#my body barely belongs to me anyway I might as well reclaim it with one final act you know

[j2h5b5]

She was cold when she came back to herself . She sensed that she had been cold for quite some time, at least if her stiff-armed self-embrace had a story to tell. She was shivering deeply, every muscle getting in on the action, and her nose and cheeks were completely numb. How long had she been out here, anyway? Had she fallen asleep?

With the sudden consciousness of her surroundings came another, sharper sensation—fear. It was pure, overwhelming, forming ice out of the blood in her veins and doing nothing to ease her bone-deep chill.

Alone. She was alone. She was alone in the dark. She was alone in the dark in the woods.

She might as well have been back There. That’s how vulnerable she was, had made herself. She remembered now, walking eyes wide open into these woods, fists and teeth clenched and heart hammering. It was her penance and her test. Both to punish herself for being so scared all the time and to see if she had it in her, anymore, to be anything else. It was time for her to face it, to show herself and them and him and the whole fucking world that Maxine Mayfield was no coward. That she could sit alone in the dark in the woods and face the unspeakable horrors that had taken up permanent residence in her head, every minute of every hour of every day.

Standing up was harder than it should have been. Her muscles had stiffened up considerably, and her legs wobbled with the force of the full-body trembling she had no power over. Her foot kicked an object and she looked down at the forest floor to see her walkie-talkie tumbling down a small hill. It came to rest next to a rock.

It was off. Of course it was. She had turned it off in her quest to prove all the things to all the people, and in her gradually clearing state of mind she could see the many flaws of that logic. They would have missed her by now, compared notes and found out that she was missing, freaked out and gone looking when she didn’t answer their fretful calls. It was an unbreakable rule now, in the after. Walkies on, always. Calls answered, immediately. No exceptions. And that was only in the now-rare times when they weren’t physically together, clinging to one another like the lost children they so essentially were.

“Idiot,” she chastised herself, picking her way carefully over to the hunk of plastic and bending stiffly to retrieve it. Taking a deep breath, she clicked it on, pressing the button to speak.

“Come in ,” she said in a hoarse voice that didn’t even sound like it belonged to her, “Is anyone there?”

There was barely even a pause. “Where are you, Max?”

Steve. Max’s eyes filled with tears, which definitely didn’t make her feel like the badass she had envisioned walking back out of these dark woods after facing down her demons and reclaiming her mojo. “I don’t know,” she replied, and her voice was small.

“Are you hurt?” His response was sharp, no-nonsense. Babysitter mode activated.

“I’m in the woods, Steve, I … I don’t know where.”

“It’s all right, I’m going to find you. Can you tell which direction the road is? Can you see any light?”

She paused, turning in a half circle before her eyes made out a vaguely less dark darkness in the distance. It would do, she decided, and she nodded as if he could see her.

“Max.” Steve’s voice came through again , gentle but urgent. “If you can tell which way the road is, start walking that direction, okay? When you get there, just stay put. I’m on my way. You hear me?”

“Yeah. I’m walking that way, I think. Toward the road.”

“Good. That’s my girl. Stop when you get there, all right?” he repeated.

“Steve?”

“What?”

“I’m really scared.”

There was a long pause this time, the crunch of Max’s feet through the dried leaves of the forest floor and the distant rumble of Steve’s car engine the only sounds that penetrated. Then she heard Steve take a deep breath before saying, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Max. You know that, right?”

She sniffed, swallowed back tears. She would not cry. She had made some major errors in judgment tonight, and she would not allow herself the luxury of tears.

Steve kept up a steady monologue of calm encouragement as she made her painfully slow way through the tangles of trees and roots, low-hanging branches and gnarled brambles snagging her hair and scratching her face. At last she stumbled onto the hard-packed pavement, tripping and almost hitting her knees.

“I’m here,” she said into the walkie that was clutched in a death grip in her hand. “I’m at the road. Can you find me?”

“Stay where you are,” Steve commanded. “I’ll be there in one minute.”

And somehow, miraculously, he was. She saw the headlights and fought the urge to duck back into the trees, an ice pick of fear slicing straight through her before she recognized the grille of Steve’s car as he slowed to a stop. He kept the engine running as he bolted from the driver’s seat. He reached her in three long strides, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into an embrace that was too tight to be comfortable but at the same time not tight enough. His lips crushed against the top of her head and his words were muffled but fierce: “Jesus, Max. Don’t you ever disappear on us like that again, you got it? Never.”

As she clung to him — in the dark , by the woods, but no longer alone — she began to cry.

[hollyhomburg]

(tw: breif talk of suicidal stuff/depression/self-harm, past sexual assault, venting) My life is so stressful right now and like- it's activating the [redacted bad thoughts that arise whenever I want an easy way out of heavy life events] my brother home and shit, and my grandparents are talking about redoing my whole house so that they can live in our basement so that they can avoid living in my aunt's house- who has a completely done basement just because my grandmother doesn't like how my uncle talks to her. That's literally the only reason.

and they don't have any money, and my mom and my brother only have a little bit and my grandfather has my brother believing some of this like- extravagant shit that they're going to do with our house which is basically tare it apart and redo it for nearly half a million dollars which is just- so untheasable and ridiculous and they just yell at anyone who calls them ridiculous and it's so fucking frustrating to deal with a bunch of men who really have no common sense.

and as much as I know my house is a piece of shit it is also my home that I've lived in for my entire life and my brother keeps saying that because I don't own it and I'm living with my mom I have no say in what happens to it and like the layout of the rooms and- fuck.

my sister and I were talking about it and I was getting overwhelmed this weekend and like- I literally had an intrusive thought that became an intrusive word out my mouth sort of situation and I just said like "yeah I need to die already" when I meant to say, "I need to move out already" and she looked really shocked but she didn't say anything and we just kinda glossed over the moment and moved on.

As much as I want to live on my own and be a fully-fledged human being, i know I couldn't cope with having no support system right now. and the only way i'd be able to move out is if i went to another country where like- the cost of living was cheaper, and while I do wanna go teach in South Korea, I really do, but the last time i lived there like- things weren't as good as I always make them out to be like

i know i romanticize the fuck out of the time i lived there- but literally the first week i bought a razor and was like internally "if i feel like i can't go home i won't make it home" and of course, alot of things changed and my life didn't suck as much by the time i actually left. I met my soulmate and i really became myself, But i still almost threw myself off a fucking bridge when i lived there and was raped and drugged by two separate men.

i really feel like now, especially with how things are in the world, i don't want to live away from my mom like She might be shitty to me sometimes but she really is the only person who loves me at all besides my one friend. and my brother is making me feel like I have no right to the home we've both lived in our whole lives. and I have no way to buy into the house even if I wanted too- which I'm not sure I do

i mean, i was raped and abused and sexually assaulted here too. i still shower in the same bathroom where I had to clean up my own blood after trying to kill myself. I want the house to be redone and I want things to change I just don't want it to happen this way, i don't want to feel pushed out of my own home before i can stand on my own two feet and like- what am i even trying to do with my life anyway.

[theninjamouse]

Ocean on Fire Phantom of the Opera AU Master List (To be added to as I see fit)

Strap in, this is gonna get long. Big thanks to @thaylepo for indulging me and sending many brilliant ideas. 

This is a basic rundown and ideas that would happen at some point in the story. Obviously some things could change or be added but I’ve just got to get this down before I go nuts

Shore and Grillby were childhood friends.

Shore is the child of a wealthy business man, taught from childhood that the arts are to be treasured and appreciated

However, while she may learn instruments and dance and music, she is to take over the family business, not run away to star in the opera like she wants

Grillby's father (he has parents in this au) was a famous violinist who often was called by Shore's father to perform for parties. He wound up teaching Shore fundamentals of music

Little Grillby was a shy flame. Always trailed along behind his father, clutching his tailcoats

Shore saw the tiny elemental and decided instantly: I'm going to be his BEST FRIEND

Queue stuttering, hesitant Grillby being dragged around the manor, getting into all sorts of trouble and adventures. He's a lot more hardy than Shore is, so he rather often found himself acting as a sort of guard dog. He was utterly distraught when Shore fell and broke her arm. Shore teased him about crying because she couldn’t stand to see him so upset

They also learn music together from Grillby's father. First time Shore hears Grillby sing, she grabs his face and screams with delight until the poor little guy is fully bright blue with blushing

Then Grillby's father dies. A family friend takes Grillby away to one of the opera houses to work. Grillby and Shore are 13 and 10 at this point and have spent the last 6 years together. Shore makes Grillby promise to keep singing, to keep the spark of his father alive through music. He promises

They both wait until they are out of sight of the other to cry

Grillby cries every night for the first 3 months in the opera house. As a monster, he is bullied by many of the other students. He mourns his father's passing and he misses Shore to a near unbearable level. The only comfort he has is when he sings quietly to himself in those few moments when he is alone doing his chores

Then he hears a voice, a soft and gentle voice that asks him why such a bright flame weeps. He runs away in fear and hides in his bed

But the voice asks him again and again. 'Why does such a bright flame weep?' Slowly, over the course of a year, Grillby tells the voice his story

The voice says he is the Phantom of the opera house. Grillby thinks he sounds rather young to be a Phantom

The Phantom replies that Grillby is rather young to have such a lovely voice. He offers to teach Grillby. The fire monster agrees upon hearing the Phantom's beautiful and haunting voice

After all, he did promise

15 years pass. Shore has taken over her family business and is finally able to offer herself as a patron to an opera house that has shown remarkable growth over the years, becoming well known in the arts circles

Partially thanks to the star of the show, a humanoid robot named Mettaton. Most of the monsters we know work the show behind the scenes, so having a monster in the lead is a new leap in gaining treatment that is more fair for monster kind as performers

But Mettaton is also a diva. The day Shore arrives with new managers, he throws his tantrum and quits after a rather suspicious accident.

Shore only has eyes for the fire elemental standing frozen with the rest of the crew. She suggests letting him take the lead role. Promising that she knows he can sing.

Grillby is so quiet most assumed he couldn't even talk so naturally protests break out and Shore maybe uses her power as a patron to insist. 'He promised me,' is all she says, looking right at him

So he sings and everyone is stunned at the strength and grace of his voice. The managers instantly whisk him away to prepare for the show

After the show, Shore goes to his new dressing room and they fall into each other's arms. They speak of times past, of the loneliness of being apart. But when Shore says that she wants to take him out to celebrate, he hesitates. The Phantom will not be happy if he leaves, he knows this

But he agrees and she leaves to let him change

Enter in The Phantom. Showing himself for the first time, a figure in black wearing a simple white mask over his face. White hands punched through the palms. Grillby is enchanted, dazed and follows The Phantom into the tunnels under the opera house

*Music of the Night noises*

Grillby has a bit of a Crisis because he genuinely cares about Phantom and they became very close friends as much as teacher and student but this is kind of odd?? A little frightening?

Phantom sees this, backpedals real hard but hides it and sends Grillby back upstairs before falling into bed and screaming into his pillow

When Shore finds Grillby vaguely wandering back into the theater, she goes, uh??? What happened?? Were you kidnapped? I kind of stayed up all night looking for you??

Grillby, still a little in shock because what the heck just happened "Kind of?"

Now that won't STAND

Shore starts digging to find out everything she can about this opera ghost, keeping a close eye on Grillby. There is no gaslighting here folks like in versions of the story that to this day drive me crazy

As Shore digs, accidents start happening. Loose floorboards, unlatched equipment, a falling sandbag or two. Shore catches on pretty quickly what’s happening when she catches just a flash of shadow more than once right before or after these little ‘incidents’ 

Finally plants herself down in the middle of the stage and calls for the Phantom to show his face. It takes a while then she sees a shadow just barely move. He’s up in the rafters, crouched like some kind of bat

“What is your freaking deal?” 

“Why are you trying to take what’s mine?” 

“Yours? He belongs to himself you dingbat”

That makes him laugh for reasons Shore doesn’t get

Conversation happens, a lot of dodging questions, shifting blame. Phantom is oddly charming. For being an attempted murdering/kidnapping jerk

“Are you the one who keeps trying to kill me? The sandbag dropped on my head, the broken trapdoor, the spiders in my hat??”

“Oh my God, I’m not responsible for every little thing that goes wrong in this place. It’s an old building, accidents do happen. 

“The sandbag was me though.”

Grillby materializes just to smack him in the head for that

And so it goes, Grillby and Shore trying to reconnect, Grillby trying to maintain a level of friendship (and maybe more?) with Phantom and Phantom attempting various levels of accidents to get Shore to leave the theater

Until one day he finds Shore on the stage. She’s singing to an empty theater. She’s not...good exactly but...rather unpracticed. He’s startled enough that he stops his evil giggling and untwisting of the hidden trapdoor in the stage to listen. 

He comes up silently, creeping on the edges just out of sight. When he speaks, Shore shrieks and nearly falls off the stage anyway. Her blushing does a weird thing to his Soul. Like a sort of flip flopping squeeze. 

“Well, if you’re going to think yourself worthy of my Flame, you’d better have a voice to match. Let me hear you sing again.”  

Many ‘threat’ filled lessons later-

“Hmm. Maybe there’s hope for you after all” 

“Maybe there’s more to you than a creepy stalker personality.” 

Past the Point of No Return scene happens at some point. I don’t make the rules

Also Phantom and Shore have a sword fight that maybe starts out as anger fueled but rather quickly changes to a pent up Feelings kind of deal

Grillby’s concern is quick to fade and he watches the two idiots dance around each other, wondering why exactly they don’t see how much they actually do like each other. 

It’s also at this moment he realizes fully that he loves them both

“Well shoot, I love these two morons and they love each other but won’t admit it. This is going to be very ‘fun’ to sort out”

Eventually, Shore asks for Phantom’s name. 

“My name...died with the person I was long ago.” 

“Maybe it’s time you reclaim it.” 

His name is Wing Dings Gaster and for countless years he was held by the Void. He doesn’t fully remember how he escaped, nor what he looked like before. All he knows is that his face is broken with terrible cracks and skeletal in only the vaguest sense with a body that ebbs and flows with darkness. When he first stumbled back into the light after the darkness of the Void, people screamed and ran from him. Or worse, they chased him, calling him an omen of death. So he retreated down below the theater and resigned himself to always be a watcher and made a mask to cover his face. 

He was alone for years until he heard young Grillby crying in a corner and sat as close as he dared. It took a while for him to gain the courage to speak to the elemental

Given the fluid nature of his body, it’s easy for him to change his voice to sing. It’s the only part of himself that he can see as holding any worth. 

Grillby was his only source of socialization and he’s terrified of losing him, which makes Phantom a tad bit clingy with some pretty severe separation anxiety 

Phantom is a sad, sad boy who needs a lot of hugs and therapy

Shore is kind to him despite it all (and despite the irritation at the ‘death threats’) 

Phantom finally admits that she was never in any actual danger because he might be a messed up guy but he’s not a murderer. He might have even nudged her out of the way with blue magic a few times to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

Eventually Phantom realizes he no longer wants her to leave. He wants to stand with her and Grillby. He wants to be a better monster but he doesn’t know how to do that so kind of retreats into his lair 

Grillby and Shore have to track him down. And queue the heart to heart, the great Crying Session, the Unmasking or whatever you wanna call it

And they all live an OT3 happy ending, the end

[lifebeginsbyleaving]

We Don’t Know Whats Out There

Description: 

Stiles can't sleep, and if he told enough people that was all it was, maybe he would start to believe it. Still, as tensions were rising about them losing their territory he couldn't bother them with something he didn't even fully understand. Maybe he just needed something fun and easy to help him relax. Like the hot neighbor that he keeps catching staring at him.

Derek can't sleep, and if he cleans his house enough maybe people won't realize how he doesn't care enough to clean up other parts of his life. Still, as he worried about his job and obligations, he couldn't let them down about finding a place they belonged. Maybe he just needed something interesting to keep his mind off of it. Like the clumsy man he can't keep his eyes off of.

This is for @sterek-bingo I used the tags overworked, insomnia, and neighbors. Around 20,000 words.

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

Derek threw his keys on the counter and sighed heavily when he heard them clatter to the floor. In the darkness of his apartment with the dull yellow light from the street lamp outside he could see them pathetically on the floor. He decided to leave them as he headed for his bed, it wasn't worth the effort.

He sluggishly took off his uniform. He placed his BHPD badge on his dresser as he yawned. It had been a long day and an even longer and stressful night. He had come in at one on his day off to help out and the next thing he knew he was helping the sheriff track an omega through the woods at one in the morning.

Now two hours later, he was finally able to strip down to his boxers to crawl into bed. He knew he should take a shower, but he was just so tired. The tired that goes right down to your bones.

He laid on his side staring into the darkness.

His cruiser needed a tune up soon. He should have gotten bagels for the morning so the sheriff wouldn't eat the leftover cinnamon rolls in the break room. He needed more coffee grounds soon too.

He turned onto his back and looked at the dark ceiling.

He closed his eyes. He laid in the darkness for several minutes.

He sighed as he whipped the blanket off.

"Tomorrow is going to suck ass." He spoke to the empty room as he swung his legs over the side of his bed.

He padded into the kitchen and turned on the light. He was met with the sight of a mountain of dishes from the previous lasagna night.

A blur of black fur jumped on to the counter.

Derek smiled and reached out to pet it. "Might as well, huh Lucian?"

Both the name and cat came from Cora. She had picked up the cat while traveling and it didn't get along with her beloved dog nor her girlfriend, so it had to go. When she called him to vent about having to bring him to a shelter Derek had immediately volunteered to drive all the way to pick him up.

Lucian meowed loudly in protest as Derek reclaimed his hand to start running the water.

He yawned once again, but knew he wouldn't get any sleep even if he did lay down. He cleaned the dishes as Lucian perched on the breakfast bar with his black tail slowly swishing side to side.

It was a half hour later by the time he had tamed the messy kitchen and only had a few more dishes to do. His shoulders ached and his eyelids drooped, he longed for sleep he knew he wouldn't get anytime soon.

As he let the pans soak, he went around the house collecting dishes.

He had forgotten a plate on the balcony and as he retrieved it, he caught sight of a light on in the apartments across the street. It was a corner apartment like his own, but this one had two windows. One was facing the woods at the back of their buildings, the other faced Derek's balcony and the alley between them. He set the plate down again on the railing as he took in the sight of a man. It looked like a youngish man, late twenties at the oldest, waving his arms around wildly while pacing in front of a desk in the corner of the room that looked out both windows. He was talking so adamantly Derek almost wanted to listen in. He decided against breaking the man's privacy and just watched. The man had a Batman shirt on and what looked to be matching bright yellow booty shorts on.

A small smile found its way to Derek's face.

The man looked to be practically shouting, for a moment Derek was worried he was shouting at someone, but then the man held up a large rubber duck and pointed an accusing finger at it.

Derek let out a full body laugh.

The man threw the duck with a triumphant grin and ran to his desk, which was facing the window Derek was looking in.

It was hard to make out features from across the street, but he could tell the intense concentration as the man tapped his computer keys rapidly.

Suddenly the man tipped his head forward and banged it against his laptop a few times. He leaned his head all the way back with what must've been a long groan.

Derek wanted to bring the man a cup of tea to soothe his frazzled state, and well, if he also wanted to leave a few marks on that long pale bared throat, that was only in his mind. Derek leaned against the railing to settle.

The man finally looked back up at his computer and muttered a few words. He ran his hands through his chestnut hair, making it stick up haphazardly.

Derek wished he could see the man more clearly, be able to see if he had any wrinkles from how expressive he was. See if he looked as rumpled as he seemed. See if those brown eyes looked as enchanting as he felt like they would. If those eyes w-

The eyes that squinted up at him. The eyes that looked directly at Derek.

He quickly stood up nearly knocking the plate over the side, but catching it at the last second.

When he looked back up he could see the man was bright red.

Derek quickly moved to go back inside and fumbled with the door. The stupid latch always stuck so he had to jiggle it for a moment before he could flee into his apartment.

He closed the curtain behind him and let out a breath. His cheeks were hot at being caught.

He quickly shrugged it off and finished the rest of the dishes trying to not think of the man catching him perving.

---

Stiles raced down the sidewalk trying not to bump into people. As he turned a sharp corner he banged his elbow which made him jump back and shove his computer bag into a very unhappy man.

"Solwry." He mumbled around the papers he was currently slobbering on.

He stumbled slightly as he looked down to shove them in his bag. He looked up and nearly was squashed by the door opening in front of him.

"Whoa! Sorry." He gave the exiting couple a nervous wave.

He entered the cafe with panting breath and his computer bag snagged then hit the wall with a bang.

Everyone in the cozy coffee shop looked up at him.

"Sorry!" His eyes scanned the crowd. "Sorry I'm late."

His father looked at him with an exasperated fond look. "Ten minutes Stiles. I only have a thirty minute lunch break."

Stiles scoffed as he sat down in the corner booth. "You're the boss. Who's coming up to you like," His voice went stern and low as he frowned. "You were ten minutes late coming back from your lunch." He added a wag of his finger to be dramatic.

The sheriff laughed. "Hale would. He's about as upright and lawful as they come. He wouldn't be insubordinate, but he would point it out to be a shit. Anyway it's about setting an example."

Stiles rolled his eyes. He'd heard many stories about Hale before. He was glad that his dad had someone like that to watch his back, but he put him up on such a pedestal. Stiles was worried that when they finally did the meeting his dad was pushing for so hard, he would introduce the wrong man as son.

"Yeah well, tell Hale to take that stick out of his ass." Stiles said before gulping down the molten sugary drink before him.

Stiles frowned. "Did you not get my text?"

"I did, but if I can't have fries you can't have a triple shot." His father looked smug until he took in his son's appearance. "Jesus kid! When's the last time you slept?"

"Counting the time I closed my eyes in the shower too long and almost lost my balance?"

His father didn't look impressed.

"I know, I know. I've just got this really big project right now. The client doesn't care when it's done, it's just really frustrating work. There are so many things going wrong that aren't easily fixed, and I can't figure them out. All these little problems keep popping up and as soon as I figure them out I think I can go to sleep, but then something goes wrong and I ca-"

"You can't just leave well enough alone. When there's a problem your brain won't let you sleep till you fix it." He had a faint smile. "Your mom was eight months pregnant when we bought your crib. We got home from the store exhausted, so we said we'd put it together in the morning. When your mother woke up I was passed out on your nursery floor surrounded by the shreds of the directions and your crib looked just like the display. You're so much like her, but you got some things from me."

Stiles smiled at him. "I've never heard that story before."

He shrugged. "That was back when I didn't think that moment would be important. Back when I thought we would have so many more the little ones wouldn't count."

He had that wistful sad look in his eyes, but a smile on his face. Stiles was grateful for how far they had come. Neither of them were able to even mention her for so long, to be talking freely in public meant the world to Stiles.

His father reached a hand across the table and he took it. He looked at him concerned. "Stiles, are you happy?"

Stiles plastered on too wide of a smile. "You don't have to worry about me pops."

He shook his head. "I always worry about you. I know you said you're good at this programming job, but I still think you should give that FBI offer another try. It was your dream job! You could consult from here, while still being in on the big cases. You'd use your education and degree. It was perf-"

Stiles put his hands up with an uneasy look. "I know dad. But I am good at the progra-"

His father cut him off just like he had to him. "I know you're good at it. Hell you're smart enough to be an astrophysicist if you damn well pleased. Stiles you're good at a lot. And anything you aren't, you've got enough drive and brains to keep at it till you are the world's leading expert." His father gave him a considering look and then deflated. "I won't push you on this today, but one of these days you're going to have to tell me what happened. Stiles you were mooning after that job since the end of high school. Then, you were bummed about having to give it up because you had to move home after college to help me and Scott with all the mumbo jumbo. But now, they offered you an at home position and you can't be bothered with it. I just don't understand, hell I don't even know if you do. I just hope you aren't doing this programming thing because for some reason you think you couldn't do what you really want to."

Stiles sighed. That wasn't it, but he was getting closer. Eventually he would have to explain to his dad and Scott what happened, but he'd have to figure it out himself first though.

"I love you for caring, but I can handle it. And I am really good at this, besides Danny's company needed the help." That was true when it started, but now Danny didn't need his help and they both knew it.

"I just want whatever will make you happy." His father squeezed his hand, then let go.

"My work is great for where I'm at right now."

The conversation switched over to the omega Stiles had narrowed down the possible hideouts for as they got their food.

They parted ways with a hug when his father went back to work.

---

Stiles got out his computer and tried to solve the problem he hit the night before.

Thinking back he wondered if he should have mentioned his stalker neighbor to his father. He dismissed the thought with a snort and got to work.

---

Erica's laugh was so loud he had to move the phone away from his ear.

"And you just went inside?"

Derek called her in his patrol car on lunch to try and get rid of the awkwardness of the previous night.

"What else would I have done? Shouted over, 'Hey sorry for watching you for a creepy amount of time. You just looked cute.' No, I fled like a normal person."

She cackled again. "You should take over some muffins, and then bang him."

Derek choked on his sandwich.

"I'm serious. You need to unwind. Nothing like a good dick to get you to relax."

Derek's cheeks went red. "Erica! I haven't even met him."

"So introduce yourself first. I'm like two weeks away from dragging you to The Jungle myself."

"You're worse than my sisters."

Derek's face went wide with horror at his slip up.

"Have you told them yet?"

"Yes."

She smelled blood in the water. "You haven't!"

"Erica no! Don't even think about it! Erica?" He looked at his phone to see she hung up. He banged his head against his wheel. "You never learn Hale." He would definitely have a couple texts from his sister's by night.

---

Derek had soon enough forgotten about that night after his sister's pokes faded.

He had a quiet week, till tonight that is.

He kicked off his boots not caring where they went.

Half the department had been chasing down a, supposedly, kidnapped teen. When Derek finally sniffed out the end of the trail that lead all over town, the scent of the boy was closely intertwined with marijuana.

He got ready for bed in a haze and the stress of the day finally hit like a weight on his chest. He had been so scared he wouldn't find the boy in time. He was so scared he would have to tell a frantic mother that he found her boy, but it was too late.

He finally realized why the sheriff had gripped his shoulder in a grounding squeeze like they hadn't found him in time while asking if he was alright. It was for this moment. The moment when it all became real. When he realized there was a boy they thought was in trouble and it would've been on them if he wasn't found. It was his job to get him back safely. It happened this time, but the sheriff knew this would come. He'd probably had moments just like this so many times.

Moments of staring at the ceiling and wondering what if. Wondering and imagining the worst, all the while blaming yourself for outcomes that didn't even happen.

Derek sighed and got out of bed. He wouldn't get any sleep with the mood he was in. It was much too somber and contemplative. He figured it had been awhile since he dusted his apartment anyway.

He worked silently while thinking intensely. He had a few morbid thoughts and decided he needed to get some fresh air to clear the dust clogging his lungs and cluttering his eyes. He opened the sliding door to his balcony, but soon enough the night's chill beckoned him out.

It was a welcome sensation on his skin. He breathed in the fresh air for a few moments before he caught sight of a familiar window lit up.

This time the man was sat at his computer furiously typing with headphones on. The man lifted a frankly unlawfully big coffee mug and tipped it completely. He rattled the mug before lifting it to his ear. The man seemed to freeze for a moment before shaking his head while setting it down.

Derek chuckled as he rubbed his hands down his face and slapped his cheeks.

The man must've been up for too long. As if to prove his point he yawned and pushed himself away from the computer. He grabbed the giant mug and disappeared from Derek's view. He came back a few moments later with the mug filled to the brim. He settled back into his groove.

Derek liked watching the man's gestures and how expressive he was, even if Derek couldn't make out all of his facial movements. He only felt slightly creepy for thinking of grabbing his pair of binoculars. Okay, he felt really creepy for that.

The man lifted the coffee to his lips while still typing and burned himself.

Derek could tell he was screaming cuss words.

In jerking back from the sensation the man spilled coffee all over his lap and he jumped up while patting his legs.

Derek was already highly amused and smiling broadly, but when the man left to get a towel only to be yanked back by his headphones he barked out loud laughter.

The man came back, now in black instead of blue sweatpants and looked to be shutting down his computer. The man stretched and Derek could tell his shirt rode up slightly. He was distractedly trying to look at him. When his shirt fell back down he looked back to his face.

One that was now pointed towards where his light was on and he was once again staring creepily.

Derek shot up and was thankful he had left his door open so he could just slip right inside without the wait.

Derek mentally kicked himself as he decided to just lay down, so he wouldn't be tempted to peek out his curtains to see if the man was calling his co-workers. God that'd be embarrassing. Parish would laugh his ass off if he got that call.

After a few moments thinking about the man he fell asleep with a smile remembering the hilarity of his sleepy mistake.

---

Lydia spooned the last of her dressing onto her salad. "And the guy just went back inside?"

"Yeah. He seemed embarrassed both times, but I don't know if I should tell my dad. On the one hand sheriff dad scaring off creepy guy, yay. On the other worried dad shooting creep."

She tilted her head in consideration. "Keep an eye out for him. If it becomes more of a problem or if he makes you uncomfortable then tell him."

"I don't know, I've never see him out there other nights. He doesn't really make me uncomfortable. I guess he's probably just curious about the weirdo up and three."

She laughed. "Probably. And what did I say about getting proper sleep? You'd get laid more often if you ever left your house not looking like a sleep deprived troll."

"Really feeling the love Lyds."

She narrowed her eyes and pointed her fork at him. "You know it's true. I didn't move back to Beacon Hills just for you to get us all murdered because you fell asleep researching and got us the wrong info. You need sleep, you insomniac workaholic." She stabbed a piece of chicken and stuffed it in her mouth menacingly.

"Has that ever happened?"

She swallowed and was undeterred. "No, but you need to be especially on your toes now. We all do. With this Malikhai pack circling we cannot show weakness. They're already sowing doubt about Scott's hold on Beacon's territory. Everyone concerned knows he didn't steal shit, but if they bend enough ears it could be a problem. A big one at that meeting in two months."

He nodded. "You're right. I'll get more sleep."

She assessed him, then shook her head. "You aren't going to do shit. You're restless and won't let anybody help you."

He considered her words. "Sometimes you're scary with how much you know."

She laughed as she gathered her things and dropped money for their lunch. "That's cute. I'm always scary because of how much I know. Kisses."

He waved at her bouncing curls.

---

The third time it happened Stiles could hardly blame him. He should've closed his curtains, but he loved being able to look outside. Even as he was dancing wildly to ABBA at four in the morning while in his boxers. In his defense though, how else are you supposed to organize your house?

Stiles had just finished quite literally boogieing to dancing queen when he looked up and saw that light on again. They both stared for a brief moment. Stiles had no idea what made him do it, but he did a tiny wave. Which the man returned hesitantly. Stiles smiled and it seemed like the man did as well. It was already hard to tell from the distance, but the man also had dark, albeit hot, facial hair.

He was just about to turn when the man started to clap. It confused Stiles for a second, until he realized the applause was for his performance. He bowed dramatically and when he straightened he was met with the sight of laughter. The man pointed back to his apartment before once again waving.

Stiles waved back and in a mindless moment blew a kiss.

He instantly internally panicked.

The man looked confused and he turned half way back to his door before reaching out his hand and catching the kiss. He then rushed inside.

Stiles' joyful insomniac energy was burst and he hid under his covers till he eventually fell asleep.

---

"He blew you a kiss?!"

Derek's voice was muffled by the counter it was pressed against, but it sounded vaguely affirmative.

"And you caught it."

This time the yes sounded more distressed.

Erica patted his back as she let out vigorous laughter.

When she finally settled down she offered, "Well, maybe he won't think you're as weird because he's weird too."

"Thanks for your comfort." He said deadpan.

She responded in kind. "I'm here for you in this difficult time." She steered the conversation back to her weekend plans with little consideration.

---

The only reasons he took night shift were because it was understaffed and if something supernatural happened he needed to be there anyway, but now he was thinking of adding so he could look to see if the light across the way was on.

These last few weeks he didn't linger, but he still smiled when he got home to see that light burning just like his own. He would check and some how that was enough. On the two nights he had stayed until he was caught it was no longer awkward. The man had just looked up and they waved before Derek left. Another night Derek just listened to the man's heartbeat and his soft mutters as he washed his floors.

He knew it was creepy, but something about the man was just...

Comforting.

Derek realized it was comforting to come home and have someone there.

God when had he gotten so lonely that a complete stranger waving at him from across the street felt intimate.

It was soothing, he supposed, to come home after a hard day to see that you weren't the only weary soul too tired to sleep. To know you weren't the only one battling things in the dark.

Derek set his wallet and keys on the table with a yawn. It wasn't an eventful day whatsoever. He had done nothing but paperwork and battle his drooping eyelids. He had been so tired all day, but now that he was home his mind jumped from one thing to another. After he got changed he grabbed a beer out of the fridge and decided to sit on the balcony. Might as well see what his neighbor was up to.

The light was on, but the man wasn't in sight.

Derek sat enjoying the calm night air while drinking his beer.

Just as he was starting to get worried, the man paced past in a flurry.

His arms were flailing and his lips were moving a mile a minute. Derek looked with fondness for a few moments. Then he noticed how heavily and fast the man's chest was heaving.

Something looked wrong. His movements, while normally clumsy, were erratic instead. Almost frantic. Derek knew it was not okay to listen in on the man under normal circumstances, but the man looked about ready to burst into tears.

"You're okay. Stop freaking out. Stop. Ju-just stop. Y-you're ok-kay. Just s-stop!"

The man looked down at his fingers and looked to be counting them. He then looked around his flat to name items with different colors.

Oh.

The man was having a panic attack.

The sheriff had taught them all different methods to calm someone having one, in case they encountered it on a case. The rainbow method was one. The man was trying to calm himself down.

The man repeated that he was okay over and over.

Derek listened to his heartbeat hammer. He needed to calm down or he would pass out. Derek knew he was on the third floor so he'd just have to figure out which apartment number.

He was just about to turn to go inside when the man ran to his desk and fumbled with his phone.

Derek felt a small amount of disappointment, but it was quickly pushed down. He was happy the man was getting help, even if it wasn't him. Besides how weird would that have been. 'Hey I'm your neighbor I heard you having a panic attack from across the street so I decided to find your apartment.'

The line rang for a long time and Derek hoped the person answered and was able to help.

Derek wasn't able to hear the other voice, but he could hear the man's. "Scott. P-panic a-t-t-" The man tried to force air into his lungs.

He didn't talk anymore, but he looked to be listening intently and he nodded his head even though the man on the line couldn't see it.

"B-better. But I- I'm still shaking." The man held up his shaking hand as if to prove it.

Derek listened to his heartbeat. It was no longer thudding, but it was still fast.

"No you d-don't have to. You're already on y-your way?" The man sighed, but went out of sight and Derek heard his door unlocking.

They stayed on the line until a car approached, headlights almost blinding on the empty dark street.

An obviously sleep ruffled puppy of a man got out and walked around to the building's entrance.

Derek heard knocking.

"What's the password?"

There was a sigh. "Rubber baby butter beans." The door unlatched.

Derek stifled a laugh.

Derek heard a muffled thanks and figured the man's face was pressed tightly into a hug.

They both walked in the view of the window and Derek got a little better of a look at the stranger. He looked like he could be handsome, but from this distance it was hard to tell.

He was too busy focusing on the man's face he didn't catch their conversation. Soon enough the lights went out and he heard two people settling into bed. The man's heartbeat had settled slightly, but his breaths still had a few hitches.

"Focus on my breathing. Feel my chest move. We're safe here. I've got you."

Derek started to wonder if maybe they were together. A boyfriend would be more inclined to get out of bed to check on someone than a friend. But then again if he called Erica in the middle of the night she'd break his door down. Maybe they were just friends. Then again, the magenta, purple, and blue flag hanging on the man's wall had Derek wondering.

When he first saw it, it had made him glad, but now it caused a rolling in his stomach. It was ridiculous, he shouldn't be jealous over a neighbor he hadn't even met!

He decided to go inside and clean Lucian's litter box then organize his bookshelves.

He was deeply engrossed in a book by the time he heard movement on the street. He decided to put his book down to check it out.

"Thanks for tonight Scotty."

The stranger, Scott, got his keys out of his pocket as they hugged. "Yeah yeah. You know you can call me whenever."

The man stuck his hands in his pj pants pockets. "Yeah well, still tell Alli sorry for stealing her boyfriend."

Scott grinned. "We all know I'm both of yours."

The man let out an obnoxiously loud laugh for the quiet morning. "True. Now get out of here. Don't want to keep Mr. Cryptic boss waiting. Love you bro."

"Love you too." The man started his car and Derek realized he was dressed for the day. He must've borrowed some clothes. Or maybe he has a drawer.

Derek's head was starting to hurt trying to figure out what their relationship was. He had said both of yours, like he was both of their boyfriend. Maybe they were poly? But then why hadn't this Alli come too? Maybe they were just friends and it was a joke.

Derek got into bed still trying to figure it out, but drifted swiftly after thinking of his loud laughter. It was an oddly soothing sound.

He wanted to hear it more often.

---

Stiles spread the burgers and fries out on the counter. "Oh please, iron man's ass is forged of metal. Cap's is pure squats and muscle."

Scott pinched the skin of the kitten's neck. "You mean, pure super soldier serum." Scott gave it it's shot before soothing the kitten.

Stiles waved a fry at him. "But still muscle. The serum just amplified his muscle definition. But it is still muscle, and there for, it is America's true ass."

"What about Deadpool? He's got a good ass. What about him?"

Stiles snorted. "For starters? He's Canadian."

Scott tilted his head. "Oh yeah."

Stiles rubbed the grease and salt from his hands on to his jeans. He tried to sneak a few fries from Scott's, but he looked over.

"Hey! Paws to yourself! Those are mine."

Stiles stuck out his tongue and grabbed his burger instead. "Best super hero ass hands down is Dick Grayson."

Scott softly placed the kitten back in the pen and grabbed another. "No way. Black canary all the way."

Stiles scoffed. "Sure, bud."

Scott gave the last kitten it's shot before washing up to eat. "That isn't what I called you here to talk about though."

Stiles raised and eyebrow. "What. No way. You didn't call me here to debate superhero glutes?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "I wanted to talk to you about next month."

Stiles took a huge bite so he didn't have to respond.

"This is important." Scott tried to meet his eyes, but Stiles avoided him. He sighed. "What is the matter with you lately dude? We all agreed as a pack, we need this meeting to go well. If we are going to hold Beacon as McCall- Stilinski territory, next month is important. Why does it seem like you're checking out?" Scott focused on his face. "Are you okay? If something is wro-"

"I'm okay Scott. You don't have to worry about me. I'll get my head in the game before then, I've just had some personal shit going on."

He gave him a sad look. "I miss the days when your personal was mine."

Stiles looked down. There was a pit in his stomach as his throat dried. "I know Scotty, but I will tell you, eventually. I just need to work some stuff out."

"You keep saying that, but I don't think you're working anything out. I think you're just keeping things to yourself because you don't want to worry anybody."

Stiles mindlessly stirred his ketchup with a fry.

"But you are. You are worrying us. We just want to help."

"I know." Stiles met his eyes. "We'll deal with the Malikhai pack and their challenge of our territory first. Derek Hale is one of my dad's newer deputies. He brought two other betas with him from New York. They talked and Laura is still their alpha, so the Malikhai pack doesn't have grounds for a refusal because Derek is just a beta. Even if this has been Hale territory for centuries, with Laura setting up a pack in New York, Beacon is forfeit unless a Hale alpha shows up to claim it."

"What if Laura shows up to challenge us?"

Stiles shook his head. "Derek told my dad she isn't interested in Beacon. She gave her word she never intends to take Beacon for her territory as long as we take care of it. She thinks we're doing well enough from what she's heard."

Scott nodded. "Let's go over the protocol again."

Stiles gathered his trash. "You'll be fine, but if you want we can."

---

Derek reached for the bottle of wolfsbane laced whiskey in the back of his cabinet. His eyes had already healed from the puffy state his call with Laura and Cora had left them in, but he felt new tears at the back of his eyes.

A family had left a roast in the oven overnight, accidentally on high, but thankfully it was called in soon enough. Fire calls usually left him shaken, but there was a little girl that looked exactly like Cora. She was coughing the smoke from her lungs that also clung to her clothes and hair and soon enough Derek was the one unable to breathe. He tried to hide his claws and fangs and closed his eyes when they flashed red. He didn't know how long it was before he felt the sheriff's arms wrap around him and send him home, but after his phone calls it was now three in the morning.

He refilled his glass and went to get changed. He struggled with his pants already feeling the alcohol, wolfsbane made the effect almost instant. By the time he had finished getting changed he needed to find the bottle again.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the frightened ones of the little girl. It was times like this he longed to feel the shift take over and get in a much more simple state of mind, a much more primal one. It felt like the smoke was in him and the flames were licking his face. He needed air.

He went to the balcony and like he knew it would be, that light was on.

The man was hard at work, tapping away at his computer. He was chewing a pen cap in-between his teeth as he focused intently on his screen.

Derek wanted the man to look at him. To notice him so he wasn't alone. He wanted to feel like he was seen and his pain was normal.

He had moved back from New York because everything was just too impersonal. You could fade into the city and no one would ever know you were gone. But a small part of him hoped that the man would notice if he never had his light on at an ungodly hour again. He wished that someone cared about him like he was important.

Derek hung halfway off the balcony as he began to frantically wave. He sloshed his almost empty whiskey as he flung his arms out.

Eventually the man looked up. He hesitantly waved and Derek raised his glass to him.

The man laughed and raised his coffee mug in return.

Derek laughed finding it funnier than it was. He got an idea and before he could think about it he held out his flat palm with his other fist placed atop it. He moved both hands forward in question.

The man looked confused and shrugged.

Derek thrust his hands out again, and then he pounded his fist three times on top of his palm.

The man laughed and mirrored his hands.

They pounded their fists in unison, and on the third beat Derek held up rock and the man held up paper. The man pumped his hands in victory. Derek threw both arms out in mock defeat. Derek watched the man throw back his head in a laugh with rapt attention. He held up a finger to tell him to wait before pushing his computer chair away.

Derek wanted to tell him not to leave, but soon enough he was back. He held up something to the window, it looked like marker. He uncapped it and began writing on the window backwards. He made two columns, one labeled, me. And the other, you. He put a tally mark under the me column before setting the marker down.

By the end of the night Derek could barely see the man with all the marks on the window. He had his computer chair pushed away as he leaned over his desk to get closer to count them. The man won by two points and he did a victory dance. The man acted like a wave was passing through his arms and he pointed it at Derek. He was just drunk enough that he pretended to continue it with a sad excuse of a robot.

Derek could almost hear the man's laughter ringing in his ears as he laid down to sleep. He fell asleep picturing his wide grin and cute dance.

---

Cora's laughter was booming. Laura spoke in a consoling tone, "Oh Derbear. You did your robot?"

Derek just groaned at her.

Cora spoke with no mercy, "Your robot sucks ass."

"I am aware, devil spawn. Well, sober me is."

"Hey call me devil spawn all you'd like, I'm not the one that scarred their cute neighbor with the abomination that is you dancing."

"Laura tell her to stop. Order her to be nicer, use the eyes."

"Sorry lil bro. She's right."

"Ugggh." Derek groaned into his pillow. "You both are terrible."

---

Derek tried to avoid the balcony out of shame for the next week.

The loud banging in the alley drew his attention before he could remember to stay inside. For a second he didn't see anything below, but then a trashcan tipped over and circled before a plump raccoon crawled out. Derek looked up, relieved it hadn't been someone trying to break in. He didn't want to have to deal with that tonight. He saw that light on and inside the man's head was tipped down still looking at the raccoon.

He looked more distressed than normal. Mugs stacked around his desk and there were papers strewn about. His hair was frazzled and he had tension in his shoulders. Derek wondered what stressed him so much. Maybe it was his job, he could have an upcoming deadline. Maybe he w-

He was staring back up at him.

The man brightened and waved enthusiastically. Derek waved back.

There was a pause.

Derek tried to mime that now that he had checked out the alley, and it was just raccoons he was going to head back to bed. But the man looked confused at his gestures. It probably looked like he was trying to make shadow puppets. He pointed a thumb back at his apartment and the man looked down. Derek started to move back reluctantly. He felt so rude, like he was leaving in the middle of a conversation, but he was also still embarrassed.

The man grabbed something from across his desk. He held up the orange marker. Derek stood there considering for a moment. The man took that as a no and set the marker down.

"Don't do it Hale." He whispered to himself.

He held up his hands and the man energetically moved to get ready.

They played till something drew the man's attention to his computer. He held up a hand to motion for Derek to wait.

He clicked for a few moments before pointing to his computer. Derek nodded and settled into a chair while pulling out his phone.

Derek's attention was drawn back upwards when he saw a fast movement. He looked up to be met with the sight of catastrophe. There were papers spewing out of the man's printer at an unearthly rate. The man was shouting and waving for the printer to stop. He jabbed at a few buttons, but to no avail. The printer just kept going and in one final power move the man unplugged the machine. It stilled and he sagged with relief.

The man looked up at Derek. Derek finally absorbed the situation and burst out laughing. The man quickly joined in. Once they had calmed down he gathered the papers and shook his head at them. He closed down his computer and span his chair in a circle before meeting Derek in their next match.

Derek won the night and the man put a little mark on the top window opposite to an identical mark.

So this was a thing. The man clearly expected to play again. He expected to play enough games where they would need to keep track on the window. Maybe this would be their thing. Rock, paper, scissors from across the street.

Derek got cozy in bed as a warm feeling settled in his chest. It was nice to have something, some sort of connection to someone. This was the sort of thing he missed in New York. He missed helping little old ladies at the grocery store and talking to neighbors while getting the mail. He missed seeing the same face multiple times just going to the bank. In the city everything was constantly changing, shifting. Derek just always felt like backdrop rather than a person. He missed being a part of a community. He missed feeling like he made an impact.

He supposed that's why he joined the PD. To help people. Feeling like he helped someone was the best thing to Derek. He wanted to have people around him and to be able to take care of them. No matter how close he was to his sisters, traveling never felt settled enough, and Laura's pack felt solid enough without him. He didn't have an integral place with either of them that truly felt like his own. He'd been back in Beacon hills for months now, and a couple games of rock, paper, scissors and an over protective boss was as close as he got to finding a place he belonged. No matter how much he saw them getting closer or he enjoyed his job, his co-workers were still just work friends and his job wasn't going to make him feel fulfilled.

He wanted someone to belong to. Someone that felt like home.

He drifted off wondering how soon he would meet someone like that for him, or if he already had.

---

Allison looked at Scott concerned. "Stiles, you sound pretty gone."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "He gave you a pen and I had to convince him to not propose the next time he saw you. I think me having a crush on my neighbor/rock, paper, scissors pal/stalker is sane in comparison."

She gave him a, 'Yeah keep telling yourself that.' look.

"I think if it makes you happy you should do it. You know how to take care of yourself. Maybe you're soulmates."

Allison rolled her eyes.

Stiles slung an arm around Scott's neck. "See, this is why you're my best friend. You always support me."

Scott beamed.

---

Derek grimaced as he tried to not smear blood on his door or walls.

He went straight to the bathroom and put his torn, soaked top right into the garbage. He turned on the water and steam started to billow into the room. He stripped and looked at the damage in the mirror.

They had been looking aimlessly for the omega for weeks now. But the night before another body was found, so they were determined. The sheriff came in with another map that had random circles on it. He had been bringing them in from his pack. Derek was glad that beacon had the McCall- Stilinski pack to look out for it, they wouldn't have been able to search even the narrowed down areas without the pack's help. The sheriff and him finally found the omega and cornered him.

Derek winced as he prodded at the claw mark across his side.

The omega had been able to get in a few surprise attacks before Derek fought back.

He stepped under the spray and let out a content grumble, happy to have the omega's blood swirling down the drain instead of sticking to his skin. He washed away the day and was satisfied that they had finally dealt with the wayward wolf.

He turned off the water wanting to collapse into bed, but still having a little bit of adrenaline left from the fight.

He decided to check in on his neighbor before bed. He threw on a pair of sweatpants before padding out to the balcony.

After his hot shower the air outside raised the hair on the back of his neck and arms. His eyebrows pulled together once he saw the blinds closed with the light on. He could see the silhouette of the man sitting at his chair.

That was odd. He never closed his blinds. Maybe he didn't want to see Derek anymore. Maybe he weirded him out. The man seemed happy to see him last time. Derek shouldn't feel this hurt, this shut out. It just felt like they were building a relationship, even if they just played a game.

Maybe he was just embarrassed about the printer thing, like Derek had been. Or maybe he was having more computer problems.

That thought brought conflicting emotions. First, it brought a smile, but then he thought about how easy it was for the man to be able to shut him out.

Maybe he was in trouble. He doubted it, but maybe. Derek had a worrying thought. What if the man was having another panic attack, but he didn't want him to see?

Derek internally debated for a moment longer before deciding to just listen in to check on him.

He focused and could hear the man's heartbeat thumping rapidly. His breathing was shallow and fast.

Derek panicked. Why wasn't he calling his friend?

There were sounds of movement that Derek couldn't make out.

He heard breathing sounds that sounded like they were coming from his computer and Derek was puzzled. Was the man trying some breathing exercises to calm down? He heard an extended groan and Derek's eyes widened.

Oh.

He heard a loud breathy moan that faded off into a needy whine and his face flamed.

Oh.

That was why his blinds were closed. Derek heard more decidedly not breathing exercise noises from the man's computer. Now that he knew what it was Derek could easily tell exactly what the noise of movement was from. There was a gasp then a guttural moan. Derek quickly blocked out the noise again and he scurried inside like he was the one caught jerking off.

He laid in bed with red ears. He closed his eyes to fall asleep, but he kept replaying the sounds over and over. He let out a frustrated groan before pulling his pillow over his face like that would muffled the noise in his head. The man's moans had gotten to him more than he'd like to admit. It would be very uncomfortable to fall asleep now.

He threw the pillow off and muttered, "Oh for God's sake!" Before shoving a hand past his waistband.

Later he fell asleep feeling satisfied, content, and very embarrassed.

---

Erica practically cackled off the couch and even Boyd cracked a small smile.

"Oh God Hale, only you!"

Derek stabbed his spoon into his ice cream and it clinked harshly against the ceramic. "How was I supposed to know! That he was..."

Erica gleefully finished his sentence. "Masturbating?"

Derek looked down to hide his burning face. "Can you stop enjoying my pain please?"

"Nu-uh I'm your friend. I have to make you more embarrassed. It's my job."

He scowled at her and she stuck her tongue out.

She spoke through a bite of cookies and cream, "What did you do after you realized what he was doing?"

"I went inside and I..." He avoided looking at her.

"You what?" She looked at him and then at Boyd's smirking face. "You didn't!" She asked shocked. She laughed at him again.

He groaned and forcefully stirred his ice cream.

"Oh my God, you so did!"

---

Stiles couldn't breathe.

Correction, the breath entering his lungs left just as fast as it entered. He could breathe in the same way that he could think. In a way that only made the situation worse and more panic inducing.

He needed to calm down. He tried to breathe. He tried to think about something else, but his thoughts kept circling back. He couldn't call Scott because he had a difficult surgery in the morning. If he called Allison it would wake Scott. He didn't want to call Lydia because it always freaked her out when she wasn't actually there to help. Sometimes she just made it worse no matter how much comfort she wanted to offer. Jackson was in a completely different time zone. He couldn't call his dad because he would still be on shift. Liam, Kira, and Malia all didn't know about his panic attacks and now wouldn't be the best time to have them figure it out.

He muttered to himself, "Y-you can d-d-o this." He tried to calm himself down, but knowing he didn't have anyone he could call made it worse.

He grabbed at his hair as he paced. "S-stop! S-t-top! Fuck-k!"

The tears were rushing down his face and his vision was blurred. His mind whipped in a frenzy as thoughts frantically raced.

He couldn't take it anymore. He ran over to his desk. He shoved papers trying to find his phone, but he could barely see thought the tears. He looked up and cursed, "F-fuck! Stupid f-f-fucking pho-one!" He closed his eyes harshly and when he opened them that light across the street was on.

He met eyes with his shocked pajama clad neighbor.

His mind was a torrent of thoughts. Oh God he was so stupid. This was so stupid. He was an idiot! Why! Why was he doing this right now! Why did his neighbor have to be there! He wouldn't ever want to see him again. Wh-

He went to move out of sight of the window, but his neighbor waved his hands frantically.

Stiles watched with curious eyes as his neighbor put a hand on to his chest. He slowly lifted it up and held it before placing it back on his chest again.

Stiles looked at him with curious eyes and his breathing still hammered in and out.

His neighbor repeated the motion and deeply inhaled this time.

Oh. He wanted Stiles to synch his breathing.

A small smile fought its way through all the panic and distress previously on his face. His neighbor wanted to help him, to calm him down. Even though he barely knew him he cared.

Stiles payed attention to the rhythm his neighbor set, but his breathing wouldn't calm.

More frustrated tears fell. "I-I can't." He whispered as he shook his head.

His neighbor used his other hand to gesture for him to calm down, then he paused the breathing motion to tap his own heartbeat. He resumed the breathing motion. He said something that Stiles couldn't understand.

Stiles tried again. He dug his fingernails into his palm as he tried to ground himself. He was fine. There was someone with him. They cared. He wanted him to calm down, to breathe. Just breathe. It was going to be okay. He was okay. As he thought he kept his eyes on his neighbor's moving hand.

They stood there together for several minutes.

The motion eventually soothed him into a normal breathing pattern. His tears were still falling, but his head was no longer pounding and he could breathe easily. Stiles wiped his eyes and focused on his neighbor's, which were still staring at him calmly.

His neighbor pointed at Stiles and then himself, after he pressed his pointer finger to his thumb as the rest of his fingers fanned upwards.

He smiled. He was trying to tell Stiles that they were okay. Stiles nodded and lifted his hand to copy his gesture.

His neighbor smiled and dropped his hands.

Stiles tried to convey he was sorry and moved his mouth exaggeratedly while he spoke, "Sorry."

He waved his hand in a dismissal. And once again mimed that it was okay.

Stiles was trying to figure out the best way to flee and watch Netflix, not being able to sleep, while they just stared at each other.

His neighbor tentatively raised his hands in a very familiar way.

Stiles smiled and sat on his computer chair. It was a way to pass the time. And a way to not be alone with his thoughts.

They played till the morning light invaded their hidden game. Stiles counted the tally marks and reluctantly put another tally under the you column. Stiles stuck out his tongue.

He held up a middle finger and Stiles clutched his chest with an overly shocked look. He laughed at him and Stiles smiled in return.

---

"I still wish you would've called me."

Stiles shrugged at Lydia. "I couldn't find my phone."

They both drank their smoothies while walking to the next shop in silence. She looked over at him with an assessing look.

"What?"

She only squinted further.

"What."

"Nothing. I'm just surprised he was able to calm you down like that."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I was desperate. If fricken Elmo popped up and started counting breaths with me I probably would've gone with it."

She hummed and turned back to look where she was going. "I think you should make him cookies. As a thank you. Besides, it's neighborly."

He looked at her like she was crazy. "Are you crazy?! How weird would that be? To just show up with cookies. Like, 'Hey I'm your crazy neighbor that had a panic attack and you had to spend several minutes calming me down. So thanks. Here's some double chip.' No, thank you. I will stick with rock, paper, scissors and pretending I'm not falling in love with a man I've never met."

A passing couple gaped at them, having clearly only caught the last sentence. Stiles squinted at them and they looked away quickly.

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Do you really want to live your life not taking chances and connecting with people? You live and work in your apartment. The only time you leave is when the pack or your dad drag you out. This guy seems sweet, albeit a bit creepy, but sweet. I think you should give it a shot. Do you really want to play rock, paper, scissors with him till one of you moves? You have no social life Stiles."

Stiles argued, "Hey I trash talk ten year olds in Halo, just fine."

She didn't react to his joke. "Stiles."

He sighed. "Yeah, I know."

She squinted. "Do you? Do you know what it's like to see one of your best friends waste away and not even care about their life? I don't know what the hell happened to you at college, but you didn't come back the same. At first I thought it was some left over nogitsune bullshit, but it's not. You just don't seem to care about your life. Do you know what that's like for us? For your dad?" She got a little choked up. "For me?"

Stiles pulled her into a hug and fought tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"And you won't let us help you. Why?"

Stiles kissed her head. "Because you can't. I know that's difficult to handle, but you can't. And I'm sorry. I'm so fuckin sorry Lyds."

She spoke through her tears, "We just want for you to b-"

"To be happy. I know." He rubbed his hands down her arms. "I'll try the cookies."

---

Stiles drummed fingers on the container as he waited for that light to go on. He tried to busy himself with work, but the problems that wouldn't let him sleep couldn't hold his attention.

He was staring off into space nervously chewing a pen when that light flicked on. He shot out of his seat and bulleted to the door, getting to the doorway before remembering to go back for the container.

---

Derek loved his job. He loved it. He enjoyed his work and actually looked forward to it. He liked feeling like he was doing something important. But all this week there was this itch under his collar, his badge felt heavy, and he just wanted to put his gun away. He couldn't wait to get home.

Who knows how long the man had been panicking for at the start of the week. Derek felt unease in his chest all day and night until he could get home to check on that light and the man it created a halo for. Each night they waved and if the man didn't have work to do they added another mark to the window above.

Derek was becoming worryingly dependant on their routine. He was starting to think if the man wasn't there one night his wolf wouldn't rest till he hunted him down to make sure he was safe. Derek shook his head at that thought. He had more self control than that. He kicked his boots off and flicked on his light. He unbuttoned his top button and didn't even have the patience to change first before opening the sliding door. He frowned at the light on, but the chair was empty and moving in a circle. Maybe he went to get something to drink. Derek listened to the empty flat and started to wonder if he had as much self control as he thought.

He went back inside to change.

After throwing on a pair of sweatpants he paced thinking about what could've happened. Why would've he left his light on? Maybe someone called him for something, like Scott. Maybe Derek just couldn't hear him in there for some reason. Maybe he was safe.

Or maybe someone broke in and took him.

Derek strode to his door deciding to just go over and see if he could smell distress outside his door.

He was across the room from the door when there was a knock.

Derek froze.

Who would be knocking at three am? The Erica of his mind supplied that it could be the man, naked, with flowers. He dismissed that thought as he took a deep breath through his nose as he got closer.

One man. Nervous, very, but excited. Home, like baking and happiness. Like cookies and cinnamon. There was a hint of the scent of rain and thunderstorms. There was a undercurrent of a drug. Nothing he was familiar with, so not illegal. Prescription most likely. There was a Woody scent too. Sandalwood, cedar? There was a pungent coffee and sugar scent like it was all the man consumed.

There was another, much smaller, knock.

Derek opened the door. His mouth opened and his breath was lost.

It was most definitely the man. Derek didn't need to have seen his face, he'd know that messy hair and bright cartoon pajamas anywhere. But now that he did see his face, there was no going back after seeing those wide bright brown eyes. He had moles everywhere and God those lips. Having that hair close enough he wanted to run his fingers through it, or just tug on it. Fuck, he was so gone and the man hadn't even spoken to him yet. Derek took in the man's expression, he looked terrified. He could practically hear the man's dry throat trying to swallow. He realized what his own must look like. He probably still had defensive posture. His face still scrunched in what his sister's called, 'The murder face of concentration.'

He opened his lips to talk, but the man blurted instead, "Oh god this was a terrible idea. I can't believe I did this. Why did I listen to Lydia. You were so nice to calm me down and I just show up on your doorstep like a weirdo. This was weird, this was bad. I mean look at you, god look at your arms!" The man flung out an arm vaguely at Derek. "You probably don't even eat cookies, you probably eat bullets! Lydia was so wrong. You were just being nice helping me, and I've made it weird with cookies. God how does someone even make something weird with cookies? You probably were just humoring me with the rock, paper, scissors. Just being nice, waiting till it wasn't rude to just never look over at me again. You were probably just enjoying the night out on your sick balcony, when you saw a crazy person up at three and were curious, but now the crazy person is on your doorstep. And you'll probably call the cops which would be real fuckin awkward bec-"

Derek got the sense the man could go on the entire night. And he didn't know how much he could take without finding some very boundary pushing ways of shutting him up. "I eat cookies." Derek interrupted.

The man took in a large breath. "What?"

Derek held down a smile. "I eat cookies. Not bullets."

The man seemed checked out as he nodded. "That's good."

The man stared up at him with those Bambi eyes and he had to fight the urge to let his wolf maul him. Derek lifted an eyebrow. "So... Cookies?"

The man seemed to come back to himself. "Right! So raspberry and cream cheese kolaczki cookies. My grandmother's recipe. I didn't know what you would like, so I just made the best recipe I have." He shoved the container forward.

Derek took it.

The man pointed a thumb behind himself. "Right, so I'm just going to go die in a hole and hopefully never be reminded of this again."

Derek spoke as the man moved, "You better not die. Not before you can reclaim your pride in rock, paper, scissors."

The man smiled at him and Derek swore he had never been that close to death. "I think it's clear from this encounter I didn't have any pride to begin with."

Derek smiled.

"Okay Jesus that is so unfair, so I'm going to go." He started to walk away.

"The elevator is th-"

"The other way. Yes. Thank you."

The man awkwardly saluted and tripped on the hastily put on shoes before disappearing around the corner. He exhaled and whispered, "Smooth. Real fuckin smooth."

Derek smiled and closed his door.

---

"He gave you cookies?" Erica dug in the Chinese container on the table.

"Yeah. I had to look them up, but they're some polish cookie. He gave me like two dozen."

"Where are they? I want some."

Derek ducked his head as he blushed. "I ate them."

Her mouth dropped open. "You ate two dozen cookies in two days?"

"They were really good, some of the best cookies I've ever had! And small."

She kicked him. "Dereek! Now I really want one! You really are them all?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I stress ate like half of them that night trying to figure out a way to see him again before I realized I would have to return the container."

She groaned. "You're a mess."

They ate in silence till she put her plate down. "I talked to your sisters the other day."

Derek's stomach lurched. That was never good.

"They filled me in on the meeting next month."

Derek felt unsettled.

"Why didn't you tell us? You know no matter what you do we would support you."

Derek nodded and opened his mouth.

Erica continued, "Even if your decision is stupid. And dumb. And not the right choice."

He sighed. "Erica, it's not that easy."

Her voice was sharp. "So explain it. Because to me it seems like you're shooting yourself in the foot. If you forfeit Beacon now, there will be no getting it back without forcefully taking it. You would have no claim. Laura doesn't want this land, but you could take care of it. You're building a life here. You moved back here, we followed you here. You know as long as you're here we are, but let us know if you don't see a future here. We need to know if we should put down roots or not. Boyd likes it here and I'm starting to come around to it, but if you plan on leaving we need to know."

Derek shook his head. "No matter what happened here, this is my home. This is Hale land."

"It won't be if you forfeit."

He looked down. "We are a pack of three, this is a supernatural beacon. There's no way we could protect it. I do my part at my job. Besides, I could never take this land from the McCall-Stilinski pack. They've taken care of it since we left. I couldn't do that to the sheriff and alpha McCall."

"Doesn't us not having territory make us vulnerable?"

He tilted his head from one side to the other. "Normally, yes. But the alpha and the sheriff know we're here. They have accepted our presence, so we are allowed on this property. That means we won't have any claim to it, but we will still be protected like it is ours. They could always kick us out, but as long as they don't find out I'm an alpha there shouldn't be a problem. We will be treated as accepted guests from another pack."

She nodded thinking. "And what if our pack expanded? What if Issac came back?"

"We could always work out something with them. From what we've heard they're very unorthodox. Hell, just having a true alpha and the sheriff as it's two leading members is crazy enough."

"Hm. Okay. Well, they better not find out. How did returning the dish to hot neighbor go?"

"I haven't yet."

She gaped. "What? Why not? I thought you'd be all eager to see your boy again."

"I didn't want him to think I ate them in two days."

Erica crunched a water chestnut. "But you did!"

"Yeah, but what if when I told him that, he thought I was lying and he thought I threw them away?"

She threw an egg roll at him. "Just give it back you idiot."

---

It was three nights later and Derek had decided to just go to bed. But damn Erica. Her words were ringing in his ears. He grabbed the container before pulling on his boots.

He knocked on the door and wiped his sweaty hands on his pajama pants.

He heard muffled thumping noises and a yelp from the door. There was a soft noise of surprise before Derek heard a chain sliding and the door unlocking.

The man looked as sleep deprived as always, but he had a bat loosely held in one hand. "You scared the shit out of me! The only other time another soul was at my door this late was when someone tried to break in."

Derek was alarmed.

"Don't worry. I had my bat then too." He gave it an expert twirl that didn't fit with the previously clumsy impression Derek had of him.

"And here I thought we lived in a good part of town."

The man laughed. "The bad parts tend to follow me."

"I can't imagine much of anything not wanting to follow you."

The man turned light pink. "Is that my container?"

Derek held it up. "I washed it."

The man started to reach for it. Derek tried to channel everything Erica told him. He pulled it back. The man looked at him with distrust. "I can't give this back until I get a recipe."

The man scoffed. "You bake?"

Derek raised an eyebrow.

"Fair enough. But no can do. Babcia would roll over in her grave, and she's not even dead yet."

Derek laughed. "Well then, fine." He smirked in the way Erica told him to and leaned on the door frame with a forearm. "How about you give me somewhere I can go to get my sugar fix?" Derek really hoped he didn't slam the door in his face.

The man's mouth was gaping and his heart was fast. "Do you know the grocery store on fifth street?"

Derek's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"For your sugar fix. They sell them there." The man looked earnest.

Derek straightened back up embarrassed. "Oh. Um, thanks. I-"

The man burst out laughing. Derek realized he was messing with him. "You're a shit aren't you?"

The man shrugged. "I wasn't the one that leaned up against the door frame like a douche."

"It was a little douchey wasn't it?"

The man held up his thumb and pointer close together. "Just a bit."

Derek smiled at him. "Well, there we have it. You shouldn't listen to Lydia, and I shouldn't listen to Erica."

"I knew an Erica once, definitely don't listen to her."

Derek nodded. "Well, I should give this back." He handed over the container.

"How about this, if you have more tally marks by the end of next week, I'll make a double batch just for you."

Derek nodded. "That sounds perfect. But be warned, those were some of the best cookies I've ever had. I'll bring my A game for babcia's cookies."

The man smiled. "I'd expect nothing less." The man hesitated slightly. "But if you want, if you're going to be up anyway, I have some more inside." The man bit his lip nervously.

Derek took effort to not immediately say yes far too loud. "I could definitely be persuaded with cookies. Do you have to work?"

The man shrugged. "As long as I get my stuff done he doesn't care when I work and I'm ahead. If I'm being honest I was just about to say screw work and watch Captain America."

"Which one?"

"The first one." The man tapped the container against his palm.

"That one is my favorite."

He opened his mouth before closing it. "Do you want to? If you aren't too tired, do you want to watch it?"

Derek had just finished a twelve hours shift that was so busy he barely had time to eat. "I'm never too tired for Captain America. Do you need to get some sleep?"

"I'm never too tired to see Bucky Barnes in uniform." The man smiled.

"We have that in common."

The man looked surprised. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

Derek smiled. "Oh?"

The man smiled right back. "Yeah."

Derek looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "Yeah."

The man looked down and then away. "Okay, make yourself comfortable on the couch. I just have to shut down my computer and g-"

"Get the cookies." Derek supplied.

The man rolled his eyes. "You're like a child."

He shrugged.

---

Parish clapped his back. "I know yesterday was rough, but you look like shit. Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Nope." Derek said with a smile.

"Damn. Why do you look so happy about it Hale?"

He shrugged. "I got cookies and watched the Captain America movies." He didn't mention how there was also hours of debate originally about the movies, but then moved to the entire MCU and then other things. That one of the many times the man flung out his arms, his brushed Derek's and if he focused he could still smell the cinnamon he originally thought came from the cookies.

Parish looked at him puzzled. "You're a weird one Hale."

---

At the end of the week they were tied and the man held up a container enticingly. They had set up the rule that whoever had the most wins by three am won. It was down to the last second and they both sped up so Derek could catch up. He ended up triumphant and the man acted being put out upon briefly before grabbing the container.

There was a knock and Derek had to count to ten, so he didn't know he was waiting at the door.

"I admit. You won it fair and square. Enjoy your cookies."

"Yeah. I definitely will. But if you wanted some, that could be arranged." Derek offered.

"I have some back at my place, but I could go for a coffee."

Derek grinned. "Coffee can be done." He held open the door.

---

"We talked about everything and nothing. He's so interesting. Just the way he thinks about things, god the way he explains himself is like porn. And fuck, his smile. His smile should be illegal. You know?" Stiles gushed.

Lydia stayed still with an expectant look on her face.

Stiles scoffed and rolled his eyes. His voice went low and mocking, "Lydia you were right."

"I know. So what's his name."

Stiles immediately opened his mouth before snapping it shut and his eyes widened comically.

"Don't tell me yo- Oh my god Stiles! You don't know his name?!"

Stiles rubbed his hands down his face while groaning. "Maybe he said it and I don't remember, but now it will be weird if I ask!"

"For someone so smart, you can be so dumb."

---

"Fuck Laura I don't know his name!"

Cora's laughter was a given, but sweet down to earth Toni's snickers weren't hidden even by her girlfriend's outrageous laugh.

---

He had been working on this problem for hours. The code seemingly mocking him just like his rubber duck that was now in time out. He cracked his neck and changed positions.

Stiles' smile was face splitting when he saw the brightness coming from across the street.

The man waved as he came out ten minutes later in pjs with a bowl of what Stiles assumed to be cereal.

They played a few games before Derek started to yawn. He should get to bed. He motioned that he was going to head in and the man nodded before adding a mark to his own side. Derek nearly collided with the door when it didn't open as he expected. He groan before starting to jiggle it. It wouldn't budge. If he broke it the landlord, who already didn't like him, would be angry. He patted his pockets so he could at least call Erica, but he left it inside. Great. Just great. He turned to see if the man had noticed.

Stiles was laughing his ass off. His neighbor had locked himself out. He had tears in his eyes. He calmed down and met his flat face and it set Stiles off again. This time when he calmed down his neighbor had a small smile. Stiles motioned for him to wait a moment.

Several minutes later Derek heard a rustling at his front door.

Oh great, he locked himself on his balcony, and he was getting robbed. Worst of all the man across the street probably left to get a camera.

He listened and recognized the heartbeat just as the door clicked and gave way. That mop of messy hair looked as cute as ever, even if it puzzled Derek how he knew how to pick locks. The man waved and Derek knocked on the glass before pouting out his bottom lip.

The man laughed once again.

He jiggled the door from the inside to let his neighbor back in. "Welcome to my humble abode." He said as he opened the door.

Derek ignored his comment. "Where did you learn to do that?" He nodded towards the door he closed behind himself. If this man was an international thief or something of the like Derek needed to know.

The man turned on his heels starting to walk, after throwing a suggestive at Derek. "I have a lot of talents, but I'm especially good with my hands."

Derek smirked even if he couldn't see it and walked after him. "And here I was wondering about that mouth."

The man stopped dead, and Derek collided with his back. On instinct Derek's hand went to his hip.

"Oh I'm really good with that too." Maybe it was just Derek, but it felt like the man was leaning backwards into his space.

"Yeah? Am I going to have to lock myself out again to figure out your other hidden talents?"

The man shook his head, and Derek could feel his rabbiting heartbeat. "No. A date. Next Thursday, that new Ryan Reynolds movie is out. You wanted to see it. Didn't you?" A little bit of doubt crept into that question he asked to give Derek an out.

Derek leaned in to breath on his neck. The man was intoxicating. "I want to see that movie so bad, I don't know how I am possibly supposed to wait until Thursday. I want to see that movie so bad, I wish it could just be Thursday." Derek ghosted his bottom lip down his neck. "I want to see that movie so bad, I'm practically shaking."

Stiles' voice shook, "H-how do you know it will be worth the wait?"

"The trailers have been a tantalizing."

"Really? Are you sure you don't need a few reviews? I'm sure it has some glowing ones."

Derek gripped his hip tighter. "I prefer to make my own opinions."

"Yeah? Well, it probably will be good, it's got a stellar lead."

Derek nodded letting his lips drag against his neck. The man shivered. "I would let that sarcastic brunet do what ever he wanted to me."

"Ryan Reynolds is one of the hottest actors."

"Oh, him? I guess he's okay too."

Just like that Stiles was at the end of his rope. He spun around and wrapped his arms around his neighbor's neck to pull him down. "I'm going to k-"

Derek cut the man off by beating him to the punch. And boy, it felt like Derek was punched instead.

Stiles buried his hand in his hair. Derek nipped at his lip and the man's mouth fell open in a groan. Derek seized his opportunity. The man tasted of coffee and desperation, probably as much as Derek did. Stiles pulled his hair and he gripped Stiles' hips and harshly pulled them to his own. Stiles walked Derek backwards until they collided with the glass door.

Time was lost to Stiles. All he knew was the person in front of him. He felt a hand sneak under his shirt. He pulled back. "Fuck." He breathed harshly. "Fuck, if you do that I won't make it to Thursday."

Derek started to bite and kiss at his neck instead.

"Fuck if you do, that, I won't last five minutes." He could feel a smile press against his throat.

"What do you recommend I do?"

Stiles closed his eyes to clear his mind. "Don't do, any of what you're doing." He peeked his eyes open. "In fact, your face? That's got to stop too. It is much too distracting."

"Oh okay. And what abo-"

"Yep, your voice is another thing that isn't going to happen right now."

He leaned back into his neck. "Sorry. How's this?" He rubbed his beard against his neck.

There was a gasp before he gripped his hair and pulled his head back. He spoke forcefully, "You, are doing that Thursday! Everywhere." Stiles slammed their lips together again.

Derek pulled back. "Do you need to get back to your computer?"

"Fuck my computer." Stiles spoke the last word practically against his lips.

Stiles pulled back. "I left your door open."

"Fuck my door." Derek pressed his smile to his lips.

"I'd rather fuck you."

Stiles went to kiss him again, but his neighbor burst out laughing. "No! No laughing. Kiss me!"

Derek's laugh rang out regardless of the pout. They kissed until they were interrupted by a small meow.

The man pulled back with wide eyes. "You have a cat!"

Derek was concerned. "Are you allergic?"

Stiles left him pressed against the glass door. He looked around. "Here, kitty kitty."

Lucian sauntered closer.

Derek started coming closer. "I wouldn't try to pet him! He hates all people and will bite you if you don't leave him alone. Really he's a huge asshole named Lucian."

Stiles held out his hand and Lucian eagerly pressed his head against his hand. Stiles looked back. "Right, sure. A big asshole. He's a sweetie. Aren't you?" He did a pet voice. "Oh, yes you are."

Lucian practically rolled over on to his belly and purred. Derek looked in disbelief. "He doesn't normally do that."

The man scoffed. He went to pick Lucian up cautiously and he almost leap into his arms. "Of course not. Because you're the huge asshole. Isn't he Luci? He is. Lying about you being mean, but you're a little sweetheart." Lucian gave a little meow of agreement.

---

Over the next few days Stiles found just about every single way to tease a man while not being able to speak and with an alley in-between them.

Thursday Derek knocked on his door and was breathless when it opened. "I thought sleepy you would kill me, but those jeans are a sin."

The man flushed. "Oh, well I prefer you without a shirt. I haven't had the pleasure yet, but I figure that rule applies to pants as well."

"Be good tonight and you might get it."

Stiles closed the door behind himself and leaned in to peck his lips. "I'm never good." He winked and walked away.

They whispered jokes back and forth the entire movie and almost got kicked out for laughing. They barely made it up into Derek's apartment before they were tearing each others clothes off. They fell into bed in a whirlwind.

While their breath was calming Stiles had a thought. "I should probably give you my number, huh?"

Derek laughed and agreed, "Yeah, you should." Before he rolled over, caging him with his arms again and nosing at his neck.

---

He felt someone staring at him and he looked up. "What?"

Parrish had a haunted look on his face. "What is your face doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"You look... Happy?!" Parrish ran away laughing as Derek threw paperclips at him.

The sheriff appeared beside him with a disapproving look.

"Sir, I-"

He clapped him on the shoulder. "Happy looks good on you, Hale."

Parrish looked surprised. "Are you letting go of your five month plan?"

The sheriff sipped his coffee. "Nah. It just might have to be moved to the five year plan."

Parrish laughed and he smirked. Derek was confused, but he let it go figuring they wouldn't tell him anyway.

Derek called after the sheriff as he headed toward the break room. "I put a yoghurt in the fridge for you! Leave the donuts alone!"

"Christ Hale, you're worse than my kid."

"To be a deputy I need a sheriff!"

"Love you too kid." He called before shutting the door to eat his yoghurt.

Derek felt pleased, but tried not to show it. The warmth in his chest blossomed anyway.

---

Scott's neck nearly snapped as he turned to him. "Dude you got laid!"

Stiles grimaced. "That's so gross! I showered like three times."

"It's not that, you just have this settledness. A contentment that comes after."

"Still weird dude."

---

They texted constantly. Now that Stiles could gloat in-between games and make sarcastic comments it was constant. Derek gave as good as he got, though.

Whenever his phone buzzed he was smiling before he could even realize it. They talked about anything and everything. The man went down the programming rabbit hole once, till they banned work talk before he could even find out what his neighbor did for a living. But other than that they shared everything. Well, he still didn't know the man's name, but that was unimportant when you've held a person as they told you about losing their mom and in turn told them about all the family you'll never see again. Derek was never tired of the man. For two weeks they kept getting closer and texting constantly. It was like normal social rules didn't exist with the man. One moment they'd be talking about video games and the next they spoke about their third favourite ice cream flavor, or how they've disappointed the people closest to them. They always had an argument about something, but it always ended in laughter. This had been what he was missing. This had been what he wanted. Someone to share the little parts of his day with. Someone that cared and couldn't wait to see him.

But in the small moments when they sat in silence he could tell there was something the man wasn't telling him. Sometimes he would chew his nails staring off into the distance with a worry on his face. When Derek would ask what was wrong he would dismiss it as nothing. He kept getting more and more on edge through the two weeks, but he acted like normal until Derek got his text.

It had been a busy day, if it wasn't one thing it was another. Paperwork and deadlines that had to be met, things to be catalogued, and someone to be arrested. He got off around two that night thankfully. Derek wanted to kick off his shoes and just go straight over to his balcony, but his phone buzzed almost immediately after his light went on.

His smile dimmed as he saw that the man had a very important work problem and couldn't be distracted.

Derek understood. He really did. He went to take a shower and tried not to feel the unwarranted disappointment. Sometimes people were busy, that was fine. He tried to settle into bed, but he couldn't close his eyes without thoughts of the man. Maybe if he just saw him, he would be able to sleep. His bare feet hit the cold floor as he walked out to the balcony.

As soon as he opened the door his face fell into a frown. His blinds were closed.

Surely he wasn't... Derek thought about how the man couldn't keep his hands off of him. He listened in, but was met with the sounds of computer typing, frustrated noises, and mumbled complaints. He was definitely working, but why would he close his blinds?

Derek got back into bed still thinking. Maybe he just needed a break from him. Or maybe it was really a big work problem that he couldn't handle being distracted from.

Thoughts about the man kept Derek awake and not even Tom Hardy in a lobster tank could lull him to sleep.

It was four am and he had gotten no sleep. He shut off the movie on his laptop. The more he thought about it the more confused and frustrated he was with not knowing what happened. He was now beyond tired and grumpy. He switched shifts with someone so he went to the kitchen to make himself something to eat and get some much needed coffee before work. He put some toast in before reaching for the coffee tin.

He sighed so loudly Lucian came into the room out of curiosity. "Why of all days? Why me?" Derek threw the empty coffee tin in the garbage. Yesterday was so busy he forgot to get some. There was no way he was going to work without coffee, but nowhere would be open this early.

He had a thought. Hm, worth a go.

He listened and sure enough the man was still up, pacing his flat. Derek grabbed his keys.

He knocked and soon enough the door swung open. The man looked disheveled and Derek was instantly hit with a wall of stress, anxiety, and fear.

Derek immediately forgot that he had been agitated or that he was under caffeinated. "What's wrong?"

The man looked caught off guard. "What? Why are you here?"

It wasn't said unkindly just with curiosity, but it still hurt. "I'm out of coffee, and I have to work in three hours."

"Right. Fine. I've just got to focus on this work thing. It's really-"

Derek lifted an eyebrow then looked over at where his computer was off.

The man scrubbed a hand down his face. "It's complicated."

Derek nodded. "I get complicated. That's okay if things are complicated. I just don't want, you feeling comfortable talking to me, to be one of them. So I'm going to go make us some coffee. And if you want to talk we can sit on the couch until you find a way to make it sound uncomplicated. If not I can take my coffee, go to work, and wait for the day it either is too complicated or it isn't anymore. I'll wait if you aren't ready or if this is too soon, but there is nothing that you could say that I wouldn't want to hear. Simply for the fact that it's you saying it."

Derek was tackled into a kiss that tasted like stale coffee. "It's in the cabinet by the sink."

They stood in silence as Derek made them coffee. The man went over to his bread box and pulled out a container of peanut butter cookies. Derek looked at him softly.

"I know they aren't your mom's, but I figured I-"

Derek pulled him into a hug. "They'll be perfect." Derek turned to get the sugar out and set the mugs down.

"I want the big ba-"

"The big Batman one. I know. It's the one you use the most at your desk."

Stiles wrapped himself around his back while he poured them coffee and he kissed the back of his shoulder. "More sugar."

He shook his head and set the sugar down.

Stiles turned to mouth at his neck and then whispered, "More sugar, please?"

He swore before dumping more in. "Jesus. You'll be the death of me."

Stiles smiled and bit at just the right spot as he crept his hand under his shirt.

"Fuck your hands are cold."

"Why don't you warm them up then?" Stiles danced his fingers along his skin.

"I know what you're doing."

Stiles pulled his ear between his teeth and whispered breathily, "Is it working?"

"No."

He scraped his nails down his side and Derek shivered. "Yes." Derek turned around and held his chin to kiss him. He leaned back to look into his eyes. "If you don't want to talk about it you don't have to distract me, we just don't have to talk about it. I just want you to have someone to talk about things with, even if they aren't happy."

The man looked at him with an undecipherable look, before tears started to gather in his eyes. He pulled him in for a sweet kiss and leaned their foreheads together. "This is much too soon for just how deeply I care for you. This is weird."

Derek smiled at him. "Yeah, it is. So what? You're weird. I'm weird. Why wouldn't we be weird together?"

Derek walked over to the couch and set their mugs down. "So, am I taking a seat?"

Stiles nodded at him. He sat down and started drinking his coffee and pulled his legs up. He waited patiently as Stiles began to pace. "Are you sure?"

Derek shrugged. "There are few things I've been more sure of than you."

Stiles let out a humorless laugh as he shook his head. "You see that right there! I can tell you're a defensive and closed off person. You don't trust easily. You had people take advantage of you, so you don't let people into your life, but with me you, you just trust me. And that scares me. Because what if I hurt you? Then I'll just be another one of the people you trusted that hurt you. And God we're moving so fast! Surely this is too fast? People normally don't go this fast. But it doesn't feel wrong. Well, I mean it does, but only for the fact that it doesn't feel wrong to be going this fast. Does that make sense? It probably doesn't. But God you just scare me because I've dated, I've had boyfriends and girlfriends. I've had casual hook ups and serious relationships, but I have never once thought about if my dad would be proud to walk me down the aisle to any of them. That is a crazy thought to have! And I thought that after the first time we had sex! That's crazy! I'm crazy! I shouldn't think about getting married after knowing you for like less than a month! And I've never felt like I had to be fake with you. I've never thought oh God what if my laugh is obnoxious? What if doesn't like the way I walk or the way I dress or the way I act? What if I'm too much of a nerd for him? What if I like him more than he likes me? I mean you're sex on legs, practically a Greek god and I'm just me. But you never make me feel like just me. You make me feel special. I never once have thought what if I'm too skinny or not muscled enough. I've never thought any of that."

He took a big deep breath in.

"Not a single thing like it. It's just so easy to be me around you, and it scares me. I tell you everything. You know about Scott and my mom and the boy named Theo in eighth grade that broke my heart. I tell you about the history of male circumcision and my time at Berkeley. And I know things about you. You told me that she took advantage of you when you haven't even told your sisters that. Sometimes I think I know you inside and out, but then I remember just how little I know, how little time we've know each other. Hell, I sat on your face and I don't know your middle name, fuck or your first! But I know you had a dog named Lucky when you were six. I know all these things, but when I think of a day I don't get to learn more about you it ruins my mood. I want to know everything about you, and I want you to know everything about me."

The man's eyes looked wild and scared as he flailed his arms.

"I ramble! It's a thing I do! I'm doing it right now! And you don't even care. You just get this look in your eyes like it would kill you if I ever shut up. And let me tell you, I'm used to having the exact opposite. I am constantly told to shut up. But you, you just calm me down from panic attacks and text me so my day isn't boring and look all super hot when you kiss me. And right now I should feel different. I should feel sorry for talking this much, but I don't. Because it's you."

He stopped moving and looked into Derek's eyes deeply. "Because it's you. You scare me. Because it's you. You don't make me feel sorry for being me."

Derek nodded. He sat his mug down and put his legs back down before widening them and patting the space between them.

Stiles walked over and collapsed into his lap. He straddled him and wrapped his arms around his neck.

When Derek encircled his torso the man slumped against him as he buried his head into his neck.

They clung to each other for several moments before Derek spoke, "It scares me too. My sisters are sick of hearing about you and Erica is dying to meet you. I'm nervous to meet Scott and down right terrified to meet your dad. My middle name is Samuel. I thought about if we would move or live here and if you would want kids. This scares me. I haven't had a proper long term relationship where they didn't try to kill me. I closed myself off from everyone for so long to heal that I forgot what it was like to trust someone. How to do it. I shouldn't trust you, not this soon. But I look into your eyes and my life is yours. We already disregard the social norms, why should this be any different? You scare me. But fuck what we should do. Fuck how it's supposed to go. Let's just be scared and trust each other entirely too soon." Derek didn't know if it was instinct, or just the universe finally giving him something, but he knew down to his bones that he could trust Stiles.

Stiles exhaled shakily. "I've started sleeping better because I know you're there. I don't have as many panic attacks, because I know you're a text away. I know you're across the street. I know you're there for me, and I'm not used to that and it freaks me out. It freaks me out how it's felt like there's been this hole in my life for so long, and when I look in your eyes everything seems just a little bit less hard. A little bit less like tomorrow isn't going to happen the way it's supposed to. A little bit like you're the solution to a problem I didn't even know I was asking."

He seemed to absorb that all for a moment as he rubbed soothing circles into Stiles' hip.

He stopped his circles and after a few seconds Stiles prodded, "What, what is it?"

"You don't have to answer, but if you do, answer honestly. I would rather your silence than lies. And it's okay if you don't have the answer." Derek resumed the circles.

Stiles leaned his head up and looked at him searchingly. He put his hand on the side of his face and swept broad lines along his cheekbone. "What is it?"

"Why are your lights on at three am?"

Stiles scoffed and pushed lightly on his chest. "Because I can't sleep dumbass. Why are you seeing my lights on at three am." He asked rhetorically.

His heart hadn't skipped, but it quickened. Derek looked contemplative and serious. "Because I was lonely. Because nighttime feels like the kind of peace around you that you can't help but pull it inward. Because I work the night shift. Because some days it's hard to face myself, but nighttime is made to shadow sin. Because I like to look at the moon. Because sometimes daytime is too stressful. If you want a more recent answer, because my cute neighbor is up then too. And since the first time I saw him I knew he was the type of beautiful that sunlight burned with insincerity, but moonlight kissed with truth. I'm up because sometimes my body just doesn't want to sleep no matter how tired I am." His eyes had a piercing quality. "Why are your lights on at three am?"

Stiles looked down.

"There's stuff I can't tell you. At least not yet. It's not just my secret to tell. I don't want to lie to you, but there is just this one thing, this one side of me that you aren't ready for. But I will be honest about it as soon as I can be."

Derek knew he was honest. Christ, Stiles was the most brutally honest person he'd ever met. Rarely did his heart skip a beat when Derek wasn't doing something to cause it. But every once and awhile Derek could tell he was trying to not lie. Trying not to keep anything, but also not giving. Derek was okay with it. Because even in his big secret Stiles was being open and honest with him... Even with the things he couldn't be. "Okay." Derek nodded.

Stiles' head shot up. "Okay? Just okay? No interrogation? No dramatic, 'What how could you?' come on, where's your sense of flair?"

Derek knew he was trying to hide his genuine shock.  "I trust you, remember? Trust me and tell me about what you can. If you can't tell me it, don't lie. There's things I can't tell you yet either, but I will."

The man still looked like he was trying to peer through his eye sockets to find something that was etched in the back side of his skull. He must've found it, because his air of defensiveness left him in such a big whoosh Derek could almost taste the change in the air.

"I'm awake, because I have insomnia. I'm awake, because my brain won't just shut off sometimes. I'm awake, because if there's a problem that needs solving, I can't sleep until it is. I'm awake, because I was lonely too. I'm awake at night because I'm good at coding and if I do it at three am the only person I have to lie about it being fulfilling is myself. I'm awake, because failed dreams don't belong in the daytime. I'm awake, because in the mornings I itch to solve cases and help people while doing my dream job, so it's easier to just sleep through them. I'm awake, because I'm too tired to sleep. I'm awake, because there's this sleeping beast inside me that slumbers enough for both of us, and sometimes I am terrified if I sleep too much I will awaken to it having woke up before me. I'm awake, because I am scared."

Derek could smell the saltiness of tears. "Scared of what? Something other than me?"

Stiles gripped him harder. "You're a part of it. Well, more like this is the reason you scare me so much."

Derek rubbed up and down his back and waited.

"I'm scared of my life. I'm scared of my future. The only easy part about high school was I knew where I fit in. I was the sheriff's kid. I was up to no good. I was a nerd. I wasn't popular. Scott and I were the most important thing in each other's lives other than our parents. Now it's just like, I'm adrift. Do I stay in Beacon Hills? Do I leave? Are me and Scott still best friends? Should I date, or should I be happy alone? Should I do this job or that one? Should I tell Scott that he should stop being such a cabbage and just marry her already? Should I be encouraging my dad to get back out there more? Should I buy this or do that? It's all of these choices that will shape my future and I'm terrified to make the wrong one. And you know, I can actually see it. My perfect life. The life I think I could never deserve but want to be able to one day. I see it all. And the thing is, I'm great at plans. I made them for everything, but how do you plan for your entire life when so much could go wrong? And it terrifies me. It terrifies me that I could break it. That if I don't do one thing exactly right I'll ruin all the other things. Or if I try one of the things it will break all of the others. I don't want to do that. I can't. Because I see that life for me, and I don't see how I could be happy in another, so I just- I don't mean to- I just accidentally- I-"

"You wreck things before they can break. You turn down jobs because they're your dream job, but you don't have the rest of your dream yet. You push people out of your life, because you don't have all of the people you want in it. You don't build a home that will feel hollow with just you in it. You try to hurt yourself before anyone else can do it for you, I know the feeling." And my god, did Derek. It was like hearing from himself. As Derek finished he could smell the relief coming off of him in waves.

"I don't mean to wreck it, I just do. And some nights I just panic, because how could I be that stupid? Others, I just feel so numb to everything. I don't know how to get to where I want to be and it's fucking terrifying."

Derek nodded. "I guess I don't think about my future. I'm just waiting for it to be taken from me. I know I want to be there for my sisters and my friends, but long term I don't have a clue what I want. It's always just what I have in front of me. I love my job. I have a workable apartment. Things like that matter, but I don't think about them long term."

"Wow. I can't even imagine that. Not thinking about every possible thing."

Derek shrugged. "I usually only think about what could go wrong."

"What do you see going wrong with us?"

"Most of the time? You getting tired of me and just waking up on day wanting to leave."

Stiles laughed. "Well that's bullshit. We already talked about how hard it is for me to get to sleep."

They both had soft unseen smiles.

"Will you tell me about it? What you see for yourself? Do you feel comfortable sharing that with me?" Derek was a little bit worried to see if he would somehow fit into his dream.

"We've swapped enough bodily fluids for that to not be a crazy request."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Will you tell me what you see? What you see for yourself, your future?"

Stiles sighed contemplative. "I see Scott and Allison happily married with kids. At least two, who call me uncle Stiles and I spoil rotten. I see my dad happy and healthy. Hopefully, with someone that makes him even happier and enforces the no double bacon cheeseburgers rule. I see my friends happy and safe, never too far away. I see the town safe, not necessarily quiet because I'd get bored, but manageable."

He paused long enough for Derek to realize he was done. "And for yourself?"

"That's a bit trickier. I see myself working from Beacon Hills. For the FBI as a profiling and strategy consultant. I see my Jeep still clunking around. I see a house. A big one. Not the type you would buy because it was cheap or convenient. The type that you only get when you're ready to fill it. I see family and friends gathering at our place. I see a spouse, a husband."

He seemed shy admitting that and Derek grinned. "Does this spouse have, and I quote, 'The cheekbones of an Adonis and the ass of Captain America.' by any chance?"

"In all my fantasies before they were amorphous. Never male or female for sure. Well, except when I pictured Tom Hiddleston or Jennifer Lawrence. They never looked like any one thing. They were just a concept. Now, he has the most amazing eyes. You would swear they were green, but then again maybe they're a little bit of everything."

Derek was grinning before, now he was beaming. Tears almost pouring out of kaleidoscopes.

"I see a couple of kids. Maybe fostered. But fostered, adopted, surrogate it doesn't really matter." Stiles shrugged. "I want to feel like I'm important to people. Like I'm the person they can't wait to see when they get home. I want to have a home. One that no one can ever take away or claim, because it's mine. People shouldn't be able to take homes from people. Before anything else I have to make sure what is mine, can't be taken."

"I don't think homes should be taken either. Even if you leave, that doesn't make it any less yours. You should have a place for your family, your future. People shouldn't take that from you, they should give it to you."

They just sat there breathing together and clinging to each other.

"If you think about it, what do you see?"

Derek didn't reply right away.

"I don't really know. I mean I know some things. Like I want Erica and Boyd to be there, Issac too if he wants to move back. I want my sisters to be alive and happy. I just want to be a part of a- a family again."

"Would you move back to New York? You mentioned you have family there."

When Erica had asked him things seemed so clouded, now they were clearer than they'd ever been. "No. That is my sister's place. I-" Derek's mind was clear and sure about the future for the first time in awhile. "I have a place here. This is where I belong and I never should've thought otherwise. Besides, I have a reason to stay here now. To build a life. One where I'm happy, in love, and annoyed at my husband. One where I have a family. A job I love, an over bearing boss too. One with kids and a house. Hell, I'd throw in a picket fence to go for the full cliche. One where I have someone to tell all about the family I lost. One with things to keep me on my toes, and people. One where I'm supposed to be."

Derek looked at him appreciatively. "I never knew I wanted that, or that I could. I thought I didn't deserve it, but you've made me yearn for it now. I want a life. I will make a life for myself. And for the people that want to share it with me." Derek's voice had a tone of awe, but certainty.

Stiles laced their fingers together.

Too soon Derek had to disentangle himself for work. As he went to walk towards the door the man caught him by his arm. "At first I thought it was cute and a great story to tell, to see how long we could go, but now I just want to be able to say your name. To hear you say mine. But not yet. There's this thing with Scott. Next Friday night. I'll do that and after it I want to know the name of the man I'm going to build my life with. Next Friday. Okay? After that we can be all cute and shit saying each others names with love in our eyes and all that garbage okay?"

Derek rolled his eyes then nodded. "I'll be ready after Friday too. It's time I made something right. After Friday we can start our lives anywhere in Beacon Hills. It will be ours."

Stiles looked at him with a spark in his eye. "Exactly. It will be ours." He said it like a promise.

---

Stiles' shoulders had been up to his ears the entire week leading up to Friday. Well, until Derek came by to massage them back down. They slept together every night to stave off Stiles' panic attacks. Both of them being soothed by another heartbeat. Stiles tried not to be nervous, but the Malikhai pack had been taunting them all week. Stiles knew it was serious because Jackson flew in. Jackson would only come if Lydia asked, and if Lydia was asking they were in deep shit.

Stiles and Derek had said goodbye that morning with Derek offering words of encouragement in exchange for weak smiles.

Stiles wanted to be more sure. He did. This was their land. They fought every fucking monster that was drawn to Satan's wooden dildo. And no matter how many times they got reamed up the ass they just picked out the splinters and carried on and protected the damn supernatural beacon. Because this was their motherfucking land. This was their home and no body was going to take that. Certainly not some asshole alpha who had no claim besides, 'The pack that abandoned it and left it all to a bunch of teenagers might want it. And they should have first pick because they called dibs.' It was bull.

Stiles' angry thoughts served as a pep talk and his hands stopped their shaking. Scott gave him a reassuring look and Stiles looked back with an affirming nod. They could do this.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the clearing. All of the people that were important to him were here, Scott, his dad, Allison, Lydia, Jackson. Everyone except him, but he was doing this for him. For the future.

Deaton was off to the side as an intermediary.

Stiles was just about to make a comment about tardiness when Scott stiffened.

Stiles looked to the treeline ahead of them and straightened his shoulders and hardened his face.

Six figures, the same as their number as they agreed, emerged from the trees.

Everyone assessed for a moment.

There was an overly happy voice. "Well, nice to see even a bitten wolf and a human can accomplish showing up."

"And nice to see a born one can disregard tradition and be late." Stiles earned a few snarls.

The snide remarks kept being thrown back and forth till finally Stiles had enough. "This is not your land! You have no right to it!"

The other alpha's second spoke up, "Oh? And you do? True alpha my ass. There's no way he is one at his age and skill level. And one that co-alphas with a human nonetheless. What about the rest of your so called pack? Two weak humans, a lizard, a girl who can scream, and worst of all, a hunter." Her fangs grew as she spit out the last word like poison. "You're not a pack. You're an after school club that needs to go down for a nap. Grandpa too."

Stiles chuckled. "Debating our pack's strength will get you nowhere. You could've taken this land right after the Hales left, but you didn't. We took care of it. We made sure this land's people lived. We kept those who wished it harm, out. We made this our home and you can't take it without breaking the most sacred of laws and traditions. This is our land, it is ours. As we have taken care of it, it too shall take care of us. As we dwell within it, it dwells within us. As we draw on it's power, it draws on ours. As we are a part of this land, this land is a part of us." Stiles recited just like the book he read said. He took his father and Scott's hand and the pack linked hands. Stiles smirked. "In other words, I speak for the trees bitch."

His eyes began to glow and the wind picked up. The trees around them all began to bend. The branches closest to their pack shielded them while the other pack was batted and scraped.

The wind died down. The other pack looked pissed, but knew better than to challenge a pack on their own turf with even numbers.

Their alpha turned to Deaton with a sickly sweet smile. "Druid, I request you let one more person enter the circle of sanctuary. No harm will come of anyone, but they will shed some light on how this is their land. They recently changed their minds about some things. And since the rituals of claim need till tonight to solidify, their claim is as valid as any. This is their birthright after all." He said with a sneer towards Scott.

Stiles had a momentary freak out. What if Laura changed her mind? But she said she wouldn't. She gave her word. This was likely some sort of trick.

Deaton looked to him and Scott. They both shared a brief look then nodded to him. Deaton spoke steady and clear. "One can draw near, but they may not cause harm nor fear." A small break in the barrier was broken and they could see outside the circle.

Derek walked in and both Stilinski men stood stock still with shock. Derek looked to the other alpha and nodded before scanning both packs. He looked guiltily at the sheriff before freezing at the man next to him.

"What are you doing here?" Two voices demanded in unison.

Stiles crossed his arms. "You first."

The chill and guard in his eyes hurt Derek. "I came to claim this land."

Just as easily as the bond took hold, the pack felt it ripped from them to neutral territory.

Scott nudged Stiles. "You know him?"

Stiles squinted. Was this all just some ploy from the other pack to steal their land? Had this stranger really cared? Stiles looked into those eyes he had trusted till the moment they walked through the barrier. He was conflicted and confused. "I don't know."

His dad stepped forward. "Derek son, your alpha already forfeited this land. What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry sir." He did look apologetic.

Stiles' eyes widened. "Derek?" His neighbor's eyes looked over to him. Had this all been some big lie? Had Derek been there to surveil him? And what, he just got bored and decided to play with his emotions? Stiles' face hardened once again. "You have no right. Your pack abandoned this land. Your alpha isn't here to claim it. You have no right to take from us. We protected this land. We cared for it, we bled for it! It is ours!" Stiles was speaking with force and anger.

That smarmy bastard had another smirk. "Why would Laura need to come? You see, Derek let me in on the most delicious little tidbit a few days ago. He's an alpha."

Stiles' blood ran cold. If Derek was an alpha, if he wanted the land it was his. His family lived here for generations. Hell, they practically built Beacon Hills. All he would have to do is say the words. If he claimed Beacon he could force them out.

The sheriff spoke with conviction, "Derek's not an alpha. He gave me his word. He gave his word that a Hale wouldn't claim Beacon."

Derek looked up with guilt in his eyes. "I said Laura wouldn't claim Beacon." And just like that the guilt was replaced by crimson.

The sheriff stepped back like he'd been slapped.

"I'm sorry sir. I know this is your pack, but this was my home. My territory. I want to build a future. I intended to take Beacon for my pack."

Stiles nearly flinched with how close the words were. If he just changed the tense they would lose this.

"But I think something might have changed." He turned to Deaton. "May I and one of their pack speak in private?" He motioned to the man next to the sheriff.

Deaton looked to Stiles and he nodded once again.

"Whoa, whoa wait. I'm not letting you go out there with some stranger, Stiles!" He grabbed his arm as he spoke.

Derek nearly growled and slashed at him until he recognized him as Scott. He looked and now that he was paying attention, he had seen all of these people in photos the man, Stiles had shown him.

"It's fine. I can handle it. If he tries anything," Stiles twirled his bat. "This is freshly wrapped in wolfsbane and ready to be shoved up an asshole."

Deaton spoke, "Pass may two, the door will shut until they are through."

The barrier once again opened and Stiles followed Derek out.

It was tense till they saw the barrier close.

Derek stepped closer. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what is even happening." Derek went to hold Stiles' arms, but he stepped back.

"I have granted your request. Speak alpha Hale." His voice was detached.

Derek looked crushed and confused. "No, no. Why are you doing that? No."

"You're the one that showed up to steal my land. After all that talk about home, family, and how no one should have theirs taken from them, you go and do this." Stiles scoffed. "To actually think I believed you. God, I am an idiot. Tell your sister bra-fuckin-vo. She must be one hell of a liar to have taught you so well."

"What are you talking about?"

Stiles looked murderous and he let out a scoff with a small deadly smile. "Oh don't give me that! You can stop lying now. God, after all that bullshit about not lying and being honest." The heat of rage flickered out for a moment and blinding hurt could be seen. "After all that shit about not lying, after me telling you things I haven't even told Scott, after we- I thought- I- I-" Stiles had tears threatening to spill as his voice cracked. "I was an idiot. You never cared for me. All you wanted was to take back Beacon."

Derek's eyes went wide with understanding. "No! No. No. No!" He tried to grab for Stiles again, but that made him grip his bat tighter and Derek decided to explain first. "I didn't give two shits about Beacon until a week ago. My pack and I were content to just live in peace on your land. Like I was a beta. I didn't want the responsibility, the weight of it, but you changed that. I realized I was being selfish. My pack deserves an alpha that provides. They deserve a home. And so do you. You made me want Beacon. You. You did that." Derek smiled at him.

Stiles felt a rock in his stomach. His family was about to lose their home and future because Stiles thought with his dick. After all the trouble he gave Scott. "So take it. You know we can't fight a Hale's claim." Stiles went to turn back to the barrier.

"God damn it, just wait! I wanted Beacon for you!" Derek softened. "For us. For our future."

The picture was starting to get clearer to Stiles. He spoke measured and clear, "Derek. You realize, that if you do this, if you take Beacon and force my family out, we won't have one. My future lies with my pack."

Derek looked overwhelmed. "Jesus, give me a second to figure this all out. I just had everything turned inside out. I wouldn't force you guys away. We would find another way."

Stiles shook his head. "If you claim this land we could never be together. It would feel like I was choosing you over Scott and my dad and my pack. That's something I can't do."

Derek looked lost. "If he claims this land my family's tradition and ties would die."

They stood in heartbroken silence.

Stiles tensed like he was shocked. "What if neither of those things happen?" Derek looked confused, but he continued, "What if they both do?"

"If two rivaling alphas compete, it would go to whoever completed the ritual first."

Stiles smiled wide. "Not if they weren't rivals or competing. What if we all claimed the land? I read somewhere that if two people have intent to marry or claim each other, they can share a territory until their bond is solidified."

"What are you saying?"

"Derek, I'm going to ask you something very important."

"Okay?"

"What is your favorite gummi bear flavor?"

"What?"

Stiles looked insistent.

"Orange. Why?"

Stiles looked gleeful. "All Stilinski's hate orange flavor. As soon as I found out Scott loved them I knew he was a keeper. I have something else important to ask you." Derek still looked confused, but was going with it. "I know we are no where near ready for it, but do you, somewhere in the very very distant future see yourself agreeing to eat orange gummi bears for the rest of your life?"

Derek looked confused before looking very freaked out. "Are you asking me to get married?!"

"No. Well, yes. But not until very very far in the future. It doesn't actually have to happen, the intent just has to be there in order to claim the territory. So if you have intent to marry the Stilinski alpha, three people can technically claim the territory, because Scott is the werewolf alpha, not just the human one. The human alpha would claim the territory and their pack alpha and their intended would also have equal claim on the territory."

Derek still looked freaked out and like he was going to throw up.

Stiles started dragging him back. "Magic wall, we're ready."

Derek's eyes widened. "No! No we're not!"

The barrier opened and Stiles shoved both of them through.

The air was tense and more than one person had claws out.

Stiles bulldozed ahead anyway. "We have a solution." He caught all attention. "As the law mandates, if two are intent to marry they can both claim the territory they will one day share. And if one is human, their alpha also has part ownership of the land. In this way three people can claim territory jointly. I declare intent for the Stilinski alpha to one day, very very distantly, to marry the alpha Derek Hale."

Everyone looked shocked, but especially his dad and Scott.

Derek was more red and green than adverts at Christmas time. He yanked on Stiles' arm. "No! Stiles stop! I'm not going to marry your dad!" With that harsh and very loud declaration everyone went deadly silent as they stared at Derek.

"What?" Derek felt like he was in one of those dreams where you'd forgotten your underwear.

Stiles looked calm as he spoke like he was speaking to a child, "Derek. Why would you think I meant you'd marry my dad." It sounded like a statement.

Derek made a wounded noise that seemed like he was saying it was obvious.

Stiles face dawned understanding, but was still carefully blank besides a faint trace of amusement. "Derek. Who do you think the Stilinski alpha is?"

Derek just huffed and threw out an arm to the sheriff like it was the only option.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips to mean, 'Try again.'

Derek stood dumbfounded.

Stiles groaned. "Derek, I'm the Stilinski alpha."

Derek's eyebrows went up to his hairline.

A snooty voice spoke, "Derek, just claim the land already. Your mother would be turning over in her grave if Talia knew what a pathetic bitch and his little human slut were ruining her town, much less that her son didn't immediately put a stop to it."

Stiles found it nice to know that Derek's face could go from, 'I might be a murderer.' to, 'I am two seconds away from ripping you limb from limb.' in two seconds.

"In case you've forgotten, my father was human. My mother welcomed all to her pack and was stronger for it." He had to snarl around large fangs. He grabbed Stiles' hand. "I declare intent to eventually marry the Stilinski alpha."

Stiles reached out for Scott's hand and he took it after a long look and a nod from Stiles.

Stiles spoke, "I declare intent to one day, a really mother fuckin long time from now, marry the Hale alpha Derek."

Stiles squeezed their hands and they spoke in unison. "We claim this territory." All of their eyes briefly flashed red.

Derek was still snarling. "Now get the fuck out of our territory before we declare intent to kill you for daring to use my mother's name like that."

"You can't-"

Deaton dropped the circle of sanctuary.

Stiles had a shark-like grin. "As we take care of it, it takes care of us." His eyes glowed as the wind whipped and trees and vines started to chase them out.

It was calm and still.

Stiles broke the silence. "So... Who wants pie?"

His dad grabbed him by the back of the neck. "Stiles, did you just get werewolf engaged?!"

"Easy pops! No. I got regular, 'Hey we're dating. This might lead to marriage, let's move in together.'ed.

His dad squinted before cuffing him on the back of his head. "I need pie. Then a nap. Then maybe an explanation as to what the hell just happened."

Scott raised his hand. "Ditto." His mouth dropped open. "Wait! Oh my god, dude! Is this hot neighbor! I thought his scent was familiar! But he didn't smell like a werewolf before when I smelled him on you."

They all looked to Derek in shock.

Allison got there first. "That's hot neighbor? Have my babies neighbor that you wouldn't shut up about is Derek Hale!?"

Stiles groaned. "Pie first. Then embarrass Stiles to death please. I want to go out on a full stomach."

An unidentified female voice spoke from behind some trees, "Pie sounds good. Who's treating?"

Instantly everyone was on alert except Derek. "Wait! It's okay. It Erica."

Everyone looked at him like, 'Who's Erica.' except Stiles.

A bombshell blonde walked out followed by a tall quiet black man.

She stepped right up to Stiles and looked scrutinizing. "So this is him?" She looked unsure. "He's so skinny. And nerdy. He doesn't look like he can handle you. He looks like you could eat him alive."

Stiles expertly, and impressively twirled his bat then rested it on his shoulder with a lecherous smile. "Believe me, he already has. Multiple times."

Her face lit up. "Ooo Derek, I like this one! Let's keep him!"

Derek turned to Stiles. "I will buy everyone as much pie as they want. As long as you promise not to be friends with her."

Stiles put a hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes lovingly. "Derek, I love pie. I would do anything for pie. But if you think for one second we aren't going to make your life a living hell, you've got another thing coming."

Erica laughed and Stiles linked arms with her leaving Derek behind.

Scott gave him a pitying look. "He's just like that, no he will not apologize at any point. Get used to it, or get gone."

The fierce protectiveness reminded him of Laura, but not the alpha in her, the sister.

He nodded. "I'm acclimating fast."

Scott nodded and his normal puppish look was back.

Allison wrapped Scott's arm around her neck and spoke to him as she passed almost as an after thought, "Hurt him and I know the best wolfsbane to make you die the slowest and most painful."

Lydia just gave him a look that was somehow more terrifying that facing down fifty alphas that wanted his head. She hmphed and left.

Lizard man was next. "I hate Stilinski. But if I have to deal with his bitchin and crying I'll paralyze you and by the time I wrap my tail around your throat, you'll be begging me to kill you."

By far none of those comments prepared him for the last one. Especially not coming from a man he respected so much. The sheriff clapped him around the shoulders. "He is my world and the only thing I have left of her that means a damn. If you hurt him, know that you'll hurt five people irreparably. One, him. Two, yourself. Three, me. And son you don't want to cross a man who knows the law. We know how to break it, and get away with it."

Derek swallowed. There was nothing quite like a significant other's parent terrorizing you. "And the other two people sir?"

"It would be awful for your sisters to have to lose one of the only remaining family members they have left. Hurt my boy and I'll put you in a hole God herself couldn't find. And they will never know what happened to you." The sheriff smiled. He walked off.

Derek had never known terror until that moment. His future father-in-law was insane. His boyfriend's friends were insane. He remembered all of what just happened and freaked out.

Fuck. His boyfriend was insane!

---

They rode separately, but as soon as they got there they all squished into the biggest setup the diner had. They all ordered food and ate like they were starved. Everyone was laughing and getting along just as much as they bickered. Erica and Jackson instantly mixed like oil and water, but Boyd and Lydia were deep in conversation. Derek could tell this would work, could feel it.

His eyes were glassy and he felt someone squeeze his hand. He looked down and then over at Stiles. He squeezed his hand back.

Stiles looked happy. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just, thank you."

Stiles tilted his head. "For what?"

Derek leaned over to kiss his forehead and then brought his knuckles to his lips. "For showing me, that homes shouldn't be taken. They should be shared."

Stiles grinned at him and then leaned his head on Derek's shoulder as he finished both of their curly fries.

The terror was worth it. Everything was worth it when it came to Stiles.

The sheriff gave him a soft smile. He leaned over to clap Derek's shoulder. "Welcome to the family son." His attention quickly wandered again.

Derek looked down to a beaming Stiles. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I think I'm just realizing the possibility of something wasn't as dead to me as I thought." Derek smiled with shiny eyes.

Stiles leaned up for a kiss. It was too much grin and a weird angle, but Derek swore it was the best kiss that had ever happened. Stiles pulled back with a fond look. "Welcome home."

Derek ended up paying for everybody's pie.

[alastwhore]

Corrective Measures (Alastor x Reader) 18+

Prompt: Alastor finds your fanfiction/fanart of him and offers to show you what he’s really like. (Smut)

~~~

You weren’t sure how he showed up, if you were being honest.

One day you walked into your kitchen to get a snack, and found him rummaging around in your fridge, demon form and all.

It was surprising, to say the least, and you may or may not have screamed bloody murder.

He was, evidently, expecting you to react in such a manner, and seemed to find it quite humorous. When you had finally calmed down and reclaimed your bearings, you managed to ask Alastor just how the fuck he made his way into your home. It had been three months now, and try as you might , you still couldn’t get him to answer that question.

You were understandably baffled that a fucking cartoon deer demon was in your house, but some things would never receive an explanation.

He had made himself quite comfortable in your home, and had set up shop there. At least he didn’t eat all the food, you thought to yourself. It would have been odd enough that Alastor was in your residence, let alone if he, for whatever god-forsaken reason, decided to eat you out of house and home, too. Thankfully, he materialized his own meals, so you didn’t have to worry about it.

He had, however, gotten quite nosy with your personal belongings as of late. He would pilfer through your cabinets, files, clothes, and god knows what else. He reorganized them half the time, because they “weren’t properly indexable,” whatever the hell that meant. You were just flat out lucky he hadn’t found your fanfiction yet. Not that it wasn’t good, but it was certainly something that he didn’t need to see. Especially considering the majority was about him doing some less than innocent things.

That luck ran out, however, as you re-entered your home one day after class, finding him lounging on the sofa with a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

“Darling, you never told me you were a writer,” and you felt the blood drain from your face. You knew better than to hope that he hadn’t read what you thought he had read. You knew better than to hope at all with him around. Still, though, you had to ask.

“Aha, what did you read, Alastor?” Your voice laced with uncertainty.

“I think you know,” he gave you a knowing look. You laughed nervously.

“Which one was it, do I even want to know?”

“Lets just say that you need a bit of help in the anatomy department, you have things somewhat off,” and he sat your computer down on the table, standing to his full height, staring at you with a look you had never seen him wear before. He looked very predatory in that moment, and you surely felt like prey.

“Mm? How so?” Your nerves were screaming at you to get the hell out of dodge, but you were rooted to the spot.

“Well, first of all, I wouldn’t have acted that way. You have me written like some kind of sexual deviant, of which I am not. Secondly, as flattering as it is to know you think of my bodily proportions so often, the measurements were far from correct.”

You gulped. You were screwed. There was no other way to put it.

“How are you, uh, gonna correct me?” You questioned. It was no surprise that Alastor was less than fond of your fanfiction, but the way he would modify your misperceptions was something you weren’t sure you could handle.

“Oh, darling, it’ll be in a way you will enjoy very much, I assume,” his grin became more sly, his eyes mere slits as he loomed over you.

You had nowhere to go, he had backed you into a wall and you couldn’t move an inch.

“And if my assumptions are correct, which they most likely are, you seem to have a thing for me, yes?” You couldn’t help but nod your head ‘yes’. When looking in his eyes, there wasn’t a single way you could possibly lie to him.

“Aha, very interesting indeed,” as he finished his statement, he leaned down to you, his face hovering right above yours. He grasped your chin with his thumb and forefinger, lifting your face up to view him, and kissed you softly.

You gasped into his mouth, but kept your arms still beside you. As he pulled away from you slowly, your eyes locked onto his.

“So, was that enough to give you an idea of what I have planned? Or do I need to reiterate myself,” he gave you a knowing look.

“I, hah, I think I got it.”

He hmm’ed, “Good,” and he was sweeping you off your feet, literally, as he took you to your bedroom. He shut the door with his foot as he carried you to your bed, carefully placing you down onto the comforter.

Something told you that he was going to do most of the talking. Then again, he usually did. It was a miracle if you could ever get him to shut up. For once you were thankful for it, though, because you had no no clue what you would say, anyway.

“So first off, dear, in that lovely little piece of writing I was privy to, you had me as taking you,” he gave you a look, “up against the wall. I’m sorry but that simply will not do. The fact of the matter is that any partner would be far to inconvenienced physically to truly, ahem, enjoy it. Not to mention, with the extraordinary height difference between us, there would be no way facial contact could happen.”

Well, you supposed you hadn’t thought of that. But it was fanfiction. What did it matter if the physics were wrong? A lot, evidently. At least to Alastor.

“So that is why, darling,” he continued, “I will be having my way with you on the mattress instead. It’s much more comfortable than a wall, you see.”

Uhm what?

Your eyes went wide. Now even if you wanted to talk, you were absolutely speechless.

Alastor must’ve noticed your look of befuddlement because he responded, “That is what you wanted, right? I may be a predator, but I would never take advantage of someone in that way,” Oh well at least he had standards.

“Yes, I… I want it. I want you.”

That was what he had wanted to hear. He joined you on the mattress, placing his hand on your shoulder, leaning in close to you.

“Isn’t this so much better than all those silly things you’ve written?”

Okay now that pissed you off a bit. Yeah, your fanfiction may not have been sublime, but it was certainly not silly.

“Well, no, not really,” you retorted. Alastor raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It’d be a lot better if you would actually, you know, do something.”

“Dearest, some things needn’t be rushed,” he seemed taken aback.

“Yeah? Well some things needn’t take all day,” you mocked him.

Oh that set him off. Suddenly he was on you, pushing you into the mattress while removing your top. He ran his hands down your body, over your still-clothed bust.

“As much as I adore seeing modern day lingerie, I do think this will get in the way of our activities, don’t you?” He snapped his fingers and your bra was gone, chest laid bare before him.

“Now isn’t that better? Much easier to work with,” he appraised your body, his eyes grazed over your entire body, focusing on your bare breasts. He clearly had control over his body, but that didn’t stop the fact that a blush still crept onto his cheeks.

“Ah, yeah, it’s better. But what about you? Don’t you need to remove some of that too?” It was only fair, after all.

“Oh, I suppose you’re right. Just a moment,” he removed his coat and laid it neatly on a nearby chair, snapping his fingers to remove his bow tie. Turning around, he began undoing the buttons on his dress shirt, eventually unfastening them all and removing it.

You still couldn’t really process that this was actually happening. In your room. With Alastor. But here you were, waiting to be devoured (you hoped in a good way).

“Is this what you expected? Surely it must surpass expectations,” he smiled at you, brows raised. This time he received an affirmation, much to his obvious pleasure.

“Yeah, you’re different from what I, uh, expected,” in a good way you wanted to say, but you didn’t want to stroke his ego any more than necessary.

He was exceedingly tall and lanky, all long limbs and wiry muscle. His slim waist smoothed out to slim hips, making his chest appear even more broad than it already was.

“Of course it’s good, darling. That reminds me, in that adorable little piece of writing, it did see to me that you quite enjoyed me calling you that. Is that right?”

The way your body betrayed you was more than enough of an answer for him, your face heating up in an obvious blush as he asked the question. You didn’t even have to answer him, you knew he could already tell.

“Oh, I’ll take that as a definite yes, then,” he moved onto the bed, leaning over your body and making full use of the considerable size difference.

“Why don’t you touch me, doll, I don’t bite,” oh you were quite sure he did, but that was another story entirely. You willingly obliged him, enjoying the feeling of his skin beneath your fingers.

“You know, I don’t let just anyone have the privilege of touching me, not just sexually, as this would be, but otherwise. It take quite a lot for me to be comfortable enough with them,” he confessed to you. Although it wasn’t really a confession, he wasn’t vulnerable like he should be during one. No, it was almost like his telling you was a hold in and of itself, yet another way to have power over you. You didn’t complain, though.

He bent down to you, running his mouth over your neck, over your pulse, drinking in your scent.

“Darling,” there was that word again, “Do you know how absolutely captivating you are?” When he pulled back to look at you, his eyes were different. They were darker, somehow, more predatory, and dare you say it, lustful.

You couldn’t help the whine that escaped you. He was so attractive like this.

“Alastor,” you begged, “Touch me, please.”

And he couldn’t help but give in to you. It was so very rare that he felt this way, why shouldn’t he indulge a little? He moved his hand over your breasts, stroking his fingers over the sensitive area and causing you to writhe.

“This, my dear, is an area I have little experience in, so you’ll have to forgive any mistakes I happen to make,” wait what?

“Wait, I thought you were going to correct my ideas? You said that they misrepresented you,” you were confused. He had most definitely said that.

“Yes, and I am correcting you! But I do have very little concept of this. Those things are not mutually exclusive, dearest.”

You supposed he was right, in the end.

He trailed his hands down your body, down to your pants you had worn that day.

“Be a dear and lift your hips for me.” You complied with his request, allowing him to unfasten your bottoms and pull them down your legs, folding and setting them to the side.

You felt exposed under his watchful gaze. He was still mostly clothed, and here you were in nothing but your underwear. Something about the power dynamic thrilled you.

He ran a finger down your clothed sex, enjoying the shudder than ran through your body.

“Is that what you wanted, doll? For me to touch you here?” You nodded. “Good,” and then he was pulling off the undergarment, laying it on top of your other clothes.

“My, would you look at how simply divine you are,” he spoke as his eyes devoured your bare sex. You were surely dripping by now, you could feel the slick running down your folds, and were positive it was painting a lovely picture for Alastor.

Taking a quick glance at his crotch, you could already see a sizable tent forming in his slacks. The thought of him getting that way because of you certainly didn’t help your predicament.

“Alastor?”

“Hmm, yes? What is it?”

“Take off your pants, please.”

He shook his head with a smile. “Dear, what did I tell you about patience?”

“Alastor,” you chided him, “You’re hard.”

He glanced down at himself. “Oh, it appears I am. What about that,” as he looked back at you.

“Do something about it,” you hissed.

“Very well then,” and he snapped his fingers, the remaining articles of clothing gone. Now fully undressed, he leaned onto the bed, somehow still holding dominance even with his lack of attire. You couldn’t fully see his dick and it was bothering you. You were sure this was intentional.

However, after making you squirm for a good minute, he did finally move. And when you saw it you could’ve cried. It was so large and gorgeous and weeping for attention. You were amazed at how he could stand to not do anything about it for so long. You would’ve been begging by that point, but he had the self control not to.

You couldn’t help but gawk at his dick. You couldn’t help but to imagine what it would feel like inside of you, how nicely it would stretch and fill you to the brim.

“See something you like, dear,” he gave himself a slow stroke with his eyes locked onto yours. The sound that left your mouth was nothing short of pathetic and embarrassing.

“You poor thing, I guess I should tend to you, shouldn’t I?” He leaned himself over you, brushing his hand against your upper thigh, so very close to where you needed it. You canted your hips up, attempting to receive some kind of friction against your sex.

He took mercy on you, sliding a single long finger up your slit, collecting your wetness on it. He eyed you carefully, making sure you had the reaction he had planned for.

“Hmm, you certainly are eager now, aren’t you? So tell me, should I prepare you beforehand, or would you prefer a stretch when I enter you.”

You were weak. Just the idea of it sent a spark through your core.

“Ah, Al, could you maybe,” you motioned with your hands, trying to gesture what you couldn’t get yourself to say. For once, he didn’t force you to reiterate a statement, and he deftly slid a finger into you.

You cried out, feeling him curl and flex inside you, brushing against your walls in such a skillful manner. For someone with, to quote, very little experience, he was making you feel awfully good very fast.

Seeing how easily you responded to him, he added another, stretching you open and preparing you for him. He curled his fingers inside you, sliding them in you so wonderfully. Your hips were bucking into his hand, you needed him. It had only been a moment of this, but you were so wet and ready for him, slickness sliding down onto your thighs, soaking through the sheets.

When he removed his fingers you could’ve cried, afraid that he was going to continue to tease you.You were surprised when he lowered his body to yours, then, his hand grasping his cock and guiding it to your entrance.

You felt it part your folds, the tip slipping easily into you. You fluttered around him, anticipation nearly doing you in.

“That okay, darling?” As much as he clearly needed this, he still wanted to make sure you were okay. He didn’t want to hurt you, even if he was an occasionally vile creature.

“Mn, yes. More please,” you begged.

“Whatever you say, dear,” and he thrust himself into you, all the way to the hilt. He seemed surprised you could take all of him. Truth be known, you were surprised as well. But you were oh so glad that you did.

He stared at you expectantly, as if waiting for you to adjust to him. Sweet of him, you thought to yourself, But I really don’t need it.

“Could you move, please?”

“Of course.”

And then he pulled himself back, almost all he way out, before thrusting himself back into you again. He wasn’t quick in his motions, not wanting to wear you, or himself, out too quickly. He wanted to savor this, he wanted you to savor this. So his thrusts were deep and calculated, pushing upward against your walls in the most delightful of ways. You were keening underneath him, could’ve cried from how good he felt inside you.

“Alastor, you stretch me so good,” you gasped, your hips moving on their own.

“That’s because you take all of me so well, sweetheart. I can see just how much you would enjoy me filling you to the brim.”

The only reply you could make was an unrestricted moan of his name. You didn’t even notice how you clenched around him, causing his hips to jerk out of rhythm, you were too caught up in your own pleasure, so close to the brink already. Your eyes were glazed over in lust, focused on his face, flushed from exertion.

Moving his hand down to where the two of you were joined, he began circling your clit with his fingers, eager to bring you to your release. That touch was all you needed, and suddenly you were clenching around him, pulling him in closer as you came on his cock. You whined under him, feeling a few tears run down your face as he continued to massage your clit through your orgasm.

The sight of you coming undone under him, because of him, had Alastor nearing his peak as well. It had been so very long since he had last done this kind of thing, and the heat and slickness of you had him losing himself. He pumped himself into you as he felt himself tense, pleasure building until he was thrown over the edge.

He grit his teeth, groaning as his body stilled, his cum spilling into you in bursts.  His eyes were shut as the feeling washed over him, eternal smile gone from his features as he lost himself inside you.

As he came down from his high, panting heavily, he slumped over you further, his body relaxing.

“Was that as good as expected, dearest?” Despite being out of breath, he still managed to keep his voice smooth, which wasn’t all that shocking, really.

“Much better, thank you,” you told him as he pulled himself out of you, laying himself across the bed beside of you.

“Good to know,” he played idly with your hair, brushing it back and moving it out of your face. You felt exhaustion overcome you suddenly, but like always, Alastor was quiet until he suddenly wasn’t.

“Now, darling, earlier when I was reading your fiction, I came across something involving my tentacles. Care to elaborate on that?”

You could’ve died.

Also available on AO3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/22370695

[quailthekenku]

Back-and-forth Dialogue With A Friend: Callie Visits the Conquerors

(Callie belongs to Toblerone, who is an awesome artist and also one of my best friends so please check her out thank you UwU)

(Also none of this is canon sry)

- me

~ Toble

-- Setting the scenery/explaining the scenario to Toble --

“-It's kind of like a medieval kingdom with high-technology. The floor is made of marble tiles. The planet is only half of a destroyed planet conquered by the organization long ago.

- There're illumise propaganda banners and quotes plastered around every corner or being projected onto screens that hang over the city.

- And there're controlled soldiers marching patrols amidst the conversating people of mixed factions as they run amuck through the city. Some poor scmuck in a mask is being apprehended by some soldiers for graffitiing a building around the corner. People stick to their own factions mainly, especially when it comes to anyone in the Interceptor faction (Characterized by grey/black eyes instead of blue or red)

-  "Some other places that you could visit are the Reclaimer Sector" Quail said, her astral finger pointing to the left through a cyan arch,

-  "The Interceptor Sector," She continued, pointing to a grey brick gateway in front of them,

-  "And the main Pavillion, which no one really uses because they don't get a long too well is over there too." She threw a thumb over her shoulder at the pristine white and black archway marked with the Illumise insignia on it. "The boss of this place lives up there," Quail turned around and pointed at a cylindrical tower extending up from the Pavillion, which was topped by a sphere of one-way glass, "But no one goes there. It's crawling with elite guards, and no one visits him unless he wants them to."

-  "Good luck," she grinned mischievously, and promptly vanished.

----------------Roleplay line--------------------------------------------------------------------------

~ Calli stared out onto the street. It was very different then the smooth walls and streets of the cities she had lived in.

- Around the corner sat three figures, conversing in low, excited voices, all wearing crimson cloaks. One had theirs pulled over their head, who seemed to be talking the most.

~  Her eyes landed on them, and she stared for what could be a little too long, wondering.

-  The three figures continued talking until one of them, with fiery pink hair buzzed on one side, noticed her looking. Callie noticed the metal plate and eye grotesquely grafted onto the left side of her face. The hooded figure rolled up a piece of paper that the three of them had been looking at.

~  Calli only raised an eyebrow, she was almost 60 percent metal herself anyway. 

~ She then realized her ears and tail were in plain view, and she stepped back to hide them.

-  The hooded figure turned towards her, a suspicious frown barely visible on his face. "You don't seem like you're from around here," He said suspiciously.

~  "You would be correct." Calli answered.

-  He walked toward her, pocketing the paper inside his cape, and held his hand out expectantly. "ID?" He asked.

~  "I've done nothing wrong," She said. "But I suppose I'll humor you." Calli raised a metal gloved hand and a hologram shot into the air, showing her name and other info common for an ID. It was a fake ID, of course. Calli had no intention of being truthful to a rude stranger.

-  The other two cloaked figures looked at her hologram ID in a mixture of shock, confusion, then a sort of sinister smirk. In front of them, the hooded figure smirked, then pulled something from his pocket. The second cloaked figure was now moving behind the hooded figure, and walking silently behind Callie. "I meant one of these, sweetheart," He said sweetly, holding out a square of metal and glass in one biker-gloved hand. It sparked, then bright red letters scrolled across the glass panel's surface. "But close enough." The second figure grabbed her from behind.

~  Calli smirked. 

~  She twisted and threw her attacker on the ground, so hard that a snapping sound could be heard. She then half morphed her arms, until they were sharp, battle ready weapons. "Bad idea." She hissed angrily. Her ears and tails became visible again, and her tail lashed angrily around her legs. Calli’s ears were pinned flat against her head.

-  The second cloaked figure groaned on the ground. The hooded figure smirked, then snickered, which turned into a full scale laugh. He abruptly cut off, and pulled a small pen-like rod from another pocket in his cape. He flicked his hand out, and it extended into a shortstaff. The end crackled with red electricity. He lifted his hood, Surge stared at the freak with his mismatched eyes, one cornflower blue and the other black and red, through the metal plate covering half his head. Twelve sets of coordinated footsteps were approaching from the right. "You've poked the wasp's nest, freak," He said sinisterly, red electricity sparking from his staff. "Be ready to get stung." He lunged at her.

~   She smiled. Within seconds, her helmet engulfed her head, hiding her face under a black metal helmet and a turquoise visor. Her whole body was now in the black metal suit, and she moved deftly, jumping forward to meet him. She hit him backwards and he stumbled back a few steps. Calli then pulled a black sword from seemingly nowhere and it blazed to electric blue life. "I see you want to play with lightning." A electronic voice echoed, mockingly.

-  This weirdo might be a handful, Surge thought as he fell back onto his knees, then shook himself. Reinforcements should be here any minute now. Besides, I didn't become the general for nothing. He gritted his teeth and stood up. "More like a short-circuited toaster." he taunted as he strolled past her. She swung at him, and Surge immediately dodged under, sweeping her legs out from under her. "Believe me, you'll be taken care of in no time," He finished as he prepared to swing at her again. 

~   She threw a small box at the wall, a similar box in her hand. In a flash of blue, she teleported out from under him, and she stuck to the wall. "Ah, sweetheart doesn't understand what he's dealing with." she turned her sword from blue (stun), to red (kill). "I'm sorry to take you down so soon." She leapt off the wall and swung her sword, and she saw it get so close that his cloak began to burn.

-  After barely dodging the blade that swung above him, Surge leaped into the air and shouted, "You're one to talk!" Didn't wanna have to try using this, he thought hesitantly, a blue glow beginning to emit from his hands. The two soldiers on the ground, after seeing the glow, immediately scrambled to their feet and ran away. He focused his concentration into one plea, repeating over and over: A beam of light. A beam of fire. A beam of lightning. A beam of... FOR THELOVE OF G0D JUST MAKE IT SOMETHING EFFECTIVE FOR ONCE. The energy gathered in his hands, and he unleashed the unpredictable energy towards the cyborg. It frazzled in midair, then grew bigger and more triangular until a full-sized grand piano was hurtling towards Callie. That works, Surge thought as he landed stomach down on the ground.

~   Calli started for a second and took a step back as the piano slammed powerfully into her energy shield. It knocked her back a bit. "Fine, if I stop fighting will you just imprison me?"

-  Surge got up steadily, trying hard to mask the relief on his face while he answered, "Gladly." Two hands grabbed Callie from behind, handcuffing her as they escorted her towards the middle pavillion. They put a blindfold over her eyes, and sounds around her indicated she was in an elevator going downwards. The blindfold lifted from her vision, showing her a mess of an underground laboratory. The walls were covered halfway with tally marks. Stasis chambers, all but one of them empty, lined the rim of the semicircular room. A few corpses littered the room, their bodies covered in marks from a scalpel. A steel door covered in claw marks stood on the back wall. A girl with wolf ears silently rocked in the left corner, and a teenage boy with bright seafoam hair was chopping a severed finger into tiny bits with a bloodied scalpel in the right. He looked up as Callie was shoved into the room. "You'll stay here until we find a way to use you," the voice of one of the soldiers said ominously from the elevator. "Try to survive until then.” The doors closed behind him.

~  Calli went freely, as she knew she could kill everyone in the elevator without thinking about it. However hard her opponent had tried, she could tell he was relieved. She didn't like to kill when she didn't have to. She stepped into the room, and tore the blindfold off. Calli surveyed the few people and stood silently.

-  The teal-haired teen looked up from the gore he was cutting and smiled, waving one chained hand. 3, said a number on his white bloodstained longsleeved shirt."Heya, Catgirl! They leave you for dead too?"

~  Calli let her suit recede into nothingness, and she stepped forward. Looking totally human now.

~ "Yes." was all she said. 

-  "Great! Nice suit ya had there. Or was I just seeing things again?" He tilted his head, looking from his scalpel back to her. He stood up, and the chains around his hands flashed green for a moment. "Name's Vian. Welcome to the Failure club!!! That is, unless you can somehow magically get us out of this place."

~  "You saw a suit. And I can. Get you out, I mean." Calli turned to look at him. "My name is Calli, in case you were wondering."

-  "Nice to meet you, Cassee! I'm Vian." He reached his hand out to shake hands with her, but the chain on his hand pulled it back, flashing a cautionary yellow. "That over there's Scion," He introduced, pointing to the figure in the stasis chamber wearing a respirator. "And that's Threshen," He groaned, pointing forlornly at the rocking figure in the other corner. "I think she's a little bit off her rocker, if you know what I mean," He stage-whispered.

~  "I see." She said politely. "Well, do you want out of here? I can get us out in a snap-"

-  The girl suddenly let out a blood-curdling scream that filled the room, and Vian plugged his ears. "SEE WHAT I MEAN?!" He shouted over her as she continued to scream.

-   Threshen stopped screaming and continued rocking in place. "THAT WOULD BE LOVELY, CARLIE," He continued, seemingly unaware that she had stopped screaming, "IF THE GUARDS WEREN'T PATROLLING OUTSIDE." His chains flashed yellow again. "I COULD PROBABLY HELP BETTER," He continued, "IF I DIDN'T HAVE THESE CHAINS ON ME." He gestured to the black metal chains around his wrists.

~   "I can do something about those too," She said. "And she's stopped screaming, you can talk normally again." Her ears moved forward.

-  "Oh," He said. "Right." The elevator made a whirring noise, as if someone was beginning their descent down.

~  Calli turned quickly and ran at the elevator doors. She ripped them open with super human strength, and then she reached in and tore the elevator cable. The sound of something heavy falling whizzed past and a muffled scream reached their ears too.

-  The elevator fell to the bottom of the shaft, a woman in a white, blue and red robe sprawled on the ground.

~  Calli looked down at her in disgust.

-  Vian gasped. "Is she dead?" He said excitedly.

~  "I don't think so." Calli said. "Who is she?"

- "Oh, one of those converter people," He said, waving his hand. "Probably come to make you into another soldier."

- "Another pawn."

~  Calli stepped over to the woman, and kicked her in the jaw, knocking her unconscious.

-  "Another slave," He pressed, slowly leaning forward on his chains.

~  "Now, do you want to get out or not?"

-  Vian's eyes lit up. "R-r-really?" He hesitated, looking down at the scalpel still in his hands, then back up at Callie with a fearful expression. "I... Don't think that's a good idea..."

~  "Why so?" She asked. "Anything would be better then living down here in fear." Calli's eyes darkened. "Even death."

-  He stood fearfully. "I've done things," he admitted, gesturing at the bodies of scientists strewn all over the floor, "Bad things. I... don't trust myself." He was straining against the chains now, and they were flashing orange on and off now.

~  "But why throw away your chance to change?" She asked. "I've done horrible, even evil things myself. But I've changed myself. I'm much better now."

-  Vian stopped, contemplated this, and smiled. "You're right. Let's get out of this place."

~  Calli grinned. ~ "I knew you'd come around." She said, then stepped toward him. "Do you mind if I..?" She pointed at his hands.

-  He stepped away from his chains , holding them tight and away from him so she could cut them. The chains flashed red, and a burst of blue light sparked on the cuffs on Vian's wrists with an electric ZAP. He yelped and collapsed to the ground in pain, then rose slowly and gestured for Callie to cut them. 

~  Calli first wrapped metal gloves hands around them, and the dull black glow slowly dimmed, and then, she plucked them off effortlessly and dropped them to the floor.

-  Vian stared at the rings of Litchenberg scars that marred his wrists. "T...Thank you," he said in bewilderment. Threshen stood behind them, stumbling slowly towards the door, glaring at Vian as she passed with her glassy eye. The other was scratched out. Calli noticed that Threshen's right arm was missing as Threshen sat in the elevator shaft's base.

~  She shook her head. "it's just what I do." She gestured, "Follow me, and then, she walked to the other side of the room, away from the elevator."

- Vian smiled and nodded, walking toward the door with her. When Threshen didn't follow, he sighed, took her hand and dragged her toward the door, despite her screaming, clawing and thrashing.

~  When Calli stopped at a wall with no door and far away at the elevator, Vian seemed confused. "Come closer. I'm blowing the stilts off this building and if you're anywhere out of my shield you'll be killed." Calli began to place at least six or seven glowing charges in a circle around her, all electric blue.

-  He stood in shock for a second, then nodded solemnly, dragging Threshen closer in as the three of them braced for impact. "Welp," Vian murmured low under his breath, "Guess the Clone's gone." 

~  "Do you want me to get Scion?" She asked, "I haven't set the charges yet."

-  "He's got weird regenerative powers," He explained. "Being a clone of the boss, and all that. He'll be fine."

~  "Alright," She said. A blue shield went up around them, and the charges began to beep. "Get ready, it's gonna be loud."

-  "Roger that," He said, covering his ears, and gesturing for Threshen to do the same.

~  A loud cracking sound came first, and outside the shield a blue smoke seemed to attack the energy field. Then the blackness came, filled with blue lightning. The building began to collapse, falling in on itself and pieces of the walls and ceiling began to hit the shield like hail. 

-----------------Roleplay Line------------------------------------------------------------------------

We had to stop at this point because of the fact of it being near midnight but...

Some ideas of what I believe would’ve happened:

1. Vian played Callie and goes crazy stabbing everyone once he gets to the surface, including Callie, and they have a “OMG YOU BETRAYED ME D:” Talk. 

2. Callie would’ve met with the boss of Illumise, severely injured/killed them, and left. :>

So ya that was fun!!! UwU

[normal-thoughts-official]

Thawing From the Middle

Raphael Santiago didn’t like to define himself by his hatreds, but this, he had to admit - he fucking hated the cold.

Good thing Maia’s so warm - and he can be, too, when she needs it.

Read it on ao3

Relationships: Maia Roberts/Raphael Santiago, Maia Roberts/Raphael Santiago/Simon Lewis/Meliorn (mentioned)

Characters: Raphael Santiago, Maia Roberts

Rated: T

Additional Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Polyamory, Daylighter Raphael Santiago, Past Abuse, Asexual Raphael Santiago, Autistic Raphael Santiago (implied/referenced), Abuse survivor Maia Roberts, Pack leader Maia Roberts

Raphael doesn’t like to think of himself as a man defined by his hatreds, even if he knows some people can think of no other traits to define him.

(Only if they don’t know you at all, he can hear Meliorn’s voice saying in his head.

We all know he’s a softie at heart, Simon and Maia had agreed.

The memory makes him smile.)

But this, he has to admit - he fucking hates the cold. It’s as much a part of himself as his own name.

It was the thing he had immediately despised about New York, as soon as he set foot there. In New York, 20°C - sorry, 70°F - was warm. Summer was so short it was less of a station and more a fluke. There was snow.

It was nothing like Guadalajara.

Guadalajara was burning, and loud, and colorful, in all of the best ways. It was hot, and the food was spicy, and midday was filled with the smell of the meals of the whole neighborhood.

New York was cold, like a sensory deprivation chamber. He felt trapped, and numb, and alone. The first few weeks there felt more like death than when he actually died.

And when he did die, well - cold was less of a state and more of a constant, for him.

He’d leave his clothes out on the Dumort roof, during the day, while he slept. They were all black, so they could keep the heat as much as possible; even the few red or green pieces had black cloth underneath, courtesy of Magnus’ tailor.

It did very little to help.

Besides, that’s another thing he’d always hated about the cold - having to wrap himself all around, being barely able to move, the textures all wrong and painful and keeping him sealed from the world, this depriving kind of too much.

It might be why becoming a Daylighter had been such a blessing for him - if he’d never had proof that God was by his side before, this one he couldn’t deny. Being able to feel the sun on his face again - to really feel warm - after almost a century… He could cry just from the pure sense he got that he wasn’t hated, wasn’t renegated, hadn’t been abandoned.

It might also be why he hasn’t taken a jacket with him, today. But that one he has to regret a little bit.

Even under Maia’s very generous pile of blankets, he is shivering. It’s not like they could do much for him, anyway; he has no heat for them to keep.

In his defense, it was warm when he left. And he works in a kitchen, so it’s always a bit too hot in there.

Your job isn’t just cooking and you know it, he can hear Maia say just like she did as she slapped him lightly with a towel, as the both of them finished closing Taki’s for the day. Just bring a jacket with you, she had finished, the annoyance leaving her tone in a single huff, making room for worry - and the painful kind of understanding that made him avert his eyes from her big, beautiful ones.

“Stop looking so miserable, you’re under, like, 10 blankets right now,” Maia says, laughing, in that way that lights her up until even he feels a little warmer.

“Doesn’t help a lot when there’s barely any warmth for them to keep,” he answers.

“You know, I’ve always admired the way you can mumble full sentences like that,” she answers, that same smile still shining in her eyes, and he swears that he can see it even on the little bounce of her hair as she finishes taking off her pants. She’s so lively, every little part of her body bursts with it.

“I didn’t mumble,” he mumbles, flopping his face down on the pillows.

“Sure,” she says easily, in a way that’d be more frustrating than some witty argument, but he can’t even complain because she finally turns off the light and lifts the covers to lay alongside him.

“Jesus Christ, you really are freezing,” is what she says as soon as her body even lightly touches his.

“Sorry,” he answers automatically, trying to keep his distance so he doesn’t freeze her.

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine,” she says, easily, like her skin didn’t break out in goosebumps the second it touched his.

Raphael huffs. “I promise I’ll bring a jacket next time,” he says, sitting up so he can rub his own arms in the hopes he can get some heat. “I’ll just-”

Maia sighs. “I get it, you know,” she says, honestly. “One time I almost froze up because-” she bites her lip.

Raphael turns to her, immediately, a weird sense of protectiveness overtaking him even as he knows she’s fine. “Because of what?” he asks, holding himself back from touching her with his icy hands.

“Because I didn’t want to Turn,” she says, not looking at him. She has one finger playing with one of her curls, twisting around like it’s cuddling with it. Her voice sounds the kind of soft that makes you feel hollow. “The wolf form is very warm, you know. Fur and all that. Way warmer than human,” she says. Then she turns to look at him, the force of her eyes always taking him by surprise for a second, so honest and so deep, “did you ever see me Turn, back when Luke was the Alpha?” she asks quietly.

“I think so,” he says. Him and Maia weren’t particularly close, at the time; never truly were until he had started dating Meliorn, and Simon, and helping her out at Taki’s, until suddenly she felt almost as much a part of her life as the place itself. He fights to bring the memory back, “it was like… you were breaking out of your body,” he says.

It’s true, too. Most werewolf transformations were smooth, almost instant. Maia’s was long, her whole body snapping and twisting like her body was fighting itself. It was painful to watch, and felt even more painful to remember, now.

“It felt like that, too,” she admits. “It hurt a lot. I felt like I was always fighting it. Even when I decided to Turn… It’s like a part of me didn’t want to acknowledge what was happening,” she admits.

Sometimes he forgets that Maia felt like a monster, too. He never got it. Sure, she was a werewolf, but that didn’t matter, in the same way that becoming a vampire never made Simon any less human. It wasn’t really about - the condition.

She nods like she knows what he’s thinking, and takes his hand to plant a kiss on it. It’s ridiculous, but it makes him feel a little less cold. “I didn’t feel like I was in control,” she admits, quietly. “Every time I Turned, I felt like it was being forced. Like it was proof that I still… Belonged to Jordan,” she finishes, quietly.

Raphael hisses, and he doesn’t even mind it. Jordan will always bring out the worst kind of hatred in his heart, pretty much like Camille did. He’s glad they’re both dead, unable to hurt the people he loves anymore.

She smiles again, like she’s thankful for his little display, for how automatically it comes to him. Her hand lingers on his, the both of them drawing comfort from the random patterns their fingers leave on each other’s skin. “After he died, things changed a little bit. I’ve been trying to reclaim my wolf. Make it mine. It brought me too many good things for me to let It belong to him,” she says.

Raphael nods. He can understand that. There’s still a lot he misses, but at the end of the day - he built a family after being a downworlder. Magnus. Cat. Madzie. His clan. His partners. The regulars at Taki’s. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he lost them, now. And he wouldn’t have had them if he hadn’t been Turned.

Maia sighs, like the words are tiring her out. “But I get it. I get that need to- pretend it won’t happen. The cold.”

“Thank you,” he says, even if that doesn’t sound like the appropriate answer; it’s the one he feels like he needs to give.

Maia smiles. “It’s come to mean a lot to me, to be able to Turn, and not fight it,” she continues. “And it’s really warm, too.”

He hums for a second, and then it dawns on him. “Is that an offer?” he asks, unable to keep the smile off his face, that wide one that’s just on the edge of laughter.

Maia, who had looked a little drawn, smiles back to him, relaxing back into the conversation. “If you don’t mind that we won’t be able to talk,” she says.

He shakes his head. “I don’t really feel like talking today, anyway,” he says, truthfully. He’s tired, and there’s that buzzing on his head that makes him feel like talking is too much of an effort, sometimes. Like it’s taking him from himself.

“You could have told me,” Maia says, not unkindly, getting up slightly and removing the top she usually wears to bed.

“I can handle it,” he points out.

“I know you can. I’m saying you don’t have to,” she fires back. Her tone is kind, but still cutting in that no-bullshit way only Maia can do. It’s one of the many things he loves about her; she’s very direct, when it matters.

He nods, and doesn’t say anything. She smiles, shimmying out of her panties, which earns her a snort that she fights back with nothing but a swat in his general direction. It’s a testament to how close they are, that Raphael doesn’t mind seeing her like this. It’s always a little terrifying, looking at someone and wondering what it would be like to want them, and feeling his stomach churn just at the thought. But Maia knows it doesn’t mean anything; and it doesn’t mean anything to her, either.

Besides, she’s beautiful, her skin almost as brown and shiny as her hair, making she look like the beginning of a starry night. She’s soft, too, and there’s just something about her that radiates warmth, and safety.

She’s the opposite of Raphael. All light and softness, but with the power to be sharp, and strong, lying underneath.

And then she Turns, and it’s like the midnight sky. Her transformation is smooth now, and mesmerizing to watch. Her fur is darker than her hair, her eyes glowing Alpha green - he’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss the brown, so much more real and beautiful and sweet; but somehow her Alpha green doesn’t look threatening when she’s like this; more like welcoming, and protective. Her fur is just as shiny as her hair, except not as curly. And she’s bigger too, bigger than Raphael - not that that takes a lot, he thinks bitterly - and yeah, she was right. She feels like a furnace, radiating heat.

She wastes no time either, immediately making Raphael lie down again - with a soft nudge of her paw over his shoulder, delicate and careful in that way that fills him with endearment. Then she lies on top of him, carefully so he gets adjusted to her weight. Somehow, looking into her eyes, he knows she’s smiling.

As soon as she settles, he wastes no time, his hands running to her back so he can stroke her beautiful fur. It’s nice that her fur is straighter than her hair, because they can both get the best of both worlds; the careful way he can squeeze her curls and run the tips of his fingers over her scalp, and the longer strokes alongside her fur. He feels warm in a second, the heat radiating from her making him feel full, and real, and home. He closes his eyes, and there’s the faint smell of the spices that still linger on both of them after so many hours at Taki’s, and the warmth from her body, and the perfect texture of her body. He’s enveloped in her, not like he’s trapped, or sealed away; but like they overflow with each other, simple and content.

He sighs, and she nuzzles his neck slightly, and he’s so happy he barely knows what to do with it.

“It’s an honor that you’re comfortable with me like this,” he says, because it’s true, and he wants to say it. He knows how far she’s had to go in order to even be comfortable in her wolf form by herself, much less with other people. “I love you.”

She wags her tail, completely disrupting the covers on top of them, and letting out an embarrassed whimper afterwards. Raphael can’t help it; he laughs.

“It’s ok,” he says, too tired of words to elaborate, but knowing that she knows what he means, anyway. Soon it would be too hot, with the covers over them like this. He barely feels an ounce of cold anymore, and it hasn’t even been a minute.

She nuzzles his neck again, settling against him for real this time, and soon her breaths even and she falls into peaceful, happy sleep. It looks like she’s smiling, and despite his tiredness, Raphael finds himself actively fighting the sleep so he can keep running his hands alongside her, watching over her sleep, enjoying her warmth.

Raphael Santiago hates the cold. But he never wanted to be defined by his hatreds. Not when love beats so loudly inside of him, thrumming with happiness and purpose.

When he wakes up the next day, sunlight hitting his face and a half-awake Maia mumbling because she forgot to close the window, he feels better rested than he has in years.

Centuries, even.

[anonthenullifier]

A Promise Broken with a Vow - Chapter 2

A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter 2 summary: An unassuming day leads to an existential crisis for Vision, one that forces him to re-examine and redefine what he wants.

AO3 Link

Acrid smoke swirls with the palpable waft of grease sliding from spits into hungry flames, a mixture that envelops Vision as he walks, hands lounging in his trouser pockets. There are fifteen wagons left, comprising what appears to be three separate groupings. Each wagon looks roughly the same—knotty boards forming the base, the ends sloping up and ballooning into off-white canvas covers. It’s akin to watching a fleet of boats skim through the bay. In a way this is accurate, the prairie grass oscillating in pelagic mimicry. 

Based on what Vision has read in pamphlets and heard in saloons and trading posts, this is a popular jumping off point for the wagon trains. Gaggles of people flocking to explore the relative unknown of the territories, some in pursuit of gold, some freedom from poverty and lack of opportunity, and some because there might just be something more out there. Whatever the reason, he feels a kinship with these strangers who are so willing to shed the past and seek a new future.

What he does not feel a kinship towards is the inconsiderate messA. Carefully he sidesteps another pile of luggage, movements slow as to not step on the broken, hand painted tea cups forming a barrier around a lopsided stool. A wagon train left this morning and this is only one carcass of their lives, eight other mounds rise from the ground, each one swarming with scavengers eager to pilfer from another’s discarded life, not once seeming to wonder why the former owners left it all behind.

“Excuse me, fine gentleman?” Vision’s hips turn first, eyes remaining for a half second longer on the broken arm of a doll laying in the grass, and then his upper half follows. “Would a double-breasted water butt-smasherB like yourself fancy to know the secrets of your future?”

His right hand slides from his pocket and finds its way to tug at his earlobe. “I do not, um, think that is an apt description of my, well...” A wave of his hand over his decidedly non-athletic physique finishes the thought.

The fairly clear display seems to be willfully ignored, Wanda’s lips tightening into a pleased line. The action is accentuated by the silk headscarf she wears, the crimson and marigold beads (ones he spent many days threading onto it) framing her delight at throwing him askew. “Just get over here you fine yard-of-pump water.C “

“Wanda,” there is no one within ear shot, yet her brazen disregard for all etiquette both offends his sensibilities and also sends a spark of desire twining through his body, “please.” 

The attempt at admonishment is weak and crushed immediately when she stands and grabs his hand, leading him to a wooden stool. It’s then buried deep in the ground as she leans against his shoulder, lips not far from his ear and accent rougher than usual, her tone sending his heart and mind into a dizzy, “It’s Scarlet.”

“Well, Miss Scarlet,” he makes sure to emphasize her working moniker, enunciation sharp on the c and t, “I do hope you are in my future.”

Her forehead thumps his shoulder, untamed curls tickling his jaw as she shakes her head with an ounce too much drama to be taken seriously. The lack of annoyance is confirmed once she moves away to take her seat, only bemusement left in her unerring gaze. “You do know that is the most overused line by men thinking they’re being clever with me.”

This is not a mystery to him and he admits it is an uninventive and tired quip, but the way she looks when her cheeks develop a subtle glow, fingers picking at the fringe on her shawl, all while her eyes pierce him with disbelief always shields him to embarrassment long enough to (politely) be bold. “And yet it will most certainly be successful.”

“I suppose I can consult the spirits to see what chance you have.” With a wink she easily slips into her spiritualist role. A moderate, swooping dance of her hands accompanies a drop of her voice into a recently practiced monotone, one Helen and Amadeus agreed gives the most otherworldly feel. “Based on what I see in my crystal ball,” which is not a crystal ball but a discolored beaker of Helen’s they charred in a campfire for added, spooky effect and then stood up in a cushion made from one of his socks, “you,” the band of her crescent moon clinks against the beaker as she points at him, “will be in my bed tonight.” 

“Is that so?” 

“The spirits never lie.”

How she keeps a straight face is a mystery to him, especially given he can barely manage it himself. “Can you perhaps explain to me how the spirits are so certain it is I in your bed and not you…” A woman and her daughter walk past as he speaks, eyeing the table with disquisitive mistrust, causing his voice to lower into a stutter, “um in mine?” Vision clears his throat, the reminder of the public nature of this interaction grounding him immediately. “Or well, not that it matters, I suppose, given this whole thing is a farce.”

Wanda is unfazed by the passersby, her attention solely on him. “Just give me your hand and I’ll confirm it.” He complies, tugging his glove off and allowing her to grip his wrist, fingers lackadaisically tracing the lines of his palm. For a fleeting moment he considers asking for a tarot reading, believing it is a bit more intriguing to watch from an outsiders’ perspective given his own curiosity about the process, having only seen the practice from a distance since Wanda never offers it to him. He, however, will not ask nor push her. Even though she has embraced and reclaimed the Scarlet Witch persona, he knows there is far more depth of agony in the title and its consequences than she wishes to face, understandably so. “Was it easy to see me across the way?”

“It was,” an important aspect they’ve discovered in traveling to towns with more open spaces than cramped ones. The more direct sight lines to her table, the more likely people are to get curious. It is why, once they’ve set her up, he will meander the perimeter to check her overall visibility, often weaving between the wagons or railcars or whatever mode of gathering they are near to decipher any poor angles. “I do think the tablecloth needs more panache to truly signal your offerings.”

Wanda seems less certain, albeit not completely against the idea. “What if we added more to the scarf instead?”

The current headdress is not as prominent as the one she used to wear, though it still, to him anyway, is unmistakably a look only a spiritualist would don. Additionally, it creates a rather fetching silhouette when she leaves her hair down, like she has today.  “I can see if there are any potential additions when I am at the trading post.  Perhaps some feathers?” 

“Worth a try.” Toying with his fingers is not part of a typical reading, something he won’t point out to Wanda since he is not at all bothered by the action and she always carries a certain amount of nervous energy before customers arrive. “When does Helen want you back?”

“Not until one.” He answers her next question before she can ask, since it is the same every time, “I will be sure to stop by before then.”

“Good.”

Their conversation lulls into an amiable calm, her fingers moving haphazardly along his hand while her eyes wander the surroundings.  All of this a sham to bring in customers. He even wears one of his nicer suits for it, the hypothesis being that if a man of civility is intrigued enough to seek a reading, then others will feel it is the socially reasonable thing to do. Part of him wonders at the ethics of ushering people towards a practice that is inherently specious while the other part of him knows that the decently accurate (albeit empty) reading does not actually harm the customer, per se, other than maybe a mite more hope or worry or vim, depending on what Wanda tells them. Plus, and this is the most persuasive argument for his involvement, Wanda truly seems to enjoy it now that she has figured out how to avoid amphibious attacks. “What do you think is going on over there?”

“Where?” Vision does his best to turn in the direction of Wanda’s gaze without pulling his hand away and breaking the illusion of their performance. Nothing has changed since he sat down, he thinks, other than a handful of people beginning to edge closer. “It seems you have some curious parties?”

The feel of a phantom hand nudging his chin a bit more to the right would be a curious thing if he had not become so accustomed to Wanda’s powers. He follows the direction and spots the farthest wagon train where there are four fires dotting the ground, each surrounded by people conversing and going through their belongings, likely to determine what to leave behind. “I am not sure I-”

“They’re setting something up” 

There are more seats arranged than is usual, well maybe not more seats but the arrangement is somewhat odd—trunks, boxes, and blankets set up in clear lines. “Perhaps there is a, um,” gala is the first word to come to mind, except that is not the life they are leading now, “a gathering tonight?” 

“Well,” a tug brings him back to face her, “we should come back tonight. I’ve never gotten to see you kick up a shindyD.” 

“That is because I do no such thing.” There are, admittedly, many things he had never done until he met Wanda or thought about doing until she came into his life, her influence a pleasant chaos that leads him down some rather indecorous paths. Lively dancing in public, however, is an embarrassment he will not suffer, even for her. “Nonetheless, I will accompany you if you wish to participate.” 

It is not meant as a challenge, yet she is staring at him with the same lopsided grin and narrowed eyes as when she is about to take the last pair from his hand in a game of Commerce. “Vision,” and this is how she says his name when she is about to hit his ball into the oblivion of grass on their makeshift paille maille course, “we both know that—” her mouth snaps shut and her eyes move to watch something over his shoulder. “Play along now, please.” It seems the onlookers have drawn within earshot. Wanda begins to hum, ramping up the eccentricity of the reading, dragging her nails along the grooves of his palm. “Your life line is branching, a sharp turn towards fortune is in your future, but,” a dangerous, over-the-top edge enters her voice, “you must tread carefully lest you bring about your own ruin.”

Vision is not a thespian, is not even decent at telling lies, so hopefully his words are heard as sincere. “Does this mean I’ll find gold?”

The path of his reading jackknives towards the base of his fingers. “Not just treasures, your heart line curves here,” she rubs the base of his ring finger, “if your heart is open, you will find love as well.”

“Love and fortune?” He tries to sound enthralled and gullible.

Wanda winks at him, a whispered not bad in his mind as she releases his hand, her palm coming to rest over her heart. “Yes, now go,” the people are barely two feet away now, “follow your heart and you will triumph.” 

“I will.” He stands, as quickly as he can manage without wincing, hand diving into his pocket to retrieve a silver dollar. “You have saved my life.” This is sincere, something he tries to convey with a hard stare at his fiancée, gleefully accepting her moony smile. “I must go forth now and seek my fortune.” Compared to the prior statement, this one feels awful in his mouth, an acerbic falsehood tainting his general demeanor. At least it is almost done. The coin (which is near 100 times her going rate) thuds on the table and he slides his palm beneath hers, breaking script to lay a doting kiss to the top of her hand, “Thank you.” 

Wanda’s jaw tightens as she does her best not to break character, her, “Go” vibrating with amusement. He grins at her and grabs his glove, pulling it back on before he walks away, turning after ten feet to see a woman already occupying his old seat and a line forming behind her. 

With the feederE act done, he is free to explore the town, a task Vision finds inherently satisfying, no two places exactly alike. It’s why he never bemoaned when Mr. Stark would send him on wild goose chases to hamlets and towns with varied and often confusing names. Sometimes he would even suggest a new merchant to “investigate” if he discovered a name on a map he was ignorant of. Based on the walk from the hotel to the wagons, there are at least ten unique shops for him to explore and he has already mapped out the most efficient path between them all. 

First, however, he returns to the railcar for his shopping basket. He locks the door, tugging on it several times to be sure it is secure. Satisfied, he turns towards Council Bluffs, ready to discover what it has to offer. 

The grainery is the farthest away and most strenuous to get to, located in the old fort on the side of a hill. It is also the quickest, the owner more than happy to deliver fifteen bags of flour to their hotel this afternoon. At the bottom of the hill Vision ambles into Royal Amy’sF, flanked by muskets and pistols but only interested in finding a suitable combustible to help start fires in wet conditions. The Robinson Hotel has a side business of selling excellent dried venison, or so he overheard at breakfast. He buys a few bags and determines, based solely on the lobby, which he knows isn’t fully fair, that they chose the correct accommodations. It’s on his stroll to Harle’s Hall that a realization creeps into his mind. A minute glance over his shoulder confirms what he suspected, spotting the same bearded face roughly fifteen feet behind him that has been fifteen feet behind him since he left Wanda. Granted this is a small town, albeit one inundated with transient visitors which should reduce the probability of being followed...unless someone else has deduced the same logical shopping route. That thread of reassurance is frayed since the man hasn’t once gone into the stores to purchase goods. 

There are two other experiences Vision can find equivalent to now. After he was known to be the butler of the Stark Estate, it was not an uncommon occurrence to be cornered by Mr. Stark’s jilted business partners or lovers, sometimes it was individuals with grand ideas that needed financing, and other times it was mothers looking to climb the social ladder who believed Vision would be a suitable candidate for their daughters in the hopes their daughters would then seduce Mr. Stark. Only no one here knows who he is and it leaves the other, far more insidious experience. Vision shoves the thought away, arm curling tighter to trap the basket against his side, determined to remain calm and logical. 

This determination is short lived.  While he’s in Harle’s his eyes betray him, sliding every so often to the windows at the front where the man stands talking with a group of people, angled perfectly to see the front door. Then Vision’s body, against his wishes, defects from rationality, a cold sweat breaking on his forehead at the memories he tries so hard to keep at bay lest he inadvertently forces Wanda to relive their capture, something she already experiences at least one night a week while she sleeps...as does he. 

Vision scans the room, recalling the instructions Natasha once gave him on evasion after a particularly overzealous mother pressured him into a six hour tea where he met all eight of her daughters. The lessons emphasized the need for alternative exits, a tactic that he, as a butler for a man with questionable morals, had already discovered though clearly had issues fully utilizing.  “Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes?” The store owner smiles amicably at him. 

“Is there a second exit?”

The friendliness slides from the man’s face, replaced by befuddlement. “Er, yes, back left corner’s where they deliver the goods.”

“Thank you.” Vision pays for the balms and ointments, eager to escape while still ensuring he remains cordial so as not to leave a poor impression. “You have a lovely establishment.”

Past the soaps and bandages, wedged between a shelf of loose teas and a display of elixirs, Vision bends to exit through the small delivery door, finding himself in a grove of pine trees that insist on latching onto the threads of his jacket as he struggles through their alpine embrace. 

It appears he has successfully navigated off the main road, a small dirt path separating him from the field of wagons. Given the rest of the shops are on Broadway, it seems like the majority of his perusing will have to wait, except, however, the trading post which is situated on the outskirts of town near the railcar. Luckily for him, it also happens to be the most important stop of the day and isn’t terribly far, perhaps a quarter mile. 

Vision glances around, checking for untoward eyes, and walks as swiftly and casually as he can without overexerting himself,  worried if he stumbles or shows signs of his ailments that he will be perceived as an even easier mark. In a sense, being on this dirt path allays his worries of kidnapping while in another sense the lack of bystanders and witnesses make the ease of absconding with him that much more proficient. He tries not to consider this option, instead forcing himself to think about the target destination. For instance, earlier today the owner at Amy’s explained how the trading post is one of the few log-based structures in Council Bluffs, the majority of the houses and buildings either stone or sod. It also stands alone, a sturdy structure framed by the emptiness of the fields beyond, the first thing all travelers see when they arrive. Or the last, depending on the direction of travel, and for him, at the moment, it arises as the solitary structure leading him out of town. 

Successful in reaching the building, Vision enters and assesses the room, relieved when he only sees a mustachioed man at the counter. Adding to his comfort is that the inside is almost identical to every other trading post in the last three weeks. All the shelves are packed so tightly with an array of items it is hard to decipher the logic of their placement, assuming there is logic in putting oil for lamps immediately next to bags of cornmeal. All Vision can imagine is how a bump of an elbow would knock the oil over and how it would then soak into the bag of food. Once it dries, would anyone be the wiser?

He decides to skip the cornmeal and wait to grab his oil until the end. On his journey towards the maps he collects their typical victuals: rice, coffee, fermented fish (not Vision’s preference but it does last long), dried apples, jarred beans, and hardtack biscuits. He grabs a new cast iron kettle, Amadeus accidentally losing theirs down a river, a few more mugs, and a collection of sturdier cooking utensils. The next shelf is stacked high with beaver pelts, just as expensive as all other stops so far. Vision runs a gloved hand along the fur, trying to convince himself the money spent will be worth it now that the weather is beginning to bite. 

“Mornin’ Francis!”

Vision glances up at the newcomer and his blood freezes. Slowly he backs away from the pelt table and towards the corner with the axes and goads. All his life he has believed in the goodness of mankind, and mostly he has been proven correct, except his body aches at the memory of the evil that brought him here, that is forcing him to travel to Seoul. His hand wraps around the wooden handle of a goad, sliding it off the hook on the wall and keeping it close at his side. Natasha would be so proud of him and the thought is a little sickening.

Armed and on edge, he shuffles his way towards the table of maps, half heartedly sifting through them while keeping his attention on the men speaking at the counter. He notices a hefty book labeled The Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California and scoops it up, gently placing the goad against the wall so he can open the guidebook. 

“Howdy.”

Vision flinches at the voice, dropping the book at the sight of the bearded man grinning up at him. “I am not interested.”

The grin intensifies. “I imagine you might be interested in knowin’ that guide‘s barking at a knotG.” Somehow Vision resists looking down at the discarded guide, knowing from Natasha’s lessons, and his own experience, to never remove his eyes from an enemy. “You the fella with the afternoonifiedH railcar?”

It’s phrased as a question and stated as a fact. “I, um, yes, I am.” He could deny it but he is not a gifted liar. 

“Where ya goin’ with it?”

“San Francisco.” Instantly he realizes the mistake. He should have said somewhere that is not their actual destination just as he should have told mothers he was taken and Mr. Stark’s jilted lovers and business partners that they deserved better. 

The man whistles in response, scratching the back of his neck. “So you, the lad, and the two AngelicasI are plannin’ to go all the way to San Fran in that?”

The danger of the situation fades into a stubbornness he developed when working in the factories, never one to take lightly the gall of people who question every decision without proper facts or documentation.  They have planned this trip, they have survived this long, the graves this man’s voice is digging for them is unacceptable. Vision stands taller, towering over the stranger as he grabs the Emmigrant’s Guide. “Yes we are. Now please, I need to purchase my goods and be on my way.” The man lifts his hands in mock apology, stepping away from Vision. 

He makes it four steps before he’s held hostage all over again. “You want to lead them to their deaths with that fallacy,” the man’s dirt encrusted finger is pointed at the book, “have at it. Lansford never updated the map in there after the first publication.” Natasha’s protocol is broken by Vision’s eyes darting down. The name on the front of the guidebook is L. W. HastingsJ. “The rest of it’s decently useful,” something that seems to be painfully admitted, “but the map’s bound to put ya’ll in a bad boxK. So if you want to walk away from someone’s been on that trail dozens o’ times and rely on an almost decade old map, go right ahead.”

If Helen or Wanda were here, they’d likely urge him to leave, but the guilt that he tries to keep suppressed, the knowledge that he is the sole reason for this journey, that he has single handedly put the woman he loves and his dear friends into numerous precarious situations already, weighs so heavily on him that he can’t seem to move his feet and can’t take his eyes off the guidebook in his hands. The man picks up on the hesitation, shifting his demeanor from a soothsayer of doom to a gentle friend. “Wanna see my map? Update it every journey.”

Maps are not evil nor suspicious nor likely to kidnap and torture him. If he treats this as reconnaissance to figure out the correct path, would that not be preferable to ignorance? “I would.”

From the depths of four layers of unmatched clothing the man pulls out a weathered, chicory-colored leather bundle. Lovingly he unfolds it, revealing a map that sends a spark of awe and a whip of jealousy into Vision’s chest. It is handmade, similar to the ones Vision has been constructing, only there is so much more, or so he thinks, the legend and all markings in symbols he vaguely recognizes. “I been on these trails dozens o’ times.” Enraptured, Vision moves closer, bending down to watch the man show him their forthcoming journey all while opening the guidebook’s map and comparing them. “Y’all will have an easy time across the prairies, some good buffalo hunting here,” the brown smudges are apparently buffalo herds, dotting the map in various places, sometimes close to the thick black trail and sometimes a fair distance away. This is not information available in the book. “Then you reach Fort Laramie. Good place to stock up before the mountains. Happen to fall in love, it’s one o’ the few magistrates on the trail.” 

“Are there not weddings on the trail?” The plan, as of now, is to wait until they are in Seoul to get married, allowing their marriage to start with hope (and health) instead of being shrouded in uncertainty. It is also the latest Wanda is willing to consider despite their promise to Mr. Stark. But Vision had also assumed, based on sensationalized stories shared in the newspapers, that weddings were common on the frontier and easily coordinated if spontaneity suddenly befell them, at least it is what he conceded to Wanda the last time they had a fraught conversation on the topic back in Springfield. 

“If you want it legal, gotta have a magistrate, and they ain’t readily available, see,” now Vision understands the faded heart symbols on the map (yet another difference with his own), only three of them falling along their path. “That ain’t your big concern, really, after Laramie is the first mountain pass, it ain’t bad in pleasant weather, but it ain’t easy either. Break a wheel or lose an oxen, you best hope you get out before the snow.” 

Vision listens in increasingly abysmal despair as the man walks him through the path—raging rivers, deserts where people freeze to death in their sleep, stampedes of buffalo, thunderstorms with lethal hail and whipping winds, dysentery, cholera, starvation, dehydration, wild predators, getting crushed by other wagons, and the crowning bit, “Y’all lookin’ to hit the Sierra Nevadas right around the time the Donner Party did who, by the way, used Lansford’s little guide.”

Even in New York, the morbid, cautionary tale of the Donner Party was brought up at any mention of the pioneers. “Is there another path?”

“Re-route here,” the name is illegible in the secret code the man uses, “go south to the Sonoran. It’s a pretty big desert so gotta hope it ain’t too cold or ya don’t run out of food and water but ya avoid the mountains leastways.”

Vision already knows his functioning diminishes greatly in the winter, every joint with metal seizing into a deathlike rigor when the temperatures drop too low.  Adding to this the constant concern of freezing to death, or starving to death, or developing infections and illnesses, or being crushed by other travelers, or shot because you’ve been mistaken for an elk, or attacked by bears, wolves, coyotes, or mountain lions, and he feels himself questioning every choice they made concerning this journey. Had they known all of this, would traveling to Seoul have been a solution? If they were not so pressed for time would they have more fully investigated the paths? Should they have delayed long enough to send out messages about the condition of the railroad? The growing list of should haves are irrelevant now, the past impossible to rectify and so he must do as he always does and try not to let himself fall prey to the cruel, illogical entity of his pastself’s ignorance kicking up a shindy with hopeful, rushed desperation. There is only the future now and he intends to make a reasoned decision. “How much longer would that route take?”

The man shrugs, scratching his bearded chin as he calculates, “Prolly two, three more months.”

Vision struggles not to allow himself to slip into the grave this man already so kindly dug him. “How long is the journey if we took the mountains?”

“Total from here?” 

“Yes.”

“Just you and the three?”

“Yes.”

“In that fancy railcar?”

“Yes.”

The map is folded up as the man thinks, sliding back into the depths of his clothing when his answer is ready. “Five, six months.” The grave grows deep enough for all of them. “But you trade it in for a schooner and some oxen, get a good guide, and hit all the best weather, four months, three and a half if y’all are of the first waterL.” 

Without Wanda’s powers, it is useless to assess the trustworthiness of the estimate. Men with a business accept a certain level of dishonesty to get compliance from customers. “Thank you for your time and the informative discussion.”

“Listen,” the man leans to the left, blocking Vision’s exit, “you can talk to all the other guides ‘round and all they can give ya is a lick and a promiseM. I’m the only one can say I ain’t ever lost a soul on the trail.” 

A large, unsubstantiated claim. “I must discuss everything with my party.” 

Nonplussed is the general air of this man. “Well, when ya’ll decide, you can find me in the Ocean Wave. Ask for Phillip.” He tips his wide-brimmed hat towards Vision. “Don’t forget yer goad.”

In a haze, Vision picks up the goad, the Emmigrant’s Guide, and four pelts. The price registers enough in his consciousness for him to pay and then he returns to the railcar. He removes each item individually from the basket and places it in the appropriate location. Once the basket is empty he sits down, hand diving into the front pocket of his waistcoat. A small click and he confirms it is a quarter to one, just enough time to check on Wanda and then return to the hotel. 

Except he can’t seem to find the energy to stand, drowning in the images of the trials ahead. Vision drops the pocket watch back into place and then grabs the bundle of papers from his inner coat pocket. 

Just underneath the third paragraph of his draft letter he allows his thoughts to seep into the parchment, awaiting this evening when he will have time to contemplate it all. 

I am beginning to think we have made a grave mistake.

He wipes the pen tip, blows three times on the statement, and then folds it up. There is nothing that can be done immediately and wallowing his way into tardiness is never an option. 

Vision stands and does what he has always done the entirety of his life; he moves on to the next task. 

  “Lift your right arm.” Vision complies, muscles constricting around the immutable vibranium until it leaves his arm hovering as if reaching for someone walking away.  Dr. Cho measures the space created by the action. “Bend your elbow.” The grinding of the hinge is felt far more than audition allows, regardless, Dr. Cho’s nose scrunches at what he hoped was a silent struggle. “Straighten it back out and then rotate your wrist.” Vision does this easily, relief swirling along with the movements. “Good.”

His arm drops back to his side, fingers drumming noiselessly against the thin layer of cotton on his thigh, always on edge under such observational scrutiny, Helen’s discerning gaze and muted writing amplifying the feeling of dissimilitude between his flesh and inhuman parts. “Left arm.” They repeat the process, his arm lifting, Helen measuring and then writing her observations, a bend of his elbow (this one is more compliant than the last), a twist of his wrist, and then he stands still, awaiting either a comment or a new direction. “You’ve lost almost four degrees in both arms.”

That cannot be accurate. “Are you certain? Only my right felt any resistance.” 

The clinical mask slips for a moment, compassion radiating in a way that should be more soothing than worrisome, only it’s not. “Your right elbow is inferior to the left, but,” she places her notebook on the desk before gently coaxing his arms back up into his full wingspan (well, a lesser version than what he can ideally attain). “The joints are good over here,” her fingers tap his left elbow hinge and then the ball socket of his shoulder, “but you’re losing movement,” she steps behind him, an impersonal touch outlining the plate traversing the entirety of his upper back, “here.”

It wasn’t until he found his body failing that Vision paid any mind to the intricate dance of his musculature and how one malfunction could ripple so far. Perhaps he is being disingenuous to his younger self, there were times he’d get injured at the factory (however rare it was, his precision and precautions were always taken to the book) and find the effects of the injury were not isolated. Only those healed and could be easily forgotten. “What is the total loss so far?”

The numbers of his life are scrutinized, the tip of her pen wiggling in the air as she calculates. “It seems typical of your month and a half progression.” Which is worse than he suspected. “But we need to assess everything before reaching conclusions.” Helen moves out of sight, her hand coming to rest on his lower back. “Try to touch your toes.” A physical impossibility, his fingers dangling uselessly around his shins due to the stubbornness of the exoskeleton. “Hold it there for a moment.” He does, even as the telltale pain of his abdominal plates pinching skin becomes borderline unbearable. “Stand back up and rest for a moment.”

“That was worse.”

There is no denial in her silent scribbling. “Did you and Wanda find a good spot this morning?” It must be a troubling number for such a diversion.

“We did. When I stopped by on the way here she still had a line.”

A small, facetious curve breaks Helen’s scientific façade. “I have a hypothesis that the more uncertain the environment, the more superstitious people become.”

A fair prediction, one he has noticed as well, particularly once they began coming into more frequent contact with settlers gearing up for the West. “It does appear hope of any kind is in higher demand the farther we proceed.”

“Can you lift your arms over your head and bend to the right?” The bolts of his left hip react harshly and he clenches his teeth to smother any reaction, not wanting to cause more alarm than is needed.  “Maybe we’ll all need Wanda’s readings by the end of our trip.”

The groan building in his chest is transferred into a brief snort at the thought of abandoning science in such a way. “That,” it’s hard to speak at this angle, the vibranium weighing heavily on his right lung, “would be a troubling development.”

“It would. Stand up.”

Vision’s body happily settles back into place, the residual pain dissipating with thoughts of what it would take for them to wholeheartedly follow spiritualism, particularly when their resident purveyor is not even a believer. Likely the same things that spur other travelers—unexplainable storms and diseases, dangerous crossings and the nigh constant concern of death. “I was approached by a trail guide today.”

“Oh?”

A nudge encourages him to bend to the left this time. “Yes, at the trading post,” momentarily he considers sharing the being followed part, but decides it is not pertinent. “He walked me through our journey. Did you know we have to cross a desert?”

“I don’t remember one on the map. Put your hand on the wall.” 

He does, mind still focused on the harsh terrain ahead. “Apparently there is one.” It was the unmarked opening on their map, an area they all thought to be a valley or prairie. “And we will be crossing the last mountain pass at a precarious time.”

“How is it any more precarious than what we already assumed?”

A fair question. It’s not as if they hadn’t studied any maps before leaving, except there is a major difference in observing triangles on parchment and the reality of traversing the steep slopes under the threat of winter. “Well…”

“Lift your right leg and bend the knee.” 

There is little discomfort in the action other than trying to remain balanced on his other leg. “We will be arriving at the mountains right before the snowy season.”

The lack of any response beyond a slight rise to her eyebrows makes him realize he may need to better convey the direness of what he learned, certain she will have a similar reaction to himself. “Did you know we will reach the mountain at the same time the Donner Party did?”

This information drags her lips down into contemplation, a half second of thought and then it slips away, appearing to not be worth much at the moment. “I did not.  Switch to your other leg.”

“Of course. Apparently—” with a single lift of his left knee the words crash into an uncontainable groan and an outbreak of sweat across the entirety of his chest. Typically he uses a certain level of mindfulness in preparing for a move that will aggravate whatever part of his body is currently rebelling. It seems he was too intent on conversing, too intent on proving the direness they all overlooked, that he forgot to do so, breath still trapped in his chest and body shaking when Helen wraps an arm around his waist and guides him to the bed. Gently she eases him down until he is laying on his right side.

With medical precision and formality she unbuttons the outer seam of his drawers, ones specially made by Tony to provide maximum modesty while also leaving the steel fasteners available. “I need you to breathe.” Shallow inhales are followed by harsh exhales as she lightly prods at his hip, each touch sending stabbing pains up his torso and down his leg. “Vision,” another push, this time with her whole hand, and he gasps, droplets forming along his eyelids, “this is worse than you implied.”

Vision closes his eyes to block out the physical pain and the searing embarrassment of minimizing the truth of his injury, a tendency that should be added to his running list of flaws, right between a predilection for self-sacrificial actions and being overly detail oriented. 

He doesn’t see her leave the room, too focused on shutting the world out of view, but he can hear the creak of the door and a muffled conversation in the hallway. Several minutes later there are footfalls and then a quilt is gingerly tucked around him. “Amadeus is retrieving Wanda.”  A contingency that was agreed upon before they ever left New York, one that does not bode well for his prognosis. “I want to try a direct injection.”

“I thought you had decided it was too risky.”

“That was when you hadn’t started showing signs of infection yet.” 

The implications hang over the bed like a noose. There are only so many rivets, only so much medicine, only so much time. Every decision has to be made with the knowledge of the consequences. If they merely ignore the infection and change the parts, it will do nothing to slow the spread of illness to his blood. This they know for a fact, many years of painful experimentation confirmed the treatment must be twofold: replacement and the intravenous conveyance of his medicine. But if they use the medicine in this unproved fashion and it fails, it cannot be synthesized again. If he then develops a worse infection later (a guarantee, from his experience), it will have to be treated with a smaller dosage than likely required. Amadeus has been hard at work learning the properties of all the herbs and plants on their path, but as of yet, he and Helen have not produced anything more promising than an ointment that soothes the ache in Vision’s muscles and is also used by all of them for sore feet. 

The ups and downs of his life are never more pronounced than in moments like now. Less than seven hours ago he walked down the road with Wanda on his arm, nary a hitch to his steps nor worry in his thoughts. All onlookers saw was a young man of decent standing ostensibly at the prime of his  life. And then slowly the façade chipped away, the worries returned, the pain amplified, he hasn’t breathed correctly since the trading post and now, well now it is once more a bag of nailsN. This cyclical pattern is a sad truth of his life and he wonders why he tries so hard to believe Wanda’s affirmations or Helen’s scientific proofs of his humanity when, in reality, his body is more similar to the piles of discarded luggage and unneeded tea cups.

“I think it will work.”

The hand rubbing this belief into his back is not of the medical doctor but of his friend, a bond that formed primarily through the exchange of letters and has transformed into a foundational sense of calm in his daily life since they met once again. It's under her auspice that he allows all his worries to tiptoe from his lips, “I am doubting my ability to reach your lab.” 

“I know.” Helen’s hand stops, caught between his shoulder blades, “we all know.” This is more concerning than cholera or starvation. He is certain Wanda has an idea of the depths of his doubts, but up until now he believed he had kept it fairly well masked in front of Helen and Amadeus. “Vision,” what usually comes next when she says his name like this is a reasoned, logical breakdown of why his thoughts, though valid, are more harmful than useful if he ruminates on them for too long, “without making reasoned adjustments, I also worry you won’t make it.”  Chastisement, however heavily layered with concern, isn’t what he expected. “What is Newton’s third law?”

It comes out without thought, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Exactly. Every action you take influences your well-being.” 

Helen is his equal and (more often) superior in many ways, least of all is her practical approach to rationality and conversation, making the vagueness of this comment especially aggravating. “What are referring to, specifically?”

The circular motion of her hand is no longer a comfort, each revolution rubbing the meaning of her answer deep into his soul like a stain that grows bigger the more you try to wash it out. “You insist on helping us with everything even though it is detrimental to you.”  This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation but it is the most severe her tone has been. “If you continue to physically push yourself like that, under Newtonian laws, the friction of the exoskeleton on the steel will lead to a quicker deterioration.”

Physics has never been volleyed against him like this and, under the weight of the sciences he so dearly admires and practices, he struggles to counteract the claim, forced to rely on immediate emotional concerns. “I do not want to be a coffee boilerO.”

“You do realize the only reason any of us are on this path is to save your life?” Something he has never failed to recognize. If not for needing the cradle, Wanda would be safe in Normanskill and Helen and Amadeus would be on a well-furnished boat sailing through warmer waters. It is a thread of contemplation he has almost daily.

“I know.”

The bed sinks beneath him as she leaves it, re-emerging with a chair and situating it right in front of his face. She sits down, face serious and determined.  “And the only reason we want to save your life is because you are worth saving.” A lengthy pause and hard stare forces him to accept her words. “A desert won’t stop us.”

“There are also mountains.”

Helen bends forward, elbows on her knees and chin resting in the nest of her hands. “It is a well-established belief in the Joseon scientific community that altitude is good for one’s health.” His lips tilt slightly in half-hearted appreciation of her attempt. “You can make it, but only if you stop physically helping us all the time.”

Any positivity of altitude is lost at the command. “Helen, I…” In every great hurdle in his life, helping has always been the very thing that has protected him.  Whether it was fixing a threshing machine to allow his mother to hire less farmhands, or learning to mend broken axles and belts in the factories, or spending long hours doing extra research at university, it centered him. After the fire, he refused every offer of financial aid and firmly denied the insisted arrangement that he simply live as Mr. Stark’s ward. He needed a purpose and so he informed Mr. Stark that without gainful employment, he would rather fend for himself. Butlering then inoculated him from the worst of his despair. It filled his day and mind with lists of what he must do, of what came next, never allowing him to dwell too deeply on anything beyond an hour or two away. And now, on this journey, it’s been small duties such as restocking their supplies and caring for the horses, fixing their railcar, rearranging their belongings to provide more space, or building a fire to make tea for Wanda when she’s cold, that have helped keep him functioning. Without the menial, he spirals into a feeling of suffocating nothingness. “I can’t.”

“We’re aware.” Severity has turned into a frustrated gaiety. “The other night Wanda suggested we just tie you to one of the seats.”

A suggestion she has made to him as well, though hopefully the contextual underpinning was very different when she made it to Helen. Regardless, it is a preposterous thought, just like asking him to shrug off such an integral mantle of his existence as helping.  “There are just so many difficulties ahead for me to sit and watch.”

Helen shrugs, acting like this is as trivial as deciding between pickled herring or halibut, both tasting the same in the noxious liquid. “I only said physically. You can still navigate, and strategize, and provide company to the overnighters.” All things he never categorized as menial tasks, viewing them instead as interpersonal and often intellectual jobs that are simply enjoyable. “Amadeus still wants you to learn Sokovian with him, he says it makes him look better,” somehow a snigger breaks through his melancholy, the young man more competitive than anyone he has ever met and, unfortunately, far better at languages than himself. “You won’t be a coffee boiler and you won’t just sit idly.” Clearly this conversation has been planned for some time, by all of his companions. Helen’s words are sure and lack any hesitation, even down to the precise lightness she imbues her voice with as she reassures him. “It’s not like we are asking you to do nothing ever again. We just want you to choose how best to use your energy and time, and personally, I don’t think it should be doing chores.”

If there is merit to the suggestion, he needs time to consolidate his thoughts on it and weigh every positive and negative aspect of this change in activity, hence why he diverts away from it, asking the question she hasn’t fully answered. “What is the prognosis based on total loss so far?” 

“As long as this injection works, it is my medical opinion that we should have at least another five months.”

A desert flanked by mountains fills his mind, his worries flurrying to obscure the path. “And what if five months is not a feasible timeline for travel?”

“Then it’s not feasible.” It’s said with an unperturbed air, like it is a struggle for a future Helen to consider, one that, in five months, is lost in the snowy mountains. Her fingers grip his shoulder, squeezing it as she speaks. “Death is biological. It is a process every living being experiences.” A phrase she wrote him in the second letter they exchanged, one that was more comforting four years ago than it is now. “If we can’t make the trip in under five months then yes, you will die and,” this is the first hitch in her voice, the first indication that they may have veered away from any pre-planned words, “we all will be shattered by your passing.” The shards of their grief embed into his heart, twisting deeper to nullify the thoughts he uses to comfort his own worries, the certainty he has that they are strong and will be fine, that their lives will move on. Except the tears she’s already shedding for him while he is alive suggests otherwise, just as Wanda’s anger each time he tries to speak of this informs him, very clearly, that he is stepping into imbecilic territory for the sake of his own mental comfort. “Science won’t stop death, superstition won’t stop it, whether it's a slow, foreseen inevitable or quick and unsuspecting, it will happen to all of us.” How she can smile so gently in the face of unrelenting fate is beyond him. “I, however, will do everything I can to delay it as long as you promise me something.”

Guilt urges him to accept her request before he’s had time to fully think it through. “I will try to stop helping—”

She chuckles, shaking away his attempt to read her mind. “Two promises then. Will you forgive the quotidian nature of my next statements?”

Vision provides a puzzled, “You are forgiven.”

“You have planned everything for your death,” a truth he cannot refute, he even has instructions of what to do for every state and territory based on the local laws, “so, Vision,” he shakes away the morbid thoughts and looks intently at her, breath bated for what he has to promise, “now it’s time you accomplish the only thing anyone truly needs to do before biological inevitability.”

There are very many things he wishes to do before he dies, how a woman of her intellectual standing can boil her own accomplishments and goals into one unit is curious. “That would be?”

“You have to live, Vision.”

It is perhaps the least scientific phrase he has ever heard Helen utter and yet it affects him more than Newton did, leaving his mind in a haze of what precisely she means or how one is supposed to operationalize living. Before he can inquire further, the door to the room opens, abruptly ending their conversation and pulling Helen away.

Wanda’s concerned face comes into view, her hair engulfing him as she bends to kiss his forehead. “How are you doing?”

A question he is not capable of articulating an answer to at the moment. Instead he grips her hand and brings it to his lips, shoving down all doubts and uncertainties from his mind before she reaches out to him, like she always does. “Unfortunately, it seems I will not be able to kick a shindy tonight.”

The roll of her green eyes is a sight to behold, filling him with an immense gratitude that he gets to see it so often. “If you didn’t want to go you could have just said no instead of going through all this.” She settles onto the bed next to him, her hips pressed into his stomach, allowing him to wrap his arms around her and bury his face into her skirt.

Vaguely he is conscious of the sounds of Helen and Amadeus laying out the supplies needed, can even catch a whiff of the iodine, but he lets it all fade away as Wanda draws her hand along his cheek. “Want to know what they were setting up?”

“I do.”

“You were close.” The soothing dance of her fingers on his face stop for a millisecond, resuming with a more hesitant rhythm as she finishes her thought. “It was a wedding.” 

Living is a fickle thing, filled with highs and lows; for some, like himself and Wanda, far more ravines than mountains. But as he feels the expectant, slightly nervous anticipation in her body, he realizes that there are some things not worth risking, that if he bypasses a long day of collecting supplies, it means he can spend one more evening wandering the fields with Wanda, or an afternoon playing paille maille, or an indecorous dusk in a barn. Admittedly he has never been one to be selfish, always putting others needs before himself, and he has done that already, everything is planned that can be planned for the inevitable. Life is finite and maybe, just maybe, he needs to do what Wanda has always urged him to since the day they met – decide exactly what he wants and unapologetically pursue it.  

Vision kisses her side as the image of their future solidifies in his mind. “How wonderful.”

Victorian Language and Culture Decoder

A

The Oregon and California trails were littered with people’s broken, old, or unneeded possessions. It was officially known as leeverites (leave ‘ere right here)

B

Double-breasted water butt-smasher: a man of athletic build.

C

Yard of pump-water: a tall and lanky man.

D

Kick up a shindy: Dance, cause a raucous. It is a precursor to shindig, but it seems that words wasn’t in US usage until the 1880s.

E

Feeder act: an actor or actress whose role is meant to feed/help the more important actor or actress.

F

I have a link to a map of 1853 Council Bluffs over on Ao3

G

barking at a knot: Useless

H

afternoonified: Smart

I

Angelica: an unmarried woman

J

Lansford W. Hastings: Hastings, or Lansford for those who read too much about him, is one of the biggest names in the Oregon trail. He did write the Emmigrant’s Guide to Oregon and California. He also founded the Hastings Cut-off in Utah which is the route the Donner Party took, though he did not actually recommend people take the route. It actually was only a one sentence suggestion in his book, so don’t blame him for the Donner Party. By 1853 he was either living in California or Arizona (sources are mixed), so he couldn’t be their guide. Next chapter I’ll leave a footnote on good ole Phillip as he is a comic reference.

K

Bad box: a bad predicament

L

Of the first water: something or someone that is first-rate or excellent

M

A lick and a promise: Doing something with minimum effort.

N

Bag of nails: when everything seems to go wrong at once

O

Coffee boiler: a person who is lazy or shirks their responsibilities

[kneipho]

Title: Squeeze (Part 2/4: Hot Soup by kneipho, 2004)  A ST: Voyager fanfic. Updated and reposted by request for Fanfic Anon

Thank you. It is nice to be remembered.

–

Notes: “Squeeze” takes place after “Mortal Coil,” but before, “Thirty Days.” Contains mild spoilers for, “The Learning Curve,” with special acknowledgment to, “Microcosm.”

Summary  An away mission goes awry.  

Link to Part 1 

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all of its subsequent incarnations, (including Voyager ) are the property of CBS Corporation and Paramount Pictures. No characters belong to me. No profit made. No harm intended.

–

Squeeze, 2/4: Hot Soup

He panicked at first. When he could not find his footing in the darkness, Commander Chakotay went a little wild. He thrashed around aimlessly for a few seconds or so, his hardy appendages slowly turning about like the rusty arms of an abandoned windmill before reason kicked in. He was not dead  —not dying. He was alive —alive and slowly paddling about in some sort of quasi-gelatinous substance in the dark.

Goo. He was swimming in chunky, liquid goo. Chakotay expelled a rattletrap sigh. Obviously, something had gone wrong during the transport. Where the hell are we?

Shouting into the comm-link of his space-suit, he attempted to hail the captain, ears adjusting to a continual clamoring gurgle that seemed originate from all around. He repeated the exercise several times to no avail, then switched channels and called out for Harry.

“I’m here, Sir!”

A shimmer of light passed over his face. He aimed his wrist torch toward the radiant glow to find Harry Kim floating, ghost-like, less than three-hundred centimeters away. 

Chakotay nodded toward the floating ensign, and redirected his torch —in oval and counter-clockwise; starting above his head and ending down below his feet. It was a slow process; the bemired atmosphere hampering his movements, impeding the operation. We’re housed in some kind of chamber, he postulated, squinting about in the murky dim.

The area was sizable, but not enormous, roughly circular and less than twenty square meters all the way around. He could barely make out the impression of borders and was unable to analyze the texture of the walls. Harry was also endeavoring to scan the area, possibly to discover a way out. Janeway was nowhere in sight. “Maybe she made it back to the ship.”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

Chakotay hadn’t realized he had spoken aloud. “Looks like the captain made it back to the ship.” The utterance rang with more conviction than he actually felt.

“I hope you’re right.” the ensign replied. “Commander, something’s wrong with my tricorder.”

“Mine, too.”

“I can’t get any decent readings.”

“Keep trying anyway.”

“Aye Sir. Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have any idea where we are?”

“No. Well, maybe. I can’t say with certainty, but I think we may have transported into the mineral quagmire we were investigating on the surface.” Harry made a face. Chakotay continued, “From the looks of things, we may be inside one of the those enclosed pockets of sludge we detected below the top layers of the marsh.” ”

“Great. That would explain… the decor.”

“Be grateful we can’t smell anything through our suits.”

“If you’re right about our location… all we have to do is rupture the top… of the pocket’s membrane… and then make our way… to the surface.”

Chakotay’s eyes lifted from his tricorder. Harry was panting, his skin green. “Check your oxygen levels, Mr. Kim,” he ordered. “Now. ”

“Oxygen levels are… within… normal levels…”

“Mr. Kim?”

“Ohhh boy.”

“Ensign!  Are you all right?”

“Commander— ”

“Speak up. Are you going to be ill?”

“I feel… dizzy.”

“You look like you want to retch, son. I told you not to eat before we went out on this mission. Mom didn’t pack you of change of clothes.”

“And I thought we left…Tom… Paris… s-safely behind.”

“Watch it, now. You’re crossing the line.”

“S-sir!” The word formed between chattering teeth.

“What is it?”

“I, I’m hot. I feel really hot and… my skin…is c-crawling.”

“This climate must be affecting your suit’s environmental settings. Can you adjust the controls?”

“I th-think s-so.” Kim was visibly shivering, his body quaking with active tremors.

Chakotay paddled over and put his arm firmly around the ailing officer.

“You’ll be all right, Harry. We’ll figure a way out of this.”

There was a sharp crack, an unexpected, thundery sound, reminiscent of a rock smashing into paned glass. Chakotay flinched, staring wordlessly as the transparent panel of Kim’s headgear mysteriously crepitated, fissuring above the cheekbone to the edge in a weird spider-web shaped pattern. The young man’s face had reddened into an extreme flush, cheeks marbling over with streaks of white, giving them the look of raw steak.

Kim stiffened under the commander’s arm and fainted. Chakotay tightened his grip, the muscles in his arm and chest contracting into hard coils as he swallowed the bile rising from this belly. He forced his focus on the fissures. They were extensive but blessedly shallow. The helmet had not compromised, but it only a matter of minutes before the face-plate fully ruptured and collapsed.

It wasn’t long after, he realized they were sinking; being drawn down in an intermittent swirl of current he had been too distracted to notice. He released his grip briefly; reclaiming an arm as Kim began to sink —and pulled. Chakotay kicked with all his might, propelling upward; his movements hampered in the alien gumbo, battling to drag the unconscious man up behind him.

There was a second loud ‘crack.’ Chakotay’s vision clouded. He smelled and acid and… puke. His muscles began to tremble. His face itched. His head was growing light and his veins tickled abnormally —as if something foreign were wriggling inside them, fighting to get out. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t move. Kim’s body began to convulse. The commander couldn’t hold him.

This was bad. They needed to get out of there.

–

End Part 2  (Back to Part 1)

[yarti]

[ Galtis ] [ The Itch ]

Click Imgur link for full set and captions.

Story Below:

"BURN IT DOWN."

The growing crowd roared. It is as if it were just moments ago. I feel it, smell it. The rush, the panic. Our new Matron, sister Lette. You had done a bad thing. I was there for the reading of your decree and my body took one of the first arrows. I searched the markets, the bath and lastly your chambers, but you had long gone. Likely bound up river by ship, that much I had gathered from those that barred my paths.

Our house dissolved. How could you? You had no right. What of us? What of your family? You cared not. The city went mad. The work took up arms up against my guard. Did you even consider what the vermin would do? They worshiped you and you gave them explicit permission to destroy all that you should have held dear. Brothers and sisters fell before my eyes. If any of them escaped, they would certainly be of like-mind to my own. They would hold you responsible as do I.  My arm. It twitched as I recalled the sword hewing it nearly in twain. The silken Dunmeri clothes of that day cooked into my melting chest. I have since came to know only exhaustion and this itch. I had little recollection of the events since the fire took me.

Over time, I became more aware of my situation. Those first truly alert days were quite the experience. My caretaker took great interest in changing my bandages and keeping me fed. I would wake to the sensation, a touch gentle or healing hand. Kind words, though I could rarely make out those words. At times she would lie with me and hold me, nude herself. I allowed her curiosity or lust as it were. It was a rare sight outside of a wealthy bedchamber, the bare body of a Serethi. One such as she would have never had the chance. I recall the amputation. The shock and defeat of it. She had to keep me sedated and I had not opened my eyes since first laying eyes upon it. It continued in that way, in and out of near-sleep for some time, even after the last of the bandages. Moving not a muscle but to scratch or shift my weight. There eventually came a day where I felt well enough to open my eyes again, and so I did. I glanced to my left, my remains of my arm. And to the right, a room dark. Then toward my feet. Immediately there came a shuffling and the creek of floorboards. The far side of the room, a dim stairwell and two peeping red eyes. Our eyes met, then a voice ushered her from her hiding spot.

"Master Serethi. I feared you'd never wake." Her tone was most odd. As she crossed the room I feebly rose and hobbled to the foot of the bed. Around my waist, a vibrant cloth or towel clung tightly to my nethers. "How long?" I croaked, clearing my throat mid-speech.

The Dunmer lass slowly approached my bedside, hand outstretched. Hesitation. Fear. With a moment of thought, she brought the back of her hand to my stinging forehead. "No more fever, ah." She whispered under her breath, seemingly frustrated or upset that I had finally awoken. Her eyes trailed from my own, down my bare chest and to what remained of my ruined arm. Hives or blisters spread from the site, along the shoulder and upon my breast. Infection. From the itching, I assumed it continued along my back as well but she offered not a looking glass. Seeing what my sister had certainly wrought, it put a seething firestorm in the very depths of my charred heart. Trembling, the lass took hold of my head and lifted it to inspect my neck before stepping away. "How long has it been?" I asked again. Stuttering, she responded. "Two weeks." Wringing her hands, she began again. "Do you remember what happ-" but I cut her off with a stern "Yes."

"Well", she sighed. "Stay in bed for now, wake or not. You're in no shape to be up and about, my lord. I'll go put supper on." She squeaked then darted back down the stairwell before I could respond. Stumbling, feeble legs held firm. I ran my hand along the newfound scars and grooves, flesh blackened and inflamed. My hand, my only hand. It came to rest upon my disheveled chin. Hair matted and burned. It seemed that my nurse had attempted to shave me at one point but given up. My legs were ever-so weak, tingling, but after a few steps, the numbness began to subside. Lette had taken my looks, my arm, my home. My mind soared and I began to mumble to myself. "Sister Lette, why have you done this? If you wanted not the seat, you knew there were others that had sought long for it. You are selfish. Despicable. No better than the beasts you protect." I growled, scraping the hives, overgrown nails drawing dark blood from wounds not yet healed. Hate became fuel, energy. "I should have put that sword to use when we spoke that morning. The pack, that look in your eye, the way you carried yourself. By the time we discovered that a stand-in would give your decree, I had already feared for the worst. I could have stopped you there in the foyer. I was generous, benevolent, I stayed my hand. But not again."

With ears well learned, sounds from below tore me from my thoughts. I heard the front door open and the lass step out. Moments became minutes before she returned with company. Not a voice of ash but a voice of man. A lowly Nord, a guard perhaps from what context I could gather. Hushed words, whispers. "Have him step outside for a breath of fresh air and we'll handle the rest. Once he's behind bars, you have my word that we'll not lay a finger on him. Not today at least. But after his trials, who can say? You might not be one of us, but you are no Serethi. Your lot in life was not far from ours. Things will be better now, we just have to try. Our lady has given us a new leaf. A harvest anew. We just need to finish clearing the chaff then sew new seeds. Chin up, you've done well." From the jingle of coin purses, they shook hands or perhaps embraced before parting. With the locking and shutting of the door, she went to the cookpot. In the meantime, I had let myself down the stairs on muffled foot and stood just behind her out of view.

"Will our guest not be staying for supper?

My words startled her, spoon silent. Frozen. Moments to minutes, her mind roared as she dug up a delectable lie.

"You should not have gotten out of bed. That was the chemist, he brought salve for your burns." The audacity.

"Ah, did he now? He sounded like a Nord. Surely you aren't treating me with salves from the slums, dear. That certainly explains a lot." My words fell flat. She scraped the bottom of the cookpot for further lies to feed me.

"Apologies my lord, but with the... " she paused too choose her words. "With the decree, the riots, we must make do with what we have. You were found outside my door and responsibility fell to me. I am no proper healer. My mother would have had you back in top shape by now." Around her shoulder, I found eyes staring at my missing piece before they flicked about the room then back to me. "As best she could anyway. That was my first amputation." Grimacing, she turned her attention back to the pot. "I am sorry but I tried my best. The soup will be ready soon, then maybe we'll get you some fresh air. It'll do us both some good."

As her form moved before the firepit, light found a tanto off to my right. Freshly but poorly cleaned, bits of ash yam still clung to the edge. I took it into my waistband then stood. "And what became of mother?"

"She ran off. The crazies I suppose. She had been having nightmares for the longest time. One day we had a fight and the next, she was gone. She took only the clothes on her back. Off to find the man from her dreams. What was that name again?" Tiny fingers prodded her chin as she pondered. "Asput, Abbut, Assut-" The tanto found the meat of her spine. "WE were not the chaff." I hissed.

As she slumped to the floor, my gaze met the linens about my waist. A cheap towel, unfitting for one of my standing. I threw it aside and was amazed and heartened to see that my loins had gone unscathed. Of course she had taken great care in preserving those. But what of my arm? Under better light, I found scars and burns that had actually healed, across my chest and even down the severed arm. The arrow wound was entirely gone. Perhaps the poor girl had truly tried after all. Good. "Thank you, lass." I called out to deaf ears and made way to her wardrobes, pilfering as I saw fit. "Your mother had quite the eye for fabrics. This coat is exquisite. Like one of my own." Because it was one of my own. Alongside it, silverware, belts and brooches. Curtains and gilded scales. It seems even the Dunmer had a hand in the raiding. This would not do. Need I kill them all and start over? I would already need to reforge our connections with the other Houses, rebuild, invest. There would be much to do.

Taking an apple in hand, and blade upon my hip, I felt a shred of my old self. Galtis Serethi, eldest son of the House, Patron-to-be. The blade would suffice I hoped. There is no way of knowing just what might await me when I finally step out for that fresh air.

Among the rifled papers and books, I found the journal of the healer, the mother. I examined it as I tended to supper, having finished packing away supplies and reclaiming my stolen belongings. The journal spiraled into madness as I flipped further. Entire pages were devoted to phrases and crude drawings. Red eyes in the dark, monsters and other Sixth House blasphemies. A loon indeed. I chucked the book into the fireplace and washed my hands of it. The phrase, "He will make me whole." stuck at out at me. It gnawed at me and urged me to retrieve the journal before it was too late. In clearer minds I would have never given second thought to such ravings. "A miracle maker." If he could give me back my arm, that would be a good start. What nonsense. There would be no miracles, only revenge. Lette would pay handsomely for her deeds. And what of my caretaker? Lest I forget her part in this. Certainly, it is a shame. Even now she sits quiet as bones on the floor as I pen these very words to a blank journal. I merely lost my temper. Who could blame me after my ordeals? Her death, does it pain me? Not quite, but perhaps once my new seeds are sewn, once the true chaff is cleared. I may have a statue cast in her likeness. A monument to her generosity in these trying times. She will have saved the life of our Patron after all. But for now, I have an itch that I must scratch.

[andaleduardo]

Rooftop N.8

Ao3   N.7   N.9

Friday 21.05.1993

Unlike the few other parties that Eddie attended, this one was already being different without having started. Usually, he’d be in the company of six, or five if one of them was the host. This time, however, he was able to sit in the back of Bill’s parents’ car without having to squeeze himself between shoulders. There was even an empty seat.

An empty seat.

That’s a big deal for them. As he shut the door on his side of the car along with the other boys, his usual internal pep talk came into play, which happens every time Eddie is forced to attend a social event.

It’s just a party. Everyone goes to parties.

Then he freaks out because everyone is a lot for him.

Still, you’re supposed to have fun.

Despite the short time it takes to get to the barn, the quietness inside the vehicle is enough to break the built-up courage. Eddie busies his hands scuffing the end of the navy pants he reluctantly put on earlier, one ankle balanced on top of his knee. Some minutes ago, as he hopped down the stairs and announced that he was leaving, Eddie felt confident. His mom couldn’t have done much after their fight, they barely interacted, and Eddie had to show her that he was independent enough and responsible by himself. He kind of doubted that, now.

Here, inside this car, he feels unprotected by simply knowing that there’s no one worrying about him at home. Ridiculous way of feeling. So, when Bill parks the car among many others on the street where the Hanlon’s residence is located, Eddie puffs air in his chest and grips the door handle, ready to have a good time.

Or so he hopes.

The four of them approach the dirt trail that guides them towards the reddish barn, although it looks greyish in the night sky only illuminated by the dim lights pouring out of the open gate. Music was already playing as they go inside. He scanned the place only to realise how many people already crowded it. Bad idea.

As per usual, Ben and Eddie stay together, Stan hovers closely, and since Bill doesn’t want to go around alone just yet, the four of them stick together while trying to find their remaining members.

That’s when, while on his toes to see over the heads, Eddie sees the made-up stage. He was awestruck at first, couldn’t look away, but examining it for longer made him notice that it was not that impressive. Sure, it had some height, maybe like two steps higher, and he could see it was made from reclaimed wood from the farm. The setup looked cheap, no surprise there. He could see a full drum set, although the various components had different colours, which was a give-away that it was put together by older parts, and there was also what looked like a keyboard, plus some extra keys that didn’t belong on a piano, set upon a stand so that whoever played would be able to be standing up. In the middle stood two guitar stands, one held an electric, all wood and heavy looking, and the other had an acoustic, which looked incredibly like the one that usually stands on a corner of Richie’s bedroom.

And well, that only meant one unfortunate thing.

“This can’t be happening.” Stan’s words were a little bit muffled by the general noise. Eddie shot him a knowing look, both were desperately hoping it was some kind of joke or coincidence.

“That’s…” Eddie gulped and pointed back to the stage, specifically to the guitar both of them had seen many times before. When Stan nodded and draped a hand over his face, Eddie needed a miracle of some sort. Unaware of their discovery, Bill dragged Ben over to one of the tables filled with food and various coloured drinks, separating the group in half.

“They can’t be that dumb. Tell me they’re not that dumb, Eddie.” Oh, how similar both of them are. Only that Eddie can’t really find words to voice his concern right now. His mouth hung open, ready to answer that yes, they are that dumb, but Mike walked up behind Stan with a nervous grin at that exact moment, shutting Eddie up immediately.

“That’s not the support we were hoping to get.” Mike shot him a wink while Stan turned around in a startled jolt. Eddie didn’t have it in him to be playful back.

“It’s a prank, right?” Stan asked with big eyes. Eddie could see that Mike was taken by surprise, his eyebrows furrowing and the smile faltering. Being mean was a gift to Stan’s existence. “Mike, everyone here isn’t like us, they’re mean.”

Mike shook his head and laughed poorly. “You’re the one being mean. They’re just teenagers, students-”

Stan’s throat did a funny noise. “My point exactly. They’ll make fun of you!” Deciding that this was going too far, Eddie elbowed his ribs, which successfully toned him down. With a long exhale, Stan rubbed his eyelids. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to be the target of mockery.”

There was a hurt frown on Mike’s face. “We’re just having fun here, friends having a good time.” His eyes met Eddie’s, probably expecting backup. He had yet to say something so he chocked up, caught by surprise.

“Uh…” He awkwardly cleared his throat and glanced between the two boys. And if guilt wasn’t already eating up his insides, all Mike did was roll his eyes, nod his head and move to another topic.

“Where are the others, anyway?”

Eddie was sure that the devil had fiery hair and a fuck ton of freckles, because she appeared just then. Beverly came from the back entry, probably there smoking, skipping on her steps with a giddy smile on her lips. There was a happy energy radiating from her that could be noticed miles away. She swung herself on Eddie’s shoulders and started jumping up and down, shaking him in the process. The shame was adding up along with a fastening heartbeat on his chest.

Not now. That’s all he wanted. Don’t panic now.

“You actually came!” She shouted over the other voices. The music playing changed.

In order to keep himself stable, Eddie placed both hands on her wrists. She kept laughing, Eddie wanted to breathe the outside air but she smelled of nicotine instead. With a forceful grip, he tore Beverly’s hands out of his shoulders but didn’t let go of them.

Not now.

But her laughs died down, and he felt even worse for ruining something they probably looked forward too. He shot a glance at the stage again and felt her tugging at his wrists. She was smiling softly, a cure for his worry.

“I think you need a drink, Eddie.” She meant those words.

For the first time in his life, Eddie didn’t think that was such a bad idea. “I think you might be right.”

 -

 Eddie’s little freak-out took him outside, elbows resting against the wooden fence.

Previously, he had pretended to be present while a cup was placed in his hand, he couldn’t remember which of his friends did it. Then, he had hovered around the group religiously and pretended to drink whatever he was given. He just needed the right moment to back away without them noticing.

Ironically, it was beer pong that saved his ass. His thoughts drifting completely from what was in front of him, which was pretending to agree with whatever Stan was babbling on about and watching a fair amount of people (Beverly included) cheer whoever was heavily invested in playing the pointless game. All it took was Stan giving up on being answered, turning his head to the other side to talk with Mike instead, and Eddie was out of there in an instant. He ignored the girl he run into on his way to the back entrance and took the longest breath of his life as soon as the chill air of the night hit his nostrils.

He tried hard to keep his head out of futile worries. With a swirling cup, Eddie’s mind hovered above many things, desperate for a healthy distraction:

Stan is quite talkative when he’s out of his comfort zone, which is very out of character.

Where did Ben and Bill go?

He stared quizzically at the party cup. What the hell do they put in this? Why am I still holding it, anyway?

I wonder what my mom’s doing.

Probably snoring.

I haven’t seen Richie yet.

Damn it. That’s not a healthy thought.

But it was impossible to stop once it set. Richie, what he could be doing. Who he could be with right now. And how they could be together outside, instead. Eddie would probably ruin his wild fun by begging for his company, not that he would do that anyway.

Maybe internally.

He licked his dry lips, then remembered Richie’s.

“I’m a lost case.” He huffed out, exasperated.

“Woah, don’t think so high of yourself.” Every muscle in his body jolted, startled. Yep, there goes the drink spilling out onto his fingers.

Parties, greatest human invention.

It was Richie, he acknowledged without turning around. Eddie was hit with such gratitude and relief that tears prickled his eyes. So, like the lost case he claimed to be, he lowered his head to let it rest against his upper arms that sat upon the wood railing. Now staring at the way his shoes were digging in the grass, the gravity pulled one on him and made it easier for the tears to escape, falling near his feet almost as soon as they abandoned his eyes.

Laboured breathing made its presence, he left the sense of reality behind and began to shake compulsively. Whatever was done to him for the following minutes would go subtly fogged up.

 Up until now, Richie had been with both Bill and Ben inside, convincing them to try the pot brownies they had previously baked for the party. Before, he had taken a little container, filled it up and put it aside to share among the Losers once they were alone.

Bill had agreed to eat them eagerly after listening to how Mike had to steal his mother’s recipe so that the three of them could bake them in his kitchen. How hard it had been to get her to miss the part where they added the best ingredient hidden in Bev’s coat pocket. His mom had bought it when they said the scent came from a burnt batch. Ben refused them kindly, Richie didn’t push him.

There was this annoying press near his heart due to Eddie’s absence that was pushed behind with a stupidly, fake, contented grin as he hung around with his two friends and some other teens that suddenly seemed to realise he existed.

A bunch of turds, if you asked him.

So, there he was, a deep need for a second smoke in less than two hours. Frustrated and disappointed, he snapped out at the sight of some brainless group hanging around the couch meant for his friends and his friends only. He was cursed at while hushing them away, head a bit weary due to the stupid drinks he downed already.

Once he turned back around, Bill and Ben weren’t with him anymore. He kicked the side of the couch with a curse lost among all sounds.

“Hey, easy!” Bev’s careful hand curled around the fabric of his sleeve. He turned to face her, surprised. How did he not see her? Taking a short glance over her head, Richie saw the rest of his friends laughing hysterically at something that he failed to catch.

Bev tugged at his sleeve again so he locked eyes with her.

“Sorry.” He said. “I didn’t-”

“Have you been drinking? You shouldn’t have, Rich.” He shrugged in response, careless. Worried, Beverly took his hand between hers. Richie lowered his eyes to stare at the faint bruises marking his skin.

“It’s healed, you know. I’m fine, all good. Fully operational-” He had to stop himself from babbling on and on.

With an excessively happy smile, she squeezed his fist and nodded her head towards the back-barn doors. “He’s in the back, you know?”

She laughed when his eyebrows disappeared behind his curly bangs. “You should go get him while we finally break in our red beauty.” She motioned towards the sofa he angrily kicked.

Suddenly hopeful but anxious, Richie silently mouthed fuck under his breath. “I shouldn’t have drunk.” He said to the air. As soon as those words left his mouth, Beverly flicked his forehead and hushed him away. Richie complied on heavy feet, unsure of how to approach Eddie.

At the sight of him outside, alone and tense, Richie felt guilty for making him come. He knew Eddie didn’t deal well with these things, and just a few days ago Richie had been the cause of a family fight. Way to go, dickhead.

As he got closer and closer, Boys Don’t Cry by The Cure became less ear deafening and gave him a chance to hear the incoherent mumbling that fell from Eddie’s mouth. Richie was watching his profile, noticing that he was frowning and staring deadly at the cup in his hands.

Now, that’s new. He thought.

Eddie’s distressed expression mirrored into Richie’s features as well. He seemed out of it, not even acknowledging his presence only a step away from touch. Richie was about to lay a careful hand on his shoulder when Eddie’s mumbles became clearer.

“I’m a lost case.”

“Woah, don’t think so high of yourself.” Richie couldn’t help it as the words left his mouth. At least he hadn’t acted like an asshole this time, that alone was a great achievement.

Eddie was startled, that much was expected. He was also waiting for the inevitable bickering that would follow next, but when all that happened was Eddie melting in his own body, hiding his face from the world and shoulders shaking compulsively, Richie had a hard time figuring out if he was laughing or crying.

Slightly freaked, he started by taking the full cup out of Eddie’s hands, which were doing a poor job at keeping it stable anyway. He balanced it on top of one of the vertical wood posts that constituted the fence. Then, he maneuvered Eddie’s body around until he saw how blotchy his face was. There were almost no tears staining his skin, but his breathing was irregular and faltering, a certain rasp to it.

“Hey, hey.” As if he was dealing with a child, Richie ducked his head and pouted, an attempt at making Eddie smile. It didn’t work, Eddie looked away and rubbed his eyes quickly.

“Sorry.” He said between wheezes. Confused, Richie studied him. What was he sorry for? He must have stared for a long time, because Eddie started looking around in every direction, anxiety once again filling him as he stared at the few people crowding the outside space, along with the both of them. Unshed tears filled his vision, fogging his eyes. Richie broke out of his trance once Eddie’s throat gave a pained and squeezed whistling sound as the air passed quickly.

“Don’t apologize, you moron. And don’t look around.” Richie fully crowded his space, hands coming down to circle Eddie’s waist, pulling his body flush against himself close enough so that he’d block the outside from him. “They don’t care about us, promise.”

Eddie stood unmoving. His hands limp by his sides as he let himself be hidden from the world and submerged in the heat Richie was providing. After some hellish minutes of trying to keep his heart at a normal, painless beating rate, he had to admit with, agonizingly but still.

“My mom’s right.” And how it hurt him to say something like that.

Relief washed through Richie. At least Eddie was speaking coherent sentences, mostly. “I don’t know what you think she could possibly be right about, Eds, but your mom is wrong about everything.”

Squeezing him a little bit closer, Richie felt him shake his head against his chest. “I should have just taken the stupid inhaler.”

“What?”

“I’d be better by now and not-”

“Not what? Anxious?” He asked incredulous. “That crap’s fake medicine, wouldn’t have helped you.” Eddie’s arms made a shy way around Richie, making him smile. “You know what’d help, though?” That made him finally look up, searching for another type of comfort out of Richie, which he got just by watching him under the poor lighting. He looked… well, words are overrated.

There was glitter on his cheeks, which was new. Weird, but welcomed.

“Making good use out of that cup.” Richie answered his own question. “Never thought I’d ever see you holding alcohol.”

Ignoring the suggestion, Eddie nodded towards the boy’s glowing cheeks. “You’re sparkly.” He stated. A shit-eating grin took over Richie’s face, smug and victorious. Eddie felt embarrassed for no apparent reason. “What?” He asked in a warning tone.

“Nothing!” With a shrug, Richie tried to hide his amusement.

“No, what is it?” He demanded.

For a second time, Richie shrugged. “S’just, staring at my face calms you down?”

“Like hell it does.”

“Oh, so it’s the opposite? Gets you all worked up?”

“You need to stop putting words in my mouth.” Eddie warned with a typical roll of his eyes.

 See, he could have gone for ‘I could put something else instead.’ But he settled with for other words.

“Yeah? Some nights ago, you wouldn’t have valid arguments.” Which weren’t really better.

Eddie’s face paled up, whatever hints of a smile lost. Richie should really think before speaking.

"Fuck, okay, I'm an asshole." He licked his lip in a nervous habit. Mentally, Eddie stabbed him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable… I was too, you know…?"

The confusion behind Eddie’s eyes was noticeable, so he tried to explain it without really doing it. "You know... You couldn't feel it, but..." He spoke sheepishly.

Yeah, there it was, the moment of recognition he was waiting for. Embarrassed, Eddie adverted his eyes somewhere else.

Right.

"Shouldn't have said that, either…? Okay, well, we can just... we can pretend it never happened, right?" Richie gulped down, dry scratched throat. "If that's what you want."

But Eddie’s response never came, despite the fact that neither of them were doing much effort to let each other go of their embrace. Talk about awkward.

With a heavy sigh and pleading eyes, Eddie whispered. “That’s not what I want.” It was enough to relieve the tension, although both of them failed to see how fucked up their friendship was becoming with each and every one of these occurrences.

Whatever. As always, worry about it later. As usual, ignore the consequences.

Deciding it was best to leave it at that, with a much clearer mind there were some things that Eddie needed to confirm. “Just to be clear, hm… the live music is you guys?”

With an enthusiasm that Eddie himself couldn’t feel, Richie nodded eagerly, a large smile taking over his features. “Aye, captain. We sure are!”

Figures. Eddie groaned, dropping his head to let it hit Richie’s chest.

“See lots of excitement right there, uhm?” Despite the twist his stomach did, he hid the disappointment.

“Sorry…” Eddie sighed. “I need to apologize to Mike and Bev, too. I’m being kind of a jerk about this but… I feel embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” That was weirdly unexpected. “What’s there to be embarrassed about?”

“…Your voice isn’t exactly up to society standards.” Upon seeing the true impact his words had on Richie, Eddie started spitting out words. “I mean, I’m afraid someone may pick on the three of you for it and then turn it into another way to mess up with you guys. And, and I just feel embarrassed, okay? I hate that I do but I’m being honest with you, Richie-”

“Eddie.” He frowned, reluctantly starting to step back from his space. Eddie’s heart broke.

“I’m sorry.” He pleaded.

“Hey, it’s fine. Hear me out.” He placed both hands on Eddie’s shoulders. “Do I need to tell you you’re overthinking? This isn’t really a big deal.” Well. “If it ends up being horrible, I promise you no one here will actually remember most of it.”

“Won’t we?”

“I sure hope not.”

“I’m the asshole tonight.” He said sheepishly. “Not you.”

Turning to look at the plastic cup, Eddie thought ‘fuck it’. He grabbed and gulped it down in one go, almost chocking up. Richie was stunned, looking at him as if he’d grown another head. Once Eddie finished, his face was scrunched up from the burning sensation rolling down his throat.

“You know that doesn’t have any alcohol, right?”

Richie almost lost it when Eddie’s skin burned red, even noticeable in the night, eyes so big and ashamed that, for a moment, he thought the boy would dig a hole in the ground and disappear. He finally cracked up, hunching over the railing to laugh until his eyes stung.

“God, I’m joking! Your face, dude.”

“Fuck you, you’re suck a jerk.” He threw the cup at Richie’s head, feeling guilty as it fell to the floor and picking it up immediately so as to not litter anything.

After straightening himself up and shaking the last remains of chuckles out of him, Richie started pushing Eddie in the direction of the barn once more. “There’s vodka in that, by the way.” It took them a little longer to actually get inside since he fell into another fit of giggles upon seeing the terrified look on Eddie’s face. 

 -

 After what felt like hours for Beverly, Richie finally decided to appear, Eddie by his side. She, along with the other four, were sprawled in the comfortable sofa waiting for them, barely any space to fit anyone else.

 “You turned us into a charity case.” The smile painting Richie’s lips fell at those words. With both hands resting on his hips, he looked at Stan comically.

“What do you mean?”

Stan rolled his eyes, a maddening habit, and spoke as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You guys put this couch here for us.” Eddie hid a laugh under his palm when Richie looked at him, lost but trying to follow along.

“I’m… not following?”

Ben, however, laughed freely. “It feels like you’re protecting us from the beasts.” He motioned around.

Richie kept staring at Eddie, who was having a hard time keeping a serious expression.

“Is that a bad thing? It’s a nice-looking couch.” He stated, still confused. 

“You’re babying us.” Eddie concluded. Richie’s eyebrows shot up.

“No, no I’m not. I’m VIPing our club.”

“That’s not even a verb.”

“Oh, spare me, Stan. If you don’t like it why are you sitting on it?”

The piece of furniture was diagonally positioned to the stage. Now that they were closer, Eddie could see that the stage’s shape wasn’t regular, like the common rectangle. Instead, it was almost hexagonal, which made sense because they’d be standing in the middle of a large room and, this way, people would be able to watch from every corner.

Yeah, it’s not that bad at all.

“So, how long for us to see your talent?” Ben interrupted their little argument. Mike and Richie shared a look along with shrugs.

“We planned waiting until more people were around.” Mike explained.

“Yeah, but how much more can you fit in here?” Bev had a point, the place was crowded with familiar faces who kept trying to stick around their little hangout, but not tonight. Tonight, they had a silent agreement on staying close, for comfort and support.

To say that Eddie felt clingy as soon as the three of them excused themselves to go get ready (more like mentally prepared), was an understatement. The passionate kiss shared between Ben and Bev had him turn his face around, always felling wrongly intrusive when it came to public romantic gestures.

As the time passed, he found himself lower and lower on the couch, until most of him was hidden by the back part of it. Somewhere to their left, he could hear the far, yet familiars, ‘chug! chug! chug!’s over whatever crap was currently playing. A faint scent of what could be recognized as weed mixed with puke painted the air. It’s only been what? Three hours? I mean sure, they never arrive on time to these things, having come probably a little over an hour ago, but people lose their shit too easily.

Ever since he came back inside, his curiosity was stolen by Bill, drinking. Probably for the first time in his life, not probably, for sure, Eddie had finished a full cup of alcohol. He feels slightly looser, but he wasn’t sure it was due to that. Maybe, maybe not. He wouldn’t be caught accepting to be, what his friends called, a lightweight. Back to the main point, he wanted more. Might as well get it over it, get drunk once, regret it, never repeating it again for the rest of his life. But, unfortunately, he wasn’t really able to go get it himself, just because.

Because, well, he’s just Eddie. That’s a valuable reason. And like the coward he is, as soon as Bill gets up with an empty cup in hand, Eddie grabs him by the arm. Bill jumps and curses as if he was being attacked. Drama queen.

Trying to act nonchalantly, Eddie asks him if he could possibly bring something for him, too. He has never felt as thankful before as when Bill simply nodded and asked if he could bring the same stuff he was having. As expected, though, once the drink was in his hand and Bill by his side, there was no courage to actually drink it. Paranoid that everyone else was watching, he just twirled the liquid around for a while.

That’s when the music stops abruptly, a chorus of complaints emerging quickly. Eddie’s heart skipped a bit, looking around for a moment until the lights go off and suddenly, his pupils grow significantly, for the place is nearly pitch black. The grunts of disapproval were replaced by gasps, then an eager silence.

If he could see, Eddie would bet that Stan was probably rolling his eyes from the extravagant and unnecessary suspense that they wanted to cause over something like this. But on the other hand, Eddie was finally excited, even giddy with anticipation. His worries about Richie’s voice failing or any other components were tossed to the side momentarily, and he took this chance to gulp down half of what Bill brought him, which Eddie recognized as the same thing he had outside. Its taste was okay, besides the burn. However, he choked up when, out of nowhere, these beautiful lamps over the stage glowed an orange tinted light over the space.

It was still a dark environment, but warmer and cosier. That turned out to won’t be the big surprise as Mike, Beverly and Richie were already on their spots, having come up while it was room was dark, mysteriously not tripping over the dozens of electric cables crossing the surface. Eddie wanted to melt through the floor.

A round of cheering came and Bill placed two fingers between his lips to give a high pitch whistle that Eddie envied so much. Once the shouting, whistles and clapping began to fade, Richie’s impertinent voice was amplified through the one microphone standing in front of him.

“Fuck yes! What an entrance.”  Even Eddie laughed along with all the others. “So, I’m not gonna make a pretty speech about how thankful we are. You’re all drunk by now, just enjoy the shitty entertainment.”

More cheers. Why is Eddie surprised. He should have guessed this, but now it’s too late to take back that mild insult to Richie’s voice and hope for the best.

He took his time to watch them in this specific setting that he never would have guessed to see them. Beverly was all smiles, torn between looking at Ben and scanning her eyes through the room. Ben, on the other hand, was at the edge of his seat, right by Eddie’s side, giving her a silent pep talk every time they locked eyes.

Mike, his cheeks were glowing. Oh. Now he sees, all of them have glitter on, which he failed to notice and feeds into his guilty state. Mike’s cheeks are the most noticeable due to the contrast between colours. He looks amazing, no doubt, sending goofy, genuine smiles at the back of Richie’s head while he talks nonsense into the mic. His hands are skilfully turning the drumsticks as if they were bendable and the tank-top he chose to wear does him justice on showing off the strong arms he built over the years of hard farm work.

“I’m making the fine assumption that we’re all broke here.”

Right, Richie’s speaking. What’s all of that about? Eddie finishes the second alcoholic drink of his life, distracted by the happy sight in front of him. Richie’s still the same, dishevelled person. Nonmatching clothes and big teeth for a big mouth for a regular-sized face. Uncombed hair, which is the best way to go around it, and a non-filtered brain-to-mouth way.

Yeah, Richie’s still the one Eddie fell for two years ago and hasn’t been able to let go yet. Nor is he trying to. And, holy, if that’s not a hard thing to admit to himself after so much time of dancing around his feelings. So, maybe it’s the vodka-ish drink. Or maybe it’s his screwed-up appearance. Or the lightness that settled upon Eddie’s stomach moments ago.

Right now, in this room, if someone asked him who’s the most attractive person present, Eddie wouldn’t have thought twice before flinging himself at the mess that Richie Tozier is.

“Dear poor, empty-walleted high schoolers, this one was meant for us.” Richie started by running his fingers over the frets in such a rapid motion that Eddie gave up following it with his eyes. The tempo of the song was quick, his ring finger held a golden slide, and the sounds produced by it were actually good. It was really, really good. If there’s one thing that he’s actually committed to, is self-learning guitar. He had begged for one a few years back, and his parents gave in to his request after making him do all types of chores to prove how far he would actually work for it.

Eddie watches, with big shinny eyes, skilful hands and a concentrated face. A bitten tongue as he focused on the repetitive pattern and tried not to mess it up. The rings are missing from his fingers, tonight.

When the first hints of Mike’s drumming skills started to show, Richie began to sing, if you could call it that, and Beverly busied herself with the sound effects produced by the keyboard Eddie’s seen so many times before in her house.

It wasn’t really singing, it seemed to him that Richie was speaking at a fast speed with a certain rhythm, which made perfect sense. They had certainly picked songs that go along with his voice, what a relief.

Eddie paid attention to the words, and an inevitable groan made its way under the music and all types of encouragement everyone was giving as feedback. He was fucking singing about a prostitute, and using his famous voices to impersonate her within the song. He chose what seemed to be British hooker.

‘If you can pay the right price, your evening will be nice But you can go and send me on my way.’ I said, "You're such a sweet young thing, why you do this to yourself?”

And the rest of it went subtly ignored once Eddie turned to stare at Bill who looked like he was having the time of his life. To his right, Ben was laughing, reasons unknown. Stan was hiding his amusement behind a hand. After the prostitute, came a robbery. What the fuck’s this song about? Yeah, got it. Being broke. Unbelievably, Richie was putting another voice into action every time a new character made an appearance.

The robber sounded from the south. But maybe it was a failed attempt at any other accent really.

‘Give me all you've got, I want your money not your life But if you try to make a move I won't think twice I told him, "You can have my cash, but first you know I gotta ask What made you want to live this kind of life?”

Was it bad that Eddie was enjoying it? Richie either had his eyes closed or stuck on his guitar, and if he knew him well enough, it was from being nervous or afraid to face an audience. But if Richie did dare to look, he’d see so many faces of contentment. Everyone seemed to be enjoying their selves once Eddie turned to steal a glance. Mike was killing it, too, lost in his own world and feeling things to their maximum extent. There were other faint background sounds that made everything better, those were Beverly’s contributions. Eddie could hear bass, xylophone, too, played by her skilled moving hands over the keys.

Sure, the song’s also about a priest stealing money from the church.

By the end of it there were so many whistles and cheering that Eddie saw the exact moment of realisation hitting Richie in the face. Take that, he thought. The idiot should think better of himself, and Eddie can be a real horrible being sometimes. To prove his point, he got up from the couch to applaud them that way, a genuine smile to go with it.

Richie seemed surprise, eager to get some kind of support. Eddie shot him a wink and didn’t think twice before puckering up his lips in a quick air kiss.

So, I’m drunk. Okay.

With eyebrows suddenly flying off his face and a stupid grin, Richie didn’t look away from him as he tried to switch guitars, blindly feeling for the stand. When things got messy and he lost his balance for a second, he had to actually look away and do the task properly. Once the electric was hanging around his shoulder and properly connected to the speakers, Richie started a new combination of chords without a word. Eddie let his body hit the couch again, face red and suddenly overly shy. He placed both hands on his cheeks to check the temperature rising on his skin. What’s gotten into me?

It took him exactly 3 seconds to realise what song they were playing. It wasn’t shocking, either, to anyone, that tonight they’d be hearing Teenage Dirtbag. What a classic. Richie sings it all the time at Losers’ hangouts. Once again, it’s obvious that the voices will come into play, for every time he sings or performs, hat song he always sounds like a clogged-up chicken in a puberty-hit preteen boy.

“That’s my Noel impersonation!” It’s what Richie claims once the ‘I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby’ part comes along and someone mocks him for how bad it sounds.

Truth is, Eddie doesn’t think it sounds so bad this time. Maybe Richie does it on purpose when they’re all together, but tonight he sounds different, there’s effort, there’s rehearsing. There’s an expectation he put on himself and that he won’t fail to achieve. Eddie is in love. Tipsy, likely, but in love.

It's a great surprise when Beverly’s voice joins Richie’s in some harmonies. Their voices crash, not at all alike. Bev’s serious, Richie’s playing around. When people hear the first words out of her mouth, most of them wowed, stunned, which made her giggle in between words and her chest faulter with quick breaths, probably nerves, after returning her full attention to the keyboard. Ben was ecstatic.

By now, a lot of people are dancing around the weird lyrics, singing along too. This song makes better justice to Beverly’s capacities, along with Mike’s. The electric guitar is louder and different to Eddie’s ears, it does sound amazing, and Richie’s eyes are open for a change. Something quite great strikes his chest when that famous girly voice comes out of his lips. Eddie laughs because it sounds girlier and perkier than ever before, improved. And what were the chances of Richie singing those exact words without breaking the eye contact with him.

‘I've got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby Come with me Friday, don't say maybe I'm just a teenage dirtbag, baby, like you.’

Instinctively, Eddie bites his lip, and it stays between his teeth right until the very end of the song. The only thing that pulls him out of it is the intervention that follows.

“Alright, alright, chaps! There’s one last song we’re gonna play, and if you wanna get yourself laid tonight, you should take care of the arrangements in the next three minutes.” Richie took a small step back to laugh at his own joke and catch his tired breath. “I’d like to dedicate it, personally, to a lovely human being tonight.”

That’s when Richie winked in his direction.

That’s when his heart stopped.

“Eds, this one goes to your mom and all the amazing nights we spend together.” If he hadn’t looked away right in that moment, Richie would have seen the disappointment painting Eddie’s face. A hand made contact with his elbow, Bill was babbling on while the beginnings of a new song were born.

“A duh-douchebag once, a douchebag f-for life.” He’s high, Eddie thinks. He doesn’t bother with a reply, instead sinking down on the couch seat and trying to pay attention on this lovely tribute aimed for his overbearing mother. He begun to lose hope after some horrid words like:

‘I hope it's not a one-night stand

It's just you're so cool, and I wanna steal this moment with you.’

The images in his mind were worse than ever. But some made him laugh.

‘I miss your pain, I miss your brain, I miss your kiss, already’

And Richie was using this as a way to mock her, so Eddie felt thankful for the obvious hatred behind the words he was singing. Things only started turning the wrong way, a better one, when something changed in his voice. Eddie just knew, right when their eyes met without further interruption. Eddie was sure, when hating sentences softened and eased the lines on the skin of their foreheads. It was clear that, unlike before, Richie had a new subject of dedication. It was Eddie.

‘I'll hold you dear I hope that you don't think I'm weird’   I don’t.

‘Pretend it never happened’   That’s not what I want. That’s not what I want, Richie.

‘Cause we made a pact And I'll try my best not to get attached …I'm such a fool for you’

And like all good moments, there’s only one person to ruin them.

‘Well, I miss your sex, I miss your lips, I miss your tits I miss your kiss, already’   Richie smiles playfully, still a hint of seriousness hiding underneath. This time, Eddie blushes and mouths at the edge of his cheap party cup with a fire growing inside his chest.

Maybe parties aren’t so bad after all.

 -

 Eddie didn’t have any sense of what time it was. Late, probably.

“Why’s everyone leaving?” He pouted and turned to look at his friends, who were entertained by the sight of Eddie and Bill dancing comically in front of them. They had their arms linked, facing different directions and spinning around in circles. “Woah, the room’s spinning.”

Beverly lowered the cigarette from her mouth, Mike allowed her to smoke inside now that the space was clearing up. “That’s because we shut the power down half an hour ago so they’d get bored and leave.” Tightening the grip he had on Bev’s mid-section, Ben chuckled.

“You’ve been dancing without any music.” Bill started to sing some tune they all remembered from childhood, tugging on Eddie’s arm to keep spinning. He wasn’t prepared for such movement so he fell on his butt and dragged Bill along by the arm, who started laughing as soon as he hit the floor, and Eddie.

Their little show had ended some hours ago, with a lot of success, anyone would say. A group hug was shared, along with some drunken apologies from the ones that hadn’t shown support previously. Needless to say, everyone was forgiven without resentments.

Eddie let his head hit the floor, laying there with Bill half on top of him. It was very warm inside.

“So, what now?” Stan asked, although he would regret this as soon as Richie dizzily got up without a word. “Oh, no.”

“Shhhh.” Richie said while rounding the couch to stand behind it. He placed both hands on the cushioned back and pulled so hard his knuckles turned white. At last, he gave up and huffed out an exhausted breath.

“What, exactly, are you trying to accomplish?”

“Stanley, I’m starting to believe you have a fixation on me. I’m flattered.” He ducked his head to lick a long stripe on the side of Stan’s face. He jolted with disgust and desperately rubbed the spot with the back of Mike’s hand.

‘Such weirdos.’ Eddie thought. But he was still on the floor, maybe Bill was snoring by now. Who’s the weirdo, in the end?

“Miikeeeey.” Richie keened. “Come save me with your guns.”

The said boy turned his head around in his seat. “My what, now?” But he got up anyway at the sight of Richie’s baby pout. They both stood behind the sofa and started pulling again, moving the piece of furniture along, gaining speed at each step.

“What the fuck?!” Stan jolted in his seat while being moved backwards.

“We wheeled the couch, babes!”

“Why would you do that?!” But Stanley didn’t get an answer, watching Ben and Beverly have fun. The room was moving in the background. Soon, Mike and Richie were giving one final tug and running out of the way, the couch rolled around at a fast speed until it stopped right before hitting a wall. Richie mocked Stan for the high-pitch scream he let out.

Eddie sat up, shaking Bill out of his sleepy state, to stare with amusement at the little wheels he failed to notice drilled on the couch feet. When Richie and Mike resumed their previous place ready to push their friends to the opposite wall of the barn, Eddie got up and tried to run without falling. He messily threw himself on top of the legs of those who were sitting, earning a groan in response. No one tried to move him away.

“I don’t think we can move the four of you as easily.” Mike stated.

“Cowards, do it.” Eddie retorted back, and everyone laughed at him. What’s so funny?

“Hop off, Eddie. I’ll help.” Beverly pushed Eddie off of the couch. He ended up on the floor for the second time that night before sitting on Bev’s previous spot and bending his legs underneath his weight.

Bill stumbled to his feet and tried to look for the main power switch to turn on the stage lights again while Bev, Mike and Richie finally started their little race. A collective scream came from the group at the speed they were gaining. The barn was wide, sure, but they were close to hit the wall if it wasn’t for the sudden turn the ‘drivers’ managed to do. The sofa started to spin at a slower speed until they decided to keep doing that instead of running around. The three of them pushed the right places to keep the couch rotating until Ben begged them, with tears streaming down his face from laughing, to “Please, stop, I’m going to pass out.”

It was the most stupid thing they could have done, but it was also the most fun.

That fun was instantly killed when Eddie threw up outside after getting up. He had ended up crying, too, maybe because he was pissed, or maybe because his feelings were all over the place.

It was probably around 4 a.m. that Mike announced he would get everyone some blankets and throw pillows from his house. He was gone, approximately, 15 minutes. That time was enough for Bill to park his car inside the barn and scrape his right rear-view mirror even though the barn entrance could fit a bus.

By the time Mike came back, the lights were already off and he was greeted with the sight of Bill’s car inside, every door opened and the couch placed directly underneath the trunk. Both Beverly and Ben were already squeezed on the red sofa.

Bill was awkwardly trying to curl himself inside the trunk without stepping on the couple sleeping. Mike suppressed the urge to laugh and helped his drunk friend inside while giving him one of the many blankets he brought, along with a pillow.

Another one was draped over Ben and Bev, but no pillows for those two, lucky ones. When Mike peered inside the car, he saw, fondly, that the backseat was slightly tilted back, minimizing even more Bill’s space. Richie and Eddie looked very uncomfortable in there, bigger legs hanging outside. He threw them a blanket aggressively, startling both of them up. He was flipped off, worth it.

Lastly, both front seats had also been tilted back as much as they could go. Stan stood on the driver seat, laying sideways and looking at Mike with interest. He was minorly tipsy, but his cheeks were the most flushed. No words were spoken as he climbed on the passenger seat and gave Stan the last pillow. His arms curled around it. The remaining two blankets were sorted between them, deep breaths already being heard by some of their sleeping friends.

That night, the only reason Eddie woke up was to curl around Richie’s body and being held tighter right back.

Happiness was truly intoxicating.

rooftop taglist:   @richietoaster   @rainydayriots   @reddieloves    @thetrashmouthclub   @lemonboi03 @noodleboyshane    @pillsandglasses   @studpuffin      @dandelion-stan     @reddiesetrichie     @squishynonbinarytwink      @itschunky      @burymestanding     @duderrific    @its-rye @salty-kaspbrak  @youtubequeens   @reddieseggrolls   @addimagination   @pastelstozier @sleepysirenprincess @constantreaderfool   @mrs-vh @eds-trashmouth

perma taglist:  @constantreaderfool   @mrs-vh  @eds-trashmouth @girasol-eddie

[tentori21]

Questionable Decisions: A Warcraft Story

I decided to edit and post the story for my Druid I have been working on sporadically since Vanilla. Since I’m going to retire her to play Horde this expansion, I decided it was time to do her the honors. Not to mention the War of Thorns gave me a perfect way to end it thanks to things that had taken place prior.

Tagging @lorthemar-theron and @raventheempress since I think you might enjoy the read. If you want me to not tag you in future installments please let me know. Also, if you would like a tag, please let me know as well!

After a tragic incident thousands of years ago, Tentori Moonfall was stripped of almost everything, including her ability to perform druidic acts. A series of not so chance meetings sets her on the path to reclaim things she never even knew she had lost and so much more.

Chapter One: The Worst Druid Ever

I was never anything special. No one ever had a reason to remember my name. Although I had been a member of the Cenarion Circle for centuries my skills as a druid were still considerably lacking. I felt a strong affinity for nature, though affinity alone did not create a connection. No matter how hard I focused or how many times I reached out, all I ever got in return was garble to my ears. It was a language I did not speak and could not comprehend. Yet, I couldn't imagine any other place I could possibly belong. It wasn't a feeling I could describe in words to make anyone understand. If I was honest, I didn't really understand it myself.

“Tentori!” Someone yelling my name brought me out of my thoughts. “You were daydreaming again... You really should consider trying your hand had being a dreamer and helping Malfurion in the Emerald Dream.” My longtime mentor Loganaar gave me a pressed smile when I looked up at him sadly. I looked away in time to watch a leaf drop lazily into the moonwell I had been meditating near.

“You know I've tried...” I shrank in defeat under the kind eyes of my mentor. “I'm beginning to wonder if I should even be here, doing this.” I plucked the leaf out of the water and marveled at the beauty of it.

“You need to need decide why you want to be here doing this. What do you hope to accomplish?” He had asked me that several times now and an answer still hadn't came to me. He sighed and ruffled my hair before walking away. “You'll figure it out someday. When you do, you'll become very powerful. I know it.”

Those words long since stopped offering me encouragement. In fact, almost nothing gave me any kind of solace anymore. I wandered the gently rolling landscape watching novice and adept druids mastering things I had forgiven up trying to do centuries ago. Too ashamed to do anything else, I hid where I always did: in the Archdruid's barrow den. I knew its depths like the back of my hand and soon found myself along side the elf himself. I nestled myself up amongst the cool roots and earth wishing I could become one with it. Return to the earth from which I came and feed the plants. At least then I would be useful to something.

“Hello again, Archdruid. Sorry to bother you when you're so busy. I just... I wanted to come and say thank you for putting me on this path. Thank you for everything really.” I began my goodbye strong, but quickly devolved into a blubbering mess. “I'm just not cut to be a druid. I'm not sure I'm cut out to be anything really. So I'm going to become one with nature the only way I know how.” I sniffled and wiped my tears away. “I won't be bothering you anymore, Archdruid. I hope you finish your work quickly and come back to everyone waiting for you. I'm sure Lady Tyrande misses you terribly.”

“You are correct. There is not a day goes by I do not miss my beloved.” A somber voice from the entrance of the chamber startled me so much my old defense mechanism kicked in. Much to my mortification, I turned into treant right then and there in front of Lady Tyrande Whisperwind, leader of my people and High Priestess of Elune. She looked at me curiously for a moment then started to laugh.

“I have never seen a druid turn into a treant when startled.” She seemed amused, which made me happy. At least she was enjoying this.

"It... it's a defense mechanism... I know it doesn't make sense in most situations. Like right now! Trees don't grow under ground!" Lady Tyrande continued to smile warmly at me as I babbled on.  "I mean you no harm, young one. Your disguise is not necessary." She calmed herself once more as she approached where the Archdruid lay dreaming.  "Well about that..." I laughed nervously and she gave me a suspicious look. "I don't... actually... know... how to change back..." My voice got smaller and smaller as I explained it. It sounded completely ridiculous, even to me, to the point I wished the ground would swallow me. The leaves on my head and hands started to shrink and wither in my embarrassment. "It seems I am not the only one with a troubled heart..." Her once proud voice was full of regret and pain.  "Milady?" She shook her head though it did nothing to dispel the shadows that dulled her bright eyes.  "Everyone experiences doubts from time to time. The greater your responsibilities the more opportunities for doubt to creep into your heart." Seeing our lady so vulnerable like this was enough to make my heart break.  "I should go... so you can... be alone." I tried to quietly see myself out, but my limbs creaked and leaves shuddered with each subtle move I made. She suddenly burst out laughing again.  "I feel it was Elune's will that we met here this day. You remind me of a young Malfurion trying so hard to master everything he was taught." When I looked up at her in shock, the shadows were gone from her eyes. They looked like two stars, clear and brilliant.  "Re... real... really?!" I was completely enthralled by the thought of Archdruid Stormrage not being good at being a druid.  "In the beginning he was a novice, just like you." She smiled down at him fondly as she recalled it. "Everyone has to start somewhere." "Oh yes... I suppose that's true..." The thought still plagued me that I wasn't good enough to be there. "But no matter how hard I try, I don't get any better. I don't think I am meant to be a druid. I'm not going to accomplish anything great if I keep going on this way." "I trust you are familiar with tales of The Betrayer." Her voice took on a bitter edge as she asked and my throat got a little dry.  "Yes, milady." "Illidan was born with golden eyes. Eyes that said he would one day go on to truly great things." She took up the Archdruid's hand in hers as she went on. "Yet, it is Malfurion who has done the most for our people, for our world." Her melancholy faded as she turned to look at me again. "Heroes are not always born with the knowledge they will do great things. Heroes are born when a being decides to do something extraordinary with their ordinary life. They set themselves on a path and do not waver from it no matter the outcome."  "Lady Tyrande..." I could barely speak for how strongly her words resonated with me.  "What is your name, young one?"  "Tentori Moonfall." She nodded in response. "Thank you for telling me that. It truly put my heart at ease." "It was Elune who graced me with the words you needed to hear. Praise her for the peace in your heart." The peace in my heart. The peace in my heart. Elune is the reason for the peace in my heart. Every time I go to one of Elune's sacred places I feel at peace... "I know why I want to be a druid now! I know what I need to do!" Lady Tyrande took a step back from me and my exuberance. "I'm going to learn how to become a moonkin and protect Elune's sacred places!"  "That is a very noble path to walk, young Tentori. And I think I know just the place to start." "Really?! Please tell me! I want to get started right away!" She started laughing lightly before putting her hands on my bark covered shoulders." "There are many owlkin in Winterspring. You should travel there and try to commune with them." She gave my shoulders a gentle pat. 

"Thank you so much, Lady Tyrande! Thousands times, thank you!" I bowed to her reverently before tearing out of the barrow den as fast as I could. Which was not fast... at all... because I was still a treant... For the record, wooden shoes are a bad idea on smooth stone.

Before I could go to Winterspring, I needed to go home to Ashenvale to tell my family of my decision. Well what was left of it anyway. My mother and father had been heroes in an ancient war. A Sentinel and a warrior respectively. My sister and I had been living on our own together since we lost them. At least until she left to train as a priestess of Elune after the Third War. That's when I decide to pursue becoming a druid like my hero, the Archdruid.  I had almost made it back to my parents graves when something out of place caught my attention. Stark red in the sea of verdant green grass and mosses. Everything in me told me to run away, for I knew exactly what it was. A orc from the Warsong... Yet a barely audible whisper spoke to me. "It's not his time to die."  A slap of thunder over head snapped me into action and I ran over to the gravely wounded orc. I had read of orcs and heard tales of them but nothing could have prepared me for actually meeting one. All muscle and sinew wrapped in mail armor and tattered red leather and fabric. Nothing like the lean muscles of a male Night Elf. These were muscles meant for raw, brute strength. His body was covered in cuts and bruises on top of old scars. I looked him over and saw 2 arrows, true in aim, from a Night Elf archer in his side where there was a gap in his armor. I carefully yanked the arrows out and he let out a loud grunt, though he didn't stir. After quickly staunching the bleeding I tried to figure out what to do next.

I tried to pick him up but he was too heavy. "My you're a big one..." I lamented as the first drops of rain started to patter on the leaves over head. I racked my brain for a solution, but the only thing that came to me was to try to use my bear form. I had only successfully transformed into a bear once at will. Even then, I couldn't hold it.  "I have to do something." Resolved to not let the one time nature spoke to me clearly to go to waste, I focused every fiber of my being on transforming. I focused so hard I grit my eyes shut a moment. When I opened them again my field of vision had changed. I looked myself over and found I had done it! I read now one ferociously fuzzy bear!  The rain intensifying overhead snatched my moment of joy from me quickly. "Right! Come one big guy!" I got under him a few times but couldn't get him lifted on my back. "Maybe if I can get some roots to pull him..." I snuggled under him again before reaching out to the forest. I focused with all my might asking the nearby trees to help me. After a moment, roots burst out of the ground and wrapped around his arms. As they retreated back into the ground, they pulled him on to my back.  "Thank you, thank you!" I pushed myself off the ground and started making for a cave nearby. Once inside, I quickly used the little healing power I had to stabilize the orc. Then I built a fire to eat.

“Thank you for the nourishment.” I thanked the plants I was about to eat and dug in. The food helped restore my energy enough to try healing some more. So, I took his hand in mine and started praying for the forest to help me.  I'm not sure when I feel asleep but I awoke the next morning to the feeling of being stared at. As I pried my eyes open I was greeted by a deep scowl and an ax. "Wah!" I leapt into the air only to come crashing back down with the creaking of limbs and thrashing of leaves.  "G... good... to see... you awake..." I finally opened my eyes to find the orc staring at me dumbfounded. "I'm not very good at this." "I see this..." He muttered slowly lowering his ax.  "Are you feeling okay?" I timidly asked, though he was clearly doing better physically.  "Why did you save me?" "The... the forest told me it wasn't your time to die." He looked at me absolutely incredulously.  "The forest?" He said it as if it were the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.  "Yes. So I listened. I swore to protect the sacred places of Elune... and Elune is a goddess of life. So... life is sacred to her... So I should protect life too?" It made sense in my head, whether it made sense to him, I have no idea. He didn't seem to be buying it.  "Whatever the case... I owe you my life." Then he saluted me. At least, I think it was a salute? An Orcish one maybe? "My honor requires that I repay my debt. I will serve you until it is done." "Oh! No, no, no! I couldn't possibly ask that of you!" My leaves ruffled as I walked over to him desperately. "I'm going on a druidic pilgrimage soon and I couldn't ask you to accompany me! What about your family?!"  "But honor demands it!" He yelled back as he took a step back.  "Eep!" I shrank away as quickly as my stiff little tree legs would take me.  "Sorry."

"No. It's my fault." I had heard that some orcs held their honor in high esteem. There was little I could do if he was one of them. "Help me get to my family's grave site near Stonetalon Pass and I'll consider it even." He looked at me dubiously a moment. "I mean it. I really appreciate the sentiment, but I simply cannot ask anymore of you." I pleaded with him and he finally relented with a heavy sigh.  "Lead the way..."  "Oh um... could we wait for this to go away?" I felt rather embarrassed and sheepish as I asked.  "Can't you get rid of it?"  "No..." He sighed and rolled his eyes and stomped out of the cave muttering something in Orcish.  "You really are bad at this... Stay here." Oh! Maybe if I hurry, I can get away and he won't feel the need to follow me! With that thought in mind, I gathered up my things and rushed from the cave. Well... as rushed as a treant can go..  "Come on little legs! Waddle faster!" I cursed my stumpy legs as I made a beeline for some under growth. Suddenly, I heard a growl from behind me. "Oh no..." "I thought I told you to stay." I crumpled in defeat at being caught red handed. When I turned around I saw the orc with a towering a dire wolf mount behind him. It was the first time I had ever seen one up close and I was utterly transfixed.  "You look just like Goldrinn, the ancient!" As excited as I was, I could only speak in an awestruck whisper.  "I know not of this Goldrinn." This was very clearly not the orc talking.  "You! You spoke to me! And I heard you!"  "Yes." I couldn't contain my joy as I started to dance. "You are an odd druid." "You don't understand! Up until last night, I could barely understand anything nature had to say to me!" I took his fluffy head in my hands and pet him. "Oh look! I'm not a tree any more!" During this whole exchange the poor orc just looked on in resigned silence.  "Yorulas would like to leave."  "Oh yes! Of course! I'm so sorry!" I turned to my orc companion and bowed apologetically. "My name is Tentori Moonfall of Astranaar. What's your name?" "Yorulas Darkaxe." It was more of a grumble as he started to mount his wolf.

“And what's your name you majestic beast?” Yorulas started to answer but the wolf beat him to it.

“Karaxus.”

“Karaxus. That is a very strong name. I like.” I said it a few more times before remembering Yorulas was still there.. I outwardly cringed when I made eye contact with him again. To say he looked fed up would have been an understatement.

"Get on." "Get... get on?" I looked to the wolf hesitantly.  "You look light enough now." "I've never..." Yorulas groaned at my hesitation before reaching down and yanking me off the ground easily. "Ah... what do I do now?" I sat very awkwardly behind him in the saddle, hands fidgeting in the air. "Hang on!"  "To what exactly?" He didn't explain, just urged the wolf on at top speed leaving me scrambling to latch on to anything. In the end, I ended up wrapping my arms firmly around his midsection. Fear compelled me to bury my face in his back to keep from turning into a tree again. Fortunately, he had mail armor on under his stained and tattered tabard to keep me from squeezing him in half.  We rode for the better part of the day before he finally slowed to a stop. "Would you kindly remove yourself from my person?" "Oh... sorry!" I quickly peeled myself off of him and scampered awkwardly off the wolf's back. In my haste to dismount, I landed on my butt on the ground. "Owe..." I felt something warm at my back as the wolf gently picked me up by my cloak.  "Thank you, Karaxus. For bringing me here and for that." I bowed to the wolf and he barked at me happily.  "We're near the night elf village closest to Stonetalon. I presume your family graveyard is near here." Yorulas motioned to Silverwind Refuge nearby.  "Yes. Thank you for bringing me here." I bowed to him once more and he just let out a grunt. You shouldn't stay here though. There are Sentinels posted in the spire near the mountains." He glanced over my shoulder to the mountains beyond.  "This does not constitute repaying my debt..." "Look out!" Yorulas was drowned out by a scream in my head and I yanked him to the ground. My instincts took over and I went on the defensive trying to figure out where the danger was coming from. I could feel myself changing form.

"Get out of here while you still can!" I yelled to Yorulas just in time to hear an arrow come whizzing towards Karaxus. I leapt into action and swat it from the air before it could meet its mark. Yorulas didn't hesitate to mount and retreat. "We do not take kindly to traitors... cat..." A venomous voice hissed as it melted out of the shadows.  "I know. But the forest told me to save him so I had to oblige." I could feel my body changing again as I answered her.  "A convenient excuse."  "Aren't they all?" The next thing I know there was a sharp pain at the back of my head and the world went black. 

"Harpies... why did it have to be harpies..." A low, disgruntled complaint roused me from the darkness. “Always with the shrieking voices and feathers...” "Mister Darkaxe?" "Mister Darkaxe?! Mister Darkaxe?!" He sounded absolutely incredulous. "Do not ever call me Mister Darkaxe ever again." "Sorry..." "It's fine." A warm tongue started licking my head as I continued to come to. I could feel my hair flopping around at odd angles with each pass. "What happened?" I pried my eyes open and started to pet Karaxus idly. "They strung you up and left you for the harpies in Stonetalon." He helped me sit up and handed me a skin of water. "For the record, I hate harpies." I couldn't help the feeble laugh that escaped me. "At least we're even now..." I smiled happy at the thought he would go on about his business now.  "No, we aren't." My eyes snapped to his. They were deathly serious as he went on. "You saved me again." "You can't be serious..." I groaned as I put my head in my hands. "I seriously doubt the forest had me save you just so you could owe me a life debt!" "My honor demands I repay you." He shoved a haunch of roasted meat at me.  "Thank you for the nourishment." I nibbled on the haunch idly until the flavors really settled in my mouth. "This is really good!"  "I worked as a cook when I was a grunt at the Warsong Base." "It shows! But I think you must have a talent for it." "If I had the choice, I would have opened a restaurant in Orgrimmar." He looked distant in the dark night as he spoke. "You cannot die gloriously in combat as a cook though." "You say that, but you could die gloriously hunting for a rare ingredient!" I swung what was left of the haunch around like a sword. "Here lies Yorulas the Brave. Died to spiders foraging for mushrooms in a cave!" For the first time since we met, Yorulas actually smiled. Seeing him happy made me happy. But I knew I still had to figure out how to get him to leave me alone. "Yorulas... can I take an I owe you on that life debt thing?" I sincerely didn't want to put him in any more danger. "I'm going to Winterspring and there are even more elves there. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if something happened to you or Karaxus because of me." He let out a long breath through his nose.  "That's not how this works." He inhaled deeply again. "But I swear on my ancestors, I will repay my debt to you one day." "I hope that day never comes." It's not that I didn't want to see him again. I just didn't want to burden him with someone like me. I smiled ruefully to myself as I finished eating the food he had made me.

“Where are you going?” I looked up at him confused a moment. “Your pilgrimage.”

“Oh Winterspring.”

“Why Winterspring?”

“There are lots of owlkin there I can commune with. I want to learn to become one so I can protect Elune's sacred places.” I was trying to hold on to my resolve, but my doubts were threatening to snatch it all away.

“I thought druids often choose to take one the forms of bears or cats if the were not healers.”

“That is true, but it isn't impossible... My mentor said as much.” His realist analysis of the situation wasn't really helping my confidence.

“Just because I've never seen it, doesn't mean it can't exist, I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders and went back to eating. “Maybe you aren't good at being druid because you haven't been trying to be the right kind... if.. there is such a thing.” Was he trying to make me feel better? He did say he had wanted to open a restaurant in Origrimmar. Maybe... maybe he was trying to support me in becoming what I wanted to be...

“Thank you.”

“For what?” He snorted out in the face of a smile I couldn't stop.

“Everything.” I knew I couldn't convince of the truth in my heart, but he may have really saved my life that day in more ways than one.

Early the next day we prepared to part way. Yorulas reached into one of the bags on Karaxus and handed me a fur cloak. It must have been from the hide of a bear to fit over his hulking frame. When I gave him a questioning look, he blushed and looked away. "Winterspring is cold." "You know I can turn into a big, fluffy bear." I couldn't help tease him a little. Orcs didn't have an especially good reputation among Night Elves at large. I could see though there were some distinct qualities druids of the claw would appreciate. "Reliably?" He deflated my moment immediately. "No..." The cloak whooshed around my shoulders, the weight of it settling over me. "I'm not going to need it here. Take it." He acted as if it were nothing, but the gesture wasn't lost on me. I never thought I'd ever meet an Orc, let alone become friends with one. Maybe this is why nature told me to save him? Or maybe he's destined to go on to greater things? "Then I want you to take this." I reached into my robe and took a bear paw shaped necklace out. "It's imbued with the strength of a great bear. I got it when I completed the trial to transform into one." He tensed when I moved to place it around his neck. I stopped when I realized the string wasn't long enough to fit. He held up his arm and took one of his bracers off.

“Put it here.” I doubled the string up and placed the charm on his forearm. He then held it down with one of the straps for his bracers. "I feel stronger already." I was about to turn to leave when he grabbed my arm. “If you got to the graveyard, you won't like what you see there.” He sounded genuinely regretful as he said this. "The graveyard was destroyed but I did find this." He held up a clearly ancient warglaive.

"My mother was a sentinel. Thank you..." My voice cracked under the weight of my emotions. The glaive was almost to heavy for me to hold in my current state. "It'll require a proper blacksmith." A long silence fell between us as I tried not to let my emotions get the better of me. "You should go... put them to rest." "They already are. Thank you." I strapped the glaive to my back and bowed to him. "Oh... Well then... until we meet again." We both saluted each other then went our separate ways. I sighed to myself through my conflicting emotions.

“I hope that day never comes. Good luck, Yorulas Darkaxe. I hope you get to open that restaurant one day.”

[juicecupswanqueen]

“The Newsflash That Broke Emma Swan”, Chapter 5

Chapter 1   |   Chapter 2   |   Chapter 3   |   Chapter 4   

Warnings: The chapter is packed with cute SQ stuff.  Hook appears near the end of the chapter, but I have already said that there is no C$ kissing.  C$ is over.  This writing exercise seems to be going well.  I hope you are liking it.  I’m enjoying it. 

----------

“Emma?”

 After magically materializing into the grey house’s living room, Regina inspects the area, finding it empty.

 She slips her thin leather gloves off and pulls at her leopard print scarf.  “Emma?”

 A barely muted, “Up here,” floats down the stairs, and after placing her things on a tasteless, antique side table, that looks more like it belongs on the Jolly Roger than in this living room, Regina takes the stairs one at a time, her heels tapping as she ascends.

  Her instincts lead her down the hall, though she has never been upstairs before, and she discovers the lady of the house in her bedroom.  The blonde is sitting against her enormous headboard, smack dab in the middle of the bed, which her body seems to have reclaimed.  Her knees are tucked under her chin.

 As soon as Emma spots Regina, she lays a cheek against her knees, smiles weakly and closes her eyes quietly exposing fresh tears.

 “Oh Emma.”

 Immediately, Regina rounds the bed, going to her, and plops down onto the side, taking the blonde protectively under one arm.  Emma pervades her senses; the scent of the woman’s shampoo, the feel of golden locks just under her chin, the quiver Regina discerns, proving that both women are aware that they never gather this close.

 It is foreign to Regina being the comforter.  She inflicted pain and fear many times in her past, but she never really soothed anyone until her son came into her life.

 “He hates me.”

 “Who? Henry?”  Her cheek encounters the softness of Emma’s crown.

 “Who else matters?”  Emma sniffles dropping her hand on Regina’s.

 “I thought… maybe…”  she doesn’t want to talk, let alone think, of that mangey pirate.

 Emma wipes her tear.  “Oh. No.  I mean, I’m positive he’s upset with me too, but I can deal with that.”  The tears pour over.  “But Henry…”

 “He adores you, Emma.  You know that.”

 A pacifying hand moves in broad, slow strokes on Emma’s back. Regina occupies herself by examining the décor of the room, hating it instantly.  “You sleep in here?”

 “Hook fashioned it much like a Captain’s Quarters on a pirate ship.”

 Eye-balling the chandelier above them with disdain, which had been made of the wooden wheel of a ship’s helm, Regina complained, “It’s ghastly.”

 “Yeah, well.  I rarely spend much time in here.  Too busy working.  Just sleep and…”  Emma freezes, and falls silent, not wanting to get into other things that she has done in here with her husband.  That all seems like such a long time ago now.  If Regina has noticed her hesitation she doesn’t say anything.  “Anyway, I’m not much for decorating and stuff.  Growing up, I’d rarely let myself get attached to things, moving from one foster home to another.  And as an adult I would just rent furnished apartments,” she remarks with a hidden smile at Regina’s down-curled lip.  “The room’s not exactly your taste, I know.”

 The old Regina would have scoffed and further insulted the room, but the new Regina is a bit more concerned about being outwardly rude, so she tries for tact.  “Well, it’s very nautical.  It’s wooden and brass…”

 “Regina,” Emma prompts, alerting her friend to be honest.

 “Garish.  It’s grotesque in here, Emma.”

 Emma chuckles and wipes a lone tear.  Being with Regina has already made her feel much better.  

 “I never really thought about it one way or the other…”

 “Were you in a coma?  I mean, look at this place!”

 Emma laughs a bit more, “…but seeing it through your eyes…”

 “It’s like falling asleep in an old-fashioned sea food restaurant or something.  My God!  Is that a swordfish mounted on the wall?  And an anchor?  That can’t be a real anchor.”

 Emma burrows more into Regina, who lays her cheek on the top of Emma’s head again, sighing and quipping, “If I am sitting on his side of the bed, I may shoot you.”

 They both erupt into chuckles and know the only thing Regina ever shoots are fireballs.  Emma briefly recalls the time she had given Regina a gun to take with her to New York to save Robin.  She remembers the sheer terror she felt at the possibility of losing Regina, and at the helplessness she felt by not being able to accompany her in the world without magic.  She eventually had, of course, for the sake of also finding Lily, but mostly because Regina had told her that she needed her.

 She snakes an arm across Regina’s lap and Regina tugs her in closer, flooding her with a mix of conflicting emotions: happiness, guilty pleasure, culpability, sadness for disappointing Henry…

 “Regina?”

 When Regina glimpses back at her, her brown eyes soften because Emma, though feeling better, is still afraid that she may lose her son.  To Emma, this feels like Violet and Camelot all over again.  “Tell me again that Henry doesn’t hate me.”

 “Believe me, Emma.  Our son does not hate you.”

 “Say it again.”

 “He doesn’t hate you.”

 “No.  The other thing.”

 “What?  Our son?”  The corner of Regina’s mouth lifts along with a shoulder.  “Well, that’s what he is.  Our son.  Yours. Mine.  No one else’s.”

 “It’s about time you admitted it.  Finally.”

 It’s a joke of course and Emma is still leaning on Regina’s shoulder so she doesn’t catch that perfectly-groomed, dark eyebrow quirk. “Are you picking a fight with me, Miss Swan.”

 “What are you going to do about it, Madame Mayor?”

 Regina can’t help snickering and Emma likes the sound of it and turns her face up.  Their eyes lock and their gaze becomes heated for a moment before Regina puts a stop to it.

 She is here to offer her friendship.  Considering how upset Henry was this morning and how she is currently in the boudoir of the Joneses, she doesn’t feel that doing anything more is appropriate.  No matter how much she might want to.

 “Henry’ll come around, Emma.  He needs time.  He doesn’t know the whole story,” Regina reassures her as if she can read her mind. “He needs to cool off and then he can be reasonable.  Our son’s a hot-head.  I wonder which one of us he gets that from?”

 Emma’s eyes meet Regina’s humorously and they both claim at the same time, “You.”  The moment turns toward hilarity and they are leaning against the headboard, companionably sharing a joke, heads pressed together, when they are interrupted by a sneer at the door.

 “Well, isn’t this cozy?”

 They break apart to find Hook leaning against the door jamb, tongue running across his teeth angrily followed by a jaw clench.  He inspects his pointed metal hook for a hand like he plans to use it to stab someone with.

 “So, Your Majesty…” The formality is a taunt and he says it to insult Regina.  “The least you could do is use your own bed to fuck my wife in.”

 “Killian,” Emma reprimands and the name is stretched as if she is calling out a nuisance.  

 “Don’t be crass, Hook.”  The interruption is from Regina, and she addresses him with extreme displeasure.

 “Well, you are in my bed with my wife.  Don’t think I’m stupid enough to believe you haven’t tasted the pleasures of her flesh yet.”

 Regina feels Emma’s anger rising and she places a hand calmly over the blonde’s and basks in the pirate’s annoyed observance of it.

 “Too late, Hook.  I’ve thought you more than stupid enough for decades.”

 The statement is delivered contemptuously and the pirate’s eyes become dark and menacing.

 “We were just talking.”  This from Emma.  She wants to leave the bed, feels vulnerable being the only one in the room not fully dressed.  It is ridiculous that she doesn’t want her husband to see her in her underwear.  She inwardly scoffs at the absurdity of that thought.  Wow!  How everything has changed in the span of a day.

 “You’re a liar.”  His words to Emma are sharp and scornful and this is a side of him that she has only seen once before.  Emma recollects standing inside Rumpelstiltskin’s cell, in the Enchanted Forest, while he spat disparaging insults at her before leaving her to die.  Hook looks to Regina and demands, “I want you out of my house. Now.”

 Regina gets up slowly and Emma senses the challenge in her stance rather than acquiesce.  A few other curses may have passed since the original dark one that brought the fairytale characters into this world, but no one ordered the queen around, especially in a town she had originally created.  “Or what?”

 “Oh, I would love for you to stick around and find out, Regina.” He stands at the ready, his Hook at his side and his hand on his cutlass and it is just then that Emma notices he is dressed in his old pirate outfit.

 Regina smirks at him, an enlivened glimmer in her eye as if this battle between them was finally at hand.  It is fear and wariness that springs Emma onto her knees, the bedsheet dropping just a little, exposing only the waistband of her striking purple underwear. Her hands extend outward to each of them.

 “Ok,” Emma placates, “We’ll go.  Just… everyone, calm down.”

 Hook’s eyes flash.  “Not you, love.  You and I need to talk.”

 “If you think I am leaving her here alone with you, smelling like a rum distillery, you have another think coming, guyliner.”

 It is only after Regina’s revelation that Emma smells the alcohol on Hook.  It is subtle and not a foreign occurrence to her, so she thought nothing of it.

 “My wife has nothing to fear from me.”

 Regina’s words are chilly as she tosses out, “Is that how it was last night?”

 Emma’s hand immediately goes up to her throat where he held her up against the refrigerator.

 “That…” He is apologetic and he turns his face away unable to see the damage written on Emma’s face.  “I didn’t mean to…”

 “Push yourself on me?  I told you to stop several times!  Do you think you are the only creep who has ever tried to…take advantage of me,” Emma castigates angrily, seeming to forget Regina is there for a second.  Her fists clench.  She is suddenly reminded of her past when a drunk foster father or foster brother had tried to force themselves on her.  Her husband was the last man she thought would try and hold her down.

 “Scumbag.”  The word drops from Regina’s lips in a quiet fury, understanding exactly now what Emma had meant when she mentioned Hook had become violent.

 He turns and waves it off with perhaps a little regret.  “It was an err in judgement.”

 Rage radiates off the former queen at the charge of attempted rape. She is unsympathetic and disgusted with men who think they can force themselves on women and her reply is meaningful, a warning to never touch Emma in such a way again, “I swear another err like that will get you killed.”

 The threat chases away any remorse he may have felt and he turns scathingly toward them.  How dare Regina come into his home and tell him how to interact with his wife.

 Emma is shaking her head slightly with her eyes closed because this is not how she wanted to start her morning.  She knows she and Hook need to talk but somehow, she is not ready right now.

 “I think I need some space, Killian.”

 “More time with Regina, you mean.”

 She doesn’t contradict him and instead considers it.  “Maybe,” Emma says, surprising the others in the room and she quickly replies, “All I know is that these feelings aren’t new.” The man’s hand tightens on his sword handle.  Regina is studying his grip and calls forth her magic to attack should she have to.

 Emma doesn’t intend to hurt him.  She just wants to put everything to rights.  However, she realizes that being honest with herself, will hurt him and there is nothing she can do about that.  As his pride smarts, she watches him cross the line of reason and logic.  He grows even darker and she has seen him this way before.  The hate she senses from him now is just like when he learned she had turned him into a Dark One, and she expects him to lash out.

 “You are a lying, cheating whore.”  His insult hits her in the gut like a punch, but she tries to hold her head high.  “Get out and take the bitch queen with you.”

 It’s as if she and Hook are completely different people from just a few days ago, but Emma doesn’t have time to contemplate further on it because a flame flares in Regina’s palm and Killian draws his sword.

 No!

 Emma, in her haste to halt any bloodshed, grabs Regina’s wrist and feels her magic pull them from the room.

 [XX]

 In a loft apartment across town, Snow White is sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast with her family.  She makes silly faces at her baby son, Neal, to try and get him to eat.  Her husband, David sips his coffee before putting another bite in his mouth; his hand smoothing out the newspaper in front of him.

 A large swirl of light smoke appears, grabbing her attention and giving way to two shapes.  In the next second, her daughter, Emma, and her good friend, Regina, are standing right in the middle of the room.

 At the sight of his daughter in a skimpy white tank top and scant purple panties, David spits a mouthful of Cheerios out, exclaiming, “What the-?”

 “You took us to your parents’ place?”  Regina looks around dumbfounded.

 Emma shrugs and magically beckons her mother’s long coat from the hook by the front door, slipping into it quickly.  “It was the safest place I could think of.”

 They both focus on the two very surprised people sitting at the table, and the little baby clapping his hands and reaching out to be picked up by his older sister.

.... To be continued.

[sunflowerseedsandscience]

Someday Your Child May Cry

Previous: Question | Preparations | Irrational | Confession | Collateral | Thoughtless | Interrupted | Recovering | Irresponsible | Possibility | Devastation | Confrontation | Generous

14. Confirmation

Autopsying and identifying every single body recovered from the hangar at El Rico Air Force Base takes three full days and an entire team of pathologists. By the end of it, Scully’s feet are covered in blisters in spite of her comfortable shoes, and she’s relatively certain that the cramps in her neck, back, and shoulders are going to be with her for at least a week.

(She's also had to leave the table to vomit in the bathroom three times today alone. She could put it down to the horror of having to autopsy the bodies of small children who had been burned alive, but, she’s never gotten sick over an autopsy before, and anyway, she’d been nauseous before she’d even picked up her scalpel on the first day.)

Two weeks ago, Scully would have whispered her suspicions in Mulder’s ear, savoring his excitement over the idea that this time, it might work… but right now, even though he’s been buzzing around the morgue constantly, getting underfoot, it feels like there’s miles of empty space in between them. Scully assumes that all of Mulder’s attention is focused on waiting to find out whether or not any of the remains will be identified as having belonged to Diana Fowley (they won’t, of course), and it’s unlikely he has any space in his head for her just now.

When the last victim has finally been identified, Scully peels back her gloves, tosses them into the biohazard bin, and approaches Mulder, who is leaning against the wall near the door, having given up his restless pacing at last.

“She’s not here, Mulder,” she sighs. “None of these bodies were hers. You’re sure she went to the hangar when she left you?”

“Completely,” he says. Scully nods and looks down.

“Well, then… either this all happened before she arrived, or… she found some way to escape it.” She pauses.  “The smoking man isn’t here, either.” Mulder scowls.

“Doesn’t mean anything, Scully,” he says stubbornly. “So if you’re gonna start in on that crap again, you can just-” Scully holds up her hands, forestalling him.

“Mulder, I don’t want to fight with you,” she says. “I just want to go home, wash this stink off of me, and sleep.” She rubs at her neck as Mulder continues to glower at her. Another surge of nausea begins churning in her gut, and she knows she needs to get away from him before he realizes anything is wrong. “We’ve got an early meeting with Spender, Skinner, and Kersh tomorrow morning. I suggest you go home and try to sleep, too.” She turns and walks quickly away before he can say anything else, and makes it to the toilet in the changing room just in time.

Scully doesn’t go and find Mulder before she leaves the morgue; she doesn’t have the stamina to get drawn into another argument just now, not when the hurt of his accusation and his dismissal of her at the Gunmen’s is still so fresh. She buys a pregnancy test at the pharmacy near her apartment and uses it as soon as she gets home.

It’s positive.

Scully picks up the phone, about to call Mulder... when suddenly, his voice sounds in her head again, telling her that she’s wrong, telling her she’s making all of it personal.

Very slowly, she puts the phone back down.

———————————

They’re busy reclaiming their office when Mulder’s cell phone rings, and much to his surprise, it’s Frohike. He and the Gunmen hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms after the scene in their offices over a week ago, when, according to Frohike, he’d behaved like “a self-righteous, self-centered, stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Mulder, we need you to get over here,” Frohike says, his voice grim. “Bring Scully with you.”

“What’s going on, Melvin?” Mulder asks.

“We’ve done some more digging, and we found something that we think you should see. Both of you.”

A half hour later, the five of them are standing in a semicircle around one of the Gunmen’s computers. On the screen is what appears to be a hospital hallway.

“What is this?” asks Mulder, frowning.

“This is from a security camera at Holy Cross Memorial Hospital,” says Byers. “Where Agent Fowley was taken after she was shot last summer.” Mulder scowls.

“Come on, guys, not this again,” he grouses, but Byers talks over him.

“This footage is from the hallway outside of her room in the ICU,” he says. “The day that she was admitted.” He leans over and sets the footage rolling with a click of the mouse, and Mulder heaves a sigh and turns his attention to the screen.

For about a minute, there’s nothing but the normal bustle of a hospital corridor, nurses rushing this way and that, doctors carrying charts, and the occasional visitor. But then, at the top of the screen, two figures come into view, walking towards the camera, their faces completely visible for ten full seconds before they turn left and enter Diana’s room. The one on the right, whose face is completely unfamiliar to Mulder, is built like a linebacker.

The one on the left is unmistakably C.G.B. Spender.

Byers reaches down and clicks the mouse again, fast-forwarding the recording.

“They stay in there for maybe five minutes,” he says as he returns the recording to normal speed. “And when they leave, Spender is on his cell phone, and the tall one is clearly slipping something into his pocket.” He pauses the tape and, with several more clicks of the mouse, he zooms in on the man’s right hand, which is tucking a cylindrical object out of sight.

“That’s a syringe,” says Scully. “They gave her something while they were in there.” Byers nods.

“We think,” says Frohike, watching Mulder carefully, “that they slipped her something to speed up her recovery, and that’s why she got better so quickly.” Byers shuts off the computer monitor and stands, turning to face Mulder.

Everyone in the room is waiting for him to speak... but the realization that he’s just come to is even worse than the truth that Scully had been trying so hard to convince him of.

“It was her,” he says, almost to himself. “She told them.” He looks up at Scully, barely able to meet her eyes as the guilt crashes through him. She merely looks perplexed for a moment... but then, understanding breaks, her face going from confused to horrified to downright furious in seconds.

“You told her?” Scully’s anger fairly explodes outward at him, and it’s all he can do to keep from cowering under the intensity of it.

“It slipped out,” he says, fully aware of how pathetic of an excuse it is. “I didn’t mean to. I knew it was a mistake the second I said it.” Scully opens her mouth to speak, but her rage seems to be beyond words. She turns sharply on her heel and races for the door. Mulder has just enough time to see the identical looks of disgust on all three of the Gunmen’s faces before he turns and races after her.

“Scully, wait!” he calls, as he runs out of the door and sees her striding down the sidewalk towards her car. He doesn’t think she’ll listen, but quite suddenly, she turns and charges at him.

“How could you, Mulder?” she shouts. “I didn’t even tell my own mother what we were doing, and you, you go and tell some woman I don’t even know?” She’s so livid that she actually reaches out and shoves at his shoulder. “And then you treat me like I’m nothing more than a petulant, jealous girlfriend when I have the audacity to question her loyalties? And I was right, Mulder! She was with them all along, and you refused to see it!”

“I know you were right, Scully,” he says. “I know that now. But you have to understand, I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe that of her, not after-” He cuts himself off. This is the final secret, the one he’s never told her, at first because it didn’t seem important... and later, because he knew how hurt she’d be that he’d kept it from her for so long.

“After what, Mulder?” Scully asks. “What possible reason could you have to trust her that much?” Mulder looks down, the shame of it all pressing heavily on him. He’s failed her so thoroughly that maybe, just maybe, he can’t possibly hurt her any worse.

“Diana is my ex-wife, Scully,” he says quietly. And when he looks up and sees her face, he knows immediately that he was wrong, that his capacity to inflict pain onto the people he loves may well be limitless. She says nothing, and he doesn’t try to call her back as she turns and rushes back to her car, climbing in and taking off so fast that the tires actually squeal. 

His shoulders slumped, Mulder digs his cell phone out of his pocket and calls for a cab.

[badcowboy69]

Drive

Something small I whipped up today to take a break from the insanity of something else I’ve been working on.  

Anyway, enjoy this one.  It’s short and sweet and wrote in my fave of first person.  It was also inspired by a song I heard today by Brad Paisley.  

And as always this features my courier six Travis Blackfox and the love of his life Riley White who belongs to @zoey-and-dakota

Comments are always welcome.  Enjoy!

It’s hot.  Hotter than I expected.  I’m out of water and covered in desert dust, but I have to get home.  Pausing to wipe the endless sweat out of my eyes I look up towards the sun and frown.  I’ve been out way too long, but getting reclaimed weapons sold to Gun Runners was a necessity.  All caps I get from salvage I send off to the Followers of the Apocalypse to fund their medicinal needs.  

Still...it’s hot.

Swallowing what little saliva remains in my mouth, I trudge forward back towards home.

Home seems so far away and only farther knowing no one cares about my situation.  I could fall over right now and no one would even notice.  Well, that’s a lie.  I’m sure some scavenger would notice...take my prized rifle, take my elite riot gear.  Hell, they’ll probably even take my black cowboy hat just because.  You would think the caps would be enough...enough to buy a dead man some dignity, but not everyone in this world is concerned with that.

As for me, I live the high life.  Pristine home, guards, tons of caps, alcohol, food...shit I have it made!  I will never have want for anything for the rest of my life if I so desire.  Yet that doesn’t really entice me.  Being out here, sweating my ass off to do some good is what I try and strive for.  Still, not many people care.  

I’m not looking for recognition or even a reward.  I am looking for people to learn from my generosity, to take a little bit of kindness and spread it.  It doesn’t take much.  In fact sometimes kindness can be downright free with a simple smile.  A simple wave to someone might let them know someone sees them.  Maybe that simple wave saved their life.  All some folks want is a little recognition.  A smile.  A wave.  All things that might seem pointless to you might mean millions to someone else.

It’s all I try and do.  The wasteland is a rough place.  I stamped out a lot of bad and am trying to do good.  I’ve given people hope and motivation.  They strive harder now and it’s obvious how things have changed in my rein all these years.

Still...it’s hot.

I should have brought more water.  I should not have left the building without eating first.  I should have used the caps I got for my sale to buy something at the diner in Freeside.  But, I didn’t.  

People milling around on the streets barely see me in fact.  As famous as I am around here I can also be just as invisible.  Today is one of those days. My weary, dusty body blends in perfectly with the citizens of Freeside.  No one sees me or pays me much mind.  No one cares.

Years ago all I had to do was pass through these streets and someone from the Kings would run up to me.  They’d thank me for my help and give me some random goodie.  Water.  Caps.  Ammo.  Food.  Not anymore.  They’re not dicks, don’t get me wrong.  They are still forever grateful that I helped them so much.  They’re forever thankful I fought for them and support them.  I helped them survive and flourish.  Now they can pass on more help to others in need. They learned first from the best, the original king, Elvis Presley.  Now they added me to the list on whom to admire.  I’m flattered, but will never match what Elvis has accomplished centuries ago.  

Now my leg cramps up.  No doubt my body’s rebelling from the lack of water. Groaning and wincing, I lean against a building and rub my aching leg.  Once again I have to wipe the sweat from my eyes with my free hand.  

I tilt my head back and see my casino, the Lucky 38, looming closer.  I’m almost home.  It would be a shame if I were to pass out now, scant feet away from my sanctuary.  Inhaling deeply, the arid heat of the desert burns my lungs and my parched throat.  I have to press on.  I am so close.

I pass by my robot guards.  They drone their greetings to me and it takes all I have to wave at them.  I’m beat, but they hardly notice my delima.  They won’t care if I give up right now and fall in a crumpled heap at their wheels.  No one would care.  I certainly won’t either.  It’d be so easy to do right now, but I can’t.

I’m limping now.  My leg basically said “fuck you” to me and it’s cramped and done.  I’m almost there, just a few more feet to go.  

The lighted stairs leading up to my home guide me.  My eyes are blinded by the sweat that seems to continue to pour out of me.  I don’t understand where all the moisture is coming from.  I should be dried up by now, but yet it continues to soak me.  I pass by the robot guard who gives me a cheery “Howdy.”  I feebly wave to him and push open the door.

I’m hit in the face by a blast of cold air.  I’m so thankful for air conditioning.  I’m so thankful that Mister House was able to retain the knowledge for such a device to work in this wonderful city of ours called New Vegas.  All the casinos and hotels have it.  It’s a wonderful thing even though it sends a shudder down my sun-baked body.

I stumble to the elevator and jam my thumb against the button marked with a 6.  As the doors slide shut I catch a glimpse of the robot guarding the elevator. The cowboy image on his screen almost looks worried about me, but I know that’s impossible.  The image is forever in its dopey smile.  Even if it were possible, I doubt it’d really care anyway.

On the ride up my hazed mind wonders why do I bother.  Why do I continue to strive to do what I do on days like this?  I could have very well have waited another day or two.  I could have went out closer to the night when the temperatures would be cooler.  I could have done a lot of things differently, but I didn’t.

Days like this bring me down, days I screw up and not think.  Again I wonder why do I bother?  What difference does any of it make?  Does anyone even care?

The elevator stops and the door slides open.  At that moment all my self-pity and misery is washed away.  All my bitching and all my complaining are gone as the arms of my savior embrace me.  My redhaired lover, my purpose for living and striving so hard is there for me.  He’s always there for me.

He guides me to the kitchen while talking soothingly to me.  He scolds me for going out in this terrible heat without water no less, but he means well.  As he presses a cold bottle of water in my hands I feel him remove my black cowboy hat and rake his fingers through my sweat-soaked hair.  Giving me a gentle kiss atop my head I hear him walk to the sink.  The sound of running water hits my ears and before I realize a soothing cold cloth is pressed against my head. He keeps it there for a few moments before gliding it along my neck. Pressing the cloth against my eyes is like euphoria.  Hell, just being with him is euphoria!

He is my world and my everything.  I don’t know what I would do without him. He keeps me focused, keeps me happy.  He satisfies me in so many ways and the sex is completely mind-blowing.  He makes everything worth it and is always there to bring me up when I’m down.  Of course doing stupid things like I did today do earn me a scolding, but it’s always out of love.  He’d be a goner without me just like I would be without him.  

Removing the cloth from my face I manage to open my bleary eyes and look up at my handsome man.  He smiles at me and once more tells me not to do something foolish like this ever again.  I nod numbly and feel his fingers peel the duster from my heated body.  He asks if I’m ok and I nod as I reach up to touch the side of his face.  The scratch from his beard makes me smile.  Hell, everything about him makes me smile.

Pressing a soft kiss against my parched lips, he lifts me from the chair and guides me to our bedroom.  Setting me down on the bed he removes my boots and pauses to give my feet a gentle, brief massage.  I sigh and feel myself slipping from the waking world into the soothing one he’s setting up for me. Putting his hands on my shoulders he slowly pushes me backwards until I come in contact with the mattress.  

I feel like I’m floating.  Floating in a world of intoxicating bliss, but yet I try not to give in yet.  He mutters that I need rest, but I need him first.  Using the remainder of my strength, I reach up and grab him by his shirt.  I pull him down to me and kiss him.  I hear him again tell me to relax, but yet he doesn’t pull away.  I feel his fingers in my hair, massaging over my skull while he presses his lips against mine.  

As our tongues entwine in an invisible dance I feel myself slowly starting to drift away into slumber.  I’m safe, content and cared for.  I am happy and I am in love.  Hell, I am loved.  There is no better feeling than that and nothing else gives me as much purpose or drive and I wouldn’t trade it for all the caps in the world.

[sarnehthelostboy]

Kaet and Prison

So I’ve taken on the endeavor of recreating my Saints Row boss, Kate, in the World of Warcraft. My motivation for the game has been kinda low recently, but this has given me some new energy for it, and is turning out to be a lot more fun than I first thought. It’s still a WIP of course, but I’ve managed to make a decent crew for her, and have started working on writing out a scene to explain how she met each member. This’ll be the first in the series, as it explains how she ended up founding the gang! 

--

“... So am I getting a turn, or what?”

“Yea sure, right after I'm done.”

“Been saying for hours now, Kaet...”

The ball bounced off the floor and smacked into an open hand of grayed purple skin. Just like it had been doing all day. The hands' owner turned and glanced at her cell-mate...

“For Light's sake, don't stare at me with the bad one, fuck!” said the other woman, waving at her “friend” to encourage a turn of her head. “Getting you an eyepatch first thing when we get out...” she muttered.

“So you don't want it?” asked Kaet, raising the dull red ball up and turning it back and forth.

“Don't need to look at me to give me the ball.”

“Yea and you don't need to look at me to take it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yea you too.”

Kaet tossed the bouncy sphere over to the woman at her side, a wide smirk on her face.

“Thanks.”

With one less thing keeping her mind busy, Kaet began to gently bump her head against the wall behind her. Not enough to break anything, but just enough send her thoughts bouncing around. Preferable, compared to more dwelling.

Kaet had been in the Stormwind City Prison for almost a month. Maylith had been in for six. Kaet got put in with Maylith after her last cellmate got killed in a fight with one of the guards.

The days were moving by a lot slower than Kaet remembered. When she was out in the world, seemed like they were going by too fast. Never had enough time to pull off a jewelry swipe and make it to the shoreline of Silvermoon for sundown.

“Silvermoon...” She mumbled the name, barely audible. Maylith turned to look at her, but glanced away once she'd figured out it wasn't anything directed at her. Silvermoon was something she didn't want to think about, but she was going to anyways, because she was homesick and also an idiot. Silvermoon wasn't home anymore, thanks to Umbric and his Magisters. She was stuck in Stormwind because of him, and he and so many others just went along with it like it was their only choice.

Kaet had gone a crime spree first thing after she set foot in Stormwind. She wasn't going to sit and listen to Alleria preach about how great the Alliance was; Kaet was going to rob them blind as best she could while she was in their capital. She made it through a good handful of stores, one of which she put to the flame on her way out, but they'd caught up long enough. None of her fellow “Ren'dorei” vouched for her, likely because she wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. She was a stowaway, and was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“... Your skull, human! I'll crack it like an egg and drink -”

The words of defiance were spoken in orcish, a tongue Kaet was not expecting to hear this deep in Alliance territory. She and Maylith both looked away from the wall in time to see the two newest arrivals at the prison; a pair of orcs, both male, wrapped in dark shrouds that were torn, cut, and wet with blood. Escorted by a trio of guards each, the orcs and their captors took up most of the hallway, so much that Kaet could probably reach one of them if she tried... But that was an “if” that might cost her a hand. So, instead of doing that, she and Maylith watched their new brothers in chains be guided down the hall and around the bend to the lower cells. Other prisoners shouted out insults, directed at the guards and orcs both, but neither of two women chimed in.

Eventually the excitement had passed and the two returned to reclaim their seats on Kaet's bunk, Maylith beginning to bounce the ball off the opposite wall again, and Kaet trying to think of things other than how much she wanted to get out.

-

A few hours later, the excitement returned. This time, in the form of a full on prison riot.

The two orcs hadn't even been in for a day, and yet there was already someone on the inside to help them... Or, maybe they just pulled a guard through the railing, killed him, and took his keys. Either way, the cold stone halls were echoing with shouting and cries for blood. Human, dwarves, goblins, orcs, and others all began to force their way out, some stopping to release people along the way. Kaet and Maylith waited for their turn, but after enough bodies had passed, it seemed like they were going to be forgotten.

Maylith had already torn up the sheet from her cot and stuffed a few shreds behind the waistband of her pants, while Kaet had gone to their cell bars. “Hey! Someone get a key over here! Hey! Come on, get us out of here, too!” Two human men hurried past her, and Kaet gave them a quick rundown on how good their mothers were in bed before they got out of earshot, but soon enough she had to look elsewhere for help.

One of the orcs from earlier in the day rounded the corner of the hall, covered from head to toe in blood. Seems that they really did pulled one of the guards through the railing. He started down the hallway with the other orc following close behind, armed with a bloodied sword. As the two reached Kaet cell, she spoke up in orcish. “Hey! You! Open!” she said, gesturing towards the lock that kept their door shut.

The first of the two kept walking, but the second paused. He looked at Kaet that spoke of his surprise at hearing orcish being spoken by someone in Stormwind. He stared at her, then down at the lock, and then turned to see where his fellow had gone to. He hesitated, then grunted and slammed the pommel of his sword down against the lock. The first hit didn't mean much, but the second, and then the third did. With the fourth the lock was finally broken open, and the orc grunted something that Kaet didn't quite understand before dashing towards the stairs leading out, leaving red prints in his wake.

With the door open and chaos still maintaining a hold on the prison, Kaet made to follow the orcs, but was stopped by a hand pulling on the purple hair of her ponytail. “TAUREN TITS, WHAT -” she shouted, whirling. Maylith was the culprit, and gestured for Kaet to follow her with an urgency in her eyes. “You run out there and you're dead in the streets. We're taking the sewers out.”

Kaet followed her without a second thought, the two hurrying past a dwarf and goblin bloodying each other against steel bars. “Next time just yell at me! Haven't even gone on a date and you're already pulling my hair...”

Even with present circumstances at hand, Maylith managed to laugh, which Kaet matched with a grin.

When they reached the sewer grate, it was clear they weren't the first ones that had had the thought. The grate had been pulled up from the ground, leaving the grimy entrance wide open. It wasn't the tightest fit, but Kaet was still feeling her shoulders brush up against the walls now and then, taking a bit of slime with them. It was less noticeable on Maylith's dark skin, but both knew that they'd need a long bath if they managed to get out. Distant footsteps splashing through murky water could be heard further down, and the two went after the sound of their fellow escapees.

By the time order was restored and the guards had managed to assess the losses, Kaet and Maylith were swimming downriver to freedom.

-

“So, where are you two going after this?”

Maylith looked over at her brother, who had turned to look at her. Kaet glanced between the two of them.

“... Well, nowhere,” said Maxwell, after a long moment of silence. He finally broke away from his sister's stare to meet the single glowing blue eye that belonged to Kaet. Thankfully, she'd acquired an eyepatch since the break out at the prison, and now her void-wounded eye was now covered, though a few of the cracks in her skin were still slightly visible around the rim. Much less disturbing to look at, and that was what was important.

“Nowhere?” repeated Kaet, looking between the two, a brow raised.

Maylith shrugged. “Don't have anywhere to go, Kaet. My brother and I have been moving between camps and inns for...” She turned to Max. “What, two years now?”

The older of the two siblings nodded, scratching his fingers through the rough beard on his chin. “Sounds about right.” He looked towards Kaet with a weight behind his eyes. “Never been able to keep enough gold in our pockets to stay anywhere long. Being a merc doesn't cut it in this part of Azeroth, and its hard for Maylith to make much when she's in prison...”

“First time,” she shot back, pointing her knife in Max's direction. The firelight caught on the blade and made Kaet squint her good eye.

“Yea, and you made exactly this much during the six months that you were in there.” Max held up his hand, shaping his fingers into the shape of a big zero.

Maylith sneered and waved away the number, but the knot in her brow said she knew he was right.

Kaet continued to look between the two of them, a frown pulling down the corners of her lips. Kaet had both the muscle and skills to carry herself through bad times in Silvermoon, but she was unfamiliar ground with Elwynn, with the Alliance's lands. No contacts, no hideouts to duck into, …

“Let's start something,” she said.

Both Max and Maylith looked up at her, curious.

“Start what?” asked Maylith, brown eyes glowing with the glint of the fire.

“Something. A crew.” Kaet gestured to herself, then to Maylith, and then to Maxwell. “Me, you, and you. We'll get something going and get a place for ourselves. Even if it's a hole in the wall of some hill, better than nothing.”

The siblings exchanged a look, but neither one turned the idea down.

“I was pulling shit out from under merchants in Silvermoon all the time. This place can't be that different.” The void-tainted elf tilted her chin up towards the two figures across the fire pit from her. “What do you say?”

“I'm in.”

Max turned and looked at his sister again, and she met him with a stony gaze. A moment passed, and then he met the good eye of Kaet. “Alright. We're both in. If this turns into nothing, though, I'm gone.”

Kaet nodded, but a smile was beginning to spread across her face. “Deal. Let's start making some gold.”