#man i remember being eleven and having peeled off the top layer of my skin on the top of my feet and it was so bad i couldn't walk without

[thisisaname-whatahappyname]

[me dealing w something thinkiits a recent issue] [flashbacks of something i did as a little girl: hello there]

[sp00kworm]

Butterfly

Pairing: Jesse Cromeans / Chromeskull x Female Reader

Warnings: Slasher horror and gore

A/N: This fic is blocked from the tags but please enjoy! Reblogs are always appreciated. Gif is by me.

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His home was lonely. Jesse looked at the clock, his eyes burning with the need to sleep, but his mind racing. It was late. Approaching eleven o’clock. He’d had to work today. His company didn’t run itself, and there was a lot of accounting and management to do outside of his little hobby. Jesse looked away from the clock and stretched his jaw, the bone clicking from where he was cracked around the face with the bat. The bone had healed rather easily, but it hurt from time to time. His face, that was mauled. He wasn’t the stud he used to be. Handsome, a straight jaw and high cheekbones. Cynically, he snorted at the picture on the mantle he had of him and his late wife. Mrs Cromeans clutched at his arm at some high-class party, her red lips spread in a smile to match Jesse’s smirk. The second was him kissing at her cheek as she pushed him away. Sentimental. He was feeling sentimental. He didn’t hate his wife. She was convenient. A life outside of his hobby. Pretty. He didn’t even know she was pregnant. The police informant he had revealed the death report tentatively to him. The unborn child inside her wasn’t old enough to be saved. An accident he never expected to occur. He’d been gone nearly 4 months, and she was pregnant. He didn’t remember a message, but then he tended to let Spann handle such things. He probably ignored it. Jesse stood from his black leather couch and walked to the mantle.

He took the picture in his hand. His face was partially cut off, the camera focused on his wife and her smile. Jesse looked at it before he leaned over and threw it on the fire. The glass shattered with the force of hitting the logs and the frame quickly burst into flames, black paint peeling off the wood as it crackled and snapped. The photos disappeared into curling pieces of charcoal and he watched the frame burn with a certain amount of upset. Sentiment, he reminded himself, as he pushed himself away from the mantlepiece and touched the tattoo on his chest. The shaded skull stared back at him with hollow eyes. It was a reminder of the urges he had. With a sigh, he touched at his arms and traced the patterns of screaming, swirling ghouls all the way down to his wrist before daring to stand up a little bit straighter. He reached for the laptop of his coffee table and opened a chat window with Spann. It took a moment for the secure connection to open properly.

 Spann’s face appeared in the bottom corner, her tired eyes looking at him through the camera. She was still sat in the office, but she gave him a smile, “What can I do for you, Sir?” She asked as she shuffled the paperwork away.

Jesse made sure his face was out of frame, ‘Make sure there is a clean-up crew on standby.’

Spann peered at the text, “Of course, Sir. Where are you heading out to?” She asked curiously as her fingers whipped across the keyboard lightning fast, “You’ve been in Hollywood for a while now, have you finally taken a fancy to someone? You’ve not been as active as you once were.” She smiled, sickly sweet and twisted, just like she always did.

‘Just have the crew ready. I will text if I find something.’

“Of course. Have fun, Sir.” Spann nodded and he closed the chat window before disconnecting from all the rerouting services and opening the internet to have a look for a bar that suited his fancy. Something exclusive so he didn’t have to sit and be gawked at by people that could well lose their eyes. His good eye roved the names of bars before he spotted a club. He recognised the name. A mob boss run thing, he was sure, but it would mean he didn’t get stared at with a knife on his hip underneath his jacket. Perfect. Jesse snapped his laptop closed and headed upstairs for a shower and to get appropriately dressed up.

 The hot water eased his sore back, but it hurt on the sensitive skin of his face. He covered his face with a hand to his forehead as he washed the smell and aches from himself. The soap was sensitive, and he carefully washed his face, making sure to get around his eyes, to avoid any form of gunky infections. Those had been hell when he was laid in the hospital bed recovering. Still, a great deal of more work on his face this past year had made him far more recognisable, but it wasn’t the same. He was still scarred and twisted, his nose looking rather out of place. He ran a finger over the rougher skin, where the scaring was worst, tracing back over his forehead from his eyebrow. They had managed to graft new muscle and replace areas that were damaged. He felt more human now, but nothing would ever replace how he used to appear. Still, Jesse had paid good money for his better face, and he would be damned if he didn’t use it a little. He turned off the shower and dripped in the wet room for a moment before he wrapped a towel around his waist and pulled his razor out to sheer the hair from his head. It was therapeutic. Jesse leaned over the water to catch the hair on the back of his head before he held his jaw and angled the mirror to check his face. Nothing grew anymore, but that didn’t stop him checking.

 He turned the mirror to his face and stroked the newly constructed nose. It had been four months of healing this time around. Plastic surgery galore. He’d had mountains of work since his run in with Princess’ little friend. He almost resembled a person. Still, he was scarred, and his eyebrows no longer grew hair along with his jaw. He was still blind in one eye, the brown eye cloudy. Jesse plucked his eyepatch from the shelf and replaced it before brushing his perfect teeth. He had paid too much money for most of himself to neglect it. He towelled himself off and walked from the bathroom to his room, stark naked, stretching his back before he plucked out his designer black shirt, trousers, and jacket. Once he was dressed, he pulled on his oxfords and pulled his case from underneath the floorboards. Jesse undid the latches and peered inside. The chrome skull stared back at him, along with the polished knives he used to remove pieces of his victims. The box of gloves sat nestled in the top corner but he didn’t put any on for the time being, letting his tattooed hands breathe. He pushed his fists together and looked at the two words. The words ‘FEAR’ and ‘PAIN’ looked back at him. With a final adjustment of his cufflinks, he took his wallet from the nightstand and left his house, activating the alarm and locking the door before he opened his Chrysler 300 and slid into the roomy interior. The engine roared to life before he pulled away from the drive. Jesse rolled down the tinted window before he pushed his middle finger out of it, flagging the neighbours who glared at him from their windows.

 The bar was half of a club with the back for exclusive clients, which ranged from those involved in mob work, to celebrities. Jesse tugged at the breast of his jacket as he let the eager doorman take his car around the back. He stopped him with a finger in the air and he unlocked his phone and typed into the speech app.

‘Open the trunk or my glovebox and I’ll have your fingers, bellboy.’

“Yes, Sir.” He swallowed as he climbed into the Chrysler, pulling it away smoothly into the back of the club. Jesse looked around, his silver mask shining in the gaudy lighting. The mob knew him. He was the one who moved the weapons through his shelter companies. He took care of some of their business, butchering people like pigs for them when they took his fancy, and in, exchange, they let him have his pick of their girls for his games. He stepped through the door and a bouncer waved at him from the curtain separating the areas. The bar went around both sides, but no one could see through the curtains. Jesse walked through the bar, passing a group of women in lingerie as the bouncer let him through the other side.

“Good to see you again.” He grunted, looking up at the man as he drew out his phone.

‘Did you miss me?’ Jesse snarked through the automatic voice.

“You’re hardly any trouble.” He tipped his head towards a booth, “Make yourself at home.”

Jesse walked past him and headed for his table, pulling the curtains back before he placed his briefcase down and slid inside, sighing with the low lighting. He relaxed back against the cushions and reached for the mask over his face. With a hum, he pushed his thumbs into the mild adhesive and plucked the piece of chrome free with a twist underneath his chin in order to apply a new layer.

 It was quiet at this side of the bar, the curtains blocking out a lot of the noise and the people that he didn’t want to look at. Exclusive. Jesse ran his fingers over the leather of the couch and hummed at the quality before he tucked his case beside him. The knife strapped beneath his jacket wasn’t going to cause any problems here. Jesse pulled the case around and listened as the curtains rustled beside him. He was used to this. The silver skull turned to face the red fabric and Jesse lounged back on his seat as it parted to reveal the curious face of the bartender. He smiled behind his mask at the professional wear, a shirt and bowtie on. His eyes roved lower behind the black material over his eyes, looking at the short skirt attached. Perfect. He greedily took in the sight, laid back against the cushioning, and slid his phone from his pocket.

 You nervously parted the curtains of the exclusive booth and poked your head inside. Great, you thought as you slid the notebook from your pocket, holding your pen in your hand as you tried not to stare at the silver mask leering ominously back at you. His head dipped to look at your legs, admiring the view.

“What can I get you, Sir.” You asked, pen poised to write on the paper, “Any food or are you just drinking?”

The man in the mask didn’t respond, but his fingers whizzed across the keyboard of the phone, typing out something across the screen. He turned the screen to show you the words, ‘Drink. A bottle of bourbon. The one at six hundred.’

“Okay. Do you want a glass and ice?” You asked carefully, watching as he tilted his masked face.

His fingers clicked rapidly across the keyboard again, ‘Two ice cubes. Crystal tumbler.’

You had his sort before, “Of course, Sir.” You ducked back out and replaced the curtains before you headed back towards the bar to grab the expensive, six-hundred-dollar bottle of bourbon whiskey.

 Jesse watched you through a small parting in the curtain, eyes following your backside as you returned to your colleague at the bar. He made sure to drop the curtain back into place as you turned from the bar and headed back towards him.

 “Your drink, and your glass.” You placed the bottle and the tumbler down in front of the chrome-faced man and watched his tattooed fingers twitch against the leather as he leaned over to inspect what you had brought him.

Lazily, he took hold of the bottle neck, and peered at the label before he nodded and typed rapidly on the phone again, ‘Thanks. Run along, Piggy.’

You nodded and left his booth alone, catching a glimpse of tattooed hands pouring a drink as the red curtain closed behind you.

“Rude asshole.” You muttered under your breath as you headed back towards the bar, where you were needed on the other side, with the normal clientele of the bar. They were perhaps worse than the questionable celebrities and mobsters of the exclusive side, but you could cope with serving the sex workers and incredibly drunk men.

 Joe gave you a look of concern as you came back through the curtain. He was an old man and had worked at the bar since he was young. He knew the sorts that tended to frequent the establishment. He leaned over towards you as you threw some glasses in the box for cleaning.

“Don’t fuck with that one.” He whispered, “The Boss doesn’t like him here, but he puts up with it. Rumour is he’s a bit of a knife for hire. Tends to get those jobs that required someone gutting for a video.” Joe scowled and rubbed at his moustache, “Stay far away and keep him happy with drinks.”

“Thanks, Joe.” You uttered before you served a beer, “What’s with the mask?”

Joe shook his head, “Best not to ask.” He then left you alone as you pulled pints of beer for a group. It wasn’t long before you swapped again into the back, smiling as you peered at the booths. You frowned as the curtain to the stranger’s flickered and he waved his hand before he curled his finger towards himself and pushed the phone through.

“Come here.” The automated voice called ominously, and you took a deep breath before you opened the bar door and headed towards the booth again, your notepad in hand. You parted the curtain and smiled at the mysterious man.

 What you saw shocked you a little. He’d taken the mask off, revealing his scarred face to you. You tried not to stare, you really did. Awkwardly, you maintained the smile as he stared up at you, brown eyes dark as though he was daring you to say a word. One was covered with an eyepatch.

The phone clicked away before the screen was presented, ‘Entertain me.’ The voice was absent this time.

You read the words and frowned, “I can offer you a food menu or a different drink, Sir.” You replied quietly, dreading the next words that were going to come out of his mouth, “Unfortunately we don’t have any live music…and other options are not in my job description.”

Tattooed fingers curled against the leather before he grinned, exposing, bright, white teeth in a vicious smile. His chest jumped before he gave out a breathy, long chuckle. He curled his finger again for you to properly step into the booth.

He typed on the phone again before holding it up for you to see, ‘I don’t want you to suck my cock. Sit. Talk.’

Suddenly, you felt a little bit stupid, “Talk? What about?” You were still suspicious of the man.

‘Your boss. He owes me something. I want to know more.’ He turned the phone back to himself and typed again, ‘Ever mention ChromeSkull?’

 Suddenly, you realised who he was. The personalised plates out the back of the bar, and the chromed mask in his lap. This was a dangerous man. Still, he was very capable of ending you now, with no one there to see.

“He doesn’t talk about business in the bar.” You swallowed nervously, “He only said he hoped he never saw your face in here again.” Your gut dropped as you realised either way, you might die.

‘Thanks, sweet thing.’ He typed and showed you before continuing, ‘Call me Jesse.’ You watched his face smile again and suddenly you realised that once he was very handsome. It looked like acid or chemical burn scarring. The mob liked to disfigure people as pay back sometimes, but you had an inkling his weren’t inflicted by the mafia.

‘What’s your name?’ He pushed the screen before your eyes as his fingers danced over the leather.

You cleared your throat and told him, “So are you here for payback?”

‘Something like that.’ He replied on screen, ‘Better company this time.’

Flattering but you still wanted out of the conversation. There wasn’t an opportunity to, however, because as you stood up to straighten yourself out, your boss walked into the booth.

 Judgemental eyes roved you up and down, spotting you playing with your skirt. Jesse was quick to turn and replaced his mask, before your boss could see, the medical adhesive painted along the seams and the area of his nose. He turned back to look at Antony, the owner, with the haunting black eyes of the chrome skull mask peering through him.

“Making yourself at home with my staff?” Antony shot as he pulled a cigarette from between his lips, his face twisted with a glare, “Pretty sure you’re not welcome here anymore.” He dragged a hand through his slicked back, brown hair and snarled viciously before he returned the cigarette to his lips for another nervous drag.

Jesse’s mask tilted before he pointed a finger through the curtains and let the automated voice speak for him, “Justin had no issue letting me in, Antony.” He continued, “Plus, you owe me.”

“If this is about that fucking weapons crate again. I swear to God I didn’t know it was rigged to blow.” He dragged on his cigarette again.

“You lost me a factory, Antony.” The automatic voice droned hauntingly, “And I still haven’t had the compensation.”

“You’ll get your money, shit face.” Antony’s hand twitched for his jacket.

 You panicked as Antony took a seat across from Jesse, his fingers steepled under his chin. It was tense, and you began to panic as Jesse loomed over in the man’s personal space. He was a giant, solid wall of power, and you instinctively took a step back.

Antony clicked at you, “Drinks. Pour them. One for our guest here too.” You nodded and dashed for another glass for Antony before shakily taking the bottle in your hand and pouring both of them shots.

Jesse ignored the drink as he took his silver briefcase and slammed it on top of the table. The wood shuddered under the force of the blow and you jumped as he snapped open the clips.

“Put your fucking knives away, Cromeans.” Antony scoffed.

Jesse slid his first, sharp hunting knife free from his hip and you swallowed as he took a camera from the case. The device had a stand that clipped to his shoulder and he snapped the little tripod on before tapping the top. A red light blinked on. Recording.

“Oh, so you’ve come for something to play with?” Antony laughed, “There’s a toy stood right next to you. Be my fucking guest!” He exclaimed.

 You gave a squeak as Jesse’s large hands grappled you by the waist, dragging you into his lap, your legs pinned between his own as he breathed down your neck. He trapped you as he reached for the box of black nitriles in his case. Methodically, he peeled one free at a time and tugged them over the black tattoos covering his hands. The black nitrile traced the edge of one knife before he span it once, twice, and then placed the edge of the blade against your neck. Your breath caught in your throat at the cold press of metal against your soft skin. His other hand trailed over the skin, his hot breath tickling your ear before he swiped the knife up and dragged the sharp side through your hair. You listened to him inhale before, tauntingly, he made a kissing noise next to your ear. The blade was replaced against your throat as he typed on the phone once more.

“I catch my own fish.” The voice droned before Jesse shook the phone teasingly in front of you, showing you the text he had typed out, ‘Though I don’t think I want to play with you, piggy. You’re too much of a deer.’

Antony scowled, “What the fuck does that mean…” He howled in agony as Jesse flicked the blade around again and slammed it through his hand. The fingers twitched before he drew his other knife and sliced the appendages free, pinning you in place with his legs as he watched blood spurt over the wood.

 Shock. You felt your heart burn as you wiggled backwards, closer to the killer’s chest before he peeled you free from his lap and dropped you back into the booth. Gruffly, Jesse slammed his bloodied hand over Antony’s mouth.

‘This piggy should have stayed home.’ His phone droned, again and again as the giant stood up, touching the tip of the hunting knife as he admired the shine of blood over the cold steel. With another flourish, he turned the saw half downwards and wrestled Antony over the wood, pinning him with a slam of his head before he dragged the saw downwards and watched skin and muscle part. He paused when Antony passed out and left the knife embedded in the man’s wrist as he looked back at you.

‘Look away.’ He typed with his clean hand. You did as you were asked, fear making you want to cry. He sawed the hand free and looked at the hand left, pinned to the table before he pealed his gloves free and brushed the bottom of your chin.

 “Look alive, sunshine.” The voice chittered, “Get moving.” It continued.

You opened your eyes and Jesse was quick to turn you away from the mess over the table.

“Up. Walk. Back exit.” The phone said. With a shuddering sigh, you got up. Jesse’s mask tilted before he offered his arm. You hooked your arm through his and almost cried as he shut the curtains and blocked you from the view of the other bar staff with his towering figure. His video was still recording.

“Why did you…” You were cut off by a sharp grip.

Jesse didn’t speak until you were both outside, his keys in one hand, snatched from the storage and  his phone held up to you in the other, “I taught them a lesson. They don’t fuck with me and get away with it.” He offered before he dragged you over to his car. You looked at the custom plates and the expensive brand. He laid his briefcase on the bonnet and sighed as he peeled free the chrome covered mask. Beneath was the same as before, heavily operated on with taught skin. A few scars were deep and heavy. His eye that was previously covered with an eyepatch was open, revealing itself as almost blind, the brown iris milky and covered. Still, he wasn’t a monster, just disfigured and evidently, through all the surgery, unhappy about what had occurred.

 “Staring is rude.” The phone whirred, “Should be staring elsewhere, sugar tits.”

You felt yourself go red, “You just killed a man! You don’t have any right to flirt with me after you just made me an accessory to murder!” You flew off the handle, “And now you’re taking me out back to end me too!”

Jesse grinned, white teeth clenched together dangerously as his knife curled and span idly, looking you up and down. He held up the phone nonchalantly, “No I’m not. I’m taking you home.”

“You…You’re joking.” You took a step backwards only for him to grab you once again, breathing in the smell of your hair as his knife traced down your chest. With a flick of his wrist he popped a button off your shirt.

His phone appeared in front of you again, ‘Home address.’

You swallowed and repeated your address for him quietly. He hummed behind you, the knife disappearing before he turned you to face him. His face dipped down to meet yours as he laid a single kiss over your lips.

‘Let’s go for a ride, baby.’

[spaceprimcessleia]

Still Worth Saving 3

A seagull squawks in her ear; she throws a chip to the end of the dock. It flies after it, splattering its faeces on the wood and Sam crumples the empty wrapper and shoves it in her pocket. She can see enough from her vantage point to know that Dylan isn’t alone on his boat. There are shadows moving across the windows, a blurred outline that’s definitely not him.

She strides along the dock and knocks firmly on the door. It’s there again, that same scrabbling sound along with Dylan hushing whoever’s there. Sam rolls her eyes. Dylan can be great at keeping secrets as long as there’s very little actual evidence to hid; his social awkwardness to blame for both. She tries the door and it opens.

Dylan stares at her. “Why does no one understand the concept of private property?”

Behind him is a boy. Maybe eleven, twelve. His eyes are fixed fearfully on Sam.

“Dylan, who is this?”

He sighs. “Will you at least shut the door?”

Keep reading, or:

Read on A03

Bea slides up to her when she’s trying to have ten minutes of peace and a coffee between call outs. It used to be that she never had a moment off of her feet and it was how she loved it.  In some ways it’s like being back in the army: working with Iain again, waiting for the crackling of the radio that will give them their next job, scenes of carnage and horror- but in too many ways it’s not.

“Hey.” Sam smiles tightly back. “How are you? I mean after-”

“No lasting damage.” She wants to say better than a four year old who has permanent lung damage.

Bea slides her hands into the pockets of her scrubs. “It was amazing, what you did. Insane, but amazing.” In her awe, for a moment,  Sam remembers how it felt to finally be doing something more than picking up the patient and driving them to the real doctors.

But to Bea, she just shrugs. “Once a soldier.”

“Soldier?”

“I was an army doctor, along with Iain.”

Bea’s eyes widen, but at least she doesn’t ask what everyone else does when they hear that.

Did you ever kill anyone?

~*~

“You never did tell me what happened with you and Tom,” says Iain while she’s driving the ambulance. And it’s casual, but there’s something else there too.

Sam ignores him She ignores her heart, fluttering like a trapped butterfly beating its wings against glass, ignores her breath that hitches in her throat. She ignores them, and watches the road.

“Oi.” Iain pokes her knee. “Give me a sob story and I might even buy you a drink later.”

She unglues her teeth, peels the words from her lips. “You got it right. I cheated.” (What else is she going to tell him?)

“Knew it. Bet he wasn’t as good as me though.” She doesn’t glance at him, but she knows he’s winking at her. Like they’re still in a bunker, crammed onto a bed meant for one and he’s making her feel like she doesn’t have glass in her chest.

Now, he’s making her feel like it’s a boulder.

~*~

He drove them home afterwards with a face carved from marble. Sam sat slightly slouched against the door from the gin.

“You had fun.” Tom’s voice crackled through the silence like distant thunder, but Sam wasn’t in the mood to blunt the edge in it.

“I did actually.”

“You made me look like an idiot, draped all over him.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Who?”

“Come on, Sam. I have eyes.” Right then they weren’t on the road.

“You mean Jay?” His fists tightened on the wheel.

Jay, an old friend she hadn’t seen since she left the army, once almost as important to her as Iain. Dylan hadn’t minded that time he had come to visit on the boat and thrown her into the sea. She didn’t think it was the moment to tell Tom, though. “He’s my lover,” she said instead. “We’re running away to the Caribbean together to open a lemonade bar.”

The silence was worse than his jibes, but she didn’t take hers back. His speed crept up, even though the headlights barely cut through the dark and fog. “Speed,” she warned, but he took it as an invitation.

There was nothing else on the road, not yet, but they were going too fast to stop.

“Tom, slow down.” The bravery the alcohol had given her crumbled into terror as the engine roared beneath them.

He flicked off the headlights, shutting them in darkness.

~*~

The blanket smells a little like dog but it’s thick and soft (and it smells like him too). He throws up the heat and by the time they reach his boat she’s almost warm again.

Dervla runs to greet her as soon as she steps inside; she runs in circles around her, yipping when she realises who it is. Sam scratches behind her ears and the dog takes her place at her old co-owner’s feet. Dylan shakes his head. “I explained to her that you wouldn’t be around any more.”

Sam’s eyebrows lift to the ceiling. “You explained the concept of a divorce to a dog?”

“No. I simply told her you had gone away but that time you wouldn’t be back.”

“Did you tell her I still loved her very much and none of it was her fault?”

“If you’re just going to take the mick you can get  the bus back to your own house and have Indian alone.”

She throws up her hands in surrender, but she can actually feel a smile creeping onto her face. It’s been a long time since anything has been easy between them. There had been a few peaceful weeks, after the cave, an almost truce. Then he had dressed up to ask for another go and she had served him with divorce papers. Maybe she deserves his rejection.

But then he notices her shiver and ushers his dog away so she can sink onto the sofa where there are more blankets. “Tea,” he announces before disappearing into the kitchen.

//

“He didn’t consent,” Sam tells him ten minutes later with her sleeves pulled her her hands- those wrapped around a mug of tea hot enough to blow clouds of steam into her face. “He was...scared. Confused. He just kept begging us not to take it.”

Dylan looks at her , almost softly. “If you hadn’t amputated, what would have happened?”

“He would have died. Maybe his sister too if we couldn’t make her leave him.”

“Well then,” he says as if that settles it. To him it does. To Dylan it’s always black and white, it is or it isn’t. To her, it’s another layer of guilt.

~*~

A woman is rocking her dead child, her fingers brushing his hair as though he can still feel it. She looks up, her eyes locking with Sam’s. په دوزخ کې اوریدل.

Burn in Hell.

She turns and runs, her feet pounding on the hot sand even as she screams at herself to turn back. A sun scorched steering wheel burned her skin as she drove, kicking up dust behind her, but the woman and her child never got any further away. They grew bigger.

Her head turns towards the passenger seat. There’s a man sitting there, a  gaping hole in his forehead and tears streaming down his cheeks, running paths along the soot on his cheeks. In his fist he holds his inhaler. Silently, he mouths at her. Help me. She fires another hole into his chest.

Dylan’s body slumps in the seat, his eyes wide but with the kind of emptiness of a school at midnight. She screams. Tom clamps his hand over her mouth, crushing her nose against her skull. She tries to breathe but it just makes her chest tighter. He pushes her into the bed.

“Don’t say his name.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and turns her gaze away from what he’s going to do.

When she opens them she sees darkness. Shadows cast against the walls and a figure in front of her, dark and small and speaking words she can barely understand. “Wake up, Miss Samantha. Wake up.”  

A dream. Thank god.

(Except it wasn’t entirely).

She forces herself to sit up, her limbs stiff and tingling from the way she’s slept (on Dylan’s sofa, apparently). There are thick blankets draped around her and she throws them off, even as she shivers at the sweat cooling on her skin. “Where’s Dylan?” she asks Sanosi, fighting the impulse to reach out and switch on the light.

“Asleep. You were having a bad dream,” he adds, like she might not have figured it out.

Her heart is beating so hard she feels sick. Sanosi squints at her through the darkness, his forehead crinkled. “Shall I get Doctor Dylan?”

“No!” Sam says, too quickly. “It’s all right. I’m okay.”

The boy doesn’t look convinced.

She switches on the light. “I think we both need a hot chocolate.” Sanosi’s face breaks into a grin.

She knows her way around the kitchen as if there’s a map drawn into her brain; she even remembers to flick the button twice because it takes Dylan’s ancient cooker a while to wake up. She makes it in the pan, the only real way to do it, melting chocolate into the milk (she still knows where Dylan keeps his stash for his more-frequent-than-he-would-ever-admit cravings).

Sanosi has a curve of milk foam around his top lip before Sam’s has even cooled enough to drink (she added a little cold milk to his). But there’s still a loud part of her tugging her limbs to move, to get out of there because it’s the middle of the night and she should not be on her ex-husband’s boat making hot chocolate for his stowaway.

“I have them too,” he says when his hot chocolate is almost gone. “I see the men with guns, and my family.” He doesn’t go on. He doesn’t need to. It’s the same things she sees- children with stumps where their legs used to be and dead women with arms still wrapped around their baby’s corpse. Herself holding the gun.

“He said you were one of the good ones.”

A sudden crunch of agony crushes her so tightly she wants to curl in on herself. She hasn’t been good for so long- in too many ways to explain to a child. And she can hardly think of herself as a soldier any longer.

She doesn’t, can’t, say anything but Sanosi doesn't seem to expect her to. He steals another marshmallow from the bag and she doesn’t say anything about that either, but she does take the bag away after he’s had his sixth.

[punmasterkentparson]

Pucker Up! (It’s for Charity)

Inspired by the Charlize Theron charity kiss, but with an obvious Patater twist.

(on ao3)

Sometimes, shit just comes out of Kent’s mouth.

“I’ll kiss the winner for twenty seconds!” he hollers into the mic, which does two things: one, it causes an abrupt silence to befall the charity bidders gathered in the auditorium, and two, it makes the Aces’ assistant PR rep go white and then smack her palm to her face.

But it also makes the bidding numbers on the giant overhead display rocket sky-high amid a sudden chaotic flurry of noise, so. There’s that. Throughout the crowd, heads are ducked over smartphones and fingers blur as people up their bids. Already the bidding total has jumped from five figures to six. Kent is going to focus on that instead of the fizzing in his stomach and the way his hands are going numb with sudden nerves.

He really hopes none of the rich, middle-aged and married women now eyeing him hungrily get the winning bid. If he ends up on stage with a woman whose husband is glaring up from the audience, he’s going to smooch her on the cheek and call it close enough.

But it quickly starts to look like the young up-and-coming model with legs for days sitting up front is going to have that honor, and Kent doubts she’ll settle for a chaste little peck. The bidding is almost closed and the announcer is asking if anyone else has any final bids. Kent checks the screen behind him: $105,000. Considering the time it took to get that high, he doubts anyone’s going to top that.

And then suddenly, literal seconds before the window closes, the number jumps: $200,000.

Kent’s jaw drops.

The announcer looks a little giddy with glee. “Uh, well folks, I think we have a new winner. Unless anyone else would like to bid?”

Nobody else does.  The model sits down, looking miffed.

“Then...” The announcer looks over at Kent, a clear question on his face. The Aces’ PR woman is flapping her hand at him in resigned exasperation, a clear do whatever you want, we’ll roll with it.

Well, he did promise. He takes the mic again. “You bring the lips, I’ll bring the chapstick, babe!”

The PR woman sighs and covers her face again.

Kent scans the crowd, expecting--well, a woman. But the person coming up the steps to the stage is, unless self-identified otherwise, definitely a man.

A tall man, with shoulders like a cliff and thighs thick enough to make Kent’s mouth water. Yet the smile he gives Kent is bashful, a crinkly-eyed apology that’s still smug about his win. That alone makes Kent like him, without even knowing his name.

Already, the crowd--half-drunk on champagne and the sting of defeat--are hooting and cat-calling them.

“So, where is chapstick?” asks the bidding winner. His voice is deep and friendly.

Kent laughs, half in amusement, half with nerves. “I was mostly joking.”

“Joke about kiss, too?” the man asks, and before Kent can sputter a response, he adds, “Because is okay, just kiss hand or cheek. Don’t want you uncomfortable. I wasn’t going bid again, after first, but then you make challenge. I’m hate lose, you know?” He winks, over-exaggerated and endearingly genuine.

And what’s funny is that Kent does know. He hates losing, too. “Yeah,” he agrees. “And I wasn’t joking, about the kiss. You really want it?”

The man’s smile grows to giddy proportions. “Really twenty seconds?”

Kent looks back over his shoulder at the announcer, who is watching them both like he’s witnessing gossip rag history unfold. “Hey, man, keep count for me, will you?” Then he turns back to the bidding winner--who, upon close inspection, has a nice strong jaw and an excitingly generous mouth--and helps the man put both hands on Kent’s hips. “Impress me,” he says.

There’s a laugh, a puff of warm breath on Kent’s cheek, a small mumble of, “Don’t need twenty seconds for impress,” and then Kent is being kissed.

Softly, sweetly, close-mouthed, no tongue. It’s far from perfunctory, but it is polite. It takes no liberties except for the agreed-upon press of lips. And at first that’s fine, until the announcer and the crowd are chanting, “Ten! Eleven! Twelve!” and Kent’s sides are tingling from being held, his jaw aching to open and invite this man inside. Every soft whiff of breath, every shift of tender skin on tender skin, it peels back another of his layers, and when he opens his eyes again, his gaze meets deep brown.

Then, suddenly, the hands on his sides slip up his shoulder blades and the kiss urges him backwards--the man is dipping Kent, still kissing him, and Kent’s hands come up to clutch at expensive suit jacket out of instinct.

“Nineteen! Twenty!”

Kent lets himself be pulled upright. His heart is hammering and his face is probably flushed. He feels like he just got wooed in slow-motion via lip-lock.

“You impress?” the man asks, which would sound more suave if his cheeks weren’t pink.

Somewhere in the background, the crowd is going wild. Kent guesses that videos and photos are already flooding Twitter. He licks his lips. “Not bad,” he replies, which would probably come off more unruffled if his hands weren’t still balled in the man’s clothes. He lets go and steps back.

The announcer comes up to them and pats Kent on the shoulder while addressing the crowd. “And that, folks, is how we raise money for charity! Whoo boy. Well, sir,” he adds, addressing the bidding winner, “would you say you got your money’s worth, Mr...?” He holds out the mic for a response.

“My name Alexei Mashkov,” the man says. “And I just glad support good cause. But... yes.” He smiles at Kent. “Think I get what I pay for.”

The crowd laughs and cat-calls some more.

The announcer laughs, then turns back to Kent. “How about you, Mr. Parson?”

Kent pulls the mic to himself and winks at the nearest smartphone camera. “I’m always ready to pucker up for charity!”

Which is, of course, the quote that gets spread around every news site and social media feed within twenty-four hours. 

Kent can’t hide from it in his apartment; he’s got a photo shoot for a sponsor’s ad the next day, and after that he heads to a local practice rink to show up “unexpectedly” at the Junior Aces practice. Fortunately for him, everyone at the photo shoot is professional enough not to do more than a little friendly ribbing about the charity kiss. The kids at the hockey practice aren’t old enough to have Twitter accounts, and therefore remain blissfully ignorant. Kent puts his phone on silent and ignores the Aces group chat (which he already made the mistake of checking this morning--Jesus Christ, his friends have no filter). So he gets to enjoy looking hot for the camera and being a dork for a bunch of excited, idol-worshiping ten-year-olds, and not think about what’ll get asked the next time he’s in a media scrum.

Playing with the kids helps a lot. Kids are ridiculous and hilarious without meaning to be. When the practice ends and Kent has finished up taking pictures and signing most of the equipment, he waves to the team as he skates backwards off the ice.

He’s not even out of his skates yet when the PR assistant finds him.

Kent is ready to be asked to a meeting, or given a new appointment for his already busy schedule. Instead, he gets a Post-It note handed to him.

“We got an email and a phone call to the PR office,” she says, and she looks... smug? “The ball’s in your court, so, be smart about it. But if it becomes a ‘thing’, just let us know.” With that, she leaves.

The Post-It has a phone number on it, nothing else. The area code is not for Vegas.

Kent calls.

It’s almost not a surprise when a familiar voice answers. “Hello, this is Alexei Mashkov. May I ask who is calling?”

Grinning, Kent replies, “Hi. You might remember me, I’m the most expensive twenty seconds of your life.”

There’s a pause, and then laughter. “Yes, you most expensive. I play so many games in Vegas, but I never lose so much money so fast before.”

“Well, it’s like you said. It was for a good cause.”

“Yes, good cause.” There’s a sound of tongue over lips, and--unless Kent is imagining it--the sigh of a leather sofa as a body settles into it. “Thank you for call.”

“Thanks for leaving your number with the Aces PR,” Kent replies. “Can I, uh, ask why you left your phone number with the Aces PR?”

Another wet sound too close to the mic. It wouldn’t be erotic if Kent didn’t already know how this man’s mouth feels. Mr. Mashkov says, “If I’m make you uncomfortable, is okay for you say, but--I think, was nice to meet you. I’m think, maybe I like to meet you again, have dinner? I’m stay Vegas until next week.”

Kent is sitting on empty bleachers grinning ear-to-ear at an empty rink. “Yeah,” he says. “That’d be really nice.”

[persuadedproject-blog]

Chapter 11

     Anne was interrupted from her light morning reading of The Yellow Wallpaper by a gentle tapping on the hotel door. Swinging the door open, she found Hazel, hair plopped on top of her head in a top knot, feet bare.

    “I thought you might be up!” she stage whispered. “Do you want to go walk on the beach?” Anne decided that for a bit of friendship and the ocean, her reading could wait. Hazel curled up on the bed while Anne changed out of her pajamas.

    “What are you doing up anyways,” she called in the direction of the bathroom. Anne’s head popped around the corner.

    “Just geeky research stuff.” Hazel flopped back on the bed.

    “I won’t do another second of it once I get out of college,” she groaned. “If I have to learn one more way to cite a source I’ll scream Right there in class, I’ll just stand on my desk and scream. They’ve already made me learn MLA, APA, And Turabian - there can’t be many more, can there? Oh, Anne. No! You can’t wear a cardigan.” Anne tugged at the offending sweater.

    “Why not?” she asked, tilting her head in the mirror.

    “First of all, it’s summer. The season of pumpkin spice lattes is a long ways away. Secondly, we’re at the beach. Thirdly, that’s a perfectly nice shirt you have under it, and Lauren Conrad says not to layer just for the sake of layering. Fourthly -”

    “Cease and desist!” Anne was cracking up. “Look, I’m putting the cardigan away. Does that make you happy?”

    Once they were padding through the hotel hallway, Anne asked quietly,

    “What got you up this early? You normally need more rest than this.” This was a tactful way of saying that they never usually had a Hazel sighting until ten or eleven.

    “I’ve just been thinking,” her usually carefree face drew into a small frown. Anne nodded wisely. Thinking could be a troublesome thing. “About Chuck and me,” Hazel clarified. “I think being around Ben and seeing him be so miserable after losing Faith, it made me wonder what would happen if Chuck - went away.” They were outside now, so they could talk at normal volumes (for Anne, still quiet, for Hazel sincere and a little loud). “If anything happened, Anne, I’d just die. Whatever Chuck and I have, it’s good, and I would be an idiot to let it go.” Anne smiled, glad to see that Hazel’s own ponderings had brought her around to this conclusion. Both Hazel and Louise stood a chance to grow into their parents; good, kind people with their heads screwed on straight. Once they were on the sand, the topic pivoted.

    “I think the beach is good for everyone!” Hazel declared. “The sunshine, fresh air - even the salt water is good. If you’re sick, it helps you get well, and if you’re healthy, it only makes you better! I really think Doc Shirley should retire to the beach, sooner rather than later. His arthritis is only getting worse. He and Miz Shirley have spent their lives working and doing good, but it’s sort of depressing to think of them living out their last days in tiny Uppercross, isn’t it? We should suggest that they retire here. I just doubt we could convince him to stop work, but we really shouldn’t glorify the ‘work til you drop’ philosophy, should we? Chuck could do his job just as well, I bet. And he shouldn’t run himself ragged, that would just break Miz Shirley’s heart.” Anne just smiled and nodded, with an occasional,

    “I think so,” or “Definitely.” It was clear Hazel needed to get her thoughts out in the open, and since it seemed to the advantage of everyone in question, Anne tried to be as encouraging as she could.

     “I wish Mrs. Russell were around Uppercross. I’ve always heard she had great sway over everyone, and she’s able to convince anyone of anything! Of course, I’m a little afraid of her, because she’s so smart and so influential, but I respect her a lot. I wish we had a neighbor like her. She could convince Doc to retire.” Anne thought it was funny how the things that advance our plans suddenly become the best option for other people - and how anyone who can help bring the plan to reality became valuable. She only had time to say,

    “She has been a wonderful neighbor,” before Hazel spotted Wentworth and Louise coming toward them. They had also decided to go for a walk before breakfast, but as soon as the four were all walking together, Louise remembered that she needed to buy something in Beaufort. They were all invited to go along, and they all did.

    When they came up to the narrow wooden steps that ran up and over the dunes, a guy who had been planning to walk down at the same time politely stood aside, to let them come up. As they passed him, Anne’s face caught his eye and he looked at her with a sincere admiration she could not brush off. Anne was looking attractive; time outside had restored a bloom to her face, and her eyes had sprung back to life, as if reflecting the movement and energy of the water. It was clear that this stranger took notice, but not in an ogling way. Wentworth looked back at her immediately in a way that showed the stranger’s admiration had not gone unobserved. He gave her a quick glance, that seemed to say even he could see some of the old Anne Elliot again. Louise led the still somewhat sleepy band of people into town, and picked up her necessities at a gas station. Hazel and Anne had to wait outside, because of the faded ‘No shirt, no shoes, no service’ sign that was peeling on the door. After that, they meandered back to the hotel for a continental breakfast. Anne slipped upstairs to slip on some shoes, and nearly bumped into the stranger from the steps on her way off the elevator. She had wondered if they were staying in the same hotel. Once again, he seemed happy to see her, and to think of her - well, Anne could see that he thought she was beautiful. He apologized quickly, and when she tried to blame it on her absent-mindedness he would not allow any of the fault to be hers. He was about Anne’s age, maybe a little older. Although he was not strikingly handsome (certainly not a movie star in the making), he wasn’t an eyesore either. He carried himself well. When the elevator doors shut, and Anne was alone with the sleepy jazz music, she wished she had gotten his name for future stalking (when admirers are few and far between, you have to make the most of them).

    Breakfast was the usual free hotel fare: burnt coffee and watery orange juice, stale bagels, cereal that had lost its crunch, thin yogurt, and waxy fruit for the health conscious. The company was what made breakfast nice, and from her past five years in and out of conference centers, Anne knew how to make the buffet offerings into a decent breakfast. Toasted bagels don’t taste nearly as old, especially when slathered with whatever butter substitute they are serving. Drink as much of the orange juice as you can stand, and eat a banana - at least the fake skin comes off of that. Since they were in the breakfast nook alone, they could spread out however they liked. The whole room was brought to the window when the owner of the beautiful red convertible parked by the window loaded his suitcase, and started up the engine.

    “That’s a classic car, isn’t it?” and the purr of the engine was enough to bring Charles bounding over to the window, and Wentworth’s seemingly off-handed,

    “Oh! That’s the exact same guy we passed this morning,” was enough to bring everyone else. He said it with a quick look at Anne, so she made sure to take her time walking over. The Musgrove girls agreed that it had to be him, and they all watched until he disappeared around the corner. They all returned to their seats and stale breakfasts. Soon enough a disinterested college student in an oversized uniform wandered over to the buffet to check on the stockpiles of food. As soon as he spotted him, Wentworth asked,

    “Do you know who the man who just checked out was?”

    “Since it’s only me on duty on this floor, yeah.”

    “Just you? That’s rough.”

    “I guess.”

    “But who was he?”

    “Um, a Sam Beckett? Wait, that wasn’t a breach of client confidentiality, was it?”

    “Since you are neither a doctor nor lawyer, I don’t think so. Thanks!” Wentworth clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder, and the kid looked longingly at his desk.

    “Sam Beckett?” Mary, usually the most clueless person in the room (or maybe the state), for some unfortunate reason remembered this name. “I thought I recognized his face! He was friends with our sister Liz. Anne, Charles, don’t you think it was him? He almost was going to take over the firm - did he say anything about Elliot Political Consulting?”

    “No, but I think he’s planning to get a good job soon enough. Like, big money. He was talking about moving into a new house and getting new business cards made. His old card said something about waffles, I think?”

    “That has to be him!” Mary said triumphantly. “How bizarre is it that we see him after all these years! I wish I had looked at him more closely, I was just looking at the car. How amazing!” The employee retreated to the safe haven of his desk as soon as Mary’s interrogation had finished.

    “The chances of meeting an old friend in a town like this are small enough,  it has to be predestined that you didn’t actually meet him.” Wentworth said amusedly. When she could finally wrangle Mary’s attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that running into this particular Mr. Beckett would not be a good thing.

    “Our dad hasn’t spoken to him since everything happened,” she informed her. “Not to mention Liz would be furious if we were friendly to him.”

    “Well now she’s found her zen or whatever, surely she’s over it be now. It’s not like a breakup years ago is worth losing the connection. You’ll have to mention seeing him when you hear from the Hyannis crowd.” Anne did not respond - convincing Mary she was wrong at this point would be about like having a debate with a sand dune. While Mary was in the habit of sharing any and all information, Anne censored information to avoid irritation, conflict, and possible damage to the Hyannis Elliot’s ego. Mary never communicated with them herself, so it was up to Anne to keep up a sporadic and unsatisfactory talks with Liz.

    Just as they were finishing up breakfast, the Harvilles and Ben Wick walked through the lazily sliding doors. They had gotten a babysitter, and were going to show the Uppercross contingent the sights. Thanks to a trolley-style bus, they could leave their cars behind and see the town mostly by foot. The plan was to see all the highlights, have a late lunch, and then get back to Uppercross. Wentworth had a meeting in D.C. the next morning, and Mary wanted to make sure Mrs. Musgrove was not feeding the boys all junk processed food. Once they started walking, Anne found Ben gravitating towards her. Much to her delight, their conversation the night before had not driven him away. She got to see the town with Ben at her side, comparing notes on Byron (interesting poetry, rather awful human). They walked by the house where Blackbeard the pirate had supposedly hung his wife and killed her lover on the stairs.

    “They say the blood stain still seeps through the stairs, no matter how much they clean it, or what carpet they put over it,” Ben said, seeming to relish the macabre interest of it all. Most of the highlights of Beaufort were admittedly pirate related - the Maritime Museum (in an old ship builder’s shed) was centered around artifacts dredged up from his old ship, sunk just off the coast. In the church graveyard, surrounded by rough old stones and Spanish Moss, Ben provided more ghost stories. Most of the other sights involved food: legendary fudge, ice cream, and craft beer at The Queen Anne’s Revenge - local bar and sandwich shoppe.

    When they were walking along the main street boardwalk, she found Ben replaced by Will.

    “Anne,” he said quietly, “I can’t tell you how much good you’ve done Wick, getting him to talk that much. It can’t be good for him to be shut away here, I know, but what can we do? We have to stick together.”

    “Time will give some distance to everything that will help,” Anne encouraged him. “He is still a young mourner. Give him more time, he’ll come around to himself if you give him the chance to. I understand you lost Faith last winter.”

    “Last November,” Will nodded painfully. “And I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Plus he was...unavailable at the time, due to work. Wentworth was the only one who could get to him. He stayed with Ben for the week, flew home with him, and supported all of us through the funeral. I don’t know what his superiors thought, but we were all so busy with arranging - everything. It feels like Ben is the last part of Faith left. We loved him for his own sake of course, but you can imagine how important he is to us now.” He was clearly overwhelmed by the subject, and after abruptly clearing his throat he changed the subject. Anne went along the rabbit trail with him, and helped him by pointing out a boat inscribed with the name Thanks a Yacht.

    After lunch they were all supposed to go their separate ways, but Will mentioned that there was one more sight to be seen, if they could find the time: Fort Macon. Mary and Charles were not sure if they had the time, but after hearing about the views, Louise became determined. And now once she was set on something, she was a force to be reckoned with.

    “It won’t take long,” she argued. “We’ll just walk through the fort, take another quick walk on the beach, then we can go. We checked out this morning, so we can just leave straight from the fort.” The group agreed, and in half an hour they were all at the old Civil War fort. The fort was mostly brick and cement, with iron intertwined and an occasional well-groomed patch of grass. All of the old passages were open to the public. The hallways all connected in an off-kilter pentagon, kitchens led to mess halls, to bedrooms that would have been packed with bunks, to long stables. The Uppercross tourists and their hosts spread out into pairs, some taking in everything in at a glance, others wandering slowly and reading the plaques. Anne found herself bringing up the rear with Ben. Considering the location, where you could see the ocean and flyers for the Marlin Festival were everywhere, The Old Man and the Sea simply had to be discussed. Anne was glad to have his company, and gave him her full attention. She told him about dusting off work on her thesis, and his eyes lit up. He offered to review it, once she was finished.

    “Not that I could teach you anything, obviously,” he added quickly. “But if you want another set of eyes on it.”

    After they had climbed fifty shallow steps to the lookout, they soaked in the sun and wind for as long as practical time constraints would allow, when they filed back down. Everyone else was happy to walk quietly, except for Louise. Spotting Wentworth solidly on the ground, she said,

    “Look out, Captain!” and jumped the rest of the way down. Thinking quickly, Wentworth caught her outstretched arms and swung her safely to the fort’s brick floor. They were in the habit of exchanging playful, affectionate contact, so this did not surprise anyone in the group. Anne wondered if he could feel the eye roll she wanted to release. Louise thought this little thrill was fun, and to show her admiration for the catcher, ran back up the stairs, stopping higher than before.

    “That’s too high, Louise,” he said offhandedly. “You can’t even jump that far, much less have me catch you. Louise just gave him a cocky grin and said,

    “I’m determined, so I will!” and launched herself off the steps. A second too late, he started after her, arms outstretched again. Her jump had been thrown off by catching her foot on the step. With a thud that reverberated off the walls of the fort, her head hit the bottom step. Her body went limp, her eyes closed as her head lolled to the side. For a split second, they all stood still and silent, trying to process the horrible sight. Then all was movement and noise. Wentworth, who was closest, gathered her up, trying to wake her up, searching her suddenly pale face for signs of life.

    “She is dead! She is dead!” Mary wailed. Hazel panicked, and would have tripped herself on the steps if Anne and Ben had not caught her between them, and lowered her to sit.

    “Just stay put,” Anne instructed with a gentle squeeze of her shoulder.

    “Can no one help me?” Wentworth burst forth desperately. Ben and Anne rushed down the steps, and Charles disentangled himself from his panicking wife. Fearful of too many cooks in the kitchen, Anne stood on the periphery, calling out prompts to help take care of Louise.

    “Is she breathing?” Anne asked.

     “Yes, very shallowly.”

    “Just - keep her head very still.” Anne whipped out her phone and with trembling hands dialed 911. While it rang, Anne caught Ben’s eye.

     “See if they have a medic on call at the visitor’s center. Or ask around for a nurse, anyone with medical training.” He went sprinting across the grounds and over the drawbridge. Seconds were flying by. Of the three rational forces there, it was hard to tell who was the most distressed: Anne, Wentworth, or Charles, who was really a loving brother, hanging over his sister’s face, rogue tears running down his ruddy face. Anne was trying to quiet Mary, comfort Hazel, and rack her brain for anything they could do.

    “Anne, what next? What next?” Charles asked brokenly. Wentworth, in a daze, also looked to her.

    “Check gently for other wounds than that one on her forehead, and try to get a read on her pulse. We can’t move her, but try to elevate her head just a little.”

    By the time the ambulance showed up, a small group of concerned onlookers had gathered. With dread they retraced their steps of just an hour ago, Louise on a stretcher, Anne and Wentworth on either side. Charles rode with her in the ambulance and the rest of them followed in the entourage. They were all resigned to the waiting room to sit and hope for the best. After the sun and warmth all day, the blasting AC felt frigid. It was difficult to keep track of time - ER waiting rooms have their own logic and time, florescent lights flickering, and nurses in all matching scrubs passing - how could they stand short sleeves? The TV looped local news over and over again. During one of the commercial breaks, Wentworth came over and sat beside Anne.

    “Someone needs to call her parents,” he said in a hushed voice that excluded all of the other waiters from their conversation.

    “We shouldn’t call anyone until we’ve seen the doctor, and know more about what is going on - what good could calling them with no conclusions and a passed out daughter do?”

    “We can’t keep it from them.”

    “Just not now. If we haven’t talked to anyone in another half hour, one of us can call Mr. Musgrove. He’ll know the best way to break it to her mom.” Wentworth nodded, and Charles poked his head out of the swinging door, waving to them.

    “Anne! Wentworth!” They walked over, leaving the rest with a reassuring thumbs-up from Charles. “She came back to, but hasn’t talked much since. The doctor seems to be hopeful.”

      “She has a small fracture in her skull,” the doctor said, pointing to a small line on the X-ray. “Fortunately, her brain is mostly untouched. There is a small concussion, but no bleeding.” Wentworth leaned against the door frame, as if all the energy he had been using to keep himself together had just left him. “We will need to monitor her carefully for several days, and keep her for a week, just to make sure she doesn’t show any signs that will make me rethink the diagnosis.”

    “And after that?” Anne asked.

    “She’ll be recovering for six to twelve months. The worst of it will be in the first weeks, after that she’ll just have to be careful.”

      The anxious group waiting in the emergency room stood up when Anne reappeared, then flopped back on the chairs in relief. All of their worst fears - permanent damage, hours to live, paralysis, all of them were quelled. The Harvilles had rounded up food from a nearby McDonald’s, and the whole group inhaled it in the parking lot, heat radiating from the pavement. Emergencies have a tendency to steal your appetite, then eventually make you ravenous. The pressure had been released, and they could start working out the logistics. Louise obviously had to stay put. Charles refused to leave Beaufort - they had barely been able to drag him away from the hospital bed for food. Wentworth positively had to go back to Washington for the mandatory meeting. Hazel was, in her own words, virtually useless. She couldn’t stand still in the hospital room, and the sight of her still sister made her nervous. Anne accidentally walked into the pow-wow happening behind Charles’ car.

    “So I will take Hazel home,” Wentworth was saying, “And Mary - I assume she’s wanting to get back to CJ and Walter now. If anyone’s going to stay and help you look after Louise, it should be Anne. No one could take care of someone like her. She’s capable, and has a good mind for it.” Anne stumbled to a halt at the trunk, trying to process his words and the emotions that came with them. Then she rounded the corner, and Wentworth immediately turned and said,

    “You would stay, I know. Will you stay and help Charles take care of her?” His tone was urgent but gentle, in a way that can only be understood with years of relationship groundwork. She felt blood rush to her face, and he seemed to remember the situation and take a step back.

    “Of course, I am happy to be here as long as I need to be,” she said, noticing the relief and a flicker of admiration in his eyes. It all seemed to be arranged. Suitcases were shuffled to the correct car, hotel reservations made. Wentworth’s car made a coughing, sputtery sound when he tried to start it, and no degree of coaxing or jumper cables would get the engine to start. Anne offered her car, and after another game of musical chairs with the luggage, everything seemed finished until Mary got wind of the plan. All of the created peace was thrown to the wind.

    “Why on earth would Anne stay?” she demanded, tears pooling in her already red eyes. “Anne is nothing to Louise, and I am her sister. It’s not fair! I can be just as useful as her, probably more because of all my medical research.” Anne could not be sure, but she thought she heard a snort from Ben’s direction. Maybe it was just a cough. Mary carried on her torrent of words for as long as Charles could stand, then her husband caved. Anne had never yielded more reluctantly to the insistent bad plans of her sister, but there was nothing to be done. Everyone was saying their goodbyes while Wentworth drove the car off to fill it with gas. Anne stuck her hand out to Ben,

    “Goodbye for now.”

    “Goodbye for now,” he repeated. “You should know that I will find you on Facebook. I expect lots of vague posts about wrestling with that thesis.”

    “You can count on it.”

    Hazel wanted to be in the back seat, to try and sleep, which left Anne hopping in the passenger side with a bewildered and obviously dismayed Wentworth.

    “I - thought Mary was going back,” he spluttered, trying to politely filter his thoughts and explain his almost horrified expression.

    “Mary wanted to stay,” Anne explained simply.

    “And what Mary wants, Mary gets,” he added in frustration. This cool reception was humiliating to Anne. Apparently she was only valuable when useful to Louise. Anne tried to bring her mind, whirling at a thousand thoughts per minute, in check. She needed to be fair. Everyone was under a great deal of pressure. Then again, his job was being under pressure all the time. Anne could not help but wonder if he was rethinking the opinion that a decided will was some great universal good. Like all other things, ti could turn into a monster if it was not balanced out. It could not escape him that a flexible will is sometimes more conducive to happiness than an iron one.

     They both set themselves looking straight ahead, and this was the way they left Beaufort, with all of their emotions turned inside, eyes focused on the road. Anne was not sure how four hours on the road would go, but it was surprisingly natural. Both of them were focused on taking care of Hazel, whose eyes had not returned from the hundred yard stare since Louise’s head made contact with the ground. Whenever Wentworth talked, it was with the goal of making her feel better. After recovering from the jolt of Anne joining them in the car, his voice was even, quiet. Everything was set in order to keep Hazel from working herself back up. Only once she had been snoring quietly for a long time did Anne venture to quietly say,

    “I wish we had never gone to that fort -”

    “Please don’t talk about it!” Hazel startled, and he lowered his voice again. “If only I had not given in to her that one split second. If I had done what was right - but she looked at me, so eager, this sweet look in her eyes -” his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

    “We all agreed to go,” Anne reminded him. “And I’m not sure you could dissuade Louise from doing anything right now, whether it’s putting her hair in braids, or - well, you know.” Soft classical music filled in the silence that hung in the car. He revved the engine, and the car pulled away from the ocean and towards Uppercross, hugging the curves of the winding back roads and pulling California stops at all the stop signs until they pulled into the Great House driveway.

    When they crawled up the driveway, Hazel was still fast asleep, her hoodie pulled over her face.

    “I have been thinking about what would be best for us to do. She shouldn’t hear the long term risks, at least not tonight, but I don’t want her to wake up alone and get confused. Will you wait with her, while i go in and talk to the musgroves? Does that sound like an okay plan?”

    “Affirmative,” she said, a half smile tugging at her mouth. He started to get out of the car, looked back at her like he wanted to say something, then changing his mind quietly shut the door. The question made her happy, as a sign of friendship- but even better, a respect for her thoughts. It became a proof she hung onto that the old respect was still there, even if the love was not. Once the parents were brought up to speed and pulled back together, Hazel was brought in and put to bed. With everything settled, Wentworth drove to D.C. in one of the musgrove’s cars, which he would return to them in Beaufort as soon as the morning meetings were over.

Chapter 12 : http://bit.ly/2uEfqy5