.

“Anything that comes up naturally, I guess.” You say, holding all your conversations with Colt close to your heart. “Alize, what does it matter what I do with this soldier?”

“It matters because every time I mention the soldier, you get this look on your face.” Alize is not a mean person, but the way she says look — dripping with disgust, topped off with pity — you suddenly go on the defensive.

“I can’t make facial expressions anymore?” You ask her, and the girls in the room shift their bodies awkwardly. Someone clears their throat. Alize is silent, but she doesn’t lower the intensity of her glare.

“I’m worried about you.” She sounds like admitting this is a painful ordeal. “I don’t want you making a mistake.”

I don’t want you making a mistake. You’ve whispered this exact phrase in the dark, saying it so softly you almost think he won’t be able to hear it, but he does. Of course, he does. He notices everything about you.

He looks at you, that same unwavering conviction coating his words as he reminds you, nothing about you is a mistake to me.

“So what if I make a mistake? It’s my life.” You regret telling her this the moment her stern expression falters, revealing something hurt and pained, before she brings back her perfect poker face. You’re so used to being the older sister that sometimes it’s jarring to come here and interact with Alize, who is the designated older sister in this room. You don’t know how to handle being the one that is cared for, too used to having to be the strict one, the one who does the caring in a less-than gentle manner.

“Mistakes hurt.” She says flatly. “But by all means, continue living your life how you want. It’s yours.”

You don’t make mistakes often.

When Marleyan forces destroyed your homeland, sent you and the rest of the survivors running to a false salvation (the sprawling, abandoned hills on the outskirts of Marley’s cities), you made many mistakes. You were too trusting. Just shy of fourteen years old, you had a six-year-old little brother to take care of and parents who left behind nothing to help you. It’s not their fault; who anticipates their young daughter to take on the role of matriarch? There’s no instruction manual, no how-to guide on what to do when you’re a refugee with no skills, no talent, and nothing to offer to a country that already looks down on you. You used to be so desperate that when it seemed a citizen was taking pity on you, you chose to trust them. To believe in their goodness.

You quickly learn to stop making that mistake.

You can’t talk to strangers, then. You only stay close to the other refugees, only trusting their kindness, sometimes hesitant and fearful that they could turn on you, too.

You make more mistakes. You misjudge how long food can last, what the weather will be like, the intentions of the people around you. Sometimes, you reject kindness because you think it’s viciousness in a clever disguise; gone are the times you accidentally identify cruelty as care.

(You don’t make the same mistake twice.)

Occasionally, when you think about who you are, you think you’re a dog backed into a corner. A dirty alleyway. Surrounded by bigger, hungrier dogs, with no room for escape, no chance for survival. Some days, you think there’s something admirable in not backing down without a fight. Other days, you find that playing dead and hoping they lose interest is more reasonable. Every day, you know that it doesn’t matter what you do — you are still a dog backed into a corner.

You don’t like being backed into a corner.

You don’t like feeling small, and you certainly don’t like feeling vulnerable. Weak. Defenseless.

You know your position in life. The men who filter in and out of your room remind you of this.

Cheap whore. Loose fuck. Good for nothing. Bitch.

Katie, one of the quieter girls in the brothel, admits to everyone that sometimes she takes sleeping pills in the hopes that it’ll get her drowsy and she can filter in and out of consciousness when she’s working.

It’s better when you’re dead to the world during the sex, she says. If I could be asleep and unaware of everything happening to me, I’d be so happy.

Everyone handles this job differently, but you could never let yourself be so unguarded. No matter how tired you get, your body refuses to go limp and allow you a brief moment of sleep when you’re in the presence of a strange man who paid a price to have his way with you. You made a lot of mistakes in your life, but falling asleep in this brothel will not be one of them.

But one night, you find yourself fighting the urge to let your eyelids droop and your body to sink into the mattress. Colt’s telling you about how he finds it odd that Michael is actively avoiding some investigator who’s visiting the base. Colt can’t seem to fathom why. The investigator supposedly only covers cases concerning Eldians, and he doesn’t look like someone who would want to get into a fight with Michael. You’re struggling to follow along, and the last thing you remember hearing is oh no, I’m stopping you from sleeping.

When you do wake up, your mind is on high alert. You instantly sit up, heart racing.

Calm down, nothing bad has happened to you. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry. You can’t tell if the pounding noise in your ear is from your heart or the rush of blood to your head. You sat up way too fast. You can hear your ragged breaths, and you close your eyes, resisting the urge to chastise yourself for being so weak. You’ve never fallen asleep here before. You followed the same routine you’ve always done, so you shouldn’t have even been tired. There’s no reason why you should have fallen asleep, just as you realize there should be no reason for the thin sheet on your bed to be covering you, a pitiful excuse for a blanket.

You pause. Calm your breathing. Reassess the situation.

You didn’t have the sheet covering your body before you fell asleep. You know this because you never use the sheet as a blanket. You slowly turn your head and find Colt slumped against the wall, his eyes shut, his breathing calm and steady. The position looks uncomfortable, and when you move to sit on the edge of the bed, letting your sock-covered feet hit the wooden floors, you can still feel the chill of hardwood biting through the cotton.

He didn’t do anything besides tuck you in. You glance down at the watch on your wrist, only feeling safe enough to wear it when he’s around. Not even thirty minutes have passed. There’s still an hour left of your time that he is promised.

You didn’t make a mistake, you realize.

You take the thin sheet and drape it over his body, hoping that it provides some sort of comfort. You do this, and then you climb right back into bed, turning to the side so that you can get a view of his peaceful expression before you allow sleep to drag you under its spell once more.

After that, Colt insists that you go to sleep whenever you feel tired. You tell him that that isn’t fair, and he gives you a look.

Fairness is a foreign concept to him.

You never realized just how late into the night your shift takes you. You never realize how sweet a peaceful slumber truly is. The first few times you go to sleep, Colt still remains on the floor. Then, one night, he’s helping you readjust your watch and suddenly your right arm is hanging from the bed as you sleep, and he’s holding your hand, equally unconscious to the world. You wake up to the comfort of his hand still securely wrapped around your own, the rest of his body relaxed on the cold floor. You don’t let go, feigning sleep when you notice him stirring and about to wake up. You want to see what he does when he thinks you’re still asleep; every time before this, you’ve always been open about being the first one to wake.

You wonder if this is when you relearn the lesson of never trusting outsiders. You hear him shift his body, try to reawaken muscles that have gone slack. And then, he’s moving your hand, slowly bringing it upwards. You fight to keep your eyes closed, your body relaxed.

A quick brush of his lips against your knuckles. He squeezes your hand, and when you shift your body, prepared to finally “wake up,” he’s quick to drop your hand, acting as if he’s done something he shouldn’t have. Like a kid caught with his hand in the jar of cookies.

(He’s been that kid before; you couldn’t stop laughing at his retelling of the whole ordeal. He turned pink, telling you that it was because Falco wanted the cookies, and he refused to listen to Colt’s explanation of how they weren’t allowed to have any until after dinner.

“Did you take the blame for everything?” You ask him, with tears in your eyes from how hard you’ve been laughing.

“Yes.” He admits to taking the fall, acting as if he was the one who wanted the cookies, and Falco was just a tiny witness and not the reason for getting him into this situation.

You start laughing again, to the point where your stomach aches. You’re unaware that he thinks the sound of your laughter is the soundtrack to his life, and both of you are unaware of how he’s pulling you in even deeper.

For someone with a fear of falling, you sure don’t know how close to the edge you really are.)

In the months leading up to you kissing him in front of your whole community, these are the moments shared. Every conversation, every secret, every story for a story, every shared slumber, the singular barely-a-kiss upon your hand — all of it fills the cracks and crevices of your heart.

(You refuse to admit to being scared of a lot of things, but the meaning behind him taking root inside your heart — that’s the scariest thing to you.)

You try to steady the beat of your — slowly transitioning into his — heart every time you watch the door handle twist. You know not to expect him too often nowadays; his training more grueling, more intense, as his inheritance of the Beast Titan is fast approaching. If it’s not hope (and the inevitable disappointment that soaks you to the bone when you realize it’s not him) that’s serving you a slow death, then it’s the waiting.

You have experience in waiting. Waiting in long lines at the food bank during the cruel heat of the summer, knowing that leaving the line in search of water would be fruitless and only result in you losing your place in line (and as a result, food for the next two days — three if you limit your own portions). Waiting for your parents to miraculously come back from the dead and to give you a big hug, tell you that you did such a good job taking care of yourself and Ramzi. Waiting for your particularly rough clients to finish having their way with you and to leave you be. You’re always waiting. Always in a constant state of looking forward to what comes next; a side effect that stems from the fact that your current standard of living always leaves much to be desired.

And you know about desire. As much as you’ve tried to avoid it, to avoid the senseless action and feeling of want, you’re only human. You dream of a better life; nothing too luxurious. A small apartment instead of a tent. A real school for Ramzi to attend instead of the volunteer tutors who come by once or twice a week, covering material that kids Ramzi’s age have already learned years ago. A different job, even. You’re fine with labor — your current work already is laborious — but a respectable job. Something that won’t have people who know what you do sneer and spit at you. Cleaning houses, watching over spoiled children — yes, those are preferable jobs. You’re not a person accustomed to selfishness, to letting your desires run rampant. You are not asking for pleasure from the world; you’ll gladly settle for a reduced sentence of pain.

But desire grips you by the throat, winds itself around your body, chokes you, strangles you, in all matters involving Colt Grice. The unfamiliar, devastating punch of want hits you in your heart as all you can do is stand frozen in your room, trying to let what he tells you sink in.

It doesn’t sink in. It hangs stagnant in the air, looms over the both of you before expanding, surrounding you two on all sides. Takes the shape of the four walls, and suddenly, it’s closing in on you, everything is closing in on you.

Why is it that you always have to wait? Haven’t you waited long enough for just a glimpse of something bright to enter into your world? You’ve dealt with all this shit for years, suffered in silence, took everything lying down, and Colt stumbles into your room, stuttering over his sentences, and you dare to think that this is your luck turning around. That the universe is throwing you a bone. That nature says spring is coming early, spring is here to stay. Every time he walks through that damn door to enter your room, you see the sun peeking through the storm clouds.

“You’re leaving?” You don’t like the way you practically choke on the question.

Regret roughs up the soft features of his face.

“Yes.”

Colt Grice is handed a metal container that is roughly the size of a shoebox and is informed that anything placed in there will be sent to his family in the case that he does not return.

He’s sitting on his bed, staring at the empty box resting on his lap. Whatever is supposed to go in here is meant to be a satisfactory consolation; sorry you lost your older son, here’s some junk he found in his barracks to help you remember him. He places the lid back on the container. How is anyone supposed to fit a life inside something not even a foot long?

He lays down on his bed, savoring the stiffness of the mattress and the cold sheets neatly tucked with military precision. This will be one of his last days of enjoying the comforts of a real bed, and Colt is not the type to be ungrateful. He can take pleasure in the little things.

He has to be able to — if he waited for anything major to happen before he started considering it to be a win, he’d never have a cause for celebration.

There’s this funny feeling he gets sometimes. Moments in his life where he feels like everything is moving too quickly for his liking. One second he’s tossing a ball back and forth with Zeke, then he blinks and he’s in the mess hall, listening to Porco complaining about “the fucking slop” they’re being fed that day. He knows it’s silly, knows that the impending deadline of thirteen years won’t loom over his head just yet, but the idea of this life — his life — being cut short has never bothered him before.

And then he meets you, and suddenly, life stops moving at a pace where everything around him is a blur and leaves him feeling dizzy, unable to find his footing. Suddenly, time stands still for him. He finds his footing. He can stand tall. Everything is in hyper focus, and he’s all too aware that the future is bleak.

His future’s always been destined to be bleak; if he wasn’t in the Warrior Unit, there’d still be a chance that he’d be used as a titan for war. Just not the kind that grants some form of glory. Just the kind used as a weapon. Just something in a military general’s arsenal. He’s certain that “unleash the titans” is written on a slip of paper and is put inside a case alongside grenades and guns.

He shuts his eyes, thinking about his sheer impermanence. His lack of a future has never been a major cause for concern. Eldian families know what to expect when their sons and daughters end up in the Warrior Unit. But then you kissed him and all he could think about when he felt the pressure of your lips against his for the first time was maybe there is a future out there for me. One worth chasing after. One worth being alive for. One with you.

He wants a future now. He wants it so badly, so desperately, that all he can do is lay here and curl his fingers around the bedcover, ruining the hard work that went into perfecting the appearance of his bed. All he can do, all he’s allowed to do, is grit his teeth and force down the bitter truth: he has no future.

And he would really, really love to have one now.

It’s not like this dream is new — just repressed. He’s gotten too good at pushing down his selfish desires in favor of thinking about what’s best for the collective good. If he becomes the Beast Titan, his family will be elevated in status; better healthcare, better home, better paycheck to mail to them. There would be less pressure on Falco to do well; there would be no point. The Grices would have given up one son; surely, even Marley would have pity and tell them to do everything they can to hang onto the last one. As a child, he used to skip recess breaks to help his teachers clean up the classroom or grade papers. He’d wipe down the windows, pretending that he doesn’t want to be one of the carefree kids swinging on the monkeybars. Because of his volunteering to help the teacher, she was less stressed, with no frustrations to take out on the students. No one ever thanked him for doing this. No one even acknowledged it.

“What’re you thinkin’ so hard about?” Porco drops the metal lunch tray onto the table. It’s the sound of the tray making contact with the aged wood that snaps Colt out of his thoughts and back into reality.

“I wasn’t thinking about anything.” He’s lying, but Porco doesn’t need to hear about his inner turmoil.

“Don’t bother lying if you’re not even going to try to be good at it.” Porco snorts, digging his spoon into the mushy vegetables steaming on his plate. “You’re being sent home tonight, aren’t you?” He’s in the middle of chewing a mixture of too-soft carrots and green beans. Colt pretends not to notice the way the vegetables are being blended together in his mouth. Pieck complains that Porco needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed, and out of spite, he chooses to do the complete opposite.

“Yeah.” Colt uses his fork to play with his food, poking at an overcooked steamed carrot. “Falco gets to spend the night at home, too.”

“Damn. How’d he take the news?”

Colt cringes. “Didn’t get a chance to tell him.”

Porco gapes at him, but then his stomach growls and he’s back to shoveling more food in his mouth. He has the decency to swallow first before resuming the conversation. “You’re fucked, Grice.”

It’s not like leaving Falco in the dark was intentional. He stays in the barracks designated for younger kids, and Colt’s been running around the base, trying to make sure that he’s properly preparing for his deployment. He meant to take the walk to Falco last night, after he finished finding things to put in that damn shoebox, but thoughts of you, his mediocre life, his wasted time and lost chances, his family — all of those thoughts weighed him down, kept him chained to the bed. He couldn’t even get a decent night’s sleep. And his box still remains empty, shoved underneath his bed. It’s gotten to the point where he’s even debating asking Porco to fill it on his behalf, but who knows what he considers appropriate?

“The worst part is, Falco’s definitely been notified that he has the opportunity to be sent home, and the reasoning they’ll give him is because an immediate family member is being deployed. He knows I’m being sent away, and now he’s just waiting for me to actually tell him.” Colt sighs as Porco beats him to his drawn conclusion:

“Yeah. You’re super fucked.”

After a few minutes of silence, Porco finds even more stuff to ponder about. “Hey, how’d your girlfriend take the news?”

Seriously, since when did Porco suddenly become so chatty? Was the tasteless lunch food not enough to keep him occupied? Colt takes this moment as an opportunity to shovel a heaping of hot, bland mush into his mouth in order to avoid answering that question. He thinks he burns a few taste buds in the process, but with the food that’s being served to them, it’s not like they were being used in the first place.

Colt wishes Porco didn’t have such a stubborn streak. He sits there, unimpressed, waiting for Colt to finish eating, which takes no time at all. The silence and his bemused expression say enough: hurry up and answer.

“Didn’t really get a chance to tell her, either.”

Porco blinks.

“Damn it, Grice. Who does know about your deployment?”

He thinks for a second, mentally doing a count. “Well, for starters, you—”

“Okay, so no one. No one knows you’re being deployed.”

Well, when he puts it like that.

“I planned on telling them.”

“When? When you’re already on the battlefield?”

Colt flinches. “When they would have less time to worry about me.”

Porco pauses, the snarky comment sliding back down his throat. For once during this conversation, Porco seems at a loss for words.

“They’re always going to worry about you.” Porco says, all sarcasm gone from his tone and replaced with a seriousness that Colt doesn’t get from him often.

Colt thinks about how Porco used to react when Marcel would be sent away, even if it was just for a training camp sponsored by a different town’s military unit. He’d be even surlier than usual, and with no Marcel to stop him from picking a fight, he’d get into more trouble, too. People’s worry seems to manifest in different ways. When he first made it into the Warrior Unit, his mother pulled out his baby album and started tearing up at the rare photos of a baby Colt. The six year old boy with a front tooth missing, smiling for his elementary school photo, is the son she sees being taken from her.

Colt doesn’t know how to verbalize his feelings on the matter without embarrassing himself. If it were possible, Colt would gladly shoulder the weight of everybody’s worry for him. He doesn’t like the idea of his parents and little brother anticipating Marleyan officers coming to them, presenting them with a shoebox filled with trinkets meant to represent his life. He especially doesn’t like the idea of you anxiously waiting for him. He sees the split second of desperation in your eyes when you watch the door crack open, trying to see who’s behind it. He knows the relaxed slump of your body when you see it’s him is reserved just for him. He doesn’t want to try and imagine the reaction you have when it’s anyone else.

(Because it will be, for at least several months, someone else.

And he will be miles away, trying to dodge a spray of bullets coming from men he doesn’t know, powerless to help you and maybe even himself.)

“That’s the problem.” He admits to Porco, before pushing his tray aside, losing his appetite.

When Falco is born, Colt can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that this crying, red-faced gremlin swathed in a baby-blue blanket is his brother.

“This is your baby brother, Colt,” his mother cooed, rocking a newborn Falco and beckoning Colt to come closer. “His name is Falco.”

Colt doesn’t know what baby brothers are supposed to do. For the first few days since they’ve brought him back from the hospital, Falco sure doesn’t do much besides cry and sleep. There’s a funny feeling he gets, though, whenever he hears his little brother cry. He wants his little brother to stop crying; not because the noise bothers him, but because he doesn’t want tiny Falco to be in any sort of distress.

Colt’s still too young to worry about things like life and death, but he does find himself on his tip-toes, peering into Falco’s crib, seemingly worried that if he doesn’t watch over Falco himself, Falco will just disappear into thin air. He doesn’t ponder on it too much, but as Colt stares at the peaceful state his normally loud brother is in, Colt realizes two things: life is very precious, and he wants his brother to enjoy this life for as long as he can.

He offers to carry Falco at any given moment, telling his mother that she’ll have her hands full while cooking and can’t carry him herself. He watches with morbid fascination (and a little disgust) as his father explains how and why he has to change Falco’s diaper, and even though he’s just joking when he asks Colt if he wants to change Falco the next time, he grins when young Colt nods solemnly.

“You’re a good big brother,” his father tells him, squeezing him on the shoulder.

A good big brother.

This praise becomes one of Colt’s goals in life. He’s a dutiful son, a capable soldier, and a dependable older brother. He’s the one who Falco looks up to in this world. Falco’s the reason why he doesn’t ever fight back against the blatant disrespect some Marleyan soldiers show him. Falco’s the reason why he’s careful about who he hangs around with; Colt was never meant to be with the group who walked him straight to the red light district. Falco’s the reason why Colt finds himself nervously trying to build up the courage to give a request to Zeke.

“They’re sending you to Fort Helena.” Zeke says rather than asks, tossing the baseball in a wide arc. Colt winces, but not because of the impact of the ball landing neatly in his palm.

“Just my luck, I suppose.” He says, throwing the ball.

It’s an ancient-looking thing, discolored from age and dirt. Colt can’t understand why Zeke hangs onto it, but asking him that seems even scarier than the prospect of asking him for a favor.

“Do you?” Zeke raises an eyebrow. “Think you’re lucky, that is.”

Colt catches the ball once more, hanging onto it for a few more seconds than necessary as he mulls over the question. He thinks about his family gathered around the kitchen table, no fear of ever starving, a nice roof over their heads. He thinks about Falco falling just short of making the preliminary list of future titan inheritors; with Colt inheriting the Beast, the Grice name will be restored. There will be no reason for Falco to chase after a meaningless legacy full of empty glory and an early death. He thinks about you.

“I’ve lived a better life than most.” Colt answers carefully.

“Gonna be a bit of a short life, huh?” Zeke holds a hand up to stop Colt from tossing the ball back to him. Zeke fumbles with the inner pockets of his jacket, taking out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “My advice to you is to start doing whatever you want, otherwise the deadline starts to get to you.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

Zeke takes a drag of the cigarette, casually exhaling smoke. “I don’t want to leave behind unfinished business.” And he leaves it at that, choosing to not elaborate any further. Colt doesn’t press him for more details; they don’t have that sort of relationship. Despite the fact that Zeke’s been a full-fledged Warrior for so long, Colt has a feeling that Zeke doesn’t really have any relationships that allow him to confide in others. “On that note, do you have any scores you’re trying to settle before you go?”

Sometimes, Colt gets the funny feeling that conversations with Zeke are more like interrogations. Unlike Porco, who outright asks what’s on his mind, Zeke meticulously pokes and prods at all the weak points Colt wasn’t even aware he had. Colt finds himself shifting his weight around, the baseball suddenly feeling too heavy, his uniform too restrictive.

“I just want to ensure that the people I care about are well taken care of, long after I’m gone.”

Zeke studies him for a moment. The more time they spend together, the more layers of Zeke Colt thinks he unravels; the only issue is, surface level stuff is easy to understand. It’s when you start to dig deeper into a person’s being that they start to become confusing. He makes an effort to try to get to know Zeke, not for his own personal gain, but because no one really knows Zeke. How incredibly lonely it must be, Colt thinks, to not be known. To not even have anyone willing to try to learn you.

Of course, he knows that eventually he’ll understand what goes on in Zeke’s mind, that one day, Zeke’s memories will blend in with his own. But Colt’s not the invasive type. He needs to be invited in.

“You’ll do a lot for your family.” Zeke comments.

“They’re my family.” And Colt leaves it at that, certain that nothing more could be said on the matter. In typical Zeke fashion, he pokes and he prods. He’s perfected the talent of softening the words that come from his sharp tongue, though.

“Your parents and your brother; they mean that much to you?”

They mean the world to me. I’d die for them without any hesitation. I’d give up anything to ensure they live good lives. Those answers come to Colt naturally. He doesn’t have to think about saying them, but he does pause. Thinks to himself what a good answer might be.

When he was younger— the Beast still wholly belonging to Zeke, Colt uncertain of what his bleak future might hold — Zeke had always seemed to be an enigma. All Colt knew about him was that he mostly kept to himself, that he proved his loyalty to Marley by betraying his family (and by extension, revealing Colt’s uncle as a dirty Restorationist), and that he knew much more than he let on. Colt figures out this last bit of information through years of conversation and mentorship. Zeke’s trick, Colt realizes, is that he lets everyone else around him do the talking. At best, Zeke will offer up the most bare minimum reply he can get away with.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?” It’s a cheekier reply than what Colt would normally give, but he relaxes his shoulders when he catches the barest hint of a smile on Zeke’s lips.

(That’s another thing Colt notices about his mentor; he doesn’t ever seem to smile.)

“You worked hard to inherit the Beast. The appeal of being a Warrior so enticing that you would shorten the time you could spend with your family?”

Colt sometimes forgets that Zeke technically has no family; his parents are either deep in the dungeons or dead due to their betrayal to the country. Colt hasn’t decided which fate is worse, and now he wonders if Zeke knows what has become of his parents. Zeke also doesn’t have any siblings; he probably can’t see where Colt is coming from.

“What I do affects my family entirely. If I become a Warrior, they receive the benefits and retain the status of honorary Marleyans.” Colt clears his throat. “Even after I’m dead.”

“Your brother — I heard he wants to inherit one of the Titans, eventually. Maybe follow in his older brother’s footsteps and take the Beast.” He’s not asking a question, but Colt can’t help but answer.

“That won’t happen.” He’s quick with the reply, tightening his grip on the battered baseball. “He’s already ranked close to the bottom of the list of candidates, and there wouldn’t be a point to him inheriting a Titan anyway.”

“There’s always the opportunity to make Marley proud.” Zeke’s being sarcastic; his actions might indicate that he’s nothing but loyal to the motherland, but his expression and attitude suggest otherwise. “That’s not a pointless ordeal.”

Yeah, but this conversation is starting to feel like one. Colt loosens his grip on the baseball, unsure of what direction Zeke wanted to take this conversation in. Maybe it’s just a setup, and he’s trying to gauge Colt’s loyalty to the country before he officially inherits the Beast. Having someone who can transform into a powerful monster at will is already dangerous enough; imagine if that person just lost control or wanted to take their anger out on the people who abused them on a daily basis.

(Honestly, the more he considers it, the more he realizes the amount of self-restraint Porco truly possesses.

That, and the fact that he’s a mama’s boy. If he went rogue, Mrs. Galliard would surely pay the price for his transgressions.)

“I just don’t see the point in him wanting to be on the frontlines of war.” Colt decides to say. It’s the truth. “There’s nothing to be gained from it.”

“You’ve got a point there, Grice.” Another drag of his cigarette, another puff of nicotine-infused smoke being exhaled. “War’s only glorious when you see the pretty posters telling you it’s an honor to enlist. Won’t be long ‘til he’s being sent out there. The disillusionment they feel after their first deployment is always worse than the shell shock.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Colt locks eyes with Zeke, and he continues speaking before he loses his nerve. “Falco still has some time where he’s considered a child, and you know that war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He looks up to you. Could you possibly… make some time to throw around the ball with him, maybe convince him that some fights just aren’t worth joining?”

Zeke doesn’t answer immediately. He finishes off his cigarette, drops it to the ground, and stomps on it, still possibly mulling over Colt’s request.

“If it’s a request from my favorite successor, then sure.” A brief flash of a smile. “Hopefully he throws half as decent as you.”

As a baby, Colt wasn’t very fussy. His mother used to tell him that she was worried about him while he was growing up because he wouldn’t make a lot of noise. She tells stories about how, as a child, he would curl up in bed, trying to make himself as small as possible, almost as if he was scared of taking up too much space. This anxious reflex was something he grew out of, probably because that growth spurt of his resulted in him taking up a lot more space everywhere he goes. It’s hard to hide in plain sight when you’re the one who has to grab stuff on the top shelf for others.

Falco isn’t like that, though. Colt remembers the long nights of constant crying that came from his baby brother’s crib, the way he could never hold in his wails of pain when he would skin a knee while playing on the decrepit public playground in the internment zone, the excited shouts of joy he let out as he barreled straight into Colt’s outstretched arms on the days a young Colt would return from the military base. Falco might be nearing ten years old now, but he still hasn’t outgrown much of his childhood; tufts of feathersoft hair that still sticks out against his longer strands, baby fat that makes his cheeks appear to be chubby, adult teeth that fits awkwardly in his mouth, and most incriminating of all: his innocence.

Falco doesn’t know anything about war. It’s because their father doesn’t like to discuss it, and Colt will do anything to ensure that Falco never learns. He complains that everyone in their family babies him, and Colt doesn’t know how to tell Falco that it’s because to them, he still is a baby. When Colt looks at him, he still sees the little brother who would hide behind his back, wiping his tears and snot against the fabric of Colt’s shirt.

Colt isn’t the type of person who speaks up for himself, but it’s an entirely different story when it comes to others. Growing up, he would get teased on the schoolyard, yelled at by his instructors in the military, sneered at, spat at, laughed at. He took it all in stride, and when it comes to matters concerning only himself, he still does — take it all in stride, that is. Just last week, he was on courtyard cleaning duty, except the Eldian units had no brooms to sweep with. He had to make do with a crutch (loaned to him by an injured soldier who felt bad for him) shoddily attached to some raggedy broom bristles.

The alternative would have been to ask a superior officer for a proper broom, but Colt already knows how that would have ended: with him getting yelled at in front of everyone, absolute humiliation and shame coursing through his veins, and still, no broom.

When you spend most of your life being someone’s go-to punching bag, you start to get a feel for what’s a losing battle, for what fight is worth having.

Even if things will only prove to get worse for him, Colt jumps to the defense of others. Even if it’s a losing battle, when it comes to matters concerning Falco, it doesn’t matter what odds are stacked against him, what cruel punishment awaits for him; defending Falco will always be a fight worth having.

It’s why he’s the big brother who kills all the bugs, the brother who checks the closet and under the bed to make sure there are no monsters in the room, the brother who couldn’t hold in his shout of disapproval when he saw the youth commanding officer punishing Falco. He’s the brother who enlisted so Falco would never have to.

And now, picking him up from his barracks so they can take the train home, Colt realizes that he will have to be the brother who leaves.

It leaves a bad feeling in his stomach, punches him in the gut, and it’s silent as he and Falco board the train. It’s no more than a twenty minute ride to the internment zone from base, but the silence between them makes the seconds drag out and feel like years. Even worse — no amount of time seems to be sufficient enough for what Colt wants to say to him.

Sorry I didn’t tell you I was getting shipped off to war. Hey buddy, looks like I’m heading off to war! You’ll never guess where I’m going! Don’t be selfish; let your brother get some glory for you to brag about!

He thinks he’d rather get waterboarded than say any of those statements to Falco. If the roles were reversed, if he was the younger brother feeling betrayed over his older brother’s silence, what would he want to hear?

The truth.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared.”

Falco looks up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He’s sitting on the seat across from him, and Colt can’t help but notice the way he’s still short enough to where his feet don’t even hit the ground. It makes him swallow hard, before continuing.

“I was scared you would be worried about me.”

“But I am!” Falco interjects, looking like he’s about to hop out of his seat. “That’s why I’m training so hard, so that I can be the one who fights alongside you in the future!”

The thing about little brothers is that they can’t fathom a scenario where they’re not right by their brother’s side. Falco doesn’t think about how awful going to war will be; just that it’s important to him that they’re with each other when it happens. Colt thinks back to the way Porco used to go around bragging that one day, he’d be fighting side by side with his older brother, Marcel.

Then Colt thinks about the haunted look on Porco’s face when he realizes that his older brother is dead. When Porco’s birthday comes around, the one where he reaches the age Marcel never had a chance to be, he doesn’t celebrate. Colt stares at the earnest expression on Falco’s face, memorizes his childlike naivety, and prays that nothing changes about him when he comes back from Fort Helena.

(Because he will come back. There’s too many people waiting for his return.)

It’s barely late in the afternoon, but there’s a darkness that smothers the internment zone of Liberio.

The sun is shining, and Colt can feel himself already getting overheated in his uniform as he steps off the train, but even the sunlight does nothing to wipe the grim expressions off the faces of his fellow soldiers. Everyone’s excited to be off base and to see their loved ones, sure, but this isn’t a holiday visit

When there’s active war and their enlisted sons are stuck on base, Eldian parents know what it means when they see their child on the doorsteps of their home, no prior explanation given except for a letter in the mail sent just a day before the dreaded arrival of their son.

Opening the door and seeing their baby in uniform isn’t a cause for celebration. It’s the chance that this very well may be the last time they ever see their child again.

No one is out in the street. Parents and families have received their letters in the mail, telling them that in twenty-four hours, they can expect to see their soldier returning home for the night.

Not even a full day, Colt realizes. He’s back a few hours before supper, but what really can he do with his family before he wakes up at the crack of dawn to head on a train to a warzone? Maybe, in the few hours he has with them, he’ll figure out a proper way to say farewell.

The Grice family home is modest, unassuming. Much like its inhabitants.

Barnaby Grice is where Colt inherits his height from, but he’s developed a slouch (a disappointing consequence of his chronic back pain) that makes it hard to believe. His shoulders sag, and he looks tired. Mom says it’s because he can’t sleep at night; too much restless energy. His father is good with his hands; before the illness took over, he had been one of the engineers — one of the few Eldian engineers, too — that worked on the Navy’s ships. He still wants to work, offering to help fix up neighbor’s boats, free of charge. It’s a slow death, to be a busybody whose body is failing them.

Amelia Grice fusses over her husband constantly. With both of her boys now out of the house, it’s easier to manage the household, but that doesn't mean she can’t find problems that need her attention. If keeping an eye on her husband proves to be not enough to keep her entertained, she spends her time flipping through old family albums, seeing her little boys, and then wondering what she can do to help them. She’s taken up knitting; sewing is essential, but knitting is purely for pleasure. There’s a stack of sweaters and blankets she’s managed to make, and they’re all going to be stuffed in her sons’ knapsacks before they take the train back to base.

(She knits every time she thinks about them.

It’s going to be impossible for them to take all her completed projects back with them.)

As plain as it appears to be, it’s home to Colt. He stares at the faded red brick exterior of the house, the shutters black (and the color too saturated, indicating that it’s been freshly painted since the last time he’s been here), the welcome mat swept clean from any outside debris.

He doesn’t even have to knock on the door for it to swing open, revealing the tired, worn, but relieved expressions on both of his parents’ faces.

“Colt, Falco, you’re back home!” His mother ushers them into the house, and Colt is slapped in the face with the strong wall of nostalgia.

When was the last time he’s been back home?

(Will this be the last time?)

No matter the time that’s passed, Colt can tell that his mother’s been cooking her famous roast; the spices are still marinating on the meat, and he can recognize mom’s cooking from miles away. If he faints on the battlefield, the scent of her cookies should be enough to bring him back to full consciousness.

He sees his father’s work boots still resting by the front door, and as he walks further along the narrow hallway of their home, he spots the pencil marks etched on the wall. It’s markers for his (and then Falco’s) new heights as they went through their childhood years. Amelia is back in the kitchen, fussing over the food, and Falco follows her, probably in the hopes of sneaking in bites when she’s not looking.

Barnaby watches as Colt looks at the pencil marks he left behind all those years ago. He can still picture his son barely able to reach his shoulders, and now Colt is easily taller than him.

“Should I get out the tape measurer and pencil?” He asks, smiling as Colt seems to be broken out of whatever trance he was in.

Colt gives him a sheepish grin. “I just couldn’t believe I was ever this tiny. Even Falco was taller than me when we were the same age!”

“I can remember when you weren’t tall enough to reach the cabinets so you would have to climb on top of the counters.” When he catches the faint blush on his son’s cheeks, Barnaby laughs. “Bet you would rather not remember that, huh?”

“Mom screamed at me to get down because she was scared I was going to fall off and break open my head or something. Her yelling was what nearly made me lose my balance!”

“Ah, your mom just worries about you too much.”

“Don’t play Mr. Tough Guy!” Amelia peeks her head out from the kitchen. With her back turned, only Colt and Barnaby can spot Falco mischievously popping one of the baby potatoes from the pot roast into his mouth. They hold in their laughter while his mother continues. “Just so you know, Colt, your father’s been up all night ever since we got that letter! He even started sifting through our trashed newspapers for any articles he might’ve missed on Fort Helena.”

“I was just curious about the crossword.” Her husband mutters, but she rolls her eyes.

“Falco, go set the table! You two, come in here and sit down. I’m about to serve supper.”

Nothing beats a home cooked meal, but when you’ve been fed nothing but indiscernible mush and questionable protein on a military base, the Grice boys can’t help but devour everything on the table like they’ve been starved. Too happy at having the whole family over for dinner, Mrs. Grice ignores the way they forgo table manners and instead encourages them to eat some more. Right when Colt’s plate is almost cleaned off, she’s forking over more meat and potatoes onto his plate.

Colt tries to savor the taste of the meal, hopes and prays that his taste buds retain the memory of his mother’s cooking so he has something to substitute for the tasteless protein bars they serve all soldiers on the battlefield. He’s been trying to actively avoid thinking too much about it, but where he’s headed, there will be no pot roasts or mothers to serve it up on a nice plate for him.

Later on in the night, Colt gets that funny feeling again. The one where he feels like time seems to quicken its pace when it comes to him. He blinks, and he’s suddenly not at the dinner table, laughing at what the neighbors have been up to. He’s no longer washing the dishes, either (he does it despite his mother protesting that he shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning when he needs to be up early tomorrow); Falco still finds it funny when Colt makes funny shapes out of the bubbles and suds from the dish soap, and their boyish laughter fills the house, makes it feel like a home once more. Time gives him some grace, though, when it comes to tucking in Falco.

“A lot nicer than the bunk beds in the barracks, huh?” Colt teases. Falco’s sheets are still the same baby blue, but they smell fresh. His mother must have washed them while waiting for them to come home.

“Smells a lot nicer, too.” Falco comments, and Colt laughs. He’s sitting on the edge of his little brother’s bed, and Falco’s all snuggled up in his blanket. With the sweat and grime washed off from his face, his pastel colored jammies fitting only a bit too snug, and the way he fits so perfectly in his childhood bedroom, Colt knows that this is what Falco’s nights should have still been looking like. Falco will take the later train back to base, but Colt’s happy that he’ll at least get to eat lunch with their parents; maybe even find some time to catch up with the other neighborhood kids.

“If you think the barracks are bad, I don’t think you’ll want to be going where I’m going.” He’s trying to keep his voice light, teasing, but Falco immediately frowns.

“I’ll always follow you anywhere! I don’t care how bad it gets! You told me that as long as we’re together, everything will be okay.”

People aren’t supposed to go back on their word — especially not older brothers. Colt cringes as he thinks about how he’s going to have to make an addendum to that particular promise.

“You know, Falco, war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s dirty, and disgusting, and the officers are all harsher than they usually are.”

“I know that!”

Not really, not yet.

“Then why do you want to go with me so badly?”

“Because you’re my brother. Because I don’t want you to go through that alone.”

“You know that I love you, right?”

“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.” He mumbles, pulling the blanket closer to his chest, covering his chin.

“And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you to not follow me to these places. I’m your big brother. I want to do all of this so you’re never obligated to.”

“But—”

“Do you know why I thought inheriting the Beast was such an honor? It wasn’t because I wanted to make Marley proud, or because I was finally giving our country reparations for what Uncle did. It was an honor for me to inherit it because it meant that our family would be safe. No one else would have to fight anymore. It’ll all be over, don’t you get it? You can live better lives now.”

“But I don’t want to live a better life without you! It won’t be a better life without you!” Even in the dark, Colt can spot the familiar shine in his brother’s eyes as an indicator that he’s about to cry.

“Falco—” Colt pats him on the head, feeling babysoft hair underneath his calloused palm. “Everything will be okay in the end. I promise.”

That’s the first promise of the night that Colt makes. The next comes a few minutes later, when he heads downstairs and sees that the living room light is still on. His parents are seated next to each other on the couch, and they seem to be waiting for him.

If Colt was still a teenager, he would be feeling nervous. They’re seated almost as if they’re about to confront him about breaking curfew or a bad grade (neither scenarios have actually happened; the nickname of “Golden Boy Grice” didn’t spring out of nowhere).

“Hi.” He sits on the armchair adjacent to them.

“It’s still early in the evening, but you might as well go wash up and head to bed. You have an early morning ahead of you, sweetie.” His mother suggests this, but there’s a reason why she’s still up and waiting for him. It’s because she doesn’t want him to go to bed, not yet, not when she finally has her baby within reach.

“Too early for me to be able to sleep.” Colt tells her, because he knows how she’s feeling. “Besides, I feel like there’s some stuff I didn’t get to share with you two during dinner.”

Colt explains about how the paycheck he’ll receive while he’s actively on the battlefield will increase; not only has being a Warrior greatly increased his earnings, but being on the frontlines will leave plenty for his family. Half of his paycheck will go to them, of course, but he loses his confidence in his speech when he reveals his plan.

“And a portion of my earnings will be going to someone else.”

“Someone else?” His father raises an eyebrow; it’s not out of malice, but curiosity. He doesn’t care what his son does with his money, but throughout this entire day, Colt hasn’t given any indication of anyone important entering his life.

“A girl.” Colt answers, suddenly quieter than he’s been all night. “I’ve made the proper arrangements so that you two won’t have to worry about manually divvying it up yourselves, especially if I… don’t return.”

(It had been an awkward affair. He knows that you don’t have a bank account, and his only choice was to turn to Willa, the redheaded woman running your brothel.

“You want my bank account information so that a portion of your paycheck can be deposited into my account, and then you want me to cash it out and hand it over to her? Is that correct?”

“I understand if it’s too much of a hassle. If necessary, I can pay you—”

“I’m not going to kick someone when they’re down.” Willa interrupts him, and he can’t help but feel like maybe she’s even insulting him. Does she think he’s poor?

He kind of is, but he makes a far more decent living than many others in his neighborhood!

“Of course I can do it. Did you tell her about you sending her money?”

“No.”

“Good. She would have refused it.”

He knows you would. That’s precisely why he didn’t tell you.

“I don’t meddle in the affairs of soldiers, and I certainly don’t micromanage my girls. I’m asking this because I care about her. What are your intentions, truly? Are you going to steal her away from this place? Are you going to keep on giving her your paychecks, even when you find yourself a wife and start a family? Are you going to leave her with nothing but a few memories of you?” Willa’s green eyes are too sharp; just like Zeke, she pokes and prods, but it’s her intense stare that seems to whittle away at his very soul.

“I want to do whatever she wants.”

Willa’s eyes soften, just the slightest bit, before she promises to hand over the money to you every week, and then she sends Colt on his merry way.)

“A girl?” His mother repeats, and his father only continues to look more concerned.

“Did you do something with this girl to make her your responsibility?” Barnaby asks, scared of what answer he’ll receive.

“No! It’s not like that!” Colt exclaims, nearly jumping out of his seat. “It’s different. It’s… A delicate situation.” He tries to avoid looking into his parents’ eyes when he says this.

“Is she Eldian?” His father presses, leaning forward, practically holding his breath.

“She’s from the refugee camp.” Colt explains, and he watches as his mother processes what he’s just told them, along with the relieved slump of his father’s shoulders.

Refugees aren’t treated much better than Eldians; at least most Eldians have houses as opposed to tents.

“Is she a nice girl?” Amelia enters her Mother Hen mode, knowing that it’ll do no good to worry over her son. She shifts her anxieties onto you instead. “Oh, that poor girl, she’s going to be freezing in the upcoming weeks! You know we have some of the harshest winters here. Maybe I should knit her some sweaters. Do you think she would like that? What’s her name? I’ll head down to the camp one of these days, and—”

“Mom, it’s okay! She’s doing well.”

She doesn’t seem to believe him, but she eases up on her questions.

“She must mean a lot to you, though.” His father brings up. “Enough to mention her to your dear old parents. About time you bring a girl home to us, boy.”

Colt looks down at his hands. “She does. I’ll bring her back home if I make it back.”

The if stabs him in the throat, but he knows better than to make the promise of when.

“Well, we can’t wait to meet her then.” His mother is smiling at him, her hands clasped with his father’s. “I have a great feeling about her.”

There’s a breach in the barbed wire surrounding the back outskirts of the internment zone. Legend has it that a Marleyan officer once fell in love with an Eldian girl, and he sneakily cut this discreet opening so that they could make an escape and run off into the woods to be together.

Truthfully, Colt believes the other version of the origin story of the hole. It goes something along the lines of how a Marleyan officer once fought on the battlefield with an Eldian, and the Eldian saved his life by taking a bullet for him. Feeling bad, the officer returned, took his name off for active duty volunteer, and became a patrolman for the internment zone instead. When he heard that the Eldian’s brother was going to be shipped off next, the officer, not understanding that deserting his duty would lead to the Eldian’s death, decided to cut open this part of the fence and let him know that running away was an option.

Colt’s not sure what to believe, but he does know that this opening in the fence has been used for the past decade or so, and will probably continue to be of use long after he’s gone. No one’s ever used it to desert their duties, and Colt thinks this is precisely why it’s never been fixed. You can loosen the leash on a dog to give them some semblance of freedom, and it’ll make it feel better when it heads back to its owner.

He checks his watch. He’ll make it to you just short of ten at night; he has to be back on the train by five in the morning. He needs more time, but he knows he’ll never get it. Instead, he finds himself awkwardly sneaking through the poorly cut opening of the fence, glad that it’s an unspoken rule that the Marleyan officers don’t patrol the streets on deployment nights.

If anyone was actually idiotic enough to escape, they’d find all the officers waiting for them at all the possible exits.

Even entering the brothel starts to feel too familiar to Colt. The sparsely furnished entrance puts him at ease since the space is so narrow, he’s bound to bump into something or knock over a vase if they had it. The lightbulb burns brightly; one night, he stopped by and offered to change the bulb while he waited for you. Now, he even can recognize some of the girls photographed on the wall.

Even Willa doesn’t seem as intimidating as before — still intimidating, yes, but Colt can almost muster up the courage to look her in the eyes for prolonged periods of conversation.

But there’s someone here that feels the most familiar to him, the one person who puts him at ease, the one person who makes time stand still for him.

You.

Just looking at you makes his anxieties momentarily freeze, and he resists the urge to scoop you in his arms and hold you close to his chest.

“Why so serious, soldier?” You giggle, smoothing down the dress you put on just for him. When Willa went down your list of appointments, she didn’t miss the way your face lit up as she mentioned Colt’s name. You had some free time; you wanted to look pretty for him.

He’s taking you in, eyes unsure of what to focus on, just knowing that he wants to focus on you. You’re wearing a pretty, colorful dress that reaches down to the floor and accentuates your figure. The fabric looks light, soft. He likes it when you wear your colorful clothing. It makes you stand out even more. You brighten up his life, and you don’t even know it.

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes out, still standing there, a man stunned.

“I knew you would appreciate all the time and effort I put into getting ready!” You give him a pleased hum, before looking up and gasping. “Your hair!”

“Huh, what’s wrong with it?” He runs his hand through his fresh buzz cut, worried that a branch or leaves had somehow created a nest on top of his head.

“Why is it so short now?” You look so concerned that he can’t help but laugh. You’re taking his hand, dragging him to bed, forcing him to sit down as you balance yourself atop his lap. He wonders if you’re as hyper aware of how intimate this position is. He wonders if he’s a bad person for having to restrain himself, trying his best to chase away any unchaste thoughts about you. Instead, he chooses to focus on you.

Colt’s used to being scrutinized. Every move he makes is under the careful, unremitting surveillance of Marley. There’s probably a counter for every blink he’s ever done, just to ensure he isn’t communicating to his fellow brethren via morse code. He’s used to the watchful eyes of Marleyan soldiers and officers who eagerly wait for him to mess up; no matter how minor the infraction, there will be a punishment to serve for his mistake. He’s used to the feeling of eyes focused on him. The harsh glares, the fearful looks, the disgusted glances, the pitiful gazes.

You’re looking at him intently, your eyes trailing over every centimeter of him.

Curiosity. Wonder. Appreciation.

Your eyes are full of them, and so much more, and all of it is meant for him, because of him.

Even from this position, with you straddling his lap, it’s still hard to peer over him. He has impossibly nice posture, always with his back straight and stiff. Still, you play with the hastily shaved hair, running the tips of your fingers against the incredibly short strands, so concentrated on your little exploration that you almost seem to have forgotten you even asked him a question.

Until you pause, let out a little gasp that has him looking up in worry, and now you’re asking him a question you couldn’t possibly be distracted from obtaining your answer to.

“What’s this?” You ask him, fingers pausing at the two scars dangerously close to his forehead. You’ve never noticed them before; they’re too close to his hairline, easily hidden when his hair is grown out and covering it from the world. With the buzzcut, the twin scars stick out against his fine, blond strands.

“My scars?” He meets your eyes, reaching up to gently place his hand over yours, the one that was tracing his scars with morbid fascination.

You nod, not wanting to speak out of fear that the words are going to get tangled in your throat. He lets out a soft laugh, even though nothing seems very funny to you right now. He stops when he sees your frown, your sad eyes.

He squeezes your hand. “They’re just scars. Nothing to worry about.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Since I was fourteen, I think.” Colt’s other hand finds its way to your waist, and he holds you, keeps you steady. “See, I can’t even remember all the details from how I got them. Not that serious, okay?”

But it is serious, you want to tell him. Because it’s him. Because a scar indicates an injury. Because it’s Colt getting hurt.

You swallow down those sentences, and instead let out a shaky, “How’d you get them?”

Now he winces, almost like the memory is being played out in his mind. Colt doesn't think too much of how bad his luck is, but he is acutely aware of how lame his life sounds when he has to actually verbalize what he’s been through to you. “It was during one of my earlier sparring matches. They had all of us get dressed in full military uniform to simulate what combat as an active soldier would feel like, and you’ve seen it before, the helmets we wear. Bulletproof, so the material isn’t the softest.” He chuckles a bit, but it’s clear that he failed to lighten the mood. He clears his throat, continuing.

“It’s not a very interesting story. A Marleyan soldier was just being extra aggressive that day, and I happened to be the one paired up with him.” Because that’s typically how Colt’s luck goes. “And he managed to take my helmet off and rammed it against my head. None of the officers noticed until after he got the second hit, which is why there’s only two. So, could be worse, huh?” He’s smiling, trying to make you feel more at ease, but the look you’re giving him makes his heart ache.

Only two? Only?

“Did the officers not notice or did they just refuse to acknowledge it until it looked like you would bleed out to death on the training field?” Your voice is shaking, and Colt moves your hand from his hair to down on the bed.

“Hey. Look at me, please.” Always gentle, always kind, always soft. You like that about him, maybe feel something even more for him because he’s like this, but where does that gentleness, that kindness, that unwavering softness, lead him to? Bloody wounds and lasting scars? Bad memories and story retellings that leave a bitter taste in his mouth?

You comply, still frowning at him.

“I’m okay now. I’ll always be okay.”

He squeezes your hand as if to punctuate his promise.

“I can’t believe I never noticed you had these scars.” You sound upset over this fact.

He laughs lightly. “Even the people watching the match probably don’t remember if it left me scarred or not. You shouldn’t feel bad. Besides, when my hair grows out, it’s hard to see.”

“Why did you get a haircut?” You ask him again; the soldiers you’ve seen all grow their hair out. It’s not a bad look; you think Colt is so handsome he could pull off just about anything, but still — your soldier doesn’t strike you as someone who wants to venture out and try new haircuts.

You don’t miss the hard swallow and the tightness of his jaw. He’s stressed about something. He’s hiding something.

“Colt—” Despite the nervousness of what his answer could possibly be, you still say his name gently.

He closes his eyes, memorizing the way you say his name. You always say his name gently. You even say your brother’s name, Ramzi, gently, too. You treat names with care, like they’re something precious, fragile.

He’s a soldier, yes, but there’s something nice in knowing that the person you adore the most believes that you are something precious, fragile, meant to be handled with care.

“—why did you get your hair cut?”

He opens his eyes. Your pretty features are contorted into a look of confusion and concern. He wants to tell you not to worry about him, that he’ll be fine, that he has everything handled. Instead, he swallows hard and takes you in, commits the image of you to his memory. He’d forget his own name in favor of remembering the way you look when you smile, pure joy lighting up your usual melancholy expression.

“Tonight is my last night seeing you before I get deployed.”

“You’re leaving?” He doesn’t like the way your question sounds, coming out raw and scratchy. Disappointed. Hurt.

And he’s so close to you right now, your weight resting comfortably on top of him, that he can witness all the emotion flickering across your facial features, pooling around in your eyes.

“Yes.”

Gone is your good mood. You’re staring at him, lips slightly parted, his hand still holding yours. You’re looking at him like he’s going to disappear at any minute now, and he’s so scared that he’ll blink, and he’ll really be gone, already on the train off to war.

Don’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. He wants to beg you. Stare at me for as long as you want, but trust that I’ll still be here.

“When will you be back?” You finally manage to find the strength to ask him.

“As soon as I can be.” It’s the most honest answer he can give you; the answer that will crush you the least. The truth? He’s not even sure if he’s going to make it back. War promises a lot of things: honor, glory, heroics. It never promised a safe return.

“You’ll come back, though, right?” You’re staring at him so expectantly that Colt Grice knows he’ll do anything on the battlefield to ensure that he’s on the train back home, back to you.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll find a way.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You scold him, and he can’t help but smile at a fond memory of you telling him the same exact thing just a few weeks prior.

Before the kiss that he relives in his memories constantly, before deployment was even a thought on the forefront of his mind, just barely a fortnight before now, Colt’s sitting on the floor, back against the side of your bed, looking up at you from an angle that surely hurts his neck but he doesn’t protest. He never complains.

Sometimes you wish he would, just so you could know what to do to put him at ease, like how he always seems to be able to comfort you.

In this moment, Colt’s finishing up telling you a story about the blind date mishaps that happen on base. The girls-to-boys ratio on base is absolutely abysmal, he says, and the girls hold all the cards.

“The girls on base must find you handsome, don’t they?” You’re on the bed, but you’re sitting upright, knees up so you can rest your chin atop them.

“Um, well, I don’t know—”

“They do.” You say, suddenly wanting to curl up and make yourself feel smaller. You know it’s silly to feel the way that you do; scared that one day Colt will just look at you and not see anything worth looking at. If Colt stops and thinks about the future, you wonder, where do you fit in it? You know that you don’t exactly resemble the beautiful Eldian girls that he’s grown up with, the same ones who are probably more than happy to pursue him. They’re connected to him by the same culture, the same background — surely whatever connection he feels with you couldn’t possibly be as strong as what he can share with them.

“I don’t care that they do. I only care if you find me handsome.”

The expression on his face is so earnest and honest that you find yourself practically melting into the mattress. You’re not good at being vulnerable, never as open with your feelings as he is, but it’s almost like he can tell when you’re on the brink of insanity. When you’re close to blurting out that you don’t want him anymore, even though that’s far from the truth.

“Well, what happens if the most beautiful girl on base approaches you and says you’re the most attractive man she’s ever seen, and she wants to let you do all sorts of depraved, nasty things to her? What then?”

Colt likes to think that he’s managed to get a good read on you. You don’t often say what’s exactly on your mind, but he thinks he can fill in the blanks most of the time. There is no beautiful girl on base for you to be concerned about, and just the hypothetical that you’re bringing up is so comical that he almost wants to laugh. Even if it seems silly, he holds back his smile. You’re not asking him because you think this scenario is likely going to happen; you’re asking him would you choose me over someone else?

The answer is you’re the only one for me.

“I would scream for the authorities to take her away from my vicinity.”

“Hmm.” You mull over his answer, secretly pleased that he’s playing along with your antics that stem from places of yourself that you don’t want to explore; the insecurity, the fear, the anxiety that comes with being someone who you’re so certain is too good for you.

The more of himself he hands over to you, the more comfortable you feel with him. But the more you have of him, the more frightened you get at the prospect of losing him, because as the days go by, there’s more of him to lose. He’s not the stuttering boy who brought you socks one time. He’s the only man who knows your name and says it with such tender care that you start to believe that if you dare to fall, he’ll be there to catch you.

“What if you go out drinking with your friends, and the bartender is a very pretty girl, and she offers you free drinks and flirts with you all night?” You know Colt can’t turn down a good drink. Him not turning down the opportunity to go to a bar practically led him to your room all those nights ago.

Is your favorite vice more appealing than me?

“I would pay off my tab immediately, and let her know that I took a vow of sobriety. I wouldn’t even finish my current drink. I would just run and get the hell out of there.”

This makes you laugh. When his time is up, and he has to pass along the Beast to the next successor, he hopes they know how blessed they are to be able to hear your soft laughter in his passed-down memories. This is a melody that cannot be replicated by any trained orchestra.

“A vow of sobriety? You would never!”

He pretends to be hurt at your comment. “If you asked me to give up drinking, I’d never let a single drop of liquor in my system ever again.”

You mean more to me than any vice. There is no pleasure on this planet that can compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m with you.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep!” But you’re still giggling, adjusting your position so that you’re laying on your belly now, looking at him like you believe him.

(You should. He means every word he says to you.)

“You always tell me that.” He brings your hand close to his face before he’s pressing a kiss against your knuckles. Like heat hitting butter, you melt into him, suddenly finding yourself sinking against his chest, hiding your face from him in the space between his shoulder and jawline. The top of your hair tickles his chin; you breathe in deeply, catching the faint whiff of cologne and soap on his neck.

“No I don't.” You mutter, knowing damn well that you do.

You always ask him wild hypotheticals, usually out of the blue, too, as if you’re trying to catch him off guard. As if you’re waiting for him to slip up and admit that one day, he really will just run away with some other girl and drop you like a bad habit.

“What if you find a girl who doesn’t bother you with her stupid questions?” Your hands grip the material of his uniform, fingers curled around the dry cleaned cotton blend.

“There’s only one girl who keeps my attention, whether she’s asking me questions or not.” You feel the familiar touch of his hand pressed against the small of your back. Warm. Comforting.

Refusing to give in to him too soon, you soldier on, picking your next set of questions. These are a bit more serious.

“What if the war never ends, and you’re stuck on your deployment forever?”

“I’ll pretend to be insane and get sent to the mental facility back home, and then you’ll be the one who has to do all the running around to visit me.”

You don’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling when he says this. You should chastise him for not taking this seriously, but then the warmth of his body pressed against yours keeps you grounded. Helps you to remember that no one else in the world would be taking this barrage of stupid questions as seriously as him.

“Well, what if you’re fighting and get horribly injured, and then some cute nurse saves your life? I heard that’s how a lot of soldiers meet their wives.”

You can feel him playing with the ends of your hair as he tries to decide on a proper answer. It feels nice, to have him twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, and it’s almost enough to get you to ditch all these hypotheticals, but you stand your ground. “Well?”

“That won’t happen because I won’t let any nurse work on me, cute or not. If I get hurt, I’ll fix myself up.”

You think about the scars permanently embedded on his skin. The casual violence inflicted on him. The indifference of every doctor he’s dealt with.

“Don’t say that.” You mumble, trying to sink yourself even deeper into him, curling up against his chest and almost shyly burying your whole face into the stiff material of his uniform jacket. “I don’t want you to not get medical attention.”

Colt catches himself smiling. First, you’re worried about him running off with a nurse, next you’re telling him that he needs to get aid if he needs it. He doesn’t mind answering all your questions if it’ll put your mind at ease, but he does wonder why the terms of engagement keep switching.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell the nurse that just because she saves my life, it doesn’t mean I’ll run away with her.” Then, after really taking the time to consider a scenario in which he does need medical attention, he adds, “I don’t think I’ll look like someone worth marrying when I’m bleeding out and covered in dirt.”

You let out a little huff of laughter at the idea of Colt ever looking unattractive. As if. Still fresh in your memories is the vision of him from months ago; even with his bruised face and body limping from exhaustion, he still looked handsome.

“What’s so funny?”

“That you would think anyone wouldn’t want to marry you.” Now you tilt your head to look up at him. He has an unreadable expression on his face, almost like he’s deep in thought, but you’re not sure what he could be considering.

“I wouldn’t marry just anyone, though.” He finally says, looking down at you. One hand is still playing with your hair, constantly toying with the ends of it. This time, the action isn’t enough to distract you.

He wouldn’t marry just anyone?

You’re aware of your heart beating and from this position, you’re certain that he can feel it, too. Hating this sudden overwhelming sensation of vulnerability, of being exposed, you feel yourself trying to edge away from him. You must have been easy to figure out, or maybe Colt just knows you too well already, because he’s prepared, gently pushing his hand against your back to keep you settled next to him.

“Hey,” he says this softly; just when you think he reaches peak gentleness, it’s like he unlocks some hidden reserve of it. Like he has an unlimited amount of kindness stored in his battered body. Softer still, he’s telling you, “Ask me another question.”

“What if you find the one you want to marry?” You can’t look at him when you ask this.

“I already did.” This is the quickest he’s ever answered you, and you know that he gives you outrageous responses for every silly hypothetical you throw his way. You want to tell him that out of all these questions, this is the most serious one. He needs to take this seriously. The implication drawn from his answer frightens you as much as it excites you.

“But what if you don’t come back?” Your voice sounds so small that he can practically see the words shrinking in size as you speak.

“I will.” You feel him tracing a shape against your back. He swallows hard. “I’ll come back to you. I always will. I promise.”

Out of all the ridiculous statements exchanged this night, you think this one takes the cake. Even more unrealistic than him giving up drinking.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” You don’t like the way your words come out when you’re with him, all coated in emotion. He makes you feel things to the point where all those feelings struggle to be contained ‘til they’re spilling out your lips and drowning the both of you in them.

“Okay. I’ll promise not to make promises I can’t keep.” You wonder what he’s outlining on your back with the tip of his index finger. It could be letters, and you try to focus on following his movements, but you can’t. Something about it seems to calm you down, steadies your heartbeat. Makes it feel like you won’t drown from the overwhelming urge to beg Colt to run away with you, that you’ll survive this tidal wave of emotions and live to see the start of a new day.

And then he says something that pulls you under, drowning you, crushes you with the intensity of something indescribable. All you know is that you’re full of this foreign feeling when he tells you, “I promise to come back. Always.”

He can tell you that he’ll try to come back, or that he wants you to forget all about him if he doesn’t make it. Those are more realistic. Those are promises that are easy to keep.

But Colt can never seem to take the easy way in life. He’d rather take the roughest route there is, all the while, he’s fixing the road so that the others who follow have a smoother path to take.

“I’ll come back to you.” He repeats, cradling the back of your head as you try to bury yourself into all the empty spaces of his body.

He catches a glance at the face of his watch; it’s nearly midnight now. He’ll have to head back soon, even though he thinks he could spend the rest of his life with you on top of him, his arms wrapped around you.

He whispers your name, and you barely stir, but you let out a little hum to let him know you’re listening.

“Do you want to know how to send me letters while I’m away? Just in case you ever need to reach me for anything, or just in case you want to hear from me?” He sounds almost afraid, like he thinks your answer is going to be a rejection.

“Of course I want to! I didn’t know we could send letters to soldiers.” You actually sound excited, but then you pause. “Oh, you should let me know if there’s a limit to how many letters I can send. I don’t want you to get sick of seeing my name in the post. And, you’ll be busy, obviously, so I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

You’re used to your gentle, soft soldier. Colt, who always ends his sentences with a chuckle or a good natured jibe (usually self deprecating). This is one of the first times you’ve ever heard him sound so serious. The gentle ministrations of his finger tracing letters and shapes against your spine don’t cease, but his voice is hard. Full of conviction. It leaves no room for your insecurities to rent out.

“You’re never a bother to me. Write to me as much as you would like. I always want to hear from you.”

It’s the truth. Always honest, always open, Colt is telling you the truth.

(He loses count of how many times he’s traced stars across your back, and in shaky, anxious letters — fearful that you’ll figure it out — I love you.)

In 852, roughly four thousand Eldian soldiers and twenty-two Marleyan officers are sent to capture and restore Marleyan order in Fort Helena. Only nine hundred Eldians and twenty Marleyans will come home.

The train ride to Fort Helena is a rowdy one.

The train rides to all deployments usually are.

Even if they want to believe (desperately) that they’ll come back, Eldian boys are raised to be practical. Despite their wishes for it to not be important, they all found themselves getting their affairs in order. Telling their families that they love them, what to do when they’re gone, how they want to be buried, where to spread their ashes. It’s hard to have a reunion with your family and reminisce on the good old days when they know that there’s a chance they’re about to become just another memory to share.

But thinking about that would put a damper on things. They’re already on a speeding train to death and demise; there’s no point in acting like it. They’re not sure for who, most for most of them, this may be the last time they get to create cheerful, happy memories. Something to keep them warm when the rain is pouring on their battered bodies, hailstorms of bullets flying overhead, the thunderous booms of cannonfire.

Someone is singing a song from their childhood; joyful chants butchering the melody and swapping the innocent lines for something dirty are filling the train, and nearly every compartment can hear the anthem, regardless of whether anyone in said compartment is singing or not. A bunch of soldiers managed to sneak in some liquor; half-full bottles of whiskey from their family’s liquor cabinets, cheap bottles of beer from bartenders pitying the deployed soldiers, homemade moonshine.

They’re not allowed to bring too many personal items with them on deployment. As the officers like to remind them, this ain’t a vacation, ladies, so pack light and pack sharp. The alcohol should be fine; Colt knows that the officers are indulging in their own (the only difference being that theirs is top shelf). Some have snuck in baked goods from their mothers and sisters; photographs tucked away in jackets and pockets; handkerchiefs from girlfriends. Colt has a knitted blanket from his mother. It takes up more space in his pack than the thin military issued ones, the ones created in a lab and supposedly designed to retain body heat.

While it’s Colt’s first time being the first group of soldiers on a deployment — meaning he’s the first to be on the frontlines — this is Michael’s first time ever being deployed. Colt wonders what type of soldier he is. You can tell a lot by a person based on what personal item they choose to bring with them.

The flash of a light hits Colt right in the face.

“Aren’t you just a handsome fella?” Michael has a large grin on his face as he yanks out the rapidly developing photo from his camera.

An instant camera. Michael brought an instant camera to the deployment.

Most Eldians have only seen large, bulky cameras, and getting your photo taken was a big deal. It’s a pain to find time (or money) to get it developed, and most Eldian families can’t afford a personal camera. The instant camera is a shiny, brand-new technological feat, and expensive. Of course Lieutenant Sells would be the only one able to afford one — able to afford to bring it to an active warzone, too.

He’s been going around, snapping photos of all the soldiers, even the Eldians. He’s not in the compartment designated for Marleyan officers only. He’s been roaming around, jumping from compartment to compartment, ignoring how every Eldian who doesn’t know him is on edge until he’s goading them to take a photo.

Before they had gotten on the train, Michael made Colt pose for a picture with him. The only person nearby and readily available to take it for them was a displeased Porco who begrudgingly agreed but was frowning the whole time. Colt was sure Porco nearly burst a vein from annoyance when Michael requested he take two pictures; a copy for him, and a copy for Colt.

Michael seems as cheerful as ever despite the fact that he’s being sent off to war. Perhaps it’s his good spirits and the fact that he interrupted Porco’s farewell to Colt that had Porco on edge. Truthfully, Colt’s glad for Michael’s interruption; the conversation they were sharing had reached very serious, very deep territory.

“You seeing me off?” Colt tries to tease Porco, but he doesn’t smile back. He’s got his hands shoved his pockets, army green bomber thrown over his clothes.

“Why wouldn’t I? This is the first time you’re being deployed without me.”

“I know. I grow up so fast, don’t I?”

“You don’t need to joke around with me, dickhead. You can tell me you’re scared.” Porco’s not looking him in the eyes; he’s staring at the space above them. Colt wonders if he’s staring at his now-visible scars.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I’m scared or not. It won’t change the fact that I’m about to be sent off.”

“Just don’t be stupid out there, got it, Grice?”

“Gee, is this your idea of a proper farewell? It’s not my first time going to the battlefield, Galliard.”

“Listen, things are different with this deployment. You’ll be the first person they think to send out in enemy territory. Zeke has a bad feeling about this assignment, and I do, too.” Porco is finally looking him in the eyes. “And I know you. You’re the type of idiot to take a bullet for someone, enemy or not.”

Porco isn’t a cold-blooded killer. He’s the type of soldier who learned to develop the mentality that when it comes down to his life or an enemy’s, he must do everything in his power to ensure that he’s the one who will be returning home — preferably in one piece as opposed to being shipped back in a box, a broken body for his mother to bury.

“You need to finish the job. Ghosts haunt you in your memories, but a soldier with a vendetta against you can haunt you in real time.” Porco claps Colt on the shoulder, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes. There’s no malice evident in the hazel color of Porco’s eyes, but there is worry. Genuine worry.

Colt is nearly frozen in place at the fact that Porco would be affected deeply if he didn’t make it back. Another person he has to promise to come back to.

“Do what it takes to get back home.” Porco tells him. “Don’t worry about anything else.”

Colt is the type of guy who could be actively getting shot at, but he’d still find the time to be more concerned about the lives of other people. His parents, Falco, you.

Trying to lighten the mood, Colt swallows and lets out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Well, if I wasn’t scared then, now I sure as hell am.” Knowing Porco’s status as the Jaw, Colt asks his comrade, his friend, for a favor. “Just don’t let Falco know I was scared, okay? Tell him his big brother had it all under control.”

Porco scowls. “Tell him that yourself. When you come back.” And then, looking like he’s about to say something else, Michael comes around the corner to brush Porco’s hand off of Colt’s shoulder so he can swing his arm around Colt.

Porco’s scowl only deepens as Michael waves his camera in his face. “Hey, Galliard, mind snapping a quick pic of me and Colt?”

The photos Porco takes of them have found their respective homes; Colt’s copy rests in his jacket pocket, and Michael’s will also be carried in his pocket, too. Right now, though, his copy is turned on the blank side, residing on the traincar’s table, and Michael’s got a pen out, scribbling something on the back.

Colt leans over to see what he’s writing down on it. Probably something stupid and embarrassing. Michael doesn’t show it off like Colt expects him to; instead, he tries to discreetly slip it into his jacket, turning it over to its proper side, where the image of Colt and Michael standing side by side, Michael’s arm slung over his shoulder, can be seen.

But Colt catches a glimpse of Michael’s surprisingly neat handwriting.

Colt Grice & Michael Sells — brothers in arms

“The ladies are gonna loooove this.” Michael shows Colt the photo he’s just taken of him. Colt is staring out the train window, looking to be deep in thought. He’s glad that Michael didn’t catch him when he was staring stupidly at the flash, mouth open in shock. The only person who would loooove that would be Michael, because it’d be a new addition to his blackmail folder, probably.

There’s only one lady that Colt cares about whether she loves this image of him or not. He left instructions to you on how to send him mail while he’s deployed, and it’s not like it’s just letters he’s allowed to send.

“Can I have it, please?” Colt finds himself asking, realizing that he really doesn't look half-bad in the photograph.

Michael pretends to sigh. “I was really hoping to be able to hang onto this photo. Cuddle with it when the nights get cold, and I need a comforting presence. That, and I was gonna sell it off to one of the many lovely nurses back on our home base who are dying for a chance with you.” He gives him a cheeky grin before sliding it over to Colt. “Whatcha gonna do with the picture?”

“I’m sending it to someone.” Colt goes back to staring out the train window as Michael slides into the seat opposite of his.

“Oh? Is it a girl?” Michael wiggles his eyebrows mischievously, which makes Colt instantly regret looking at him.

He doesn’t answer, but the tips of his ears turning pink gives Michael all he needs to know.

“So it is a girl!” Michael leans forward excitedly. “Tell me everything about her. Is she a stick in the mud like you are?”

“She’s not a stick in the mud.” Colt makes a face. “Stop being so nosy. It’s not a good look, Michael.”

He pretends to have been shot, clutching his heart and making exaggerated, wounded noises. “Ah, you’re breaking my heart, Colt! Oh, it hurts so bad to be insulted by you. Please, make the pain go away. I’m in agony!”

Michael’s antics make the corners of Colt’s mouth turn upwards. “You know, you’re the reason why I met her.”

“Oh?” He immediately stops his dramatics. “How’d you meet a girl that I know? No offense, but we don’t necessarily live in the same neigh— Wait a minute!” Michael gapes at him. “Willa found you a girl who showed you a good time!”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Colt mutters, almost regretting letting Michael know about you.

“You dirty dog! And here I was, sitting and thinking that you’re the most gentlemanly out of all of us.” Michael is smiling. “So, what’s her name? What’s she like? Don’t tell me any of the sordid details of what you two get up to, though. It’ll give me nightmares.”

“Shut up, Michael. I told you it’s not like that.” Colt is blushing, but there’s something nice about being able to talk about you in public. He doesn’t want you to be a secret, to be the girl who he sneaks out to hold in his arms in a windowless room. He carries your name in the interior breast pocket of his uniform jacket, close to his heart. Ignoring Michael’s initial question, Colt smiles as he tells him, “She’s everything.”

Michael lets out a whistle that gets drowned out by the train’s own whistle. The brakes squeal and when the train comes to a full stop, the boys’ bodies are lurched forward.

Colt looks out the window and sees nothing but rolling hills; save for the mutters fluttering throughout the compartments, it’s completely silent.

They have reached their destination.

author's note: remember when the synopsis said that his life is about to get a hell of a lot worse? chapter three, part 2 is when we go full throttle into the war arc <3 but dw!!! reader's life ALSO gets worse too!!!! equality!

#colt grice x reader #colt grice x you #aot x reader #snk x reader #one shot #fluff #angst #smut #series: daylight #attack on titan #colt grice

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