#is a slim chance he’s wrong. so he does—in a sense—do things ‘blindly’ but his trust in ay*to is not blind

[thomine]

sincere sins & serious schemes : thoma

pair: thoma x reader info: teen & up, corruption, manipulation, homicide, bad parenting, brief mention of starvation, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, ambiguous ending, not proofread

summary: you cover up your brother’s crime to repay what he did for you many years back. it comes back to bite you in an innocent request for a date.

word count: 2.8k words series: day 13 of au august 2023 / prompt: noir links: work tag

You’ve explored less travelled paths of Inazuma City with Thoma while on the hunt for criminals, sticking closer than peas in a pod for it was easier to deal with danger than imagine the other out of sight.

He’s the first person you seek after successfully connecting clues all night, knocking on his door at ungodly hours. You’ve lost count how many times he’s apologised for his small apartment. He says he should be a gentleman to send you home, but he never does and replaces your toothbrush in his washroom every three months.

Your close relationship with him is a common topic of discussion during lunch in Inazuma Detective Agency as your distant colleagues make bets like little kids while giggling to themselves. They have lots say when justifying that you and Thoma might cross that line, but they forget to factor your division in their judgements.

“Kamisato Ayato, Sir,” you greet as your leader steps out of the board meeting. Thoma—the closest you can describe their complicated relationship is that he is Ayato’s secretary—follows tightly behind, and he smiles at you as if he wasn’t trapped in a room for 3 hours. “What was the conclusion of the case?”

Your leader clicks his tongue. What scares you is how his quaint smile is present on his handsome features. If you didn’t catch his flash of annoyance, Ayato’s disdained tone when he replies can cause a whiplash.

“They’re doing this on purpose.” His eyes gloss over the group of men that came out of the room with him. They cluster at the exit, eager to go home. Ayato pulls his bangs back, resolution burning in his eyes. You lower your gaze just to reduce clashing with his.

With a sigh, hands falling to his sides, he adds, “They’re certain the recently arrested man is the culprit and will be imprisoning him without a hearing. There are details I want to iron out, so I’ll postpone the briefing. I won’t let this rest.”

Ayato’s voice is dangerously soft. You give him a minute to ruminate in his thoughts—nothing more and nothing less.

“It should be expected. They hold the power to label someone guilty, not evidence,” you quip, torso bent in a subtle bow out of respect but also from freshly acquired fear. Ayato is not someone to mess with, and this topic of the recent culprit you captured…

“I know that look,” Thoma butts into the conversation, an accusatory finger pointing at Ayato. “You’re going to lock yourself in your office again. Won’t your sister be disappointed?”

It is at this moment their squabble fades to background noise. There are more pressing matters to think about than eavesdrop on the private life of your boss.

Tonight, you’ll be meeting your brother. The plan was to get your hands on the brief so you can discuss things with him. Now that you don’t know the specifics, you aren’t sure how to proceed. At least there is hope that—

“Besides,” Ayato’s voice cuts through your thoughts. You raise your head to give him respectful eye contact since he sounds like he’s addressing you, but he’s focused on Thoma instead. “I don’t want to hold anyone back. The day is ending, and I’m sure there are things both of you—” he finally glances at you “—have to do just as I have work to finish. A new case was brought to my attention, and I don’t want those corrupted officials to get their hands on it before I crack it open.”

The clock ticks.

You have 2 and a half hours before you meet with your brother. 2 and a half hours to run through everything and calculate how you might have underestimated the danger Ayato brings to the situation.

You bow when your boss leaves, and you thought Thoma will say goodbye. Perhaps berate his boss like childhood friends do on the importance of self-care before he does, but you find yourself caught in his sight instead.

“Is there something on my face?” you ask.

“No,” he replies, looking away for a second.  “I do have something to ask.”

“If it’s about the drug seller that just got apprehended, I think it is best to ask Ayato. You know better than anyone this case was a burden for me. I just… want to rest.”

“Then…” he rubs his neck. You cross your arms. Hesitant Thoma is a new side of him you’ve never saw in the years you work with him. “If you’d like to rest, may I propose going out for dinner with me?”

“Where is this coming from?” Your head spins. You’ve cracked complicated cases that were top headline news, yet you cannot wrap your head around his question. “Are you going to discuss the new case Ayato brought up? We aren’t supposed to talk about it before an official assignment… not like the others.”

If there were no cases, there would be no opportunity to walk around Inazuma City with Thoma. If there were no clues, you would not find yourself sleeping on his old couch. Determined to build Ayato’s hopeful vision of the city, Thoma and you dance at the edges of that line.

“Can’t I make a personal request?” He gives you a cheeky smile, hands in his pockets and even for his tall stature he looks like a small, shy boy in front of you. “You… don’t see me as only a work partner, do you?”

You blink, straightening your back before slouching and staring at the ground.

Do you?

But you have your brother to meet.

“How about another day—”

“There’s a discount at Uyuu restaurant. 10% off selected meals and your favourite so happens to be part of that list.”

When you don’t reply, he chips in, “Since it’s a date, I’ll pay.”

A date.

“Does… Ayato know of…” you awkwardly gesture between you and him, “… this?”

“Well… That… would I do something he wouldn’t agree with?”

There’s a thin layer of red on his cheeks as he gives a sheepish smile. His touch is something you’re so used to that you didn’t notice him holding your hands until you feel resistance trying to scratch your cheek.

You never thought of Thoma being anything more due to the sheer impossibility of it among other reasons. This feels like a dead lead, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t heating up at the way he takes a few steps forward with those pleading puppy green eyes.

Why does everything have to always be thought out so carefully? You think, exhausted, defeated, and surrendering to the tiny voice in your heart.

“Now?” You ask.

“Now.”

“I’m not the best dressed though…”

“I’ve seen you in the ugliest pyjamas. Does wearing your best erase that memory from my mind?”

You attempt to hit him but fail because of his hands holding yours, and he laughs. It’s a moment of happiness, you suppose, but his grip is strong and tight.

If you said no, would he let you go?

It is past 10 minutes from the time you promised to meet your brother, but you’re stuck between a wall and Thoma. He has his lips all over yours, and as much as you wish you can enjoy this apparent moment of bliss, anxieties pile up with each passing second.

You press against his chest a second time. He hesitates, and you take that opportunity to turn your head, unable to look at his eyes. This is not something you can enjoy—not when you hold a large secret.

To your luck, your phone chimes. You create more space between you and him so you can stand without the wall.

“Sorry, I…” you say, a hand reaching into your pocket for your phone. It must be your brother, waiting helplessly outside your apartment. If you aren’t going to tell him you’re held back by a clandestine kiss, you better start thinking of excuses. “I really have to go. It was… nice, i guess.”

Thoma rubs the nape of his neck, apologetic. He looks like a puppy, and you want to envelope him in a hug to reassure him that he’s not the one at fault here—in every sense of the word—but your phone chimes again and your brother barely double texts due to his limited credit.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” Thoma asks, green eyes staring at the ground. The guilt in you solidifies. Does he really like you that much?

Your throat tightens.

“Yes. And I guess we’ll… talk about this some other day?”

“Right,” Thoma flushes. “We’ll talk about it.”

Awkwardly, you make your way out of the alleyways. You expect something—he calls out your name or grabs your wrist—but you slip out of his grasp like water. Just seconds ago, he held you with a grip so firm that his gentleness was easy to forget and now it’s like all of it was for naught. There’s no time to piece this situation because your phone chimes again.

Brother: There’s someone lingering near your apartment. Claims she’s your neighbour—Momoyo—but something’s off about her. I didn’t think it’s safe for me to stay so I wandered for a while. I’ll let you know where to meet. Brother: Planning to go to the garden behind your apartment. Act normal. Brother: The pavilion on the outskirts of the north-west gate.

He’s more demanding than usual. The night is getting weirder. You just want to sleep, but in order to save your ass as well, this meeting is necessary.

You: On my way. Give me 5.

At the pavilion, your brother reads a book. When he sees you, he discards it and drops to his knees. The book was a front, and underneath, your brother hosts great grief. In seconds, his eyes are pooling with regret. He grabs your hands and you’re tired of being treated like an object, but at his plea, you have greater things to be concerned about.

“Someone found out.”

“What?” you ask, feeling blood seep from your body. You want to puke. “They found out. You mean…”

“No, not the drug case. Something else. I didn’t want to trouble you and planned to take this to my grave, but I need your help. Someone is going after me. They know that I killed—”

“You what?” You tear your hand out of his grasp, unbothered by the friction burns due to his strong clasp. It’s proven to be a mistake when your body grows light, and you stumble backwards. If not for the pavilion seats, you would have fallen to the floor. “Where is all this coming from? You could have started with something… more digestible?” You glare at him, but that only worsens the volume of his tears. “A drug case is already tough to manage. A murder is not something I can cover.”

He holds your hands again with both arms, pulling himself closer to you. Lower lips trembling, he barely squeaks out his reply.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here. I was the one who saved leftover food for you. I was the one who encouraged you to join the Detective Agency. You should repay me, shouldn’t you?”

“This was all part of your ploy, isn’t it? You wanted me to get this position so you could puppeteer me to your liking.” You take a deep breath and let it out in a held-back groan. “And here I thought it was worth repaying your faux kindness. You’re just like our parents. You don’t care about me.”

“You misunderstand. You managed to bribe them. Are you sure they stand for justice? You know very well that those bozos don’t care about us—about you. Do they even know you?”

Thoma flashes across your mind. Perhaps there is another reason why both of you can’t cross that line. The world of the personal heart, of broken childhoods and wretched upbringings, is too much of a burden to share. Thoma only knew the version you wanted him to know.

Would he still want to kiss you if he learned you’ve betrayed everything he stands for? You don’t understand him well enough to be confident you have a conclusion, but one thing is for certain: unlike your brother, the people you called family, he had a heart.

You hope you didn’t break it.

“Why else would I be in my pitiful state?” your brother adds. “Have you thought about that?”

His anguish has turned into anger, voice bordering on a shout if not for the soft chatter in the background, a reminder that even if the pavilion is secluded, there are still ears.

“After our parents died, I couldn’t get myself back on my feet,@ he says. “I may be the favoured one, but do they really have much to give? I had a fling shortly after their funeral. She wanted to keep the child, so we fought. It did not end well.”

He returns to his melancholic mien. A fool will believe his remorse. Unfortunately, you were a fool before. Give him an inch and he will demand a mile.

 “I kept the secret really well, but I’m afraid… not anymore.”

“If you are truly regretful of your actions, you’d go to jail. Willingly. Not drag me around.”

“But you see…” his voice is threateningly soft. “If I get caught… they’ll find out your crimes too. How you covered for my drug case by accusing an innocent man… would you really want that to happen?”

Your stomach churns.

Your voice is played on radio. It scratches and glitches at times, but your confession is clear, and so is Ayato’s disappointment.

Thoma stands at the far side of the room. Ayato is a man who takes his work seriously. He does intensive background checks on everyone who joins his team, and that is a double-edged sword. If he knew you had this characteristic, he would have found a way to silently discard you as if things just never aligned. You stayed in his team for 3 years.

When he approached Thoma and proposed a plan, he was shocked how you are part of this web of lies. He didn’t want to believe it, but the facts have been laid bare.

The kiss tastes sour in his mouth. He didn’t want to play with strings like that, but he knew Ayato needed someone to attach a voice recorder on you before they missed the chance, and you are always cautious even around someone who you’ve hung out with for years.

But you were completely unguarded when he kissed you.

Desperate times calls for desperate measures. He just hopes he did not break your heart that has already been tattered and torn if your conversation with your brother is anything to go by.

He twirls a pen between his fingers. When it flies out of his hand, he lets it roll on the ground. What’s done is done.

The conversation between you and your brother have long been in the back of his mind. He just needed you to admit that you resorted to dirty tricks and his job is done.

However, your voice pricks his attention. Your words are grounded, and it’s the first he’s heard you so resolute. You’ve always been sort of a push-over when it comes to people’s demands. Why else would you stay overnight in his house despite how often both of you agree it is best if you return?

“No.” The recorded glitches. “I’m not like you. I made a mistake, and you showed me that, so I’m going to own it. What was I thinking? Believing I had someone I could trust?” The record glitches again, but the crack in your voice resonances in Ayato’s private office.

“I should have known,” you continue after a loud thud. Ayato’s back faces Thoma. His posture has not changed. His head rests on his tented fingers. “If you truly cared for me, you wouldn’t have roped me in this situation in the first place. You want an upper hand, and I’m not giving it to you.”

There is crunch of dirt followed by the distant call of your brother’s voice. Ayato turns the radio down. He’s smiling.

“Did you…” Thoma starts, picking up the pen on the floor. “You knew this would happen.”

“It was a risk,” Ayato admits. “The tip Momoyo gave of the killer for the lady and the child was weak, and I didn’t expect to get this much information on it… I guess it was a risk worth taking.”

Ayato gets up from his chair and takes out the thumb drive. He hands it over to Thoma.

“What will happen to… my partner?”

Ayato only glances at Thoma before he walks out.

In the silence, Thoma confirms three things.

One: Ayato will give further instructions once you make your move. Two: Ayato’s impressions towards you are mixed after your betrayal of the division’s values… but, and lastly, there is hope for your return.

He did not comment on Thoma calling you his partner—although whether it remains as work partners is an answer Ayato cannot give.

author's note: normally a kiss scene would elevate a fic from ambiguous (indicated by x) to romantic (indicated by /), but i feel the scene is not as straightforward, so there's leeway of interpretation. also, in the spirit of noir, i wrote this fic with a darker undertone in mine, even if the ending is slightly hopeful (depending on how you read it). do check out the author's commentary for more of my thought process!

[sleep-i-ness]

Immortal (Part 1) (Maria Hill x Reader)

Synopsis: Y/N hasn’t quite told her girlfriend about her immortality and her past with Tony Stark; which causes a lot of tension whilst the Avengers is being formed. Set in 2012 during the first Avengers movie. (brief Loki x reader)

Immortal Masterlist

“Maria, darling, please explain to me your thinking behind chasing after a GOD instead of fleeing the explosion caused by the Tesseract.” Maria glanced at the tapping foot and folded arms before turning back to the files open on the screens in front of her, flicking through the latest stats on said god and the team Fury was expecting her to somehow pull together.

“I was doing my job. Something I am meant to be doing right now but you are distracting me.” 

The woman sighed, walking so close to Maria that she could almost feel their bodies touching. “Trust me, I can be a lot more distracting,” she breathed, pressing a soft kiss on Maria’s temple.

“Y/N, honey, please. Let me finish up on this. Then you can distract me all you like.” Maria’s head was aching and all she wanted to do was sit down for a bit, maybe have a rest and then deal with the situation. But being Deputy Director of SHIELD meant she could rarely have a break.

“Don’t change the subject. I was terrified when I heard you’d been trapped under a collapsed tunnel, what if you’d been seriously injured? What if...” Y/N trailed off, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them. What if you hadn’t made it back to me?

“I’m fine.”

“But what if you hadn’t been? Maria, love, please. Look at me.” Y/N placed two fingers on Maria’s chin, guiding her to make eye contact. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“This is our job!” Maria finally exploded. “If you can’t handle the fact that one of us might get hurt, then this won’t work out. I am not going to neglect my duty for fear that I might get injured. There’s a bigger picture than just my life. You, of all people, know that.”

Y/N was silent and sat down opposite Maria, rubbing her neck.

“If that’s all, would you mind leaving me so I can actually get on with my job.” Maria’s tone was cold and she studiously avoided Y/N’s gaze.

“Let me help. I’ll go to ground, find the horned godling and show him what it’s like to be trapped under a pile of rubble.” Y/N joked, trying to lighten her girlfriend’s mood. She was worried for her, Maria looked absolutely exhausted and she’d barely gotten out of the rubble before plunging straight back into her work. It was futile to try and tear Maria from her work; her diligence was one of the qualities she admired so strongly.

“Y/N!” Maria scolded lightly, eyes never leaving the monitors in front of her. “You know that wouldn’t help; I’d spend the whole time being worried sick about you. Doing your job doesn’t mean putting yourself in danger unnecessarily. Plus, it would be nice to have you around when we’re dealing with the Avengers.”

Y/N bolted upright, eyes wide and face pale.

“Avengers? As in Tony Stark?”

“Well, yes. You were there when we were selecting the candidates, turned down a place on the Initiative but we’ve contacted the others. Will you reconsider?” Y/N winced at Maria’s words, knowing that her place on the team would only lead to mistrust and chaos.

“I’d love to, love, but I don’t think I’d play well with Tony Stark. His famed ego would brush me the wrong way and I’m sure extra tension will not be appreciated.” 

At that, Maria finally looked up, giving her a cold, dead stare.

“You managed to complete several missions by playing nice. Don’t think I haven’t heard of your reputation as the ‘Seductress’. It’s not too difficult for you to smile nicely and calm things down when the team gets in each other’s faces. Romanoff is on the team as well so you will have another agent to work with.”

Y/N groaned. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“No. Fury’s orders. Report at 9am on the Helicarrier tomorrow morning.”

~

“Nick, darling. Good to see you again,” Y/N greeted Director Fury effusively, grinning at the stoic man’s exasperation.

“It’s Director Fury to you, Agent Y/L/N. Please remember to be professional in a work environment. But I’m glad to see you arrived on time. I wasn’t sure you would, given previous meetings.” Director Fury walked over to the central monitors in the command room, clearly expecting her to follow. Y/N snapped to attention, schooling her features into a poker face.

“Yeah, well, Commander Hill is most effective in completing her orders,” complimented Y/N, a serene expression on her face as she scuttled after him. 

Y/N breathed an interjection of astonishment as she gazed out at the clouds stretching endlessly in front of them. The command room was abustle with agents as the Helicarrier prepared to take off and she could see a small team running facial recognition software internationally in one corner. 

“Now, as you can guess, you’re not here to ease tensions among the team. I know of your past with Stark and am not willing to risk the safety of the world on some petty spat you two had a few years back.” Director Fury pulled up various files, tapping hurriedly on the monitors.

“To be frank, sir, Mr Stark does not know of my work here at SHIELD and I would like to keep it that way. I feel it would jeopardise the Avengers if he knew.” 

Director Fury turned to face her, his one, beady eye boring into hers. “I was not planning for you to be working together.”

“Then what am I here for, sir?” 

“I need your skillset.” 

Y/N grimaced, she knew it was coming. She was good at her job, the best, maybe, and if you needed someone undercover, to be charmingly deceiving, she was your woman. However, her teamwork skills were lacking, to say the least. Her position on the Avengers team was therefore surprising and she had sensed an ulterior motive to Fury’s orders.

“Yes, sir. Who is my target?”

“We’ll be sending you into the mouth of the beast himself.” Fury pulled up Loki’s file, although there was little to show other than a couple of blurry images. “He has a team of SHIELD agents under mind control, including Agent Barton, which will make your job harder. But with your… condition, I think you can easily pretend to switch sides. Say you want information, a cure maybe.”

“Understood, sir. Where am I to encounter him?” Y/N tapped on one of the blurry images to enlarge it, zooming in on the long stick-thing with a glowing blue gem at one end. “And what the hell is that?”

“That is his sceptre. It has some kind of mind-controlling properties. Just keep away from the pointy end and you should be fine.”

“Sounds easier said than done if he got Barton,” muttered Y/N. Mouth of the beast. God, Fury did like to send her on the fun ones.

“I expect you to provide intel on his plans. His location is highly confidential, as we need to ensure that he comes to us. He will make his next move soon, so you will be deployed as soon as we get off the water.”

“Yes sir.” Y/N turned to leave and gather her gear, but paused as a thought came to mind. “Just wondering, Nick, if you could do a favour for me. Can you keep this off-record, or make sure Commander Hill doesn’t know about my mission?”

“It’s Director Fury. But, yes, of course. This was never going to be below Level 9 Clearance anyway, but I’ll make sure to put it with the rest of your files.”

Y/N nodded sharply, turning smartly to exit the command centre and head to the tactical gear room. As she walked towards the double doors, they slid open as Agent Coulson strode towards Director Fury.

“Phil.”

“Y/N.”

“I hope you took your chance in getting your cards signed.”

“Not yet, I didn’t have them on me.”

Y/N laughed at Phil’s regretful tone, before making her way out to get her gear.

:.

Y/N had parachuted down to the location Fury had given her; it was a nondescript, seemingly abandoned warehouse. However, the muffled bustle betrayed the movement behind the locked doors. Squeezing under the chain-link fence, she dusted herself off as she scanned the outside of the building for activity. It was completely still as she made her way across to the doors, squeezing her way through the slim gap left between them.

Only to be face with a pistol pressed against her head. This must be the muscle. Y/N smiled disarmingly sweetly at the two burly men in front of her.

“Hey boys. Don’t say you could point me in the direction of the Asgardian with horns?”

The thugs glanced at each other in confusion, giving Y/N enough time to kick upwards, knocking the pistol out of his hand. It scattered across the floor, out of reach and Y/N groaned. She’d actually have to fight these men.

One man attempted to swing a punch at her, while the other grabbed her in a headlock. The resulting right hook to the jaw left her seeing stars as pain shot through her jawbone and down her neck. He swung again and Y/N blocked his arm, grabbing and using his own momentum to push him down.

The thug behind her tightened the headlock and black spots clustered at the edge of her vision as he constricted her air supply. Y/N locked her leg round his and threw him down, ducking as the second man sent a lumbering punch towards her head. She elbowed sharply back into his gut and he doubled over, air pushed out of him.

The first man clambered to his feet and she grabbed him by his shirt, pushing away. Y/N pulled him towards her, her head colliding with his nose. He collapsed to the floor in a heap. The second thug, seeing his friend fall, kicked Y/N’s legs out from under her. He straddled her, repeatedly striking blows across her face. Reaching her left hand up, she blindly pressed her fingers into his eyes.

The man howled, sending footsteps running their way. Fuck.

:.

“We found a SHIELD agent trying to break in and she demanded to come see you,” Barton’s voice was monotonous as he pushed Y/N onto her knees in front of Loki.

“SHIELD, huh? They only sent one of you? At least you too will become free,” Loki crooned, lifting her head to meet his eyes with the tip of his sceptre.

“They didn’t send me,” Y/N mumbled, voice muffled by the blood in her mouth.

“Pardon me?”

She spat on the floor next to her and looked him dead in the eyes.

“SHIELD didn’t send me. If they knew where you were, trust me they would be here by now.” There was a bitter edge to the tone of her voice as he smiled coldly at her.

“Then why did you come? What do you want?” Loki appeared bored, fiddling with his sceptre. “Did you come to beg for mercy for your pitiful little planet?”

Y/N scoffed, shaking her hair out of her face.

“I came for your help.”

“My help?” A smirk grew on Loki’s face as he gazed into her pleading eyes. “What makes you think I’d be so generous as to offer you any?”

“Because there’s no one like me. And I have willingly come to you, unlike these minions that you’ve brainwashed.” One of the men behind her grunted, knocking the back of her head forward and Y/N grinned savagely.

Loki stood up and Y/N froze, expecting him to turn her into one of his mindless slaves. However, he just tapped his fingers against the sceptre, an amused twinkle dancing in his eyes.

“And what would make you so… special?”

Y/N stretched out her hand, palm upturned to show she wasn’t holding anything.

“Surely you can sense it. What they made me into.”

Loki gently placed his fingertips against hers and felt the strange force that flowed beneath her veins. She didn’t carry the same weakness that all the other mortals did. He grabbed her wrist to take a closer look beneath the translucent skin as she hissed in pain. Interesting. Her blood was sky-blue, similar to the colour of the Tesseract.

“You’ve become immortal.”

“Not willingly.”

Read Part 2 here

[tsunnychan]

xi chasing daybreak: forgive me

Yet, always, you forgive me.

ao3

-

Sylvain is walking through a hazy mist among towering hedges and he gets the sinking feeling that he’s been here before. Gravel crunches beneath his feet and he tries to quell the churning in his stomach that begs him to call out. The fog around him is heavy on his skin and he feels his chest tighten.

He opens his mouth and everything around him tilts.

The pebbles and fog disappear and he’s standing in front of a large swaying oak tree, a pile of white roses sitting at the base of the trunk. He hears the tinkling laughter of a girl and a boy and his heart stings. He whirls around, but there’s no one in sight.

Sylvain takes a step away from the tree and the world around him shifts again.

He’s sitting on a bench outside of a school. He doesn’t see any children.

He blinks and he’s standing on the beach, sand digging into his heels with the crashing waves of the ocean before him, seashells littered at his feet.

He blinks again and he hears the sickening crackle of the spines on the Lance of Ruin. His heart stops. His armor creaks as he drops the relic like it’s burned him. There are horns sounding off in the distance.

 He doesn’t know what they mean.

 There’s something circling in the sky above him, then it dives, and he reflexively shuts his eyes, his arms automatically crossing before his face and chest.

No impact comes.

 He takes a stuttering breath and Sylvain opens his eyes. His armor is gone, but his shirt is sticky on his back and the setting sun casts and orange glow over him. He’s in a greenhouse. He hears the slam of a door and the humidity in the air makes it hard to breathe. His eyes sweep his surroundings, his blood pounding in his ears, fists clenched tight, prepared for the world to drop out from beneath him again.

 Then he spots her.

Floaty white dress.

Golden blonde braid.

 Her back is turned away from him. A name bubbles from his throat as his hand reaches out. “…Ingrid?”

He watches her shoulders straighten, her hair shifts, and her chin turns toward him, her lips parting—

 Then he’s alone in darkened hallway, an old portrait staring back at him at the end of it.

 His throat constricts and his feet carry him forward without his volition. He wants to stop, he wants to turn back, but his vision tunnels and his fingers brush against the ancient paint and—

 Sylvain springs up in bed with a choked gasp for air, his hair matted to his forehead, dripping in sweat. The blankets are a tangled mess around his legs and he’s almost halfway off the bed. He kicks them free, but the moment he does, the pressure behind his eyes spikes and his vision goes blurry.

His breaths come in short stuttering puffs, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets to stop the throbbing. His chest is caving in, his heart is pounding against his ribs, and there’s a sharp high-pitched ringing in his ears that just won’t stop and Goddess, where is he?

 When is he?

 Where is Ingrid?

 He blindly stumbles out of bed, shoulders knocking into the doorframe on his way out. His mind doesn’t know where he is, when he is, but at least his muscle memory still guides him to the bathroom.

 His hands leave his eyes, wet with salty tears. Sylvain flips the faucet up and immediately splashes the frigid water onto his face. He inhales sharply at the change in temperature, but he keeps at it until his lungs burn and his heart calms.

 He stays there, leaning over his sink, fingers gripping the edges until his knuckles turn white. Water continues to drip down his face as his stomach flips uncomfortably.

Sylvain finally opens his eyes.

His hair is red and his eyes are brown.

There are no scars on his chest, nor on his arms.

 There is no ring on his finger.

 His heart twists and his mind echoes. There isn’t always a ring.

 He takes a huge gulp of air and continues to gather his bearings, the buzzing in his ears only slightly diminished.

The bathroom is clean. There are two sets of everything.

Two towels hanging on the door. Two sets of hair products in the shower. Two toothbrushes lined up in the corner.

Face wash. Hair gel. Make up. Lipstick.

His heart twists again.

 Sylvain whips out of the bathroom, back to the bedroom. Queen-sized bed. Two pillows. Shared closet and dresser. Collared shirts and dresses.

Green ribbons.

 He runs out to the main entrance.

He spots shoes that can only be his. He also spots smaller sneakers, ankle boots, and sensible heels.

He wants to feel calm. He wants to feel reassured.

His heart won’t stop pounding in his chest.

 The lock on the door clicks and flips. His shoulders tense. “Sylvain? Are you awake?”

The room stops spinning and his ears stop buzzing.

 The door cracks open and Sylvain crashes into Ingrid, his arms crushing her to him, his face pressing into the crook of her neck so he can feel her pulse against his skin. Her arms immediately wrap around him, one around his waist, the other around his back with her hand finding a home in his hair. It eases the pressure mounting in his chest, her voice resonating through him. “Sylvain? What’s wrong?”

His initial sense of peace, granted by holding her, is shattered. Suddenly, he feels rushed.

Incredibly rushed.

He pulls away from her, his eyes are stinging with the tears from earlier, but his vision is just clear enough to take her in.

Her hair is blonde and her eyes are green.

Her hands are smooth, soft, untouched by the calluses of training lances and horses’ reins.

 There is no ring on her finger. There isn’t always a ring.

 Ingrid’s eyes are wide. Wide, worried, confused. His heart drops into his stomach. His mouth moves without warning. “Do you remember?”

She blinks, her confusion only growing as he grows more desperate with each passing second she doesn’t respond. “…Remember what?”

Sylvain searches her face, his grip tightening on her as his heartrate picks up again. She’s here. She’s here. She’s here.

But she’s not.

He swallows thickly and wets his lips. “Do you remember what day it is today?” A safer question.

The corner of her mouth quirks up, but her eyes are still worried. “Is this a trick question?”

He does his best to breathe evenly. Does his best to be the Sylvain that’s hers in this lifetime. “Please?”

Goddess, he hopes he’s hers.

She shifts in his arms, her hands dropping away from him and for a split terrifying second, he thinks she’s going to push him away. That he’s not hers, and she’s not his, and that he’s crossed some invisible boundary that exists in this lifetime.

But she only leans away to pick up the things she dropped the moment he crashed into her. The door was still open and she kicks it closed. He can’t bring himself to care.

 He smells roses.

 He blinks and Ingrid is back in his sight, a bouquet of white roses resting between them as she rolls her eyes at him. “It’s your 27th birthday. You know I wouldn’t forget.”

27th birthday. He’s 27. What do the roses mean? Have they changed? Did they ever change?

Soft velvety petals brush against his bare skin, slim fingers trail along his jaw, he’s back to staring into endless depths of green.

His voice is dry and he’s pretty sure it cracks, but he doesn’t care. He has to know, has to ask—“Can I kiss you?”

She stills against him and her lips part. “Sylvain, I…”

 Part of him wants to let go. Let go because he’s not hers. She’s not his. And he needs to let go unless he wants to get burned again—

 “Sylvain.”

 The roses fall to the side, their petals leaving a dewy trail on his abdomen as they go. Hands. Soft, non-calloused hands cup his face and he’s being pulled down, down, down.

 Her lips are warm against his and she breathes life back into his chest.

 His arms tighten around her and they bring her impossibly closer. Her legs shift, stepping back as he walks her to the closed door. Sylvain tilts his head, catching her little gasp with a swipe of his tongue as he settles both their weights onto the cool metal.

He leans heavily into her warmth, his hands trailing along her sides, along her thigh as it climbs to his hip. He breaks off, reattaching his lips to the side of her neck as he hoists her up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he presses them further against the door.

Sylvain feels her shudder against him as he ghosts over her ear, nipping it gently and groaning when her nails dig into his scalp. His lips find hers again, where he whispers ‘I love you, I love you’ over and over again. He doesn’t have time to breathe. She’s here, but she’s not, but she’s here now.

And he can never, ever, get enough of her.

And he can’t stop. He can’t stop because what if, what if, when he stops, he wakes up without her?

 Ingrid breaks away from him a sharp gasp, hands sliding to his chest, pressing lightly so she can breathe, but there’s no time for breathing. There’s no time for breathing and he’s diving back in with ‘what ifs’ on his mind and ‘I love you’s on his tongue as it sweeps against hers.

 Her hands are gripping his face as her legs tighten around him with every press of his lips, and it only slightly quells the ache in his chest because this is what he wanted the very first time.

He didn’t know he would get so many chances thereafter. He doesn’t know why.

All he knows is this is what he wanted then, and it’s what he wanted in all the other lifetimes, and it’s what he wants now.

 And that he is so, so in love with Ingrid.

 His head is yanked back, and Ingrid is breathless when she whispers, “Sylvain.”

Her eyes are closed, her chest heaving against his as she tries to fill her lungs with the air he stole from her. She gulps a few times, her tongue darting out to wet her lips and he is just about to kiss her again when her soft whisper reaches him. “Sylvain, I love you too, but…”

His heart freezes, having already lived through those words once before—Ingrid’s thumbs sweep over his cheeks and she kisses him again. Softly, gently, savoring the feel of his lips on hers, like she says he deserves.

She paints him in her warmth with a brush of her nose against his, her unsteady breath washing over him. Her eyes flutter open and pierce straight through him. “Why are you kissing me like this is the last time?”

‘Because I love you,’ gets stuck in his throat.

‘Because it might be,’ he wants to say.

“Because I don’t know how to live without you,” is what makes it out of his mouth.

 Ingrid’s brow wrinkles, but a tiny smile grows on her face. “I’m right here, Sylvain.”

‘But you’re not,’ he wants to argue.

 Instead, he lets his head fall forward to rest against her shoulder, her short blonde hair tickling his cheeks. She’s in his arms and she’s bringing him closer to her chest, closer to her heartbeat. His voice cracks when he whispers, “I’m sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

She presses a kiss to his hair, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Don't apologize. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

‘How can you promise that when you don’t remember?’ he wants to plead.

‘How do I know I’m going to see you again?’ Sylvain is tired.

‘What if this is really the last time?’ He is so tired.

 Her hands cup his face again and he tries searching her eyes once more. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

Sylvain doesn’t fight it when she brushes his hair back from his face. Doesn’t fight it when her lips brush against his with a quiet murmur that goes straight to his heart. “Sylvain, I love you.”

  He’ll take what he can get.

[crossbows-and-moonshine]

Let The Flames Begin (Chapter 24)

A quick word about something we haven't talked about yet...the age gap  :’) So okay, again we don’t know Daryl's exact age and stuff and I’m just making shit up to fit my story better. I was honestly surprised by how old Norman was when I first watched the show ‘cause he looks younger than he is. So for this, Daryl's age is 31, don’t like it, tough looool. I don't think its that far off given this is like just before the show and really, who fucking cares, it's just a number. I’m explaining this now so people get an idea so you aren't left confused. Charlene is 20, I mentioned that in the very first chapter for those who might have forgotten. That means he is 11 years older, yes I can do math when I feel like it XD

I’m mentioning this now because of a flashback in this one and I don't want people getting all confused and shit, all will make sense when you read it now. There is an age gap, but I mean there is in near enough every Daryl story and plus, they're both adults so, doesn't really matter, does it? I did toy with the idea of making her older not long after I started posting this fic, but I’m way too lazy to go back and edit my fucking story and loads of you have already read it and I don't want to confuse people, so I’m rolling with it.

So to put it simply; she is currently 20. The flashback in this is when she was 17. She started working at 18 and that's when Daryl noticed her.

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

The definition of hunger is; ‘a feeling of discomfort or weakness caused by lack of food, coupled with the desire to eat.’ The definition of starving is; ‘suffering or dying from hunger.’ Charlene had often said she was starving, making off-hand remarks before the world went down the crapper. When she had to work a little into her lunch break, if she got home late, if her food was taking too long to cook. But in reality, she was never really starving. She never knew the level of suffering starving brought with it. She had been lucky enough to always have at least some food to put in her belly. Until now that was. She didn’t know how long it had been since she lost the boys. Days and nights all blurred together as she just tried to push through and not keel over. She had lost her pack so her food was non-existent.

When Daryl told her to run to the truck, she did. Well, she ran at least, maybe not so much to the truck. She didn't know which way was what and she just kept running through the trees. A biter had grabbed her pack, and in a desperate panic, she swung her tomahawk blindly behind her, slitting its throat and causing blood to spurt everywhere. She managed to wriggle her pack from her shoulders and run. The truck never came though. She never seemed to leave the fucking woods, she couldn't find her way out for days. She had stupidly hoped Daryl could track her, climbing up into a tree to wait safely. But he never came. When she did eventually find the road again, she walked down it for miles with no sign of the truck and that's when it dawned on her. They had left her. It had left a gaping hole in her chest but she didn't really blame them. What were they supposed to think? She wasn't there and she knew they would have looked for her. She didn't doubt for a second they wouldn't have at least tried. But it became clear they had given up their search and left, and now she was all alone.

The fear was crippling, with only two biter kills under her belt and no food or way to get any, she knew she wouldn't last long out here. But she refused to just give up, to just lay down and die without putting up a fight. It wasn't in her to do that and she wanted to make the boys proud of her. The one thing she did have on her was the spare map in her back pocket. They had taken a few spares just in case anything happened and they needed another and now she was glad. If they had left, they would have set out to Atlanta like they planned. She wondered idly if she headed that way she might one day find them again. The chances were slim, they had a truck and she was on foot. By the time she would get there they could have moved on and been anywhere. But she wanted to at least try. It was time she got her big girl panties on and dealt with it. No more cowering behind Daryl or Merle, this was it now. This was exactly what they had been training her for.

The number of days she had walked was unclear but she knew it had been a lot, at least over a week. She had scavenged some supplies from a cabin she came across, thankful it was empty. She didn't think she was quite ready to clear a place herself yet. She had a couple of bottles of water, one tin and some other things, like some rope. The food didn't do much to help her burning stomach but it was enough to help her push on. In the nights she would climb a tree and sleep up there, tying herself with the rope so she didn’t fall. But now her food was gone, she only had a little water left. Her body was growing weak and tired, it was hard just to walk now. She had avoided the biters as best she could, killing them when necessary. It still always made her feel sick when she had to do it, but it was them or her. And since they were technically dead anyway, she had to convince herself she hadn't done anything wrong. There weren't many of the dead here though and it made her worried, if they weren't here, then where the hell were they?

She was sat up in a tree, her body aching fiercely as her stomach growled. She was watching the store just across the road from the tree line. She really wanted to go in, see if there was any food. Her hunger was pushing her to the point of desperation now, she felt like she was losing grip on reality just a little. Every second of the day she thought about Daryl and Merle, wondered if they were okay, what they were doing. She wasn't so much worried for their safety. She knew they were more than capable of looking after themselves in the new world, but she missed them like hell. She had tried to be hopeful, that maybe when she got to Atlanta she would find them. But as the days wore on, she realised she was being hopeful for nothing. That she needed to leave her old self behind because as Daryl once told her, ‘hope gets ya nowhere’.

Thinking of Daryl made her heart seize up inside of her ribcage and she grit her teeth, hoping the pain would pass. She had the biggest fucking crush on him ever since she first saw him, but back then, she was much too young for him. He hadn't even noticed her until she started working. Even then, despite the fact he was there all of the time, she knew he wouldn't ever look at her like that. Why would he? Daryl with his broad ass shoulder and beefy arms, his handsome face that somehow looked boyish when he felt awkward. She remembered the very first time she ever laid eyes on him, she tried to let it comfort her instead of the pain she was feeling.

~

Charlene munched on a donut as she walked home, her best friend Anna chatting away beside her. She was gossiping, it was what Anna did, but Charlene was never into that really. The 17-year-old was on her way to Anna’s house, she was staying the night. Her mother was sick again, the cancer was back. Her dad had sent her off to stay with Anna for a few days whilst her mother went into the hospital, it didn't look good and Charlene tried not to think about it. She had to have hope. Her mother beat the illness last time, she would again this time. As they approached Anna's house, they saw her brother Billy and some other guy stood outside, tinkering with a bike.

“Who’s that?” Charlene asked, letting her teenage eyes roam all over the sexy piece of ass. Her best friend snorted a laugh at her and shook her head. For a preachers daughter, Charlene was nothing but a perv.

“That's Daryl. Daryl Dixon,” Anna muttered quietly, even though the boys couldn't hear her since they were still down the road, walking up to the house. Charlene's eyes widened a little. She had heard a lot about the Dixon brothers, mainly Merle if she was honest, but she hadn’t expected Daryl to be so...fine as hell? Sex on legs? The very definition of manly? I can’t even decide…

The rumours around town were that these men were the worst of the worst. They were the kind of men you would cross the street to avoid, but Charlene knew better. Annas brother Billy was good friends with Daryl and she had heard a lot of things from her best friend about the brothers, things that made you think about why they were the way they were. Her father actually had a soft spot for Daryl. She had heard him talking to her mother about the youngest Dixon once. Her mother had come home, Charlene had only been young then and she had no idea how old Daryl was at the time, no older than 21, but her mother was gossiping as usual, since the people in this town had nothing better to do. Merle had been arrested again and her mother was ranting about the Dixon family. She had eavesdropped, sitting on the stairs as her father told her mother that Daryl was different. He wasn't like his dad or his older brother, how he was trying to get a job but no one would hire him because of his last name. That summer, her dad hired Daryl to work in their garden, helping him build a large shed. She never saw him though, the 10-year-old was too busy out with her friends playing.

Charlene chewed her lower lip as they finally approached, casting her eyes on the man fixing the bike.

“Hey, Billy! Daryl!” Anna beamed at them, clearly well acquainted with the Dixon man.

“Hey you two, how was school?” Billy asked with a smile. Charlene liked Billy, he was always nice to her, kind of like the big brother she never asked for.

“Shit, as usual. Your sister doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut,” Charlene smirked, laughing when Anna glared at her playfully and tugged on one of her french braids. She heard Daryl snort a little from where he was crouched next to the bike and it sent butterflies swarming in her belly. Her cheeks flushed and her best friend gave her a knowing look, but before she could open her big trap and embarrass her, Charlene grabbed her wrist and yanked her inside of the house.

“Oh my god, you have a thing for Daryl Dixon!” Anna squealed with a grin when they got inside. Charlene groaned and covered her face, Anna knew her too well, there was no point in denying it.

“Shut upppp!” she whined, walking into the kitchen and helping herself to a glass of water. It was like her second home here, she had been best friends with Anna since a small child. Every day after that, her best friend would always tease her for it in jest, and Anna always made sure to gush about her best friend whenever a certain Dixon was visiting her brother.

~

She sighed feeling weary, she needed food. Daryl hadn’t taught her shit just for her to give up now. She wouldn't see him again, she knew better now, but the least she could do was take the tools he taught her and use them. How disappointed would he be if she just gave up? Very, she could just imagine him glaring at her as his voice pinged around in her head.

‘C’mon Peaches, ya just gonna give up? Get yer ass in that store and get somethin’.’

“I can’t Daryl, if there's biters in there, I don't think I’m strong enough to fend them off,” she whispered, clearly losing her mind just a little that she was talking to herself. She shook her head, frowning as she climbed out of the tree, tomahawk at the ready. As usual, the dead seemed non-existent as she carefully walked to the store. She swallowed thickly as she peeped inside, listening carefully. There were no sounds though and she walked inside, furrowing her brow. It really unsettled her, the lack of dead here.

She got to work though, she fucking needed this. There were some tins and snacks and she ripped open a packet of potato chips, stuffing them in her mouth greedily. She put the rest in her pack until it was full and then she slung it around her small shoulders. She had been a little small before all this but now she felt like a bag of bones. The time away from the brothers had left her badly malnourished and she missed having them take care of her, keeping her well fed. Daryl never let her go hungry. The door opened behind her and she squeaked in surprise, whirling around and holding her weapon out. She squinted, coming face to face with an Asian boy who was currently staring at her with wide eyes.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he muttered, hands up in surrender as his eyes flit from her wild-looking face to her tomahawk.

Her heart was thumping wildly as she assessed him. He didn't look much older than her and he looked scared. She knew she should lower her weapon but something was stopping her, that something was a voice in her head.

‘Don’t let ya guard down for a second, words don’t mean a thing. Didn't before the world when to shit, sure as fuck don’t now.’

Daryl's voice made her blink a little, shaking her head as if to clear it. Despite the food she had just eaten, her body was still suffering from the brutal punishment it had been through and her head was feeling fuzzy.

“I-I’m Glenn,” the guy said shakily, looking at her cautiously. It was obvious she wasn't really in the best way. Her clothes were hanging off her body, and her cheeks were gaunt, blue rings around her eyes. It felt like there was an internal battle inside of her. She wanted to trust him, but Daryl's voice was swimming in her mind.

After staring at him for a moment, she finally lowered the tomahawk, more out of the fact her arm was aching than anything else. She just didn't have it in her anymore.

“I’m Charlene,” she said softly, still watching him warily. He nodded, the movement jerky, still a little spooked from her holding her weapon at him like she had.

“I have a group, we’re up by the quarry. We have food, safety in numbers,” he said quietly. She could see him taking her in with his eyes but it wasn't a lingering gaze. She wasn't anything to look at anymore anyway. She knew she looked a wreck. Her long hair was in a knotted bun on her head and her skin was covered in mud, dirt and dried blood. She was a mess. She shook her head with a frown, taking a step back.

“No thanks,” she mumbled tensely. What he offered appealed to her greatly, especially with how desperate she was getting. But people were different now, and if the time in the cabin taught her anything, it was that they shouldn't be trusted.

“We won't hurt you. We have women, kids even. The only people you have to be wary about are the Dixon brothers, but they won't hurt you. They’re just a little mouthy,” he snorted a little, toying with the cap he had taken off and held in his hands. Her eyes widened then and snapped up to his. Was her mind playing tricks on her again because this shit wasn't funny anymore.

“What did you just say?” she asked, maybe a little harsher than expected since he looked scared and took a wary step back.

“I-I don’t...the women and kids or the Dixon thing?” he stammered nervously. She lowered her gaze, swallowing thickly as her heart ached. They were here? Had she really found them? What were the fucking chances of that? She found it hard to believe it was really them but how else would he know of them or the fact they were mouthy little shits, it had to be them.

“Wait a minute, do you know them?” Glenn asked, perceptive as ever as he looked at her reaction. She nodded, her eyes welling with tears as she sniffled and tried to get a hold of herself.

“I lost them. I don't even know how long it’s been but I got lost and then they were just...gone,” she frowned, wiping her eyes. Glenn blinked at her, it was hard to imagine this girl hanging around with the Dixon’s but then again, the dead were up and walking so weirder things had happened.

“They came to the group about two weeks ago. They hunt for us but mostly they just keep to themselves. Except for Merle, he’s a bit of an asshole most of the time. I’m pretty sure he's using something,” Glenn muttered with a frown. Charlene looked at him and the look of pure anguish on her face made his own heart hurt. She frowned deeply, shaking her head. He was using again? She felt so disappointed, he had done so well, made such an effort. She had no idea that thinking she was dead was what caused him to relapse.

“Will you take me? To the group?” she asked, looking hopeful as she wiped her eyes again. Glenn couldn't help but think she looked a loss less of a threat now her weapon wasn't drawn, her big eyes looking all sad.

“Yeah, let me just grab some stuff. I’m the one who goes on runs, I know the area pretty well,” he smiled at her. She found herself smiling back for the first time since she had gotten lost. The hope she always used to have, the hope that she had lost, it started burning again inside of her soul and her heart skipped a beat. They were safe and fine, weirdly enough in a group. She couldn't imagine them joining a group and it made her feel weird like there was something going on. She knew the brothers well enough to know they would have opted to stay by themselves. They didn't need safety in numbers when they had each other. Even still, she was going to see them again. She wondered how they would react. Her smile faltered as a venomous thought made its way inside of her brain. What if they left her willingly? What if they hadn't looked at all, taking the first chance they got to get rid of her? She tried to ignore it, she felt like she knew them enough to know they liked her somewhat. They had both took the time to train her with things and they both took care of her. Surely if they wanted rid of her, the gruff men would have just tossed her ass from the truck anyway.

She was giving herself a headache as she stood there, waiting for Glenn to be done so they could go back to his camp. She rubbed her temples, glancing around anxiously until he appeared by her side once again.

“Ready?” he asked with a smile. She nodded as she adjusted her pack on her shoulder as they left the store. She tried to ignore the nerves at seeing them again, the possibility they might not want to see her. If they didn't want to see her then she would just stay out of their way when she got there. At least she would know they were okay with her own eyes. It would kill her, but she wouldn't blame them. She had surprised herself that she had survived this long on her own but the whole time had been a struggle and she was suffering. It was nothing like the life she had with them both. She was weak, they knew she was weak. Why the fuck would they want her ass to come back to them to burden them once more? She didn't know if it was the lack of food and water or the lack of sleep, something was making her mood spiral. She tried to ignore it, listening to Glenn just talk about the people at camp as they walked, preparing her for who she was about to meet.

Taglist; @risingphoenix761 @arlaina28 @daryldixonandfrogs @divadinag @keeperofwonderlandus @jodiereedus22 @easnuppa @fand0m-fiend @txladyj-blog @walkingdead-dixon

[breanime]

Bloody Secrets (Part One)

So this is my first time writing a Reader-insert fic, so any feedback would be really appreciated! There’s some brief smut and vague descriptions of violence (I mean, it’s Billy), so be advised. 

*gif by @banditthewriter, who was kind enough to proof read this for me*

The best thing about your terribly expensive school was the quality of their labs. You had always wanted to practice medicine, so you had been ecstatic when you’d gotten into your top choice university. Price of tuition aside—it was the perfect school for you. You especially liked the labs; working on the dummies helped you hone your craft more than any textbook could.

“Um, Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You didn’t look up from the dummy you were practicing on. Maggie always had questions—in the lecture hall, in the hospital, in the lab, you were relentless. But you liked her. She was kind, and eager, and not one of the (many, many, many) Ivy League silver spoon babies. So you two became friends.

“I think your boyfriend’s here.” There was a smile on her face when you finally did look up. You followed your gaze and had to bite your lip to keep from grinning as well.

Billy Russo—head of Anvil, best friend of the Punisher, playboy ex-Marine Special Ops soldier—was standing in the doorway of the lab. Your professor was talking to him animatedly; and you could almost see his glasses fogging up in his excitement. Several lab assistants were staring at Billy hard. But, who could blame them? He was wearing one of his famous 3-piece suits, a tasteful dark gray number with a navy-blue tie. He leaned against the doorway, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his hands in his pocket. He was smiling, but when his eyes landed on you it turned into a smirk.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you turned back to Maggie immediately, “He’s… we’re friends. We’re bangbros.” Maggie made a face and you laughed, putting down your tools. “Lemme see what he wants.”

You watched Billy watch you as you approached. You were wearing a simple V-neck school shirt and jeans—nothing special. But his eyes scanned over you in a way that had your skin tingling with warmth.

“Mr. Russo,” you greeted him calmly, interrupting the professor’s nervous rant.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he said back, tilting his head as he spoke, “I’m interrupting your lesson, forgive me.”

You felt the corners of my lip tug up. “It’s fine,” you were blatantly casual in front of your watching professor and classmates, “What can I do for you Mr. Russo?”

His eyes flashed, and you could guess the kind of reply he wanted to say. But instead he said, “I’m afraid I need your assistance on something,” he glanced over at your professor, “with, of course, your permission sir.”

It took no time at all for the professor to agree—he was a huge fan of Billy’s. Most of your classmates gave you awed looks as you packed up, while some shot you looks of envy. Maggie blew you a kiss as you left. The story you had told everyone, about how you first met Billy, was that the two of you had ran into each other outside of the city. You were on your way to visit your little sister and he was out training a few of the guys. Long story short: three of his guys got hurt, so you had taken it upon yourself to step in. All of that was true. What you didn’t tell them was what happened afterwards.

“You usually travel this far out of town by yourself?” He had asked you.

You were wiping your bloodstained hands on a towel he’d given you. Your hair was a mess, hastily thrown in a bun with strands falling on your sweaty face. Your coat was somewhere on the ground, but your sweater was ruined, it was dotted with blood. Billy was wearing all black, looking slim and dangerous as he surveyed you.

“It’s usually a quicker route,” you said back, “y’know, when I’m not stopping to perform street surgeries.” A glance over at his three guys, leaning on each other like tired children after a long day at the playground, made you smile. It was kind of cute. “Can I ask what all this,” you gestured to the men, “was?”

“You can,” he said breezily, “doesn’t mean I’ll answer, though.”

“Typical military,” you said back. You weren’t offended. You had heard of Billy Russo, prominent New York businessman and playboy before, so you weren’t at all naïve enough to think he was just a pretty face.

“How’d you know I was military?”

“I read magazines,” you answered, “I think it was GQ who had a whole 3-page layout on Billy Russo.”

He laughed. “So you know my name.” He took a step toward you. “But I still don’t know yours.”

“Y/N.”

“That come with a surname?”

You smirked. “Y/L/N. And to answer your first question: I was on my way to my sister’s place,” you paused and looked down at my bloody clothes, “but I think it’s better that I don’t anymore.”

“Are you sure?” He had looked genuinely concerned. “I can take you. We can get you some new clothes on the way, stop at a hotel—”

“—Mr. Russo,” you feigned shock, “just because I’m out alone at night in a dark alley covered in blood does not mean I’ll just go to a hotel with you,” you put the back of your hand to your forehead, “What kind of a girl do you think I am?”

He had laughed then. It started out as a bark of laughter before it became a full-on laugh. “My sincerest apologizes,” he said between chuckles, “I just meant, you could take a quick shower. I’d hate to mess up your plans with your sister.”

You shook my head. “Nah, it’s cool. It’s getting late, anyway, I have class in the morning,” you gestured blindly with bloody hands, “Med school,” you explained.

“Makes sense. At least let me give you a ride home,” Billy had turned to look back at his guys, “Looks like these guys won’t be dying—thanks to you.”

“Sure, thanks,” you had said. And you were off. Your jaw nearly hit your chest when you saw Billy’s Rolls Royce for the first time. Truth be told, you had been afraid to get in, because of the blood, but he just chuckled. He had taken care to buckle you in. You made sure to call your sister and tell your you had to stay home and study, which you were fine with. Billy silently wiped the last of the blood off your face and hands. He touched you with such care, it made you feel safe even though you had just seen how dangerous his lifestyle was. The two of you talked the whole ride back to your apartment, and you were almost disappointed when the car pulled up in front of your building.

“Would it be wrong to say I hope we can do this again?” You asked once he’d walked you to your door.

He had chuckled, his dark eyes sweeping over your body. In most circumstances, the appraisal would have made you balk, but you couldn’t help but like the way he surveyed you.  “Maybe not in the exact same way,” he’d said, “But I’d love to see you again, Y/N.”

So, you exchanged numbers, and while you hoped he would want to come in, he’d told you that he had to get back to work, but that he’d call the first chance he got. That chance ended up being the next day, and you talked between classes. He had told you how his on-staff doctor complimented your work and even asked for your resume, which made you laugh—since you had no resume to give him. After that, you texted the next few days before he finally asked if he could take you out for dinner and drinks as a thank you for your help. So you went out.

It took hours to find the right dress—something sexy, but not too revealing—but it was time well spent, because Billy looked at you like a hungry man in front of a buffet.

“So, how often do you do this?” You had asked, gesturing with your wine glass. You elaborated when you saw the curious tilt of his head. “Take random co-eds out to dinner?”

“Not usually,” he answered smoothly, his New York accent rolling with his words, “Do you usually stop and help total strangers?” He had raised one perfect eyebrow. “Total strangers who are at risk of bleeding out?” He added.

You shrugged. Best to just tell the truth. “Only when their boss is as good looking as you.”

“You think I’m good-looking?” He had been smirking then.

You took a drink, stalling. You actually hadn’t meant to say that, but it was true… “What, you don’t own a mirror?”

He chuckled. “I own several, actually,” he had said, “By the way, you look amazing tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“You looked pretty good the other night too, if I’m honest,” he had gone on, “I mean, for a co-ed covered in blood.”

That prompted another two hours of conversation. You talked steadily through dinner and desert, and he had put his hand on the small of your back as you walked back to his car. The two of you had been talking about your school and his work when you pulled up to your apartment. Billy had gotten out and opened your door.

“This was fun,” he had said, smiling over at you with those dark eyes.

“Yeah,” you agreed easily, “It was.”

“What time do you have class tomorrow?”

You made a face. “7 am.”

“Clinicals, right?”

“Right.” You had been impressed by his memory, or rather, that he had actually listened to your ramblings about school. “Thanks for this, for dinner, it was really nice.”

He put his head down and then up again, smiling at you. “My pleasure.” He had paused then, and asked: “Can I see you again?”

You almost broke your neck nodding. “You can see me right now,” you blurted out, “if you want, I mean… You can come inside—” you could feel your face burning by that point “—the apartment, I mean. You can come up to the… ah, fuck…” Billy laughed then. “Shut up,” you had said, laughing a little as well.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But I can see you thinking it.”

His dark eyes flashed. “If you could see what I’m thinking,” his voice was low, “we would have already been upstairs.” He grinned at me. “But it’s good to wait, sometimes.” He had leaned closer to you, then, and your heart started pounding. His lips had pressed against yours, sweetly, for a brief moment, before he pulled back. “Till next time, Y/N.”

The next time he came up to your apartment.

Billy had pulled you into his lap as soon as you got into the car. He didn’t generally like being driven around, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold off once he got you alone. Billy had been out of the country for the last three weeks and he was not above knowing his limits. He licked into your mouth, one hand on the back of your neck, the other on your ass. You were wearing jeans; he preferred you in leggings, but he could work with what he got.

“This is what you needed me for?” You asked, grinning as you looked down at him.

“Mm hmm,” he murmured back, sliding his hand between your tangled legs to unbutton your jeans, “Figured you have the skills, you can afford a day off.”

“Oh, I can, can I?” You giggled. “What if today’s lesson was important?”

“More important than this?” He asked, rubbing one long finger against your folds. Billy licked his lips as you closed your eyes and sighed against him. “More important,” he asked again, continuing his ministrations, “than this?”

“No,” you breathed against him, your lips almost on his. You moved your hips and he groaned at the feeling.

He kissed you again, grinning as he pushed two fingers in and you gasped. You put your head back and he kissed along the side of your neck, breathing in your scent. Your skin was soft and warm, and you were wet where his fingers touched. It had been Billy’s intention to just screw you and be done with it 3 months ago when you first met, but he liked you. He liked sleeping with you—definitely—but he liked your company, too. Billy had told you about his childhood—the bare, ugly details about his mother’s abandonment, the group home—and a few very, very bare details about his time in the military, mostly about his good friend Frank. You were rolling your hips more and more now, and he could tell you were close. He brought his lips to yours. “I missed you,” he said between kisses.

“Missed you, too,” you said. Your eyes were squeezed shut and Billy moved his hand faster, and you yelped at the increased movement. Billy’s eyes caught the driver’s and they narrowed dangerously. The driver rolled up the partition and Billy made a mental note to handle him later. Until then, he bit a bruise onto your neck as you came on top of him. He held you to him, lightly kissing your cheek and neck as you panted, coming down. He was hard, but he had the patience to wait. “Shit, Billy,” you sighed, your body melting into his.

He kissed you on the mouth, rubbing his cheek on yours. “I gotta get you home, sweetheart,” he whispered, “make up for lost time…”

And he did. Over the course of your…whatever you were, the two of you had fallen into a nice rhythm with a fair understanding of each other. You usually met at his place; Billy had no qualms about going to your apartment, but you said it was too small and “woefully poor” (your words, not his), so you rarely ever went there. You learned not to ask too much about his work, especially what he did when he was overseas, and he learned not to ask you how you afforded medical school with no job. It didn’t really matter to him; he was curious, of course, but he figured you had a secret trust fund or a shitload of student loans—either way, you didn’t seem too eager to talk about it so he didn’t push. He actually was curious about a lot of things in regards to you, but he knew timing was important, so he held on to them…for the moment.

Billy had you naked and underneath him in seconds once you reached his penthouse. Your nails raked his back as he pushed himself in and out of you, grinning at the sounds and faces you were making. He bent his head down, kissed you, and then moved his lips to your neck. You had protested the first few times the two of you had been together about him leaving marks, but he couldn’t help himself. He had no way to know who you were with when he wasn’t around, so he wanted to be sure he left his mark on you, and he told you that much. As a compromise, he’d gotten you a set of some very fine concealer that was personally made to fit your skin color sent in from France. So now he could mark your up to his delight. Which he did.

He had you three more times that day. You took a break to order some food and put on a movie. Halfway into the movie, you climbed into his lap and you proceeded to move onto round four. Now, you lay naked in his bed. You had your head on his chest and he had one arm holding you, the other holding a glass of bourbon. You didn’t know it, but this was the happiest he’d been in days. He had gone over to Kandahar to dig up some old intel for Frank—he owed him the favor, however much he didn’t want to go back there. It was tiring work; both physically and mentally. He was glad to be back, to be with you. He looked down at you; your hair was loose and wild from all the activity and his hands in it, and your eyes were heavy with sleep. He could see a few hickeys forming on your neck already, and he smiled at his success. You were wrapped in his arms and his blanket, and Billy couldn’t help but think about what this would be like if this were his life…

“So when do I get to meet her?” Frank had asked, staring out into the water. He and Billy had met to debrief around 4 am when Billy landed back in the States. Billy was tired, dead on his feet, but he was glad to see Frank. Slowly, with a lot of caution and care, they were starting to rebuild their friendship. It also didn’t hurt that they were working a mission together again: to bring down Agent Orange. Frank had wanted to meet him as soon as he got back, and because he was brooding Frank, he’d wanted to meet at the waterfront, which was colder than usual in the night.

“Meet who?” Billy asked, running his hand through his hair and resting it on the back of his neck. He was still wearing his combat gear.

“The girl. Your girl,” Frank said, a grin on his lips. The grin widened when he saw the look on Billy’s face. Frank, wearing a hood over his head, a big coat, and holding a dossier actually looked like he was close to giggling. “When do I get to meet her?”

Billy smiled, despite himself, and rolled his eyes. “Never, man,” he said back, “Y/N’s just a friend. We’re just having fun.”

“Uh huh,” Frank hadn’t sounded convinced, “Seems to me you’ve been ‘having fun’ for close to what? Two months now?”

“Three,” Billy responded automatically.

Frank raised an eyebrow, like he had just made a point. “Seems like a long time to be having fun, Bill.”

Billy smirked. “Not the way we do it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Frank chuckled, “I’m just sayin’, Bill, it’s important to have loved ones, family…”

“That’s what I got you and Curt for,” he said easily.

“Yeah, that’s right, you do. But uh… I can’t speak for Curtis, but you know I only like you as a friend, right?”

Billy laughed. “You’re hilarious, Frankie,” he rolled his eyes, “you should do stand-up.”

“I’m just sayin’,” Frank persisted, “Maria and me… We always hoped you bring a girl around, settle down…”

“Quality over quantity,” Billy said wryly.

“Exactly, buddy,” Frank paused, weighing the dossier in his hands, “You know, after this… Things will be different. This, killing Rawlins, exposing what he had us doing, won’t bring Maria and the kids back,” Billy lowered his head at that statement, his guilt was too raw on his face to show to Frank as he continued, “But it’ll make us… not clean, but a little less dirty.” Frank grinned at him then. “Anvil won’t be powered by blood money anymore; nobody will own us or command us. As new starts go, it’s not a bad one…”

“Provided we don’t die,” Billy added.

Frank nodded, dark eyes serious again. “Provided we don’t die.” There was a silence between them then, but neither man rushed in to fill it. They looked over the dark waters for a moment before Frank went on. “When you’re ready,” he said easily, “I’d like to meet her.”

Billy thought back on that as he held you, naked and warm, to his chest.

“Hey,” he said softly, half-hoping you were asleep.

“Yeah?” Your voice was soft and low and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Hopefully you,” you smirked up at him.

He chuckled. “Well, in-between that, if there’s time, you wanna come meet a couple of my buddies with me?” Billy figured it he was going to do this, he might as well rip the band-aid off and throw Curtis in the mix as well.

You sat up, interested. This was definitely a step. Billy had met Maggie in passing, but Maggie was a school-friend. You hadn’t even told your sister about him, and the two girlfriends you’d talked about him with didn’t know he was the Billy, as in Billy Russo head of Anvil. You’d never even discussed what the two of you were, let alone anything about meeting friends.

Your silence served as an answer to him. “You don’t have to,” his voice was smooth, “I’ll just step out for a bit, meet ‘em, and be back before you know it.”

“No, I want to meet your friends,” you said, placing your hand on his bare chest, “I just… I wasn’t expecting this.” You paused, putting your head back down before putting it up again. “Wait, are your friends ladies? Are these lady friends?”

“Why? Would that be better or worse?” Billy asked with a smile.

“Worse… These are Anvil people or military?”

“Ex-military. My friends Curtis and Frank want to meet you—”

“—why?”

He shrugged, only a little sure of the answer himself. “Cause they’re nosy bastards. Frank’s my best buddy, we were stationed overseas together. We did eight years,” Billy paused, “He’s been through a lot, lost his family,” he felt like he was oversharing, but he couldn’t stop, “He’s my brother, his family… they treated me like their own, called me ‘Uncle Bill’ and everything…” He was starting to feel a heavy sadness come over him, so he decided to move on, “My other friend, Curtis, he’s a vet too. Technically he works for Anvil part-time,” he smiled softly, “He counsels other vets, hooks them up with jobs, support, that kind of thing. He lost a leg in the war. He’s a real good guy… Him and Frank both.”

“And they want to meet me?” Your voice sounded awed.

Billy ran a hand through his hair. “They do,” he said back, “Frank’s the one been buggin’ me about it. They know I’ve been spending a lot of time with you, which, y’know,” he smirked, “hasn’t always been the case with me. So, they wanna meet you.”

“Oh,” you sat up so that you were shoulder-to-shoulder with him. You wouldn’t look at him, you were looking straight ahead.

“What? You don’t want to meet them? You don’t have to,” he shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, I want to, I…” You put your hands in your lap and Billy felt himself tensing up. Childhood abandonment aside, he still wasn’t used to the sting of rejection. And something about you; the way you laughed, how you kissed him, the sound you made when you came, made it hit a lot closer to home. “I just don’t know… what are we?”

You were looking at him now, and he felt his eyes widened. That was your problem? He laughed. “I didn’t know labels meant so much to you, babe.”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “It’s not just a label,” you maintained, “It means something. I just…” you looked away again. “I can never tell if this,” you waved a hand between the two of them, “means something to you.”

Billy nodded, eyes on your hands, which had found their way back in your lap. He leaned closer to you and put a finger on your chin, turning your face towards his. His dark eyes bore yours, and he meant his next words with every part of him. “This means something to me,” his voice was low and serious, “You mean something to me. You think this is all just fun and games to me?” You shrugged, your eyes wide. He huffed out a bitter laugh, determined to get through this conversation. “What’s it to you, huh? What does this,” he imitated your gesture, “mean to you?”

“Danger,” you said immediately, your voice soft but seeming to take up the whole room. You smiled. “I like danger.”

He felt a heat go over him, but ignored it for now. “Yeah? What else?”

“What else does this mean?” You repeated. “It means I’m way in over my head,” you took a breath, “look at you. I mean… in what world would a guy like you be interested in a girl like me?”

“In this world,” he quipped back, “In every world. Give yourself some credit, sweetheart. I’m the fucked up one here, not you,” his eyes softened as he looked at your, naked and wrapped in his sheets, “you’re perfect.”

Your smile made his knees go weak, and he wasn’t even standing. “So, we’re doing this? The big B and G thing?”

“The what?”

You leaned forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. “The boyfriend and girlfriend thing.”

He leaned in as well, bumping noses with your and smiling. “Yeah,” he said, claiming your lips for a kiss, “We’re doing this: the boyfriend-girlfriend thing.”

Frank and Curtis took to you like two old uncles. They doted on you, making any and every joke or comment at Billy’s expense that they could. You, in turn, became their go-to person whenever they needed a knife wound or bullet hole patched up—which was becoming more and more frequent the closer they got to bringing Rawlins down. It had been four months since you and Billy had officially started dating, and nearly seven months since you’ve begun seeing each other. It had been surprisingly, scarily, easy for Billy to get used to their new relationship. Somewhere along the line, he had realized that money, cars, and clothes were fine to play with, discard, trade up, but women were different—particularly, this woman was different. There was only one problem.

“Should I tell Y/N about this shit?” Billy asked, rifle on the edge of the railing. He, Frank, Curtis, Micro, and Karen were staking out a warehouse where one of Rawlins’ top men was housed. He had crawled his way from whiny assistant to suitcase-holding secret keeper and graduated to owning and operating his own small faction in the local non-ethnic mob.

“The covert mission shit we’re on now or the old army shit we were on before?” Frank clarified. Billy could hear muffled shouts and grunts—Frankie was doing what he was doing best in the warehouse while Billy had his six.

“One kind of leads into the other,” Karen said. She and Micro were in a van a few blocks away, running point. Billy wasn’t 100% okay with her involvement; both as a member of the press and his buddy’s potential squeeze piece, but he had to admit, she had a grounding presence and a good head on her shoulders. Despite her (suspicious, in his mind) interest in Frank, she was an asset to the team. Plus, she had a point.

“Got a couple heading your way, Russo,” Curtis said, his voice clear in the earpiece, “And my opinion? You should lay it all on the table. I think you can handle it.”

Billy closed one eye, focusing his vision through the lens of his rifle. Sniping was easy for him, it was basically second nature. Plus, with Frank and Curtis on the mission with him, he felt at ease. “Could turn out to be a bad idea,” he reasoned, putting five guys down in the matter of seconds. He switched out the magazine and took out another two. “Shit’s been great between us, don’t wanna ruin it.”

“The truth will set you free,” Micro said sagely, “but first it will piss you off.”

Billy restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Thanks Homeless Yoda,” he said sarcastically, “but for the record, I was talkin’ to Curtis and Frank, not you and Journalist Barbie.”

“Hey!” Karen protested.

“Don’t be an asshole, asshole,” Frank grunted, he sounded like he had just taken a hit to the gut, “It’s good to have a feminine opinion on this.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Karen said lightly.

“And Lieberman?” Billy asked, sending a shot through the eyebrows of one of the mob guys.

“He’s pretty useless in these matters,” Frank replied honestly. Billy chuckled at his response and Micro’s answering “what?!”

“Look, Billy,” Curtis cut in, “it’s up to you what you tell your and when. But, if you ask me, it’s better to get it all done and out in the open sooner rather than later. You don’t want her finding any of this shit out by accident or from someone else.”

“And Y/N deserves to know the truth,” Frank said, “she’s a good girl, Bill. And she loves you, she’ll love you no matter what.”

Billy shook his head slightly but said nothing. The two of you hadn’t said those three words to each other, but he was close to letting them out. He could feel it; every time you smiled at him or laughed at some stupid comment he said or sighed when you patched up a wound that he wouldn’t tell you about. Even tonight, he had told you he was going out with the guys—partly true—and you had just said ok, but you’d given him a look…like you knew something else was going on. You’d pressed him about it once, on suspicions that he was meeting up with a girl, but he’d squashed that. Several times, actually, he thought with a smirk growing on his lips. He had told you, and left no room for argument or doubt, that you were the only woman for him. Period.

The mission didn’t last much longer, and once they got the target (aptly named “The Fat Man” by Micro), all it took was a search done by Karen using Billy’s Anvil program to sort the truth from fiction. The Fat Man agreed, in exchange for his life and not being left alone with either Frank or Billy, to set up a meeting with some of his mob guys. While Frank threatened the trembling criminal to keep quiet until it was time for the showdown, Billy walked away a few yards and called Y/N.

“Billy?” You said. He smiled at the sound of your voice, it was clear you had been sleeping.

“Hey, baby, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, it’s cool,” he could hear the covers shifting as you sat up, “what’s up? Somebody need stitches?”

Billy looked over at his friends—and Karen and Micro—they looked fine. “Nah, we’re good. I’ll be headin’ home in a few. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

“You’re coming home soon? How soon? I can stay up.”

“No,” he shook his head, a smile on his face, “Go back to sleep, baby. I’ll be there soon.” You would not, under any circumstances, give up your shitty apartment, but Billy had been able to convince you—in various ways—to spend the night at his place more and more. You had a key and were given full clearance by his security team. The two of you talked for a little while longer before you hung up. As Billy looked out at the bodies all over the courtyard of the warehouse and up at the bright yellow moon, he couldn’t help but think… maybe it was time to tell your, maybe you’d understand. Maybe you’d be okay, still care for him…

…or maybe you’d leave.

Billy was at work, prepping a group of guys for a security detail assignment when his burner phone went off. He dismissed the guys with a turn of his head and picked up the phone.

“Russo,” he answered. He had a good idea who it was, but he was used to answering calls in that way.

“Bill, it’s me,” Frank’s voice was rough and breathless, “I’m with Micro and the Fat Man. At the warehouse he told us about. You need to get here quick.”

Billy put a hand on the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, willing himself to have patience. “Frank,” he hissed into the receiver, “I can’t just leave, I’m working, this is my job…”

“Y/N’s here.”

Billy’s blood ran cold. He had been leaning on the wall, but he stood erect now. “What?”

“Bill,” Frank swallowed, “I think she might be working for the Fat Man.”

Billy had never broken so many speeding laws in his life. He was still on the phone with Frank, who was telling him that Y/N was one of the dozen people at the Fat Man’s second warehouse, where they were packaging dope. He was pissed. Beyond pissed. Frank was trying to calm him down, but he was too far gone. His silence was proof of that.

“I don’t know if they have her hostage, I don’t think she’s hurt…” Frank was saying.

“I’m gonna kill every last one of those rat bastards,” Billy said, his New York accent thick in his rage, “What’s the Fat Man say? She one of his?” The question, the phrasing of it, made him grip the steering wheel with anger. His knuckles were white on the wheel.

There was a silence on the other line as Frank repeated the question. Billy could tell from the garbled response that the Fat Man had probably already been busted in his lip; probably by Frank. “The Fat Man says she’s not on his payroll, but he knows her. Says she’s been doctoring his guys for a while now.”

“How long?”

Another pause. “A year.”

Billy cursed in his head, but said nothing out loud. He pulled up to the side of the warehouse where Frank and the Fat Man were. Micro’s van was there, the door rolled open. Billy didn’t even give the geek a cursory glance as he stalked over to Frank and the Fat Man. The Fat Man’s lip was indeed busted, and his nose was bleeding as well.

“He says this is where they package their dope, sell their guns, shit like that,” Frank said, standing behind Billy as he ripped his suit jacket off and practically threw it at Micro. “They call her here,” Frank was careful not to say your name when Billy’s eyes looked like that, “every few months.”

“She’s a doctor,” the Fat Man explained, looking like a guilty child caught with the cookie jar, “Her brother owed us big, so she took over his debt. She worked it off in a matter of months.”

This was news to Billy. You had mentioned your brother in passing, but you never even gave his name. Billy had just assumed you two weren’t close and didn’t press it. “So what is she doing here now, then?” Billy asked, his voice tense.

“I—we hired her on to do some more work for us. Patch up work, mostly, on a few of the fellas. She said she needed the cash, she made good on her brother’s debt… We—I didn’t know she was with you.”

Billy cocked his gun, done with the Fat Man for now. He turned to Frank, who nodded. They didn’t need to speak—they could read each other’s faces.

Frank turned to address Micro. “Can you get us eyes in there or what?” He asked.

Micro turned back to his computer and began typing away. “Got a few,” he reported, he glanced at Billy, “Y/N’s not on them.”

“The girl works in the back room,” the Fat Man supplied, eager to help, “no cameras. Just her and the guys.”

Frank put a steadying hand on Billy’s shoulder as they took in those words. Billy’s trigger finger was itching. “Show us the location where she works.” Billy demanded. Micro and the Fat Man pulled up the camera. It was a short corridor to the back room, which was sealed off with a heavy wood door. Billy couldn’t wait to break it down.

“Who’s in there with her?” Frank asked. Billy could feel himself growing impatient; he rolled his head but kept quiet. These questions were important.

“She’s operating on Little Louie,” the Fat Man answered, “he’s one of the packagers. He’s got blockage in his lungs or some shit. She’ll be in there, one guy to assistant, and at least two other guys to, y’know, make sure she does her work and then pay her when she’s through.”

“So they’re armed?” Billy asked.

“Yeah,” the Fat Man blanched, “but they’d never hurt her—she’s a nice girl, the doctor. We like her a lot.” That was the wrong thing to say.

Billy grabbed him by his collar and knocked him into the side of the van; hard. His face was inches from the Fat Man’s, so the other man could see the uncontained rage and very real threat of violence in his dark eyes. “Somethin’ happens to her, I’m gonna come back out here and shoot you in your fucking fat gut, you got that you piece of shit?” He hissed. The Fat Man nodded quickly and Frank sighed behind him. Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Fuck, I might shoot you anyway.”

“We don’t got time for this, Bill,” Frank’s gruff voice brought Billy back. He pushed the Fat Man away from him and turned back to his friend. “Cuff him and move to the back,” he ordered Micro, “we’re going in.”

--To Be Continued

~~So I can make this two or three parts, if anyone is interested. Just let me know. Again, this is the first time I’ve ever written something like this so I would love love LOVE any kind of feedback or comment. 

[doctorwhofieldguide]

Tenth Doctor

Appearance: Swept up spiky hair sticking out from every conceivable angle yet manages to still look effortlessly styled. As if nineties haircut had seizure. Defined, squared off symmetrical sideburns. Rich chestnut brown hair. Brow perpetually scrunched up from constant thought. Scruffy day old shave. Eyes always about to pop out of head. Smartly dressed in blue or brown pinstriped suit, usually bottom most button of jacket unbuttoned so can easily run. Light blue dress shirt with intricately designed tie. Scuffed up worn converse. Long, billowing, light brown trench coat. Looks as if just pressed. Uses slim black glasses for closer observations and because believes make him look smarter. Long, lithe figure. Thin. Long legs for quick access to running. 

Personality:

Towards Companions:

 Clever, witty, uses sarcasm as second language. Quick-witted and knows it. Snippy. Consistent rambler. Sly. Giddy, lives off wonder of companions. Appears happy-go-lucky, light-hearted, jovial, amiable, bouncy, playful. Fascinated and thrilled by every new thing comes across. Expressionate. Employs ten different expressions within minute. Mobile. Always moving. Bounces on heals in anticipation. Runs 90% of time. Licks/sniffs substances as method of deduction. Hands in pockets, takes long strides. Resting face of contemplation. Angsty. Fluctuates between ripe teenager and cynical old man. Tends to fixate on past often. Dramatic.

In Battle:

‘Mad with power’

Deadpan stare fueled with raging intensity. Direct eye contact with enemy. Fearsome. Cruel. Dominating. Unyielding. Much more willing to injure others for own cause than other doctors. Unblinking in decisive decisions. Incredibly vindictive. Manic. Unquenchable fire seen plainly in eyes. All consuming rage that engulfs all sense of control. Known throughout the stars. “The fury of a time lord”. “The oncoming storm”. “The destroyer of worlds”. Will go to brink of madness with power. Yet has deep sadness that comes with immeasurable knowledge. However, sadness will never lead to regret of actions he deems necessary. Knowledge that he is only one who will do/is able to do things he does. Understanding that he is deeply alone more poignant in battle. Constantly mourning. Often feels like has nothing to lose. Blazing. A vision of fire and ice. Turmoil. Destruction.  

Tools:

Sonic Screwdriver: Silver. Extendable. Grooved handle with slider on side used to employ device. Black wire visible through clear tube connected to dome shaped top with blue light. Slim, compact.

Stethoscope: standard hospital stethoscope used for hearing conversations through walls

3-D glasses: White retro movie theater 3-D paper glasses with see-through red and blue film. Red over left eye and blue over right. Used for viewing residue background radiation left over from inter-dimensional travel.

Psychic Paper: Flimsy leather wallet with rectangular piece of blank, white paper in clear sleeve. Projects fake title or reference of user as user so desires. Often used to access restricted locations. If observer is genius or aware of psychic paper’s existence, effect not always ensured.

Catchphrases:

“Allons-y”

“Wibbley-Wobbly Timey-Wimey”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”

“Trust me…I’m the doctor”

Companions:

Donna Noble:

Passionate, employs sassiness as way of life. Intense. Rash redhead. Nothing gets past her. Fiercely opinionated. Assertive. Will take zero shit from anyone including Doctor. Will definitely challenge Doctor if believes he is doing wrong thing and will hold him accountable. Always kind to others who demonstrate kindness themselves. Does not idolize Doctor like other companions do. Does not blindly follow others. Will follow instincts (which almost always lead her to truth).  A force of her own. 

Likes: being ginger (of which he has never been), chances to be dramatic, showing off to companions, kittens, chips.

Dislikes: Goodbyes, people saluetting him, pears, empty promises.

Fears: Becoming too close to people, that death will follow those he cares for. Knows that lives dangerous life. Has seen many fall victim to its clutches. Fears that will not be able to rescue those that become too entangeled in his life. Watching ones he loves grow old ( i.e.Sarah Jane). Remindes him of human’s fragile mortality and eventual death. History repeating itself. Not being able to save someone or something again.

Arch Enemy: Vastra Nerada:

“Pirahnnas of the air” Translated literally-‘shadows that melt flesh’. Creatures that lurk in shadows. Able to strip meat down to bone in less than second. As small as dust specks, barely visible to naked eye. Manipulates sources of light to submerge victim in total darkness and attack. Able to live for centuries. Leaves no trace of blood or scrap of meat behind. Latches onto victim in form of reflective shadow. 

Allies: K-9 Mark 3, Prime Minister Harriet Jones, Jackie Tyler, Mickey Smith, Wilfred Mott, Unified Intelligence Taskforce, Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson, Face of Boe, Sarah Jane Smith, Sally Sparrow, Jenny, Torchwood, Rosita Farisi, Lady Christina de Souza, Children of Time

Love Interests: Rose Tyler: Platinum blonde shoulder length hair, heavily makeuped face. Compassionate. Kind. Will definitely put life at risk to help others. Perceptive. Bold. Unexpectedly clever. Holds immense thirst for adventure.

Best Quotes:

“People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it’s more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff.”

“Some people live more in twenty years than others do in eighty. It’s not the time that matters. It’s the person.”

Music: Awe inspiring. Magnificent. Grand, glorious. Invokes helpless sense of wonder. As if one is sitting in audience of Zeus’ Pantheon. Reminds you that you are only mortal yet have capacity to be so much more. Heartbreaking. Faced with enormity of universe. Supernovas erupting out of army of trumpets, nebulas being painted amongst echo of strings. Faith. Certainty in stars. Grand destiny awaits. Thrill of existence. Of pain and sadness, happiness and joy. Minuscule among galaxies yet strong enough to face it all. Hope.

Music Excerpt: 

[thatsparrow]

rules of the game - chapter nineteen

SUMMARY: Your breath is catching in your lungs and your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you feel like your whole goddamn body is shaking. Your world has narrowed to the anger and fear-induced tremble in your limbs and the rough and relentless hold of Negan’s fingers on your skin and the amused, expectant look he wears on his face as he looks down at you.

Fuck, fuck, fuck  — 

–

After saving you and your group from a pack of walkers that would have guaranteed your death, Negan has you down on your knees with a barbed-wire wrapped baseball bat in your face and a decision to make: surrender everything you own over to the Saviors, or join the Sanctuary and agree to work for him.

And even though he’s acting as if you have options, there’s really only one choice you can make.

FANDOM: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV) CHARACTERS: Negan, Original Female Characters, Original Male Characters, Lucille, Saviors ADDITIONAL: Reader-Insert, Mild Gore, Slow Burn, Road Trips

[read on AO3]

[first chapter]

Your shadow is a smudge beneath your shoes when you get out of the car, a black brushstroke of paint sitting under your boots as you stand in the weeds on the shoulder of the road. After following the same two-lane highway for the past fifteen minutes or so—blindly trusting Negan's intuition after he’d turned off the main road—the two of you had pulled off the cracked blacktop and parked the Ford under the shadow of the trees bordering the pavement. By now, you figure the serpentine stretch of tarmac must have wound its way behind the town you’d left this morning, putting you at the intersection of—god willing—the path Chase might have taken after he left.

That is, if he even made it out at all.

“Alright, sir," you say as you lean back against the closed passenger door, throwing the words over your shoulder to where Negan is pulling Lucille from the backseat. “What’s the plan?”

“Best start praying to whatever god you believe in, sweetheart.”

You turn on your heel, letting your elbows rest on the roof of the sedan as you look Negan’s way.

“That an order?”

“Consider it a friendly fucking suggestion,” he says, glancing up briefly to meet your eyes. “Given that Plan A is to comb through miles of woods and back roads for some dumb fuck who does not fucking want to be found, I’d say praying would be a smart first step.”

And you don't really have a response to that, so you settle for checking the gun at your waist and the knife at your—

“Oh, goddammit.”

“Fuck’s the matter?”

You look up at Negan, giving him a smile that has nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with your own thoughtlessness.

“My knife,” you say, frustration sharp in your words like broken glass buried in a sandbox. “I dropped it back in the CVS. Fucking of course.”

“What about the gun?”

“Still works fine, far as I can tell. Out of bullets, though.”

Negan gives you a brief nod before rounding the car to pop the trunk, pulling the supply bag from the back and dropping it at your feet.

“There’s a box of ammo in the bag — might as well reload while we’ve got the time.” He flashes an easy smile as you kneel down to unzip the duffel. “Surprisingly enough, that gun ain’t actually too fucking useful without any bullets.”

“Well, shit. You don’t say.”

You’ve got your head lowered and fingers busy reloading the gun as you respond, not even bothering to look up at Negan as you toss out the words on an impulse. And with his face out of your frame of vision, there’s a moment where you have to wonder if your sarcasm just crossed another line. But then you hear him let out a slight laugh—that low, back-of-the-throat chuckle that spills out like sap dripping from a maple—and it’s a reflex to let the corners of your mouth turn up as well, a slight smile sitting on your face like a sideways parentheses.

With the gun reloaded, you zip the bag shut and pull yourself back to your feet, tucking the metal piece into the waistband of your jeans.

“Ready to go?” You ask, loading the supply bag back into the trunk and clicking the latch closed.

“Just about,” Negan says, setting Lucille down against the side of the car before his hands reach down to his belt buckle.

“…For the record,” you say, tone dry like blistered sand as Negan undoes the metal at the front of his jeans. “When I asked if you were ‘ready to go’, that’s not really what I was referring to.”

“Mind out of the gutter, sweetheart,” he says, looking up at you with an amused expression as he pulls the leather out of his belt loops until he’s unhooked the knife holster hanging at his hip. As easy as anything else, he extends the sheath in your direction, handle pointing towards you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a knife,” Negan says, one eyebrow quirked. “Didn’t think that part would need elaborating.”

“It’s your knife,” you say, brows drawn together slightly in response. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“Think of it more as a loan than a gift.”

“Don’t you—fuck, I don’t know—need it?” The words feel hollow as soon as you say them, especially with walker blood puddling on the cement around Lucille's barbed-wire barrel. Still, this is Negan's knife you're talking about, and you can't even begin to reconcile the image of that weapon in your hand.

Negan rolls his eyes, setting the blade and holster on the back of the sedan as he rethreads the leather of his belt back through the loops at his waist. “Fuck’s sake — listen, sweetheart, we both know that out here, you only pull a gun when you’ve hit your very worst case scenario. I’ve got Lucille while you’ve got one handful of ‘jack’ and another handful of ‘shit’. You need a knife, I have a spare. It’s not fucking complicated.”

“You sure—“

“You know, all of this sounds an awful lot like you questioning me. That what’s happening right now? You really gonna throw a fit and blow your shot over me trying to do you a good turn?” Negan shakes his head slightly, wearing an exasperated look you were sure was reserved for someone looking after a three-year-old.

“No, sir,” you say, tone hesitant but compliant as your fingers close around the hilt of the knife.

“Fucking better,” Negan says, picking up Lucille from where he'd left her leaning against the tail lights. Feeling like a kid playing dress-up, you weave the holster onto your own belt, painfully aware of the almost too-heavy weight of the blade at your hip and how laughably oversized it is on you, built more for gutting something feral or fitting into the palm of someone like Negan. Still, you can’t deny there being a certain comfort in that serrated edge—sharp like sharks’ teeth—sitting just within hand’s reach.

“Now that we’ve got that fucking ordeal over with,” Negan says, swinging Lucille up onto his shoulder, “time to get moving.”

“All joking aside, what is the plan here?”

“Jokes aside? Christ, sweetheart — the fuck is the fun in that?”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to fix Negan with an unamused look.

“Always so serious,” he says, not entirely under his breath. “Well, seeing as how this has all been one big fucking game of guesswork so far, why the fuck stop now?” He looks up and down the road for a moment, consideration lingering briefly in the lines of his face.

“Here’s the way I figure it — assuming loverboy headed out of town moving away from the direction of the Sanctuary, assuming he headed in a relatively straight line, and fucking assuming nothing killed him on the way, he should’ve ended up roughly here. But all bets are fucking off whether he decided to keep going through the woods or stick to the road.” Negan frowns slightly, exhales like he’s still trying to make sense of his thoughts. “Current plan—or as close to a plan as I can come up with—we’ll check the woods and see if we can find some sign of him. If not? Keep heading down the road and hope we pass him. We still come up with fucking nothing? Stop the car, rinse, fucking repeat.”

It hits you at that moment how completely fucking pointless this is. Honestly. Because you can’t come up with a plan better than the one Negan just proposed and because you’re no damn tracker and, short of a sign in neon spray paint, you’d never recognize a trail Chase might’ve left through the woods. Truth is, you’re running pretty damn low on hope right now, your reserves of optimism like a gas gauge ticking steadily towards empty.

But, however slim it might be, there is still a chance of finding him.

And—fuck it—you’ll hold fast to that slender string even as it frays like unraveling thread in your palm. Wrap your fingers around the last scraps of optimism you can see, even as you gain nothing more than a handful of paper cuts.

“All sounds good to me,” you say, wearing a smile that doesn’t reflect how you feel. Tone cautiously light because fuck letting Negan know that all his negativity and realism might be getting to you. “You ready?”

“Might as well get fucking to it.”

And, hand hovering loosely at your side, Negan’s figure the overwhelming factor in your periphery, the two of you head side-by-side into the trees.

Predictably, the next few hours turn up less than fucking nothing.

Which, all things considered, is about what you expected. Chase's trail went cold the minute you chased the wrong voice down the wrong road, and ever since, you’ve been clinging to a train of reasoning that amounts to little more than finely woven bullshit. He didn’t leave a trail because he doesn’t want to be found. He didn’t bother with breadcrumbs because he’s more than ready to lose his way — because as far as he’s concerned, his story might as well end in a witch’s oven.

At this point, who are you really still searching for? Who is this really about?

Are you actually out here for Chase, or are you doing this for yourself?

The sun is starting to sink like a deflating balloon when you reach a signpost for another town a few miles up the road, the first indication of anything established since you’d gotten back on the highway. And it’s as close to a lead as the universe is willing to offer, more of a sign than any of the crushed leaves and broken branches you’d tried to pretend to make sense of when you and Negan had explored the woods.

“What do you think?” You ask Negan as the Ford passes the sign, metallic backing shrinking quickly in the rearview.

“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to check things out,” he says, tone unreadable. “If nothing else, sundown’s a little too fucking close for comfort and we need somewhere to hole up for the night.” His eyes flick down to the clock on the dash, one hand coming up absently to trace a line over his jaw. “Can’t do jack for loverboy tonight, but we should have time to find something a little fucking better than sleeping in the fucking car.”

“Not like I’m complaining,” you say, taking the time to stretch the stiffness from your shoulders. “I can honestly say I’ve spent enough nights in shitty backseats or the goddamn trunk to last a lifetime or two.”

“Fucking amen.”

The shadows are starting to stretch a little too long across the pavement when you finally reach the town, the main road cutting through a small strip of quiet downtown as the sun finishes its final descent below the trees. And it looks quiet enough—empty streets and abandoned cars parked against the curb and the occasional silhouette or two of a walker—but you’ve been running these lines long enough to keep your guard up as the wheels of the Ford ease over the tarmac. Not a thought but a habit to keep your eyes skimming across the storefronts, ears tuned for the sound of an undead cluster hidden down an alley, muscles tensed and ready for the worst.

But things seem alright, and even if you know how deceptive that can be, it’s getting late and you and Negan need to start making some quick decisions. Keeping close to the main road, he turns the car down a side street and parks parallel to one of the buildings, windows un-shattered and walls mostly free of bloodstains.

“We’ll head in through the back door,” Negan says as he turns off the ignition, inclining his head towards the brick facade. “Don’t want to spend the whole damn night clearing the building, but it looks secure enough so fingers-fucking-crossed it doesn’t take too long to deal with whatever shit is waiting inside. Grab the supply bag from the trunk and follow my lead.”

“Yes sir,” you say, voice slightly absent as your eyes skate a restless back-and-forth over the building, tracing a path between the windows while you look for those familiar signs of trouble. But the shades seem undisturbed and you can’t spot anything worse than a thick layer of grime and you find yourself a little less tense as you climb out onto the sidewalk, fingers hooked around your backpack straps. You can see Negan's silhouette as you make your way to the trunk, pulling Lucille and his own shit from the backseat as you unlatch the back and hoist the duffel over your shoulder. Hanging back a few paces, you follow his footsteps across the sidewalk and over to a side door set into the bricks, playing lookout as he works at the hinges stuck fast with rust. And then the door is creaking open—a little louder than you’d like—and it’s nothing but dim shadows and faint outlines and the beam from Negan’s flashlight cutting through the dark like the bright white warning of a lighthouse.

“Ready?” He asks over his shoulder, voice low, adjusting his grip on Lucille as your hand drops down to the hilt of your borrowed knife.

“Ready enough.” You answer in a similarly quiet tone, eyes glancing up only briefly to meet his.

“Then tally-fucking-ho.”

And with that, there’s nowhere to go but forward.

It’s not the first time you’ve had to do something like this, but you wouldn’t still be breathing if you’d let repetition erase your instinct for fear — if you’d become numb to the sensation of standing on this tightrope. Staying alive has never been anything less than a balancing act, and you’ve seen too many slip off that wire from not giving the undead their due.

Cities don’t get decimated by an inconvenience. The whole fucking world doesn’t fall by the hands or teeth of something inconsequential. There will always be so many more of them than there are of you, and the day you forget that is the same day you pull the pin of a grenade and drop the explosive at your feet. At that point, dying is only a matter of time.

And you can feel that same sharp edge of uncertainty in your stomach as you tiptoe on bloodstained boots into the shadows, that familiar bitterness on the back of your tongue. But you’ve got the broad shoulders of Negan’s frame standing in front of you like a battering ram, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little more secure—Jesus, a little more safe—with him there.

You can’t tell whether it’s funny or unsettling, that you could put Negan and safe in the same sentence without the trace of a joke. And, honestly, you’re not sure you really want to find out which one it is.

It doesn’t take long to sweep the two-story building, for you and Negan to trace a Pac-Man pattern through the back offices of the small accounting firm, taking out a few walkers still outfitted in their pencil skirts and button downs, knotted ties hanging loose around withered necks. But other than a low-lying feeling of sadness—an occasional sting at the sight of family photos pinned up on cubicle walls—the building offers no surprises and soon the two of you are setting up camp in the break room on the second floor. And as far as small-town break rooms go, it doesn't offer much — walls painted an unexciting shade of taupe and secondhand appliances on the Formica countertops and coupons pinned to the refrigerator with cheap magnets.

Still, you’re thankful for its relative cleanliness. Even more thankful for the windows offering a vantage onto the street, and for the couch sitting along one of the walls, weathered cushions parallel to a couple half-empty vending machines. And with a couple battery-powered lanterns and flashlights suffusing the room with a dim glow, you could almost call it homey.

“Got any preference for first or second watch?” Negan asks after the two of you eat a simple dinner, stretched out on the sofa with his boots propped up on one of the armrests.

“You’re really giving me a choice?” You say, tone skeptical as you sink down into one of the chairs around the break room table.

Negan gives you an easy smile in response, sitting up just enough to shrug out of the sleeves of his jacket. “Not like it does me any good if you pass out halfway through your shift. Remember, sweetheart, my first interest is always in keeping myself alive.”

“At least you're consistent,” you say, answering the amusement on Negan's face with a wry look of your own. “I’ll take first shift then.”

“Fine by me.”

It’s quiet as the two of you settle in — you cleaning walker gut off the knife blade with take-out napkins from one of the drawers, Negan shifting slightly on the couch cushions.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” You've still got your head down as you throw your question to the room, almost like you're talking to the blade in your hand rather than the man on the sofa.

Negan doesn’t bother turning to look your way, but you can see that half-smile curving up the corners of his mouth at your words. “Shoot.”

“It’s not like you really want to be out here, right?”

He tilts his head in your direction, tone even as ever. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

It’s a thought that’s been sticking in your mind for the past couple hours, a curiosity crystallized at the sight of Negan’s tall frame stretched out over a too-small makeshift bed.

“It’s just…” you break off, eyes dropping down as you try and figure out how to phrase it. “You can’t be enjoying this — you can’t be wanting to put up with this shit. You don't, do you? Wouldn't you rather be back at the Sanctuary?”

Negan props himself up on one arm, gives you a steady look that’s equal parts patronizing and exasperated.

“What are you trying to ask here, sweetheart?” He fixes you with a level stare, eyebrows arching up slightly. “You're really wondering if I’d rather be here — freezing my fucking balls off on a beaten-up couch with more stains than a motel bedspread, or back in my apartment — lying on silk sheets in a king-sized bed getting blown by one of my wives.” He inclines his head towards you. “That the question you need answering?”

You duck your head for a moment, sure there’s a slight flush in your cheeks as you meet Negan’s amused look. “I mean, I probably wouldn’t have phrased it in exactly those terms — but, yeah?”

“You honestly telling me you cannot figure that one out for yourself?”

“Then why are you here?” You ask, the words blurting out before you can think better of them. It's tempting to look away, but you make it a point to keep your mouth set in a firm line, to meet Negan's eyes as he watches you with an expression you can’t quite parse.

“Curiosity is a dangerous fucking thing, sweetheart,” Negan says at last, the weight of his gaze heavy as you shift slightly in your seat, one knee pulled up to your chest. “One of these days it might get you into trouble.”

“Is that day today?”

It's heads or tails whether he'll answer with anger or amusement, and you feel nothing but relief as he lets out a slight laugh at your words, the tension dissipating from the room like water slipping down the drain. And you can see him smiling, seeming in spite of himself, as one hand comes up to massage his temple.

“Fucking christ — you do not know when to quit.”

You're tempted to say something else, but you wait, almost certain that Negan's got a few more words waiting on his tongue. And you can't tell what it is about this moment—whether it's the lack of adrenaline in his system or the simple fact of having his feet up that's got him so relaxed—but you're somehow sure that you haven't burned through his reserves of patience just yet.

As if acting in response to your thoughts, Negan pulls himself upright, back propped up against the armrest and shoes sliding to the carpet as he shifts his body until he's facing you. "Do not fucking take this to mean that I value your persistence, or some shit," he says, giving you a disgruntled look that doesn't feel genuine, "but purely in the interest of getting you to shut up so I can enjoy a few fucking moments of peace and quiet — fine, I'll give you two reasons why I'm out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere rather than sitting pretty back at the Sanctuary.

"Reason number one, sweetheart — I'm still here because I am a man of my word. And that doesn't just extend to bargains or threats with communities who have more canned goods than common sense — no, that holds even for two-bit deals with stubborn fucking assholes who don't know well-enough to stop fighting, even when they have got nothing left."

Indignation rises like a reflex in your throat, but you're the one who asked for his words. You don't get to bite just because you don't like what he's offering in his right hand. And you're sure he can see the way your shoulders tense under your jacket—because he's Negan, and because the smiling bastard always seems to read you better than the big, bold text of a billboard—but he doesn't address your reaction, letting the moment go with nothing more than a half-smile and continuing on that same train of thought.

"I'm still here because I made you a deal and—like your very own fairy fucking godmother—gave you three days to get shit done and because your time isn't up just yet. And while I have not and will not keep it a secret that I find this whole fucking endeavor an exceptional waste of time, as long as you decide to stay out here and haven't hit the deadline, then I am not going fucking anywhere."

Something about his words isn't entirely satisfying, but you know you're lucky to get whatever scraps of truth he's offering.

"And the second reason?"

At that, the half-smile on his face widens into a full-blown grin.

"Plain-and-fucking-simple, sweetheart — because fucking shit, do I want that favor you're offering."

You can't help but feel a little hesitant under the look he's giving you, one that suggests he knows something you don't, like he's read ahead to the end of this chapter and is laughing at the punch line you can't see coming. "You do know I don't really have anything to give you, right?"

Negan just lets that smile linger, the one that always manages to stir goosebumps from your skin. "Wouldn't be so sure of that."

"Should I take that to mean you've already got something in mind?" You want to deliver your words in his same easy tone, but you can't help the slight furrow in your brow or the uncertain edge in your voice.

"Not about to start giving away all my secrets, sweetheart," Negan says, shifting on the sofa until he's lying down again, one arm resting under his head. "Let's just say I've got a couple ideas."

"Anything I should be worried about?" You don't really expect him to respond with any kind of honesty, but your common-sense can't hold back the questions that curiosity has left on your tongue. Besides, by now you know Negan well enough to be cautious of the thoughts he's hiding behind his Cheshire cat smile.

"Guess that depends on what might give you cause to worry."

He's not giving away anything in his tone, but you can't help the places your mind goes at his words — the train of thought you take to all the worst things he could ask of you.

Then—surprising you in the most embarrassing and unwelcome of ways—to the things he could ask for that you're not entirely sure you'd object to.

As if Negan can see the medley of images in your mind's eye like he's flipping through hotel channels, he smiles up at the ceiling. "So tell me, sweetheart — the fuck is it that's got you so wound up? What do you think I want from you that's put such a twist in your panties?" You can hear the grin in his words clear across the room, the one that seems to suggest he knows exactly what's made you fall so silent.

You can feel the flush in your cheeks burn a little hotter, ducking your head even though Negan's not even looking your way. "On second thought, I don't think I want to know what you've got planned," you say, hearing his all-too-familiar laugh filling the corners of the room.

"Not a fan of being on the receiving end of so many questions?" Negan asks after his amusement subsides. "Well, fuck — now who's not playing fair?"

"Hold the phone — you've always gotten the option of not having to give me a straight answer," you say, the corners of your mouth turning up slightly as you lift your head to face him, grateful as anything for the change of subject. "Don't see why I should have to follow different rules."

Negan tilts his head until he's looking your way, a spark of amusement in his eyes you're sure is mirrored in your own. "Think we both know things are not nearly as fucking interesting that way."

"Speak for yourself," you say, still smiling while you give him a shrug. "Personally, I think I've had enough interest to last a lifetime."

It's clear that Negan's got another rapid-fire response waiting at your words, but at that moment you both hear the sound of something knocking against one of the storefronts down the street, and you never get to hear whatever one-liner he had sitting on his tongue. And it's not like the walker is any kind of a threat, but the noise is enough to remind you of why you're here — that you're not trading jokes surrounded by cheap appliances and dusty carpets because you enjoy Negan's company. Picking up the knife from the table and tossing the blood-streaked napkins into a trashcan, you holster the metal at your hip and shift one of the chairs to a spot near the window.

"It's still early enough," you say to Negan, "but all things considered, I'd rather get an hour or two more sleep if possible. You mind calling it a night?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug, letting your abrupt change of pace go unremarked as he eases off the couch and moves to dim the lanterns so the room quickly fades to black. "Not like my day was any easier than yours that I'd object to a little more shuteye." He settles back against the cushions, his figure little more than a shadowy silhouette in the dark. "If there's nothing life-threatening before my shift, feel free to act like I've got a 'Do Not Disturb' sign tattooed across my forehead — understood?"

"Yes, sir," you say, taking the seat at your post by the window, flashlight in hand and shades separated just enough that you've got a decent view of the streets. And it doesn't take long for the rhythms of Negan's breathing to change, mellowed out into the steady white noise you'd grown familiar with from the nights you'd spent on the road with Marie and Chase and Luke and Wendy. Hell — with only the sounds of quiet inhales and exhales for company and your hand hovering close to the hilt at your belt, you could almost forget  where you are or who you're with. Could let your mind fall back to a simpler time when you knew the shape of your companions' characters as well as you knew the calluses on your fingertips. When the question of trust wasn't such a complicated fucking thing.

Because that's the heart of the matter that's got you so goddamn confused—the pit at the middle of the peach you've been so careful to chew around—isn't it? That you think you might be starting to be changing your opinion of Negan in ways you're nowhere close to comfortable thinking about.

That—fuck—you might even be starting to trust him.

As soon as you give freedom to even the notion of the thought, you feel like such a fucking fool. Sinking back until your spine is following the curve of the molded plastic, you're tempted to shake your head at yourself — because you should know better than to let your better judgment be swayed by a few easy words and a charming smile. Because you've heard the stories that survivors at the Sanctuary tell about Negan, and if even a tenth of them are true, they should be enough to convince you that no small gesture he makes is worth your confidence. After all, he said it himself, didn't he? And said it more than once, too — that his first and only priority is keeping himself alive, full fucking stop. No room for anyone else in that kind of an equation.

And as for saving your life earlier? Hell — all you can assume is that, right now, you're worth more to him alive than dead. You should know better than to mistake his self-interest for anything other than what it is.

They're uncomfortable thoughts, but not illogical ones, and you'd be deserving of an early grave if you ignored them just because you don't like the way the sharp edges of the truth sit in your stomach.

Rolling your shoulders like you're trying to dislodge the discomfort that's weighing on you, you prop up one foot on the edge of your chair and return your full focus to the world outside the window. Fucking enough wondering about the man stretched out on the couch — why don't you remember what you're goddamn priorities should be and settle for making it through the night.

It's earlier than you expect when you feel Negan's hand on your shoulder, when you hear his quiet whispers urging you awake not long after you'd changed shifts. You need a few moments to blink your eyes open, vision adjusting slowly to the dim shadows and not helping you make sense of the expression on Negan's face.

"What's—" But your words are cut short when he rests a heavy hand over your mouth, shushing you with a slight shake of his head, the calluses of his palm rough against your lips.

"Best if we stay quiet, understand?" Negan asks in his low voice, waiting for your silent nod of assent before he removes his hand. You shift until you're sitting upright, eyes following him closely as he eases his way back to the window, peering briefly between the blinds.

"What's going on?" You say, mirroring his quiet tone as you start lacing up your boots.

"Nothing good." He says, that sharp edge in his words evident even in his whispering. "Think you're gonna want to make sure that gun's fully loaded, sweetheart — looks like we've got trouble."