#march chapter 3

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: March

March prompt: Acceptance

Meet my OTP: Simon Lewis, author of a best-selling paranormal book series, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and nomadic man of mystery, who chefs internationally. AN: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m first-time-bi fic (nsfw at ch. 7). TW: References to the pain of being cheated on, language, Irish-isms, massive rewrites. Event details || ao3: Full Event || @yearoftheotpevent

Masterlist || ao3 || Start: Jan Ch. 1 || Prev: Feb Ch. 2 || Here: Mar Ch. 3 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

March Chapter 3: My red stripe of pain

———/Simon/———

Ooh, my ass is sunburnt. In a slightly-but-mostly-not sexy way. Look at that. I’ve taken on a rather tomatoesque appearance after four hours in the meaty embrace of the sun at midday without sunblock. But even pain can’t spoil this utter relaxation and bliss I feel.

Huh. I’ve just realized I’ve never done this before — traveling to another country alone. Maybe it’ll turn lonely again later. But right now, watching a boat streaking across my view, I feel free.

And slightly dehydrated.

————/-/—————

“You have a stripe on your arse. That’s what yer tellin me, is it.”

“Yes.”

“A stripe of pain. Have you been naughty, Simon?” Billy asks with the most obscenely good looking smirk. Ew. How dare he.

“Don’t grin at me like that, you barbarian. My red stripe of pain isn’t worthy of that kind of interest, trust me.”

“Why not?” He’s pouring me his favorite wine at the hotel bar, while I wait for my table at the very-big-deal restaurant outside.

“Why n- Are you- My red stripe of pain is a boring kind of red stripe of pain, I assure you.” After a second’s very deep reflection, I’ve realized I want to know, “Why are you so focused on my red stripe of pain, anyway? Never mind. I’ve changed my mind about wanting to know that. Ugh, look at this place. I have no words,” I sigh as the sun dips toward the horizon.

“Finally noticed you’re in Italy, did you,” he chuckles. He’s chuckling. Great.

“Even I had to notice sooner or later. And though it was a little, ok fine, quite a bit later, it’s ok. I’m good with that. Look, the point is…” What was my point? (I am the essence of cool rn.)

Now he’s raising one of his eye caterpillars at me.

He squawks out a laugh and then ducks, as a few of the other patrons look up at the bar.

“Tell me I didn’t say that out loud,” I ask weakly.

“You didn’t say that out loud. But the truth is, yeh said that out loud, mate. And I’ve never heard quite that arrangement of words, ever. Eye caterpillars,” he chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I bet they keep your face warm come winter. But don’t worry, I was once described as having eye caterpillars, too.” By whom I can’t remember. But am I admitting to furry eyebrows? Fuck no. His are far furrier than mine.

“Mate, looks like your seating is ready.” He inclines his head to the side to indicate the host coming to claim me.

“Oh. Ok. Have a good night Beelee.” I waive as I say, “Ciao,” then cringe. “Oh kill me now, I said ciao.” All I can think every time I hear it is puppy chow. Or puppy ciao.

“Keep using it, til you don’t think about it anymore,” is Billy’s random advice. ”Ciao, Seemon.”

“Does he talk dirty to all the guests?” I mumble as I’m seated.

“The list of the wines, signore.” The host hands me a binder so freakin big it requires tabs. Oh look, there’s another one for their selection of olive oils, too.

I never was any good at languages. I’m thinking maybe I should have spent some time on important things, like “Where’s the bathroom? Right and left. Do you have a cell phone charger?” The essentials.

I was too focused on setting everything up for the proposal. The one I’d planned for tonight.

…Fuck, man, I miss her. Why? Why the fuck do I miss her? Why does she get that from me, karmically? It’s so unfair.

I mean, at least I finally feel buzzed. But it’s not cheering me up. It’s just making me all moony.

…I’ve never seen a lavender sky before. Have you? This would be an impossible place to contemplate suicide. Not when you get this sky every day.

…Why does she get to have me miss her? That’s just not cool. “What did I ever do to you?” Maybe I really shouldn’t shake my fist at the sky in the middle of a Michelin-starred restaurant. Even when there isn’t somebody here to get embarrassed by me. So I’m hereby mentally shaking my fist at the sky. Screw y-

Whoa. Look at that.

Is that a freakin schooner? I mean that looks like the Pirates of the Caribbean came to the Mediterranean. I just- I can’t- It’s- It’s a freaking cruise ship. A sailboat version of a cruise ship. My god.

That is simultaneously brilliant and an unholy alliance of two things that should not exist in the same paragraph on a travel brochure. I dunno. I’m just jealous. I’ve always wanted to be in Pirates of the Caribbean.

…You ever wonder what he or she saw when they looked at you standing there at the end? I can’t stop thinking about it. What had I turned into in her mind, right before she finally got the balls to say and do what she wanted to? How long? Why didn’t I notice the change? How much of this can I blame on myself? Because I will find the things I can blame on myself and then I’ll chew on them like an old piece of beef jerky. And my whole head will ache after, because of all the chewing.

…Towns lit up, like a diamond necklace draped aaaaaaaaaaall along the bay. I would have bought her a diamond necklace. I totally would have. I already bought the ring. Would have felt obligated to keep it in my underwear, so, at least there’s an upside to her dumping me. Oh hey look, that must be Vesuvius. Why would you want to live near Mount Vesuvius? It’s alive.

…I shake my head back to consciousness as someone steps in the way of my view and leans toward me over the back of Elijah’s seat. (That’s a joke. An empty chair for Elijah. If you’re Jewish you get it.)

“How you doin there, mate?” It’s Billy.

I don’t much like that careful, quiet tone he’s using.

“Yeah, totally. Amazing restaurant.”

“Em,” he looks back over to the kitchen and says quietly, “Mate, you didn’t eat.”

“What? I ate!”

“You ordered olives. At a Michelin-starred restaurant that people can only reserve a year to the day ahead of time. Everything ok?"

Or you call and bribe them. That can get you a table, too.

“Yeah, the olives were good.” And are still largely untouched, I see as I glance down at my plate. Yet I’m certain I’ve ordered something. Beyond the wines, I mean.

“Shit.” I now realize that the staff of the restaurant are waiting for me. “This outdoor patio is a patio all day. Doesn’t it just turn back into a patio at night? Like when the clock tolls midnight?”

“Sure but midnight’ll still be two hours away.” He pauses to look behind him and motions to someone that he’s going to sit down with me.

“Um…” I don’t know what to say. Cuz I really don’t want to talk to him rn. It’s not that I don’t - I just - I don’t want to have to try so hard to speak in complete sentences.

“You’d rather that I didn’t join you. Well, if you can put up with my less than ideal company for the next half hour, then the kitchen will be locked down and you can sit out here staring at Naples all night by yerself. Or is it me specifically?”

I snort.

Billy shifts in his seat. “Simon? You didn’t actually answer the question. You just sort of breathed loudly at it.”

I shake my head, not sure what he’s talking about.

“Leave by yourself, or sit for 25 more minutes with me.”

I feel like he’s speaking a different language and frown at him. Why is he looking at me like that?

“Mate, you’re thinkin out loud again. And for your information, I’m speaking English, with an Irish accent, which really isn’t that different to all other versions of English. Because it’s English. And I’m lookin at yeh like this cos you’re startin to scare me, yeah?”

“Is that a rhetorical question? I’m not sure that was a question at all.”

He slides his chair back looking kinda pissy.

“What did I say?! Don’t look at me like that,” I finish in a mumble.

He stands. “Em.” It’s Billy, who is annoying the fuck out of me rn. “You’re not looking too-”

“Fuck it. Where can I sit?”

Billy takes a step back, definitely looking pissed off now, and raises his hands in an “I give up” kinda gesture. “Enjoy your solitude. I’ll just tell the owner to turn the lights off on yeh, then.” He turns and starts to walk away toward the kitchen again.

“Yes! Thank you. I’ll be able to see the view better,” I say, tapering off at the end. I hear the kitchen door close.

I go to take another sip of wine, but my glass is gone. All that’s left is the last bottle I ordered, already uncorked, thank god.

The lights go out. Finally.

————/Billy/————

“Well if it isn’t the lovely Rosalina. What brings you my way this early in the day, love?” She always blushes when I greet her this way. If she didn’t work here at the hotel, I’d be finding all the places I could make her blush. Christ, she’s beautiful. They grow ‘em like that here. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“It is the American on the roof. You come, please.”

That can’t be good. “On the roof?”

“Or maybe I do not speak it well. He is on the floor of his room, on the floor next to his room. He sleeps there. Maybe he drops his key in the sea? Or the window?”

“He’s asleep on the floor?”

“Si.”

“But not in his room?”

She shakes her head. So do I. What now, Seemon.

Haven’t laid eyes on him in a coupla days. Hoped he’d be doin better.

She looks very serious now. “And I do not like to see the other girls also seeing him when they go to clean. You speak English to him and you are tell him to go to his room for the sleep.”

That’s really very sweet -- she doesn’t want to embarrass him. “I do not like them seeing him like that, either, Rosalina. Thank you. You are very kind.”

“Kind?”

“You have a beautiful heart,” I say, tapping my chest. No use listing everything else beautiful about her. “And your English is improving.” She smiles, and twists away so I can’t see her blushing. Why do women do that? When are they more lovely?

She’s a coworker, Billy, she’s a coworker. I already regret my feckin principles.

She shoos me toward the stairs to the top floor, and all but flees down the hallway when I aim a smile her way. She’s sweet.

————/-/—————

Even before I top the stairs, I can already hear him snoring.

Actually, that sounds more like choking.

Aw, mate, this isn’t good. He snores until his head lolls too far to the side, then he chokes, making his head roll back against the wall, where he starts up with the snoring again. Jesus Christ, has he been choking like this all night?

He’s sat propped up next to the door to his suite. The closer I get, the more I smell fumes. It’s sickly sweet, and oof, he’s got sticky-looking drool migrating in a slow stream from his mouth down the side of his chin.

The label on the half-empty bottle says Limoncello. “Aw, mate. The pain you’re about to feel is a unique suffering.” I hate to get in his face to wake him up. Something tells me Simon’ll be mortified, but there’s nothin for it.

The hall is dim with the storm shutters bolted tight from the inside. Maybe if I shed some light on the situation… Result!

Simon choke-snorts, then groans as he attempts to shift away from the source of light. So the – oof, they stick – shutters at the far end of the hall are open. Result again.

He mumble-whines. “Mmmfm mmmmbnnnaway.” Then there’s groaning, as if the sound of his own voice is too offensive to bear. Then growling and groaning. Until I finally hear some English I recognize. “Ow? Owwwwwwww. Nooooooo. Make it ugly again. n’Go away.”

“Make it ugly?”

“Dark. Too pretty. Hate it.” Followed by whimpering.

“How can something be too pretty?” I mumble under my breath.

“Just can.” Then he tries to roll his head toward the sound of my voice and fails. “Owwwwww?”

Probably needs a hand up. Leaning down, I can see his pulse pounding in his temple. I’d take the pain away if I could, mate. I would if I could. “Let’s get ye to bed, get ye down for a kip, mate. It’ll make you feel better, promise.”

“s’Too pretty in there. Don’t want pretty. You’re too pretty, go’way.”

I can’t help snorting.

“Said go’way.”

“Sorry, mate. Not happenin. Anyway, I can shutter the windows in there to keep it dark. The bed’ll be more comfortable for yeh to sleep it off than this floor, at any rate.”

“Don’t wanna be comfortable.”

Hm. “Here, man. Take my arm. We’ll get you sorted.”

“Go’way!” he shouts, then clutches his head and whimpers. “n’Stop being so nice. s’Disgusting. Don’like it. Don’like you. Go’way.”

“Yer lucky I’m pretendin to be hard of hearin, or I’d go ahead and leave ye here. Now take my arm and-”

“Stop it!” He tries slapping my hands away. And misses.

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.

“Can do it myself,” he demands. But no, he really can’t. He gives standing a go, and all he manages is a high pitched sob.

“Aw, man. Go on, lemme help yeh.”

Apparently there is a threshold of stupidity with Simon Lewis, thank Christ. He holds out his arm.

But before he takes my hand, he squints up at me. “Never speak of this,” he says with deadly seriousness. “Never happened.”

As I shutter the windows and draw the curtains, he shuffles into bed, fully clothed. “Gross. Why am I sticky?”

“Aw, mate. Ye don’t want to be sleepin in those clothes. I promise yeh, mate. You get your kit off, and I’ll fetch you a wet cloth.” I hold up my hand to stop the inevitable complaints and refusals. “Enough whingeing, man, just do it.”

I come back from the bathroom to find a pile of clothes on the floor, and Simon snoring away with the sheet stuck to his face. It would be endearing if he wasn’t such a feckin pain in my arse.

————/-/————

Simon’s been silently staring out the window for 45 minutes. But not out the window with the gorgeous view. He’s staring at the rock cliff face blurring past too fast to see much of anything.

I want to reassure him that everything will be alright. But it’s not my place, and he’s not for hearin it, anyway.

And what if it isn’t alright.

I try to just leave it be, but I can’t help myself. “You alright man?”

“Why.”

“You’re usually a lot gobbier than this. I’m worried about yeh.”

“Italy was a bad idea.”

“Italy is never a bad idea.”

“Says the man not living my life.”

He’s got me there. “Ok.

As I’m pulling his bags out the boot, I feel like I can’t leave it like this. I don’t know why. It’s just unsettling seeing someone in pain like this, and not bein able to help. I wasn’t lyin -- I’m worried about him.

“Thanks, Beelee,” he says, holding out his hand.

We shake, and before I give him his hand back, I find myself saying, “Text me in 6 months and let me know you’re alive, yeah?”

He huffs out a breath and looks at me. After a moment he shifts uncomfortably, and finally says, “Yeah.”

I’ve no idea why I feel so relieved. “What’s yer number, I’ll text yeh.” Shocked be fuckin I when he gives it to me.

“Thanks, Billy. You’re a good guy. Appreciate you.” And then he’s gone.

————/-/—————

Start: January Ch. 1 || Prev: February Ch. 2 || Next: April Ch. 4

————/-/—————

[ckret2]

Chapter 90 of human Bill Cipher and the Mystery Shack having entered an uneasy alliance against their shared enemy: the government. Agent Powers begins to suspect his date "Goldie" is hiding something; but it's impossible to tell who to trust when the rest of the town is hiding something too.

Boy is the town ever hiding something.

A lot of somethings, as it turns out.

(There's a code in this chapter! If you're not an eager code-cracker, don't stress about figuring it out, the solution's given later in the chapter. If you are an eager code-cracker, you oughta solve it first before you read the rest of the chapter.)

####

Powers usually woke up before his alarm; but today, the alarm dragged him out of a dream to blink blearily at the thin predawn glow filtering through the thin motel curtain. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about. Something about triangles that glowed like the rising dawn.

The bed seemed bigger than it had the night before. Colder. He was suddenly acutely aware of how lonely his life was.

The motel room didn't have a coffeemaker or microwave. He remembered being frustrated by that oddity in another local motel last summer. Strange how he could remember details like that, but so little else about last summer's investigation. He'd get something at the police department.

He cleaned up, dressed, put his case file in his briefcase, and headed out.

####

"You're an early riser, Agent Powers," Sheriff Blubs observed. "Still on Washington time?"

"Washington is in the same time zone as Oregon," Powers said. "I rise with the sun. Keeps my circadian rhythm regular, keeps me sharp on the job."

"I meant..." Blubs petered out, shrugged, and sipped his coffee.

The police department's coffee was bad, but got the job done. The food on hand appeared to be slightly stale bagels and very fresh donuts. Powers would have to get a proper breakfast later.

"Find what you were looking for at the Mystery Shack?" Blubs asked.

"No," Powers sighed. But, admittedly, he'd been distracted. "But we're not done there yet. We're expecting more specialized equipment from HQ."

Blubs nodded. "Always something going on there," he muttered. "Think you'll arrest Stan Pines again?"

"Hm. According to Mr. Ramirez, he's out of town."

"Huh! Is he?"

"Allegedly. Traveling the world with..." He trailed off, fully registering what Blubs had said. "Sorry—'again'?"

"Like when you brought him in to interrogate last year?" Blubs said. "I assumed nothing came of it, since you let him go without any charges."

He had no recollection of arresting Stan Pines last year. He had no recollection of arresting anyone. He didn't even have the authority to make arrests unless he had reasonable grounds to suspect someone had committed a federal felony. And yet, something about the claim itched at the edge of his brain, like trying to remember what had triggered a case of déjà vu.

The sheriff and his deputy had been Powers's liaison with local law enforcement last summer. They'd been friendly and helpful through the whole investigation. If anybody might know what had happened and be willing to help...

He turned to Blubs. "Sheriff Blubs, did anything that you might call... unusual happen last summer?"

Suddenly Blubs couldn't meet Powers's gaze. "Well uh—never mind all that." (Déjà vu prickled at the back of Powers's mind again. Hadn't Blubs said something like that a few days ago?) Blubs took a deep sip of his coffee. "Say, do you like those donuts? Durland makes 'em!"

"Does he."

"Best donuts in Gravity Falls, if you ask me! I'm trying to watch my weight, but, hoo. Just can't resist his donuts."

Powers almost tried to push Blubs back toward his original question, but...

Have you asked anyone if anything weird happened here last summer? Try it. They act like they didn't even hear you. It's strange.

... maybe not.

####

A steady beeping interrupted Dale's sleep. He slapped his alarm clock, hit something flat and glassy instead, and opened his eyes to see what it was. He was in the car with Trigger, who was also asleep; had they both nodded off?

Last night's memories came rushing back. The old lady. They must have fallen asleep because of the coffee!

She must have used decaf.

Dale blinked at his tablet to see why it was beeping.

"Oh!" He swatted Trigger's shoulder. "Trigger!"

"Mrgh?"

"I've got the missing flash drive's signal again!"

"What?" Trigger sat bolt upright. "Where is it?"

"It's..." Dale frowned. "Ten feet in front of us?"

They looked out the windshield.

A goat, chewing a branchful of leaves, stared at them.

They exchanged a look, then scrambled out of the car. Trigger shouted, "Hey!"

The goat startled and galloped for the woods.

"Stop! Halt! Come back here!" Trigger ran after it.

Dale started to follow, turned around and jogged back to the car, retrieved his keys and phone, locked the car, and then sprinted to catch up.

####

Powers's phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered, "Hello?"

"Hey!" Dale's voice sounded breathless. "We'll be in a bit late! We're in hot pursuit of the flash drive!"

"Excellent," Powers said. "'In hot pursuit'?"

"I think a goat ate it!"

Faintly over the phone, Trigger's voice said, "Which way'd it go?"

"Uh... left, go left!"  To Powers, Dale said, "By the way—thought you should know, we saw Goldie come to the Mystery Shack around one in the morning last night."

Powers's stomach flipped. That was after he'd dropped her off. "What? Why?"

"Don't know. Just thought you'd want to hear."

Baffled, he said, "Thank you. Keep me updated," and ended the call.

"Hey there, lover boy!" Durland elbowed Powers, startling him. He waggling his eyebrows. "Lazy Susan says yooou had a little date last night!"

Powers felt the back of his neck heat up. Gossip traveled fast in a small town. "Er—yes." Not very professional of him, but. "Someone I met in town a couple of days ago named Goldie." (What had she been doing at the Mystery Shack so late?)

"Oh, Goldie!" Blubs said. "Well! He's just a delight."

Powers gave him a quizzical look. He? "We... might be thinking of different Goldies."

Durland said, "Short brown gal? Big yellow hair and a gold tooth?"

A memory from dinner flashed through his mind's eye: a loose golden curl that had come loose and dangled softly in front of her eye; her gold tooth peeking out as she smirked like she knew something no one else did. His stomach flipped. "I... yes, that's her."

"Yeah, we know 'er! We're in the club for—"

"We're in a social club," Blubs cut in. "H—shhe's been looking to get out and meet new folks, I'm glad she ran into you."

A club? Why would a tourist join a club in town? "Is she... local? I was given to understand... well, I suppose I assumed she was a tourist." She'd talked like an outsider. Like it was her and Powers against the rest of this strange town. But then, she'd also talked like she knew this town well.

"Oh, she's an out of towner, but she's staying over at the Mystery Shack for a while. Old colleague of Stanford's, I think," Durland said. He looked at Blubs. "How long is she staying, did she say? Was it for the summer?"

"Could be. I don't think she's mentioned," Blubs said. "That place really fills up in the summertime."

Why hadn't she said anything? 

If she was Stan's colleague, why hadn't he turned her up during their investigation into Stanford Pines's background? (Why had he investigated Stan Pines? He tried to remember.)

Why had she had him drop her off somewhere else, so far from the shack?

What was she hiding?

When Blubs stepped out of the room, Powers turned to Durland and said, voice low, "I need to ask you something. It's important."

"Sure! What is it?"

"Has there been anything... odd happening in town?" he asked. "Possibly paranormal in nature? Maybe involving the Mystery Shack?"

Durland's face immediately closed off. "Oh! Ohhh. Uh—never mind all that. Hey, Bluuubs?" He hurried from the room. "Do you need some, uh—help with the paperwork?"

Powers's eyes narrowed.

He flipped open his case file to skim while he waited for an update from his men—and a jolt shot up his back. There were only three pages in the folder. Where was the rest of it? He checked his briefcase, then rushed outside to check his car. He'd let Goldie read the file; had she...? No. He didn't want to think so.

He drove back to the hotel.

####

As soon as he unlocked the door, he saw a disheveled pile of papers lying on the dresser. He sighed in relief. They must have slid out of his file before he put it in his briefcase. He'd been distracted that morning. Careless of him. (He always seemed to be strangely careless in this town.) He put the papers back where they belonged, shut his briefcase again, and turned toward the door.

There was a rumpled paper on the floor with bright red writing on it.

He picked it up. A short message had been written with a thick marker, the large letters filling the page: "STOP DIGGING UNLESS YOU WANT TO LOSE ANOTHER AGENT."

Another agent?

Powers called Dale, tapping his foot anxiously until he picked up. "Dale! Are you alright?"

"As... as well as I can be, sir." He was breathing heavily. "A little winded. That goat's nimble—"

"What about Trigger? Is he still there?"

"Uh...? Yeah, he's nearby."

"Are you sure?" Powers demanded. "100% sure?"

"H... hold on." A few seconds of panting, and then he said, "Yessir, right here. I've got him by the hand." (Powers heard Trigger quietly ask, "What are we?")

"Good. Have either of you seen anything suspicious, anything at all?"

Trigger leaned closer to the phone to say, "I believe I saw a gnome, sir."

"I didn't see it," Dale added.

"He had a pointy red hat," Trigger reported gravely. "I could have punted him."

Didn't sound like something capable of vanishing a federal agent. "Very well. Watch each other's backs closely," Powers said. "And let me know if anything happens."

Dale said, "You got it, sir."

He hung up and studied the message again. He flipped it over; on the other side of the paper was a flier, prominently headed "Gravity Falls MUSEUM," with a calendar of activities from May. (Apparently, on Wednesdays children could try "gravel panning.") Somebody had scrawled a message on the paper in pen:

TYQ FOP

DYEIGNQL LS FAOE LLY BZYMQUFUW LYVQ DIGQ VQRIJI SAG AG LIYQ

OFWYQ KIM RYJF QWIE

Gibberish. And nobody in his team knew how to crack ciphers...

But he knew somebody in town who did.

He hesitated for just a moment; then dialed the number Goldie had given him last night.

####

Just around the corner of the motel, Stan was pressed to the wall, catching his breath. That had been a close call. He'd arrived at the motel after Agent Powers had left for the morning, picked the door lock, returned the highly classified documents Bill had pilfered, and dropped in the threatening letter Mabel had written; but he'd only barely gotten back out before Powers pulled into the parking lot. He hadn't expected Powers to return nearly so soon. (He half wondered if Bill had planned it that way. He seemed like the kind of con artist who would work throwing a partner-in-crime under the bus into his plan.)

He tiptoed past Powers's door, then ran down the block for his car.

####

Bill was dragged from sleep by the feeling of his burner phone buzzing under the couch cushion. Not already. He'd barely gotten to sleep. He'd only just started his second REM cycle. He groaned, yawned, picked it up, and tried to sound perkier than he felt. "Yello?" He stifled another yawn. "What? No, no, I'm up. Been awake for hours. 

It was the call he'd been expecting. He sat up, suddenly much more awake, grinning broadly. Right into his trap. So far so good. He stretched, only half listening while Powers explained the situation. "A cipher? Yeah, sure, no problem." He grabbed a skirt and tank top, "If it's that urgent, I think I can clear my schedule! Meet you at Greasy's?"

He stuffed foundation and mascara into his umbrella, thumped down the stairs—nearly tripped in his haste—and thudded on Soos's door as he passed. "It's showtime!"

####

When Powers arrived, Goldie was already outside the diner, leaning by the door. (Had she come from the Mystery Shack?) As soon as he was out of his car, she called, "Hey, Bermuda! Making me wait for you?"

"I got here as soon as I could."

She was less made up than last night, and he realized with a sudden burst of warmth that yesterday she must have gotten gussied up for him.

His attention caught on one of her earrings as it reflected the sun into his eyes. Odd; she was wearing the same aqua green triangular earrings she'd worn yesterday—one had a gold star on it—but he hadn't noticed there was a bright gold eye painted on the other triangle. Surely he'd just missed it, though; why would it have gained an eye between last night and today?

Now that he'd noticed it, it was a reassuring sight. He saw that symbol everywhere back in Washington: over opera houses, on the gates of graveyards—even on the ceiling of the Bureau of Covert Investigations' lobby, surrounded by rays of brassy gold. When the BCI first formed, the All-Seeing Eye had been part of its logo—before the Department of Cover-Ups had hastily passed down an order to change it to their current eagle-and-magnifying-glass logo, and then covered up the order. But it hadn't been worth it to renovate the old art deco building's decor, and the Eye of God still benevolently watched over the agents.

As Powers opened the door for Goldie, he asked, "Did you call me 'Bermuda'?"

"I'm dropping a hint! I think you'd look nice in Bermuda shorts."

"O-oh."

She flashed him a brilliant smile as she swept past. "When's the last time you took a vacation, anyway? The beach in town's a lot nicer without a suit on."

In spite of everything he'd heard this morning—it was a relief to see Goldie again.

He could ask about the shack later.

Every booth and half the counter were filled up; they were seated at the end of the counter. Powers sat between Goldie and the crowd, trying as much as he could to shield their conversation from eavesdroppers. "Busier at breakfast than dinner."

"Oh, yeah, Greasy's is the hottest coffee spot in town."

"Is it that good?"

"Dunno. I prefer tea," Goldie said. "It's got more to do with the celebrity endorsement than the coffee itself. Fiddleford McGucket used to hang out here, chain drinking coffee pots. Now everyone wants to get coffee where the great inventor McGucket used to—but now that he's made it big, he doesn't come here himself anymore." She scoffed. "Doesn't that figure!"

"Ah, yes. McGucket." He'd been surprised to see that name in the news. "When I was in town last year, I heard a great deal about a local homeless man who squatted in the junkyard—an 'Old Man' McGucket. A relation of Fiddleford, or...?"

"That's the same guy."

"Huh. The man the locals described didn't sound like a genius inventor."

"He wasn't. A year ago, as far as anybody in town knew, he was just the village idiot." Goldie shrugged. "And all the sudden, the Northwests lose all their money in some kind of fraud deal nobody can make sense of, and now he's living in Northwest Manor!" She let out a disbelieving huff, and Powers was sure he detected skepticism in the cock of her brow. "I guess you can never tell, can you?"

He studied Goldie's face—so beautiful, so intelligent, smiling at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the world. Hiding just how close she was to this town. Pretending she had nothing to do with the Mystery Shack. "I suppose you can't."

Once they'd ordered breakfast, Powers showed Goldie the threatening letter and the note on it. She studied the code critically. "It's not a simple substitution cipher," she muttered. "It can't be anything complex, not if they're just scrawling it on a museum handout and throwing it away like trash. Maybe Vigenère—you need to know a code word for that one. Either they have a standard code word we'll never guess; or, they made it something simple that the recipient would know to look for... Got a pencil?"

Powers fished around in his briefcase for a pencil and handed it over. Goldie pointed at the flier's heading—"Gravity Falls MUSEUM"—underlined the word "MUSEUM," which was larger than anything else on the page, and muttered, "Worth a shot." She drew a complicated grid lettered A to Z along the top and left sides, crossed with vertical lines and horizontal lines and diagonal lines, then wrote the word MUSEUM over and over above each letter in the encrypted text—MUS EUM MUSEUMMU... She tried to explain how the cipher worked as she set up her grid. It flew over Powers's head.

"Now let's hope I grabbed the right word." She started out needing to trace the grid to find each letter, but the farther she got in the message the less often she had to look at it, until she'd translated the whole thing:

HEY BUD

REMEMBER TO LOCK THE PNEUMATIC TUBE ROOM BEFORE YOU GO HOME

UNSEE YOU NEXT WEEK

She pushed the paper over to Powers—"It's not a lot to go on."—and dug into the omelet that had arrived while she was translating. "What does 'unsee' mean?"

"I have no idea." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It looks like somebody wrote on a scrap paper they had on hand."

"That's not much help," Goldie lamented. "Anybody who's visited the museum since May could've grabbed this calendar—and whoever grabbed it first wrote a note on it and passed it to somebody else. Anyone could have sent this to you." She gestured at the paper. "Maybe you guys can dust it for prints?"

"That takes longer than most people think. And we've both touched it now."

He reread the message. Pneumatic tube room...

Slowly, he said, "I think the museum has pneumatic tubes. I remember seeing them last year."

"Did you?" Goldie's brows shot up. "Huh. Isn't that convenient."

"It is." There couldn't be many other places in town with pneumatic tubes. Maybe the post office, but he doubted it. "This may have been written from one museum employee to another. That would narrow down the suspects..."

"Mind if I come along?" Goldie asked.

Powers gave her a puzzled look. "To?"

"The museum! I don't think I've ever been to the museum! You've got to investigate it, right?" She grinned crookedly. "You know how much I love to see you at work."

Powers tried to ignore the flush creeping up his neck. "I can't allow that. If whoever sent this threat is there, this could be dangerous. I don't want you in harm's way."

The cheeky grin slid off her face. Seriously, she said, "Then that's exactly why you need me. You don't expect me to let you walk in there without any backup, do you?"

She had a point. If Dale hadn't called him yet, he and Trigger were still pursuing the goat. He wasn't sure he could trust the police here.

He wasn't sure he could trust Goldie, either.

But she was willing to admit there was something strange in this town when nobody else was. He wanted to trust her.

And she was right. He did need backup. "Okay; but I want you to stay near the exit." He took out his phone and texted Dale's number to Goldie. "And if anything happens—get help."

####

Goldie promised to stay upstairs, looking at the exhibits; and Powers followed the pneumatic tubes to a staircase, down into the basement...

...and through an immense wooden double door, flanked by lit braziers and framed in an arch of stones, which had a carving depicting two hands cradling an eye that had been X'ed out with blood red spray paint.

Which was a weird thing to find under the museum in a town with barely 5,000 people.

He'd heard rumors about a secret society in the Pacific Northwest whose symbol was an eye with a red X through it—one of the rare secret societies that actually managed to keep its secrets. Was this...?

He eyed the lit braziers nervously—had somebody been here recently?—but closer inspection revealed the flame was actually fueled by gas. Perhaps they were always lit. Dangerous, in a museum filled with old, dry papers and fibers; he began to wonder whether the museum was a mere extension of whatever this was, and not the other way around.

He pushed through the door.

Stone subterranean chamber, more lit braziers, a life size wood carving of a robed man with outstretched arms and a crossed-out eye on his chest standing in front of what looked like a shrine. Powers wasn't one given to flights of fancy, but if he were asked to imagine where an evil secret cult might meet, he'd be hard pressed to think of anywhere more perfect than this. All it was missing was a stone table for human sacrifices.

And the room was filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of pneumatic tube canisters.

He picked a few up. All of them had names written on them, a few labeled "(VISITOR)" or "(TOURIST)", most followed by the word "MEMORIES". He recognized a couple names from his investigation in town. He tried to pry one open and couldn't. What was in these things?

He found a filing cabinet near the carving, with a paper taped on top that read, "TOP SECRET! Do NOT open unless you're permitted to see the Society of the Blind Eye's secrets! (That means NOT YOU, Jeffrey!)" Ah, well—eye with an X through it, they would be called the Blind Eye, wouldn't they.

Powers pulled open the top drawer. There were only a couple of files in this one: one contained what looked like a list, again written in code; the other held what looked like blueprints to some sort of weapon called a "Memory Gun"—and if the notes on its usage and repair in the following pages were anything to go by, the Blind Eye had one of these things and was using it regularly.

As he flipped through the blueprints, a browned, square piece of paper slipped out of the folder and fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It looked faded and aged, smelled like coffee, and was criss-crossed by diamond creases. Jumbles of incomplete diagrams and letters covered the paper.

As he turned around, a light caught his eye—not the yellow-red flicker of the braziers but a sickly digital glow. There was a computer monitor against the wall, its screen black but for a glowing green X'ed out eye. It sat atop a box labeled "↓INSERT↓"; the label pointed toward a pneumatic tube canister half-slottered into what looked like an oversized battery holder.

Powers scanned the room to make sure he was still alone; then pushed the canister fully into the holder.

It clicked and locked in. The green eye disappeared. The screen displayed a slender woman in her late thirties with coppery hair and a couple of figures in red robes partially visible in the shadows behind her. Metal cuffs bit into the sleeves of her well-worn flannel shirt, pinning her arms to a heavy chair; as she struggled to free herself, a camera swung from a strap around her neck, but somehow Powers doubted she was a sightseeing tourist. She snarled at the video camera recording her, "Where am I?! What do you think you're doing?! If you don't let me go, I swear I'll strangle you with your own stupid red bathrobes—"

An unseen person with a deep voice and a vaguely British accent said, "Be calm. Cooperate and this will all be over soon."

"Like hell am I cooperating! Let me go!" She shrieked at the top of her lungs, "HEEELP—"

One of the robed figures behind her stepped forward and clapped a large, meaty hand over her mouth. The deep voice said, "All we want is for you to tell us one thing: what is it that you have seen?"

The meaty hand tentatively uncovered her mouth so she could reply, then jerked out of the way when she tried to bite him. She snapped, "Nothing! I haven't seen a single stupid thing! You dragged me in with a bag over my head—"

"Did you not run into town, screaming in fear, claiming you were being chased by... some tall, faceless monster?"

"I—What? What does that have to do with—?" Her eyes widened. "What are you, the monster's cult?"

"Quite the opposite." The recording camera moved closer to the woman's face. Someone else snatched the woman's camera away by the neck strap. "Just be calm, think of that faceless monster... and in a moment, you'll never think of it again."

"What do you mean?" The rage slowly drained out of the woman's face, leaving only fear behind as she stared directly into the camera's lens. "What does that thing—? Don't! Don't—"

The recording ended. Static snow filled the screen. What in the world had Powers just watched?

He removed the canister from the slot and the screen went black. The label on the canister read "MRS. CORDUROY MEMORIES". He knew about the Corduroys; the eldest daughter worked for the Mystery Shack.

He had a report on Raina Corduroy's 2009 disappearance in his folder.

There was a date written on the tube canister. It was three days before her disappearance.

Goldie had told him Dan Corduroy was scared of something in the trees.

He flipped open the folder on the Memory Gun; held the canister up against a similar-looking part of the blueprints labeled "MEMORY CANISTER"; and read the other labels on the blueprints: "ELECTRIC TAPE (STORES MEMORIES)," "MEMORY SPECIFIER," "RADIATION BULB (DISASSEMBLES NEUROLOGICAL PATHWAYS)"...

And in a moment, you'll never think of it again.

It couldn't be possible.

He grabbed another memory canister laying on the right corner of the console. "MR. AND MRS. GLEEFUL MEMORIES." He'd visited a Gleeful Auto Mart just a few days ago.

He popped it into place. The screen lit up.

A woman with gray-streaked dusty brown hair sat on a plush pink sofa, sobbing into a tissue and struggling not to hyperventilate. A man—it was the Mr. Gleeful from Gleeful Auto Mart—wrapped an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. The angle was low, aimed at their knees, as though the camera had been left on a coffee table.

"It was awful," Mrs. Gleeful sobbed, "he was—he was lifting things and—throwing them around like some kind of poltergeist, or—or a demon— I've never seen my little Giddy that furious before, I've never seen anyone that furious before..." She grabbed a fresh tissue. "He's—he's got some sort of devil in him, we need to call a priest or a doctor or something—"

"Now, now, honey." Mr. Gleeful held her tighter and patted her arm. "You don't mean that. He's always been a mite tempestuous, you recall; and he's just practicing with those new powers of his—"

"Well I want those powers gone!" She pounded her fists on her bony knees. "Those powers and that awful book and—and—" She burst into heaving sobs again, flung an arm around her husband, and buried her head in his shoulder. "I just want my sweet little boy back."

Mr. Gleeful grimaced uncertainly and murmured, "I don't think I could get that book away from him if I tried." He picked up the camera—not a camera, Powers realized; the "memory gun" was designed to take recordings—and aimed it at himself and his wife. "Don't give yourself a headache crying, sweetheart; you won't worry about him anymore." He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "And I'm sure he'll make a better first impression on us with those powers next time."

For a second, she could only sob hitchingly into his shoulder; but then she asked, voice tiny, "Next time?"

Mr. Gleeful squeezed his eyes shut.

The recording ended.

Mr. Gleeful clearly knew what the memory gun did. He'd used it voluntarily. On a suspicion, Powers searched his wallet for the business card Mr. Gleeful had given him.

His name was Bud Gleeful. HEY BUD.

Goldie had sent him to Gleeful Auto.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Bud Gleeful was a mind wiping cultist and owned the best car dealership in the county. All the same—Powers turned so he could see the door from the corner of his eye, watching it warily, as he picked up the next canister.

It had Preston Northwest's name. He was one of the most important people in town. The patriarch of the richest family in Oregon—until last summer. Descendant of the town founder—allegedly. (Powers had gone undercover at last year's Northwest Fest and seen a few things that made him doubt the credibility of the Northwest family history—but nothing firm; and he couldn't very well interview that ghost now. Something shady was going on, but that wasn't his department.)

He clicked the canister into place. The screen lit up.

The memory gun turned back and forth as Preston paced back and forth in front of his manor's windows, delicately holding a narrow stemmed glass of what looked like bubbly white grape juice, but was probably much stronger. The deep vaguely British voice was back: "Would you explain what exactly it is you called on us for, Mr. Northwest?"

Fuming, Preston said, "Some... child dug up the truth about the town's founder—as well as the founder himself! This is unacceptable!"

"It certainly sounds traumatic," deep voice agreed. "Then you'd like us to... 'liberate' the child from the burden of this memory...?"

"No no no, you don't get it—the founder is still alive! Still alive! Just... running about out there!" He ran a hand through his $300 haircut. "I can't imagine how, he must be over two hundred years old, but—well, you know what this blasted town is like!"

"Intimately," deep voice said distastefully. "Then you want us to erase the child's knowledge that the founder is alive. And perhaps yours? You seem... distressed."

"Wh—?" Preston whirled around to stare at deep voice in outraged offense. "No, not me, you fool! I want you to find the founder, and make him forget his history! His whole life, if you have to!"

There was a pause. "That isn't how we operate, Mr. Northwest."

"I don't care!" Preston began pacing again, taking a deep drink from his definitely-not-grape-juice. "I could have you broken up in an instant if I wanted—nothing in this town runs without the Northwest Family's stamp of approval, and don't forget you're using the facility my grandmother commissioned—so if you want to keep operating, you operate how I say!"

There was a longer pause. The deep voice said, slowly, menacingly, "You really do seem very upset, knowing about this man running around in the woods. You really ought to forget all about him. And us."

"What?" Preston turned again; but this time, his eyes weren't on the speaker, but staring straight into the gun. "Oh no. You can't! You know you can't, how do you think you'll afford all your little custom canisters without my money?!"

"I don't think we'll need to worry about finances."

"Of course not," a clear female voice said. The gun swung around to frame Priscilla Northwest, standing in the doorway at the far end of the room. She said evenly, "As we discussed, I've arranged for your society to continue receiving its annual donation from the Northwests. You have nothing to fear."

Preston gaped at his wife in disbelief. He didn't even notice that the gun was slowly turning to aim at his head again. "Scilly? How do you know about— But— But why— How dare you—"

"You're too wound up over this," Priscilla said evenly. "You need to get it off your mind, darling. You're going to give yourself frown lines."

"Get it off my...?" His broken, dazed laugh was cut off sharply by the end of the recording.

Tape after tape of this. This was pretty obviously some sort of secret society that had been wiping people's memories around town—but to what end? What was the pattern? A woman who'd seen a monster, the parents of "child psychic" Gideon Gleeful (was he a real psychic?), the disgraced descendant of a fraud of a town founder... and if all of these recordings were like that, and if there were hundreds of recordings...

He looked down at the canisters scattered across the console—and spotted a fourth one. Name turned directly toward him, almost as though it wanted him to find it. "GOLDIE LOCKE (VISITOR)".

A chill ran down his spine.

He plugged it in.

Goldie was in the same chair where Mrs. Corduroy had been restrained—wearing a rumpled white button-up and an undone black tie, hair disheveled, teeth bared, one eye squeezed shut tight in pain, the other wide and furious. Her arms weren't strapped down like Mrs. Corduroy's had been; instead, they were wrenched behind her back. Apparently someone had restrained her first and then flung her into the chair.

She was already talking when the recording started: "—it doesn't matter what you do to me! Threaten me any way you want, I won't talk!"

"Talking is exactly what we don't want you to do, Ms. Locke." The deep voice was back, although sounding a little rougher than in the other recordings. (It was clear there had been a struggle; Powers hoped Goldie had broken his nose.) "And we'll make sure you never do."

Goldie flinched, both eyes opening. "You're going to...?"

"No, not that. We don't use such messy methods. It's enough to make sure you don't remember your current assignment—or anything that could lead you back to it."

"My team will be looking for me—"

"Your team won't remember you. We'll be dealing with them shortly." The gun lurched a foot closer to Goldie's face. She flinched again in fear. "I hope your life is flashing before your eyes, Ms. Locke! Because this is the last time you'll ever remember it!"

Her wide eyes got wider. “Wait—! No! Whoa-whoa-whoa wait wait stop STOP STOP—"

The recording ended.

Leaning on both hands over the console, Powers stared into the static snow with mute horror.

######

(Post-TBOB changes: added half the sentence "and don't forget you're using the facility my grandmother commissioned" to suggest it was Abigale Blackwing who built the big stone chambers under the museum. The rest of Preston's statement was the same, since I'd already decided the Northwests were bankrolling the Blind Eye—Abigale was just a bit of serendipity. And I think that's it? This chapter was impacted more by the official Gravity Falls coloring book than by TBOB.

PSA: this is the first chapter from Powers's POV, which means it's the first chapter that almost exclusively calls Bill "Goldie" and "she/her." So, a reminder: canon has exclusively called him "Bill" and "he/him" since 2013, and so do I except when I'm writing the POV of characters who don't know who Bill actually is. You, reader, know who Bill is.

I've had trouble in the past with commenters using the wrong name/pronouns for Bill just because he's been stuffed inside a body he does not identify with; so, don't let a chapter from a character who's wrong make the situation worse, please. Thanks.

Anyway!! We're shifting into conspiracy mode y'all. Wish Agent Powers luck. I'll be interested to hear y'all's theories on where Bill is going with all this; some parts of the hints/foreshadowing have been more overt than others.)

[spooky-activity]

That's the end of Chapter 2, folks.

First

Previous

[thoselovelythings]

[chrlvctius]

Happy 27th, my love 💗 you'll forever be my fav defender, ilysmmm!! you're the reason why i do well in my sport and you're my inspiration in everything:(⭐

you've inspired so many, ily.

[sillyfriendssharingablogjjkver]

Ladies and Gentlemen...Im proud to announce that...

BITTERSWEET CHAPTER 2 IS FINALLY OUT!!! RAHHHH!!!

GO READ IT NOOOOOOOOOW!!!!

[dammarchy211]

Hey Hey!

I’ve never like, posted or really finished any writing before. But! I’ve caved in to the brain worms and decided to post a lil post-game Courier six thing since it was starting to get! Pretty long!

It follows my wild card route courier, Gazer Valmorida, and co. pretty much directly after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. It is pretty courier/yes man centric, but other stuff will happen too I promise 🫶

Currently I only have it on toyhouse, but I’ll try to put it on ao3 at some point, but just not now on account of, ah, not having an account—

Hopefully the link works and everything published right pfhfk

I did a little cover thing since Toyhouse has the option but u can’t really see it well imo so double cover ig

[every-yumichika]

[how-to-t-u-m-b-l-r]

Chapter 3. Merry… *checks notes* Ides… of.. March?

A beginner’s guide to Tumblr holidays

These just happen sometimes:

DAY 15 GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 15

Thursday the 20th

The Fifth of Wednesday

Sometime in June: That One Halloween Post Starts Circulating

Sometime in July: Dancing Pumpkin Man Video/Gif

Every week these happen:

Every Monday: El Muchacho Monday

Every Tuesday: Tuesday Again? No Problem...

Every Wednesday: Wet Beast Wednesday

Every Thursday: Out of Touch Thursday

Every Friday: Flat Fuck Friday

Every Saturday: Don't @ Me, I'm Chilling/Caturday

Every Sunday: Fingers In His Ass Sunday

Every year these are holidays:

January 16: Appreciate a Dragon Day

January 29: Threshold Day

All of February: Funguary

February 14: Aromantic/Asexual Day

March 9: Miku Day

March 10: Mario Day

March 14: Pi Day

March 15: Ides of March

March 23: Ever Given Got Stuck Today

April 1: Mishapocalypse

April 2: Dashcon Announcement Anniversary

April 3: Dannypocalypse

April 8: Rex Manning Day

ALSO April 8: MARGARET THATCHER IS DEAD

April 13: Neil Banging Out The Tunes

ALSO April 13: Homestuck Day

April 20: haha 420 blaze it

April 25: The Perfect Date

April 28: Ed Balls Day

April 30: It's Gonna Be May

All of May: Mermay

May 3: Beginning of Dracula Daily

May 4: May the 4th Be With You

May 5: Revenge of the Fifth

May 25: The Glorious 25th of May

All of June: Pride Month

ALSO All of June: IT'S HALLOWEEN TIME TO GET SPOOKY

June 5: Barricade Day

June 16: Let Papyrus Say Fuck

July 20: Moon Landing

September 8: The Queen Is Dead and Sans Undertale Killed Her

September 21: DO YOU REMEMBER-

All of October: SKELETON WAR

ALSO All of October: Inktober

October 3: Mean Girls Day

ALSO October 3: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Day

October 20: Unnecessary Feelings Day

October 31: HALLOWEEN

November 5: honestly what didn't happen that day

November 19: Goncharov

All of December: Will the Gävle Goat Get Destroyed Again?

December 10: Please, It's Christmas

December 24: ALMOST CHRISTMAS MEANS IT WASN'T CHRISTMAS

More advice here!

[spookyxsprinkles]

🎨 Colour Theory, part 1: Horizon Line [oneshot]

(formerly known as "Perspective")

shimura tenko × poc friendly f!reader ft. todoroki touya.

-> safe for work // 4.8k words // AO3 // part 2. -> warnings: jealousy + some actions may be considered creepy. low self-esteem, shyness, a couple of very brief musical references, family member death mention.

summary: tenko goes to art school and gets a little crush on a musical theater major.

×X×

Horizon Line -- an actual or imaginary line in a work of art representing the point at which water or land seems to end and the sky begins.

×X×

Tenko had fallen asleep before the performance had even started.

He had long lost track of how long he'd been awake for. It was the end of his second semester in university and the prestigious art program he was in made sure to keep him busy with project after project. He was running out of steam. Honestly, he had been running on fumes for weeks now.

He'd rather be in his dorm finishing his assignments instead of sitting in one of the theaters in the performing arts building. If it wasn't a requirement for Fine Arts majors to attend other Fine Arts events, he would have never set foot in this place. The noise of the attendees filling the room and the orchestra tuning their instruments in the pit was grating his sleep deprived nerves.

He grumbled and crossed his arms as someone took the seat beside him, his leg bouncing as he grabbed the program the usher had handed to him when he first entered. Tenko's bloodshot eyes were barely able to process anything more than The Phantom of the Opera on the front of the flimsy pamphlet, before shutting it and glaring at the scarlet curtains on the stage.

A few minutes later, the lights began to dim and he sighed in relief as the room quieted. He could finally catch some much needed sleep. He tried stretching his stiff legs in an attempt to loosen himself up and closed his eyes.

Only to open them at the sound of your voice singing to him on the stage.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in a while, please, promise me you'll try."

Tenko was mesmerized. Watching you on stage woke him up more than the energy drinks he'd been living off of all semester. He was absolutely immersed with your performance. He soaked in your every word and movement and before he knew it, two hours had gone by and the cast was being applauded as they bowed.

He sat in awe for a moment as the auditorium lights flicked on and he stood, shuffling through the crowd. He found a nice corner of the lobby behind a pillar as he and some other audience members waited. He skimmed through the program and found you. He whispered your name like a secret only he could ever know.

The cast slowly came out one by one and thanked the guests for coming. Tenko's eyes darted around impatiently. Finally, out came you in the white gown you wore in your final scene, looking like an angel that had come down to offer his sin-filled existence some respite.

You greeted and thanked the attendees as they praised you and handed you flowers. It was the final night of your musical and you were beaming. Tenko's fingers fidgeted at his sides as he yearned to get closer to you and experience your radiance himself.

A guest bowed and left, leaving an opening for him to approach. He took a step out from behind the pillar, but you turned at the sound of your voice coming from behind you. Tenko recognized the person as the man who played the Phantom and sighed when he saw you turn and leave the room.

When Tenko returned to his dorm, he searched your name online and found your social media. His night was spent watching your videos. He didn't realize how much time had passed until his alarm went off and he saw the sunlight peaking out from behind onyx curtains. It was time for him to get ready for class.

The semester had finished with him acing art and barely passing his core courses. It was winter break and with most students away, the campus was deserted. The thought of having no one to go home to didn't even cross his mind as he spent the break filling his sketchbooks with your image.

His second semester started off much better than the first one. His art had rapidly improved from how much he'd been practicing recently.

He found a spot he liked. It was a small outdoor table nestled between some trees on the southern campus dormitory area. The weather on this side of the country wasn't as cold as other prefectures would be in January, but there was still the occasional breeze that made his dry skin prickle up with goosebumps. It was the rain that was more likely to get him sick, although, since he was under the wide umbrella of the table, he found that unlikely and continued his sketch of you.

A week and a half later, he gulped down the last of his cold medication and slammed the container down in frustration. He leered at the harrowed reflection staring back at him on the dirty bathroom mirror. His eyes were heavy with deep bags, his skin a sickly colour, and his black hair hadn't been brushed in 2 or 3 days. He let out a sigh.

×X×

He found another spot he liked, safe from the chilling late January rain. It was in the performing arts building, in a seating area by the entrance. The art program may have been the school's top program, but the grand architecture and romantic interior design of the performing arts building clearly showed it also wasn't anything to scoff at, despite being was a few stories shorter than the building across the quad that Tenko was more familiar with. It was much noisier here, too.

Tenko had his earbuds in as he slouched on the upholstered chair, sketching, when he noticed a familiar form in the corner of his eye.

It was someone he recognized as your frequent scene partner that you seemed to be joined at the hip with, if your social media was anything to go by. Tenko felt a spark of excitement bubbling inside of him and he looked around hoping to see you, but your face was not among the crowd of students. His hope deflated to disappointment and he scratched the side of his neck. You were likely already in class.

It was ten minutes into the hour when Tenko decided to leave. He gathered his things and carried his sketchbook in his arms as he stood and walked away from the seating area.

He tripped over his feet and bumped into someone, his sketchbook flying out of his grasp.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry!!"

It was you.

Your sweet voice was full of apology as you bent down to grab his sketchbook for him. He watched in awe at how swiftly you moved. He was at a loss for words. Your fingers froze over the edge and Tenko realized what page it had landed open on.

"Is that... me?"

Your voice sounded so pretty, even when you were confused. He felt his face burning as you grabbed the sketchbook and stood. Your eyes stared down at the sketch of you he had just done while in the seating area, when he was itching to catch a glimpse of the top of your head through the crowd.

You were so close now and it was going to kill him.

"This is from my Jekyll and Hyde audition in Spring 2220, right? Back when I was trying to get the role of Lisa. I can't believe it's already been three years since then..."

You were so close now and he knew you'd think he was a creep for watching your old videos and bumping into you. You probably thought he had it all planned out, like some sort of stalker.

"Is it okay if I flip through..?"

His brain was screaming at him to say 'no, give it back' but his head nodded, unable to deny you of anything you wanted from him. Yes, there were sketches of you without any clothes on and he was well aware of how that would look, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He would rip out his heart for you to use as a hand warmer, if you asked.

He watched with a gut wrenching mix of horror and delight as you flipped through and took your time to study every page. Drawing had always come easily for him, with hands being his favourite body part to draw. Expressions were a bit more difficult for him to feel satisfied by so he preferred to leave faces blank or smudged out. With you, he actually put in the effort to capture your expressions.

He could see your eyes carefully observe every stroke he had made and take in the details. The furrow in your brow as you focused had him contemplating whether or not he wanted to reach his hand over to your face and smooth it out or leave it perfect the way it was.

You hand him the sketchbook and he snaps out of his thoughts.

"Huh?" He had been too in his head to hear what you had said.

"Thank you, I've never had someone draw me before. It feels really nice." You say with a soft laugh.

The sound made his skin itch and the tips of his fingers tingle with electricity. He clutched his sketchbook tight enough to pale his knuckles. His nails dug into the material as he barely remembers to stop staring and nod as you offer him praise and he feels dizzy. You were so nice. Why were you so nice? To him? He wanted to speak but he couldn't decide on what to say.

"I gotta go. I'm super late to practice and my partner's going to be on my ass about it." You sighed. You wave goodbye and disappear down the hallway.

He was also a bit late to class. His figure drawing professor shot him a judgmental look as he entered the room. Tenko couldn't bring himself to care.

You knew he existed.

×X×

The weather was nice and Tenko was sketching at the outdoor table, when someone sat across from him. He looked up and saw you with an ice cream cone.

"I knew you looked familiar! You're the person that's always out here working on something."

He felt his face heating up as you took a lick of your ice cream. You were so forward. He didn't expect you to approach him again. He had chalked the positive end of your last conversation up to politeness.

"I guess you've been drawing this whole time, huh? Mystery solved. Also explains why you're so good at drawing."

"Thanks to your performances," Tenko says without thinking. He immediately panics at how creepy he sounded.

"Oh, is that why you draw me? I thought it was the outfits since the costume department goes all out. Huh, interesting."

You continue licking your ice cream while watching him and he has to look away. He felt so shy in your presence. He didn't feel worthy of your attention. You were so soft, so pretty, so talented and he was just a creep with a crush that couldn't stop himself from sketching you constantly.

He looks down at his hands as he stumbles through his nerves when he explains how watching you had helped him with movement, making his art more fluid and dynamic. When he finishes, he looks up and sees you smiling at him. The sight made his breathing hitch and he rasped out a small, "What..?"

Were you making fun of him? Is that what this was? Were you actually just here to--

"I could do some reference work for you, if you'd like?"

His eyes widened and he could feel his face heating, the corners of his lips tugging. He didn't know how to speak without making a fool of himself and he was thankful you kept talking. He was happy to sit quietly and watch you.

"We could schedule private sessions, that way it can be just the two of us without anyone interrupting."

"What?" Questioned a third, deeper voice.

The two of you look up and see your partner staring down at you while holding an ice cream cone of his own. "What kinda weird shit you getting into now?"

Your brows furrowed. "Hm? What do you mean?"

"Your wording sucks."

You took a moment to think about it and became flustered. "I didn't mean anything strange," you assured Tenko.

"Sure, pervert."

"Anyways, this is my new friend, uh..." you look over at him sheepishly, "Sorry, what's your name?"

"Shimura Tenko..." His fingers fiddle with the corner of his paper.

"Can I call you Tenko? Or is that too familiar?"

Tenko's face heated up, "Th-That's fine..."

You nod enthusiastically before looking back up at your partner. "This is my new friend Tenko. They're the artist I was telling you about!"

"Oh, so you're the creep who draws her naked."

"I-It's art..!" You defended.

"S'weird, but whatever." The man seemed bored as he licked his ice cream and took a seat in the chair beside her. "Todoroki Touya. She's like a leech so you're stuck with her now. My condolences."

You nod as you take a lick of your ice cream, "We are now bonded for life."

Tenko awkwardly looks between the two of them, unsure of what to say. The two performers end up in a conversation and he can tell you were trying to include him so that he didn't feel left out. After some bickering, Touya takes a bite out of your ice cream.

"How can you just bite it like that!? Doesn't it hurt your teeth!?"

He shrugs, "The cold never bothered me."

You hum a song from a children's movie as you pull out your phone and hand it to Tenko, asking him to insert his Line I.D. because you want to friend him. He looks between you and Touya, crimson eyes glancing at the arm the other man was lazily resting on the back of your chair.

"Is that okay..?"

You tilt your head in confusion, reminding him of a puppy. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Tenko looks from your kind eyes over to the man beside you whose turquoise pair that seemed to be blazing with fire. Tenko blinks and Touya's now impassive expression. Perhaps the dark look directed towards him was simply his mind playing tricks on him.

He typed in his username and you send him a friend request as soon as the phone is returned to you. You angle the phone above your head to take a selfie. Touya shoves his head into the frame, lazily sticking his pierced tongue out as he photobombed.

You notice the time and stand up in a hurry. "I still have that history paper due tonight and I haven't even started it yet! Bye guys!" You run off towards the student housing that happened to be across from the outdoor table, swiping your student I.D.

Tenko watched as you disappeared into the building before looking over at Touya who still sat at the table, only to find that the man was already staring at him. Tension thickened the air like smoke from a fire that made him feel almost suffocated. He opened his mouth to speak, but Touya merely scoffed at him. He finished his ice cream in a single bite and left. He watched as Touya swiped his student I.D., shooting the timid Tenko a cocky grin as he entered the same building as you.

Before he could think much of it, Tenko felt his phone vibrate and unlocked it to see you had sent him your class schedule so that you two could plan a time to meet up. He eagerly studied the photo and you sent him another photo. It was the selfie you took before you left.

"It was nice seeing you again, Tenko! Let's set up a day to hang out!! Here's a photo in case you forget who I am."

He could feel the heat rising from his neck to his ears.

You were too cute.

He could never forget you.

×X×

Over the next 3 weeks, Tenko lost track of the amount of times the two of you had hung out. Sometimes for drawing references, sometimes to eat at the dining hall, sometimes just for the hell of it. Your schedule was busier than his, so he was appreciative of the fact that you went out of your way to be with him. Especially on today, of all days.

You and Tenko sat on the floor, your backs against the mirror of the small practice room as he clutched the bag of chocolate cookies you had given him.

They were homemade, you said. You had baked them on your dorm floor's shared kitchen. They were in the shape of hearts, flowers, and there was even a bunny shaped. He didn't think he would ever forget the ache in his chest when you told him he reminded you of a bunny. The cookies had pink and red icing made with natural ingredients, which was why the palms of your hands were stained red from the beet juice. He licked his dry lips at the thought of you working hard. Just for him, too, because apparently Touya was a picky eater so you simply bought blue food colouring to use on his cookies. He swallowed anxiously as you continued speaking.

"I was hoping that maybe I'd get chocolates today."

"Isn't Valentine's Day when the girl gives the guy the chocolate..?"

You nod, "The norm is that girls give chocolates to guys on Valentine's Day then on White Day the guy can give the girl chocolates in response, but you never know! Girls can give girls chocolates, too. It happened to a friend of mine in high school, though it was the guy version of that. Anyways, why do Valentine's Day and White Day have to be gender specific? Just show the person you care about that you were thinking of them."

You sighed before continuing, "I've never gotten chocolates before. I know, it's kind of silly to whine about this, but I'm a bit of a hopeless romantic so can you blame me?" You laugh softly to yourself. "If Touya was here, he'd say yes and that it's my fault. He's always teasing me about these kinds of things." Tenko watches as you purse your lips deep in thought.

Tenko chewed his lip before quietly asking, "And Touya..? Won't he give you any on White Day?"

"Maybe, but it'll be different." You pull up your knees and hug them.

Your thighs were distracting and he struggled to keep his eyes off of them.

"The cookies I gave to Touya were obligatory chocolates, not the 'real feeling' kind you would give to someone you like. Last year, I gave Touya obligatory chocolates and he started complaining because he had already received too many sweets. I was so jealous. At least I managed to convince him to give me his chocolate."

Though he enjoyed snacks, Tenko didn't really care for the holiday. He never really had a reason to... until now.

"Tenko, have you ever gotten chocolates? I mean, other than the ones I just gave you?"

"No."

"So, I'm your first?"

He nodded, moving his head to stare down at the sketch in his lap. His fingers fiddled with the corner of the page, crumpling it more and more until it became limp from wrinkling. He had always found destroying things to be quite soothing for him.

"I..." Tenko was hesitant but decided if you were going to reject him, it was better if you did it sooner rather than later. "I used to live in an orphanage..."

In the corner of his eye, he can see you moving your head quickly to look at him. He tried to swallow his nerves as he continued speaking.

"My family died in an accident when I was five. I was sent to live with a distant relative since there was no one else and the situation was not... ideal. The kids at my new school picked up on my gloominess and shunned me. Even when my great uncle died, my presence would be deemed too unsettling to anyone that tried getting to know me."

He was too afraid to turn his head to look at you so he continued fiddling with the page, ruining more and more of it. You place your hand over his, calming the destruction.

"I used to live in an orphanage, too."

Tenko's eyes widened and he looked at you. "Are you... lying?" He whispered.

"My parents died in an accident when I was little. Wrong place, wrong time. I had no other family in Japan, so I got placed in a children's home."

His eyes scanned your face, looking for any sign of this being a trick but he could tell from the warm sincerity in your eyes that you were telling him the truth. "I don't know what to say."

You smile softly at him, "You don't have to say anything."

The feeling of your thumb rubbing circles against his thumb made Tenko's heart tremble. He wanted to swim in this feeling, to drown in your touch.

He watched your eyes glance down from his dark eyes to his lips, his breathing hitching in anticipation as you leaned in slowly to--

The practice room door opened, making the two of you flinch. Tenko missed the feeling of your hand as you leaned back and glared at the intruder.

"I thought I told you to knock before opening doors. You scared me." You folded your arms against your chest.

"I guess I won't give you my chocolates," Touya taunted as he walked over to you. He dropped his bag at the side of you Tenko wasn't on, making a loud 'thump' as it hit the wood floor.

"Chocolate!!"

Touya smirked as you opened it and pulled out a heart shaped cookie with the kanji for love written in icing.

"Whatever, eat later. We've got rehearsal."

You look up at Touya while stuffing your face before looking over at Tenko, then back at your partner. "Already? It's not for another twenty minutes."

Touya rolled his eyes and grabbed the bag before you could reach in for more sweets. "Early is on time, on time is late."

"Hey, that's what I tell you! Don't use those words against me, they sound weird coming from your mouth." You wipe your hands against a handkerchief before moving to stand up. "By that logic, you're always late."

Touya moved towards the door, beckoning you closer with the bag, "Here, doggy."

"Doggy..!?"

"If you spin around and bark I'll give you a treat."

The two of you could hear him laughing as he walked out of the room with the bag.

You pout, "That Touya... doesn't he know dogs can't eat chocolates?" You shake your head and Tenko stands, pulling his backpack on. "I guess I'll... see you later then?"

It felt kind of awkward now, but Tenko didn't mind that much. He only wished that your time together wasn't cut so short.

"Yeah..."

"Can't wait." You grin and walk out of the dance practice room together. You wave as you go down the opposite side of the hall to catch up with Touya. In the distance Tenko can hear you woof.

As Tenko exited the performing arts building, he felt his phone vibrate. He opened it and saw a selfie of you with chocolate smeared on the side of your face, while trying to shove Touya's face out of the frame and seemingly getting the chocolate on his face in the process.

He grinned. He also couldn't wait to see you again.

×X×

"Chocolate? For me?" You gaped at the small bag of chocolates.

Tenko nodded, his eyes shyly peering up at you as you grabbed the bag and opened it. "There's only four. I made more but they… got ruined…"

"They're handmade?" Your face softened at him, making his heart flutter and his fingers flex at his sides in excitement. You took a bite of one and grinned wide, covering your mouth with your hand as you spoke. "This is really good, Tenko. I didn't know you could cook."

Tenko couldn't but he wasn't going to ruin the moment by speaking. He watched as you ate. The two of you were sitting side by side at his favourite outdoor table near your dorm.

Last month, on Valentine's Day, the end of your conversation was a little awkward but thankfully it was gone the next time you guys saw each other. Once again, the two of you had hung out together a bunch of times. The biggest difference though was proximity. Tenko had noticed you getting closer and closer to him at every encounter.

"I finally received chocolates from someone. I'm really happy that it was you, Tenko."

He felt like he died and went to heaven. It would explain your presence. You just needed a halo.

"They're…"

Your eyes looking up from the bag made him nervous and he shook his head, deciding it was better if he didn't finish the sentence.

"They're what?" You ask, sensing his hesitation. "It's just me," you reassure.

"Just you..?" Just you? Just you?

You smile at him before looking down at the bag of chocolates with a pensive expression for a few moments. You look back up at him.

 "Tenko."

"…Yes?" His voice nearly broke. Did he go to far? Did he?

"Even if your hair is always in your face, you're pretty cute." You reach out and brush his hair to the side, tucking it behind his ear. The warmth of your finger tips were no match for the heat flaring across his entire body at your sweet gesture.

You giggle and slowly lean in to his face. He doesn't move. He is frozen. You place a kiss on his cheek and he panics, moving further away in his chair with his hand coming up to hover over the site of your affection.

"Y-You kissed me…"

"I-- I'm-- I'm sorry! I didn’t think you would be offended by it. Are you okay?"

"What about Touya!?"

You look at him with a puzzled expression. "What about Touya?"

"He's your boyfriend, isn't he!?"

"Huh!?" You sat up straight in your seat, eyes wide with shock. "I don't have a boyfriend??"

"What.!?"

"You mean --this whole time-- you thought Touya was my--" A laugh escaped your lips for a brief second until you collected yourself, looking at him seriously. "Touya's my best friend. I mean… I did like him at one point but it wasn't reciprocated. Not that it matters, that's old news. I like you, Tenko."

The air left his lungs and he was pretty sure it wasn't going to come back anytime soon.

You liked him?

You?

Liked him?

Shimura Tenko?

Was he dreaming? Hallucinating this entire conversation? It was the only way any of this made sense.

"Here, eat some of these chocolates with me. They're really yummy. The perfect mix of sweet and salty." You pluck one from the baggy and lift it towards his lips. He stares into your eyes then down at the chocolate.

"I'd rather you eat them…"

You pout, "Okay, I won't force you."

You nibble on the chocolate and Tenko licks his lips at the sight.

"What?" You half-laugh. His eyes snap back up to yours.

"I like you, too."

"You do?" You look at him shyly. "I guess now would be a good time to tell you those chocolate cookies I gave you last month were the 'real feeling' kind?"

You've liked him for that long?

Tenko couldn't control himself anymore and, without warning, he leans in and takes your lips into a kiss. It's clumsy and awkward just like him, but you don't shove him away.

He can taste the salty sweet on your tongue as you kiss him back and though he wants to keep going, his lungs protested. He pulls back and the two of you stare at each other as he gathers his bearings.

"Was that your first kiss?" You ask.

He offers a small nod, "It was that bad..?"

"It's okay, we'll have plenty of time to practice."

Surprise filled him. "You want to d-do it again?"

You giggle, "Of course I do. As long as you're alright with it…"

"Right now? We can do it again right now?" He knew he sounded eager but he couldn't bring himself to care. He needed to feel the softness of your lips against his own.

"I like your enthusiasm." You laugh. "Let's do it when it's just us, okay? We're in public. I'm sure we can schedule in some more uninterrupted private sessions, right, Tenko?" You teased lightly.

Tenko gulped, nodding since he didn't trust his voice at the moment.

You weren't disgusted by him, you wanted to kiss him. You wanted to be alone with him. You accepted him and all his faults.

You liked him.

Tenko, impatient as he was, could wait as long as you needed him to.

He loved you.

[toyybox]

Spiderwebs #54: Rose

Masterlist

content: disordered eating, hallucinations, animal testing, discussion of suicide

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

By morning, it had stopped raining. Jackie woke up with his head on a pillow again, covered by a blanket that blacked out the light. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. There was a sour taste in his mouth. 

He lifted his head. The blanket fell off. The sun shone from the kitchen window, bright and warm, but it was no longer enough to cheer him up.

As he sat upright, a sharp ache sparked in his left wrist. He tried to lift his hand, but he found that it was still in the handcuff. The other end of it was locked around one of the table legs. A rung in the table prevented the cuff from sliding out.

A memory of that first day came flashing uninvited in his mind, so long ago, the hours after that first death, a day he could hardly remember anymore. It had been summer then, and it was summer now. The earth was always moving, even if they couldn’t feel it. The sky was still shifting.

His right wrist wasn’t locked around anything. He stretched as well as he could, then put his head back down on the pillow with a soft thump. It wasn’t a comfortable position, despite the cotton fabric, as he was perched on one of the wooden chairs, his legs tucked underneath him and the side of his ribs pressing into the table’s edge. Nevertheless, he preferred it to the basement. 

The cold surface of the wood seemed to stick to his arms. The living room was in much brighter light now, but he had no wish to see his prison. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to go back to sleep.

A minute passed, he estimated.

Sleep had abandoned him. Left him behind, alone, all alone. Slowly, he lifted his eyelids. Black shapes darted from the edges of his vision. They didn’t surprise him anymore. In the basement it had been worse. He had started to hear things, too, started to feel things crawling on his skin, and time always passed in such a strange way. He began to sleep through much of it after a month or so, but for brief moments he started awake, unable to recall where he was.

He could not recall sitting down at this table. When had he fallen asleep? Heather wasn’t in the room. 

She was busy elsewhere, he decided. Cleaning up. Maintaining the house. This table was much more sturdy than the last, so there was little chance of him breaking free while she was gone. Even in times of grieving, there was always work to be done. 

Jackie turned to look at the window. There was the wide sky, and there were all the flowers he had missed in the winter. He knew some of their names. Thistles and dandelions. Queen Anne's lace. This kitchen was sterile in comparison, without even potted plants or fruit on the table. He was getting hungry, now, and he was starting to feel restless. All he could think about was the smell of the air outside, the sounds of the woods. He wanted to see that river again. He wanted to feel the water on his hands.

The floorboards creaked. He turned around as Heather came in, holding a glass jar. 

“You’re awake,” she said, seeming pleased. “You slept through the afternoon yesterday. I was getting worried. Look—I found this inside the drain.”

Inside the jar was a harvest mouse, its nose twitching as it pawed at the glass. Mud caked its golden fur. He felt a hollow sort of pity for the animal.

She left the kitchen again, returning without the jar. “Good timing, really. I’ve been trying to see if I can transfer the organism to another host. A human subject would work better, but I’m willing to use animals until I find one. Enough about that, though. Let's not kill our appetites.”

Heather moved over to the kitchen counter and began preparing something. The smell of salt and eggs filled the room. Her knife came down on the cutting board over and over, slicing through vegetable skin, hitting the surface underneath. He looked away and tried to ignore the sound.

Soon enough, plates slid onto the table, carrying omelets. There was a fork beside his portion. She sat down opposite him and began to eat.

She took a few bites. Then she looked up at Jackie.

He rubbed his wrist, without really noticing. It was starting to feel sore. He was so hungry. It was starting to take root now, that craving, that nauseating insistence deep in his body. Jackie regretted leaving his peach behind. Even that plain dish looked like angel cake—like ambrosia. 

She gestured to his plate with her fork. “Eat. At least a little. You look pale.”

But he was already starting to feel dizzy. He glared at her instead. 

"You’re hungry. That’s a good thing!” she added when he pushed the plate away. “You never eat enough. Immortality won’t prevent you from going blind, you know. I’m not kidding.”

He didn’t eat, though. The silence lingered.

She sighed. “So picky. And you’re so quiet these days.”

That was what she wanted. She wanted him to shut up and to stop fighting her. She was just acting like this so it seemed like his fault. So he would apologize and roll over at her command again. He wanted to see her bleed, rip her heart open with his teeth—what a thought, that violence once made him queasy. To think, long ago, he wouldn’t have the guts to hurt a fly.

She met his gaze, somewhat amused, somewhat annoyed. “What is it? You look like someone walked over your grave. Not that it would be easy to keep you in one.”

He didn’t give her the grace of a witty response. He didn’t find any of this funny. 

“You can’t keep doing this forever, Jack.” She leaned in closer towards him. “It must be tiring. Just trust me. We can put everything as it was before. We can go back to normal. I promise you I’ll never hurt you like that again. It was a mistake. I won’t even make you go back to the basement. You can stay here as long as you like. What’s the alternative? What else could you possibly want?”

When he finally spoke, his voice was still only slightly louder than a whisper. “I want you to blow your brains out and leave me alone." 

That faint amusement was gone from her expression. It seemed that the professor’s death had brought a morbid fervour over their thoughts; it was a heavy thing to discuss so early.

“I will never forgive you,” he said when she didn’t respond.

Heather didn’t have a reply for that, either. Her gaze shifted towards the window behind him.

It wasn’t true, of course. He would forgive her. Sooner or later. Everything would return to its slow, domestic rhythm. It was the pendulum that always swung back. It made him sick with rage. He would forget this pain, forget the look on her face as she sat knee-deep in his guts, forget every injustice. It was too painful to remember. And if her mood changed again, he wouldn’t have any defense. He would trot willingly to the blade. He would look at her with love as it happened. 

It was useless to dwell. It was an affection he couldn't kill, a rose-colored cockroach. Nobody had ever loved him before. For all he knew, this was what love was supposed to feel like.

There was a banging sound—they both turned towards it at once. Someone had knocked on the door. 

Though the kitchen wasn’t anywhere near the front door, Heather walked over to shut the blinds. The room took on a dark tint. Bars of sunlight still slipped through on the wall opposite, around Jackie’s shadow.

She disappeared through the doorway. The floorboards creaked as she moved through the house. Faintly, the front door opened, then closed. She reappeared with an envelope, torn open across its length, which she set down on the table. There was a letter in her other hand.

It must have been bad news. Heather’s shoulders were tense. Her eyes darted over the piece of paper, three times at least, before she gave up and placed it beside the envelope.

He slid the letter closer. Cursive writing. Little hearts and looped tails and all. Despite the creases, he could read everything:

Dear Heather Rodriguez,

To preface this letter, I am aware you killed Lukas Callaghan. No, I am not angry. I have ensured the authorities’ silence, in fact. I am intrigued by you, and I would like to meet you. I’m having dinner this Friday evening, at 9. Please reply soon.

Love,

Mary

That was certainly interesting. It explained why Heather was not behind bars yet. Matthew might have been clawed by bears or smashed against rocks, because he was an ordinary name in a sea of ordinary names. But Callaghan? Professor—no, Doctor Callaghan? Such a wealthy and respected man?  A death like his would not be forgotten. Heather owed her freedom, and perhaps her life, to this Mary person. 

“I don’t understand,” Heather finally stopped pacing to say. “I’ve never met this person—how did she get my address?”

“You don’t remember?” He put the letter back down. “Mary Callaghan? The professor’s sister? The one on the card. I assume it’s his sister, anyway, or that’s a weird coincidence.”

She closed her eyes in frustration. “Of course. I should have recognized that name.” Her eyes opened, and she studied the piece of paper by his hands. “That still doesn’t explain how she got my address, though. I don’t buy this. Why would she want to meet me?”

“That’s easy. Call her. The professor gave you her number, didn’t he? On the card? Don’t tell me you threw it away.”

“No, I still have it.” She hesitated, however. “I’m not sure if I want to contact her. From what the professor told me, she has her own criminal history.”

Then she was not so different from Heather. Regardless, he was not particularly interested in this stranger, and he did not care much either way.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Taglist:

@theelvishcowgirl @lthrboy @whumpy-wyrms @yassifiedinformation @creppersfunpalooza

@vidawhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @inkwell-and-dagger @neverthelass @whump-since-2010

[frary-us]

Toby Regbo March 6, 2025 before his Muay Thai fight in Thailand courtesy of Rawai Muay Thai Instagram Story.(x)

[thoselovelythings]

[faelapis]

i should really sleep.... but i'm pretty close to the next "something better" chapter being done... i dont wanna Promise its coming out tomorrow, but we can hope??

[lovesodeepandwideandwell]

Organizing solutions come and go but I hate that the current most successful one is just a sheet of printer paper with all the projects and a spot for a daily sticky note

[justbelievinginmagic]

fic updates bc february is ending (currently writing in this order) like a waltz pt 5 - 70% written (currently 15k words), fully time-lined out and lightly edited. ariadne's thread pt 13 - 15% written (currently 2.2k words), fully time-lined out BUT re-evaluating chapter. im(mortal) pt 4 - 10% written (currently 500 words), not fully time-lined out.