#matthias schoenaerts x reader

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Epilogue]

You tie up loose ends.

Ahhhh! This epilogue is, like, twice the size of other chapters. I should’ve broken it into two, but I figured you all wanted to get to the end!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​, @fleetwoodsmacabitch​

Warnings: violence

Gif Source: captaindelafere

General Howzer looked too thin to be a military man at his age, but what people mistook for smallness was all lean muscle, as tough as a coffin nail. His hair had gone gray despite his age, but it gave him a steeled look that he didn’t mind. It added to the ferocity of his blue eyes.

With Specimen 049 back in the compound, he let himself breathe easy for a moment. Her absence had been a source of great distress for him—a fact his jaw still attested to, aching from all the grinding he had inflicted on it.

But there was still the trouble of how Specimen 049 had escaped.

It kept him up at night. How had she contacted the outside? How had she arranged the help? They had scoured her quarters after the breakout, searching for anything that indicated how she had reached beyond her concrete room. Having found nothing, Howzer had to admit it hadn’t had anything to do with Specimen 049. Someone else had come for her on their own initiative.

Howzer considered shutting down the program. Specimen 049 had been one of a few successful experiments—perhaps the best, because she had never resisted, had never fled.

Until that one day.

She may not have orchestrated the escape, but she had flown the coop all the same when the opportunity arrived. She had obliterated his best team when he sent them after her.

Perhaps the experiments were ultimately a failure. Everything had worked but for the ability to suppress or remove the flight instinct, the need to escape prison. If even Specimen 049, his model subject, had shucked her chains, then there was no hope.

Chaos erupted outside the compound, alarms blaring, but Howzer didn’t question it, too consumed by his problem. Whoever was assaulting the base had no hope of success, besides.

The doorknob of his office turned. He glanced at it in irritation. “Private, I ordered you—”

He froze as you stepped into the room, followed by the man he recognized as your liberator from the week before.

“Specimen oh-four-nine.”

“General Howzer,” you said, your voice crisp, without inflection. “I’m glad you decided to work late tonight.”

You moved forward, crossing the room in three quick strides. Howzer reached for the gun in his desk drawer. Your hand clamped down on his wrist, snapped it. Pain exploded up his arm. The gun clattered to the floor as he hissed, cradling his wrist.

You gestured to the other man. Nodding, he handed you his pistol and circled around the desk, pulling the keyboard of Howzer’s computer toward him.

“What are you doing?” Howzer growled.

He watched in mounting horror as the man located the program files. He went into Specimen 049’s folder, deleted it, and then backed out. He hesitated, then deleted everything related to the program before purging them from the hard drive.

“You can’t just erase everything,” Howzer sneered. “We’ll just recreate it all.”

You shook your head, yanked him to his feet. “We’ll see.” Turning to the other man, you ordered, “Finish here.”

You paused, pulled open another drawer of Howzer’s desk. A bottle of scotch lay at the bottom, a quarter of it gone. Taking it, you pushed Howzer toward the door.

“What happened? You were my best results.”

You remained quiet, shoving him through the door and down the hallway. The chaos of the explosion had drawn everyone to the front of the compound. You led Howzer away to the back, then through a steel door.

The cold night air hit Howzer like knives. He shivered despite himself, the pain in his wrist flaring. Fear pushed at him, but he shoved it down. He was General Benjamin Howzer, and damned would he be if he let some young upstart intimidate him.

“Your car,” you demanded.

He pointed to a brown sedan nestled beside an SUV. Fishing in his pocket for keys, you clicked the button. The car’s lights flashed.

“I expected you to lie.”

“Good. That’s what we trained you to do.”

Howzer was already planning his escape. The car was home turf for him. He knew the way the wheel jerked to the right when he hit pot holes and how quick it would take to slam the seat back against you. He knew the passenger seatbelt was loose and fraying, unreliable.

He would walk away.

You shoved him into the driver’s seat, got into the passenger seat. Howzer settled in behind the wheel, trying to anticipate your moves.

You handed him the liquor bottle. “Drink.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me make you.”

He stared you down. “Make me.”

Starbursts exploded in his vision as you seized his face, jamming the bottle against his lips. He felt a tooth crack, blood mingling with the burning scotch. He choked, unable to swallow so much so fast, but you were forcing the bottle further past his lips, down into the back of his throat.

Then it was gone. He gasped, lungs and throat burning, lips pouring blood. “You fucking bitch!”

“I am what you made me. Now drive.”

Fear tried again, more successful this time in making him afraid. “Where?”

You gestured to the street leading to the highway.

There was still an opportunity to escape. Howzer tried to formulate it in his mind as he started the sedan and worked his way to the freeway. He slowly put on his seatbelt.

You didn’t do the same.

Even better, he thought.

Howzer’s foot pressed down on the gas, pushing the speedometer past eighty, then ninety. You watched dispassionately.

Fear wrapped around his guts.

“When this is over, I’m going to get your boyfriend, too,” he snarled. “You’ve damned him in all of this.”

He eyed the crop of woods looming up ahead alongside the highway.

“You won’t get the chance.”

Howzer’s seatbelt suddenly went slack. He glanced down, saw your hand retreat from the release button.

He had planned to swerve into a tree, but seeing the seatbelt made him hesitate. He shot a glance at you.

“Nice try,” you whispered, and yanked the steering wheel beneath his hands.

~~

Booker drove the car down the long stretch of road, searching for you. He found the wreckage of Howzer’s sedan, the crumpled body of Howzer himself wrapped around the tree.

No sign of you.

Trying not to worry—had someone else grabbed you first?—Booker drove further down, searching the woods.

At last, he glimpsed something gray in the distance. As he drew near, it resolved into you, wandering slowly down the asphalt. He pulled to a stop beside you.

You slipped into the passenger seat. A dark bruise was forming on your arms and forehead. Booker gestured to them. You frowned in confusion. He reached over and gently brushed the back of a finger across your arm. It sent a prickle up his hand.

“Dashboard,” you murmured, watching his finger.

Pulling away slowly, Booker refocused on the road. An SUV was approaching from the opposite direction. The headlights flashed.

“They came to help?”

The surprise in your voice matched Booker’s own. “Yes.”

“See? Family comes through.”

Chest constricting, Booker rolled to a stop beside the SUV. Andy stuck her head out of the driver’s window. “Everything good?”

Booker gave her a thumbs up. He could see the others crowding at the windows, peering at him and at you through the windshield.

“There’s a place not far from here,” Andy continued. “To crash for the night.”

Booker shifted uncomfortably and glanced at you. “Whatever you want,” you told him.

“Okay,” he answered Andy.

He followed the immortals to the safe house. The car ride passed in silence, you staring out the window. He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of anything. He felt uncomfortable, hyperaware of your presence—the way you were breathing, your reflection in the window.

At last, he asked, “Why did Howzer call you Specimen oh-four-nine?”

“That was my number.”

He recalled you telling him to call you “Spec” if he wanted a name back when he first met. Clearing his throat, he said, “My real name is Sebastien.”

He felt your eyes on him before you quietly gave him yours. He repeated it over and over in his mind, guarding it like some precious piece of you.

Pulling up to the safe house, Booker was surprised to discover it was actually a two-storey house. There were enough rooms for everyone to sleep on their own.

You trudged up the stairs and into the bathroom, the shower turning on moments later. Booker and the others stayed downstairs, infected by your silence.

Andy offered Booker a bottle. He reached for it, hesitated, shook his head. Arching an eyebrow, she pulled from it herself.

Booker kept an ear toward the shower, listening to the shower splash differently as you moved. The others watched him, exchanging glances with each other.

Nile broke the silence. “Will she be okay?”

Booker frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t have a mission. Isn’t that what she was trained to do? Always follow a mission? I mean, she was doing that when she brought you to Quynh, wasn’t she?”

The shower turned off. Booker heard you cross softly across the floor.

“She’s free,” he murmured, “and she’s strong.”

“What about you?”

The question shook him. What about him? He hadn’t thought about it since he returned to the States to break you out.

Overhead, he heard a door shut quietly, a mattress squeak.

“I’m going to help her, if she’ll have me,” he answered.

~~

Despite his exhaustion, Booker didn’t sleep that night. He rose early and made breakfast for everyone, including himself, after venturing into town to buy groceries.

You were the first to descend the stairs. Sunlight had yet to dispel the early morning darkness. Booker snapped to attention as you approached him. You looked rested, perhaps more so than he had ever seen you. Something about the softness of lingering sleep on your face made Booker’s heart trip.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you answered. Sitting at the table, you dug gratefully into the plate of food: eggs, oatmeal, bacon, toast. Booker had given you a triple portion, remembering the last time you had scarfed food down.

“I was thinking,” you began, then hesitated. Jabbing at the bacon with your fork, you asked, “Did you do the other thing I asked you to?”

Booker nodded and fished the flash drive out of his pocket. He had palmed it into a USB port on Howzer’s computer, pretending to delete the files when instead he had transferred them over. You took it from him with a delicate touch, as though afraid to break it.

“Do you think there are any left?”

Booker’s chest ached at the sound of your voice cracking. “I saw a lot of names.”

“But are they alive? No, don’t tell me. I’ll find out.” You pocketed the flash drive and resumed eating. “So, what’s the deal with you and the others?”

“I still have ninety-nine years.”

You frowned. “I’m sorry. What will you do?”

He sat down across from you, not quite meeting your gaze. “I was hoping…you wouldn’t mind having me around.”

The fork paused halfway to your mouth. You gaped at him, jaw slack. He would have laughed if not for his anxiety over your answer.

Lowering the fork, you cleared your throat. “No…”

Booker felt like bricks had hit him over the head. He glanced away, stared down at his hands. What had he expected? That you might think of him as more than anything than the guy who had been part of a mission?

“I wouldn’t mind.”

He jerked his head back up. You met his gaze levelly, a tentative smile on your lips. Relief coursed through him, better than anything he could think of. Raking a hand over the back of his neck, he struggled to fight the grin pulling at his mouth.

“If I catch you drinking, I will shank you with the bottle,” you told him.

“I believe you.”

“Good. Now, where do you think we should start?”

“Here,” he answered, and he leaned forward to kiss you.

[badassbaker]

Unexpected Guest (Part 1?)

Unexpected Guest

“Hello, love! Sorry for the late call, but I wanted to let you know I landed safely and Monkey met me at the airport. Wanted to check-in with ya. Everything OK at the house? Have you found the wine we left you yet?”

“Yes. Tom, everything is amazing! Thank you so much for letting me stay here. And yes, I found the wine. Currently selecting the bottle for this evening, if you must know. The house is beyond perfect! Are you absolutely sure that the studio doesn’t mind?”

“Not one bit. Jakey is on vacation for the holidays with his family and Charlie and I are here in London with the boys through the New Year. Shooting doesn’t resume until the second week in January, so the place would just be sitting empty. My favorite camera operator needed a place to stay; and in all seriousness, love…they know better than to fuck with Venom.”

“You are such a dork. But again, thank you so SO much. It means more to me than you know.”

“You’re welcome, love,” he said sincerely. “Happy holidays to you. Shoot me or Charlie a text if you have any questions or problems. Just remember to try and relax. You’re not working for the next 2 weeks; so don’t spend all your time watching Jaws and working on your dolly tilt.”

“Fuck you, Tommy,” I said, laughing out loud. “You know very well that it’s called a dolly zoom. And it’s one of the single greatest camera shots in cinema history. I need to be ready when Spielberg calls.”

I could hear his laughter on the other end of the line. This man just loved busting my balls.

“Oh, Tom! Before I forget. I can’t find the number anywhere for the security company. I wanted to call them and have the gate code temporarily changed while I’m here. Just to make myself feel safer.”

“I don’t think we have it up anywhere. Let me find it and I’ll text it to you in a bit.”

“Got it. In all seriousness, thanks again, Tom. Love to you guys and to the boys!”

As I ended the call and searched for a corkscrew, I again marveled at just how amazing and bizarre this whole chain of events had been.

********************

Flashback

I’d been lucky enough to meet Tom Hardy and Jake Tomuri working as a camera operator on The Revenant two years ago. It was one of my first long-term jobs, and it had been a particularly brutal one. All the accounts of how difficult and exhausting the shoot had been were totally true. That said, I was there from the first day of shooting until the last; and you don’t go through that much with a group of people without making some good friends. After The Revenant had wrapped, everyone scattered to their own far-reaches of the globe, but a core group had kept in touch. Tom shot Taboo and the fourth season of Peaky Blinders in Europe for most of 2017 before beginning his prep for Venom; but as soon as he knew the starting date in Atlanta, he recommended me to the director. And the rest, as they say, was history.

On most location shoots, especially when it was a studio with money, the crew stayed in hotels near the set. Being a Marvel production, the crew received very nice accommodations on Venom, but Tom and Jake had reservations about me spending Christmas and New Year’s alone in a hotel room…even if it was a Marvel-funded hotel room. He and Jake had rented a house in Atlanta. Although, to call it a “house” was a bit of a stretch.

It was a big, beautiful, furnished mansion with a large pool out back and seven bedrooms. While it may have seemed a bit extravagant to the casual observer, it was important for them to have somewhere to stay that would provide not only security, but also space for their families to visit. Both men had significant others and four kids between them. Plus, to be perfectly honest, Jake and Tom were like two giant toddlers when left alone…and the boys needed space to play. You only had to take a look at Tom’s Instagram to see how much fun those two could have together. Hell, I didn’t even know they made Care Bear onesies in sizes large enough for an adult male. Tom and Jake each had two.

I knew that spending Christmas Eve alone sounded depressing, but I’d been on my own since 17 years old. Yes, I had some extended family, but no one that I considered close enough to spend the holidays with. I had always possessed an eye for camera work and managed to pay my way through film school by working on commercials. I got the job on The Revenant simply because I was able to do it conflict-free. I didn’t have a family or many close friends that would take me away from the arduous shoot. I could be there day in and day out and keep my focus. The director loved it; and since it was my first major Hollywood shoot, I set out trying to impress from the moment I walked on set. It worked.

I was on set for about a month before I started really meeting the cast. Tom and Jake had immediately taken me under their wings. They treated me like big brothers and were always supportive and encouraging.

I’d do dinners and movies and sing-a-longs with the boys after filming. Tom, Jake, and Paul were endlessly entertaining and it really made the months bearable. Each of them was in a happy, committed relationship and the thought of ever getting romantically involved with anyone on set was laughable to me. Camera work was my passion and what I had always dreamed of doing. I’d never let something as stupid as an on-set romance get in the way of my perfect job. Did I get lonely? Sure. Who didn’t? But there are worse things in life than being lonely.

I genuinely didn’t mind spending time on my own and would have been perfectly fine in my little hotel room for 2 weeks. But the boys had other plans.  

After we finished shooting for the day, they cornered me as I was putting equipment away. Jake had a small present in his hands.

“Hey guys! We wrapped for the day almost 2 hours ago. What are you two still doing on set?”

“Well,” Tom said, “We knew that you planned to stick around and stay in the hotel for Christmas, but we have a better idea. We both have flights home tonight and our rented place will be empty. We want you to stay there. We’ve already cleared it with the necessary folks and it’s good to go. All you need to do is say ‘yes’. Now open your present!”

Inside the box was a small silver key and keychain shaped like a house. Tied around it, was a red ribbon.

“Pleeease!” Jake begged. “We decorated, and cleaned, and everything!”

Looking at my two smiling friends, I realized that I had no choice.

“Boys, there is only one outcome here, isn’t there?” I asked, smiling warmly at their expectant faces.

“Fuckin’ right there is!” Jake affirmed, scooping me up in a crushing bear hug.

“It’s good you said ‘yes’,” Tom chimed in. “Jakey stole your car at lunchtime. It’s already back home in the garage.”

After getting the security code for the house and giving both boys hugs and kisses goodbye, I found myself being dropped off at the main security gate by one of the production assistants. I wished him happy holidays and made my way inside.

They had really outdone themselves.

Turning on the stereo system and sending music throughout the house, I gave myself the grand tour.

In the living room was a huge, decorated Christmas tree. While we were on The Revenant set, I had shared my deep love for Christmas decorations. They were my favorite part of the holiday; and it seemed that the boys had remembered. The scene was something straight out of a catalog and I found myself deeply touched at how much they had done for me. And to make the gesture that much more beautiful, I knew that they did it simply because I was their friend…and never expected a thing in return. How I’d gotten so lucky, I’d never know.

The kitchen, which looked like it hadn’t been touched, was spotless. Opening the fridge, I found it stocked with water, snacks, and a lot of wine. The guys knew I liked to cook and bake, and they had definitely ensured that I wouldn’t go hungry during my stay. I could probably cook a family meal each night and still not run out of food before they got back.

Grabbing my bags, I headed upstairs. All of the bedrooms had been cleaned and linens had been changed, so I had my pick of accommodations. One caught my eye. The king size bed was plush with cream colored blankets. It wasn’t the biggest bedroom in the house, but it had a beautiful stone gas fireplace at the foot of the bed and a window overlooking the backyard. In my suitcase, I found a pair of old yoga pants and the tank top that Jakey had gotten me for my birthday. He had convinced me to do yoga with him one day after shooting. I hated it and informed him that I preferred to drink for stress relief. Not only did I never have to do yoga with him again, but I got a killer shirt out of it. Completing the look with a pair of fuzzy pink socks, I made my way back downstairs to check out the rest of the house.

Downstairs was a game room, complete with pool table and bar which led to the coziest home theater I had ever seen. The overstuffed couches were made for snuggling up in front of the screen and I knew that I’d more than likely spend at least a few nights dozing off in there.

I strolled back upstairs and into the kitchen, intent on taking a closer look at the wine in the fridge, when my phone started to ring. It was late, but I knew immediately who’d be on the other end. I made Tom promise that he’d call once he was home. We chatted for a few minutes; and after thanking him profusely and sending my love to Charlie and the boys, I hung up and got ready to start my evening.

End Flashback

***********************************

I had two weeks off and I planned to make the most of every second. Just as I was about to uncork my bottle, I heard it.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

My heart jumped into my throat.

The house was supposed to be empty. Tom, Jake, and the producers were the only ones who knew I’d be here and I was the only one with the gate code. How could anyone have gotten to the door?!

Immediately, I grabbed my phone and began to dial 911.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Before I could complete the call, my screen lit up.

‘Hardy calling’ was displayed on the screen.

My panic increased by the second.

“Hello! Tom! Tom, someone’s at the door! They’re pounding on it. I need to hang up and call the police!”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

The disturbance at the door continued as I got more and more scared and tears began to fall. My heart felt like it was going to burst from my chest.

This was not how the evening was supposed to go…

“Tom! Tom, I’m scared! I’m hanging up now. I need to call the cops! Whoever is out there bypassed the security code. I’m alone here. Please, let me call for help!”

“Pet, calm down! Listen to me! You’re OK. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

“Tom, you’re on the other side of the ocean. I need help here NOW! I’m hanging up!” I yelled as the knocking at the door continued.

“Wait! Please! Did you see The Drop?” He asked.

“Excuse me!?”

“The Drop. My movie. Did you see it?”

“Hardy, I swear to fuck, if the last thing I do before I die is chat with you about your filmography, I’m going to haunt your ass for-fucking-ever.”

“Love, go open the door.”

“No! Have you not heard a single thing I’ve said?! There. Is. Someone. Out. There.”

“Yes. And I know who it is.”

Then he was gone.

In the silence that followed, I heard a phone ring outside and a muffled male voice.

“Hey man, glad you got my text! I’m right outside! Come let me in!”

Of course, I could only hear one side of the conversation, but quickly putting two and two together, I knew that whoever was out there was currently speaking with Tom.

I silently tiptoed the door, still on high alert, but starting to calm down.

“Yeah bro. Yeah. OK. Should I just leave? I feel like an asshole. Do you think she’d let me apologize?”

I recognized the voice. The Drop. That’s why Tom had asked.

“Yeah. Yeah man, OK. Love to you and Charlie! I’ll give you a call in a bit. Yep. OK, bye.”

All was silent for a few moments. I leaned my head against the wood and waited.

And then I heard the voice again from the other side.

“Ummm…hello? Tom said you were probably on the other side of the door by now waiting. I’m not here to hurt you, I promise. I’m a friend of Tom’s. He gave me the gate code a few weeks ago. I was shooting in New Mexico and was going to try to make it out here before he left to head back to London. But apparently, I missed him. I sent him a text when I got here…and then he called you to try and warn you in time. Which I guess…didn’t happen. I really never meant to scare you. And I really hope you are on the other side of this door like Tom said…or else I’m going to feel especially stupid for royally fucking up and then apologizing to a door.”

I smiled despite the aftershocks of fear still pulsing in my veins.

Slowly, I unlatched the door and pulled it open.

The unexpected guest was standing in the light of the front porch with his hands in his pockets. When our eyes met, he smiled softly.

“Hi. I’m Matthias.”

Note: I have NO idea where this story came from and I’m not exactly sure what to do with it. Part 2?

@virgosapphire79, @dauntlessmetalmom, @iammarylastar, @son-of-a-bbitch, @lostinvoyage, @vaisabu, @thehound-and-thebird, @dean-67-impala, @bookwarm85, @alexandrajackson93, @darebearxo, @mimigemrose, @hows-my-hair, @nickysurfer28, @queensoybean, @emmysrandomthoughts, @scissor-win-ski, @to-hold-me-and-to-hide-me, @misshyen-deactivated20180214, @inkinterrupted, @captstefanbrandt, @niktwosixteen, @vitaevandal, @b-j-d, @pathybo, @adudewritingpoetry, @angelswannawearmyredshooz, @thestarlighthotel, @beautifulramblingbrains, @erisjade, @bonjourmyloves,  @allnewimaginecharliehunnam, @smoothdogsgirl, @elfwriter1088, @mycapt-ohcapt

[lucy-sky]

It's me again. Cause I love your writing, so how could I not send two requests? 😆

I would absolutely love a drabble with Booker. Confessing feelings under the stars? 🥰❤️

(And I've already said it, but huge GZ on your milestone. It's so amazing! 🥳)

Say it (Booker | Sébastien Le Livre x immortal Reader)

779 words; nightmares; mention of blood and violence; mention of (rough) sex; gender neutral reader; actually really soft and fluffy in the end :) gif by me

AO3 link

A/N: yes, I really am determined to finish all the requests :D 

REQUESTS CLOSED!

It doesn’t happen to you very often, not anymore. At least not as often as it used to a few years ago, when the memories were still fresh and bright.

You thought this nightmare is already in the past since it didn’t bother you for quite a long while, but there it is again, still haunting you. Air thick and suffocating from smoke; gunshots, explosions and ringing in your ears; dead bodies of your friends and enemies… blood… Lots of blood.

You gasp, starting up from your sleep, heart hammering wildly as you’re trying to catch your breath. Well, at least you didn’t scream out loud this time, you think, as you turn your head to see Booker still peacefully sleeping by your side. Another reason why the dream was so unexpected - usually after having sex you sleep soundly until the early morning, which is not surprising. Your sex with Booker is always rough, desperate and impatient. It happens after battles, while adrenaline is still boiling in your blood. You don’t need much foreplay; sometimes you don’t even bother taking off your clothes, like tonight when you snuck up into his tent. You simply wanted him to ruin you, to fuck your brains out and make you forget. It worked, but not for long - the nightmare got you anyway. Maybe the thing is that today’s battlefield was so painfully similar to the one where you died for the very first time? Apparently so.

Feeling the urge to take a breath, you sit up carefully and rub your eyes. It’s still dark, but you manage to crawl out of the tent into the chilly night air. Inhaling deeply, you let it fill your lungs. You set a camp in the mountains tonight, and you think it’s a great choice. It’s beautiful and quiet, the sky is clear - not a single cloud, and the stars are so bright you can’t take your eyes off them as you sit on the ground next to the remains of the fire.

“Hey,” Booker’s husky voice, quiet and thick from sleep, caused you to flinch.

“Sorry,” he lets out a grunt as he sits down beside you, gently throwing a blanket over your shoulders.

“Book… you didn’t have to…” you protest weakly.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply. “Nightmares again?”

“Yeah…” you sigh. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” he shrugs, a faint smile on his lips.

“I thought I’m already over it… I mean… It’s been years since I uh… Since I’m with you guys,” you murmur.

“It’s not that long. Just give yourself some more time. After all, we’re lucky to have a lot of it,” he chuckles softly.

“Right.”

You both fall silent for a while, simply watching the sky above you. Leaning against his frame, you can feel the comforting warmth of his body.

“You should get some rest,” Booker breaks the silence. “Tomorrow’s another tough day.”

“You go… I’ll be fine.”

“You won’t. You need sleep y/n, come on.” His tone is somehow both stern and gentle.

“Why do you care so much about me?”

He seems to be baffled by your question, because he hesitates with his reply.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know why,” he finally utters.

“Just want you to say it.”

Slowly, he reaches to cup your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone softly. You lean into his touch, closing your eyes as his lips find yours. It’s the sweetest kiss you’ve had in your entire life. Booker kisses you slowly, tenderly. Not even close to those feverish sloppy kisses you usually share. This time it seems like he wants to savor it. Every touch, every trembling sigh. A shiver that runs through you when his warm tongue darts to meet yours, and the way your fingers tangle in his hair.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he whispers against your mouth, and the way he looks at you makes your heart flutter. “It’s… been a while since I felt like this…”

“Yeah… Me too,” you reply breathlessly, pulling him into another kiss.

“Will you go to sleep now?” Booker smiles as your lips finally part.

“Alright… I should probably get back to my tent…”

“Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think they,” he nods at the other two tents occupied by Andy, Joe and Nicky, “know nothing about us?”

You bite your lip.

“I doubt that,” you admit.

“Come on then,” he gets on his feet and offers you a hand.

In the morning there’s not a single sight of surprise on your friends’ faces as they see you getting out of Booker’s tent. And you’ve never slept better.

Thank you for reading!

Tagging @cinebration as promised <3

1500 Milestone Celebration Drabbles Masterlist  

[fireinmoonshot]

NOT SOON ENOUGH | BOOKER x READER

Pairing: Booker / Sebastian Le Livre x Reader Fandom: The Old Guard Word Count: 667 Warnings: N/A A/N: Basically, I just finished watching The Old Guard and I’m entirely in love with every single aspect of the film, so here I am, unsurprisingly writing for Booker. I love a complex character!! (Also, I have been Matthias Schoenaerts trash for several years now, so are we even surprised at this point?) This is just a super short little drabble that I fired out after finishing the film, and I hope you guys like it! Hopefully I’ve captured his character well. I have, after all, only just watched the film for the first time! I imagine it takes place before the film, but when, exactly, I have no idea.

When Booker saw you for the first time, he convinced himself immediately that it wasn’t worth it. You were wandering around the local Sunday markets on your own, a smile on your face, taking in the glory of the midday sun. Despite the fact that you were beyond breathtaking, Booker had lived long enough to know better than to even consider falling for someone mortal.

The day he saw you was a rare one when the team weren’t doing anything. They were all just trying to be, trying to exist in reality for a moment before they whisked themselves away to do what they did best. Andy hadn’t come out with them, and at first, Booker hadn’t wanted to either. Nicky and Joe had essentially forced him to come along, saying the sun would do him some good. They figured the large crowd might be more helpful than dangerous, hopeful that everyone would be keeping focus on themselves rather than those around them.

They were walking along just ahead of him, holding hands, when he saw you.

But they were smart. He knew that they were smart, and the second he walked up to them and told them that this was all a bad idea and that he was going to leave, they knew something was up. Something more.

Nicky had opened his mouth to ask when Booker had attempted to evade the question and leave. In his panic, he hadn’t realised that you were much closer to him now than you were before. He ran straight into you.

The fruit you’d just bought from one of the markets fell straight to the cobbled street, as well as the small bouquet of flowers you’d gotten in the hopes it’d brighten up your living room.

Booker had been apologising before he even realised it was you.

Nicky and Joe shared a look. Booker was looking at you in a way that reminded them of a time long past. Not that their meeting had been anything reminiscent of this, but flashes of moments in times after came to them both. Fleeting glances, sweet smiles. Even when they both knew they were head over heels.

“I’m so sorry–“ Booker knelt down to retrieve some of the fruit that hadn’t rolled off. “I didn’t see you– it’s quite crowded here, I didn’t realise.”

You smiled over at him and knelt down to help him. “I take it you’re not a regular here.”

“What gives you that idea?” Booker asked, eyebrow raised.

“It’s a market. It’s always crowded here.”

He looked up and met your eyes, and a flash of a warning crossed through his mind. He’d thought you were breathtaking from afar, but now that you were closer? He was wrong. You were more than that. You were so much more.

Booker picked up the bouquet of flowers and held them out to you. “For you.”

“How generous,” you flashed him a grin as you took the flowers.

As soon as Booker was standing again, he found himself wanting to run. He’d wanted to run before, and now the urge was just as strong. Run, run, run, before it gets worse. Before you can’t stop it, his mind yelled. But his feet stayed planted to the ground. Run. Run. RUN.

“Well, thank you,” you finally said.

Booker frowned. “Why are you thanking me? I ran into you.”

“And then you helped me pick up my things. And you’ve apologised already.”

Run, run, run. Before you can’t stop it.

He opened his mouth, unsure of what he was even going to say, and then, miraculously, his feet started to move. Without saying a single word, he looked at you once more and then disappeared into the crowded street ahead, leaving you confused behind him, with Nicky and Joe staring on, just as confused as you must have been. He tugged his coat closer around him, despite the warm morning, and swore under his breath.

He’d run. But he hadn’t run soon enough.

[skywalkerrains]

Tag challenge

Thanks @iamburningfire I love these!

3 hoties?-

3 only 3? You're killing me *sigh* Okay...

Sam Heughan... Damn it Sam! I would die and go to hell for Sam Heughan.

Young David Duchovny... Because I've always had a thing for him as Fox Mulder.

Matthias Schoenaerts... Have you seen Far From the Madding Crowd? No? This man *sigh*.

(*restrains with great difficulty from mentioning anymore hot men*)

Relationship status - Single

Favorite colors - Blue, Gray, White

Top Three Ships - *Again only three? *sigh*

Jamie and Claire Fraser (Outlander), Fox Mulder and Dana Scully (The X-Files), Lorelai Gilmore and Luke Danes (Gilmore Girls) * Whispers* Chakotay and Janeway (Star Trek Voyager), Jack O'Neill and Samantha Carter (Stargate SG-1), Finn and Rey of course! (Star Wars) Han Solo and Leia Organa (Star Wars), Oops was that 3? I think it was more than three.

Lipstick or Chapstick - Chapstick

Last Song - " My Heart Will Go On" Caleb + Kelsey ... How embarrassing... Honestly I'm about to say something Blasphemous but this cover is better than Celine Dion's... *Gasp* What can I say I'm a closet hopeless romantic.

Last Movie - "You've Got Mail" Classic 90's rom-com and one of my favorites. I really am a hopeless romantic... dang it.

Top 3 Shows - Okay now you're killing me again only three? At least you didn't ask for my top three books. That would be impossible.

Outlander, Gilmore Girls, Star Trek Voyager, The X-Files, Sherlock, Mash, Downton Abbey, Shetland, Doc Martin, Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis.... the list goes on... crap I broke the three rule.

Top 3 Artists- Do dead Classical Composers count? Mozart (dead), Claude Debussy (Dead), Enya (She's not dead), Caleb + Kelsey (Also not dead), The Piano Guys (not dead) again the list goes on...

Currently reading - Outlander (series), Skyward (Brandon Sanderson), the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, All the Light We Cannot See, A Torch Against the Night, and Reaper at the Gates, and yes I am reading all of those at the same time. What can I say I'm a bibliophile, an English major, and just a dorky avid reader. The number of books I've read so far this year is 50. My Goodreads account has me at having read over 15,000 pages for the year.

I tag whoever sees this and would like to play and @awesomeswimmer21 if you are game for it.

P.S. I promise romance related material is not the only stuff I love. But yeah I love Star Wars, science fiction, fantasy, the Jurassic Park franchise, Star Trek, BBC dramas, history, period dramas, historical fiction, Disney movies, documentaries... I'm pretty well-rounded.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 11]

Booker and the immortals implement your plan to capture Quynh.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​, @fleetwoodsmacabitch​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: boydswan

Booker thrummed with tension as he drove back to the airfield. Waves of pain pounded in his skull, his neck and upper back a riot of knots. He glanced up in the rearview mirror, his hands clutching the steering wheel.

You and Andy sat in the backseat. Andy brooded, her face haunted. You sat unnaturally still, scanning the surrounding the area with just your eyes as Booker approached the tarmac.

It should work, the plan. Booker told himself as much, but he didn’t truly believe it. Maybe it was the migraine or the brutal streak of bad luck he was accustomed to, but he didn’t feel right, like an axe hung over his head, waiting to drop. He recalled the sound of the guillotines, the swish-thunk of the blade and the softer thud of a head falling off a body.

Focus, he snarled at himself, guiding the car down the stretch that led to the FBO hanger.

Early morning light had begun to crest the horizon, but the dark still reigned over the airfield. Booker slipped the car between pools of light cast by runway lights and eased to a stop in front of the hanger.

You were already out, dragging Andy along beside you, before he took his hands off the steering wheel. He scrambled out after you, struggling a moment with his seatbelt.

“I’ve brought her,” you shouted into the dark, your voice echoing in the hanger. “Now what?”

Quynh materialized out of a shadow in the hanger, striding forward with a hungry look on her face, eyes sharp even in the semi-dark. Booker stopped a few feet to your left, the gun in his waistband pressing hard against his lower back.

“Quynh,” Andy breathed. The surprise in her voice was genuine, the grief in it heart-wrenching.

“Andromache,” Quynh purred. “How nice to see you again in the flesh.”

Andy pulled against you, but you held her firmly in place. Her hands were bound loosely behind her back, giving her enough slack to slip the knot when the time came.

“How did you get out? Who found you?” Andy’s voice cracked.

“My saviors are not important. What matters is that you are here.”

“I tried finding you. I spent years—”

“No.” Quynh’s voice snapped in the early morning air. “I do not want to hear your lies. You left me.”

“I couldn’t find you—”

Quynh stepped forward and cracked Andy across the face. The slap reverberated through the air. You held Andy up, keeping her from pitching forward. The immortal raised her head. Licking at the blood welling from a split in her lip, she tried to meet Quynh’s gaze.

“Why are you not healing?” Quynh asked. She stepped forward, jerked Andy’s chin higher. “What is this?”

“Andy has lost it,” Booker mumbled.

Fury spasmed Quynh’s face. She shoved Andy away, staggered back a few steps. “No! Why!?”

Booker glanced behind her at the shadows in the hanger. They had begun to move, detaching themselves from the far walls. Joe and Nicky moved forward on soft feet, angling toward Quynh. Somewhere behind the hanger, Nile waited with their getaway vehicle.

“Fate would,” Quynh snarled to herself. “I wanted you to experience my pain, but now you cannot. Not without dying.” The rage in her face died, replaced with something cold, dead. “I can still find a way to make you suffer.”

Andy slipped the knot. She lunged forward as Joe and Nicky closed in behind her. Quynh snarled as the three immortals converged on her. She landed an elbow in Joe’s throat, a kick to Nicky’s thigh. Her hands raked at Andy’s face.

Then she was sobbing, thrashing against Andy’s chest as the woman held her tight, whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Quynh’s anguished wails rang through the hanger, drowning out Andy’s voice.

Booker turned away, unable to stomach it. The grief drove daggers through his heart, reminding him of the rage of his distraught son.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Glancing up, he met your kind gaze. “What now?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Your favorite words,” you laughed.

He risked a glance in the other immortals’ direction. They had gathered around Quynh, trying to soothe her while restraining her.

Reunited.

Chest constricting, he exhaled shakily only to frown. Nile hurried toward them, her gun drawn at her side. “What is it?”

“There’s a convoy setting up a perimeter,” she announced.

“What?”

“General Howzer,” you whispered.

“I called him,” Quynh muttered. “I only wanted to borrow you.”

Your expression didn’t change, but Booker felt the anger in you.

“Who?” Nile asked.

“You need to get out. All of you. Cut across the field and jack a car before the perimeter closes.”

Booker recognized the edge in your voice. He stepped up to you, dropping his own. “What about you?”

“I told you.” You met his gaze. “He’ll just keep sending them.”

Something dislodged within Booker. “No, you can’t give yourself up.”

“It will buy you time. You can’t let him get his hands on any of you.”

Andy and the others were already moving across the tarmac, heading for the field lining the landing strip. Booker could hear the cars slowing to a stop, boots hitting the ground. In the distance, a chopper approached.

“Go,” you hissed, shoving him away.

“But—”

“Don’t make me make you.”

A hand closed around Booker’s elbow. Nile appeared beside him, tugging on him. “Come on.”

Booker glanced back at you, but you were already across the airstrip, firing your gun into the air. He followed Nile into the unkempt grass, trying to keep his eyes on you.

The chopper’s searchlight clicked on, bathing you in white. Men poured in from around the trees, screaming at you to put the gun down. You went down to your knees.

“Come on,” Nile insisted, yanking on Booker.

“We have to do something,” he said. “She can’t go back. She can’t.”

Nicky seized Booker by the waistband and yanked him across the field. A gunshot cracked the air.

Booker jerked back to see you collapse.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 10]

Booker’s “reunion” with the immortals.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: thompsonconnors

You yanked the knife out of Nicky’s chest and shifted back a few paces, keeping your gun pointed in the general direction of the others. Booker immediately shoved his into his pants, presenting his empty hands to his fellow immortals. You lowered your gun, appearing relaxed. But that feline grace clung to your movements, letting Booker know you were still in attack mode.

“I can explain,” Booker said, then hesitated. Could he?

“First you sell us to Merrick, and now you are trying to kill us again?” Joe cried.

“No, I’m not—”

“Who is your friend?” Nicky wheezed as the wound in his chest closed.

Their voices pounded against Booker’s skull. Raking a hand through his hair, he tried to find the words, tried not to shout back.

“Book.” Andy’s voice rose above the clamor. “Why are you here?”

He passed another hand through his hair again, feeling sick. His palm came away slick with sweat and grease, a tremor rolling through his hand. He wiped it on his pants, clenched it into a fist to hide the shaking.

“Booker?” Nile prompted.

Clearing his throat, his gaze directed at the floor, Booker managed to say, “I didn’t know it was you. I wasn’t told I was being sent for you.”

Joe snorted, shaking his head incredulously. “You didn’t know?”

“I didn’t! She didn’t tell me.”

Their collective gazes turned on you. You didn’t waver beneath them, one eyebrow arching. “I wasn’t made aware that you were his family.”

“Who is this?” Andy asked.

“This is…she is my friend.” The words were utterly sincere to Booker’s ears, surprising him. He met your eyes for a split second before turning back to the others. “She was doing me a favor.”

“By trying to kill us? She could have killed Andy!” Joe stormed toward Booker.

Suddenly you were there, interposed between them. Joe look at you in surprise, startled. Booker glanced at the others, saw the confusion in their faces. You had crossed the entire room in a split second without seeming to run.

“I didn’t know!” The words were old and tired, but true. “Quynh didn’t tell me.”

Tension snapped tight in the room.

“Quynh?” Andy asked, her voice tight, guarded.

“She got out,” he said. “I don’t know how. She just did. She showed up at my apartment—”

Joe snorted. “Why should we believe you?”

Booker looked past him to Nile. “Do you dream of her drowning?”

She hesitated, realization dawning on her face. “Not in a while now.”

Andy’s attention snapped to Nile. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t really think about it. I was just…relieved.”

“She’s out,” Booker repeated. “And she sent us here…to hurt you.”

~~

The immortals watched you warily as you leaned against the far wall, hands held loosely at your sides in your least intimidating posture. They had gathered around the dinner table, seated as they digested the devastating news Booker had brought. Andy took it the worst, her face drawn and pale, a mild tremor rolling through her now and again.

Booker felt awful, his guts roiling, his chest constricting. He didn’t know what else to say, so he sat in the silence, afraid to look anyone in the face. Joe’s anger had diminished, though Nicky’s remained, a quiet undertow that Booker could sense despite Nicky’s placid face. Only Nile didn’t seem to mind Booker’s presence, though her aura of pity sickened him just as much.

The urge to drink was so strong he was itching in his own skin, on the verge of clawing it off with his own fingernails. He felt your eyes boring into the back of his neck, willing him to work through it.

“Why would she send you?” Nile asked, looking past Booker’s shoulder.

“I’m assuming she thought I could withstand all of you,” you answered quietly.

The looks that passed between the immortals told Booker all he needed to know. You had put each of them down except for Andy. If Booker hadn’t burst in, you would have been on Andy before the others could recover.

“What are you?”                        

“A weapon,” you answered thickly. “Designed to kill.”

“That’s what we do,” Joe pointed out. “You’re different.”

“Can you break a man’s sternum with one hand?”

“She broke both my wrists,” Booker added, “the first time we met. We hit a tree and she got back up.”

“An immortal?” Nile asked.

“No, a super soldier. Think Captain America,” you clarified. “Quynh asked Booker to break me out, and she wanted me to pursue you. Specifically Andy.”

Andy shoved herself away from the table, paced away. The others looked at her with sympathy, though all Booker could feel was heart-wrenching guilt. He was doomed to bring nothing but misery to everyone he knew.

“I shouldn’t have stopped looking for her,” Andy whispered, burying her face in one hand. “It’s all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t,” Nicky assured her. “You didn’t know how to find her. You tried for so long and found nothing. It isn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it is. And she wants me to suffer for it.”

“Is there any way we can talk to her?” Nile asked. “Booker, you know where she is. Couldn’t you take us there?”

“She’s probably moved by now,” you said. “She knows what she’s doing. I’d wager she is actually nearby, waiting.”

“You don’t have a rendezvous point?”

“We were to go to the airport. I doubt we’d take off, though. She would probably pick us up in a car and lead us elsewhere.”

“And you’re such an expert?”

You met Joe’s hard gaze. “Yes.”

Booker stared at his hands, numb.

You pushed off the wall and stood beside Booker’s chair. “I have a plan, if you’d like to hear it.”

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 12]

Booker deals with the aftermath of losing you.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​, @fleetwoodsmacabitch​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: captaindelafere

The immortals brought Booker to a different safe house. While they restrained Quynh and sedated her, he paced the front room, agonizing. He could still hear the crack of the gunshot, your body collapsing to the asphalt.

He should’ve gone back to you.

Andy and the others emerged from the back room to see Booker rummaging through cupboards for liquor. He found a half-empty vodka bottle. Scrambling to unscrew the lid, he lifted it to his mouth.

Hesitated.

Drinking wouldn’t solve this problem. He knew that he would need all his wits.

He slammed the bottle down on the table, the alcohol untasted, and raked both hands through his hair, roaring with frustration. Only then did he notice the others were watching him.

“Quynh alright?” he asked.

Andy nodded slowly.

“Then I’ll leave.” He snatched up his jacket.

“Where will you go?”

Booker didn’t meet Nile’s curious gaze. “I’m going after her.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

Booker tried to answer, found he didn’t have words. Why? He couldn’t put it into words, not when he didn’t really know himself. But he managed, “When I found her, she was all alone in a room. For ten years.”

A hushed silence fell over the room.

“She isn’t an immortal, but she did this for me. To…” To let me be with you all. He slipped on the jacket. “I’m not letting someone else down.”

He scurried away before anyone could say anything, averting his eyes.

~~

It took him a week to gather enough intel to even consider making a move. Booker sat in a cheap motel room surrounded by it, mounds of printed schematics and schedules, a paper trail guaranteeing nothing but destruction. Despair crept in, anxiety taunting him. The bottle called to him. It took all his energy to not succumb to it.

His research had found you had been returned back to the same location, only there was no guarantee you were in the same room he had broken you out from. Security had been tightened, and his face was in their system now, picked up by one of the cameras inside that he had missed on the way out.

Booker nearly pulled his hair out. No matter how he examined the problem, he couldn’t crack it. Not without getting captured in the process or getting you killed.

Assuming you weren’t dead already.

He hadn’t yet been able to determine whether you were alive or were being dissected. Every bad movie he had seen about brainwashing and mad scientists played on repeat in his head as he imagined the horrors you were being subjected to.

Nine days after you had taken the fall on the tarmac, he decided it was worth the suicide mission. He didn’t have a full plan, and as much as that frighten him, he was going to go ahead anyway.

Dressing in black once more, he armed himself with a tactical knife, a FN SCAR, and a Beretta. He brought only two clips for the handgun and three for the assault rifle. He would have preferred a crowd-control method, but everyone else would be armed to the teeth. He couldn’t risk it.

Steeling himself, he left the motel under cover of darkness, headlights doused until he reached the road. He ran the plan through his head again and again, ignoring the flaws, telling himself all he had to do was get to you. From there, escape would be inevitable. It had to be.

His cellphone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled it out, saw the number was unknown. He hesitated, then answered.

“Booker?” Andy’s voice rang clearly through the phone.

“Andy?”

“We’re on your tail.”

He glanced up in the rearview mirror. Headlights flashed twice.

“We’re here to help,” she said.

Tears pushed at Booker’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“What’s the plan?”

“I need a distraction. A massive one.”

~~

Booker waited for it. The night breeze tickled his cheeks, toying with him. Crickets had gone silent around him, as though in anticipation.

BOOM!

The sky exploded into flame, huge gouts licking the darkness. Alarms blared, soldiers scrambling to the scene.

Booker sprinted in the opposite direction, into the compound. He pushed past the security checkpoints, capitalizing on the chaos to go by unnoticed. Following the same path as before, he made his way to the basement levels.

He had to shimmy down the elevator shaft. Without the key card to call it up, it was the only way down. Climbing through the access panel in the elevator’s roof, he muscled open the sliding doors and slipped out into the long hallway. He hurried to the far end and shot off the doorknob, allowing him to enter.

Empty.

His heart plummeted into his stomach. He swept the room, double-checking. All your personal effects—the books, primarily—were gone.

Booker fought the urge to scream. He stepped out of the room, kicking himself. The gunshot rang in his ears again, the image of you collapsing flashing before him. He leaned against the wall, raked his hand over his face.

“FUCK!”

He punched the wall, broke his hand. The pain reminded him of the first time he had been here. Tears burned in his eyes.

A faint tapping reached through the pulsing in his ears as he struggled with his grief. Through his addled mind, he recognized the beats and pauses of Morse code.

He straightened.

Here, the code tapped.

Booker faced the wall behind him, heard the code repeat. Scrutinizing the wall, he found a near-invisible seam ran from ceiling to floor. Booker ran his fingers along it, trying to find purchase. Pulling out his knife, he slid the tip along the edge, flaking away concrete. The knife snagged on something. Through the crack, he saw metal glinting.

The tapping resumed. Lock.

Mind racing, Booker retreated into your cell and came back with one of the chairs. He started ramming it at a fort-five degree angle against the wall, tearing at the concrete.

Cement dust filled the air, choking him. It covered his skin as he tore chunks out of the wall, revealing the locking mechanism. Rather than attacking where the lock engaged, he found where it had been anchored into the wall and tore it loose. Grunting and heaving, he yanked the lock out of the jamb.

Fingers reached through the hole, pulling on the door. Booker shoved his shoulder against it, pushing it slowly open.

Light fell through the darkness beyond the door, illuminating your dust-covered face. Booker nearly choked with relief. You stared up at him in disbelief.

“I’m here to get you out,” he said. “Again.”

You grinned, your lips trembling. Squeezing through the gap, you stumbled out into the bright light, blinking furiously.

“Let’s go.”

“Wait.”

“Wait?”

Your face hardened. “There’s something I have to do first.”

Booker nodded. “Tell me how to help.”

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 1]

Premise: Quynh sends Booker to retrieve a weapon that may or may not change his life.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​

Warnings: violence

Gif Source: captaindelafere

“Do this for me, and you will see Andromache and the others.”

Overcoming his initial shock, Booker had tried to explain the one-hundred-year exile to Quynh, but she wouldn’t hear it.

“There is a war coming. I need you to help me get the weapon to stop it.”

He resisted the idea immediately, even if his whiskey-soaked brain was intrigued.

“All you have to do is retrieve it. You want to protect your family, don’t you?” She downed the glass of water. Pulling a slip of paper from her coat, she set it on the counter and placed the glass atop it. “Decide, Booker, whose side you are on.”

A few days later, a mostly sober Booker found himself searching the address online.

The result appeared on his screen: a military installation.

He had to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Of course a weapon of war would be in a military installation. Had he not been so deep in his cups, he would have come to this conclusion once he saw the address was located in the United States.

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen, arms folding across his chest. He shouldn’t get involved, not when it would put him back in the group’s path. He didn’t deserve to see them, the exile notwithstanding. That was just a formality for him. The shame is what kept him away.

Or so he told himself.

But if Quynh was right, how much worse would he feel if he did nothing and they were hurt?

Booker rubbed his stubbly face. Quynh. How did she get out? Did the others know already? His shock and his drunkenness had prevented him from asking the questions he needed. She hadn’t even left a means of communication for him to contact her.

Warning bells chimed quietly in the back of his mind, but he heard them only dimly through the liquor fog.

For six months, he had spent his days in the pub and back in his apartment, marinating in whiskey, whisky, and scotch. He was looking at ninety-nine-and-a-half more years of that.

The address beckoned.

He booked a flight to the United States.

~~

When Booker put his mind to something—which, admittedly, hadn’t been often of late, as that required drive and hope, both of which had been lacking—he accomplished it.

Which is how he ended up inside the military installation, following the instructions written underneath the address on the piece of paper. Having lifted a security card from one of the men leaving work for the day, he had access to the floor he needed: deep in the bowels of the basement, some four storeys down.

With the changing of the guard at his time of arrival, he slipped through the security checkpoints with his head bent over a clipboard he lifted off a desk as he passed. He swiped through each checkpoint with the stolen ID and stepped into the elevator, taking it all the way down to the sublevel he needed.

The elevator doors rolled silently open on a long cement hallway with stark overhead lighting. Booker squinted against it, his eyes smarting.

A lone door stood at the far end.

Booker glanced down at it, small alarms chiming in his mind. If the weapon was so dangerous, why was it in a solitary room without extra security? The card reader beside the door seemed like all it needed was an ID.

Propping the clipboard against the wall beside the elevator doors, Booker drew his pistol and slowly advanced down the hallway. His shoes made the slightest squeak against the floor as he moved.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he stopped before the door. He swiped the card through the reader.

The door clicked open.

Readjusting his grip on the gun, he nudged the door open with his shoulder, easing it open slowly and then all at once, the muzzle of the gun sweeping the room.

You sat on a chair in front of another chair, your feet propped up on it. Booker tensed as you lowered the book in your hands a fraction, enough for him to see your eyes—and for you to see him.

Your face lit up. “You’re new.” Your attention slid to the gun. “Really new.”

Frowning, Booker glanced around the rest of the room. An examination table occupied the corner nearest him, though no tools were in sight. An exposed bathroom—a toilet, shower, and sink—stocked with toiletries, stood tucked into another corner opposite a thin cot with a foot locker at its end. A bookshelf overflowed with books beside a small flatscreen TV.

Booker’s confusion intensified as he returned his attention to you. You sat in the same position as before, though the book, your place held by your finger, had moved to your lap. There was no fear or anxiety in your face…only a bright curiosity.

“I’m looking for something,” he said. There wasn’t much he could say. His gaze swept the room again. No cupboards or storage units. The cot didn’t even have anything underneath its metal frame.

He twitched as you moved in the corner of his eye. Legs unfolding from the chair, you set your feet on the floor. Something about the movement unnerved Booker. You placed the book down in the second chair.

“Tell me what and maybe I can help,” you said, smiling.

Quynh had gotten it wrong. Booker took a step back toward the door, hesitated. The look on your face was so earnest, so genuine, it couldn’t hurt to ask��

“I’m looking for a weapon. Someone told me it was here.”

The light went out of your face, disappointment flickering across it. “Oh, that.” Sighing, you stood, rolled your shoulders, and said, “I can help with that.”

Eyebrows arching, Booker lowered the gun. “Thank you.”

You stepped over to him, just within reach, and smiled, though it didn’t reach your eyes. “Sure.”

You didn’t move.

Alarm bells rang again in Booker’s mind. “Where is it?”

“You’re looking at it.”

Your hands darted forward, closed around the gun. Twisted.

Booker’s wrists snapped.

Pain lanced white-hot up his arms. He jerked back with a harsh cry.

“Is this a test?”

He glanced up at you, brow furrowed with pain and confusion. You stood beyond his reach, the gun held loosely at your side. Booker leaned against the door behind him, blinked away the pain-induced tears. His hands hung useless from the wrists, dangling grotesquely.

What the fuck was he dealing with?

“Is it?” you asked again.

Booker forced himself to ignore the pain. Already he could feel something at work within him, knitting the bones back together.

“Not a test,” he answered.

His wrists snapped back into place, fingers suddenly back under his control. He glimpsed your look of surprise. But in the split second he saw it, it seemed different than the surprise he was used to seeing. There was something else behind it.

Booker lunged forward, one hand reaching for the hand holding the gun, the other for your shirt front.

But you weren’t there. You were behind him, your hand clamping down on his collar. With a soft grunt, you used his own momentum—

—and swung him across the room.

Booker smashed into the bookcase, skull cracking against a shelf, books scattering around him as he hit the ground. His whole body ached, pummeled and already exhausted.

He saw through hazy vision your feet approach and stop a few inches away.

“Why are you here?”

The hope in your voice struck an odd note in his concussed mind. “The weapon,” he mumbled. God, he could use a drink.

The world fell into darkness.

~~

Booker seized awake, gasping violently. On his feet, he swept the room.

Empty.

The door was propped open a fraction, just enough for him to glimpse out into the hall.

Also empty.

The gun was missing, as was the keycard.

Swearing under his breath, Booker staggered out into the hall and to the elevator, hoping none of the doors he’d come through needed the card to swipe out.

As the lift took him up out of the bowels of the compound, he struggled to understand what had happened. Even with his own momentum against him, it would be impossible for someone to fling him across the room like that.

Or snap his wrists like they were candy canes.

~~

The security guard swiveled away from the camera feeds to face her coworker. “Call General Howzer. We have a problem.”

~~

Years of stealth operations allowed Booker to escape from the compound just as the alarms sounded and everything went into lockdown. He was in his car, driving away, as the teams rolled out to sweep the premises.

He drove calmly, as though nothing was amiss. On the freeway, he disappeared among the evening traffic.

He relaxed only a fraction when he made it to a lonely stretch of freeway some thirty miles away.

A lonely stretch of freeway with a dying strip mall off to one side.

LIQUOR read one of the signs. A beacon.

Booker pulled off the road and parked the car in shadows. Trying to appear as calm as possible, he entered the store, basking for a moment in the familiar harsh glow of its lights—how did all liquor stores have this lighting?—before heading to the whiskey.

He bought two bottles and had hardly stepped outside the door before he was chugging at the first one. He nearly cried as the liquor washed over his tongue.

Throwing himself behind the steering wheel, he took another long swig and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to get back to Paris, change apartments, dig in for the century-long wait.

Something cold pressed against his neck.

His eyes peeled open.

“Hi,” you said into his ear.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 4]

Booker asks the question that keeps bothering him.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: boydswan

The stolen truck you had lifted from the parking lot needed new shocks. Booker’s teeth rattled in his skull every time you hit the slightest of bumps.

The three cups of coffee he had drunk were finally starting to work. The fog in his head began to clear, though with it the Thirst began. He looked longingly out the window at every liquor and grocery store you passed.

He didn’t feel right. At first he thought it was withdrawal, but the more it persisted, the more convinced he was it couldn’t be that. No, it had to do with this whole situation.

He needed answers.

“So…how did you become…?” Booker gestured vaguely in your direction.

“Would you believe me if I said I was a mutant like the X-Men?”

“Who?”

“You don’t know who the—never mind.” You sighed. “If only.”

“So?” he promoted.

“Oh, you know, the usual. It’s a month before graduation, and the G-men come knocking, saying, ‘Hey, kid, wanna be part of R&D? Doesn’t matter that you got a useless degree. We sure could use ya!’”

Booker frowned. “That didn’t sound strange to you?”

“Oh, for sure it did. But I said yes anyway.”

“Why?”

Your fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I was scared shitless, you know? What was I gonna do after college? My friends were already on the fast track for greatness. I was the one who didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to go back to my hometown and die? No, thanks.”

“What about your family?”

“Do you really think they’d recruit people who had families? There was an eighty-percent chance I’d die. No, they went after the ones without a herd. Easy prey.”

“What did they do to you?”

“You ever seen the Bourne trilogy? You know, Jason Bourne? Matt Damon? Although, I guess it’s more like The Bourne Legacy.”

He shook his head.

Sighing again, you raked a hand through your hair. “So, you take a normal human, and you break them, and you rebuild them.”

“Like any soldier.”

“Yes, but this time, it comes with gene therapy. Cell regeneration, faster reflexes, sharper mind. Building a human tank: faster, stronger, harder…” You swallowed thickly, the muscle in your jaw flexing. “I used to be shorter. They broke my legs and made me grow back taller.”

“Super soldiers,” Booker realized.

“That was just the first three years. Then came the training. The conditioning. Not just the body.”

Booker glanced at your profile. A haunted look crossed over your face. “What does that mean?”

“Where are the others?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The other immortals.”

Flinching, Booker looked away, slipped down a fraction in his seat. “I don’t know.”

“And the person who sent you?”

“I…don’t know.”

“You’re helpful. So where the hell do we go?”

He wanted to go home, but he kept his mouth shut. He could feel the pull of grief and shame dragging on him, trying to submerge him in dark waters.

“Do you know someone who makes passports?”

Booker nodded.

“Well?”

“I can,” he muttered.

“Good. We’ll get the equipment you need, then.” The note of finality in your voice brooked no argument.

Booker looked out the window, glimpsed a reflection of himself in the side-view mirror.

“RadioShack is dead, right?” you asked.

He wearily rubbed his face. What am I doing?

~~

Booker hadn’t spent much time in America. Problems were different there than the ones Andy had tackled in Europe and elsewhere. It didn’t help that in recent years, America had become one of the most surveilled countries in the world, in which its own people had their privacy violated without their knowledge—or sometimes with their knowledge.

Understandably, the team had avoided the country. As such, Booker had no stashes, no safe houses.

No tools. No contacts.

This didn’t seem to faze you, however. It felt strange, the confidence you seemed to have in him when he hadn’t earned it. The last people who had trusted him implicitly…

Veering away from that pit of despair, he focused on the task at hand. After you saw a nearby Target, he had entered and picked up what he needed from the electronics section.

You had insisted on driving through two more towns before finding a motel for the night, giving him plenty of time to solve the problem of the forged passport. He had brought two with him, one for entering the country and another for leaving. The one he had used to arrive at JFK could be repurposed for yours, with the only problem being that he would have to replace the identification page.

He churned the problem around for two hours.

“Are you sure you can even leave the country?” he asked.

“No,” you answered immediately. “I’m sure they’ve issued my photo everywhere.”

“Then a passport is useless.”

“Not necessarily.” You shrugged. “Worst-case scenario, I stowaway on a cargo ship. Or steal a seaworthy one.”

Booker watched you cycle through that idea, your head cocking slightly as you ran through the possibilities.

“Maybe I should do that first,” you murmured.

Pulling into a motel parking lot, you sent Booker in to rent a room overnight.

“We’ve only got a single,” the lady at the desk said.

Booker sighed. “Okay.” He paid in cash.

“Room eight,” he directed you. He walked over to the room as you nosed the car over, grateful to stretch his legs.

He paused in the middle of the parking lot and looked up at the sky. Sunlight streaked the clouds scuttling across the darkening heavens. The smell of incoming rain tickled his nose, a moist breeze toying with his hair.

A beautiful day, if he really cared.

The key slipped from his hand. He flinched in surprise. “How do you do that?”

“I’m part cat,” you quipped, brandishing the key.

“You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

He stared, shook his head. “Yes?”

Your laughter spilled out of the room as you disappeared inside.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 5]

An incident occurs at the motel.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets

Warnings: none

Gif Source: sonsofeorl

You showered while Booker worked on the passport. It was slow going, given the lack of tools, but he made progress nonetheless.

Something about the work grounded him. Doing something had an effect, though he tried to ignore its significance.

He was thinking about the 7-Eleven he had seen on the way in. He had enough cash on hand for exactly one bottle of the brown stuff.

He just had to be patient.

It didn’t help he was so thirsty his hands shook, threatening to butcher the forgery.

Useless.

By the time Booker decided the thirst was too great, you emerged from the bathroom, thwarting him. Gritting his teeth, he noted duly that you had slipped back into the clothes you had been wearing. They were like grey scrubs, now that he looked at them.

Clinical, they seemed. Uniform, stripping away individuality.

You caught him staring. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“You need new clothes.”

“No kidding.” Flopping onto the bed, you say up against the headboard and pulled open the bedside table’s drawer. You pulled out the Gideon Bible therein and cracked it open.

Booker sat slumped in his chair and watched you read it for a few minutes, wondering yet again how Quynh had known about you and why she needed you.

“Are you the only one?”

You peered over the book at him. For a moment, it seemed like you wouldn’t answer. The muscle in your jaw jumped as you ground your teeth, deciding.

“I answered you,” Booker pressed. “Only fair that you answer me.”

“I would if I could,” you mumbled, dropping your attention back to the page. Your eyes didn’t move, however, fixating on one spot. “It is a logical assumption that I am not the only one. Whether or not I am the only successful one remains to be seen.”

“You never met any others?”

“No.”

The carefully controlled yet still pained look on your face reminded Booker of Andy. How long had she been alone before finding Quynh? Centuries, if not longer.

Thinking of her and Quynh made Booker’s stomach churn. He needed a drink, and he needed it now.

“I’m going to sleep,” you announced. Placing the bible back in its drawer, you rolled over and immediately fell asleep.

Booker waited twenty minutes before sneaking out of the room. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he did his best to saunter over to the 7-Eleven, trying not to give away his desperate need. The skin on the nape of his neck crawled the further he walked from the motel, as though eyes were following him. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to identify the source.

Nothing.

The withdrawal had to be hitting him hard for him to be imagining surveillance. He ducked his head and hurried to the store, his gummy mouth already anticipating sweet liquid relief.

~~

The SUV rolled silently to a stop two streets over, headlights doused to avoid drawing attention. The doors immediately opened, disgorging dark figures from the vehicle’s bowels. They moved quietly, their footsteps making only faint crunching noises beneath their rubber soles as they moved across pavements and sidewalk.

Hawkins, at the head of the group, slowed, consulting the device in his hand. A small green dot blinked steadily toward the north. His north star, he considered it, guiding him to the target.

Orders stipulated that the target be apprehended alive. Harm was acceptable so long as it wasn’t lasting damage.

Hawkins, along with his men, carried riot-control shotguns in their hands, the metal painted matte black to reflect as little light as possible. Equipped with bean-bag rounds, the shotguns would damage and subdue the target.

Attached to Hawkins’s hip was a bowie knife. Orders had said the target was lethal close-range.

He led his team to the back of the motel until they were nearly atop the blinking light. Positioning themselves around the window of the target’s room, they waited. Hawkins motioned to four of his men to follow him around to the front of the same room.

His second-in-command shot out the streetlight illuminating the nearby sidewalk, plunging them into more darkness. Clouds scuttled across the moon, minimizing the moonlight much to Hawkins’s relief. The evening wasn’t late enough and the motel wasn’t far enough away from the main street to ensure they wouldn’t have witnesses, but the intermittent shadows helped.

The blinking light remained stationary. Turning off the device, Hawkins motioned his second forward. The man carried a handheld battering ram.

They waited.

The sound of shattering glass was their cue. The flashbang went off, blinding the room in light and sound.

Hawkins’s second smashed open the door. Hawkins and his team poured inside, sweeping the room with their shotguns. Three of his men climbed in through the window, closing in on the target.

The bed was empty.

Alarms rang in Hawkins’s head. He swung around, trying to decipher where the target could be.

A shape moved in the semi-darkness.

~~

Booker took his time returning to the room, not wanting to stumble inside with the whiskey bottle in hand. Instead, he pulled at it frequently, dousing his senses in the alcohol, and told himself he would hide what remained of the bottle in the car.

He soon found himself with an empty bottle. He cursed himself inwardly and tossed it away down the darkened street, managing to sink it in the nearby outdoor trash can. It smashed into pieces, but at least the glass remained inside the container.

Fumbling with his key, Booker went to let himself into the room. He glanced aside at the adjacent one.

The door was smashed, hanging ajar from a destroyed doorjamb. Booker yanked out his handgun, suddenly sober. He pushed the other door open with his shoulder, swept the room.

Chaos.

He counted seven men lying down in puddles of their own blood, heads and arms and legs twisted.

And you standing in the center of them, blood running down your hands and off the bowie knives in both of them. A flat, expressionless look fixed itself on your face as you surveyed your work.

“We have to move,” you informed him.

He lowered his gun, met your impassive expression. You brushed past him, leaving him alone with the corpses.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 3]

Booker wakes up in an unusual position.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: dcnnatroya

Booker woke slowly, painfully. His head pulsed with each heartbeat. His tongue felt dry and gummy in his mouth, yearning for liquid relief.

His eyes peeled open.

The ground was moving beneath him. He stared down at it, struggling to orient himself. How could he see it do that when he was stationary?

Touch was the last of his sense to reawaken. He felt an arm wrapped around one of his thighs, his right wrist held in a hand. Something hard pushed into his chest, not quite uncomfortable.

He was being carried.

Booker tensed involuntarily.

“Awake now?” you asked.

He lifted his head and glanced aside to see your face in close profile.

You stopped walking abruptly and slung him off your shoulders with the ease of someone slipping off a backpack. He stumbled as his feet hit the ground, hung onto you for dear life.

It felt like grabbing hold of a pole. You didn’t so much as move as he unintentionally yanked on your arm to right himself.

“Are you a robot?” he heard himself ask.

You laughed. “No.”

The early morning sunlight chose to lance through the swaying tree tops, assaulting Booker’s eyes. He squeezed them shut, wishing he would wake from this strange dream.

You were still there when he opened them again.

In natural lighting, you seemed…normal. Ordinary. There was something deep in your eyes that he couldn’t quite see in the light, but you stood with a casualness that belied what he had experienced so far.

“Look, you basically went to a lot of trouble to break me out,” you said. “So I figure, I can go with you to see whomever your boss is, that way you don’t get in trouble.”

Booker frowned. “Why?”

“Because I owe you for opening the door. Plus, it’s been my first time out here in…ten years, I think. And I don’t have any friends, so.”

“So…”

“So right now, you’re my touchstone to the world. TV only taught me so much about what the world’s like right now, and we both know it gives a biased view of things.”

The meaning of your words sunk in as Booker watched you start off in the same direction you had been traveling when he had woken. Ten years away from the world?

Ten years trapped in that room?

In his two-hundred years on the planet, nothing had been as crazy as this.

He debated running off in another direction, but something told him you would hunt him down with all the skill of an apex predator. Why he thought this, he wasn’t sure, but you hadn’t killed him. Yet.

He still had to deliver you to Quynh…

Booker trudged after you.

~~

You had been following the road via the woods the whole night. When you finally stepped onto the asphalt road just outside of a mid-sized town, you had traveled fifty miles with Booker on your back for eight hours over uneven terrain.

Booker did the math as he trailed behind you. Fifty miles over eight hours meant you had averaged six miles an hour—or a mile every ten minutes.

He weighed about 180lbs.

It shouldn’t have been possible. Then again, very little he had experienced with you seemed possible.

Probable, he corrected himself. It wasn’t probable, but the…things had happened. He couldn’t ignore that.

You headed straight for the nearest diner. It hung just on the outskirts of the town, catering to overnight truckers. By the time Booker reached the door, you were already inside, ordering right at the counter.

“I ordered for you,” you said as he stepped up beside you. “Mind if we sit in a booth? I need to rest my back.”

Booker shrugged and followed you to the booth in a corner. You sat with your back to the wall, your position giving you a full sweep of the establishment.

Training, Booker noted, slipping into the bench seat opposite you.

A waitress strode over and poured out a mug of steaming coffee for Booker.

“Leave the pot,” you said, smiling.

The woman arched an eyebrow but set the pot down on the cracked tabletop. “Food’ll be right up.”

“Thank you.”

Booker watched you scan first the room, then the parking lot through the window. Your gaze settled on him after you were satisfied.

There was something unsettling about your stare. It wasn’t like you were looking through him. It seemed more like you were processing him like a computer crunching data.

He itched beneath that stare.

“How old are you?”

The question caught him off guard. “Two hundred years old, give or take.”

“How many times have you died?”

Something writhed within him. “Too many.”

The waitress returned, a tray laden with plates balanced on her hand. She set the dishes out on the table with practiced swiftness: waffles, pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, hash browns, toast. The whole shebang.

You smothered the waffles in butter and maple syrup. The first forkful went in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, your back slumped against the seat. The ecstasy on your face almost brought a smile to Booker’s face despite his confusion and mistrust.

“I haven’t had these in forever,” you said. There were almost tears in your voice.

Booker forked some eggs and toast onto a plate. He ate slowly as you devoured your meal. Somehow you seemed to relish each bite despite the pace at which you ate.

If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought you were starving.

At last, on the second plate of food, you slowed. You finished another plate before you pushed the empty platters aside. Leaning back against the seat, you resettled your attention back on Booker.

“Are there others like you?”

His chest constricted. “Yes,” he answered, glancing away. “Are there others like you?”

A pause. Then: “I don’t know. I imagine so. I’m not exactly a top-quality specimen.”

“What does that mean?”

The waitress sauntered over. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you,” you said. “Just the bill.”

The woman set the bill down with a flourish. You looked pointedly at Booker.

“What?” he asked.

“I don’t have money.”

“Of course you don’t.” He pulled out his wallet and counted out the necessary cash.

You reached over and pulled a ten-dollar bill out of the billfold before he could close it. “For the waitress,” you explained. “I have to use the bathroom. You gonna run out on me?”

Booker met your intense gaze. “No.”

You made a sound in your throat but got up and headed toward the restrooms anyway. Booker followed a moment later, realizing he needed to piss.

The restroom was thankfully empty. Booker stepped up to the urinal and tried to relax. His body still ached. How long had it been doing that? Maybe since before he had been exiled from the group. The thought poisoned his thoughts and soured the food in his stomach.

Shaking himself, he zipped up, flushed, and went to the sink. The cool water felt restorative over his hands. He splashed it onto his face, risked a glance in the mirror. His broken gaze reflected back to him, fractured by grief and shame and self-loathing.

He looked away.

The door to the bathroom opened. He glanced up to se you in the doorway.

“What?”

“We should get moving,” you said.

“You can wait a minute.”

“I’m a multi-million-dollar project. Waiting isn’t an option. They’ll come for me.”

Booker read the warning in your eyes and the tension in your voice. He turned off the faucet and snatched up some paper towels to dry his hands and face.

The government would want you back. And they’d love to get his hands on him, too.

He wasn’t going to stick around for that.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 6]

The aftermath of the motel fight.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​​, @city-of-weird​​, @all-the-right-regrets

Warnings: none

Gif Source: musafiir

Booker sat hunched in the passenger seat, wishing he hadn’t guzzled the liquid courage he had bought earlier. He couldn’t stop sneaking glances at you. The murky lamplight painted your stony face in hazy yellows, your reflection jaundiced in the window. You had run your hands through some water before ditching the motel room, but blood still crusted beneath your fingernails and in the nailbeds.

Booker had seen death and gore and destruction a million times over, but the image of you standing over the broken bodies haunted him. It took him an hour to realize why.

One of the bodies at your feet had its head completely turned around.

A weapon, he thought, shivering. More lethal than the rest of us combined.

He hadn’t seen your face and demeanor so tense in the short span he had known you. He could hear the steering wheel straining beneath your iron grip as you drove, the muscle in your jaw clenched just as hard.

“How did you do that?” he heard himself ask, his voice raspy.

“Easily,” you muttered.

The response sent a deep shiver through him. “I meant, how did you—”

“I had a tracking chip.” You tapped the base of your skull. “I took it out while I showered and put it in the adjacent room.”

“When?”

“When you left to get drunk. Then I waited, and they came.”

Heat crept up Booker’s neck. He looked away from you, hunkered down further in his seat. Your answers did little to soothe him. Each time he blinked, he saw the twisted head, the confused expression on the man’s face.

Rage radiated off you. Booker shifted uncomfortably, warning bells chiming quietly in the back of his mind.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” you hissed.

Booker twitched, startled by the vitriol in your voice. “Who?”

“The general. The asshole who sent the men.” The steering wheel groaned beneath your grip. “He’ll keep sending them like cannon fodder.”

“They can’t track you now.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’ll keep sending them to me to die. An absolute waste.”

Booker thought back to the men who had died pursuing Andy and the others—how wave after wave had been slaughtered. The scales had been weighed against them, their lives measured against the perceived millions to be saved by the health benefits reaped from immortality.

“I understand,” he murmured.

He felt your eyes on him for a moment, trying to read his face. He turned away, tried to stare past his haggard reflection in the window.

“I could use a drink.”

Booker looked at you sharply, hope glimmering in his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, but I can’t.”

Disappointment deflated him. “Why?”

“It doesn’t affect me. Part of all…this.” You gestured vaguely at yourself.

“When was the last time you had any fun?”

“When was the last time you did?”

It had involved baklava and a wager, he wanted to say, but he kept silent.

You drove for two hours, heading off the main road and letting them take you where they would. Booker dozed in and out of sleep, haunted by snatches of memory, as you navigated further into the middle of nowhere.

He woke abruptly with an urgent need to piss just as you pulled to a stop beneath a huge tree in full leaf. As he stumbled out of the car to relieve himself, he surveyed the landscape. Mountains rose up to the right, deep rolling hills to his left. It felt like he stood at the bottom of a bowl.

Shaking himself dry, he zipped up and returned to the car. You had tilted your seat back a few inches, allowing you to lean back to rest. You lay so still that he almost thought you were dead, your chest hardly moving.”

“We’ll sleep here,” you muttered.

Booker had slept in worse places, so he didn’t complain. Cranking back the seat, he closed his eyes.

~~

Hazy sunlight thick with dust motes slanted through the windshield, warming Booker awake. Blinking against the light, he cracked the kink in his neck, winced against the headache pulsing behind his eyes.

Sleep had been surprisingly restful, but he had had so little of it the past two days that he reasoned he had knocked out from the exhaustion. He needed a break, a drink…too much. He needed and could not receive—the bane of his existence.

He glanced aside.

The car was empty.

He jerked around, trying to see behind him. Pushing open his door, he tumbled out into the morning, sweeping his gaze across the beautiful landscape. Warmed grass tickled his nose with its heady scent as he walked around the car, scanning the rippling field.

You had left him.

He slumped against the trunk of the tree, passed a hand over his face. Everyone leaves, he reminded himself.

Delivering you to Quynh had been a fool’s hope. He had ninety-nine years left before he could reunite with the others, sans Andy. There was nothing he could do to change that.

Alone again.

An acorn dropped onto his forehead. Wincing, he glanced up.

Hidden among the branches, you sat with your back against the tree, one leg dangling over the branch you sat on. You peered down at him and waved him up.

“I don’t climb trees,” he shouted, trying to conceal his relief.

You waved at him again. Shaking his head, he hiked his pants up and proceeded to labor up the tree. It took him a few minutes to reach a solid branch next to you. He found you with your head tipped against the bark, specks of sunlight shifting across your face through the wind-stirred leaves.

“Sleep well?”

He nodded. “You?”

You shook your head. “Not ’til I came up here.”

Booker peered down at the ground. It would be a long fall.

“Why aren’t you with your team?”

The question caught him off-guard. Shifting uncomfortably, he groped for an answer. Your eyes bored into him, as though able to see through his lies.

“I made a selfish mistake,” he finally said. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but the weight on his shoulders shifted a fraction.

“What about the one who sent you to me?”

“She’s…complicated.”

“Why?”

“She hasn’t been around.”

You arched an eyebrow at him.

It felt wrong to talk about the others to someone who wasn’t immortal. Booker shook his head and looked away, hoping you didn’t push the issue.

“Will you get to see them again?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nice.” A forlorn tone tinged your voice. “I may never meet more of my kind. In fact, my escape may mean their deaths.”

Booker frowned. “They would shut down the program?”

“If they can’t retrieve me, put me down, or successfully reprogram me, they may decide having super soldiers isn’t worth the risk. What use are soldiers who AWOL at the first opportunity?”

He wanted to say it wasn’t your fault, but he knew the words would fall in deaf ears. They certainly had fallen on his plenty of times.

Instead, he leaned against the tree and lapsed into silence, enjoying the morning.

“Is there a signal you could send your friend? Something she would know?”

He frowned, wracked his hungover mind. “There may be something…”

“Good, because I don’t think we’re getting out of the country without her help.”

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 2]

You hijack Booker and his ride.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​​, @city-of-weird​​

Warnings: physical trauma

Gif Source: sonsofeorl

Booker froze, his eyes darting up to the rearview mirror. In it he saw you wreathed in shadows, your face slightly illuminated by the distant light spilling out of the liquor store.

The cold metal against his neck he surmised to be the gun you had taken from him.

“I’m taking over the jailbreak,” you said, a note of humor in your voice. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

“…you’re welcome.” It was all he could think to say.

You laughed and leaned back in your seat.

Booker’s hand drifted down the side of his seat, his eyes on yours. Yours gleamed in the dark, as though radiating a slight moonshine effect.

“This is where I say something cliché, like…‘drive.’ Or ‘don’t worry, I would’ve hurt you already if I wanted to,’” you continued.

His fingers curled around the seat adjustor lever. He yanked it up, jammed his back against the seat.

The seat smashed forward. Pain lanced through Booker’s chest as he slammed into the steering wheel.

“Nice try,” you said. “I’d try the same.”

You eased up on the pressure, drawing your foot away from the back of the seat, enough for him to breathe through the crack in his sternum. It slowly stitched back together, his wheezing dissipating.

“What are you?” he rasped.

Silence.

He glanced up in the rear view to see you staring past him, your eyes drawn to something on the dark horizon.

Shaking your head, you set the gun down on your lap. Booker tensed against the steering wheel, ready to push back hard on the seat.

You reached forward and grabbed the liquor bottle out of his hand. He felt it leave his grip as though his own soul had been taken with it.

“You can get more of this after you drive.”

Booker ground his teeth, glared at you in the mirror.

“No more funny business.” You sounded like a cop out of a noir film, the humor back in your voice. Shifting into the center of the backseat, you added, “Get driving, handsome.”

Booker straightened as the last of the pressure eased off. He set the seat back to its normal configuration and reluctantly started up the car, another plan forming in his mind.

“Let’s play twenty questions.”

He glanced at you again. “What?”

“I get to ask first. What’s your name?”

“Charles.”

“Sounds like a lie.”

“Tell me your name.”

A pause. Then: “They called me Spec back at the lab.”

“What kind of name is that?”

“My questions first. Your name?”

The word dragged out of him. “Booker.”

“That doesn’t sound French.” You sighed. “Whatever. Who sent you?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. As he groped for a response, you sighed again. “Just tell me. It’ll make things easier.”

“An old friend. I think.”

“You think? No, not a question, ignore that. Here’s a question: Why were you sent for me?”

Booker hesitated again. The needle on the speedometer crept past seventy, then seventy-five, the trees lining the road zipping past.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “She said…”

“Well, whoever she is, she didn’t really tell you the whole deal, did she?”

Maybe Quynh hadn’t known, he thought. He thought back to the even tones in her voice. No, she had to have known.

The needle passed ninety.

“What are you?”

Booker glanced at you. You shifted forward, eager for the answer.

He yanked the steering wheel right.

The car smashed against a tree.

~~

Booker gasped awake for the second time that night. Peeling himself off the airbags deployed from steering wheel, he fumbled with his seatbelt.

Chill evening air whipped in through the massive hole in the windshield.

Beyond lay a heap at the base of another tree.

Unclipping himself, Booker shouldered the driver’s door open and spilled out into the night. His pained breaths plumed out before him in small clouds.

In the fractured light from the unbroken headlight, the heap began to move.

Booker stared in disbelief as you unfolded yourself from the ball you had curled into. Something popped into place as you stood.

“That hurt,” you groaned.

Pieces of glass stuck out of the back of your neck. You tried to reach for them, gasped. Something looked wrong with your shoulder, like it had been pulled out of place. You staggered over to the nearest tree, inhaled sharply, and slammed your shoulder against it.

Booker blinked and rubbed his eyes. Had he drunk too much? This couldn’t be happening.

You weren’t an immortal.

Yet there you were, standing nearly unscathed after having flown through the windshield. He watched in horrid fascination as you pulled the pieces of glass out of the back of your neck.

“I should’ve guessed,” you muttered, glancing at him sullenly. “You look like a man trying to die.”

The taste in Booker’s mouth turned sour. He turned to the car, wondering if either of the two whiskey bottles had survived.

But maybe…maybe drinking wasn’t the best idea right now.

He wasn’t even sure he was awake, even though the pain felt very real.

He faced you again. You straightened, rolled your shoulders as though releasing stress.

“What are you?” he asked.

Your eyes met his sharply. “What are you?”

“Immortal.”

“Test tube or born that way?”

He blinked. “Born, I guess.”

Something like disappointment flickered across your features. “Well, I’m not immortal.”

Booker glanced at the wrecked car and windshield, gestured to it. “You survived that.”

“Because I was built to, not because I can’t die.”

The pounding in his head he had been ignoring suddenly swelled, pulsing behind his eyes. Inhaling through his nose, Booker buried his face in his hands, trying to process everything. You were the weapon, as you had said. Quynh had to have known that.

But why? Why would she need you? What made you different from Andy and the others?

He opened his eyes, flinched back. You stood right before him, having crept forward on silent feet. In the dark with nothing but the headlights shining through the woods, your eyes gleamed with something almost…predatory. Yet your face betrayed no malice or dangerous intent.

“You understand I can’t let you do that again, right?”

“I can’t anyway. The car is destroyed.”

“Yes, but you seem like you have brains.” You cocked your head. “When you’re not drowning in liquor, looks like.”

“What are you?” he repeated.

“More than human, I guess.”

“That’s not possible. I’m human, more or less.”

“Well, then, I guess I’m the next step in human evolution. Sorry about this.”

“About what?”

Pain exploded through his skull. He collapsed into oblivion.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 9]

You embark on the mission for Quynh.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​

Warnings: brief violence

Gif Source: boydswan

“You should stay here.”

Booker stared at you in disbelief. The anger radiating off you sickened him, his stomach clenching as you stormed across the pavement.

“No,” he said, trying to match your unforgiving stride. “I should go with you.”

“It’s better if I go alone.”

He managed to cut in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. “What does she want you to do?”

The muscle in your jaw jumped. “I have to eliminate a target.”

“Who?”

“I don’t ask the who. I just do.” You moved past him.

He grabbed your arm and was almost dragged away by you, your stride not once breaking. “Stop!”

“The sooner I get this done, the sooner you can reunite with your family.”

His chest constricted, but he stepped in front of you again, forcing you to stop. “I didn’t ask you to do this for me.”

“I told you I would do it.”

“You said you would meet with Quynh to fulfil my end of the bargain. You didn’t say you would do what she asked.”

Your face darkened. “I have no choice.”

“What does that mean?”

“Stay put. I’ll be back.”

“Stop it,” he snarled. The frustration in his voice surprised him. Why was he doing this? “I broke you out. All of this is my fault.” The moment the words left his mouth, he felt ill, guilt clawing through his guts.

“Don’t do that.”

He blinked, focused on you. Your frown matched his own, scoring deep lines in your face.

“I have to do this,” you whispered.

“Why?”

“Because she will turn me in and torture you for centuries if I don’t.”

Booker’s stomach plummeted. “She said that.”

“She means it. So I’m going to go do the job, and you’re going to stay here.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Booker—”

“Where are we going?”

For a moment, he glimpsed the predatory glint in your eyes, could almost see you weighing the options to keep him there by force. But then you relented, though you looked worse than before. “Germany.”

~~

The drive from Paris to Munich passed in silence. Booker had never seen you brood before, though to him it looked akin to murderous intent. You sat motionless in the passenger seat, your face a hard mask, anger rolling off you palpably. He had felt rage, had experienced it firsthand and from others, but yours seemed magnified, like a beast you weren’t that keen on reining in. It permeated the enclosed space, agitating Booker. He fidgeted and struggled to find something to break it, but each time he opened his mouth, your eyes slid sideways, silencing him.

Shortly before Munich, you told him to pull off the road. He happily obliged, eager for a chance to stretch his legs. He had driven for the whole nine hours it had taken to reach the city, too hesitant to ask you to take over at the halfway mark when fatigue had begun setting in.

You unfolded yourself from the seat, stepped out of the car. Booker did the same, watching you warily. Yanking open the trunk of the sedan, you hauled out a duffel bag, unzipped it. Pulling out a change of black clothes, you turned away from Booker and started to strip.

Booker pivoted sharply, trying not to look at you—but not before he glimpsed the curve of your spine as the shirt came off over your head. Shaking his head, he focused on the ground beneath his feet, fighting the strange feeling in his chest.

Anxiety, he told himself. Nerves before battle.

“Are you going to tell me the plan?” he asked.

“You are my backup. That means you watch my back but don’t make a move unless I tell you to.”

Booker frowned. “I don’t need to be benched.”

“Really? Because you’ve got the withdrawal shivers, and I don’t know how you’ll hold a gun.”

Heat flooded his face. His hands had begun to shake during the drive, some twenty-four hours after the last time he had had a drink. He thought he had hid them well, but of course you had noticed.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

You tapped him on the shoulder. He twitched in surprise but turned to find you fully dressed in black, a holster slung over your shoulders. You had two guns, the one beneath your arm and another strapped to your thigh. A tactical knife was strapped to your other thigh. Everything was black—black steel, matte paint. Nothing that could reflect light and give you away.

You pressed a Glock into his hands. “You’ve only got the one mag in it. Stay behind unless I say otherwise.”

He didn’t like it, the cold edge to your voice, the flat expression on your face. Like you had become something else, a machine. Only your eyes were alight with that predatory look that sent shivers through him.

“Let’s go.”

He followed you across the field and into the woods. The shade provided welcome relief from the sun. Sweat poured down Booker in rivulets. He tried to ignore what that meant, what the itching of his skin was saying.

You can drink after, he thought. Focus.

You walked for half an hour before coming to a stop at the edge of the trees, crouching low beside some shrubbery. Booker dropped down behind you, peering over your shoulder at the hut huddled low against the base of a small hill. A shiny compact SUV peeked around one corner of the hut.

“There are up to four in there,” you informed him. “Follow me to the hut but hang back while I breach.”

You hurried across the field before he could answer, slicing through the grass like a lioness on the prowl.

Booker scrambled after you.

Before he reached the hut, you were already breaching, kicking the door off its hinges and into the room. Shouts rose up inside, bullets flying. Booker rolled inside, disregarding your order, popped up onto his feet and aimed.

Right into Joe’s face.

“Joe?”

Joe met his gaze, stared in disbelief. “Booker?”

“Stop!” Booker’s voice tore from him in a ragged cry. “STOP! They’re my family!”

You froze, your knife buried in Nicky’s chest, a gun trained on an angry Andy. They all looked at him, bewildered.

“They’re my family,” Booker repeated, distraught.

[cinebration]

Written in DNA (Booker x Reader) [Part 8]

Booker and you meet with Quynh.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue

Tagged: @lucy-sky​, @city-of-weird​, @all-the-right-regrets, @alannister-always-pays-her-debts​

Warnings: none

Gif Source: boydswan

Booker glanced at you as the jet sped down the runway. Your gaze was glued to the window, an exhilarated smile on your face. Gravity pressed Booker against the seat as the plane lifted off, straining for a moment against the pull of the earth, engines shrieking on the wings.

Then relief followed, the jet leveling out and the engines quieting a fraction.

You turned to Booker, wide-eyed, a silly grin on your lips. “I’ve never flown before.”

He frowned. “Never?”

“No. That was fun, like a rollercoaster.”

He hadn’t quite gotten used to the feeling. Airplanes hadn’t been introduced until one-hundred-and-thirty-three years after he had been born—ninety-one years after he died. No matter how often he flew, he still thought mankind wasn’t meant to fly. Relaxing his grip on the armrests of his seat, he forced himself to calm and focus.

The jet would take them to an airfield outside Paris, where a car would be waiting. The pilot had relayed as much when Booker and you had arrived. The fake passport Booker had cobbled together didn’t even merit a glance as the airfield security passed you both on through.

Booker found himself brooding. How did Quynh have the resources for this? He reasoned she must be working for someone, or with someone.

Where was Andy? The others? Had Quynh contacted them? Was this job really a way for him to return to the fold?

“Booker?”

Your voice jolted him out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”

“You alright?”

He smiled ruefully. “No, but I never am.” He found you staring hard at him, your gaze boring through his. He shifted uncomfortably, the smile slipping from his face. “I’m…just thinking.”

“Uh-huh.”

Booker passed a hand over his face, ignoring the skeptical look on yours. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stood and wandered over the small cabin, looking for liquid gold.

He found it near the rear of the plane, little bottles of liquors lined up neatly in a row on a special shelf. Grabbing a handful, he unscrewed one and tossed it back, fire sliding down his throat. He exhaled in relief, opened his eyes.

You stood before him, your face a hard mask. He flinched, startled by your unexpected presence. Extending your hand to him, you waited.

He glanced from your hand to your face, then back again. “What?”

“The bottles.”

“No.”

“Don’t make me take them.” The edge in your voice scared him as much as the sharp look in your eyes.

Cursing in French, he handed over the bottles. You pocketed them and dragged him back to his seat.

“You don’t control me,” he grumbled.

“I told you, once we’re done, you can go back to drinking.”

“When did you say that?”

“The first night.”

He thought back. All he could remember was the car slamming into the tree, the way you unfolded from your broken position in the headlights. Crumpled metal, steaming engine, something burning. The darkness that had followed his disbelief.

“No, it wasn’t that,” he said, struggling to recall.

“Okay, so I don’t like to see you drinking.”

He frowned at you.

“I don’t like to be around drunk people.” You glanced out the window.

Then you’re in poor company, he thought.

~~

The jet landed in the private airfield. Night enveloped the area, broken only by the high-powered lights illuminating the airstrip. A black sedan waited a few yards away, engine idling.

As Booker descended the steps to the tarmac, his lower back screaming at him from sitting so long, he felt you tense behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Sweeping your eyes across the tarmac, you lingered on the sedan before staring past it to the private hanger.

Anxiety twinged in Booker’s chest. You had adopted that leonine posture again, moving with a predatory grace that unnerved him as much as it had the first time. He hung back, keeping pace beside you as you both approached the car.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

The driver’s door opened. A chauffeur in a black suit opened the rear passenger door and waved you both inside.

The drive passed in silence. Your wariness infected Booker, his thoughts whirling. Would Quynh already have gathered Andy and the others?

The sedan stopped before a rundown hotel on the outskirts of the city.

“Definitely something out of Bourne,” you muttered to yourself.

The man behind the counter pointed to the stairs. “Chambre deux cent cinq.”

“Room two-oh-five,” Booker translated.

“I heard him.”

He blinked in surprise, then shook it away. Of course you knew French. You would have to know multiple languages, wouldn’t you?

Booker took the key and opened the door, hesitated for a second to steel himself. You waited just behind him off to his right, wary but calm.

He couldn’t turn the knob. His stomach clenched, roiled. God, he needed a drink

Your hand rested on his shoulder.

Booker inhaled sharply, glanced over his shoulder at you. You tried a sympathetic smile, but it seemed so foreign on your face. The touch was enough, though.

Booker opened the door.

Quynh sat perched on the edge of the bed. She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Welcome.”

~~

Booker leaned against the wall opposite the door in the hallway, trying not to tear his hair out. Quynh had insisted on talking to you alone, forcing Booker out of the room so as not to hear what she had to say.

This is all wrong, he thought. It felt like Copley all over again.

After an hour, he paced to the door, tried the handle.

The door opened.

You pushed past him, your face a stony mask. Booker glanced back at Quynh. She looked away from him, a strange expression on her face.

Booker jogged after you as you shoved open the door at the end of the hallway.

“What is it?” he asked. “What does she want?”

You stopped so suddenly he crashed into your back, stumbled. You didn’t move but to look at him, your eyes flat. “I’m supposed to do what I was built for.”