#naturally she never quit smoking until years after she left and i was an adult

[arctic-hands]

Shout out to the one adult in my hometown who tried to protect me from it all: the ER doc who noticed it was the second time I had dangerously severe bronchitis in like two years brought about by my mother constantly smoking around my fragile ass, and threatening to call CPS if she didn't stop and I came back with bronchitis again

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | One

PROLOGUE | MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS: TROUBLE COMES TO TOWN.

WARNINGS: smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; smoking weed; mentions of sw as a joke; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff. word count: 6312.

The summer in Atwood, Georgia, began as all summers in Atwood always had. Slow. Creeping in through the remaining breezes, blooms and spring showers. Fitting itself into the days so unsuspectingly. It never feels like it’s really summer until the sweat is already beading down your back and the girls’ skirts are an inch shorter than they were a year before.

There’s a spot around the back of Creekside Pines Retirement Village, covered by the shade of those namesake pines, where the girls who work there go to smoke. The Pines has been around longer than any of the residents currently in it; the Church started it decades ago and they made sure to keep it going.

Tucked under the shade of those thick, green pine trees, the branches provide a respite from the approaching early summer sun and also from your dirtbag boss, Conrad Wheelan.

Olive and you, you and Olive. Since Conrad hired you last September, the two of you have become quite the dynamic duo. Candy-striped partners in crime, experts at avoiding old guy sponge bath time. Smokers of cheap, gas station cigarettes. Gossipers of a truly impressive standard.

You’re sitting on opposite sides of the brick walls that bracket the stairs to the back door, your foot beside her hip and hers beside yours, your knees bent and a Marlboro between your index and middle.

“But anyway, I think she’s just jealous. He broke up with her for a reason.” Her face is veiled for a moment by tendrils of swirling cigarette smoke before the midday sun beams once again on her freckled face. She’s talking about a boy she has been fooling around with. He’s older, and he called off his engagement two months ago.

His ex really has it out for Olive. She’s a pretty little nurse at the local hospital. Her daddy went after the poor guy with a gun when the engagement broke. The ex went after Olive in the middle of Herb’s Wholefoods, shoved her right into the display of tinned peaches. But hey, your Mom got six dented tins for the price of one. Silver linings and all that jazz.

Your break was over twenty minutes ago, but the AC is broken and you’ve spent the morning choking on the smell of Eau de Old Lady — the smell of magnolias in bloom and Marlboros on fire are a much welcome change in pace.

Besides, your best friend is in crisis. She’s got a bruise the size of a not-tinned, regular ol’ peach in the middle of her back, a shattered ego, and apparently a new step-kid on the way.

“So, what’s he going to do about it?” You ask her, your face towards the sun, cigarette ash on the wall beside you.

“The baby? — I don’t know. She didn’t even want the kid until he told her he was leaving, now she’s suddenly Mother Theresa.” Olive says with a wistful sigh. Her older boyfriend got that girl in trouble and ran for the hills, but apparently he treats Olive like a princess. Your mother says she’s trouble, but you like her.

Girls like Olive will always pick the wrong kind of man. It’s that kind of No Man’s Land where human nature and fate come to make out — and that’s not Olive’s fault — she’s just at their will; like a puppet. Or a hamster on a wheel.

“You know, I think you’d make a pretty boss step-mommy.” You tell her, cocking your head the way that you do when you know you’re dancing right along her nerve endings. A smile creeps across your coral- glossed lips, revealing the coral-glossed ring they have left around the butt of the cigarette.

“Oh, bite me. You know I’d rather swap places with Hughie Marshall than get stuck raising her kid.” Olive scoffs out, flicking at the cigarette with a red painted nail and bending her bruised knees. That’s quite a thing to say around here.

You didn’t know Hughie, before. Not really. His dad was the principal of your high school, but you knew him after Hughie was already back.

Apparently before his accident, Hughie was a real stud. All-American with dark hair and a bright future. Then he stepped on a landmine in Cambodia; he wasn’t even supposed to be there by the official military statement. But he was.

He doesn’t leave the house anymore. His brain’s all mashed together and he’s got a metal plate in the left side of his head. One arm and no right foot, but worse than that — no jaw. Folks say it was taken clean off in the blast. They sent him out to California for a whole bunch of surgeries, but he still looks like a guy who has been pieced back together.

But Olive’s only kidding about wanting to be in his place. No one wants to be in Hughie’s place, especially not Hughie.

Her joke isn’t the kind of thing that needs to be laughed at, your polite exhale of amusement mixes with the soft rustle of leaves, a fleeting moment of rebellion against Dictator Wheelan and his reign of terror. Each smoky exhale carries whispers of things that would make your mothers shiver, but such is the way for two girls on the cusp of freedom.

In this hidden sanctuary, on the cusp of the woods, the two of you are a united front against the elderly residents of The Pines. Rather than the bell that signaled the end of your freedom in your school days, nowadays it’s the sound of heavy leather shoes on the linoleum that signal the end of your stolen respite.

“Shit.”

“Shit.” The two of you agree, stubbing out your cigarettes and leaping up from the walls, throwing the butts into the mess of fallen foliage at the side of the building.

And at once, Conrad swings open the fire escape door and finds the two of you standing there in your candy-striped aprons, white stockings and pristinely white shoes. Like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

He’s a towering man, maybe six foot five in his prime, but he hunches a bit from his constant slouching at his desk. He was a red- head once, but now his hair has thinned to the point of scarcity, and he’s usually got a razor rash on his neck from shaving a bit too hastily in the mornings. He knows damn well that the two of you were out here slacking.

“Ladies,” He tries, his smile tight-lipped and half frozen, like a salesman who couldn’t quite make himself look human enough to get the job. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Halbert and Mrs. Knight could use some help in the dining room.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wheelan.” Olive hits him back with a smile that comes much more naturally, and a cool shrug of her shoulders. She’s a real girl-next-door type. It’s why the wrong kind of guy likes her so much. You’re halfway certain that her killer smile and her long legs are the only reason that Conrad hasn’t fired her yet.

“Yes, sir.” You follow suit.

He allows the both of you to dip around him and just like that, you’re locked back in with the living dead. Old folks who seem just as confused as you about how they’re still hanging on. Oh, that’s mean, really — they aren’t so bad. They’re nice to you. You listen to them.

“I like it when you wear your hair like that,” Mrs. Knight tells you, sitting back uncomfortably. Her green eyes study you, her fingers curled around a shivering china teacup. “Much better than when it's down.”

You’ve learned by now that most of the compliments in this place come with a backhand. Your chin propped up on your palm, you answer her with an amused smile.

“Maybe you could do my hair like yours one day, June,” You suggest, stacking together the remnants of her lunch so that it’ll be easier to porter back to the kitchen. She used to own her own salon down on Mayfair Lane, your mother got her first haircut from June Knight. You shoot a look across the room at Arnie Knight, who is watching you care for his wife. “Teach me how to land a guy like Arnie.”

“Oh, honey — you know my Arnie’s one of a kind.” She giggles. Your mouth twists back into a grin. He sure is. He stormed the beaches in Normandy and still found it in himself to father seven kids once he made it back. In his day, Arnie sounds like he was a stud.

There aren’t too many studs left in Atwood these days. Those boys are either wandering hallowed halls, meat-heads that will be here forever or settled six feet under. Anyone more than four years older than you is either a war hero, or they’re like Hughie Marshall.

The ones that still wake up in Cole County aren’t the kind of boys you’ll be sharing your golden years with, anyway. No, you’ve got much bigger plans for your retirement.

Napa Valley, a sprawling house with burnt orange tile overlooking a vineyard withthat your silver-fox husband who tends to you while you enjoy the fruits of his labour and spend your afternoons tipsy, waiting for the party to start that evening. Far, far from the shade of the trees that line Marsh’s Creek, beside Creekside Pines Retirement Village.

That’s one day, though. For today, the excitement stretches as far as letting Billy Cline pick you up in his true blue 1965 Chevy short bed pickup. Just like most of the guys your age that are in this town, you’ve known Billy for a long time. Your mother still thinks of him as the sweet little boy with blonde curls and overalls.

He still wears overalls, but his blonde curls are now straighter, slicked back with a generous helping of pomade. He came right from work, the auto shop in town, to pick you up.

You change shamelessly in the passenger seat of his truck as he speeds along the old road out towards the Cole County airport, shoving your uniform into your bag and wriggling into the clothing you had smuggled past your mother.

“I’m not driving you home wearing that,” Billy chortles, eyes wide and already shaking his head as you pull the knitted halter neck over your chest, your lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the tie behind your neck. “I’ll stop at the Post Office and you can walk from there.”

Exhaling and kicking the bag into the footwell, you tug open the glovebox and start to root for the sunglasses you left in here last time.

“What? You don’t dig the orange?”

You know full well that Billy’s concerns about your outfit don’t start or end with the burnt orange color of your hot pants. He scoffs loudly beside you to agree as your fingers stumble across the little plastic baggie at the back of his glovebox.

“I don’t dig that your old man threatened to slash my tires last time he saw me rollin’ with you.”

That makes you laugh. You pluck the green from the glovebox and melt back into the blue suede seats Billy had spent all of last summer fixing up.

“Fred wouldn’t hurt you.” Your father talks a big talk sometimes, maybe that’s where you can get it from, but he likes Billy and he’s not the kind of father that spends his time worrying about which boy you’re messing around with. “Might trick you into doing some yard work for him, though.”

Straight, empty road for miles ahead, Bill turns his head and looks at the bag caught between your index and middle fingers, dangling toward him like the forbidden fruit itself.

“Great, so I’ll take you home high as a kite and dressed like a hooker and he’ll invite me to water his gardenias.” He hums, reaching out and snatching the bag from you. He still has every intention of lighting up, but he knows there’s a pothole about a mile ahead and the last time he let you roll up along this road wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Come on, Bill — now,” Your white canvas sneakers are still discarded in the footwell, you kick your bare feet up onto the dash. “That’s no way to talk to your best chance at ever getting laid, is it?”

There’s a fondness in the way he rolls those steely-blue eyes at you. There’s no real destination at the end of this long, empty stretch of road. There are one of four possible spots for the two of you to pick from.

Just far enough from Conrad Wheelan, and your father’s gardenias, and the Cole County sheriff's department for the two of you to crawl into the bed of the truck, light up and wait for time to pass.

It’s no way to spend summer, really. But this is the last May that your afternoons will look like this. Next May, you’ll be thinking about Olive and Billy from the Paramount Pictures backlot. Maybe Warner Brothers, you’re not in a position to be too picky.

As a kid, you had sworn that you would pack your things and head for the hills the day that you turned eighteen. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way, but now, you’ll be sitting in the Malibu sunshine before you turn twenty-three.

“Who the fuck is that?”

You drop the bag onto the bench and follow Billy’s eyes towards the rearviewrear view mirror, fully prepared to see your Uncle Paul’s police cruiser coming up behind you. Instead, you’re met with the picture of a very small heavy hauler. Cherry-red, coming over the hill like hell on wheels. It’s illegal to drive that fast, even out here. Especially in something that big.

The house that you pass on the left has two young kids who live there, and the Whistler family let those kids play in that unfenced yard all day long. A big, red truck coming along this country road that fast… bye, bye Whistler family.

“Fuckin’ maniacs.” Billy mutters, frowning and shaking his head. It almost makes you smile. William Cline, slipping back into the weepy little boy he had once been, a stickler for the rules back then. But you don’t have time to smile.

Your knees push up onto the suede, your palm flattening against the back window, sticking to the glass with a squeak as you slide it open. That cherry red truck is a lot clearer without the filter of dust and dirt between you, and a lot less small now that it’s getting closer.

“Probably late for a delivery or something. It’s gonna try to pass you.” You realise, resting your arms over the back of the bench. Billy almost forgets why that’s important as he glances across at the way those burnt orange shorts flex around your ass.

He swallows, checks the rear-view mirror and remembers the sharp bend coming up. There aren’t any signs and it kind of comes out of nowhere, and if this jerk tries to overtake him on it, his truck is going to wind up in a ditch.

He eases his foot onto the break and considers just stopping all together, biting the inside of his cheek. Out of towners. The truck grows bigger and bigger, the engine rumbling like a growl, until it’s close enough that you can see the man behind the wheel. His hair is longish and feathery, jet-black and his face is half covered by a pair of green lensed sunglasses.

By his side is a kid, already looking at you. She has long blonde hair tied back in two braids, and a strange look on her face. Like she is excited to see you. She sits forwards in her seat and cocks her head sharply to the side, her eyes tracking you as the truck whizzes by. The sharp motion makes you pull back swiftly from the window.

Her head twists to follow until she’s out of your view and you’re blinking at the painted trailer being hauled by the truck. Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries. A circus. Red and white stripes and a big, shining yellow font.

“Did you see that kid?” The words spill from your lips as you brace one hand against the dashboard, watching the rest of the truck whizzes by, trying to blink that awful, jerky, movement of her neck from your mind.

“What? — No, I saw that jackass almost take my side view mirror with him.” Billy huffs out angrily, putting his foot back on the gas the second that giant trailer is past him.

It’s not the only one. Right behind the first, is another truck that appears identical. You don’t get a look at the driver, just the red and white stripes and Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries in that shiny red and gold font.

“Who even goes to the frickin’ circus anymore?” Billy’s care for his truck spills out in bitterness as he steadies the wheel and watches the second truck be succeeded by a third. All three of them, red and gold and white death traps, growling as they speed along the road ahead of you.

The cold feeling from the first truck has passed by, now you’re at the mercy of the sun being at its highest point, casting out heat like a blanket, warming the cab of the truck like a greenhouse.

Twisting in your seat, your lips twitch as you find that the three cargo trucks aren’t unaccompanied. Behind them is a string of vehicles, lead by a pretty far-out Chevy camper with rad burnt orange racer stripes along the side.

You look back at Billy over your shoulder. “We could.”

It’s not like there is much else to do around this place. Beats the regular Friday tune of heading down to the Empire movie theatre by Lane Street and sipping at a sugary, fizzing coke while watching a Western.

As the camper draws closer, your gaze locks on to the two people sitting in the front. A dark haired woman, her lips red and round, sucking on a lollipop with her bare feet kicked up onto the dash. Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but you know she’s looking at you.

It’s almost at the speed limit, not quite at the same terrifying speed as the trucks ahead but still warranting a ticket. In the driver’s seat is a real stone fox, broad and tanned with sunkissed brown caramel-curls and a real Burt-Reynolds-in-100-Rifles kind of moustache.

They’re driving with the windows down, cooled by the breeze in their hair like they aren’t icy enough already. Her sunglasses are round and plastic-framed, with orange lenses. So cool— so California. And him too.

Even with his more standard gold-framed caravans, his barely buttoned blue short sleeve and the equally caramel coloured dusting of chest hair spilling out, he looks like a movie star.

You’re barely aware of Billy crushing your idea beside you. “Me? — Nah. Sorry, sister, no way — lame, lame, lame.”

Doesn’t matter, you’ll be going with or without him if Mr. Movie Star is going to be there.

His white camper with the orange stripes gets close enough for you to realise that it’s not just her looking at you, he is too. It’s a little narcissistic to assume that it’s for any reason other than the way you’re already staring at them, but the thought of the two of them liking what they see — thinking maybe you could look like them — makes your coral lips stretch.

Up close, you can hear the blaring sound of their radio. A guitar riff that you remember from somewhere deep in the back of your mind, something you know you’ve heard many times before but just can’t place.

You follow them, magnetized by the draw of their eyes, planting a palm right between Billy's greased overall thighs and leaning across the bench to keep staring through the rolled-down driver’s side window.

The raven-haired woman pushes the lollipop into the hollow of her cheek and tells him something. You can’t hear it over the sound of their radio blaring out. He responds with a just-can’t-help-it kind of grinning chuckle, turning his head to look across at you.

The door was open, and the wind appeared.

The candles blew, and then disappeared.

The curtains flew, and then he appeared.

Sayin’ “Don’t be afraid.”

On all fours, looking at him like he’s the new guy at the zoo.

Come on, baby (and she had no fear).

And she ran to him (then they started to fly).

They looked backward and said goodbye (she had become like they are).

Heat gathered across your skin, that knitted late summer sunset coloured halter stretched tight across your chest, scandalous by the standards of Atwood — downright foxy if you ventured further west.

Your hair has been freed from the tidy updo that Conrad Wheelan prefers it to be in while you’re working, but not quite tamed after that. Wild and free, as the wind whips through it.

As if to try to contain your grin, you sink your teeth into the coral of your bottom lip, beaming at him anyway. Then, you lift the hand that isn’t settled between Billy’s thighs, and wiggle your fingers at him in greeting.

“What the hell are you doin’? — I can’t even see the road!” Billy complains.

Mr. Movie Star couldn’t have heard him, but he shoots a look at the complaining driver anyway. Then, his attention is yours again. Still smiling that amused smile, he lifts a tanned arm from its perch against the open window ledge, and throws up a loose peace sign across the stretch of road between you. His passenger laughs around her lollipop.

”Sayin’ hello. It’s polite.” You tell him back.

Between his obnoxious music, the wind whipping between the cars, and the equally polite indoor voice you had spoken in, there’s no way that Mr. Movie Star could have possibly heard you. He laughs like he had.

With that, the camper passes by. It takes the song and the blaring guitar with it, the rhythmic picking carrying across the flat stretches of road. It’s got tinted windows all around the sides and back. A real pussy wagon, you bet. Mr. Movie Star has probably seen a lot of action in the back of that van. Queue the wistful sigh from you. If you could just stop from grinning.

“Get off. C’mon, put your seatbelt on or something.”

“He was really something, don’t ya think?” You say, still grinning dumbly as you retreat back to the designated passenger’s spot, tracking the camper along the old stretch of Airport Road.

“Yeah, yeah — mellow out before you ruin my seats.” Billy grumbles, frowning at his side-view mirror. Six more vehicles to go; none of them drive quite as wild as those first couple of big trucks.

“How long d’you think they’re in town for?” You prop one elbow against the side of the door and plant your chin atop your palm, staring after the camper as you kick your feet across Billy’s lap. “You think it’s like an all- summer deal or just a couple of weekends?”

Billy shoots a steely look across the cab.

Sure, he was kind of a weedy kid. Small for his age, with a mom who was rarely more than a stone’s throw away. He’s not bad looking. Stick thin with a long, straight nose but pretty blue eyes. There’s usually motor oil in his blonde hair these days.

Either way, he hadn’t always exactly been the pick of the litter but with the war and stuff, he’s not such a bad option these days.

And still, you’ve had him benched in the friend zone since freshman year. Both of you know that it’ll just take an especially dry season for you to finally do him, and you are good company, he likes having you around.

He doesn’t like the douchebag with the ‘stache moving in on the closest thing he has to a girlfriend.

“They might stop by The Pines — you know, like those folks from the fair did, that one time.” you’re really talking to yourself at this point.

Billy looks across, unimpressed as he’s overtaken by a 1959 Ford F-100, painted a faded shade of light green.

Three people are crammed into the cab, and as it slips in front of you, you find that the bed of the truck is also occupied.

Two girls and one hell of a guy. He’s sitting with his back to the cab, shirtless and golden all over with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a hand of cards held to his chest.

The two girls are wearing little tanks and coloured hot pants, conferring with each other while he watches, cool as ice.

He’s grinning, a smooth talker even when you can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s not money that he’s talking those poor girls out of either, that’s why one of them proudly has his t-shirt balled up in her lap.

“Mrs. Cavendish would have a cow if—“ your rambling trails and your smile spreads as Golden Boy looks up from his poker game and finds you watching. “Whoa. Where are they finding these dudes?”

“Probably jail,” Billy mumbles, begrudging the topless wonder in the back of the truck. “Or a register of some kind, if you catch my drift.”

Golden Boy’s lips stretch thin around his hand-rolled cigarette, his grin dimpling his cheeks. Totally jiving with the way you’re staring at him, stretching his already broad shoulders like a peacock would with its feathers.

He’s a sandy kind of blonde and maybe even more of a movie-star looker than his buddy had been.

He tips his chin and graces you with a nod of acknowledgement. Then, he looks down at the hand of cards and closes his lips around the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

With a cool shrug, he cocks an eyebrow and seems to dare his two lady companions to put their money where their mouths are.

Billy glances down at the bag of green still on the bench between the two of you, practically starting a mental countdown until the two of you are out by the Falls, high as kites. Far from tanned, muscled carnie folk.

The trucks and cars pass by and head for the horizon, and Billy’s blue Chevy hugs the curves of winding country roads all the way out past Route Thirteen. Past Airport Road, there’s no sign of your two new objects of affection — given the heat of the late afternoon, you’re starting to wonder if all of them were a mirage or something.

That’s what the boys who come back from war tell you they saw out there. Apparitions in the jungle, like ghosts, but nice. Tommy Holdman says he thought he had died out there, laying flat on his back after he lost his leg, and all he could see was miles and miles of coastline. A perfect, pretty beach. His own idea of heaven.

Yours, apparently, is something far different.

The Falls isn’t really a waterfall. It’s maybe a ten- foot slow incline in the river bend. It’s shitty enough to not draw too many visitors, unlike the much more popular swimming spot out where the old quarry is. That place would be packed on an afternoon like this.

Your spot is on the far end of the county, nestled a while back off the road but not too far into the woods. It’s a spot to cool off without having to commit to really swimming, and it’s the only spot you know where the fuzz wouldn’t come poking around at the smell of skunk.

No one comes out here, not even the cops.

The afternoon is all yours, right through into the evening. It didn’t take Billy long to get over his mood, he’s grinning when he drops you off, right by your front door.

There’s no way he would make you walk all the way from the Post Office, not really. Everyone’s heard those stories of girls going missing in small towns like this, and through all of her faults, Betty Cline had raised a pretty stand-up young man.

“See ya Tuesday, I’ll call you!” You wave to him as you jog up the front steps onto the porch of your parents’ home.

He waves back from the driver’s side of his truck, and drives home to his mother’s roast chicken the same way he always does. She still packs his lunches too.

Fred looks up from Hawaii Five-O, in all of its multicoloured, static-fuzz glory as the screen door rattles to an abrupt shut. He flinches as the heavier, wood front door slams behind it.

“Look at that, she is alive.” He calls from the living room, for your ears more than anyone else’s.

“Hi, Papa Bear. You worrying about me again?” You coo, kicking your shoes off by the door and strolling across the hardwood, bracing yourself on the doorframe as you swing widely into the parlour, where Fred sits in his recliner, staring at his prized possession — the color TV set he bought after the new year.

“Worryin’ about you is like worryin’ the fox might hurt itself on its way out of the coop.”

You don’t much mind the image of yourself, the sly fox, prowling around town and making all of those chicken-shit boys cry for help. Your mouth almost twitches at the thought as you plonk yourself down on the carpeted floor and turn your attention towards Steve McGarrett saving the day.

Clearly at some point after you have nestled onto the carpet with your back to him, Fred clocks the outfit you have wandered home in.

“Now, where’d the hell did you even buy somethin’ like that?” You can hear the wrinkled frown on his aging face. He’s only in his fifties now, but with deep wrinkles and freckles from years working outside.

“Church-sale, I think.” You answer back, wondering if your mother is still up. She goes to bed early on weeknights so that she can be up early for her work at the grocery store in the mornings.

Fred lost his sense of smell when he worked in the mines in his late teens — he couldn’t tell the difference if you smelled like Mary-Jane or magnolias.

“You were with that kid from the auto shop again?” Fred puffs on cigarettes like a chimney. It turns the white ceilings brown occasionally, but your Mom has always been ready with a tin of cloud-coloured paint to fix that.

“Uh-huh. You know Billy.”

“Yeah.” He decides. There are worse boys you could be running around with than that teary-eyed fella.

“Saw a bunch of vans out by Airport Road today. Setting up a circus somewhere near here.” You tell him absently, both of you watching the television set as you pick at the carpet.

“Heard somethin’ about that. Gus O’Malley’s renting his south pasture out for something like that, I think.”

“I was thinking I could maybe borrow the car Saturday. Take Georgie.”

Georgie is an accident; an anniversary celebration turned rambunctious fifth grader with a knack for messing with your stuff while you’re at work. But he’s a cute kid, you’ll give him that. The little booger is fun to be around sometimes.

With Georgie around, there’s something to do other than head out of town and drink or smoke or spend the money that’s supposed to get you to California. If you take Georgie, Fred usually sponsors the trip.

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah. Figured they’d be running by then.” You lean your palms back into the rug, worn velvet under them. It doesn’t bother you that Fred barely turns his head from the television — before that, it had been the sports highlights in the paper.

“If you’re going to get him all hopped up on sugar, do me a favor and drop him off at Grandma’s on the way back.” Fred chortles, mostly to himself, as he brings a half-warm Budweiser to his mouth.

You smile at that, remembering the days Fred threatened to do the same to you. You grab at the knee of his faded blue jeans to push yourself up from the ground.

“Thought I might drop him off by the interstate, set him free. Like God intended.” You tell the house, headed for the hallway with the end goal being your bedroom on the second floor of the humble blue craftsman.

“I-59, not I-75. Can’t have him finding his way home.” Fred calls as you take the first step out onto the stairs, your fingers trailing your work bag, discarded onto the chipped wooden post that ends the railing.

“Now where in God’s name did you find those shorts?” Oh, she’s awake. Your mother’s voice is behind you, and if you had to guess you would imagine that her head is poking around the doorway into the kitchen and gawking at your fashion choices. She is.

“You went out wearing those?”

You stand, frozen on the stairs for a second, stuck in a moment of consideration. Fred’s pretending not to hear all this, he prefers not to get involved. Joan’s not so forgiving.

Turning around will mean a certain lecture.

“Gotta be up early, I won’t wear ‘em again.” You decide, hastening up the stairs before she can call you on your lie. Your bare feet hit the landing and slip a bit on the loose runner your dad swears he’s going to remember to buy underlay for one of these days.

As you steady, the door to your right creeks open and Georgie stumbles out of his cowboy-covered bedroom, rubbing uncaringly at his eye socket.

“Hey.” He yawns, heading for the bathroom, his hand-me-down pyjamas hanging down over the tops of his feet as he shuffles for the bathroom.

“Hey. Wanna do something with me Saturday?” You ask him, already headed for your own room. He stops and turns his head, eyes no longer heavy with sleep but wide open with curiosity.

“Yeah. What?”

“It’s a surprise.” You decide, twisting the handle and letting the door creak open wide as muscle-memory guides your hand to the lightswitch and illuminates your bedroom. It’s not really a surprise, but he won’t go back to bed if you tell him now. “Night, Georgie.”

“Goodnight!” He calls back, closing the bathroom door almost all the way. The light bulb’s still out and he’s still scared of the dark.

You close your bedroom door, shutting all of them out and immediately reaching for the ties of your halter top. They fall loose and you shimmy out of the fabric, then the shorts.

Flowered paper on the walls, hardwood floors, this room is filled with the remnants of the little girl you once were in here. The shag rug and the Janis Joplin print above the bed are evidence of the newer, cooler woman who now occupies the space. The two of you coexist in this little space just fine most days.

Next comes the quest for a shirt to sleep in — sleeping in the nude doesn’t work when you have a Mom like Joan. She means well, you’re grateful for her. She’s the first person you’ll thank when you get your first award. Even though she still comes in without knocking.

Shirt acquired, you hear Georgie’s door click shut down the hallway as you scan the room for the book you discarded last night.

The window in your room faces miles of fields. In the far distance, you’ve never really noticed that you can see the O’Malley farm. Well, kind of. Ahead of that, there’s a small dusting of forest that hinders your view.

Your search for the book comes to a brief stop as you turn towards the open window and look out over the view. More specifically, of the red and white glint of weatherproof canvas that comes to a sharp point, dazzled with lightbulbs.

“Did you see what your daughter came home in?” Joan asks, shaking her head from her seat at the sewing machine. It whirs impolitely over the conversation, seeing blue thread through the hole in the knee of Georgie’s blue jeans.

“Sure did.” Fred drops his beer into the trash with a clang and rolls his shoulders back. He turns towards her, already expecting the worried frown he sees.

“People’ll talk.”

“Let ‘em,” Fred shrugs. He considers another Budweiser, but knows he’s got to be up early to get to the factory in the morning. “She’s a smart girl, she’s not out causing any trouble.”

Joan stops the machine and hums in consideration.

“Besides, I’m sure it’s a right of passage — wearing stuff that makes your folks’ blood pressure go crazy.”

She smiles, pushing up from the chair. Her socks pad across the green and yellow linoleum until she reaches her husband, her head tucking into the crook of his neck.

“You’re right. But I don’t like those shorts.” Joan decides as her husband takes her into his arms, smoky smelling and familiar.

Behind them, the morning’s paper sits discarded with only the sports section disrupted. Printed in an appropriately black ink, is the freckled face of Audrey Weiss. Her large-round glasses are still sitting on the bridge of her nose, her shoulders are angled and she’s beaming, looking front and centre. Above her portrait, the word MISSING is in the same shade of mourning-appropriate black ink.

That was a school photo. It’s old, her bangs have grown out already. Her round glasses are all torn up now, shattered and mangled — about 200 yards from her broken body, which is yet to be discovered in an empty stretch of red-dirt land off of a highway in southern Arizona.

NEXT CHAPTER

TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT

tags: tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @blaircharlotte @hersuitisbanana @aragorn-02 @one-sweet-gubler @chrysalismuh @xzyzycxdd @atarmychick007 @ximehs @ah9242 @gleefulleve @nnatel @topherwrites @princesskreator @seitmai @d0main-expansion @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser

[foxesinthewind]

if you’re hearing STILL BREATHING by GREEN DAY playing, you have to know EMERSON CHAMBERS (HE/HIM; MALE) is near by! the 27 year old PHOTOGRAPHER & TATTOO ARTIST has been in town for, like, TWO YEARS. they’re known to be quite DISMISSIVE, but being FREE-SPIRITED seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble NICHOLAS GALITZINE. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those DRESS TO IMPRESS, CHANGES HAIR COLOURS WITH THE WEATHER, SUMMER BODY WITH TATTOOS, THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around BRIGHTSIDE long enough!

— BASICS ☆

full name:;  emerson zachary chambers

nicknames:;  em, emmy

gender:;  cis male

pronouns:;  he/him

sexual preference:;  bisexual

relationship role:;  dominate with woman, submissive with men

birthdate & age:; oct. 13th, aged twenty-seven

zodiac sign:;  libra

occupation:;  photographer & tattoo artist

spouse / lover:;  none currently

— APPEARANCES ☆

face & voice claim:;  nicholas galitzine

height:;  6′0″

eyes:;  hazel green

hair:;  naturally brown - dyed blonde (summer/spring), brown or black (winter/fall)

body art:;  arms, chest and back are covered in various tattoos - left ear piercing, tongue piercing

other distinguishing features:;  birth marks on the right side of his face above his lip, and on his jawline also on the right. a scar/slit through his left eyebrow

— PERSONALITY ☆

traits:;  dismissive, free spirited, headstrong, hard working

fears:;  falling in love again

hobbies:;  singing, playing guitar, playing piano, reading, writing, tattooing, getting tattoos, photography, cooking/baking

skills:;  singing, playing various instruments (guitar, piano), writing, photography, culinary, tattooing

quirks:;  clumsy, forgetful, bites or licks lips when bored or nervous or in deep thought

— FAMILY ☆

mother:;  n/a

father:;  n/a

siblings:;  n/a

children:;  none yet, would love to have one

pets:;  a bunny named alice

— FAVOURITES ☆

ice cream flavour:;  chocolate & vanilla swirl, strawberry

food:;  breakfast, cheese burgers

time of the day / night:;  sunset or sunrise

season:;  autumn/fall

holiday:;  new years

animal:;  cats, foxes, horses

colour:;  blue

scent:;  cucumber melon

musician/band:;  green day, queen, bowie, miley cyrus

— OTHER ☆

education:;  high school drop out, took tattooing and culinary classes

bad habits:;  drinking, cigarettes/vapes, weed

a cherished item:;  a fake clear blue and pink flower on his piano

— BIOGRAPHY ☆

—- B A S I C S  —- // —-  B A C K G R O U N D  —-

brief about:; emerson was born in england, but he never knew his family. at a young age his mother set his up for adoption wanting to give him a better life as she wasn't sure she could be the best mother to him - something he wouldn't learn until he was an adult. he grew up in foster care for a few years until a woman adopted him - who he later learned was his mother's sister, his aunt. she gave him the best life she could and supported him in whatever he did. once he was a teenager he was told everything about his mother giving him up for adoption and his foster mother actually being his aunt.

the teen wasn't hurt or upset with his mother, but he wished one day he could meet her and grow a connection, maybe see if he had a father in the mix. however, this did lead to a minor lash out moment where emerson did some underage drinking, smoking and getting tattoos, which then lead to him dropping out. him and his aunt weren't on good terms during this time and she promised to have him out if he didn't turn around and be the good man she knew he was. taking this to heart, he stopped with three tattoos and cut out smoking and drinking cold turkey until he was of age then he fell back into it without much care.

shortly after his twenty-first birthday, emerson moved out, leaving london behind to make a living in america, first settling in new york. during his time he took classes to learn culinary and tattooing getting his first job in a local restaurant. he later got a second job as a tattoo artist and ended up leaving his restaurant job for it. his photography started up during this time as well with taking pictures of his work and then some of his travels in new york.

—- C U R R E N T L Y  —-

emerson left new york for hemlock spring, washington and still keeps in touch with his aunt as much as he can (which isn't too often due to being forgetful). he's got more tattoos, piercings and love to go out for a good time.

[ will try to update as time goes on ]

[quokkacore]

phenomena | s.jn

summary: the majority of your adult life you’ve been practically married to logic and science. until your superiors at the FBI assign you to work with special agent johnny suh on the so-called x-files project—cases that were never solved due to unexplained phenomena. as time goes by, and you chase case after case, you find yourself drifting further from logic… and closer to johnny. (part of the 90s love collab)

pairing: conspiracytheorist!johnny x doctor!reader

genre: x-files!au (with johnny as fox mulder and reader as dana scully), fbiagents!au, coworkers-to-lovers, slow burn, sci-fi, angst, fluff, comedy, crack-ish at times, fakmarriage!au at the end

warnings: language, murder, eating, blood, general violence, police presence (txf is fbi level copaganda but oh well), johnny is a low key dick initially, sexual references, general american ignorance, implied sexual harrassment in the workplace, mental hospitals, reader witnesses a distressing panic attack, guns, body image, referenced child/animal abuse, repressed memories, mentions of anti-semitism & nazism, christian allusions, occultism, mild gore, slight body horror, some 90s pop culture references, i am not !!! an fbi agent so there may be some inconsistencies, suggestive content but no actual smut, Karens being thirsty for johnny, johnny is a Single Man and is Kind of Gross, both reader and johnny get knocked unconscious Several Times

song recs: gorillaz - dirty harry // john mellencamp - martha say // elton john - whitewash county // arctic monkeys - all my own stunts // kesha - spaceship // the cranberries - dreams // exo - oasis // the cure - friday, i'm in love // billy joel - we didn't start the fire // david bowie - starman // phoebe bridgers - chinese satellite // tom petty - wildflowers // selena - bidi bidi bom bom // soda stereo - persiana americana // bruce springsteen - dancing in the dark // the cranberries - linger // bruce springsteen - human touch // r.e.m - it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) // david bowie - heroes (or just listen to the playlist i made instead)

word count: 34.3k (YOWZA u should prob read this on a browser)

a/n: a fic this long......never again

X-FILE 62-J: THE PINEWOOD PATTERN

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C—08:00 hours, Monday, March 16th, 1992

The morning you met Johnny Suh, his glasses were crooked. It was two years after you'd started working for the FBI, and you were 28 years old. 

You'd spoken to your Division Chief—an older, balding man named Carson Brooks—the afternoon prior, just before you left home. He, along with two other men had asked you about the man in question. 

"Agent L/N, tell me. What do you know about an agent named John Suh?” 

You had furrowed your eyebrow, staring up at him. “John Suh? He had quite the reputation at the academy. Let's see… Oxford educated psychologist. He wrote a monograph on serial killers and the occult… helped the FBI catch Ezekiel Braun in 1988. He’s generally considered to be the best analyst of the violent crimes division. I’ve never met him personally. There’s a nickname for him around the division, though. They called him that in the academy, too." You had to hold back a chuckle, "Spooky Suh."

One of the men next to him nodded—a senior officer whose name you couldn't quite remember—before leaning forward. “It has come to our attention that he’s devoted himself to a project outside of the bureau mainstream. Agent L/N, are you familiar with the so-called X-Files project?”

You looked down at your hands in your lap, trying to recall where you’d heard the name. “From what I understand,” You said, looking up at the man, “They’re cases that are related to unexplained phenomena.”

Your division chief straightened his glasses. “Agent L/N, we’d like for you to assist Suh on these files. You are to write field reports and assess the validity of his work.”

You blinked, not letting your face crack. “...Am I to understand you want me to debunk the X-Files project, sir?”

Your eyes scanned the room. So far, the third man, the one smoking the cigarette had been the only one to not speak.

“Agent L/N,” Your division chief replied with a pursed smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, “We expect you to make the proper scientific analyses required for these cases. We trust you won’t disappoint us and will be looking forward to seeing your reports. You are to meet with Agent Suh tomorrow morning.”

That had been the day before. Now, here you were, on your way down to the basement, which was apparently John Suh's natural habitat within the Bureau headquarters. The lighting was relatively low in the hallways, shelves upon shelves of cardboard archive boxes seemingly closing you in. When you finally reached the office door at the end of the hall, you rapped your knuckles against the wood twice.

“Sorry, no one down here except for the FBI’s most unwanted!” A deep, sardonic toned voice lamented. You made an amused face to yourself, before quickly composing yourself. 

Professionalism above all else, Y/N. First impressions matter.

So you took a deep breath before opening the door slowly. Your eyes scanned the room, widening slightly despite your mantras of professionalism. The man had his back to you, so he didn’t catch it, thankfully. He was too busy studying photographic slides on a lightbox on his desk, hunched over in concentration. 

But amongst those metal filing cabinets that were all that same atrocious shade of gray, the entire room was pretty much a mess—papers scattered across the desk and pictures tacked to the walls haphazardly to the point where it was hard to tell what color the wall he was sitting in front of was. Among other things, you caught newspaper clippings, pictures of bright beams of light igniting the night sky, a diagram of the human skeleton, and in the middle, a large poster. On it, a large UFO was hovering above a pine forest skyline, the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” printed in bold, white letters across the bottom.

The man in question turned in his swivel chair to face you. You took note of the crooked glasses propped up onto his round nose, wide eyes studying you up and down. The sleeves of his white button up were rolled up to his elbows, and his tie, just like his glasses, was crooked. Still, you mustered a curt smile, urging yourself to remain professional in spite of how handsome he was.     

"Agent Suh," You declared, holding out your hand, "I’m Y/N L/N. I've been assigned to work with you."

John shook your hand, eyeing you somewhat skeptically. "Agent L/N. I've heard a lot of things. So, who did you piss off to get stuck with this old nut?"

"Actually, I’m looking forward to working with you. Division chief Brooks has asked me to do an evaluation of your work ethic and the overall project, I’m hoping we can work well together."

He pursed his lips, obviously trying to hold back a laugh. Finally, he broke into a grin. "So, they want you to babysit."

You bit back a huff as he turned to look back at his slides. Well, yes, he was right in a way, but you weren't going to admit it. Not with the slightly condescending tone he'd taken with you. Running your tongue against your front teeth in annoyance, you did your best to remain cordial. You plastered your polite smile back onto your face and crossed your arms.

"If you have any doubt about my credentials—”

“You’re a medical doctor,” He said, pulling out a folder with a clear plastic front, “You teach at the academy, did your undergraduate degree in physics…”

He looked at the blue folder in his hands. “Einstein’s Twin Paradox: A new interpretation. Y/N L/N’s senior thesis, now there’s a credential: rewriting Einstein.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you bother to read it?” Your tone had a dangerous roll to it. Already you were starting to doubt how much you would enjoy this. 

“I did!” He stood up from the swivel chair, revealing to you just how tall he was. As he walked to one of the gray filing cabinets on the other side of the room, he turned his head and flashed you a crooked smile. “I really liked it, actually. It’s just in my line of work, the laws of physics don’t seem to apply.”

John walked back over to his desk, picking up some of the slides on the lightbox and popping them into a slide projector a few feet away. You stepped out of his way as he made his way to the light switch next to the door, engulfing the room in darkness except for the lightbox, which gave the room a dim, industrial white glow. Turning back to the projector, he pressed the on button, before he looked back at you. His face had turned serious, wide eyes peering at you in the dark.

“Maybe I can get your medical opinion on this.”

Turning your head to the first slide, your eyes settled on the body of a young woman lying amongst old leaves. She was in a white nightgown smudged in dirt, and her arms were spread out as if she were waiting for someone to embrace her.

“Oregon female,” John said, “Aged 21. No known cause of death. Autopsy tells us jack.”

He changed slides, and the image projected on the wall changed to a close up of skin, two small red dots puckered up about a few centimeters away from each other. “However, these were found on her lower back. Doctor L/N, can you ID these marks?”

Walking closer to the projection on the wall, you sighed softly in thought. “Needle punctures, maybe?” You asked, “An animal bite? Electrocution?” 

“The coroner wasn’t able to ID them either.” He pressed a button on the projector, and it whirred as it changed slides. This time, it was a figure of a chemical composition. You furrowed your eyebrow. 

“This was found in the surrounding tissue. How’s your chemistry?” He asked, sounding amused. You glanced at him in dislike, then at the composition, racking your head at the sight of so many cyclohexanes. 

“It’s organic… Is it some kind of synthetic protein?”

He didn’t answer, and your mouth fell open in confusion, shaking your head. “I… don’t know, what is it?”

John laughed. “Beats me! I’ve never seen it either. But it’s also been found in Amaranth, South Dakota…” He clicked the button on the projector. It changed to an image of a middle aged man laying face down in a ditch. He did it again, and a younger man appeared strewn in the middle of the desert, eyes glazed open. “...And again, in Verona, Nevada.”

“Do you have any theories?” You asked, squinting as to avoid looking at the glare of the projector, and instead stare at him. He made his way closer to you. The light of the projection caused the image to warp and distort, projected onto the right side of his face. 

“Oh, I have plenty of theories. What I want to know is why it’s bureau policy to claim these as unexplained phenomena when there’s clearly a pattern here.”

He sighed, before stepping closer to you. He wasn’t necessarily invading your personal space. But from this proximity, caught in the light of the projector you could make out the soft flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the soft curve of his lips. “So, doc,” He murmured, voice low and raspy, “Do you believe in the existence of extraterrestrials?”

Oh boy, you thought, here we go. 

“Logically, I would have to say no. The energy capabilities required to travel through space, as well as the technology you're implying would exceed a spacecraft's—”

"Conventional wisdom," He said, raising his eyebrows. He crossed his arms, pointing at the projection. "Do you know that this girl in Oregon is the fourth person in her graduating class to pass away under suspicious circumstances?" 

 He shifted his weight to lean on one leg. “When there’s no logic, and there’s no convention, is it such a crime to turn to the fantastic for explanations?”

 You frowned. “She had to have died from something. Whether it was natural, then it’s possible the medical examiner missed something. If she was murdered, then maybe it was a cover-up, or a sloppy investigation.” 

Leaning your head forward towards him, you put your hands on your hips. “What I find fantastic is the idea that you would be willing to look anywhere except the realm of science for answers. The answers are there, you just have to be willing to look for them.”

    “And that’s why they put the I in FBI,” He quipped, sounding quite amused at his joke. He turned on the overhead lights, then made his way to sit down at his swivel chair. He leaned back against the black cushion. “So, L/N. You, me, a flight to Pinewood, Oregon, bright and early tomorrow at eight AM. How’s that sound?”

 You bit back a smile. John Suh was… quite the character, that was for sure. Smug. Intelligent. Maybe just a tiny bit off his rocker.

But you didn't really have much of a choice, and you were growing curious as well. 

 "Alright,” You conceded, “I’ll bite.”

 John grinned. “Awesome.”

You set your purse down next to the projector, before turning it off. “I’ll be right back,” You told him, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

He nodded, turning back to the files next to the lightbox.

 “And John?” You leaned against the doorway, watching as he straightened his posture to look up at you, expectant of your words. His eyes, from behind those crooked, round rimmed glasses, were poised on your frame. 

“Yes?”

“Your glasses are crooked.” You turned to exit, smiling to yourself when you heard him move, and softly mumble, “Oh, shit.”

PINEWOOD, OREGON—11:32 hours, Tuesday, March 17th, 1992

The plane touched down with only the slightest bit of turbulence. John Suh was sitting right next to you, snoring softly as you pored over the four different medical reports. The reports of the first three victims—Kaya Tate, Jisung Park, and Alex Gallagher—were basically the same word for word, other than specific physical details of the victims, like hair color, height and weight. All of them were found in the woods and were estimated to have died somewhere between one and four in the morning. Possible causes of death included exposure and cardiac arrest, but there wasn’t enough evidence to list anything. The oddest part was that of the three of them, all of their pupils were shrunken. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

 When a person dies, what occurs next is called primary flaccidity. In this state, all of the muscles relax—their head might fall back as the neck loses strength, the jaw falls open, fingers loosen their grip. And the pupils should dilate. But here, they weren’t. Not in the slightest.

You frowned, looking over the first three reports again. There was no sign of red marks anywhere. At the end of all three medical reports, the same signature was seen: Aaron Choi, MD. 

Flicking through the medical report of the fourth victim—Kaya Tate—you looked over the similarities of the other autopsies, and the one unavoidable difference: those damned red markings John had shown you yesterday. With a sigh, you skimmed over the report one last time, before one final difference caught your eye at the very end. This report wasn’t signed by one Aaron Choi, MD. No, it was signed by Hank Rodrigo, MD.

You didn’t have time to think over it much as the pilot made the announcement that the plane would be landing soon. John jumped awake at the sound of his voice. His eyes cracked open, and he frowned as if he were upset at being woken up. 

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” You greeted when he gave you a sideways glance. 

“And here I was, hoping for a kiss to break the spell.” He laughed sleepily, but you frowned as you pulled the reports off of the tray. You didn’t answer as you put them away and put the tray back up in preparation for the landing.

John stretched his back, inhaling deeply before staring at you awkwardly. “...Sorry. I’m being inappropriate.”

You shook your head, but then smiled. “Thank you for apologizing. Some guys at the bureau can be real creeps.”

He frowned. “...You’re trained in self defense at the academy for a reason, y’know.”

Rolling your eyes, you zipped up your bag. Still, you couldn’t let go of the smile on your face. Still, you put some sarcasm into your tone when you next spoke. “Of course I am.”

When the plane landed, you picked up the rental car the bureau had provided, and put your suitcases in the trunk before getting in. John drove, popping in a cassette of his that played some rock song you didn’t know the name of. 

Martha say she don't need no stinking man making no decisions for her

She don't need his money, she don't need him between the sheets

She ain't gonna sleep on the edge of the bed for no stinking man...

“Kaya Tate’s medical report was signed by a different examiner,” You pointed out, even though you knew that he’d already realized that.

“And there it is,” He said, not taking his eyes off of the road. “Those marks are pretty hard to miss. If they all had similar circumstances in the autopsy, who’s to say the first three kids didn’t have the same markings? And why would Doctor Choi avoid putting that in the reports?”

For a moment, he looked at you, and raised an eyebrow. You mirrored his expression at his implication. “So, you think the medical examiner has something to do with the murders.”

“Maybe?” He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror. “He’s a person of interest. Not necessarily a suspect. I’ve arranged to exhume Alex Gallagher’s body. Maybe we can come to some conclusion of our own—”

He was interrupted by the sound of the song from his cassette distorting, static blaring in between the music and the sound of the vocalist’s voice.

At first, you thought it was something to do with the cassette… until the windows started rolling up and down of their own accord, and the lights on the dashboard started to flicker. You felt the car even swerve slightly, despite John’s firm hands on the wheel.

Within a matter of seconds he managed to pull over and put the car in park. As soon as it had started, it was over, but as John turned the motor off, he met your eyes. He looked just as perplexed as you did. 

“What just happened?”

He didn't answer, unbuckling his seat belt. As he got out of the car, you did the same thing, wondering what kind of failure could cause a car to go haywire like that. 

Wordlessly, you watched as John took a good, long look at his watch, before walking over to the trunk and popping it up. From his suitcase, he pulled out a can of spray paint. He pulled the cap off of it and leaned over, aiming at the asphalt. You raised your eyebrows.

"What are you—" 

The sound of the paint can interrupted your words. You watched as he sprayed a big X on the street, right in front of where he was standing. Your mouth remained slightly open, unsure of what to say. When he stood up straight, he placed the can back in his suitcase, and looked up at you. Slamming the trunk shut, the both of you exchanged stares: his blank as if vandalizing forest streets were a part of his day to day life, and yours somewhat perplexed. 

When the two of you got back into the car, it turned on with no issue. John's cassette started up again on the same song. Again, you exchanged a wordless stare, the both of you now equally unsure.

“Welcome to the Twilight Zone,” John muttered, putting the car in drive. You didn’t reply.

 Hi-de-hi-de-hi, brother,

Hi-de-hi-de-hey now, Martha...

Ten minutes later the two of you rolled into the cemetery. It was an uphill slope, a small field atop it, connecting to the woods. John drove until a small, yellow bulldozer caught your eye and you pointed it out. He parked as close as the road permitted, and the two of you exited the car, ready to head up the hill.

As the two of you pulled out your FBI badges, an officer came running up to you. He darted between tombstones and stopped in front of you, pursing his lips awkwardly. You both help up your badges. "Special agents Y/N L/N and John Suh," You said.

The officer nodded sheepishly. He seemed young and rather inexperienced. "Officer Mitch Swenson. The chief couldn't be here right now, ma'am."

"Oh?" John continued walking towards the grave, which was fully undug. A crew was in the process of using a pulley to lift the coffin out of the ground. "Couldn't, or didn't want to? He didn't seem very happy when I contacted him on the phone. Didn't even tell me his name."

Officer Swenson looked down. "I'm sorry to say that he's opposed to this intervention, sir."

"Unfortunately," You told him, "After so many unexplained deaths, we're obligated to involve ourselves. If he has an issue with our jurisdiction then he can take it up with—"

A loud snapping noise stopped you in your tracks, and your head turned just in time to see the ropes on the pulley snap, dropping the coffin. It quickly began tumbling downhill, towards you. You barely had time to step back. Before you could be trampled by a goddamn coffin on what was quickly becoming one of the strangest days of your life, you felt a strong hand grip your forearm and yank you back harshly. 

The coffin barrelled right into the back of a tombstone, cracking open ever so slightly. Your back collided with John's chest. Neck craning back to look at him, you realized both your chests were heaving in shock. He was staring at the small opening in the coffin.

You pulled away from him, charging towards the coffin. John and Officer Swenson did the same, as well as some from the lifting crew.

As soon as you got within five feet of the coffin, a putrid odor hit your nose and seemed to hit everyone else's. John's hand went to cover his nose. Officer Swenson turned green. You held back a gag.

Still, despite the heinous stench, you leaned forward, trying to get a good look inside. Fully expecting to see a decaying corpse, you squinted, trying to make out the shape of the face.

"Holy shit," You heard the young officer say off to your left. Your eyes widened, just as you made out some features of the cadaver.

"Make sure no one else sees this," John ordered someone, as you made out a snout and very thin arms. As your eyes widened, John turned to you. You turned your head to him, and he flashed you an awkward grin.

"...I'm guessing he was no student athlete," He joked, scratching the back of his head. You shook your head in disbelief, face frozen in shock.

"I… is that a—?"

CORONER'S OFFICE, PINEWOOD, OREGON — 14:48 hours, Tuesday, March 17th, 1992

"A chimpanzee."

You didn't give John's unsatisfied tone much of a second thought, continuing to ensure you had everything ready for your analysis.

"You think it's a chimpanzee," John said again a few seconds later, snapping a picture of the body, which was spread out on a metal table. 

"Or an orangutan," You replied, not looking up from your tools. Pulling out your tape recorder, you finally met his eyes. "I was thinking it might even be a bonobo, but it's too big. Mammalian, that's for sure."

"Y/N, we're in Oregon! Where would someone get a monkey—why would someone put a monkey in some dead kid's coffin?"

You shook your head. "John, you can't possibly think this is anything other than a sick joke, can you?"

He huffed, too engrossed in taking pictures of the body. He looked like he had just discovered sliced bread.

"This is amazing. It—it's unprecedented… I want a full report," He demanded, "Toxicology, x-rays, tissue samples, genetic testing, the works. We can get those tissue samples and x-rays done now, everything else we take back to DC." 

You laid a measuring tape next to the subject's body, before putting your hands on your hips. 

"You’re kidding," You said, glaring at him from the other side of the table, "Try telling Alex Gallagher's family that his body was replaced with an alien. You'd probably lose a few teeth doing it!" 

John lowered his camera, taking a deep breath. He thought for a few seconds before answering. "I'm not crazy, Y/N," He insisted, "I have the same doubts you do." 

Flexing your fingers to see if the surgical gloves fit adequately, you sighed. 

"Please leave for a moment," You mumbled, "I need to record my observations and I can't do that properly if you're flashing that camera in my face and talking about little green men." 

He frowned, not meeting your eyes. He looked like he wanted to protest, but he shook his head to himself as he turned around. Soon, he was out the door. 

During your analysis, you made several observations: the subject was 157 centimeters in length, and weighed 56 pounds. Long limbs and fingers, and large ocular caverns that suggested it belonged to the ape family, as you'd told John minutes ago. It was in an advanced state of decay and desiccation. 

When you turned the subject over, you couldn't help but look at the lower back. Lo and behold, there and ready to give you a headache, were two bumps. They were no longer red, tinged gray, same as the rest of the body, but they were there.

Only when the x-rays finally developed two hours later did you discover the cherry on top: a small metallic implant in the subject's nasal cavity, embedded in the skin, which was extracted and placed in a small glass vial. The vial was placed in your blazer pocket, which you'd removed to put on the PPE gown. 

When you were finally finished with the report, you put your blazer back on and discarded the PPE and surgical gloves. All you'd managed to do was give yourself a migraine at all of the oddities piling up in this case. When you got back to DC? A bubble bath was in order. With a very, very large glass of wine.

As you approached the door to the lobby, the voices of two men arguing got louder and louder. Rolling your eyes, you sighed at the feeling of your head pounding. One sounded angrier, the other significantly calmer. When your hand was on the knob, you realized who the calmer voice belonged to.

"Shit," You whispered to yourself, flinging open the door. A middle aged man yelling at John—who looked very blasé about the whole situation—was waving his finger in his face. Behind him stood Officer Swenson, another officer, and a young girl dressed in an oversized windbreaker and jeans, who looked like she wanted to evaporate into thin air. 

"You people think you can march in here and do whatever you want," The man growled, "I don't see why—"

"What's going on here?" You asked, stepping between the man and John. The man scoffed at you, eyeing you up and down. 

“Who are you?”

You pulled out your badge and flashed it to him. His scowl deepened. “Special Agent Y/N L/N, FBI. I’m Agent Suh's partner for this investigation. Now, what is going on? And who are you?”

The man’s face twisted in disdain at your authoritative tone. “I’m Doctor Aaron Choi, the county medical examiner. Now, the audacity of you and your partner—”

“Dad, please,” The girl exclaimed, sounding embarrassed, “Let’s just go home!”

 The man waved a hand in her direction, tone dismissive and angry. “Lia, be quiet. I’m talking. The audacity you two have to come here and interrupt our procedures—”

“Doctor Choi, this is the fourth unexplained death of a student from the Pinewood High class of ‘89,” John pointed out, “After the county was unable to come up with any conclusive evidence, the FBI was forced to become involved. I take it you weren’t informed of the exhumation and the analysis of Alex Gallagher’s body?”

Doctor Choi shook his head. “I’ve been away with my family. We just got back.”

That explains the different medical examiner on the latest autopsy, you realized. 

“Doctor Choi, I’m sorry you feel that way,” You said, “But it’s our obligation to come and investigate. Now, I’m sorry, but it’s getting late, and we have to get going. I can give you my cell phone number if it were to make you more comfortable, but—”

“No. That’s quite enough,” He snapped. He turned to the young girl, nodding his head at the door. “Lia, let’s go.”

The girl sighed, and met your eyes before she turned to follow after him. She looked desperate; you assumed it was because of the scene her father had caused. The two officers followed after them.

As the two of you watched them leave, you turned to John. He simply shrugged, looking done with the whole situation. “Talk about a warm welcome,” He grumbled. You glared at him. 

“Let’s just go,” You huffed, rubbing at a spot above your eyebrow, “I still need to get started on this report.”

The two of you exited the building, and John explained that tomorrow, he’d arranged a visit to a mental institution in the town over. That there were two more students of the class of ‘89 were staying. Both of them were reportedly a part of Alex Gallagher’s circle of friends.

 In your pocket, the vial holding the metal implant seemed heavier than it had been when you first extracted it.

ALOYSIUS GRANT MENTAL INSTITUTION, CRESTHILL, OREGON—10:47 hours, Wednesday, March 18th, 1992

The wing where Chenle Zhong and Nancy Goldstein were staying was relatively quiet. As the nurse explained their circumstances, Nancy remained glued to a book in her wheelchair. Next to her in his bed, Chenle lay perfectly still, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and unmoving. 

You were informed that Nancy had developed delusions and become extremely paranoid as a result of post-traumatic stress. Chenle was living through something called a living coma. He never moved, never spoke. The only indication you saw that he was still alive was the constant rise and fall of his chest. Both of them had been in an automotive crash in the autumn of 1989, and had been like this ever since. 

“Nancy,” The nurse said softly, “You have guests, can they speak with you?”

Nancy lifted her head, “I can’t,” She answered, shaking her head. “I’m reading to Lele right now.”

“Does… does he like it when you read to him?” John asked, and she nodded.

“It calms him down,” She said, “It distracts him from everything.”

You looked down, thinking about her words and what she must have gone through—Chenle as well. At the feet of Chenle’s bed, you noticed odd specks of… ash? It was sprinkled sparsely in front of the bed, on what was a seemingly pristine floor.

You wanted to pick it up, but didn’t want the nurse looking at you strangely. So you turned your attention back to the conversation between John and the nurse. He lowered his voice and leaned in towards her, as if he didn’t want Nancy to hear. “Would it be possible for us to run some medical tests on Ms. Goldstein?”

The thing was that Nancy did hear, and at the mention of medical tests, her large eyes nearly popped out of her head, and she started to tremble in the wheelchair. “N-no tests,” She pleaded, before throwing her book to the side and raising her voice, "No tests! You can't take me there again!"

She began to thrash in the wheelchair, hyperventilating and begging in between breaths to not go anywhere. She threw herself out of the wheelchair but was unable to stand, and instead remained on the floor, crying. 

"Nancy, sweetie, you're going to be fine," The nurse said gently, leaning down to placate the poor girl who was shaking her head. She looked up at the both of you. "Can you help me please?" 

John leaned down to gently assist the nurse in helping Nancy up, and you picked up the wheelchair, which had fallen onto its side. You gripped one of the back handles of the chair to steady it. Your other hand smudged along the ground to try and pick up some of the powder. As the pair helped her sit down, your eyes caught something. 

Nancy's shirt had ridden up during the ordeal, and there, along the small of her back, you saw them. The same marks that Kaya Tate, Jisung Park, and Alex Gallagher had. 

When Nancy refused to calm down, wailing and begging not to be taken back to wherever she thought you and John wanted to take her, the nurse ushered you out.

 "I'm sorry," She told you, "But you're upsetting my patients. If you absolutely need to come back, then do it some other day when she's calmed down." 

The two of you set off towards the exit down the stairs, your heels click-clacking quickly along the floor as you walked in front of John. 

He held open the exit door for you, and as soon as you were out the door and headed toward the parking lot, you whirled on him. 

"How did you know she would have those marks?" You asked, almost angry at him. John shrugged. 

"A hunch," Was all he answered.

"Dammit, Suh, cut the crap. What the hell is going on here?"

"What, so you can go off and write it in your little reports?" He fired back, raising his voice at you for the first time. Your head snapped back at the sudden disdain in his voice.

"I'm here to solve this case just the same as you are," You growled, "Now tell me the truth. I think I'm entitled to it."

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, scowling at you. He leaned closer to you and lowered his voice. "You want my honest opinion? Fine. I think those kids have been abducted by an alien force. I think that they run tests on those kids, which is why Nancy Goldstein freaked out, and why Alex's body and hers have those markings. That's what I think."

You tapped your heel along the sidewalk in frustration and thought. "John, do you realize how insane that sounds? I—Why, there's nothing to substantiate—"

"Nothing scientific to substantiate," He corrected.

"Science is all there is, John!" You shook your head. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The  both of you knew that this conversation would lead nowhere. Looking down, you remembered the ash smudged onto the palm of your hand. 

"Look," You said, quieter now. "This was on the floor around Chenle Zhong's bed."

"'S that… ash?"

You nodded. "I know what you think, John. Let me tell you what I think. I think those kids might be involved in some sort of sacrifice of some sort. Think about it, they're always called into the woods. The medical examiner doesn't want us looking at the bodies. And now, ash."

John's eyes darted back and forth, considering the options. He walked over to the car, unlocking it so the both of you could enter. 

"We can head into the woods tonight," He offered finally. "That way, we can both look into our own hypotheses."

"Sounds good to me," You answered, "Tonight."

THE WOODS, PINEWOOD, OREGON—20:26 hours, Wednesday, March 18th, 1992

A few hours after sundown, the two of you drove to the edge of the woods, armed with flashlights and your handguns. You'd tied your hair back and changed into a dark blue windbreaker, along with sweatpants and running shoes. It was a bit windy, and you could see storm clouds rolling in.

"Stay close by," You'd told John. "And be quiet."

"Yes, mom," He sighed. You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to punch him in the arm. 

Once the two of you were out of the car, you split up, trying to stay within earshot of his footsteps. You spent about ten minutes wandering around, flashing your light around, taking slow steps as you scrounged for any hints. 

Above you, thunder rumbled, the occasional strike of lightning lighting up the sky for milliseconds. Leaning your head forward, you squinted in the dark. No way. 

The whole ground around you was covered in ash. If not the exact same ash as what was in front of Chenle's bed, it was very similar—sprinkled on top of the leaves and dirt. As you kneeled down to pick some up, your eyes widened at the same texture and pigment as the one of today. 

"What the fuck," You muttered under your breath, mind racing a mile a minute. These woods were creepy enough without the implication of a ritualistic cult, or close encounters of the third kind, or whatever John believed was happening. But now you had the possibility of a connection between these woods and two seriously disturbed kids.

A sudden mechanical rumbling made you snap your head up. You squinted, lifting your other hand to shield your eyes from the sudden brightness that lit up the trees. 

"John?" You asked when you heard footsteps. Your heart rate began to speed up, hand reaching for the gun tucked into your waistband. 

When you realized that the sound was coming from the direction of the light, you called his name out again. "John?"

A tall figure emerged from the light, and you soon realized what was pointed at you—a shotgun. Definitely not John Suh.

Not hesitating, you pulled out your gun. "Special agent Y/N L/N, FBI! Identify yourself!"

The figure only stopped until it was about ten feet away. You squinted, making out some familiar features. Surprisingly, you realized it was the officer who had been at the coroner's office with Doctor Choi. 

John came stumbling up to you, chest heaving. "Chief!" He sounded strangely enthusiastic. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"You're trespassing on private property," He announced, seemingly unamused by John's tone. 

"We are conducting an investigation," You countered, lowering your gun. 

"You are trespassing," He said adamantly, "Now get out, before I have you both arrested."

John glanced at you momentarily. You frowned as he shrugged, obviously wanting you to stand down. The staredown continued for a solid ten seconds before you groaned softly. Tucking your gun back into your waistband, you followed the chief out of the woods, right back to your car, which was right next to his.

As John drove away, you watched as the flashing police lights faded into the distance. "What's he doing out here when he's got a whole town to take care of?"

John shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows. "I don't know," He hummed in that deep voice of his, "But I don't like him one bit."

The two of you drove in relative silence after that. The storm finally came down, drops of rain cascading angrily onto the windshield. Thunder rolled overhead, and the lightning grew bright.

In the dim light, your eyes turned to watch John, hoping he wouldn't take notice. You watched him alternate his eyes between the road ahead and the rearview mirror every few seconds. Your eyes raked over his features—a strong brow bone, a round nose, lips that seemed to curve upwards in a natural smirk.

You looked back up at his eyes, and his own gaze glanced at the watch on his wrist before returning to the road.

"You're staring," He said, sounding like he’d caught you with a hand in the cookie jar. You felt the scoff leave your lips before you could catch it, your cheeks heating up.

"I am not—"

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, far brighter than any of the other strikes. Then, an odd sensation filled your body: for the briefest of moments you felt absolutely weightless, unable to feel the carseat beneath you. Then a moment later when the light faded, and the feeling disappeared.

The car rolled to a stop, the engine’s rumble dying. You frowned even though you were glad that you’d have a chance to change the subject. “What happened?”

Johnny looked at the lights on the dashboard, and pressed on the accelerator tentatively a few times. He raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “Uh… we lost power.”

He seemed calm enough. Until he glanced at his watch again. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he let out a single, excited laugh. “No fucking way,” He murmured, rushing to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Uh, John, where are you g—”

He was out of the car before you could finish your sentence, heading into the downpour. You groaned, unbuckling hastily and following him. Already, he was drenched, and within seconds you were too. He was walking towards something on the road, a few feet in front of the car. When he turned to look back at you, he looked like a preschooler who had just discovered Sesame Street. His fists pumped into the air, his eyes squeezed shut and he began to jump up and down.

“Fuckin’—I—WOO! WOO HOO!”

“For the love of god,” You grumbled, standing right next to him despite his loud cheering, you tried your hardest to make out what had gotten him so excited. When the next flash of lightning lit up the street, plus the lights of the car helping illuminate the road, you saw it: a big, bright, neon X. Almost the exact same place the car had started acting strange yesterday.

“We lost time!” He yelled over the sound of the downpour. "I looked at my watch before the flash! It was 9:02 then, now it’s 9:13! That’s eleven minutes—GONE!”

You shook your head, stepping away. You threw up your hands in confusion. “What—John, that’s not possible! You’re saying time disappeared, time can’t—it can’t just disappear! That’s not just crazy, it’s—i-it’s a universal invariant! It’s impossible!”

John shook his head at you, eyes wide in wonder. Right before he started walking back to the car, he let out one last gleeful laugh. “Not in this zip code!”

Much to your displeasure, your headache returned soon after. You were more than content to let John ramble on while you zoned out, rubbing your forehead. What little you picked up was that people who claimed to be abductees always mentioned a bright flash of light and losing time, anywhere from five minutes to several hours.

You weren’t sure what to think at this point. You had half a mind to drive John to the Aloysius Grant Mental Institution and leave him there with Chenle and Nancy.

When you got back to the hotel, you ran straight to your room. When you tried flickering on the light, you found that it wouldn’t turn on. With a sigh, you realized the storm had to have blown the power out. Peeling off your wet clothes before you did anything else, you stripped to your underwear before pulling on your bathrobe. Shivering, you scrounged in the darkness of the room for anything, a flashlight, some candles.

Surprisingly, they did have a candle, a holder and some matches. As you lit it, and went over your bedtime routine (yes, you were a grown woman going to bed at 9:30 PM, you were tired), you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling settling in your stomach. Everything felt so off here, and there were so many things you couldn’t explain.

As much as John wanted to convince you, he couldn’t explain them either. The whole situation felt bizarre in a dreadful way. As you marched into the bathroom for a quick shower, you tried to reassure yourself everything would connect eventually.

When you took off the bathrobe, your hand went to rub at your lower back. The stiff mattress wasn’t doing you any favors. You let your eyes flutter shut, fingers rubbing at the muscle below your skin.

Until your fingers brushed over something that you knew hadn’t been there before. Your eyes snapped open, and you turned your back to the mirror, craning your neck to see. Your fingers ached to touch the spot again, but in your sudden alarm, your fingers began to shake.

There. At the small of your back, just above the waistband of your underwear, there they were. Two bumps. Just like Nancy’s. Just like Alex’s. Just like Kaya’s.

You didn’t know what overtook you. All of a sudden, you were putting your bathrobe back on and strutting stiffly out of your room. Before you knew it, you were knocking insistently on John’s door.

You didn’t stop until a very confused looking John opened up, holding a candle. “I—”

“I need to show you something,” You said shakily. His demeanor changed instantly when he saw your frantic state. He nodded wordlessly, widening the door and stepping to the side. Once the door was closed, you faced him, before untying the robe. His eyes widened slightly despite your shaking hands, and the tips of his ears turned red.

“Woah, at least take me out to dinner first—”

“Johnny, shut up!”

He froze at your tone, your slip up—calling him Johnny instead of John. You were too distressed to care, tossing the robe to the floor before turning, trying to poke at the marks on your back.

“What are they?” You asked, and John reached out a hand as if to placate you.

“Hey, hey,” He murmured, “Deep breaths. Can I get a closer look?”

Nodding, and trying to do what he said, you let him step closer, before kneeling. Tentatively, he ghosted a hand over the marks. You tried to ignore the goosebumps, shivering from what you assumed was the cold.

“What are they?” You repeated. “John—”

He spun you around, putting a gentle hand on your hip. You peered down at him, panting softly. “It’s okay,” He said softly, “They’re just mosquito bites.”

Your eyes fluttered shut in relief, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady your wobbling knees. “You’re sure?” You asked, looking down at him.

He nodded, amber eyes staring up at you. You were suddenly hyper aware of his hand on your hip, unable to break his gaze. He cleared his throat, standing up but not stepping away from you. “Yeah, I got some out there too. I’m positive.”

You put the bathrobe back on, then crossed your arms. “I need to sit down,” You mumbled. He gestured to his bed, sitting on the chair next to it. You raised an eyebrow, not wanting to impose. He shook his head, setting down the candle on the table.

“You’re shaking,” He said, “Go ahead.”

Inhaling deeply, you tried to compose yourself. Your hand rubbed at the back of your neck, suddenly feeling tense. You chewed on your lip, wondering if you should ask the question itching to come out.

“John?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. He nodded, eyes earnest.

“Yeah?”

“How did you… Why are you so interested in this stuff?”

His eyes lowered, rubbing his palms together slowly. He took a deep breath, resting his elbows on his thighs. Finally, he sighed.

“I was twelve when it happened,” He whispered. His gaze turned solemn, almost angry. “My little sister, Maggie, went missing in the middle of the night. Just… disappeared, like she vanished into thin air. No note, no phone calls, no discernible trail or evidence at all. Gone, just like that. How does an eight year old girl disappear without a trace?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, not answering. Outside, the rain had stopped, but John’s eyes were a storm of their own, several emotions swimming around in pools of golden brown.

“It tore my family apart. My parents got divorced, everyone else refused to talk about it. There weren’t any facts to confront, nothing to give anyone closure, and the search just stopped.”

“What did you do?” You asked softly. He shrugged, pursing his lips.

“Eventually, I ran away to England. Came back, got recruited by the bureau.” He offered a sardonic smile, no joy behind it. “Apparently, I have a natural aptitude for applying behavioral models to criminal cases. My success allowed me a certain amount of freedom to pursue my own interests. That’s when I found the x-files.”

“On accident?” You leaned to lay down on your side, propping your head up with one hand. He nodded.

“At first, it looked like a dump for UFO sightings, cryptids, alien abductions. Real Hollywood kind of stuff. But… I was fascinated by it all, I read all the cases I could get my hands on. Hundreds of them, Y/N. All the paranormal phenomena, the occult, and then…” He sighed, lowering his head.

“What?” You leaned toward him, trying to read his face in the dark.

“There’s… classified government information I’ve been trying to get my hands on. Someone keeps blocking my access.” He looked to the side, palms still rubbing together. “The only reason I’ve been allowed to continue my work is because I've made connections in congress.”

You shook your head, “I don’t understand, are they afraid you’ll leak this information?”

When he met your gaze, the anger had returned, now far less subdued. “You’re a part of that agenda,” He murmured, “You would know.”

Your mouth dropped open slightly, and you shook your head before scooching closer to him. “I’m not a part of any agenda,” You answered. “You need to trust me.”

He sighed, before standing up to move onto your bed, leaning very close to you. The usually playful glow in his eyes was nowhere to be seen. “I’m telling you this, Y/N, because you need to know. In my... research, I’ve worked very closely with a man named Hans Kruger. He’s taken me through deep regression hypnosis, and through my repressed memories I’ve been able to return to that night my sister disappeared. I remember a very bright light outside and a presence in the room, and the sensation of being paralyzed, unable to answer her cries for help. Listen to me, Y/N, this thing exists.”

“But how do you know—”

“The government knows! And I gotta know what they’re protecting.” He leaned even closer to you, face inches away from yours. “Nothing else matters to me, and this is as close as I’ve ever—”

   The ringing of the telephone made the both of you jump away from each other, and John stood to pick up the phone. “Hello?”

   He made a face as the person on the other side answered. “What? Who is this? Who is—”

   Pulling the phone away from his ear, he looked at you. He seemed confused, alarmed. “That was a woman,” He said, putting the phone back on the housing, “Who told me that Nancy Goldstein is dead.”

 You frowned. “The girl in the wheelchair?”

 HIGHWAY 227, PINEWOOD, OREGON—23:11 hours, Wednesday, March 18th, 1992

 Quickly, the two of you dressed. The crash wasn’t hard to find in such a small town. Surrounded by witnesses and two police cars, a large semi truck was stopped in the middle of the road. Once there you produced your badges to get past the police cars. John went off to ask one of the cops questions about the accident, and you walked over to the body, which was draped over with a white cloth.

 Right next to it, a man, who you assumed was the driver, was being questioned. Showing the officer next to the body your badge, you crouched down to peel back the cloth covering the body.     

Poor Nancy Goldstein, wet with rain and blood, lay strewn in the road. A dribble of drying blood was running down her mouth. Her once white and purple polka dotted hospital gown was tinged with red, brown and gray. You sighed in sympathy. But your eyes travelled down at the watch she had on, and the sympathy made way into confusion. The hands had stopped, right at 9:02.

You took a deep breath when you recognized the coincidence. That's all it had to be, right? A coincidence?

 "You said she just ran out in front of you?" The officer speaking to the man asked.

"Yes, officer," He answered, "Just came charging out from the trees and right into the truck."

Nancy Goldstein, running. Not even walking, no, full on running. You stared at the body, eyes travelling to her legs. Somehow, they were specked with flecks of dirt, mud and small wood chips. It was consistent with someone moving through a wet, muddy area while barefoot. You swallowed anxiously, trying to figure out what was going on in this town.

 When you got into the car with John, you raised an eyebrow at him, getting ready to speak. Before you could, however, his cell phone rang. He pulled out the device and answered the call with a tired, "Suh. Who am I speaking to?"

You watched as his face turned confused. "What?"

 You couldn't hear what he was told, but when his face twisted into disbelief, and then anger, you knew it couldn't be anything good. "Of course. We'll be there as soon as possible," He said, tight-lipped.

 When he hung up, he immediately started the car. He didn't meet your eyes. "Fuck!" He growled, causing you to jump.

 "What?" Your eyes widened at his sudden outburst, barely having time to buckle your seatbelt before he sped away. "John, what happened—"

"Fuck if I know!" He snapped at you, before shaking his head and sighing.

 "There was a fire at the hotel." His tone was softer now. Your stomach sank. "Our rooms were the ones that were most affected."

"You've gotta be kidding," You sighed. He didn't answer, simply kept his eyes on the road.Only when the two of you got there did you realize just how bad the situation was. The fire department was there, hosing down the inside of your room. A crowd had come to watch the firemen work.

"There goes my computer!" You groaned. John kicked the car door.

"Fuck! The x-rays and pictures!" He seemed just about ready to explode.

Your eyes drifted back to the blinding, orange glow of the fire, crossing your arms in frustration, exhaustion.

Suddenly, a tap on your shoulder caused you to turn. You were met face to face with a familiar looking young girl in a bright blue denim jacket. She looked just about on the verge of tears.

 "John," You called, not looking away from her. When he saw the girl, he came up to the two of you.

 He raised a finger at her. "You're Do—"

 "My name is Lia Choi," She declared, voice wobbly, "You have to protect me."

 You quickly ushered Lia into the back of the car. When you closed the door, John raised an eyebrow at you. "She might know something," He murmured.

 "I know," You answered. "She seems terrified."

 He nodded. "You hungry?"

  "Um… yeah, why?"

  "I'm starving," He admitted, gnawing on his lips. "Let's get something to eat and question her there."

 "How the hell are you thinking about food at a time like this?"

He raised an eyebrow, making a face. "What, and you aren't?"

You rolled your eyes, but didn't disagree.

 The car ride took about ten minutes, and you pulled into the small diner with little to no issue. By then, it was a little past midnight, so it was starting to empty out. It had started raining again. You sat next to Lia, as she seemed somewhat more intimidated by John. He paid for some burgers and fries for the three of you, and then Lia finally spoke.

"I… There's something in the woods."

You exchanged glances with John, who rested his elbows on the table and interlaced his fingers. "What do you mean, something in the woods, Miss Choi?"

 The young girl shook her head, looking sheepish. "Please, just call me Lia," She said.

 Taking a deep breath, you flashed him a look that said let me try. "Lia, do you know that there's something in the woods, or is it just a feeling?"

 She stared at the table, looking for words. "I've never actually… seen anything. Not really. But I… I have these dreams. They're not like normal dreams, I-I have no idea how to explain it, but they just feel so… wrong. It's like my body's vibrating the entire time, a-and when I wake up, I'm there. In the woods. Every time. They—they've started happening more and more, and I don't know what to do, I-I'm just so—"

 "Woah, slow down there, kid," John said, holding up his hands. She'd started rambling, and it didn't take a genius to say that she was on the verge of tears. His dark eyes looked gentle, sympathetic. "Deep breath, Lia."

She let her eyes close, breathing slowly. "I'm sorry," She mumbled. "I just don't know what to do anymore."

Looking at John again, you spoke up. "We understand," You answered softly, "Can we ask you some more questions?"

 As she nodded, the one waitress working the place, who looked one strong gust of wind from falling over, set down your three plates. Sticking a fry into your mouth once the waitress left, you met eyes with the young girl.

"You said, 'I've never seen anything, not really.' What do you mean by that?"

Lia poked at her fries, not seeming that interested in the food. She pursed her lips, before sighing. "I… We saw something, once. I think. My friends were all out there—celebrating graduation. It was… maybe 11:30? I-I can't really remember. But we saw a bright light, and then this huge thing flew over us. When it was gone… Kaya checked her watch. It couldn't have been more than ten seconds after, but her watch said it was almost 2 AM, and then Chenle checked his watch, and so did Jisung, and… they all said the same thing.

"I didn't think much of it. I tried not to. I thought we just missed the time going by, somehow. But then Nancy and Chenle got into the crash, and then Kaya turned up dead in the woods… Then Jisung, and now Alex…" She shook her head, blinking back tears. "It can't all be a coincidence."

"How old were you when that happened, Lia?"

 "I was 17. I'm turning 21 in June."

John stared at her for a long time. "...And why did you decide to call me when you heard about Nancy's death?"

Oh?

You raised an eyebrow to look at Lia, who looked down. "They called my dad about it, and I know that Nancy's death has to do with whatever's in the woods. M-my dad, he… He keeps telling me he can keep me safe. But I don't think he can."

"So you called us?"

She nodded, not looking up at either of you. John and you exchanged a glance.

"Lia," You asked lowly, "Do you think your father—"

Your words died when blood began to spew from the girl's nose, your eyes widening and John's expression growing alarmed. He reached for the napkins, handing them to you to hand her quickly. Her eyes shut and her brow furrowed, obviously distressed. John pursed his lips.

  "Does this normally h—"

 "Lia Choi."

The three of you turned your heads to see Aaron Choi and the police chief standing next to each other, glaring at you and John.

Dr. Choi walked over to Lia, handing her another napkin. "Sweetheart, come on, let's go home."

John narrowed his eyes. "I don't think she wants to leave."

"I don't give a shit about what you think," The man snapped. He turned back to Lia, "Let's go home. You'll be safe there. Remember, I said that Chief Zhong and I would keep you safe—"

You exchanged a glance with John. You could see the gears turning in his head. Skywalker moment. "You’re Chenle Zhong's father?"

The chief scowled at him. "You stay away from my boy. He has no business in any of this."

Dr. Choi managed to pull away, with minimal protest from Lia. She managed to give the two of you one last apologetic glance before being pushed out the front door by your father.

"You gotta love this place," John grumbled, reaching for Lia's plate, "Every day's like Halloween."

"They know." You were sure of it. "Choi's been hiding evidence from those medical reports, and Zhong might just have enough authority around here to get access to our rooms to set them on fire."

"Why would they want to destroy evidence?" John asked, but it wasn't really a question. It sounded more like a parent trying to get their child to figure out something obvious on a math problem. "What could they possibly want with that corpse?"

You looked down at the table, heart pounding suddenly. When you met his eyes again, they were burning with curiosity and determination.

"Makes you wonder what's in those other two graves, huh?"

PINEWOOD MEMORIAL CEMETERY, PINEWOOD, OREGON—01:26 hours, Thursday, March 19th, 1992

Getting into the cemetery was easy. Finding the graves, with only your flashlights in the pouring rain, was a lot harder. You pored over different headstones for almost forty minutes, until John called your name.

"Did you find them?" You asked, turning to him. He was scowling down at the headstones. You didn't understand why… until you looked down to see the dirt piled up, and the two holes in the ground.

"Empty," He groaned.

"What is going on here?" You cried. John stared at the hole in the ground, before a look of epiphany dawned on his face. He turned to you, slowly.

"I think I know who did it."

You looked to the sides in thought. "Who? The chief?"

John shook his head, mouth tipping open. You leaned forward, hoping to hear his words better over the rain.

He chewed nervously on his bottom lip. "The chief's son."

When the words registered, you leaned away. All the fight in you seemed to deflate, and your face twisted into a confused mess.

"What?"

He nodded, and you raised your eyebrows. "Chenle Zhong? The boy in the hospital. The boy who's been in a goddamn coma since 1989. That Chenle Zhong? He somehow got here, dug up these graves, and is somehow responsible for the murders of four different kids?"

John's eyes fell shut, and he took a deep breath. "Nancy Goldstein was wheelchair bound but ran in front of a car, it's not entirely impossible. All of this fits a profile of alien abduction. She was killed around 9—the same time we lost time in the car."

"A profile." You crossed your arms, trying to stop the shivering racking your body. March showers in the Pacific Northwest—you wouldn’t be surprised if all of this was just a delusion induced by hypothermia.

"Look, something happened during those 10 minutes," He insisted, "Time, as we know it, stopped, and it has something to do with the forest."

You shook your head in disbelief, unable to hold back your shocked sigh. All you could do was stare, watching as John's expression hardened.

"You think I'm crazy," He murmured defeatedly, "Just like everyone else does."

He turned on his heel, starting to walk away, when a soft scoff caused him to turn back. "What?"

You wore a smile of disbelief. "The hands of Nancy Goldstein's watch stopped at 9:02," You admitted, looking up at the sky before meeting his gaze. "I made a mental note of it because of how insane the coincidence was. But…"

"The forest is controlling the kids," John said with a nod. He sounded more hopeful now, as he took a step closer. "It summons them here!"

"A-and the marks are…"

"The remainders of some sort of experiment. They put that weird chemical into the bodies—"

"Which leads to genetic mutations, like the one we saw in Alex Gallagher’s body!"

John nodded, a hopeful grin spreading across his features, the rain causing his hair to fall into his eyes. "And the woods summoned Nancy Goldstein here tonight, but the one who brought her was—"

"Chenle Zhong," You gasped. Meeting eyes with John, the two of you exchanged surprised, awed, slack jawed smiles, before promptly bursting into giggles at how silly it all sounded, the sheer absurdity of it all. Like the plot of some crappy Fox TV show.

"This—Johnny, this is insane!"

"That’s just how all the x-files work!" He exclaimed between laughter, "This isn't even half of it!"

That did it for you. The idea that there had to be something even stranger, something that paled in comparison to this. You had to reach out for his shoulder to stop yourself from falling, bending over and clutching your stomach to the point of tears. John’s laughter never let up either, not until the two of you were panting, out of breath from cackling so hard.

"I can't believe any of this," You sighed, shaking your head once more.

"It doesn't matter. As long as we're on the same page," John said with a shrug, "It'll make things a whole lot easier. Now, let's get back to the car—"

A high pitched scream filled the air, and the two of you locked eyes before darting in its direction.

Right into the forest.

Mud squelched beneath your shoes as the two of you ran. It was damn near impossible to see anything with the rain and the darkness of night, the way your flashlights swung back and forth with your running.

Your light reflected onto a piece of black metal, causing the two of you to slow down. John flashed his own light side to side, before landing on the white door of the car, the crest emblazoned on it: PINEWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT. You sighed at the revelation, turning slightly.

"Shit," He muttered, "Do you think—?"

"John." You took a step to the side, focusing your light onto something on the ground. "Look."

When he turned his head to look at what you were seeing, you heard him inhale sharply.

Dr. Choi's body lay strewn on the muddy ground, blood streaking down his temple. You couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

Another scream pierced the air, the sound distinctly female. You exchanged a brief glance with John, before nodding in the direction the noise came from. "You go! I'll check his vitals."

"Be careful," He warned before darting off. You knelt on the ground, reaching out to feel for a pulse over the carotid artery. You let your eyes fall shut in relief when you found one a few seconds later. All you needed to do now was assess his injury.

But they snapped open when the mud squelched behind you, and when you turned your head, you saw a flash of black and beige. A loud thwack! cracked against the side of your head, and you fell to the ground, vision turning dark.

When you came to, you weren't sure how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been too long. It was still dark, and while the rain had calmed, it wasn't over yet. Sluggishly,  you reached for the flashlight, and struggled to stand.

Stumbling, you tried to surmise where the noise was coming from, but the world felt like it was spinning. You were confused, disoriented, that the sudden brightness knocked you on your ass, quite literally.

Brightness?

White, seemingly industrial light lit up the forest so suddenly that you reeled back in surprise, falling into the mud. You blinked dazedly. If this were a Loony Tunes short, there would be little Tweety birds flying around your head right about now.

Still, you knew you needed to get up. So you did, still stumbling as if someone had spun you around to hit a piñata, and carried forward. The shouting had stopped now.

In the distance, where the light was the brightest, you could hear the shouting. One of the voices was distinctly John's, but as you got closer, it stopped.

And by the time you got into the clearing? The light disappeared, and so did the rain. Gone at the same time.

There were three men standing in the clearing, seemingly in a triangle. John's back was turned to you. In front of him? Someone was lying on the floor (had you not been so dizzy, you would have recognized her as Lia), and…

"Chenle?" The police chief asked, voice shaking. Your eyes turned to the young man, whose dark eyes were wide in confusion and fear. He was barefoot, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants.

"...Dad?" He asked as Chief Zhong walked to him, before crushing the young man in a hug.

"J-John?" Your voice was small. The man in question turned to you, eyes widening at your state. He stepped towards you, face full of concern. When you buckled, he gripped you by your forearms.

"Y/N, are you alright?"

"Th-there was a light," You murmured, "It was so…"

He nodded, smiling sympathetically. "I know," He said, "But I think you have a concussion."

"Uh…" You stared at him blearily. "...You're really strong."

He held back a snicker. "Am I now?"

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C—10:04 hours, Wednesday, March 25th, 1992

After a stop to the emergency room, a minor concussion diagnosis, a flight home, a few days of bed rest and finally that bubble bath (sans the wine, unfortunately), you were finally allowed to present your findings to your superiors, in the report you'd written in the past few days (you were advised to rest over the weekend, and you did just that and wrote the report all Tuesday).

You marched into that office, John already sitting in one of the two seats in front of the desk. He didn't speak while you presented your findings. Again, Chief Brooks was accompanied by the same two men.

"And what of the boy?" Division Chief Brooks asked, "Chenle… Zhang, you said?"

"Zhong," You and John corrected in unison, exchanging a sheepish glance when you both realized what happened.

"He's in custody. So are his father and Doctor Aaron Choi. He claims to not have remembered anything."

"I understand you and Chief Zhong had an exchange in the woods?" The older man asked, staring at John.

He nodded. "Yes, sir. I asked him what the need was to take the Chois to the woods, he seemed desperate—said that if it got his son back, then he'd do it."

"So, what, are we to believe all of this—the abductions and the mutations and the mind control without any concrete evidence?" The second officer asked.

"There was an x-ray of Chenle’s that revealed a small piece of metal lodged in his nose, just like Agent L/N's report mentioned with—"

"The Gallagher boy's implant, yes. But that could be anything, Agent Suh. It hasn't been surgically removed so we can't verify what it is."

John clenched his jaw. "But—"

"Agent Suh, with no evidence of the implant existing we simply cannot continue to waste bureau resources," The chief explained, "The fact of the matter is the original implant, as well as your other evidence, was destroyed in that fire and—"

"What if it wasn't, though?" You asked.

It was as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. All four men's eyes snapped up to look at you. John’s eyes were wide in shock.

You met eyes with him briefly as you reached into your blazer pocket, placing the small vial holding the implant onto the table.

"None of the tests I ran on the implant were able to reveal what kind of metal it is," You sighed, "It all came back as inconclusive."

"I—" For the first time, the third agent spoke for the first time. "How did you manage to salvage it?"

Tilting your head back and forth, you tried to sound professional. "I kept it… on my person at all times after I extracted it. I felt it was too important to lose."

The three men exchanged a silent conversation with their eyes. You looked at John, whose expression towards you had shifted from shock to awe. You offered him a sly smile.

"Well, then." Division Chief Brooks sounded frustrated—like a father allowing his children ice cream after being worn down by them. "Considering this… new piece of evidence, I—I suppose I could authorize the continuation of the project."

You breathed a sigh of relief. John’s shoulders sagged.

"However, Agent L/N, I will expect your reports on every single one of these cases within three days of them being closed, unless medically justified. Failure to do so will result in the termination of the project."

"Understood, sir," You said.

The third man lit a cigarette, before pointing to the vial on the table. "That implant will be kept with us, it's evidence now. Any and all evidence will be handed over to us," He ordered, taking a drag.

You nodded, but something told you John wouldn't approve. He didn't say anything, but you knew he'd have something to say sooner or later.

"You're both dismissed," Division Chief Brooks told you both.

Once you were out of the office and out of earshot, John stopped in the middle of the hallway. He put his hands on his hips and stared at you.

"I—That was… Wow. Y/N, how did you even do that?"

"Honestly?" You bit back a grin before lowering your voice. "...I hid it in my sports bra."

He broke out into a shocked smile. "In your—amazing. Y/N, you’re a genius."

"Am I now?" You asked, raising your eyebrows. You started down the hallway again, and he followed. "Thank you," He mumbled.

With a wave of your hand, you shook your head. "I'm just doing my job, y’know? Plus, I enjoyed working with you, John. I think we make a... decent team."

He looked down at his feet, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Well," He said, "If we are going to keep working together, can I ask you to do something?"

"Sure," You replied. By now, you were headed down the basement steps.

"Just… call me Johnny. John feels too… formal."

"Johnny," You sounded the name out, before smiling. "Yeah, it suits you better."

X-FILE 144-A: THE BELDAM'S GLENN BLOOD RITUALS

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE EVERETT TURNPIKE, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—07:32 hours, Thursday, February 11th, 1993

"Brief me again on this case?" Johnny sighed as he drove ahead, "I was too tired when you explained on the flight here."

You nodded, rubbing your eyes and putting on your glasses. Outside, rain hit the roof of the car, and the sky was that bluish gray tinge of an early morning drizzle. That, paired with the soft guitar from the radio along with Robert Smith's voice made for gentle ambience.

I don't care if Monday's blue

Tuesday's gray and Wednesday too

Thursday, I don't care about you

It's Friday, I'm in love...

 Pulling out the folder from your bag. Truth be told, you were tired too—you'd been called just before 3 in the morning by someone at the bureau telling you you'd been assigned to work a murder case in Beldam's Glenn, New Hampshire. A fairly small town, less than 10,000 people.

You'd had an hour to pack some clothes, then take a taxi to the bureau to grab some things from the office and pick up the file briefing the incident. Then, just before four you arrived at Reagan International, where you met a seemingly bedraggled Johnny. His suit was a bit wrinkly and there were dark circles rimming his eyes.

By now, you'd been working with Johnny for almost a year. You'd learned in that time that he did not enjoy waking up before 5 AM. 

"Good morning," You'd greeted, and he shook his head.

"It's not morning yet, and it certainly isn't gonna be a good one," He'd grumbled in response. 

"Okay, Oscar the Grouch." 

Now, in the car, flicking through the folder, you read out loud the information. A fifteen year old boy identified as Mark Lee had been found dead in the woods, near an area rumored to be where satanic cults practiced blood magic. His eyes and heart missing, torn clean out.

"...Ouch," Johnny muttered, stifling a yawn.

You raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. Ouch."

"Any witnesses or anything?" 

"No," You mumbled, reading over more details. One in particular caught in your eye. "Huh… Additionally, animal tracks in the form of hooves, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, were found leading to Lee’s body."

Johnny tilted his head. "Hooves?"

You hummed in confirmation.

He raised his eyebrows, facing you for a second before turning his attention back to the road. His eyes were wide. Somehow, you already knew what he was going to say. "Do you think there's a small possibility—"

"No." 

Johnny huffed. "Oh, come on! Y/N, humans are innately spiritual beings. Is it so crazy to think that just maybe a creature akin to a demon could exist?"

"I don't know, Johnny. Maybe there is. But I think now that the middle ages are over and we have more logical explanations for things like this, we shouldn't immediately jump to conclusions."

For a long time, he didn’t speak. Another thing you learned during your time with Johnny was that while it was relatively easy to smother his wild conclusions during calmer discussions, it was damn near impossible to get him to let go of them completely. You knew he'd mention it again later, but for now, you were content to just drive like this with him. You were… comfortable with Johnny. 

He had a sort of dry wit that, paired with his suave persona, made him incredibly charismatic. Once you got to know him better, it surprised you that no one around your department of the bureau really liked him.

Dressed up to the eyes

It's a wonderful surprise

To see your shoes and your spirits rise...

He shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Look, there are the cop cars."

Johnny pulled over on the side of the road, one man holding an umbrella seemingly waiting for you both. You looked at the man in the driver's seat, and he nodded toward the back seat. "There's an umbrella in the back."

"Thanks," You said, grabbing the thing. You both stepped out of the car, tugging the vinyl umbrella open. You did a once over of the officer—sheriff, actually, once you saw the badge on his chest. Johnny stood behind you and grabbed the small umbrella from you, so that he could fit under it.

"You're the FBI guys?" The sheriff asked. The two of you pulled out your badges, presenting yourselves. He offered a smile, but it was obvious the middle-aged man was shaken up.

"My name is Bill McNamara," He said, beginning to walk towards the trees. The two of you followed. "Thank you for coming on such short notice." 

He led you to a spot crowded by a few more officers scattered across the space, a white sheet hiding the body, a few feet away from a large, mossy cracked tree stump, so wide it was probably older than 100 years when it fell.

"Is this Mark Lee?" Johnny asked, and Sheriff McNamara nodded. Another officer peeled the sheet back. The poor boy was, in fact, missing his eyes, and there was a large hole in his chest. Even after several years as an MD and an FBI agent, corpses still filled you with dread.

Johnny, in his proximity from behind, nudged you slightly and pointed to the ground next to the boy. 

"So," You said, turning your attention back to the officer once you noticed the hoof tracks, "Have there been any reports of missing animals in the area? Cows, sheep?"

"...Goats?" Johnny added. You nodded stiffly. Sheriff McNamara shook his head. When he spoke, he seemed resolute.

"They say this area is popular for blood rituals, witch's magic. Now, these rumors have been around for years—since I was a kid, actually."

"Any basis to those rumors?" You asked. The Sheriff gave you a look. 

"Agent L/N, just look at the body!"

"Lots of homicides involve victim desecration," You pointed out, "Is there anything else that might point to that?"

The sheriff put his free hand on his hip. "I know he and his friends listen to that disgusting devil's music."

"I didn't like Madonna's latest album either, but I don’t think it's bad enough to call it that," Johnny mumbled sarcastically. You gave him a subtle elbow in the ribs, flashing him a dirty look. The sheriff didn't seem to notice his banter.

"No, I'm talking about that heavy metal stuff. It takes root in our children, poisoning their minds."

He led you over towards the tree stump. Johnny took a more serious approach. "Have Mark Lee or any of his friends ever been spotted at any of these supposed rituals?"

"More rumors," You muttered. The sheriff shook his head, stopping in front of the stump. 

"Not that I know of," He said, before gesturing at the stump, "This is allegedly their altar. What do you think?"

Johnny's seriousness seemed to only last in short bursts, because he fired back with, "Honestly? With a few rounds of sandpaper and some cans of shellac, it'd make a pretty nice coffee table."

The sheriff replied, "Oh… Uh… Well, from the looks of this wax on it, it was probably being used when he died."

You rolled your eyes, turning your head to the side in embarrassment. But then a flash of white, and translucent pale yellow on the ground caught your eyes.

"Do you know if Lee was out here with anyone?" Johnny asked, not saying anything as you stepped out from under the umbrella. You heard the sheriff say, "We presume he was alone."

"You sure?" You asked, picking up the library card, and the piece of wet paper. "This Franklin Pierce High library card belongs to… Haechan Lee. And the paper here is torn at the stamp so that it doesn't say which library it's from, but it's safe to say that it's from there. The title at the top is torn, too, but it says '...In America'."

You stepped back under the umbrella, raising an eyebrow as you handed them to him. "I'm surprised your people missed this."

The sheriff balked, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I'm sorry, Agent L/N," He murmured, "I'll admit, we're all a bit… shaken up here. This isn't something that we've ever dealt with, which is why I called the FBI. I'll have my men escort you to Franklin Pierce. That kid, Donghyuck Lee… He's Mark’s best friend. He's most likely there."

The sheriff stalked off, and you raised an eyebrow at Johnny before lowering your voice. "Better hide your Metallica albums… I could barely take him seriously."

He shrugged. "Well, the body's clearly displayed in a ceremonial manner. Plus, those goat tracks are highly unusual, Y/N." 

"I was under the impression he made you skeptical once he started speaking," You hummed, crossing your arms. He shook his head.

"I didn't wanna feed his imagination. Poor guy's clearly overwhelmed."

"I think he fed your imagination, Johnny. This is nothing but some murderer taking advantage of local folklore. I mean, there's nothing that odd about—"

The sound of slapping and bouncing against the vinyl of the umbrella caused you to jump back, crashing into Johnny's chest. Your shoulders tensed up as Johnny dropped the umbrella and let out a startled, "What the—"

You caught the umbrella as it fell from his hands, but it was too late for him. Something large, wet and brownish green hit him in the forehead before landing on the ground and flopping away. 

Your mouth dropped open and you met Johnny's equally shocked expression as you both registered the multitude of toads raining down on you. 

A few seconds later and it stopped, but now the ground was covered in toads, now jumping away in different directions. Neither you nor Johnny spoke for a good fifteen seconds, until he wiped his forehead free of… mucus. Your shoulders dropped slowly when he finally spoke.

"So… wanna get coffee before we head over to the school?"

Your face dropped from confusion to disbelief. "Johnny, toads just fell from the sky."

"Yeah, but I still want coffee."

PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE, FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—09:04 hours, Thursday February 11th, 1993

Coffee on the table, you sat at a desk situated in the school office. Your laptop, the case file and a copy of today's newspaper were laying on top of it. A few feet away from you, the school psychologist and the secretary you'd borrowed the desk from were speaking to each other. You paid them no mind, looking over the file as you typed up your preliminary report.

You continued typing until the door opened, Johnny stomping in tugging a scrawny looking teenage boy—who was most likely Haechan Lee—by the upper arm. Two girls followed meekly behind, as well as a middle-aged woman, who you assumed was a teacher. All three of the kids seemed to be on the verge of tears. You raised an eyebrow at the sight. Johnny looked pissed off, and he asked the psychologist in a clipped tone, "Hey, Doyoung, could Agent L/N and I use your office to talk to the kids?"

Doyoung looked at the boy in Johnny's grip, then at the secretary, then you, before he nodded. Johnny opened the door and made a motion for the kids to go inside. "Sit down at that table. Don't speak unless spoken to," He ordered, tone stern. You gnawed on the inside of your cheek at his voice as you stood. What had gotten into him?

You pulled him away from the doorway, lowering your voice. "You good?"

Johnny sent the boy a glare before sighing. "Kid tried jumping out the window in front of the entire class to escape. I'll calm down. Just pisses me off that he thought something that stupid would work."

You bit back a smile, patting him on the shoulder. "Pull it together, Suh. He can't get away like this."

Johnny nodded, looking down at you warmly. "Ooh, last name. I'm in trouble."

"Shut up," You huffed, only half-joking. You were about to turn when you remembered something you'd read from the cover of the newspaper.

"By the way," You murmured, "National Weather Service reported tornadoes in northern Massachusetts early this morning. The toads probably got picked up from the winds."

Johnny sighed, before walking into the psychologist's office.

He turned to the woman. "Mrs. Walker, we'll take it from here, go on back to the other kids in your class."

"Are you sure?" She asked, pushing a black, stray hair back into her tight bun. Johnny nodded.

"The one day I'm called in to sub and all of this happens," She muttered to herself. 

You spared a glance at the middle-aged woman, giving her a polite smile. She did the same, and you followed behind Johnny, pulling out your tape recorder from your pocket and closing the door behind you. 

Johnny crossed his arms and leaned against the door, you standing in front of the table and setting the tape recorder on the table. 

"This is going to be recorded," You told them. None of them protested, so you hit the record button.

"So, let's get this out of the way," Johnny began, "None of you are under arrest. We just want to ask you some questions. First, I want you to state your names for the record. Understood?" 

They all nodded, and they introduced themselves: the dark haired, tan boy was in fact Donghyuck Lee, the shorter curly haired girl was named Amy Espinoza, and the taller redheaded girl was named Phoebe Howard. 

The questions were basic and thus, so were the answers. Donghyuck and Mark were childhood best friends, but not related. Mark introduced Amy to him with Phoebe's help. Donghyuck took the book Witch Hunt: A History of The Occult in America out because he and Mark wanted to make the whole thing seem legit. When asked why they really wanted to go out there, Donghyuck looked down. He held his hands together between his thighs.

"We wanted to… you know."

"We really don't," You said, raising an eyebrow. He looked like he wanted to sink into the earth then and there.

"Mark and I had a bet that whoever got past second base with the girlsfirst  would do the other's biology homework for the rest of the year."

Amy nudged Phoebe. "Told you," She grumbled quietly. Phoebe glared at her. 

You continued the interrogation. The incantation taken from the book was apparently one meant to summon Azazel. They'd gone out there just before midnight because the book said that was the best time. 

Donghyuck insisted they didn't kill him. "I'll let you search my car and everything, that's how we got there."

"Did you see what happened?"

Phoebe took a shaky breath, before burying her face in her hands. Amy nodded. "...We did. We ran but it had already… gotten to Martin."

You and Johnny exchanged a glance. "It?" You asked. 

Donghyuck nodded. "Lady, you're gonna think we're bullshitting you—"

"Language," You and Johnny scolded in unison. Donghyuck at least had the audacity to look embarrassed. 

"We got out there," Amy continued, "Martin lit a candle on the stump and did the incantation. The wind… changed. It suddenly got a lot colder and we started hearing… I don't even know."

"It sounded like, I guess what you would call speaking in tongues," Donghyuck said. "And then suddenly, there was this thing a few feet away from us. Maybe over six feet tall, and at first I thought it was a goat, but… it wasn't."

"What did it look like?"

Phoebe cried even harder, and the other two exchanged a weary glance. "It had… glowing orange eyes, and long dark hair." Amy shuddered. "It looked like it had goat legs, but a human torso. It was like…"

"It had a… a woman’s chest," Donghyuck mumbled. Your eyes landed on Phoebe, who seemed to be extremely upset. You exchanged a glance with Johnny. He seemed to understand what you were saying, and nodded wordlessly.

"Phoebe, are you alright?" You asked, feeling that something was up. She was shaking like a leaf. With a sigh, you turned the recorder off, and pointed at Amy and Donghyuck. "Both of you, wait outside on that chair. Don't move."

The two of them left, and you nodded at Johnny to sit next to you. 

"Phoebe," Johnny said softly, "Is there something going on that the other two don't know?"

She wiped her eyes, lip wobbling. You put a hand on his shoulder, taking over. "No, there isn't," She mumbled, "I'm just… this whole thing's freaked me out."

Johnny raised an eyebrow, and you sighed. She didn't sound very convincing. Something wasn't right here. Still, you knew it would be hard to get anything out of her when she was so upset.

"Alright. You—you're free to go." You took a deep breath, hesitating before you spoke again. 

"...But if you do want to tell us anything, you can come to us and we can—we'll speak off the record, if it makes you feel better."

Johnny frowned. "I think maybe—"

You flashed him a strong glare, cutting him off, before turning back to Phoebe. She sniffled, eyes darting between the two of you. When she settled on you, she allowed herself to relax a little bit more than when she'd been looking at Johnny. She nodded wordlessly, fiddling with a silver charm bracelet on her left wrist, and you gestured towards the door. "Go wash your face, drink some water. Tell your friends they're free to go. 'Kay?"

She gave a small smile at your gentler tone. Once she was gone, Johnny was on you. "We could have pressed her further. Why did you even offer to go off the record if we haven't ruled her off as a suspect, that's breaking bureau protocol—" 

"We'll talk about this later," You answered as you stood. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched the three teenagers leave.

He lowered his voice as you opened the door. "Y/N, I can't believe—"

"You're letting them go?" The secretary—Beatrice, you believed was her name—asked, glaring at you. Her coiffed blonde bob bounced as she shook her head disapprovingly. Immediately, Johnny straightened. 

"There's not enough evidence to keep them here," He said, "Besides, they're minors. It's always tricky with them."

"It's so obvious that they did it." Doyoung crossed his arms, "They've clearly been influenced by all that stuff on MTV."

You sighed. "The FBI recently concluded a years long study researching any correlation between homicides and media consumption and found that it only occurs in 0.01% of cases. If there were any it would mean thousands of people murdering tens of thousands of other people. It'd be the biggest conspiracy in human history."

Doyoung scoffed, giving you a mocking glance. "Yeah, and J. Edgar Hoover never admitted the existence of the mafia. Really trustworthy source, the FBI."

Johnny barely contained his scoff. He glowered at Doyoung as he gently pushed your upper back towards the door. 

"Our investigation is ongoing."

ROSE GARDEN HOTEL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—19:57 hours, Thursday, February 11th, 1993

Johnny's door opened to a sight of you, no makeup, in sweatpants and hair tied up. You took in his appearance. He had on a similar pair of sweatpants, and a white t-shirt. His hair was pushed back, and he was wearing his reading glasses. 

"What's up?" He asked, letting you in. 

"I found something," You murmured, holding up your laptop as he closed the door. You sat at the foot of the bed, and he sat next to you. You opened the laptop, green text flashing onto the screen. His shoulder brushed yours due to the proximity. 

"'The grisly discovery of a young boy's mutilated body in the woods in the early morning has local law enforcement worried about the organization of conspiratorial dark forces.'"

He nodded. "Okay, is that from this morning's newspaper?"

You didn't answer, but rather read another quote from the article. "'The Jew is known to sacrifice teenagers and remove their organs during their religious rituals.' This is from a Nazi newspaper, from 1934. I found another similar case from 1967, where they pinned it on LSD users. The details are always the same, they just fill in the blanks with whoever was being persecuted at the time."

Johnny met your eyes. "And this time, it's occultists."

"Maybe this is some hidden organization, but I'm not sure. But something's just… not right. I have a bad feeling." 

"Something to do with that girl?"

You nodded. "Is there anything you picked up? Something I might not have noticed?"

He chewed on his lip. "Now that you mention it, I did notice something a few minutes ago, but it doesn't have to do with her. Come on."

He stood, and you set the laptop down on the bed before following him to the bathroom door, where he flicked the light on.

"So, we're in the northern hemisphere." He marched to the sink, leaning over it.

You leaned against the doorframe. "Last time I checked, yes."

He pressed the plug into the sink drain, before turning on the faucet. "The Coriolis Effect dictates that due to the Earth's rotation, water should swirl clockwise, right?"

You nodded, having an idea of where this is going. He motioned for you to come closer. He turned off the faucet. By now, some water had filled the sink just enough. He removed the plug, and you watched as the water went down, whirlpool swirling counterclockwise. 

"Johnny—"

"Something is here, Y/N. It's strong enough to affect this, then who knows—"

"Johnny, the Coriolis Effect works on storms and large bodies of water. Sinks and bathtubs usually don't fall under—"

He groaned, tipping his head back. "Of course," He grumbled, "It's been like this since day one."

You squeezed your eyes shut in frustration. Yes, in your time working with Johnny, you'd seen some truly unexplainable things. A pyromaniac that could light things on fire with his mind, a prehistoric parasite that turned its host violent, a serial killer that entered houses by squeezing his body through impossibly small spaces like an octopus. 

But still, you always had your doubts. "Johnny, once cases are over and we have our explanations, and I've seen things for myself, have I ever not believed you—"

"You don't trust me during these cases, Y/N, that's what matters! It's always been like this, I'm always right, but you never believe me, you go off and write your little notes about me like I'm some field experiment—"

You frowned and crossed your arms. "Johnny—"

"Have I ever gotten anything wrong? 90% of the time, my conclusions are the correct ones—"

"We come to those conclusions together! Don't start taking credit for them now."

"Oh, so you believe it only when your name is also on the report, huh?"

"Don't twist my words, Johnny. You know what I mean. I believe my conclusions first, and then I listen to yours and based on circumstantial evidence and once I discard all logical scientific explanations, then I turn to the extraordinary. I don't jump to conclusions like you do!"

"Why can't you be a good friend for once and fucking listen to me—"

"Because I'm not your friend, Johnny! I'm your fucking coworker!"

The silence that filled the room once you were done was deafening. It was only then that you realized how loud you'd gotten. The shocked disappointment in Johnny's eyes seemed to be even louder, though. 

Immediately, you realized your mistake. Yes, you'd grown close to him, but that was necessary for working well on these assignments. Keeping your work life and your personal life separate was paramount for you. Evidently, Johnny didn't feel the same, and as a result, you'd hurt him.

For a long time, no one said anything. Simply staring at each other, small space ripe with tension. Your eyes softened when he looked away from you, leaning his back against the counter. You took a step closer, until he was right in front of you.

"Johnny, I—"

"Can you get out, please?"

You stared at him for a few moments, trying to think of something to say. 

Ultimately, you didn't. You took a deep sigh, and grabbed your laptop on the way out.

Being an FBI meant you had little to no personal time, working pretty much 7 days a week and being on call for anything at any time, in any part of the country. You knew that when you started your training.

You'd entered with a statement and left with a question. Could you really call Johnny a friend? You really only saw him during work. You didn’t meet outside of it—but considering how much you worked, always on call and spending nights holed up with him in hotel rooms or in your office going over evidence of different cases, at what point did you start spending more time at work than at your day to day life?

PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE, FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—10:11 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

You were looking between the notes you’d scribbled down on a small notepad using a pen you’d stolen from Johnny the day before. It was while you were transferring them to the report on your computer that you jumped in your seat when the office door burst open. Mrs. Walker guided a sniffling Phoebe Howard into the room. Johnny, who had been speaking to Doyoung to ask him about other students, turned his head. 

Doyoung held up a hand, to which Johnny nodded, and the shorter man walked over to the two of them. "Phoebe, are you alright?"

She shook her head, breaking into tears again, unable to speak. Doyoung turned to Mrs. Walker, who simply patted her head. "Lab project," She murmured, "They had to dissect pig embryos. She just… broke down. I've seen it happen before. Some kids are just more sensitive than others."

"No, no, it's not that," Phoebe blubbered, "Can I…"

Despite everything that had happened last night, when you looked at Johnny, you saw he'd done the same. A tense, knowing stare was shared between the two of you, and then Phoebe spoke.

"Can I speak to Agent L/N please?"

Your head snapped to her when she said your name. You stood, and nodded.

You lead her out the door while ignoring Doyoung’s frown and Mrs. Walker's confused look. Johnny followed behind at a distance. 

The three of you went out the door, to the outdoor lunch tables. You had Phoebe sit down, Johnny and you remained standing. 

"What is it you wanted to talk about, Phoebe?" You said gently.

She took a shaky breath, rubbing her hands together. "So… Do you know who my stepdad is?"

Thinking back to when you'd made a basic profile on the three kids yesterday afternoon, you nodded. "He's the gym coach here, right? Grant Howard?"

She nodded. "So… he married my mom when I was 6. And he adopted me when I was 8. One year after that my mom got a new job, a-and she started travelling a lot, y'know? So I was alone with him a lot more. I-I don't know when it started, but…"

The sinking feeling in your chest grew as she started to cry again.

"S-sometimes when she wasn't here, h-he would invite people over. They'd come i-in with these red cloaks and they—would bring small animals. Kittens a-and puppies, birds sometimes… They would take me down to the basement, to a room where the walls are painted red and there's this dirt floor, and they would—they would stand in a circle and sing and they would give m-me knives, o-or screwdrivers and…"

You sat down next to her, rubbing her shoulder as she let out a gut-wrenching cry. Looking at Johnny, the hand that wasn't in his trench coat pocket was balled into a fist. He was looking down, eyebrows furrowed.

"I didn't want to!" She wailed, "They would hurt me if I didn't, they said they would hurt my mom if I said anything! I had to be the one to kill the animals and then they w-would drink the blood—I don't know how I blocked it out or why I never remembered it until Mrs. Walker put the—the pig on the table, and I… I… I just…"

"It's okay, honey," You murmured, nodding. She buried her head into your shoulder, sobbing freely, and you rubbed her back to soothe her. 

Again, you looked at Johnny, who didn't look at you. You realized just how difficult it would be to keep this off the record—this was something that involved a child being abused, you couldn’t let her go home to a dangerous situation. 

This just got a whole lot more complicated. 

HOWARD RESIDENCE, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—15:49 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

Phoebe was to remain at school. Donghyuck and Amy would pick her up, and she would spend the night with Amy. She wouldn't be going home until the situation was thoroughly investigated. She'd been left with Doyoung, who would speak to her as a mandated reporter, and would later go back to attempt to finish the project. You left her your number in case she needed to speak to you again. 

You'd spoken to Mrs. Walker as her final class was out, just before you and Johnny left. The lab was spacious. A large python lay sleeping in a glass case in the corner of the room. The space was ripe with the smell of blood, which didn't surprise you, given the amount of pig embryos she was having her students dissect all day long.

The woman had a soft voice, and seemed very sympathetic to Phoebe's struggle. "I absolutely understand, I might have her do something else for her grade, but I'm afraid I might not be able to find any other activity on such short notice."

You nodded, sighing. "Of course. Thank you for considering, regardless." 

Your eyes fell to her desk, where a small basket of random items glinted with a small charm bracelet, the same bracelet you'd seen on—

"Ah, the students usually ask me to hold onto their things when we get messy like this," She said with a smile when she noticed where you were looking. "You said you're a doctor, so you understand, right?"

"Oh, yes. I can't really wear anything at all," You said with a soft chuckle.

"Not even a ring? Oh, your husband must be disappointed." 

You felt your face heat up, scratching your neck awkwardly. "I'm not married."

She smiled. “Oh, good for you then. It’s literal hell. And, you get to ogle your partner all day.”

You choked on your spit, coughing awkwardly. “I-I’m sorry, what?”

She laughed, waving her hands, “Oh, Agent L/N, don’t be so modest. You can’t deny that Agent Suh is an absolute dish. Why, if I were 25 years younger… oh my, the things I would—”

“I really must be going, Mrs. Walker,” You insisted quickly. “I’ll contact you should I have any other questions for you."

“Could I have your phone number, in case anything comes up? I-I’ll admit, this whole situation has frightened me a bit.”

You nodded sympathetically, ignoring how uncomfortable you’d felt a moment ago. Pulling out Johnny's pen and your notepad, and you jotted down your number there.

“Y/N?” A knock sounded, and Johnny popped his head in the door. “We need to go.”

“Yeah, I know,” You replied, tucking the notepad back into your pocket. You bid Mrs. Walker goodbye, and off you went, kitten heels clacking as you went.

As for your time with Johnny? The entire ride there was tense.

“Were you expecting that?” He asked a few minutes into the ride. You raised an eyebrow.

“The secret cult that forced a nine year old girl to murder puppies and kittens?” You answered in a clipped tone, “No, John. I can’t say I was.”

He hummed. "Okay… no tape recorder today?"

"I forgot it. Left it at the hotel."

He nodded, and that was that. 

Her mother and adoptive stepfather were, to say the least, shocked at their daughter's confession. You spoke to the girl's mother in the living room, Johnny spoke to her father. Mrs. Howard, whom Phoebe had insisted had never said anything was beside herself, crying as she spoke to you.

“Mrs. Howard, you’re absolutely sure you’ve never witnessed any violent behavior from your husband?”

She nodded, sniffling. “He’s always treated me and Phoebe very kindly. In front of me, at least.”

You hummed, looking down at the carpeted floor. “You said this is your husband's house, and he’s lived here longer than you have? Have you been in all parts of the house? Is there maybe an area a guest might not know about?”

She looked up at the ceiling in thought. “After hearing what Phoebe told you both, it made me realize that I’d never been in the basement. Grant’s always said that was his woodworking space, and he didn’t want anyone in there.”

With a nod, you looked at her. “Could my partner and I maybe take a look at--” 

A commotion from the kitchen cut you off.

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING OF THE SORT! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE ACCUSING ME OF, SUH!”

You shot up, and so did Mrs. Howard, just in time to see Grant Howard push Johnny into the cabinet. Your training kicked in, and you stepped between the two, holding up your hands to placate the man. 

“Calm down, now,” You growled, dangerously low, “Or I will place you under arrest for assault of an officer.” 

“Grant,” Mrs. Howard called, “Breathe.”

“Leave, both of you! If you want to see my basement, get a damn warrant and you’ll see there’s nothing down there!”

You tugged Johnny away by the wrist, leaving out the front door. “What happened?” 

Johnny shook his head in aggravation. “I asked to see the basement, said that it would clear my suspicions of him. He said he didn’t hurt Phoebe, and I said I didn’t believe him. Then he snapped, grabbed me by the collar and shook me.”

He unlocked the car. “Should we try and get that warrant?”

You got into the passenger seat, shrugging. “I can do it.”

Johnny nodded. “Hopefully we’ll find—”

A ringing from Johnny’s phone caught him off guard. He fished the phone out from his pocket, answering, “Suh.”

“Sheriff, what’s going on?”

You could hear him through the speaker, and you didn't like what you heard. 

"We'll be there right away," Johnny said, face turning serious.

ROOM 471, FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—17:37 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

"You're saying she just… had a seizure?"

"I was sitting at the desk, and she was about halfway through the dissection when she just… collapsed on the floor," Mrs. Walker said, voice trembling, "She was shaking and her eyes were rolled up into her head… Agent L/N, it was terrifying."

You sighed and looked at Johnny, who was speaking with the sheriff. When you looked back at Mrs. Walker, she was shaking her head. "I feel a dark force is among us, Agent L/N," She murmured, putting a hand on her chest, "So many horrible things in such a short span of time."

"Agent Suh and I are working hard to solve the case, Mrs. Walker. I promise we're doing our best."

"Y/N," Johnny called, "We gotta go."

You bid the older woman goodbye, and she gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Once you were out the door with Johnny, your voice lowered. "What do you got?"

"Not a lot. The Howards have been notified, but Grant Howard isn't being allowed into her hospital room."

"Who called the police?"

"Clinton."

"Clinton?" 

He shook his head, grimacing to himself. "Shit, sorry. Beatrice Pratt. The secretary." 

You stared at him. "Pratt and Clinton don't sound alike at all."

"Well, yeah, but…" He scratched his head and lowered his voice. "The pantsuit and the bob remind me of the first lady."

You frowned. "I wear pantsuits all the time."

"Yeah, but you don't look like Hillary Clinton."

You sighed. You didn’t have time for this, especially when he was still mad at you. "Okay. Sure, whatever. I talked to Walker. I… I'm not so sure about her."

Johnny tilted his head. "Why not?"

"I don't know. I don't have a lot to go off of, but it seems just a little bit odd that she shows up the morning of Mark Lee's death, replacing a man who apparently hasn't missed a day in a fifteen year career."

"Maybe he had an emergency. Happens to everyone."

"Johnny, he contracted flesh eating bacteria. Does that sound like something that happens to everyone?"

He didn't answer. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting that. "Ohhh-kay, then. Let's do this. The sheriff said that the warrant should be ready within a few hours. Howard would probably beat my ass if he sees me again, so you check out that basement, and I can do the background check on Walker. Sound good?"

"Actually, I don't think you'll need a warrant."

The two of you turned, stunned, to see Grant Howard standing in front of you both. His eyes were rimmed red and he was clearly restless, shifting his weight onto his legs constantly. 

"Agent L/N, I'll show you the basement."

HOWARD RESIDENCE, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—18:09 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

"My entire life," The man said, sounding tired, "I was taught that humans are no better, no worse than animals. Do what thou willst, rather than do unto others." 

He pulled open the basement door, gesturing for you to go first. Immediately, you were on edge. If you had your back turned he could easily push you down the stairs or hit you in the head.

"You go down first," You ordered. He nodded understandingly. "You were saying?""My family has kept this religion for seven generations. My great, great, great, great grandfather was born in 1777, Agent L/N, and he was the one who brought us into it. We've been keeping it alive since, with two other families. It kept us in good health, we had no money problems."

When the two of you got to the bottom of the stairs, he turned the light on and you realized Mrs. Howard had been right, it did look like a normal woodworking space. Until Mr. Howard pulled a rug up from the ground to reveal a hatch, which he pulled up to reveal another set of stairs.

"I was raised to believe that Christianity was synonymous with hypocrisy. And for years, I believed that." He led you down this pair of stairs again, where he lit his flashlight. The room was a bit smaller than the basement but still large enough to keep a large group of people like Phoebe had said. Also identical to her story were the red walls and the dirt floor.

 "Believed?"

"Believed," He confirmed. "I believed until I saw it in my own religion as well, not even an hour ago. When I got to the school to gather my things and was met by the heads of the other 2 families, asking me to pin the murder of Mark Lee on my own daughter. That if she were permanently affected by what just happened, we could get away with all of it. That was when I knew that I was better than an animal. I need to keep Phoebe and Linda safe."

"So one of you did murder Lee," You murmured, trying to get a solid confession. However, he shook his head. "I didn't. The others insist they didn't either." 

"Who did, then?"

He sighed. "Agent L/N, you have to understand, I'm trained in these arts so I know when there’s a difference somewhere. Something is here. Something bad."

 You frowned. "Alright. Did you or did you not abuse your daughter?"

"I never laid a hand on her. The others, however… they wanted to make sure she would stay quiet through fear, and they wouldn't listen to me. We have a ritual that blocks out memories, every time we would perform that ritual when we were done. The plan was to reveal the memories when she turned 18, and then allow her to join or reject the religion. It's a rite of passage."

"Why even use Phoebe in the first place?"

He shook his head. "The magic of an innocent soul is a powerful thing. It's one of the most powerful things we could ever use in our magic. That's also why we used those sacrifices. She was the youngest of all of our children. The others were all past 11 at that age."

With a sigh, you led him up back to the main basement. "Would you be willing to give me a written statement of who the heads of these families are?"

He nodded. "Of course. I just want my daughter and my wife to be safe. They believe that whatever's here wants a sacrifice. That it took Mark Lee as a warning to us, and unless it gets a sacrifice from us…"

"It'll strike again," You finished."And it won't stop." He sounded desperate. You found your notepad, but the pen was nowhere to be found. "Do you have a—"

Your cellphone ringing interrupted you. You groaned quietly, scooping it from your pocket. "Hello?"

"Y/N?" You heard Johnny's voice say. His tone was urgent. There was a faint crackle of static, but as you listened it began to get louder. "I'm at the school. You need to hurry, Y/N, there's something—!"

The static overpowered the sound of his voice, and then the call dropped. "Johnny? Johnny! Hello?"

Your heart dropped, and you tucked the phone and the notepad into your pocket. "I need to go. My partner's in trouble."

"I'll go with you," He offered.

You shook your head. "No. You're under arrest."

"What? But—"

"You just admitted to animal abuse, your complicity in child abuse and conspiracy. If I take you to the school, how do I know you won't take the other two and bolt?" You snapped. "Against that beam, there.

Pulling out some handcuffs, you forced him against the side of the stairs, where you handcuffed him to the railing. "I'll come back for you later," You growled, "Don't move."

Rushing up the stairs, and out the door, into the rain, you ran towards the car. Johnny needed you. 

Your friend needed you.

FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—18:30 hours, February 12th, 1993

You burst into the school, trying to keep calm despite the horrid feeling in your gut. You eyed the office, which was right next to the main entrance. The lights were on, you could see your laptop was on. But the seat was empty, and so was the rest of the office, or so it seemed to be from where you were standing. Taking a deep breath, you pulled out your gun, and entered the office slowly. 

"Hello?" You called, looking into the window of Doyoung’s office. Empty. The principal's office? Empty. Your mouth felt dry. 

Where was Johnny?

"Y/N?"

In a moment your professors at the academy would've been ashamed to see, you shrieked, and turned the gun in the direction the voice came from. But when you realized it was Johnny with a styrofoam coffee cup, whose eyes had gone wide at the sight of the gun pointed at him, you lowered it.

"Don't fucking scare me like that," You muttered as you tucked the gun into its holster. A second later, you raced forward, engulfing him in a hug as you realized that he was okay.

"Y/N? What's… going on?"

You pulled away once it registered what you'd done. "Sorry," You mumbled. "What happened? Where did the thing go?"

"Y/N, what are you talking about?"

You shook your head in confusion. "You called me. You said you were in danger. My heart fell out of my ass, Johnny, what happened?"

Johnny's face contorted at your statement. "Huh? Y/N, I never even touched my phone. I was running the background check on Walker—who, by the way, is pretty much clear in the system. But… I don't know."

Staring at him, you put your hands on your hips. "Johnny, I heard your… never mind. We have to go. Howard confessed."

His eyebrows shot up. "He did it?"

"No, but he admitted to conspiracy and has names. Come on, we have to go."

For the millionth time today, you made your way from the school to the Howard residence, where you found the door was still open. As you opened the door to the basement, you looked at him.

"He's down here."Johnny turned on his flashlight, and you followed him down the steps. The room was eerily quiet, and when Johnny flashed the light at where you said he was, it was empty.You huffed at the sight of the empty handcuffs. How had he slipped out of them?

"Y/N," Johnny said, flashing the light a few feet away, "Look."

You turned to see what he was pointing at. Your eyes widened at the sight of bones, tinged pink with the small chunks of meat still attached to it.

"Do you think it might be some kind of acid?" You asked, and Johnny shook his head.

"There's no sign of a reaction on the floor," He answered, flashing the light around the basement floor. He stopped a few feet away. You felt yourself grow even more confused.

"Is that—?

""Snakeskin," Johnny whispered, "...There's a python in Walker's class."

"B-but, that's not possible," You muttered, "It would take a snake hours to consume a grown man, and weeks to digest it!"

Johnny grabbed your wrist, shaking his head at your rambling. "C'mon, Einstein," He told you, "We gotta go pay Walker a visit."

ROOM 471, FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—19:01 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

The school was a lot darker than when it had been when you had been there previously. Seeing the halls, which you'd grown used to being full and lit up, suddenly so dark and empty made you uneasy.

 It was raining a lot harder now. The sound of the rain pelting the roof made it harder to listen for anything. When you got to Walker's room, it was also dark. She said she'd be here until eight grading papers, but the room was empty. There were some broken beakers on one of the lab tables, and when you really strained your ears to listen, the sound of soft yet strained breathing could be heard behind the desk. 

"Mrs. Walker?" You called, slowly walking towards the desk. Johnny tried the light, but to no avail. The rain must have knocked it out.

The woman was on the floor, nose bleeding and leg bent at an angle at which legs weren't meant to bend at all. She seemed to have been hit in the head, a sizable lump protruding from her temple.

"Th-the snake—" She mumbled, "They took the snake—He hit me,"

"Who, Mrs. Walker, who?"

"Kim," She spat out, "Pratt. I think they—think they killed that boy."

Doyoung and Beatrice. You and Johnny exchanged glances, and you remembered what Grant had said.

"Did you see where they went, Mrs. Walker?" Johnny asked. She blinked hazily.

"Said something about the conference room," She muttered.

"We'll call paramedics for you, okay?" You stood, trying to reassure her gently. "You'll be fine."

Johnny had already picked up the phone. Thunder crackled overhead as he dialed the number, but you could hear the busy tone all the way from where you were standing

."Damn storm is jamming the signal," He said, "Y/N, we gotta go, now."

"Johnny, what about—"

"Y/N," He growled, "Now."

Something about his tone set you off, and you did as he said. He immediately shut the door, and sped up his steps down the hall. 

"What was that about?" You asked, turning on your flashlight and trying to keep up with his pace. 

"Y/N, do you have that pen you borrowed from me yesterday?" He asked, not slowing down. Thunder rumbled overhead.

"What?" He had a point, probably. He always did when he got like this. "No, I dropped it I think."

"The pen was on Walker's desk. Next to the phone. Next to Phoebe's bracelet. It was my pen."

You inhaled sharply as Johnny tugged the door to the conference room open. "What are you implying?"

"Walker was clear in the system. But when I was talking to the principal yesterday, she couldn't even remember hiring her. What are the odds that a woman pops up out of nowhere the same day a murder happens?"

You pulled a filing cabinet open, looking through random folders. "Okay, yes, we agree. But what if—"

"Y/N, did you not see how tall she was?"

You shook your head, turning to pull out some papers from a file. "Sure, she's a bit taller than average, but she's shorter than you—"

"She's slouching to look smaller. Trust me, I did that when I was younger. If she stood up straight, she would be taller than me. Donghyuck said the thing that grabbed Mark was tall, had female breasts, and had dark hair. She fits the profile."

You sighed. "I mean, maybe you—"

A thud! and a groan from Johnny had you turning your head. Your flashlight landed on Johnny, on the ground, unconscious. Your body turned cold. 

"Johnny—?"

But then you felt something hit you in the back of the head, and everything went dark. 

Your eyes cracked open at the sensation of being dragged, and as your eyes adjusted to the darkness, you realized two things. 

One, you arms and legs were bound, and there was a gag placed in your mouth. You craned your head, and Johnny was in the same situation as you, only he was still unconscious. 

And two, you were being dragged by Hillary Clinton. 

Shit, no. Maybe you'd hit your head harder than expected. Your vision cleared up further, and you realized it wasn't, in fact, Hillary Clinton, but rather Beatrice Pratt. Doyoung was dragging Johnny, and then you realized what was going on. 

These were the others that Grant Howard had been referring to. They seemingly hadn't realized you were awake yet. You were in the school gymnasium, headed towards a doorway in the corner. The room was dark, occasionally lit by flashes of lightning.

"—The showers, right?" Doyoung asked, sounding out of breath. Beatrice huffed. 

"Yes. The blood will get washed away there."

You couldn’t move your hands, no matter how much you squirmed. Your eyes looked at Johnny, who was beginning to stir. His brows furrowed, mouth trying to form words. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Doyoung hummed, disdain dripping from his voice, “Lovely.”

Johnny’s eyes cracked open, immediately glaring at Doyoung, who chuckled. “Please. I’m terrified.”

“Doyoung, shut up,” Beatrice snapped. “Open the door.”

Doyoung let Johnny’s legs fall onto the floor. Johnny groaned in discomfort as Doyoung opened the door, propping it open with something.

He approached Johnny again, but before he picked him up to drag him further, he landed a swift kick to Johnny’s gut. Johnny let out a muffled moan in pain, and you thrashed against your restraints.

“You just had to come and ruin everything, huh? This is a once in a century opportunity, and you--” He proceeded to kick Johnny again, over and over, “Just--won’t--quit.”

“Doyoung!” Beatrice snapped. “We don’t have time for this. Don’t you sense it getting angrier? If we don’t sacrifice them now, it’ll take us like it took Grant.”

Doyoung turned to her, breathing heavily through his nose. “Fine,” He bit out.

They dragged you into the bathrooms, leading you to the showers, where they dumped you both next to each other. You rolled onto your side to look at Johnny, whose eyes were screwed shut in pain. His breathing was labored. 

You squirmed again, trying to free yourself as the shower roared to life. Curling in on yourself as cold water soaked your body, you tried to think of a way to save both Johnny and yourself. Doyoung and Beatrice pulled out large daggers from their  coat pockets, and raised their arms to the sky. They began chanting in latin, but the roar of water, the shock of the cold temperature, and the panic beginning to set in caused the words to blur together. 

This was it. You and Johnny were going to die. 

Until the two of them crumpled on top of you. You jumped as Doyoung’s weight toppled onto you, eyes squeezing shut in pain. His elbow had landed on your stomach. For a moment, as you lay there reeling in pain, and you wondered if this was a part of the ritual. But then…

"Agent L/N?" Your eyes shot open, and you met eyes with Amy Espinoza. She managed an awkward attempt at a polite smile, fiddling with what she was holding in her hands. Your eyes widened when you registered the shotgun. A flashlight was duct-taped haphazardly to the barrel, probably so that she could see wherever she was aiming.

"Mmh-hffpnffh?" You couldn't stop yourself from trying to speak, unable to contain your surprise. 

A second set of hands turned off the shower, and you craned your neck to see Donghyuck Lee, holding an old baseball bat underneath his armpit. He pulled Beatrice off of Johnny, making a disgusted face. "I always knew there was something up with her," He grumbled, "She never laughed at my jokes."

"Yeah, 'cause you're annoying as shit," Amy countered, pushing Doyoung to the side. "Can you guys sit up?"

She untied your hands, and you got to work on untying your feet before pulling the gag off of your mouth. 

"What are you two doing here?" Johnny asked, voice raspy and out of breath. 

You stood up, wiping water off of your face. "Where did you get that gun?"

 "Oh." Amy suddenly sounded embarrassed. "I, uh… Stole it from my dad?

"Donghyuck helped Johnny stand. "We went to visit Phoebe in the hospital, Mr. Suh—"

"Agent Suh," Johnny corrected, bringing a hand to his stomach. "Whatever. Anyway, we went to visit and once she woke up she told us something… not good."

"Mrs. Walker is the thing," Amy said. "Phoebe said she was dissecting the pig and she saw her grab the bracelet she'd given her—"

"And she did something and her eyes turned orange, like the thing we saw in the woods!" Amy continued. "The officer that was there didn't believe her, but we did."

"So we decided to take matters into our own hands," Donghyuck said. "She killed our best friend, so we thought—"

"That coming to your school with a shotgun and a wooden baseball bat, to kill a demon was the best course of action?" You didn't sound amused, and the two of them exchanged a look.

Amy looked down. "Well… when you put it like that…"

"It doesn't matter," Johnny said. "You kids need to go home now. It's not safe for either of you." 

"Like hell we're going anywhere! We were able to save you guys, so—"

“You kids got lucky this one time," You pointed out, sounding stern, "Agent Suh and I are trained for dangerous situations like this. You two aren't, and we certainly aren't about to expose you kids to one. Go home."

You searched your pockets, not finding your gun. You crouched to look through Doyoung and Beatrice's pockets, handing Johnny's gun to him and putting your gun back into your holster.

"But—"

A large crack of thunder startled you all, and the ground seemed to rumble as it did. Johnny looked past you and the kids, at the end of the shower hallway, and inhaled sharply.

"Oh, that's so much worse than Hillary Clinton," He mumbled. You didn't even see what he meant, but in that split second something in you took over. You pulled Donghyuck behind you, Johnny grabbing Amy and doing the same. 

At the same time, Amy aimed the gun to where Johnny had been looking, the light landing on...

Donghyuck gasped. "Holy shit."

It was like exactly what Donghyuck had said, except worse. Glowing, orange eyes, goat legs, stringy black hair. Johnny was right—standing like this, she was much taller than him. Her jaw was unhinged, open impossibly wide. She was panting heavily, hobbling slowly towards you. 

You and Johnny pulled out your guns, shooting instantly. One hit her in the shoulder, the other in the stomach. Her jaw opened even further, and a blood curdling screech echoed throughout the tiled room. 

Then she broke out into a run. 

You forced yourself to stand still, shooting another round before she jumped over you. Out of the corner of your eye, Donghyuck swung the bat, hitting her in the leg, causing her to fall face first to the ground.

 Taking that advantage, Johnny fired another round into her back. She shrieked again, and you and Johnny took the opportunity to run out the door, pushing the kids with you.

"Go! Both of you, now," You ordered once you were in the gym again. They shook their heads. Donghyuck held up his bat.

"We're not leaving without—"

"Donghyuck, this isn't a movie," Johnny insisted, "Now go!"

 Amy grabbed his arm. "Hyuck, they're right, we have to—LOOK OUT!"

You turned to see what had once been Mrs. Walker stick its head out of the doorway. Amy was able to fire one last shot into it, with her shotgun. You didn’t see where it hit—the door shut and you heard one final wail. 

A few moments later, the lights flickered on. You stood there, clothes dripping onto the hardwood floor for a good minute or so, until you looked at Johnny, who wore a pained grimace. "I can check," You told him. "Stay here with the kids." 

"You sure?" He asked. You nodded, holding out your gun and slowly making your way towards the door. You spared the odd trio one final glance. 

Johnny—soaking wet hair falling into his eyes—was standing in front of them, aiming his gun at the door. Donghyuck was holding his bat up, Amy's MacGyver-esque flashlight gun making you squint.

Then, you opened the door. You could feel your heart hammering a mile a minute. Very slowly, you scanned the room. You stopped when you glanced at the showerhead Beatrice and Doyoung had placed you under—the same one they should have been under, knocked unconscious. You swallowed a lump in your throat. 

Because they weren’t there, and neither was Mrs. Walker. What you did see, however, were two large streak of blood dragged up the wall and to a window, staining the green tiles.

PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE, FRANKLIN PIERCE HIGH SCHOOL, BELDAM'S GLENN, NEW HAMPSHIRE—20:47 hours, Friday, February 12th, 1993

The four of you made your way back to the main building on high alert. The rain seemed to have stopped once the thing was gone. Amazingly, there wasn't even a cloud in the sky. Even the air felt different—cleaner.

Shockingly, this time when Johnny tried the phone again, it worked. In order, he called the sheriff, who had no issue believing the ordeal you had gone through. Then the principal, who was incredibly confused as to how four of her teachers could vanish in one night.

 And then, you turned to the kids and gestured to the phone. "Alright, your turn now. Call your parents, both of you."

If they were more afraid of the murderous hellspawn they'd just helped you fight off, it didn't show. "Please just let us go now, Agent L/N," Donghyuck pleaded, "My mom will never let me leave my house again after this."

Amy shook her head. "My dad's gonna kill me if he finds out I stole the gun again."

Johnny made a face. "Again?"

She turned even paler when she realized her screw up. "I'm not going to omit witnesses from a report because you'll get grounded," You told them. "You're good kids, with good intentions. You just lost someone and had another friend go through something traumatic, we get that. But what you did tonight was incredibly dangerous, reckless, and—and—"

"Stupid?" Johnny offered.

"Johnny!" You snapped, lowering your voice. He shrugged.

You sighed, trying to get them to understand. "Alright, listen. There's a Yellow Pages over on that desk. If you don't call them, I will, or the sheriff will. Which would scare your parents less, huh? Getting a call from their kids, from the sheriff's department, or from the goddamn federal bureau of investigation?"

If they didn't get it before, they definitely understood now. Amy took the fall first, telling her dad she'd brought her car to the school, had gotten into trouble, and needed him to come by to talk to the police. She left out the gun, much to your amusement.

While Donghyuck did the same, you pulled Johnny into the hallway to speak to him.

"Are you okay?" You asked, "Doyoung seemed to kick you pretty hard." 

"I'll take a few days off once we get back to DC, I'll be fine," He murmured. He leaned against the wall and winced.

You nodded, but weren't sure how to respond. Finally, you spoke again.

"Look, about last night," You said softly, and he looked up in thought. 

"What about it?" He didn't seem to want to meet your eyes.

You took a step forward. "Johnny, other than when we first met, have I ever treated you like you were crazy?" 

Your voice was quieter now, gentler in its approach. He looked to the side, crossing his arms. "...No."

You shrugged, before sighing. "It's not that I don't trust you. I have my scientific conclusions. You have yours. Every time I see something I can't explain I try to explain it with what I do know. Tonight was… insane, and you were right. But honestly? It just reinforced my wanting to go the scientific route every time we have a case."

He frowned. "Why? You saw Walker."

"Exactly." You crossed your arms. "If I went into every single case, expecting to see that or something even worse? God. I… I don't know how you do it, John."

He smiled, but still didn't meet your eyes. "I didn't mean what I said last night either. Y'know… that. Or at least, I didn't realize I didn't mean it until today. I… I care about you, Johnny. I really do. You're smart, and you're really funny, and you give me perspectives I wouldn't consider otherwise."

He looked at you, and you put a hand on his upper arm. "I'm glad I have a friend like you to work with," You admitted, "And I'm glad you're okay."

His smile grew, and he let out a chuckle. "There's no one else in the bureau I would rather be murdered by Hillary Clinton with," He said, with the most endearing tone possible. You burst into laughter, Johnny joining you. He stepped closer, pulling you into a hug as you continued to laugh. Your eyes shut, and despite Johnny's cold, damp clothes pressing against your cold, damp clothes, it still warmed your chest. The two of you stood together for a while, enjoying each other's embrace. His chin rested on your head, and you sighed happily. Johnny gave good hugs.

"Uhh, Agent Suh?"

Johnny and you broke away immediately. Johnny cleared his throat."Uhh, yes, Donghyuck?"Amy and Donghyuck exchanged a glance from the office doorway. "Uh, my mom said she'll be here soon. A-and I saw some police lights across the street, so…"

"Oh." Johnny straightened his tie. "Thank you."

A few seconds later, the sound of sirens came into proximity. You took a look at these two kids, and despite the stress they'd caused you, you felt an odd fondness in your heart. 

“Come on, you two," Johnny murmured, "Time to go."

X-FILE 229-B: THE SAN CEFERINO SHIFTER

FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C—07:08 hours, Wednesday, July 6th, 1994

On this particular summer morning, you were enjoying the air conditioner for as long as you could wait. You'd be flying to San Ceferino, California, twenty minutes outside of San Francisco. 

The assignment was at a gated community where three women had been found dead within the span of three weeks. You and Johnny would be sent in to investigate due to a strange, unidentifiable residue being found on the bodies. A local detective had contacted the bureau for help.

The kicker? For some reason, due to some sensitivities of having their community "invaded" the head of the community had requested you be placed undercover.

So what was the bureau's idea? "Moving" you and Johnny into the community, posing as a newlywed couple. 

Yikes.

This seemed like a bad idea to you, but you didn't say anything. Because if you spoke up to your superiors, they'd ask why, and you'd be forced to explain. 

"I got the flight tickets and our fake profiles!" Johnny entered your shared office, causing you to look up from the case file.

"Oh, nice. Who are we?"

He curled his lip, making a face. "Whoever makes up these names should be demoted, I swear to god. My name is Fox. Fox Kang. Who the hell names their kid Fox—"

You stifled a laugh as you grabbed the file from him, flipping to yours. Dana Baker. A bit ordinary, but the more inconspicuous, the better, you figured. 

"God, I kind of don't want to go," You hummed, "It's hot enough as it is here in Washington. I don't wanna imagine the California heat."

"Well, suck it up," He said, but he didn't sound dismissive. "We're leaving in three hours. We still have to pick up our undercover wardrobe and get to the airport, y'know?"

Frowning at the profile, you nodded half-heartedly. It stated that your backstory was that of college sweethearts at Cornell in the 80s. He was class of 1984, you of 1986. You were moving to California two months after getting married, because "Fox" got a job offer just outside of San Francisco. 

"You're staring at that paper like you're Nancy Kerrigan and it just broke your knee," Johnny pointed out, "You okay?"

"Huh?" You looked at him, swallowing. "Oh… yeah. I'm fine. I'm just a bit… unsure about the whole marriage thing." 

Johnny shrugged, offering an amused smile. "Really, Y/N. We've been working together for two years and you still find me that unbearable?"

You laughed, standing and circling your desk to stand in front of him. "No, not at all. I'm just not the best when it comes to undercover work."

Johnny leaned against the desk, smiling sympathetically. "Well, I'm no Tom Hanks either. But if you think about it, we spend all our time together anyway. It's not that big of a stretch to say we might as well be."

"We definitely argue like one," You fired back. You both laughed, simply staring at each other in silence once it quieted down. Johnny's eyes studied you up and down, dark eyes warm. He was wearing his glasses today. 

You wondered if he was judging your outfit, because he did that sometimes with other people. Apparently, before he became interested in criminal psychology he'd wanted to become a fashion designer, or so he told you. Six months later after he'd told you that and you still weren't sure if he was joking or not.

"What are you looking at?" You asked. He shook his head. 

"...Nothing. Let's get going?"

The two of you picked up your faux suitcases—the bureau had a department full of fake clothes for agents going undercover needing to fit a certain persona. The two of you were nothing close to the white picket fence suburban life, so you were better off picking up some fake clothes.

You laughed when you saw the first outfit Johnny had been given. A pastel yellow LaCoste polo shirt, and grayish blue dress shorts. He glowered at you when he saw your face.

"Oh, yeah, very funny."

Your outfit wasn't much better. High rise, light wash jeans and another polo, this one bright red, a pair of dark red casual loafers to match. Johnny didn't laugh, but it was clear he was trying not to.

You decided to sleep on the plane. There wasn't a lot to look over, as you'd received the file the night before. By now, you knew the drill. 

You dreamt you were back in that hotel room in Oregon. Johnny was kneeling beneath you, but you still hadn't taken your robe off. He was saying something, but you couldn't understand what. His eyes were full of a warm emotion that you couldn't quite place.

Until he raised his arms to try and remove the robe. This time, when he spoke, you could hear him clearly. "This is what you wanted me to do, right?"

Your hands grabbed his. "What? Johnny, I… Well…" 

He stood, face impossibly close to yours. There was an odd smile on his face. "Don't worry," He murmured. "I want to, too."

Slowly, your hands let go of his and he began to pull off the robe. You didn’t protest. When you were bare, his hands slid to the skin of your waist, and he pulled you against him. His forehead pressed against yours.

"Johnny, are you sure?"

"Y/N," He said with a smile, "We are beginning our descent into LAX. Please put on your seatbelts and put up your trays."

You jumped awake in your seat, eyes impossibly wide. A laugh from beside you caused you to turn your head. Johnny was giggling into his palm. 

"What?" You asked, voice raspy from sleeping. 

"Oh my god, that was beautiful," He declared, "You were sleeping so peacefully and then, oh my god, that was hilarious."

"Ha, ha, ha." Your tone was devoid of any emotion. You rubbed your eyes, yawning slightly. "What time is it, here?"

"Three hour time difference. It's one PM." 

You nodded. And you still had a six hour car ride. Lovely. 

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE I-5, CALIFORNIA—15:22, Wednesday, July 6th, 1994

"Couldn't they have just flown us to San Francisco and have us drive from there?" Johnny complained after being cut off by yet another car. 

You sighed. "Budget cuts, I guess. We're not infiltrating the mafia, or taking down human trafficking rings."

"Yeah, we just fight the boogeyman and the little green men," He agreed. You laughed. 

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we hadn't gotten assigned together?" He sounded wistful, not taking his eyes off of the road. 

"I don't know." You picked at a loose thread on your jeans. "I would probably still be teaching at the academy. I think Brooks was considering placing you with Jung if I wasn't up for it."

"Jaehyun Jung?" He turned his head, making a face. "Really? He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," You insisted, "He just thinks like me, science before all, except… less nice about it."

"You sure?" He asked, fiddling with the radio, "Every time we're in a room together, I catch him staring at me like he's trying to shoot lasers into my head, the prick."

You shrugged. "He's nice to me."

"That's just 'cause he's trying to get into your pants."

You hummed. Jaehyun was pretty handsome. "Would that be such a bad thing?" 

He coughed, shrugging. "Well, it's your love life. You do you."

The air turned awkward. Johnny fiddled with the radio, but in this particular stretch of the interstate, all that came up was a Latin beats radio. Trumpets, and soft snare drums filled the car. You immediately recognized Selena's Bidi Bidi Bom Bom, a song about a girl realizing her heart went crazy whenever her lover passed by—while you didn’t listen to a lot of Latin music, you had a friend who did and always played this song when you met up.

Me tiemblan hasta las piernas

Y el corazon igual

Se emociona, ya no razona

No lo puedo controlar

"Oh, I hate this song," Johnny mumbled, reaching to turn the radio off.

"No, wait! I like it." You pushed his hand away. He groaned, but didn't turn it off. 

Y me canta así, me canta así…

Bidi bidi bom bom, bidi bidi bom bom

Bidi bidi bidi bidi bidi bom bom

Bidi bidi bidi bidi bidi bom bom

So, the two of you continued on listening to Selena, Johnny silently pouting. 

"So, what were you dreaming about on the plane?"

"Huh?" You cleared your throat.

"Yeah, you said my name in your sleep."

You shifted in your seat. "Oh… Um. I can't even remember."

He hummed, but didn't say anything. The drive continued on, both of you alternating between discussing mundane things and the case. All of them had been found in their homes, with no sign of a struggle—which suggested they knew their assailant. They'd all been strangled to death. No odd fingerprints could be recovered from the crime scenes. 

The first victim lived alone. The other two's husbands had solid alibis that were confirmed by the police. 

Which meant that it had to be someone in the neighborhood. There was reportedly a strong sense of community there, which was part of why the bureau had you going undercover. 

Around six, the two of you rolled into San Francisco, for a brief stop to talk to the detective who had contacted the bureau, a woman named Wendy Son. 

The two of you rolled into the precinct, and upon showing your badges, were prompted to the woman’s office. She had her light brown hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing a black pantsuit similar to what you would wear, had you not been dressed like a soccer mom.

"Oh, thank you for coming," She said once you sat down. "I have some extra material here that I wasn't able to fax you."

She pulled out a folder, setting it in front of you on the desk. Johnny opened it to reveal more images you hadn't initially seen. 

"We sent the sample to Los Angeles because their laboratory has a higher capacity," She told you both, "They still weren't able to identify it, but apparently it apparently has an a mild tranquilizing enzyme. That might also be why there wasn't much of a struggle." 

Johnny hummed. "There aren't any cameras in San Ceferino, are there?" 

Detective Son shook her head. "Only around the perimeter and the gates." 

"Maybe there's something there," You said, "Could we have access to those tapes?"

She looked back down at the pictures. "I could certainly get it to you by tomorrow afternoon, though. Come in past two and I should have it by then."

Johnny nodded and smiled at her. "That would be great, thank you." 

She smiled, and you'd have to be blind to not notice the blush on her face. She handed him the keys to the house that the heads of the community had arranged to have semi-furnished ahead of your arrival. The rest would be arriving tomorrow in the morning, during which time you would go through the motions of being a newlywed couple moving into their “forever home”.

Johnny apparently was blind, though. He didn't say anything about it once you were both back in the car. You couldn't really blame her. 

Johnny was… well, he was Johnny. He was incredibly handsome, and funny. Any reasonable person interested in men would find him attractive. 

"Detective Son likes you," You told him as you were getting onto the road that led to San Ceferino.

"Does she?" He answered, smiling smugly. "She's pretty."

You don't know why that ignited something in you. "You think so?"

He nodded. "She seems nice. But I'm not interested."

The odd sensation in your chest simmered down. "No?"

"Not really. I'm not interested in something long distance. Plus, I work too much to have a relationship."

You nodded. "Yeah. I understand."

You arrived as the sun was setting, around seven. The two of you pulled into the gate to the place, where you introduced yourselves with your fake names to the guard. He checked his roster of approved people and let you both in. 

San Ceferino consisted of four different cul de sacs, each house practically identical. The house you would be staying in was towards the end of the second one. The house was a pale pastel yellow, orange rays of the sunset making it seem a deeper color. Your car rolled into “your” driveway, and with a sigh of relief, Johnny turned the car off. 

“I’m so tired,” He groaned, “Should we try and introduce ourselves today or tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” You said, letting your head fall back against the headrest, “These people are probably all having dinner or something, it’d be weird for us to do that now.”

He nodded, and got out of the car to open the trunk. You got out to grab your suitcase, and as you were getting out you realized that just maybe the universe disagreed with your decision to wait to meet others around the neighborhood.

A woman was crossing the street. She seemed a bit older than you both but was still dressed almost identically. You walked over to Johnny, who had his back turned, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Fox,” You mumbled, “We’ve got company.”

He turned, and upon spotting the woman flashed a comically fake smile. You offered the friendliest smile you could muster, but the way her eyes lit up when doing a once over of Johnny and then drooping in disappointment once she spotted you. If she thought she was subtle, she was dead wrong.

“Hi,” She said, impossibly enthusiastic, “I’m Anne Morrison. I’m the head of the Homeowners Association.”

You nodded in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you,” You said, holding out your hand, “I’m Dana. This is… my husband, Fox.”

“Fox,” She repeated, turning to look at Johnny, “That’s a lovely name. So, what brings you two to San Ceferino?”

“Oh, I got a job offer in San Francisco a few months ago,” Johnny answered. He was good, you decided. “We looked at some houses in the city, but it’s so busy there, you know? We were living in Maryland, so the transition between small town and big city… it’s not for us.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “I absolutely understand. My ex-husband wanted to move to the city now that our kids are in college. I don’t enjoy any of the hustle and bustle, really.” She chuckled, “So guess who got the house in the divorce!”

You and Johnny exchanged a glance, then laughed as if it was the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “Oh, my goodness,” You wheezed, clutching your hand in your chest, “I can imagine!”

“So, what do you two do?”

“I’m an architect,” Johnny said.

“I’m a publicist.” You scratched at your cheek when you felt a mosquito try to land. Her eyes zeroed in on your hand.

“You two are married, right?” She asked, “How come you’re not wearing your rings?”

You froze. Did the bureau even have fake jewelry? Why didn’t either of you think of that detail?

“Oh,” Johnny shrugged, coming to the rescue. “It’s so stressful having to take everything on and off at the airport, so we decided not to wear them today. Right, honey?”

He wrapped his hand around your waist, and you nodded. “I never wear jewelry when I’m on a plane. Too much hassle.”

She nodded, mouth slightly agape. “Oh, I see.”

Johny cleared his throat. “What do you work as?”

She grinned. “I’m a chemist.”

“I hated chemistry in high school,” Johnny groaned jokingly. Anne apparently thought this was hilarious, swatting his arm. He laughed again, but it was empty, awkward. You leaned your head against his shoulder in hopes that she'd get the message. 

“Well, Anne, it was lovely meeting you,” You declared, “But we’ve been awake since five in the morning travelling. We’re exhausted, we really should be getting inside.”

Anne sighed, eyes turning away from studying Johnny’s face to you. “Oh, go ahead. You two must be so tired.”

Johnny nodded, pursing his lips. “We’ll speak soon?”

She smiled. “There’s an HOA meeting on Friday night at another member's house. You should come and see what we’re all about, consider joining.”

"Swing by tomorrow!" You grinned, "You can tell us the details then."

"Of course, of course. Well, I'll leave you two to it. It was nice meeting you, Dana." She raked her eyes over Johnny one more time, "...Fox."

When she was out of earshot, Johnny pulled the suitcases out of the trunk and scrunched up his nose. "That was... awkward."

Your hand pulled up the extendable handle of the suitcase, looking back at her to see her close the door to her house, which was at the very end of the cul de sac. 

You looked back at him. "So, a chemist. And she's involved with the community, everyone probably knows who she is."

He shrugged before closing the trunk. "Let's keep an eye on her. She gives me the creeps."

The two of you made sure the car was locked before making your way towards the front door. He fiddled with the keys

"She might even have a motive," He said, as you stepped inside. "Ah, c'mon, aren't you gonna let me carry you over the threshold?"

"Not the time," You said, picking up your suitcase to carry it to the bedroom. "We were talking about a motive. Evidently, she likes looking at… married men. If it's her, she might be doing it out of jealousy."

"Exactly," He agreed, following you up the stairs. "Maybe there's something else at play—jealousy or something. how old were the other victims?" 

"Between 25 and 35. She didn't say how old she was, did she?" You rolled into the bedroom, sitting on the bed and immediately flopping down onto it. Johnny rolled past your room, looking for the separate bed the bureau had said would be there as well.

"Finally," You sighed with a smile. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you stifled a yawn. For a second, you considered falling asleep just like this, uncomfortable jeans be damned. 

"Y/N?" 

You cracked your eyes open, frowning at Johnny who was standing in the doorway. "What?" 

"There's only one bed."

You almost stopped breathing for a moment. "Huh?" 

He shuffled on his feet. "There's only one bed," He said, speaking slower.

"What do you mean there's only one bed?" You sat up.

Johnny sighed. "I mean there's only one bed." 

"But the bureau said—"

"Well, the bureau lied," He interrupted, "Because there's no other bed."

You  crossed your arms. "I could take the couch."

"That's supposed to get here tomorrow." 

"Oh," You frowned. What were you going to do? 

"I mean, I could sleep on the floor," You said, "So that way we don't have to sleep, you know…"

"Together?" He offered.

"In the same bed," You corrected, turning your face. It felt hot all of a sudden. 

"No, I couldn't do that to you." He set his suitcase next to yours, then sat next to you. "The bed seems big enough. I'm sure we'll be fine."

You were too tired to argue further. "Sure…" You didn't sound too convinced. 

"Great," He sighed, "I just gotta tell you. I snore a bit."

KANG-BAKER RESIDENCE, SAN CEFERINO, CALIFORNIA—08:43 hours, Thursday, July 7th, 1994

That night, surprisingly, you slept like a baby. You initially thought you'd overthink it all with Johnny lying right next to you but… it was comforting, knowing he was there. You hadn't slept next to anyone since you were 26.

Life as an FBI agent was demanding. Because of this, you'd given up on the idea of having a meaningful relationship ages ago. And due to the nature of your work, it was easy to throw yourself into it to drown out the desire to have someone to come home to. The fact that whenever you did get free time, if you spent too much of it alone… 

But now, lying awake in the morning, seeing Johnny's sleeping face curled up into his pillow… You remembered. 

He looked peaceful. Even at 33, like this he barely looked a day past 27. You could make out the details on his face, old acne scars and the occasional mole. The smile lines along his cheeks and the corners of his eyes… maybe in another lifetime, another universe, you could have gotten used to—

No. You shot up, heading towards the en suite to go to the bathroom. You were still sleepy, that was all. The time difference between Washington and California was having second effects. 

You pulled down your pants, blinking sleepily, and promptly had a heart attack when you sat down. Your knees barely missed your nose, your stomach dropped, and a shriek tumbled out of your lips before you could even register what was happening. 

Standing, now wide awake, you had half a mind to pull up your pants as Johnny tumbled into the bathroom, eyes wide in alarm.

"What happened?" He asked, voice raspy from disuse. You didn’t answer, but instead stared at the offending lifted toilet seat until he got the message. 

"Oh…" His face turned awkward, lips tilting from side to side. "I got up a few hours ago. I must have forgotten to put it back down, sorry." 

You didn't answer, yawning instead. He shrugged. "I've never… lived with another woman before, so…"

"Never?"

His eyes looked down. "...Never."

"Not even with that ex-girlfriend from Oxford you told me about?"

"Mary? No."

You held back an amused grin. "Johnny, when was the last time you even went on a date?" 

He pursed his lips. "I… am starving. Do you want me to go to the supermarket to pick something up for breakfast?"

You blinked, putting your hands on your hips. 

"...Breakfast sounds great."

Johnny promptly changed and left while you got into the shower. Once you were out, you brushed your teeth, did your general morning routine and waited for the car to roll back into the driveway, doing a quick background check on Anne in the meantime. 

No criminal record whatsoever, but that didn't automatically discard her from your list. Mostly because she was the only one on it, so far. 

Johnny rolled back into the driveway just before 9:20. You helped him take the bags into the kitchen, when he said, "Think fast!" and tossed you a small box.

"What's this?" You asked, opening the box. You sputtered at the sight: two simple gold bands. He looked at you like you were a moron.

"Wedding rings," He said, plucking one of the rings out from the box, "Hopefully so Anne lays off."

"You didn't have to go out and buy actual—"

"It's fake gold." He waved his hand dismissively, sitting down at the island and slathering an ungodly amount of cream cheese across a bagel. 

You settled on some coffee after hesitating to put on the ring. As you were finishing up, a knock at the door caught your attention. You looked at him, and he shrugged. "Moving van won't be here till 10:30."

So, you sighed, but still headed to the door. Johnny followed behind, second bagel in hand. When you swung the door open, you were met with Anne and a man you hadn't met yet. A wide Cheshire grin was plastered onto her face.

"Dana, hi!" She greeted. Her eyes landed on Johnny. "Good morning, Fox."

"Morning, Anne," You said with a nod, catching her attention again. You turned your eyes onto the man and held out your hand. "Hi, I'm Dana."

He shook your hand with a friendly smile. "My name's Scott Hernandez. I'm on the HOA board."

Johnny walked up to the door, putting a hand on your shoulder. "I'm Fox," He said, face speckled with crumbs and mouth full of food. You wanted to crawl into a hole.

"Hey, man," Scott said, eyeing Johnny, "Uh… Welcome to the neighborhood!"

"So," Anne asked, eyes raking over Johnny's chest, "How was the first night?"

Johnny swallowed his bagel before speaking. "It was lovely. We just snuggled up together and slept like little baby cats." He turned to you, eyes warm. "Isn't that right, honey bunch?"

Your neck snapped to look at him, holding back a look of disgust. "That's right…" You racked your brain for something sweet to call him and a moment later came up with, "...Poopy head."

Poopy head? Nice one, L/N.

Johnny’s smile faltered for a second, but neither Scott nor Anne seemed to notice. You flashed them both a bright grin. "So! Would you like to come in?"

Scott and Anne nodded. "That'd be great, thanks," He said. You led them into the dining room, where Johnny managed an awkward laugh. "Sorry it's such a mess, we just got up about an hour ago and I immediately went to the supermarket."

"Oh, don't worry, Fox," Scott hummed, sitting at the island, "Moving is so stressful. Especially with…"

Anne flashed him a dirty look. You raised an eyebrow at the interaction. "With what?" You asked, tilting your head as you feigned innocence. Anne sighed, shaking her head.

"Three women have been… murdered over the past few weeks." Scott looked down. "Police haven't been able to catch who's responsible."

"That's horrible," Johnny murmured, standing next to you. "Did you know them?"

"We know everyone because of our HOA responsibilities," Scott answered, "I wasn't that close to any of them, but they were all very nice women. It's awful, what happened to them. You knew Yolanda, didn't you, Anne?"

She nodded, eyes glassy. "Her son and mine used to play together. She was such a nice woman. Lovely family, too. It just breaks my heart." 

"I'm sorry for your loss," You told her. She offered a sad smile.

"But what, is it someone from the community or what?"

Anne shrugged, eyes full of concern. "The police don't really know, but it would make sense if they were from the community—"

"It couldn't possibly be someone living here," Scott huffed, "Everyone knows everyone, why would someone want to—"

"Scott is just in denial," Anne said, waving her hand. "Did you two really not know?"

"Not at all," Johnny replied, eyes wide with fake worry, "These past few weeks have been so hectic we barely had time to sit down. Right, honey?"

You groaned, partially putting up an act and partially in disgust at the name. "It's been a nightmare!" 

You made up some problems, like a crappy travel agency, yard sales, things going missing, stuff like that. Johnny occasionally chimed in, embellishing your stories. Occasionally, Anne or Scott would ask a question, and Johnny would answer with something he pulled out of his ass. 

"So that's why Fox isn't allowed coffee, anymore," You said a few minutes later, rolling your eyes. Scott was cackling, Anne giggling into her palm. Johnny glared at you, but there was no malice behind it. 

"But anyway, I'm guessing you two didn't come here to hear about how anxious I get with caffeine." Johnny turned to the pair. "What brings you to the... Kang-Baker residence?"

"Oh, we came to talk to you about joining the Homeowner's Association," Anne explained, "Not everyone in the neighborhood is a part of it, but it's very convenient to join." 

They laid down the basics, and as they talked, you realized just how much you appreciated living in an apartment rather than a house. Yes, it was a bit small at times, definitely not as idyllic, but 300 dollars as an initiation fee, and monthly payments of 150 dollars? You had half a mind to call the bureau and tell them that the real crime was the extortion from the Homeowner's Association. 

You didn't really see any advantages—probably because you didn't even own this house and wouldn't have to worry about selling it later. It just sounded like a nightmare. What did they mean you could only paint your doors pastel colors if you joined?

When they finally left, you looked at Johnny. "Maybe I'm not cut out for the American dream after all. That HOA stuff sounds even worse than the time we got attacked by the flesh eating virus."

He held back a laugh. "That bad, huh?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, this is much more irritating. The moving van will be here any second, come on, let's go."

127TH PRECINCT, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA—14:29 hours, Thursday, July 7th, 1994

After unloading the furniture boxes (empty boxes with nothing really in them), you and Johnny settled on lunch—some crappy junk food—and drove all the way to the police station where Detective Son worked. 

"What did you think about that Scott guy?" You asked Johnny, who shrugged. 

"Seemed nice enough. We'd have to look into him too, since he's also involved in the community."

You nodded. "I'll run a background check once we get h—back to the house."

He glanced at you, but said nothing. "...What are you doing once this is over?"

You furrowed your eyebrows. "What, once we get back to DC?"

He nodded. "Well, yeah."

You stared ahead at the car in front of you. "Oh, well… I'm not sure. Probably finish writing that stupid report for Brooks and then curl up on my couch, watch some movies, drink some wine. I don't know."

He snickered. "What, and watch Pretty Woman for the 700th time?"

Smacking him in the shoulder lightly, you huffed. "Which is no better than watching Full Metal Jacket 700 times, and you know it, Johnny Suh."

He shrugged. "Well, if sex on a piano is what does it for you then who am I to judge?"

"Shut up." You rolled down the window, the heat too much to handle. 

When you finally got to see Detective Son again, she handed you the cassette and made her way towards the door. When she spoke, she looked only at you. "I'm actually headed out to check out another call we got just now," She explained, "But feel free to use the VCR in my office to look it all over."

She left, not even looking Johnny in the eye. You turned to Johnny, who was wide-eyed. 

"And you said she likes me."

In her office, you went over several days' worth of sped up hours of footage of six different camera angles. By the third hour of watching sped up, grainy footage, Johnny huffed. "I don't think we'll get anything," He said, "Especially considering the killer didn't even need to break their way in—"

"Hold on, hold on." You shook your head, eyes zeroing in on a dark shape in one of the cameras. You walked up to the VCR machine and hit the rewind button.

"Watch camera six."

He narrowed his eyes, fixing his glasses as he watched the dark shape run out from the treeline and up the wall, then out of the camera's view—presumably inside the community. You rewinded one last time, pausing just as it leaped onto the wall.

"There."

"That's too big to be a cat," He murmured, standing to get a closer look at the grainy black and white still image, "Right?"

"Could be a big cat—bobcat or a lynx, maybe, but…"

"It's movements are too… jerky for it to be a cat."

You hesitated, before nodding. 

"Could this be the thing we're looking for?" Johnny asked, and you crossed your arms, giving the dark blob a skeptical look.

"Looks like we have some digging to do."

One more hour of poring over the footage, plus another hour of looking at the archives of the police department turned up nothing on big cats in the area. There'd been no calls to 911 to report big cats in the neighborhood, and looking over the tape again showed nothing else, not even the thing leaving.

Which made Johnny’s theory that it was still there weigh even more.

By 7:30PM or so, Detective Son had returned. "I brought coffee," She said, entering the small space, "Find anything?"

You shrugged. Johnny looked at her. "We saw a weird blob go inside. It never came out and we couldn't figure out what it was."

She frowned. "There haven't been any reports of wild animals there in years. Not since that huge military base opened up."

Johnny's eyebrows knit together. "Army base?"

She nodded. "Fort Talbot. It's about fifteen minutes west of San Ceferino. There aren't a lot of roads that lead to it, they're pretty private."

You locked eyes with Johnny, who was probably thinking the same thing as you. Military base? That was new.

 “I don’t suppose you could take us to see it?”

She shrugged, raising her eyebrows. “I mean, we could try, but there’s a fence around the perimeter about a mile or two away from the actual base. They’re not gonna let you in.”

“No, we’re not military,” You sighed. “But thank you for telling us about that.”

SAN CEFERINO, CALIFORNIA—20:44 hours, Thursday, February 12th, 1993

When the car rolled into the driveway, the two of you had found that Anne was at your front door. You shot each other a quizzical look when she turned at the sight of your headlights. “What’s the cougar doing here?” He sighed, and you elbowed him.

“Hush. Be nice.”

She reached the car once you’d both stepped out. “Oh, I was wondering where you two were! I wanted to invite you over to have dinner. The spinach quiche I made was a bit too big for just me!”

At the mention of the meal, your stomach panged in hunger. All you’d had since you left the house was that coffee Wendy had given you. Plus…

Johnny seemed to read your mind. “We’re starving. Quiche sounds great, thanks so much, Anne.”

She beamed at his praise. “Oh, come on! Wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Anne took the both of you into her house, leading you to the dinner table where she’d already set up spots for the both of you. “It’s not too much, is it? I’m sorry if I’m being overbearing. I really do want you to ease into the neighborhood, and plus, living in this big old empty house gets… lonely.”

As you sat down, you frowned in sympathy. You watched as she began to slice the quiche for you both. “Don’t worry, Anne. I understand where you’re coming from. It’s so lonely in my—or, it was so lonely in my apartment before Fox and I met. Sure, you can distract yourself during the day with all of the stuff you have to do, but at the end of the day you come home to… nothing.”

She handed Johnny a plate, and he took it. “There you go, Fox.”

He smiled, handing the plate to you. “Thank you.”

Her eyes followed his hand, and blinked when she spotted the ring on his hand. “Oh, I see you have your rings now.”

Johnny’s smile grew into a grin, as he held out his hand, flashing the band around his ring finger. You did the same. “No more pesky metal detectors,” He declared, “So why not?”

Anne nodded, eyes lowered. She handed him another plate, then served herself. And then, finally, you all started eating. It occurred to you as you took your first bite that if she was she easily could have laced the food with whatever was in those women’s systems when they died. But that would be too different from the killer’s modus operandi. They only went for women and they killed them in their home. Autopsies didn’t find anything recent in their stomachs at the time of death, so you concluded to take a bite. 

Besides, it smelled good. If you were going to die, then it would be nice to die by the hands of some good quiche.

“So,” You began, “You said your kids were off at college?” 

She nodded, digging around her food with a fork. “My oldest is in grad school at USC. He’s currently in South America doing research on bats, or something, I really can’t remember. My second is off backpacking for the summer, she’s graduating from UCLA next year, and my youngest left for college two years ago. He managed to get a full scholarship to Duke, can you believe it?”

You smiled, nodding. “Wow, that’s impressive.” 

She sounded proud, but there was a sadness behind her gaze. “It’s hard, it really is. Especially trying not to worry. They rarely call and only come home during the holidays. Drives me up the wall not knowing what my kids are up to!”

Johnny laughed. “My mom was the same when I went to college. My freshman year she called me once every day. My roommates always made fun of me for it.”

She chuckled. “Oh, that’s how all moms are,” She turned to you, “I imagine it’ll be the same when you two have kids.”

You almost choked on the food in your mouth at her words. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Johnny go white. Somehow, you managed to hold it back, hitting your chest lightly as the food made its way down. “Oh, well… it’s a bit early for that, I think.”

“We only got married six months ago…” Johnny murmured awkwardly. 

“Oh, I totally get it,” She said, “But, y´know, accidents happen. Especially when you’re still in the honeymoon phase after the wedding. I had my first less than a year after we were married, we weren’t even trying!”

You chewed on your lip. “Well, if something happens…” You met eyes with Johnny, whose gaze was unreadable, “Something happens.”

Not looking away, Johnny licked his lips subtly, before picking up a napkin. Anne didn’t notice, surprisingly, and seemed satisfied with your answer.

You ate a little bit more, when Anne asked, “So, tell me, how did you two meet?”

Remembering the file, Johnny perked up. “We met at a party in college. I was in my junior year, I think? Right, honey?”

You shook your head. “Your senior year,” You corrected, “Because I was in my sophomore year. I remember it like it was yesterday. He came up to me and was wearing this horrible button up shirt—”

“You ended up stealing it from me!” He joked, and you held up your index finger.

 “I use it to sleep. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that in public. Much less to attract a mate.”

Anne cackled, and the two of you laughed too. Again, you managed to make up a story: he was drunk and accidentally spilled some punch on your pants. He’d tried to help you by washing it in the bathroom but only made it worse.

“When I got back to my dorm, it was around three in the morning, my leg was sticky and I was miserable, but we ran into each other a few days later and he was very apologetic about the whole thing.”

“I was mortified,” He said, “I mean, here’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life and I managed to screw it up by ruining her pants. I was so sure I’d screwed up.”

Anne raised her eyebrows. “So, you knew from the start that you liked her?”

Johnny’s eyes landed on you again, turning wistful. He leaned over and grabbed your free hand. “The moment I first laid my eyes on her, I knew. She was the one.”

You tried to smile, but suddenly your chest felt like it was caving in on yourself. You let your hand rest in his for a moment, before pulling away. “Oh, Fox. Don’t get all sentimental on me now.”

Clearing your throat, you didn’t miss the way Johnny’s eyes fell slightly. “If you’ll excuse me, where’s your bathroom?”

She pointed up. “Upstairs to the right.”

This was your chance to get some dirt on her, and put some space between you and Johnny. As you walked away, you touched a hand to your cheek and it came away burning. 

“Get it together,” You muttered to yourself.

The quick search yielded nothing. She had nothing in her drawers, all of the papers on her desk were related to her work at a hair care company. You always could have missed something though. You couldn’t take more than a few minutes, you certainly couldn’t risk her coming up to check on you and finding you sifting through her work documents.

Before you came down, you did your best to leave everything as you found it before heading back downstairs. 

When you sat back down at the table, things were a bit more tense. You sensed it immediately. “Everything alright?”

“...Yeah,” Johnny mumbled. 

“Fox and I were just talking about how… difficult marriage can be.”

You nodded, wondering if that was all that had happened. “Oh, it’s no walk in the park, that’s for sure.”

The rest of the dinner was not as lively. There were more awkward silences, more lulls in the conversation, less laughs. When you finally left, his elbow intertwined in yours, you looked at him. “What happened while I was gone?”

He shook his head as you both crossed the street. “I don’t like her,” He told you in a hushed voice, “She started talking about how it won’t be like this forever and it’s only fun now because we just got married or whatever.”

“What, was she trying to open something up between you and her?”

“I don’t know. She hasn’t exactly been subtle, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she was.”

The two of you marched up into your house, and while Johnny was showering you did a background check on Scott Hernandez. Nothing also. A perfectly ordinary citizen, no criminal record at all. 

Then, it was your turn to shower. As you did, you couldn’t help but think back to Anne’s words. The whole situation, feigning domesticity was proving to be bad for you: you couldn’t help but imagine a small child with his wide eyes and your nose, his lanky limbs and your hands. 

The amount of time you put into your work made you fully aware that it would make having children difficult. Truth be told, you hadn’t really put much thought into settling down. The right person had never been there.

But what if he had? What if he’d been by your side for the past three years?

He had to be putting on an act when he’d said it.

The moment I first laid my eyes on her, I knew. She was the one.

Thinking back to the moment you’d first met him, and he’d come across as slightly patronizing and dismissive of your conclusions. But thinking about when he’d first turned to look at you, that particular morning in 1992…

You turned off the shower. Alone time wasn’t doing you any good, either.

When you emerged from the shower, you sighed as your eyes landed on the toilet seat, which was lifted. You set it back down with a huff before getting dressed.

Once you stepped out of the bathroom in your pajamas, toweling your hair, your eyes fell to the pile of dirty clothes on the bed. “Please don’t put your sweaty clothes, where I have to sleep,” You told him, tossing the clothes into his face. He let out a soft groan, picking them up. 

“Oh, come on,” He grumbled, “They don’t even smell that bad.”

After he set them off somewhere (you didn’t see where as you were shutting your laptop off), he sat back down on the bed, leaving a space open for you. "So, what if we looked into Scott tomorrow?"

“That sounds like a good idea. Tomorrow night there’s that HOA thing we need to go to. We might be able to pick up some more stuff there.”

He nodded, and as you stood in front of the bed he waggled his eyebrows and patted the spot next to you. “Come on, Dana,” He murmured sarcastically, “We’re married now.”

You didn’t smile. He took that as a sign to continue. 

“Plus, if something happens, something happens.”

You grabbed a pillow and flung it into his face. “You’re the worst,” You grumbled. He laughed, but it was muffled from the pillow.

Slowly but surely, you realized with the sound of his laughter, this feeling was soon going to become something you couldn’t ignore.

HERNANDEZ RESIDENCE, SAN CEFERINO, CALIFORNIA—09:02 hours, Friday, July 13th, 1994

When the door opened, Scott Hernandez had a welcoming smile on his face. “Dana,” He said, “Good morning. Did you need anything?”

“Oh, I just wanted to ask if there was an official guidebook or anything for the HOA? Fox and I are still considering joining, but we’d need to go over everything.” You scratched at the cardigan you were wearing. Why did the bureau have to give you something so thick and scratchy when they knew you were coming to California in the middle of July?

“Come in! I’m sure I have a rulebook. Plus, if you have any other questions you could always just come over.”

He led you up the stairs. “I keep all of my stuff in the office,” He explained, “That way my kids don’t mess it all up.”

You offered a soft laugh. “Oh, you have kids?”

“Yep.” His voice was warm. “Two kids, a nine year old and a six year old. They’re not here right now, though. My wife took them up to Washington to see their grandparents.”

“Ah, that’s sweet.” As he led you into the office, your eyes studied the room. A picture frame behind him of a professional family portrait, a houseplant in the corner a big clunky computer on top of the desk, and a cabinet pushed to the side of the room.

Your eyes fell onto the things placed on top of the cabinet, a stapler and some other office supplies. But when your eyes caught a different type of metal that wasn’t the standard gray color, you focused on it. A small medallion, decorated with a ribbon. When you recognized the logo, your eyes widened slightly.

“You’re military?” 

His eyes turned to you, eyebrows raised. Then he looked to the side. “Oh… no. My brother was. He passed away in the Gulf War.”

You looked down, but something about his tone didn’t sound quite authentic. “I’m sorry for your loss,” You answered anyway. 

The silence hung overhead for a few moments, before he pulled out a small booklet. “Here’s a copy of the rulebook.” He held it up, waving it back and forth, “This has pretty much everything.”

“Oh, really?” You straightened your posture, feigning a smile. When he handed it to you, your smile grew bigger as you looked down at the small book. “I’ll be sure to show Fox when he gets home. I really appreciate it, Scott.”

He waved his hand. “Don’t mention it. If you need anything else, just come on over. I work from home, so I’m here pretty much all day.”

Scott studied your face, and a second later you looked away. “So, I should get going,” You murmured. “I’ll see you tonight? I don’t think nor you nor Anne said where it would be.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Here, actually! Tonight, at 7.” 

“Great,” You answered, “I’ll see you tonight.”

When you got back to the house, you walked to the office, where Johnny was waiting. “Hernandez has military links.”

His head shot up. “He does?” 

“There was a military medallion on his cabinet in his office. He looked like he was gonna piss himself when I asked about it.”

“And what did he say?”

“Said his brother was a Gulf War veteran. I didn’t believe him for a second.”

“So could he be our guy?”

You took a deep breath. “Honestly? I don’t know. I could try to look through his office tonight at the HOA thing.”

“You?” He shook his head vehemently. “You fit his profile. All of his victims were around your age. You’re not going somewhere you could be alone with him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Then what?” 

He looked at you as if you were dumb. “I’ll go.”

“But—”

“No.” His gaze turned stern, before walking all the way up to you. He put his hands up on your shoulders. “Y/N, he could kill you.”

“Has that ever stopped me before?” You asked, tilting your head. “Johnny, it’s in the job description to deal with people who could kill me. What’s so different now?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide, urgent, and his face was inches away. You shook your head, trying to prompt him to speak. “What?” 

Johnny pursed his lips, studying your face. And then, finally he shook his head. “Nothing.” 

He stepped away, and left the office, leaving you speechless. You leaned against the desk thinking about what just happened.

For the rest of the day, he was relatively distant. During lunch—you went out to buy some sandwiches—and he barely said thank you, before you ate in tense silence. You could only wait until 7 o’clock rolled around. In the meantime, you placed a call to Detective Son, telling her to look into Scott Hernandez and his family. You typed up the rest of your preliminary report, and then all you could do was wait. 

When five thirty rolled around, you started to get ready. You took only about five minutes, before stepping out, fully dressed. When you stepped out of the bathroom, Johnny had his back turned to you. It was almost as if he hadn’t noticed you were right behind him, because he was humming softly to himself, tapping his foot to a non audible melody. You could hear him humming it though, and after a few seconds of listening. you were able to recognize the song.

He froze when he heard your giggling. “What?” He asked, turning his head.

“Is… is that Bidi Bidi Bom Bom?” You asked, leaning against the wall. He straightened his posture before shuffling on his feet. 

“...No.” 

You raised your eyebrows. “Sure, it isn’t.”

He raised his eyebrow, but it wasn’t as serious as he had been before. And when you spoke again, his mouth grew into a crooked smile. 

“You like Selena,” You sing-songed. 

“Alright, enough. We’ve got a job to do.” He was biting back a laugh. You knew him too much to believe the opposite. 

When the two of you finally walked the few houses towards Scott’s house, he held out his arm for you to hold onto. Taking a deep breath, your hand hesitated before it grabbed onto him. Approaching the house, you could tell that it was alive with a lot of people on the inside. You wouldn’t necessarily say it was overflowing, but you could tell it was definitely close to filling up. 

“Let’s go?” He asked, and you nodded. He led you to the front door, where he rang the doorbell before the two of you waited. 

A minute or so later, Scott opened the door with a grin. 

“Hey, you two! You’re just in time.”

You put on your best smiles. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Johnny sighed. You didn’t miss the tense undertone in his words.

The two of you made your way into the room. Across the room you heard someone call for you both. You held back a groan. You really didn’t need this right now. 

“Hey, over here!” Anne called, beckoning you over. Johnny heaved the sigh of a man ready to end it all, and then you both made your way to her and her group. All of them seemed to be the same age as her. 

“Ladies, these are our new neighbors I was telling you about.” She pointed at the both of you .”This is Dana Baker, and this is Fox… the architect.”

Oh boy. 

And the talking began. You and Johnny having to rehash the same details over and over again. It felt like having to navigate a minefield. You had to recall all of the lies you’d told Anne and Scott, this time in front of an audience of women very clearly ogling the man who they fully believed was your husband. 

You made idle chit-chat after that, but eventually, about twenty minutes had passed until they sat everyone down. The living room was full of grown ups, including a few young children. The thought of everyone being in such close proximity to someone, something that could hurt them all the way it had hurt those other women.

It was easy to tune them all out. It was then that you realized that suburban life would never really be for you. This was all so dull and monotone. You were sure that if you had decided to actually go into the medical field and settled down… you would probably lose your mind. 

They went over some things you didn’t pay attention to: lawns and whatnot. It was so tiring you had to stifle a yawn on more than one occasion. Anne was going on about some infraction that didn’t even sound that bad to you, when it occurred to you to slip away, Johnny be damned. 

You patted Scott on the shoulder as Anne went on. “Where’s the bathroom?”

He nodded back once, “Upstairs. Green door. We’re almost done, though, are you sure you can’t wait a little longer?”

“I had the genius idea to drink two whole bottles of water before we left,” You murmured so as to not make too much of a scene, “I really don’t think I can.”

He sighed, before nodding. “Go ahead.”

Gotcha. You slipped up, sparing Johnny a glance. He was glaring at you. If looks could kill, you didn’t even want to know where you’d end up going. You made your way up the stairs, remembering the way to the office from this morning. You slipped into the office, making your way to the cabinet. The medallion was gone, which made you wonder why he had done so. 

As you shuffled through the drawers of the cabinet and came up with nothing, you had to remind yourself to keep count of how long you’d been up here. You moved on to the desk, shuffling through the papers on the desk and then the ones on the drawer. In the first drawer, you found an ID: Alma Hernandez, Lazarus Programming.

In the second drawer, nothing. 

In the third and bottom drawer, you found something: a pair of dogtags. Neither of them said Hernandez. Instead, they read Simon Walsh. 

Simon Walsh? That was new. You stashed them back into the drawer, suddenly remembering how long you’d been up here. Probably a bit over five minutes. As you made your way back down to the living room, you ran into Johnny. 

“Hey,” He said, “I was just coming to look for you.”

He looked disappointed, bordering on anger. In the small space, you could feel his proximity. You couldn’t help but shake your head.

“I had to take the chance. I wasn’t sure if there would be a chance after this.”

He sighed. “I can’t believe you. Come on, they’re serving pizza.”

You laughed, letting him grab your hand as he led you back into the living room, where you two ate a few slices of pizza. Enough to feel satisfied, but not enough to feel too full. In theory, if you had to make a detainment or worse, have a confrontation then it’d be a bad idea to have stomach cramps. 

You two kept to yourselves, occasionally speaking to other couples who introduced themselves to you. Once you’d finished gorging yourselves on the food, he kept his hand around your waist the entire time. It was a gentle touch, but comforting. You couldn’t help but feel tense.

“After we get home, I’ll tell you all the details I saw.” You looked up to see his face, watching you tentatively. 

“Alright,” He murmured, leaning closer to your face, “But I wanna talk about something together first.”

Raising an eyebrow, you leaned away from him. “What, are you okay?”

Johnny nodded, smile reassuringly. “Yeah. I just realized something earlier today.” 

KANG-BAKER RESIDENCE, SAN CEFERINO, CALIFORNIA—21:17 hours, Friday, July 13th, 1994

When the two of you left, Anne had bid you both goodbye. She’d said Scott had gone to bed with a headache, which made you feel a bit uneasy. The entire way home, Johnny kept himself relatively close. The entire way home, he was silent. It wasn’t until the both of you were inside of the house that he leaned against the front door. As he led you to the couch )which had finally arrived), you tried to remember all of the details you’d seen as you looked through Scott’s office.

When he sat you down, you placed both hands in your lap. He scratched at his shoulder, before meeting your eyes.

“Simon Walsh.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your eyes widened at the same time his had. “What?” You asked, shaking your head. You were suddenly aware of everything going on. You were in an ongoing murder investigation. It was quite possibly linked to a very secretive military base. Three women had been murdered. A fourth would be soon if you didn’t hurry.

“Johnny, I don’t think…”

“No, please. Just a few minutes, okay? I’ve been dealing with this for years. I need to get this out of my system and then we can talk about this back in DC. Please, Y/N.”

Your gut felt heavy at the same time your heart felt incredibly light. It was by far one of the strangest sensations you’d ever felt. Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded. 

“Alright, John. Five minutes. Then we talk about what I found.”

He nodded with a small smile. Gently, Johnny grabbed your hands, rubbing the knuckles with his thumbs. He was silent for a while, tilting his head back and forth as he tried to figure out what to say. 

“What I said last night at Anne’s. I meant it. That first time I saw you, I… I knew. I knew we didn’t get along initially, but I just had this feeling in my chest. You were so smart, and eventually we realized how much we clicked…”

He looked up, leaning closer. You swallowed softly as his eyes met yours again. He managed a soft chuckle. “Y/N, I tried to hold it away. But it got stronger every single day. You understand me. Even though we push back against each other, you don’t think I’m crazy. You take them into consideration and don’t brush them off. I really appreciate that. I look at you and… I’m home.”

Looking to the side, you sighed. “Johnny, I really don’t think this is appropriate. Especially not right now—”

"Y/N, I know what your dream on the plane was about."

You inhaled sharply, alarmed gaze meeting his own. His eyes had turned soft, warm. You knew you had to push him away. The name Simon Walsh was on loop in your head, but you couldn’t find it in you to push him away.

“What?”

“I heard you moan my name,” He sighed, “Trust me, Y/N, I know what I heard.”

He leaned even closer, cupping your face. You could feel his breath puffing softly onto your skin. His eyes were knowing as his voice dropped to a whisper. 

“You want me too, don’t you?”

When his lips met yours, you couldn’t find it in you to pull away. He pulled you closer, and your arms found their way to wrap themselves around your neck. His lips were soft, but demanding. You could tell he’d been waiting for this a long, long time. 

You don’t know when he laid you down onto the couch, but honestly… you didn’t really mind. Johnny was warm, comfortable. And yes, July in California was hot, humid, but… up until Johnny put his hands on you, you’d never realized how cold you’d been, even before your arrival here.

He deepened the kiss, hands sliding down to your waist. They toyed with the hem of your blouse, humming against your lips. You gasped against him, hands sliding into his gelled hair.

Your eyes snapped open. Johnny never used this much gel in his hair.

Two things happened in the next two seconds. You pushed Johnny off. Johnny would never prioritize his feelings like this over a case. You hadn’t seen Scott as you left. All of this pretending, playing house had gotten to you. You were in real danger now.

The other thing that happened? Johnny burst through the door, wearing clothes he hadn’t been wearing when you first left. He was panting heavily. There was a bruise on his cheek and his wrists were red.

You backed away from Not Johnny, who turned to you, gaze now furious. A wave of nausea passed over you, breathing heavily. Whatever Not Johnny had in his system, he had passed onto you with his spit, and you could feel it settling into your system. You looked up at Johnny, before pulling out your gun. Taking a deep breath, you looked at your work partner, closest confidante, love of your life.

“I had a feeling,” You mumbled, realizing how the sinking feeling in your stomach was actually dread.

Stumbling, you heard Not Johnny let out a ghastly screech. You fired your gun at him before passing out. 

SAN FRANCISCO METROPOLITAN, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA—10:39 hours, Saturday, July 14th, 1994

The room smelled sterile. You knew this smell. You’d lived it for several years before in medical school rotations. This had to be a hospital, you realized. Slowly, you let your eyes open. You let out a soft groan at the discomfort of having been stuck in one position for so long.

“You awake?” A deep, familiar voice asked. Your vision was blurry, but you could still recognize it was Johnny. His eyes were rimmed red from exhaustion, but he looked relieved. 

“No. I died, actually.” Your voice was raspy. Johnny scoffed, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible,” He mumbled, “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

“What even happened after I passed out?”

Johnny took a second to gather his thoughts before speaking. “You hit him in the face. It wasn’t pretty. He freaked out a bit, and then he took off. I couldn't catch him. Called Son, she came in with the precinct and they looked through Hernandez's house."

His gaze turned somber as you sat up with a soft huff. Your muscles were stiff.

"They found the real Scott Hernandez, his two kids and his wife, in their basement. Autopsies are being performed today, but it looks like they've been dead a few weeks."

Your eyes shut. Two kids, a man, and another woman. Seven victims total.

"And that thing is still out there," You mumbled, "If only I hadn't been so stupid—"

Johnny put his hand on yours. "Don't say that. Even if you hadn't gotten knocked out, he would still be way too much for just the two of us to handle. Y/N, you shot him in the face and it barely stopped him. He wasn't human anymore."

You shook your head, burying your head in your hands. "Still… I know you, Johnny. I should have seen the signs, but he was so—somehow he knew everything—"

"It's something to do with touch," He said with a nod, "He knocked me to the ground and locked me in a closet before he found you. I was a bit out of it, but I remember he touched my wrist for a few seconds and then he turned into me. My head still hurts, too. Maybe he can also copy some memories from the people he touches long enough."

When you didn't answer, he grabbed your face. He looked desperate. "Y/N, you're only human. I would have fallen for it too."

"I fell for it because he told me exactly what I wanted to hear," You whispered, feeling tears spring to your eyes, seemingly out of nowhere, "He played me like a fucking fiddle and I fell for it."

His thumb brushed away a tear. "Don't think about the what-ifs, Y/N. It's already happened, and now we need to focus on what's gonna happen next. We need to find a way into Fort Talbot. Somehow. Turn your report into the bureau and we can figure it out from there. There’s something going on there. Human experimentation on soldiers, or something."

"We're never gonna get clearance to search a military base, Johnny. It's impossible."

He shook his head. "Y/N, if you were able to convince Brooks to let me, Spooky Suh, FBI's most unwanted? keep running around hunting ghosts and aliens and Bigfoot all over the country, you can figure out a way to get access in there. I know you can."

You were shaking now. "We won't be safe if we do. You think the military won't retaliate? We'd be dead, Johnny," Your words were garbled and your voice wouldn't stop cracking, "There has to be another way."

He shook you gently, shaking his head. "Dammit, Y/N, I can't do this without you."

"They placed me with you for a reason, Johnny," You snapped, "To debunk your work, to reign you in and shut you down—"

"But you saved me," He insisted, "You did exactly the opposite. And as a result we kept working together, and you kept me honest. You… you've made me a whole person."

He rubbed his face with his hand, pushing a strand of dark hair out of his eye. "Y/N, as frustrating as it's been sometimes working with you, your stupud science and rationalism have saved me a thousand times over. I owe you everything. Y/N, you owe me nothing."

His forehead brushed yours, and his eyes fluttered shut. "I can't do this without you," He murmured. And despite the fact that you knew that this was your Johnny, you shook your head. The deja vu was making your head spin. 

"Tell me something the real Johnny would know," You whispered, putting a hand on your chest.

He thought for a second, before sighing. "I had three moments when I realized I was in love with you. When you first walked into my office that morning, I had a feeling," He said, voice full of conviction, "It grew into something concrete when you told me my glasses were crooked. And the moment I knew—I mean, I already knew from that first moment but this was when it truly hit me—was when you told me you'd kept that stupid fucking nasal implant in your sports bra so that you wouldn't lose it."

He laughed warmly, obviously thinking back to the moment. "No one else has ever believed me the way you do. And I doubt anyone else ever will. You're my one in…" He looked to the side, trying to remember the number, "Five billion."

Your hand came up to caress his face. He seemed to melt against your touch. 

This time, when your lips met, everything felt right, despite the feeling that the world was crumbling around you. His hands squeezed your face gently, as if you were about to disappear. When your hands slid into his hair, it felt slightly sweaty still, but it wasn't tacky with gel. 

This was your Johnny. You knew it with your entire being.

Yes, Johnny was sarcastic, stubborn, eccentric and had low impulse control. But he was also highly intelligent, empathetic, hilarious and yes, you could now admit that he was the most beautiful human you'd ever seen in your 30 years on this planet. 

If it had to be him and you against the world, so be it. The truth was out there. You and Johnny would just have to be the ones chasing it.

taglist: @doderyscoffee​ @always-wishing-for-rain​

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hey i love your stories! Can you please write a fanfic where after Lily rejects James yet again, Sirius starts to give James hints that he is into him. Also make Harry time travel to the past while all this is happening. And Harry witnesses a cute Prongsfoot or Jirius or Starbucks. And learns the truth about himself that us parents are James Potter and Sirius Black ?

((A/N: Trans Sirius-- with a brief mention of a trans pregnancy since most of this fic takes place in Hogwarts))

Sirius rubbed a hand in circles against James's back for comfort. Or at least, he hoped it was comforting him, but he wasn't sure if it was having the intended effect. "It's not that bad, mate," Sirius said.

"She looked at me like she wanted nothing more than for me to drop dead," James muttered.

Sirius swallowed and plucked up some courage-- he was always in short supply of it when it came to James. "That's what I mean. She's not interested. Maybe it's time for you to... try with someone else. Someone that already knows you and likes you for it."

"Mm. Yeah," James said, sounding resigned, "maybe." He looked over at Sirius with a small, sad smile. "What happened to 'don't worry about it, Prongs, she'll come around'?"

"You're miserable like this," Sirius said. "If chasing after her is going to make you this sad, I don't care if you end up happily married with five kids, ten years from now. I would rather you be happy now, and only get more happy in the next ten years, rather than be utterly miserable in the beginning."

James laughed, and his smile lost the sadness. "Thanks, Padfoot."

That was more progress than he'd had in the last year. He smiled back.

*

"You make it sound like there's someone just waiting to date me," James said. They were laid out on the Quidditch Pitch, looking up at the cloudy sky. They'd started by pointing out the clouds that they found shapes in, then they started making up elaborate lies for what they saw, then the conversation-- as it so often did when they were talking without direction-- turned to Lily. From there, James admitted that he thought Sirius was right about not trying to date her anymore, and Sirius told him that he would have better opportunities in the future.

"Maybe there is," Sirius said, feeling like his throat had something stuck in it. "Have you taken a look around lately? You're great, and I'm sure someone has noticed that-"

"Mister Potter!"

They both sat up. Professor McGonagall was striding towards them, so they scrambled to their feet. "We're allowed to be out here," James said, sounding both defensive and confused. They weren't going to get in trouble, were they? It wasn't after hours, and the Quidditch Pitch wasn't off limits.

"You need to come with me, immediately."

"I didn't do anything wrong for once," James said, sounding more confused than ever. Sirius felt much the same.

"You are not in trouble," she said, sounding frustrated. "There's a matter the Headmaster needs to see you about."

James started forward, and Sirius did too.

"Your presence is not required, Mister Black," she said.

Sirius stopped in his tracks, blinking at her. Where James went, he went. The professors hardly bothered to give them separate detentions anymore, since they knew there was no point in it. He shared a look with James, and they both shrugged. James left with Professor McGonagall, and Sirius sank back onto the pitch.

Well. Sod everything. He felt like he'd been about to make some progress. James barely thought about other people as a romantic option, and he certainly didn't think of Sirius that way. He'd been about to broach it as a possibility. A very minor possibility. Barely a nudge in the right direction.

He knew what would happen if he told James flat out that he was interested in him: panic and rejection. James would panic when he heard that Sirius fancied him because he hadn't expected it, and when James heard something he didn't expect of this magnitude, he'd run away. James only ran when it was family. His parents. Sirius. Nobody else. Sirius wasn't quite sure when he became part of 'family' and not simply 'best mate', and he didn't know if it excluded him from being a possible partner or not. Once James started thinking about other people, it would be easier to see if he stood half a chance.

*

Harry could never remember seeing his parents. He'd known them when he was a baby, obviously, but that had been it. The complete beginning and end of his time with them. He didn't have any memories. All he had were the photos that Hagrid had kindly given him, and the handful of stories that people had told him. The pictures were great. Harry could look through them a dozen times and not be bored. The stories were barely existent. They were tidbits more than anything else. 'Your father loved Quidditch' and 'your mother was clever'. They weren't full stories about a prank his father had done, or something his mother had done while she was Head Girl. No stories. Just personality traits. He wanted... more. More memories for his parents that were long gone.

He wanted to feel some sort of connection to them. He hadn't meant for that to be taken to an entirely new level, but he should hardly be surprised that his magic had led him to it. Led him directly to his parents at Hogwarts, while they were in sixth year.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Harry said apologetically to Professor Dumbledore, but he couldn't take his eyes off his father. He was only a couple years younger here than he was in the most recent photos Harry had of him. It was strange to think that only a few years from now, the teenager in front of him would be a father. Harry tried to imagine himself doing that, and he couldn't.

"I'm your father?" James asked numbly.

"Yeah," Harry said, adding a nod unnecessarily.

"Who's your mother?"

"Lily Evans."

James's eyes went wide. "Evans? That's- that's not possible. She won't give me the time of day."

"I've been told that you start getting on in the next year or two."

"Told?" Professor McGonagall asked, and Harry hesitated.

"I'm not sure I should say," he hedged.

"Mister Potter," Professor Dumbledore said, and Harry looked over automatically, but the Headmaster was talking to his father. "Could you wait outside for a minute?"

For a second, it looked like he was going to refuse. A small part of Harry hoped that he would, that he'd demand to spend as much time with his future son as he could. But the moment passed and he gave a short nod before leaving the room.

*

"He's my kid from the future!" James hissed into the mirror.

Sirius's eyes went wide. He looked as shocked as James had felt. "What?"

"That's not all. He said that his mum is Evans!"

"What?"

"Apparently we start getting on in the next year or so. He didn't get to tell me more before they made leave the room, but can you imagine? Me and Evans? It was starting to feel like a fantasy, but- I guess we make it."

"Yeah."

He was so excited that he didn't notice how subdued Sirius was. "Merlin, Pads, it's incredible! I can't wait to get to know him. He'll love you. I bet you haven't changed a bit," he said, grinning.

"Ha, yeah, sounds like me."

James heard footsteps on the stairway. "Got to go."

"B-"

He tapped the mirror to end the connection before Sirius could finish getting the word out. He'd apologise for it later, if Sirius was feeling peeved. He shoved the mirror back in his robes. Some of the professors knew that they had them, but there was no reason to wave it around under their noses and risk it being confiscated.

*

By some stroke of fate, Harry got to be alone with Sirius. It made him feel more comfortable than anyone else. He didn't know why, because it's not like Sirius as a teenager was anything like Sirius as an adult. He didn't have the weight of Azkaban on him. He had none of the death, none of the experiences from war. Not to say that he was innocent and carefree here. His parents were utter rubbish, and he'd already run away to live with Harry's father and grandparents.

He was so different that at times, it seemed like he was a different person altogether, but his laugh was the same. When he laughed, Harry knew that he was the same person underneath it all.

It just... made him feel better to be around him.

"Missing home?" Sirius asked. They'd been told to stay inside. Naturally, Sirius had suggested they go out to the Great Lake. Harry had never done it before; it wasn't safe for him, not in his time with who he was. It was beautiful though, with the night sky clear and reflecting on the surface.

"No," Harry said. 

Sirius raised an eyebrow in doubt.

"Missing my friends."

"Ah. I can understand that." Sirius retrieved a pack of smokes from his pocket. He tapped one out into his hand and offered it to Harry.

He hesitated before accepting it. "I've never had one before," he admitted, figuring that it was obvious in the way he was holding it.

"Too afraid your parents will catch you?" Sirius asked with a grin, like the idea of Harry not wanting to get in trouble with his parents was very amusing to him.

"Not really. More like... who would have offered one to me? I'm barely passing my classes with how busy I am."

"Busy with what?" Sirius asked. He didn't think it was a question that was like walking into a minefield, but it was.

"Can't say," Harry said. "How do I light this?"

Sirius snorted, but not unkindly. He flicked out a finger, a flame dancing above his skin. It reminded Harry of when he'd met Remus on the train to Hogwarts in third year and he'd been holding fire above his palm as easy as anything. He lit the end of Harry's cigarette. "Don't try to take too much at once. Small puffs until you get used to it."

Harry smoked the whole thing, chatting back and forth with Sirius. Mostly it was Sirius laughing at him and Harry asking for advice on how to hold it and asking if it was supposed to taste this bad-- the answer was yes.

"So do we get on?" Sirius asked, after he'd vanished the butts and they were just sitting by the lakeside again with nothing to do. "In your time?"

"I'm not supposed to say," Harry said, clamming up.

"Oh, c'mon. It's not the end of the bloody universe if you tell me that I do alright as a godfather. You must like me at least a little bit, if you're spending time with me now. Or I guess you could be running away from your lovebird parents with the eyes they're making at each other," he added, sounding too bitter about it considering he was talking to their son. A son who, as far as he could tell, loved his parents very dearly, even if he wasn't allowed to give any sort of details or stories.

"Do you not like them together?" Harry asked.

"Hard to dislike something you've never seen," he grumbled. "You know who you remind me of?" he asked suddenly.

"My dad?" Harry replied wryly.

"I was going to say my younger brother, actually. Regulus."

"You have a brother? I mean, I knew that you did, but. Well, you've barely mentioned him before."

"Hm," Sirius said shortly. He'd kind of hoped that Regulus left their parents too. In the future, that is. Evidently, it was a hope that never panned out. "Well. That's who you remind me of," he said, throwing on a grin that he didn't feel but looked fine enough. "The hair might be Potter, but your face screams Black."

Harry laughed. "I've never heard that one before. I'll have to remember it when I get back. Ron will get a kick out of it."

"That your best mate?"

"Yeah. He's been with me through everything. Most everything," Harry amended, because there had been that spat during the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament.

"I take it that's an 'everything' I don't get to know about?"

"Yeah."

"I hope I handle it well while it's happening then. Since I know you come out of it alright," he said, nudging Harry with his elbow.

Harry grinned knowingly.

"Ugh, don't tell me I become a swot in my old age," Sirius groaned.

"Not at all. You're just protective."

"That makes sense. You're James's kid, after all. And you do have this air about you that says you need looking after."

"And so you offered me a smoke?"

"I've always been a rebel, even to my own instincts," Sirius said loftily.

Harry laughed again.

They quieted, and a chill wind stirred their hair.

"I've always wondered-" Harry started to say, then stopped himself.

"What?"

"I'm not supposed to ask questions that give you hints about my time. No matter how much I might want to know the answer," he tacked on with a mutter.

"Couldn't you ask me when you get back?"

"Like you'd tell me if I did. You're so evasive sometimes."

"I'm evasive, but what I'm more of right now is curious. Ask me what you wanted to know, and we'll keep it between us. I won't even tell James, and if you remember us from your time, I'm sure you realise what a unique offer this is."

Harry only gave a small smile. "You sure?"

"I don't know if you noticed that I didn't promise to answer," Sirius said with a smirk.

"Oh come on. I'm asking something I'm not supposed to ask, and you won't promise your favourite godson an answer?"

"I don't remember you being my favourite godson yet."

Harry put his hands together in a pleading fashion.

"Merlin, you look like Regulus. He used to use that face on me back before Hogwarts." And it had always worked. "Fine, what did you want to ask?"

"Do you fancy someone? As far as I know, you've never dated or- been interested in anyone."

Sirius clapped a hand on Harry's back. "Sorry to have to disappoint you, Prongslet." He got to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. Wow. As if it wasn't enough to know that he didn't end up with James, he had to learn that he never moved on. He stood on the sidelines and pined uselessly. Great. "I'm going back inside, and I get the feeling not to leave you alone."

Harry gave a faint smile. He knew that he'd overstepped, but there was no taking it back. Sirius didn't seem to be too upset with him, so he'd be grateful for that much at least. "Probably for the best."

*

"You feeling alright?" Sirius asked quietly. Everybody else was asleep. If they were smart, they would've casted a silencing spell around their curtains, but there was never any guarantee. Besides, Sirius didn't know if that etiquette was the same in Harry's time as it was here.

Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had agreed to let Harry stay in their dormitory with them (if none of them minded, which, of course, they didn't). The house elves had brought up an extra bed for Harry to sleep in, so they didn't even have to come up with new sleeping arrangements.

"I thought you'd be over the moon that you and Evans end up together," he continued, when James didn't jump at the opportunity to tell him what was wrong.

"Yeah, I thought so too," James whispered back. "And I was at first."

"Then what's wrong?"

He reached up and ruffled his hair. He knew that Evans didn't like it when he did that, so he'd started stopping himself from doing it when they were out in the corridors or in class. "I'd been thinking about what you were saying. About moving on and dating someone else. Or at least looking at someone else. It had started to sound fun, y'know? Besides, she's a prefect and... tightlaced. I don't really know how much fun we'd have together." He breathed in, then out, sounding tired. Tired beyond the fact that it was late and in spite of there being no classes today, it had been a long day. "I guess it works out," he said, but he didn't sound convinced.

"It's just me here," Sirius reminded him, bumping their shoulders together.

"Lily's great, right? She's beautiful and smart, and she's definitely the catch of the school. I'd be totally lucky to date her. I was just really starting to believe that we weren't right for each other. I guess it's not sitting right because I was starting to accept that it was never going to happen. And- okay don't tell Harry this, but I don't think he looks that much like her."

Sirius nodded. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Right?" James said, invigorated by Sirius agreeing with him. "He looks like you!" He wasn't so excited that he didn't remember to keep his voice down, but the route he went made Sirius frown a little.

Yes, he'd thought that Harry looked a bit like Regulus, but he'd figured that was him projecting protective instincts and misplaced family feelings or whatever the fuck. "You think?"

"Are you kidding? You have the same smile."

"Oh well in that case, there's no one I'd rather raise a kid with," Sirius said, too honest but able to make it a joke with a smile and another nudge to James.

"Me either," James said, nudging him back with a grin.

Harry silently watched the exchange. He wanted to feel some sort of sadness or betrayal that James didn't want to be with his mother, but... well, he was starting to suspect that maybe Lily wasn't his mother. Lily hadn't looked very much in the photos like Aunt Petunia, but there had been a familial resemblance. He'd even been able to link it between Lily and Dudley, no matter how much he's sometimes wished he could unsee it.

He'd spent hours trying to find his own similarities to his family, and he'd never managed it. Not with Lily or the Dursley's, at least. Everyone said that he looked like James, and it was an easy connection to make. Mrs. Weasley had taken a picture of him with Sirius once, and every time he looked at it, he'd felt like he finally had someone he could call family. There were a lot of Black family members, weren't there? Maybe someone in his family tree was Harry's mother. It sounded ridiculous to say on its own, but it made more sense to him than Lily did right now.

He'd try to get some sleep tonight. He wasn't sure how well that would work, but in the morning, he'd see if he could learn more. He was supposed to go back to Professor Dumbledore's office in the morning to see if they could learn more about how to get him back to his own time. If anyone would know how to check who his real parents were, it would be the Headmaster.

His father and godfather had gone to bed a while ago, and there was only the sound of breathing to fill the otherwise silent room. He would've preferred if there was someone talking. Not necessarily Sirius, just somebody. He didn't usually have this problem. Ron had a tendency to talk in his sleep. They usually weren't fully formed words, just syllables that never went anywhere. He hadn't realised how much he'd gotten used to it in the Hogwarts dormitory until now, when it was gone.

He'd been pretty confident in his plan until then, feeling alone in the quiet of the room with people that barely knew him. Also that cigarette he'd smoked made him feel icky, and he didn't think it had gotten out of his system yet.

He wasn't sure there was anything to test. Everyone had believed him the second he said he was James Potter's son. When he'd said that his other parent was Lily, they had paused and looked closer at him before deciding to move on with their questions. He'd thought, originally, that it was because they couldn't believe James and Lily got together. Now he wasn't sure. In fact, he was sure that that had nothing to do with it. It's because he didn't look like her.

The only one that had accepted it straight away was James, and he'd changed his mind later, thinking that Harry didn't look that much like Lily. And with the way he'd been talking to Sirius, Harry wouldn't be surprised if Sirius was his other parent. Well, that's a lie. He'd be very surprised. Mostly because there wouldn't have been any reason for Sirius to keep it from him. Even if they'd had a good reason to tell the lie to begin with, there wouldn't have been any point by the time Sirius and Harry finally met.

None of this made any sense, and the people in this time couldn't even answer his questions; none of them knew why they would've lied, or the circumstances surrounding the things they could've possibly lied about.

He rolled onto his other side and sighed. Why couldn't his life ever be simple? He'd always thought that he knew his parents were, and he was pretty sure he'd been wrong about that. Did he have any proof? No, not yet, but he didn't really have proof that he was Lily's son, either. Everyone said it, but what did that mean in a world where he'd somehow been entered into the Triwizard Tournament under a fourth school that didn't exist, had magic that he hadn't known about for the first ten years of his life, and had time traveled decades, something he'd been told in no uncertain terms was impossible.

He woke up the next day, half expecting to find that he'd gone back to his own time without doing anything.

He sat up and looked around. Nope. Peter was doing his tie in the mirror, and Remus was walking around like a zombie. He glanced towards the other two beds and saw that their curtains were still drawn.

*

Harry went back to the future. He said gave goodbyes to everyone, but with Sirius, he hugged him tight like he never wanted to go. "I know it doesn't mean anything to you right now," he said quietly, as he was holding on, "but I love you. And I'm not mad." He'd given Sirius a squeeze before letting go, followed by a sad smile, and then he turned to go into the Headmaster's office.

Sirius didn't know how to feel about that as a goodbye. Sure, he didn't know Harry that well, so the preface of 'doesn't mean anything to you right now' made sense, but why had he been so sad about it? And for that matter, Sirius already knew that Harry was his godson. The love was pretty heavily implied. What did he mean about not being mad? What would he have been mad about? Maybe that's what he'd meant about Sirius not understanding right now. Of course, if that was true, then it didn't make sense why he'd said 'I love you' first. Maybe he'd done it because he felt it was more important than him not being mad. None of it made any sense to him.

He was sure he'd understand. It would only take ten years or so.

*

Well, it didn't take ten years, but Sirius finally figured it out. When he got pregnant. Pregnant and vulnerable, and in the middle of a war.

He was pregnant, and Lily looked him straight in the eye and said, "We'll tell everyone it's me."

"What?" he asked, numb and not wanting to jump to the wrong conclusion.

"You and James have been hiding your relationship because it's not safe. This won't be any better, and you'll need help. We can tell everyone that I'm the one who's pregnant, that way you're safe. When the war ends, we can be honest, but for now..."

This is why Harry had thought his other parent was Lily. They'd told everyone that she was. Something must have happened to make it where they couldn't tell the truth. Some part of the spell gone wrong or summat, and that was enough to make Sirius hesitate, but not enough to make him say anything other than, "If you're sure," because Harry did live long enough to be a teenager this way, and that wasn't guaranteed if he said no.

When he told James what Lily offered, all he did was hold Sirius and kiss his head. "If you're sure," he said, and Sirius laughed a little. He wasn't sure about this, but what other choice did they have? “Whatever you need to do to feel safe, we’ll do it. Anything for you, love, you know that.”

[atsvmi-x]

my personal characterization of eren bc i’ve been thinking about him a lot🥰 this is all modern!au bc canon literally never happened.

these aren’t x reader headcanons but i have more than enough thoughts about eren in a relationship to provide those soon!

General

Loud, brash, and loyal to a fault - you either love him or hate him (or if you’re Jean, you both love and hate him)

Those that he allows into his inner circle are friends for life. He’s easy to piss off but he’s quick to forgive when it comes to friends and family. If that doesn’t apply to you, or you cross those closest to him, he’ll hold a grudge long after the issue is resolved. You’re on his shit list for life.

He wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s literally impossible for him to conceal his emotions. If he’s angry, sad, annoyed, happy, literally anything his feeling you will be sure to know.

The same goes for his opinions. Blunt beyond belief. If he thinks something is stupid he won’t hesitate to say so. He’ll backtrack to soften his delivery if he notices that it offends other parties though.

All of these factors can lead to awkward moments. 99% of the time he’s confident enough in his stance to ignore how others might receive him but the other 1% of the time you might catch the rare sight of his cheeks heating up.

Contrary to popular belief, Eren is actually smart. Not to the same caliber of Armin, Erwin or Hange when it comes to critical thinking and analysis, but it is still above average. That being said, he doesn’t necessarily apply himself to subjects that don’t immediately interest him. However, he has impeccable game sense, making him quite the accomplished athlete.

Anger issues. Clearly. It made him a difficult child... for most of his life (and probably the reason he’s an only child) but as he’s gotten older he’s learned to manage his temper. It’s still easy to rile him up though, and it’ll be a cold day in hell before he backs down from a challenge. But for the most part his attitude is a running joke between those he’s closest with.

He has a strong moral compass and sense of justice. Not in the sense that he’s conservative, far from it. His personal ideology is: as long as it’s not hurting anyone people should do what they want. and anyone that messes with that is wrong. He’s a simple guy

Bad at flirting. He can be super oblivious and when he does catch on, he’s not smooth at all. But he’s tall and pretty so it comes off as endearing 99% of the time. It’s his boy-ish charms that save him every time.

Childhood

Cute as a button as a baby. Poor Carla and Grisha were blindsided when he hit his terrible twos.

Had no friends besides Armin until middle school when his parents adopted Mikasa.

Before Mikasa, he and Armin were the black sheep of the neighborhood kids. Eren easily alienated himself from the neighborhood kids and his schoolmates due to his brash nature. Looking back on it, he still stands with his decision since it meant he found his first friend.

(Armin didn’t fit in for his old soul thanks to being raised by his grandparents)

Super curious and didn’t realize how small he was in such a big world. On several occasions he wandered off because of his curious nature. Would have been a leash kid if leash kids were a thing when he was growing up.

Could technically be considered a school bully for talking down to kids on the playground. HOWEVER, he was smaller than other kids for a while, meaning his haughty attitude resulted in petty school yard fights that he lost most of the time. Still, he never cried and never learned his lesson.

Since we was never against a fight, he made it his mission to take up for Armin. When Mikasa joined his family he did the same for her when their peers made comments about her different looks. As we know, those roles soon reversed with Mikasa taking on a protector roll

To try and find a suitable outlet for his excess...energy...Carla and Grisha signed him up for every sport under the sun. Was pretty good too but excelled at football and track and field.

Teen

Was on a first name basis with administration during his school years for getting too invested in classroom debates. His fired up nature easily boiled over outside the classroom resulting in several fist fights

Got suspended once for said fights, but more often than not Mikasa saved him before he could get into more trouble.

So angsty. Literally a textbook case of teen angst from the loud music, dark clothes, to butting his heads with his parents he was truly a nightmare. (He recognizes this and is forever apologetic to his parents for being so difficult during this time)

Started to grow out of his rebellious phase by his junior year. There was no real explanation for it he just...did. That’s not to say that he was any less combative, he just knew what battles to pick. Good job Eren.

By the time he graduates he’s such a mama’s boy. He’s always loved him mom but now his eyes have been opened to how much of a handful he was growing up. He’s embarrassed anytime she brings up old stories but he knows it’s all in good fun.

He’s also had a major growth spurt by the time he graduates and his years of playing sports have definitely paid off. He’s a total heartthrob by his senior year and unintentionally a heartbreaker. Again, it’s hard to break into his circle, nothing personal.

Young Adult (College/Post Grad)

Commits to playing football exclusively. Not out of hopes of going pro but he just really likes the sport. He’s well known around campus between sports and his personality.

Still, he can be found with any one member of his crew at any given time. It’s rare to find him by himself unless he’s in his dorm room. He’s a total extrovert and gets bored easily when left to his own devices.

BUT he’s not a total party animal. Definitely prefers kickbacks to partying. But he will show his face if someone personally asks him to come.

Smokes and drinks the normal amount. Knows his limits and isn’t a lightweight for either. But under the right conditions (i.e. drinking games, bets, etc.) he’ll over indulge. Far too touchy when he’s under the influence.

Struggled to find his “calling” in school. Most of his friends fell into majors that they clicked with but it wasn’t that easy for him. He probably ends up with a fifth year under his belt. since he didn’t officially declare a major until maybe junior year.

Graduates with a political science degree! 1) He fooled his parents into thinking he’d go to law school which satisfied his doctor dad. 2) While he doesn’t exactly know how, he wants to improve daily life for the less fortunate and he thought this was a good step to do that. 3) He loved being able to argue for a grade during in-class debates

I know we all love streamer!Eren but I really do think he’d end up going down a creative/independent route where he’s not tied to a desk 9-to-5. It really stressed him out to think about doing thing for 50 years and then being able to enjoy life after retirement.

Other

Like previously mentioned, his music tastes were pretty narrow. But as his social circle grew and he was exposed to new genres his musical pallet has expanded. His go to genres are still heavy, but he’s not against asking what song just played if he liked it (unless you’re Jean, he’ll never give him the satisfaction).

I feel like his celebrity crush is Doja Cat. I have no evidence I just feel like he’d be into her.

Baby can NOT dance. if he tries hard he can bust a two step but usually he doesn’t usually put forth the effort though. It just gets worse if he drinks.

Very much a night owl but surprisingly, he doesn’t like to sleep in either. Feels like there’s too much stuff to do in a day to just waste it in bed. He contradicts himself though bc he can spend all morning in bed playing around on his phone (he’s addicted)

[unwelcome-ozian]

I don't know if you'd be able to give any insight, but I was wondering if you could give some input on an event/thing that happens sometimes? (sorry if this is too long, and thank you so much for any answer you give).

It happens every few years, with the first time I distinctly remember it being when I was 6. It also happened when I was 9, 13, 16, and happened twice this year and a few times last year.

I enter a sort of mood/period where I feel really low and overwhelmed, this can last anywhere from a week to a few months, and it gets to a point where nothing feels real (it isn't dissociation though, I have that to various degrees regularly and can tell the difference) and after that there's a few days where I'm super out of it.

After that though the huge thing that's super overwhelming kinda fades? and then I hit a period where everything feels VERY new to me, as if I've never really seen the world before, and my attitude towards things shift and reactions, some personality traits, interests, etc change (but stay kinda similar, so it's not like ""I completely change personalities"" (putting that in quotation marks because the vibes of that saying is iffy) ).

The longer the time period between these events the worse my memory gets, so stuff that happened before doesn't feel like it applies to me? If I even remember it in the first place (I don't remember... a lot about my life.)

Would you have any idea what this is? Is it a sort of defense mechanism where my brain re-wires parts of itself when I hit something that's overwhelming? Is it part of the natural processing of traumatic events?

TW FOR BELOW

For additional context: my birth home (ages 0 to around 3 or 4) was super abusive. I was punished if I acted out of line, and out of line was practically just existing. I was beaten if I made noise, needed anything, or just because someone was having a bad day. They'd also beat me sometimes because they thought it was funny when I cried. I was kept in one room and wasn't given clothes or anything than the bare minimum they could get away with giving me, was only sometimes fed (if I was they would tie/strap me down to a chair and force feed me), and had many near-death events happen (strangulation, drowning, suffocating by smoke, etc). I also wasn't allowed to learn to speak, and the closest thing to a caring parent I had was a cat.

After nearly being killed and left to die (4 days until someone found me, I had nearly a full body cast after that) I was placed in a foster home with other people in the foster care (I was the youngest most of the time). Long story short 2 of my 6 siblings had raped me multiple times, 4 of the 6 had tried killing me multiple times, some of them had beat me (not so much the adults noticed), and whatnot.

After that phase I was adopted and turns out that my foster/adoptive mother struggled with mental health issues and ran a semi-organization that functions quite similarly to a cult. For some years I was raised so I could "take over the business" when I grew up, which included a lot of private lessons from her.

Eventually she figured out that what she was doing to "fix" me wasn't working so I turned into the inhuman creature posing as a human, and was raised with her bouncing between calling me "an alien creature who tried to escape by becoming a mimicry of a human (and wasn't doing a good job)," telling me that my choice to exist was wrong (and more along those lines), and that I was special from the rest of the humans because I had her who could teach me the "one true reality".

(there's a LOT of things that happened with my adoptive mother but that's the basics. fun fact! when I was adopted she changed my name to her name, and I wasn't allowed to learn my birth names. Also the amount of times she did hypnosis and other energy-work-healing-stuffs is crazy. All hail the Infinite Mind, may we all reprogram the inherent flaws of humanity to connected to it and become part of the Illumination /sarcasm)

(I managed to escape out of the household recently but I'm still stuck around people in the group and honestly living almost 3 years in nearly complete isolation with her (and the only other outside interaction was members of her group) was not good for me at ALL omg did you know it's not, apparently, special if someone has a back-and-forth conversation with you?? like what???)

Are you approximately 21 then? (25)

From what you’ve said it sounds like what occurs cycles.

It could be depression that builds, coincides with an event/date, or a belief system.

It's interesting that you mention the ‘Infinite Mind', there are some belief systems that identify this such as Christian Science, Leo Gura, Valarie Hunt, and the Psychic Mind to name a few.

Oz

[mostly-mundane-atla]

Remembered how much I love this Ohtori au and I haven't been able to get this out of my head so:

He didn't make a habit of watching the students leave class, but he caught a peculiar smell by the door and turned to find the source when he should have been getting ready to leave himself.

Roses. He couldn't stand the smell of roses. Like those cryptic letters he received as a student, or those hands that made themselves too comfortable on his shoulders. Sometimes he could still feel the knuckles grazing his cheek, twisting his hair into curls, cooing about princehood, about the adult world and power.... The Car.... The Sister....

But he saw her.

No, not the Sister, the Bride!

He hadn't felt himself launch out of the chair so much as see the girl get closer, even though she was walking away. Same posture, same gait. He hadn't felt his arm extend to grab her shoulder and turn her around. Her face didn't show any annoyance, even, just the same tepid disappointment he always remembered. Eyes that seemed to be somewhere else. Glossy black hair pinned up in a way that reminded him of a 1950s movie star. The same as she always was.

"Sir?" she asked, prompting him to realize he had been staring in complete silence for about a full minute. The other students had all filed out of the classroom and headed to their dorms by then. They were alone and his breathing echoed off the walls.

"I met you," he said, still trying to string the words together, "generations ago. You attended this school when I did. The student council, the duels, you were... you gave out the...."

She had thorns around her neck and all down her arms then, skirts that seemed to be made of giant petals. How the image huanted him, how her silent glare that he swore held back tears jolted him from sleep for years and years.

"Why aren't you older?!?" he spat out. His grip tightened to where he squeazed all blood from his knuckles, but her face didn't betray any pain.

"Sir, I have to study," she said, plain as day. "I have a test tomorrow."

He let go of her but did not turn away. She did and gracefully walked to her dorm like the others. Her shoulders would definitely bruise, but she didn't seem to notice. Her steps sounded down the hall, but the scent didn't fade. He turned to gather his things, and there it was on his desk.

A rose, damned thing, a white one, with the stem trimmed. Just long enough to pin to your pocket.

The duels.

No.

The delicate perfume was nauseating and in one smooth motion he swept the rose's severed bloom into the trash basket by his feet.

Those awful duels.

He didn't like to remember, but oh, that smell took him back. The entire way home he remembered the dueling game, letters from End of the World, all of it.

He had settled in his on-campus accomodated room, leaning back in a soft chair he found both ugly and only moderately comfortable. Memories of his time as a student at Ohtori were normally so distant, shapeless, as if made of smoke or water that tinted the sun a different color. A good half of the time he was convinced they were just recurring dreams. He prefered it that way. They were not pleasant times, barring a few scattered moments. But it all came rushing back, clear as a bell and loud as Judgment Day.

He had an old photograph of them and even kept it in a frame. It seemed like the right thing to do. He'd put it on his nightstand, but flipped it down when the nightmares came back. It only took a few days. He held it in his hands, mentally reciting the names.

Bumi, always talking philosophical nonsense; Piandao, the youngest but perhaps most studious; Kanna, sweet but not to be trifled with; Pakku, arrogant like no other; Iroh, the Prince; Hama, the anger boiling under the surface may have been all that kept her alive.

Could they even be called friends? "Colleagues" or even "accomplices" felt more appropriate. Iroh was everyone's friend, competitive and boastful, but always happy with polite conversation. Hama was only interested in sharing kindness with Kanna and intended on knocking everyone else down a peg. These were the extremes of the scale.

And the girl seated on a chair in the center of the sanding student council, perfect posture and ankles crossed just so. Her hands were folded in her lap and her eyes were unfocused and distant, but they seemed to him to be contemplating escape. And of course, her signature not-quite-frown. There was no doubt to be had that she was the same girl he saw leaving class.

Our Rose Bride, Mai.

But how? He had ruled out the idea that she could be a granddaughter to the Mai he met all those years ago. He had Kanna's granddaughter in his class, a Miss Katara Penatac who had refused to take off that tacky rose ring that student council members still wore. In her own gentle yet professionally insistant tone, she pointed out that the dresscode did not forbid rings, only limited the wearer to one on each hand for practicality. She said she would be happy to comply if the headmaster agreed that she hadn't any right to wear her ring, but until then she was quite sure it was protected as per the school rulebook she was given when she had been enrolled.

He had seen what had happened with teachers who pushed her too far. All the gentleness melted away and she began shouting and calling them tyrants. She wasn't quite charismatic enough to get the students to rally behind her, but none defended the teacher either. From that point on those teachers began to lose the stundents' respect, little by little. Definitely Kanna's, and looking at her likeness at that age the resemblance was obvious, but a resemblance isn't a copy. Not like with Mai.

He moved the picture to his other hand, and notice he had covered his own face with his thumb. That's right, he was barely in this photo and almost argued that he should take it. Much of his left side wasn't even in frame. He'd hoped they would ask him to leave, that they would find him too weak or too cowardly -- he couldn't even gather the courage to leave on his own just yet -- but their mercy was relentless.

He'd managed to win one of the duels, to win the Rose Bride, once. She became his roommate after that, somehow, in spite of that not being allowed. She scrubbed the dorm and polished his shoes and made him tea that didn't taste as good as he'd hoped. It felt off but entirely harmless until she insisted on sharing a bed. Her eyes, they weren't hollow or empty like many said they were. Some part of her was very aware that she was keeping herself in people-pleaser mode and it seemed to him that part wanted to cry out and scream. He cautiously acquiesced, but when she started touching him, he moved to the other bed. When she followed, he insisted on sleeping on the floor. When he awoke, he saw she had fallen asleep at the very edge of the bed. Her arm draped off the side and her pinky finger curled around his. He lost the next duel and told himself it was an accident. After that he grew more and more disinterested.

"I don't get it, Jeong Jeong," Iroh had said to him once after sparring. "Your form is good but you never follow through."

"Maybe I just don't want to hurt anyone," he replied.

"Of course you won't hurt anyone! It's just a game."

And it was just a game, until it wasn't. Until the warped half of Dios, and his car rides in the dark, his hands and words, memories of which still stuck to his mind like grime under fingernails. How he had tried to make it all seem silk and silver, but it was actually only made of rot and impossible promises.

And there was a new student council.

Wearing the same rings.

With the same Rose Bride.

He had often asked himself why he came back. The academy caused him nothing but pain and perhaps even ought to be shut down. He'd told himself it was to protect students from what had befallen him. How could he say that when it was all happening before his eyes? Had he dared hope these children had the courage that he didn't in the same situation? That they would come to him for guidance? The photo felt suddenly too heavy so he returned it to its place: face down on the nightstand.

If there's one thing Iroh was correct about, it was the power of comfort, and especially the comfort to be found in a cup of tea. Jeong Jeong filled his electric kettle with enough water for one cup and grabbed a mug with a little wire basket tucked inside. The tea he saved for such occasions was a hand-blended loose leaf from France. It was eqaul parts green and white tea, with bits of lavender and mint and he kept it in little ceramic jar.

But when he opened the cupboard, his tea jar was missing, and in its place was one of glass. Filled with dried rose petals and blooms.

The stems on them only just long enough to pin to a breast pocket.

"What in the world?" He could hear the water building itself up in the kettle. A breath more than a whistle. "Who could have...?"

He pushed past the aversion and reached for it to throw it out. No need to present it to the headmaster, a simple complaint would do. But the jar wore its own crown of thorns the same color as the lid just under the mouth, and his old eyes couldn't see the difference between them. The unexpected pain was enough to make him drop it. It shattered just as the kettle began to screech. Long dead roses made to maintain their shape rather than rot as nature intended spilled out at his feet.

Among them, a letter with that same dreaded rose seal. It was addressed "to the Boy who was Not a Prince, but remembers a Witch from his past," in ink not yet dry.

He stood there staring with that ear-splitting whistling in the background, petrified. He shut off the kettle and swept the glass shards and crumbling rose matter into the garbage. The letter found itself in his hands. It smelled like the others, and the handwriting matched, from what he remembered. Who had seen him recognize the girl?

Somehow, Mai was still a student at Ohtori Academy, and Jeong Jeong had to wonder. If he had fought for her as Iroh had until he won his something eternal, if he had said anything to her about being her own person, would she have grown up with them? If he had given her reason to leave, as he had only left the student council a day after that car ride, would she have freed herself of this place? Why did he come back to teach all those years ago? He told himself it was to protect new generations of students, but that couldn't be true, could it? Was it penance for penance's sake?

He held the letter, positioning his thumbnail to peal off the seal as if it was instinct. He hesitated. Why should its contents matter? What good could possibly come of it?

"Perhaps I'm chasing after what should have been," he admitted to himself.

He lit the damn thing on fire, holding it over the sink in case he dropped it. He watched the little flame lick at and devour the envelope and the pages inside. The scent of roses was gradually overpowered with the scent of smoke.

"Perhaps I'm hiding from the world." Embers lept off the paper and put themselves out in the drain. "Hiding in what I already know."

[bentforkent]

to the moon and to saturn - chapter one

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary 

word count: 2753

no content warnings 

next chapter

seven

“you’re boring.”

“no, i’m not, y/n!”

“you never want to play pirates with me!”

spencer’s hair is long and his glasses are sliding down his nose. the light seeping into y/n’s room from her large bay window is muted by the white sheet covering it. the sheet rests precariously over a chair, forming a blanket fort carefully engineered by spencer, and haphazardly constructed by y/n. there are throw pillows tossed throughout the fort, and spencer makes an attempt to straighten them whenever he gets the chance.  whenever he comes to y/n’s house, ringing her doorbell with a backpack full of books, they work together to add on to their secret hideaway. the white sheet is the newest addition, especially designed to let more natural light into the blanket burg. this follows a poor mishap where a lamp y/n had left on too long burnt a hole through her carpet.

previously, the pair had constructed a stuffed animal room, a reading corner, a designated snack area. y/n’s starting to run out of linens. the fort has been standing for weeks now, y/n’s parents very rarely involved enough to enter her room, giving her and spencer free reign to create their own imaginary worlds to play in undisturbed.

except spencer, with all his practicality, isn’t particularly adept at the “playing in imaginary worlds” part. y/n can’t comprehend that. it’s simple for her to slip into a different universe, enjoyable, even. she’s begged spencer to play mermaids, bank robbers, fbi agents, firefighters, princesses---you name it. spencer indulges her for the most part, but y/n can always tell that he’s not that into it. he’s much fonder of tucking into some obscure poetry book, reading aloud when y/n requests. she never comprehends much of what he’s saying, but he reads so confidently that it fills her with glee anyways.  

for seven year olds, it’s clear to outsiders that they both don’t quite act their age. y/n, with her big doe eyes, dreams too much, her escapism both her greatest asset and most fatal flaw. spencer’s a stickler to the realistic, his pragmatic nature an unconscious choice that gives him a beautiful worldview but will make him grow up too fast. for now, though, the children don’t worry about that. they worry solely about balancing each other out and the purity that comes with being in youth.

y/n is splayed on her back on the floor of the fort, where her scratchy carpet is covered with a fluffy pink blanket. her hair fans out around her head in a halo. spencer’s physics book is closed and set gently in the corner, and he’s attempting to braid a small chunk of y/n’s hair. “pirates is my least favorite game,” he says.

“what about knights?” y/n angles herself to look back at him. she’s far too young to execute a soul searching gaze, but the way her eyes strain to scan his face comes close. she takes note of his facial expression giving away his inner thoughts. the way his lip quirks up indicates that he definitely does not want to play knights with the girl in front of him, but the softness in his eyes tells y/n that she’s won.

without another word, they crawl out from their blanket fort and jump onto the bed. “my armor is blue,” y/n says, unsheathing an imaginary sword and holding it up in joust. “knight armor was typically made of iron or steel, and there was no way to make it blue in the late 15th century,” spencer piped up, mirroring her actions. he likes playing at y/n’s house. his parents would never let him jump on the bed. y/n’s parents let the two of them do a lot of things, spencer thinks, and he’s never heard them fight like his parents do either.

“cool, spencer!” y/n says enthusiastically. she’s always enthusiastic when he tells her a fact, even though she rarely really understands him. she knows people are terrible to spencer because of his intellect, and had made a pact with herself when they first became friends that she would never ever ever be mean to spencer for being smart. “we can pretend, though. yours can be blue too!”

“okay,” he replies, and y/n begins to coach him through the game, attempting to loosen him up a bit. they play, bouncing around on the bed and wielding fake medieval weapons until the sun begins to go down and spencer remarks that he needs to go home before dark or his mom will be upset.

y/n reluctantly lets him leave, knowing that he has a lot less fun at his house, but finding comfort in the fact that he’ll come back the next day.

spencer and y/n spend every day together, without fail. they’re young, and they don’t know much about life, but they know that they’re the only people for each other. they’ve been inseparable since y/n had toddled into spencer’s first grade class and heard him reciting a john lyngate poem. her favorite book at that time was a brightly colored picture book, so she was both fascinated and confused by the boy in glasses in front of her. that day, they’d sat together on the bus and chatted the whole way home. the pure elation that occurred when the children realized they shared the same bus stop was unmatched. y/n, who’d just moved to las vegas, was relieved she’d met a friend in her new hometown.

she didn’t really meet any other friends after associating herself with spencer. he’d warned her that being his best friend was basically social suicide, but y/n was already attached to him like superglue. once, a girl in their class had tried to invite y/n to sit with her at lunch. the girl not-so-subtly made it clear that spencer was not invited to the table, and y/n had shut that down quickly with a swift spoonful of red jell-o down her shirt. spencer decided then that red jell-o was his favorite.

to sum it all up, in super simple terms, y/n and spencer were close. and everyone in their town knew it, including their parents, although both sets of adults were generally nonplussed about what their children were involved in as long as they were alive and surviving.

y/n’s parents aren’t neglectful, per se. she’d just had to learn how to fend for herself very early on. y/n’s existence had been an accident, and although she didn’t know that in explicit terms, it wasn’t hard to figure out based on the lack of maternal instincts from her mother. y/n’s mother sat on the back porch of their house a lot, looking out at their tiny, barren backyard with a cigarette in hand. her father went away on many business trips, coming back to greet the family only with a pat on y/n’s head before he padded up to the bedroom to slip into bed. one day, y/n would realize the intensity of the mental health problems both of her parents were suffering from, but as a child, the adults in her life just felt far away.

spencer’s parents were similar in a sense that they weren’t the best. rather than the silence that settled over y/n’s house, his home filled with argument. it’s why he found solace with y/n, with their blanket fort. y/n’d offered to let him live with them constantly, but spencer couldn’t leave his mother. his father? he couldn’t care less. but his mother...as much as spencer longs to spend his days curled up in y/n’s bed, reading, he knows above anything else, he’s got to protect his mother.

after closing the door behind spencer, y/n skips to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. her and spencer had made fresh lemonade the day before, squeezing lemons y/n had stolen from her neighbor’s tree. spencer had been in charge of the sugar, and he’d added way too much. the pair tried it, though, and liked the super sweet taste.

y/n fills her glass with ice, having to stand on her tippy toes to reach it in the freezer. after the cup is filled with the sugary beverage, she takes a second to peer out of the window and check on her mom outside. y/n expected to find her in her usual plastic chair, cloud of smoke encircling her. but she wasn’t there. this was odd. she sets her sweating glass down on the table, and wanders upstairs to get a location on her mother.

loud moans float down from the top of the stairs, and y/n, ever naive, follows the sound to its source. the stairs creak under her feet, her house old and probably close to crumbling. y/n pushes the door to her parents’ room open with both hands, and is immediately sick at the sight. at seven years old, she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows that whatever she is seeing is wrong.

william reid, spencer’s father, is laid naked next to her mother, also fully exposed. they’re startled by the door opening, shocked to see young y/n standing there, witnessing their adultery. the three of them are in a trance, suspended in surprise. y/n’s brain is moving a mile a minute, she knows, but she can’t seem to form any cohesive thoughts except “this is not right.”  it feels like forever that y/n is holding eye contact with william before her mother speaks. “y/n,” she starts, but y/n doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. she’s out of the bedroom and out of the house in 30 seconds flat.

as she runs down the suburban street, she’s barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks or the pain in her feet. she’d forgotten shoes. she runs, runs, runs, hair flowing behind her. she runs until her thoughts catch up to her. where can she go? she realizes that her body had been taking her straight to spencer’s house, but she couldn’t. how could she look him in the eye? how could she tell him that her own mother is responsible for his family falling apart? how could she ever even be near him again? stopping in the middle of the road, y/n lets out an anguished scream. a ferocious scream. a scream that claws its way out of her chest. and then, sufficiently exhausted by both her physical activity and her emotional despair, she turns back the way she came and begins to trek back towards her house.

- - - - - -

“penny, i have no clue how you do your job,” y/n says, handing the blonde woman before her a hot macchiato in a to-go cup.

her hair is longer now, her eyes more weary. the wonder she felt as a child is long gone, sucked out of her on that fateful night. y/n hardly thinks about it anymore, but that night after she had gone home, her mother made her pack her bags and took her as far away from vegas as possible. as far away from spencer as possible. she never saw him again. it’s been almost twenty years since she’d last seen the geeky boy. the loss of her childhood best friend was a dull wound now, one tucked safely in the back of her subconscious. sometimes she wonders how he turned out, but their time together feels more like a dream than a memory.

y/n moved away from her parents as soon as she turned 18, straight to washington d.c.. with no money, no degree, no friends or family, y/n turned to her work. she got a job in a tiny coffee shop, and the elderly lady who owned it took her under her wing. her name was janice, and she was an old, childless widow. y/n’s kind disposition filled a void janice had given up on trying to fill, and the two became a fierce pair. janice provided y/n with the apartment above the shop, higher-than-minimum wage, and when janice passed five years later, y/n inherited the coffee shop itself. she’d been owning and running it ever since.

it was at this shop that she met penelope garcia. penelope frequented the kitschy coffee place before work, and had gained quite the soft spot for the raven-haired owner. the two of them chatted every morning as y/n flitted around behind the counter, making whatever caffeine-filled concoction penelope had ordered. eventually, their friendship progressed past casual small talk at y/n’s work into wine-filled sleepover nights at their apartments.

“my job is hard, my friend,” penelope replies, shuddering. “some of the stuff i see gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“yeah, like dead bodies.” y/n turns and begins making her own personal coffee to start the day, penelope leaning on the counter in front of her. “heebie jeebies is an understatement!” y/n faces penelope again and grins, pouring copious amounts of sugar into a mug that janice had used while running the café.

“you know, y/n, i only know one other person in the world that takes that much sugar in their coffee,” penelope remarks while she watches the barista stir her obscenely sweet coffee with a wooden stirrer.

“hmm, they must be my soulmate, then,” y/n says. penelope’s ears perk up at that. she makes her way to the door, and y/n raises her mug in lieu of a wave. “have fun at work, pen! see you at your place tonight! i’ll bring wine!” penelope responds with a witty goodbye and heads to work, just the jingle of the bells on the door to signify she was ever there.

-----

penelope saunters into the behavioral analysis unit office 30 minutes later, cup of coffee long empty. “good morning, babygirl,” derek says.

“i’ll show you a good morning, hot stuff,” penelope deadpans, walking through the bullpen to greet all of her coworkers. penelope’s so bright that she immediately lights up the dreary BAU.

“spencer!” she calls, prompting the shaggy haired doctor to look up from his desk.

“good morning, garcia,” he says with a small wave.

“this morning, i got coffee at my favorite place,” penelope begins to gush, “and the barista puts just as much sugar in her coffee as you do!”

spencer doesn't understand why garcia is telling him this until she continues.

“this particular barista happens to be super cute and also one of my closest friends.”

spencer shakes his head with a laugh. “no, garcia, i’m not letting you set me up again.”

“okay, the first one was not good, i’ll admit.” she perches on the edge of his desk.

“but i actually know this girl! and i love her!”

spencer shakes his head again, giving penelope a light, joking push off of her seat. “no,” he emphasizes, and garcia gives him a dramatic sigh.

“okay,” she says, dragging out the word. “i’m going to go to my lair now to give you time to

think about it.” she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and with a ruffle of his hair, she floats to her office.

i’ll convince him, she thinks. i mean, how could i not? coffee aside, the kids are perfect for each other. she doesn’t know how she missed the blatant similarities between them. penelope’s usually very perceptive, and that makes her really good at setting people up. i might as well be cupid, she thinks, except for that one date i’d sent spencer on. she chooses to ignore that one. a minor lapse in judgement.

penelope pulls out her phone to text y/n.

penelope (7:56): y/n, my love, my light, i have found the most perfect guy for you

y/n (7:57): no penny, not again

y/n (7:57): remember the last date you set me up on?

oh yeah, penelope remembers. she’d sent both of her friends on two completely separate, shitty dates. maybe cupid wasn’t the best nickname for her.

penelope (7:59): you’re right. ugh. ix-nay on that idea then

she attaches a lot of sad emojis, then tucks her phone away. there goes that. penelope tucks that idea away, into the depths of her brain, and forgets about it.

[a-pretty-nerd]

Best Boi Soup

A/N: So it's @trickkombowerskru 's birthday today, aka, my Tumblr wife. We met almost four years ago on this app and we've talked everyday ever since. I am very fortunate to have such a sweet and fun-loving friend to nerd out with everyday, I truly can't imagine life without her. Shes so very talented and smart and she always makes me laugh. So for her 22nd birthday I asked her what she'd like me to write for her and she said, "whatever you want" which might be a mistake lol. So I present to you Best Boi Soup.

A headcannon, blurb, list of the best bois we simp for. I hope you enjoy! Love you, bitch!

Trick

Beginning:

You met Trick while working at a convince store in the rundown town you'd spent your whole life in.

He came in almost every shift you worked to buy a drink, a snack, and a pack of cigarettes.

Everyday he came in, and everyday you wrang him up. He was one of the many regulars you had. You saw him walk in, you greeted each other with a friendly smile and you'd turn around to grab his usual before turning back to the register to ring him up.

"Uh, not today. Thanks though." He shook his head and pushed the pack away from him. You raised your brow.

"Really?" You asked, a little surprised.

"Yeah."

"Okay. Are you vaping now?" You started the small talk. Another part of your routine.

"No. Just, trying to quit." He flashed an awkward smile your way as he handed you the cash.

"Wow, good luck with that." You smiled back.

"Thanks."

"Receipt?"

"No. Thanks. See ya."

"Yeah. See ya." And with that he sauntered out of the store and onto the grey street. Either headed home or to work.

"That Trick?" Your manager asked as he shuffled in from the back office.

"Yeah."

"How's he doing?"

"He seems alright. He's quiting smoking."

"Oh really? Good for him." The old slob mumbled between his teeth as he chewed on a toothpick.

As time went on, your exchanges gradually shifted from friendly to borderline flirty. And you notice his purchasing habits begin to change. He starts brining healthier drinks to the counter, fruits and vegetables as snacks, a sandwich if he's hungry. You tease him for it at first, but he brushes you off with a playful smile.

One day your manager watches your playful exchange as he leans against the old counter. A sly smirk spreads across his face.

"That boy likes you, yknow." He says with a mischievous smile.

"Quit bullying me." You reply, still in a playful and joking tone.

"He only comes in here for you." He tells you.

"No he doesn't." You argue, crossing your arms.

"I've never seen him here when you aren't is all I'm sayin'." The old man chuckled as he raised his hands in defense.

"You're pulling my leg, leave me alone." And with that he had planted a terrible, terrible idea into your head.

Of course you had a crush on Trick. You always thought he was cute but as time went on the butterflies went away and you became good acquaintances, friends maybe. Just friends, right?

Oh no. The butterflies. They're back. Shit.

The next time you saw him, they ravaged your body. Making your knees weak and your cheeks burn. Your heart and raced and you started to sweat. Shit. Be cool. Be cool. Just be normal. This is normal.

"Hey, Y/N." He smiled as he placed his purchase on the counter.

"Hey. How's it going?" You asked, hoping he didn't notice your insuing panic.

"Nothing much. Um...well...actually..." was he blushing? "Y'know Todd?" Todd was a mutual friend of yours. You and Todd went to high school together. Todd and Trick worked together. He was another young adult trapped in that dead end town.

"Yeah."

"So he's having a party tomorrow night at his new place and he wanted me to invite you."

"Todd wanted you to invite me?"

"Yeah, I was thinking I could pick you up? Around 5?" You hissed through your teeth.

"Actually I work-"

"She can go!" Your manager shouted, poking his head out from his office. "She can go." You turned back to Trick with a smile.

"So 5?" You asked.

"5."

Middle:

Dating Trick, or Ryan as you now know, was easy. He was easy to be around, fun-loving, and sweet. He was thoughtful and caring in ways you'd never experienced before. He made you feel safe and happy.

He still stopped by your work everyday to brighten up your day and give you a sweet peck on the lips before heading back to work.

Things were good, until a little over a year into your relationship. You met his Dad.

You knew about Trick's abusive father. He's the reason some dates were cut short. The reason Ryan had to spend the night at your apartment so often in fear of going home. He tried to save up enough to move out, in fact you were in the process of saving so you could move in together.

You watched a man you hadn't recognized walk into the store one day. He was clearly a junky, which, wasn't abnormal there were plenty around here. But unlike the others, he made aggre eye contact. He shuffled around the store, browsing.

At first you thought he was just going to steal, which you usually didn't pay any mind to. It wasn't your job. But soon he came up to the counter with beer and candy. You asked to see his ID, which was mandatory.

"Do I look underage to you!?" The man spat.

"No sir, it's just I can't sell it to you without ID. The register won't let me-"

"Goddammit. Fine." He mumbled as he reached into his pocket and gave you the card. You scanned his ID and continued checking him out. "You're Ryan's girl, ain't ya." You froze. Before you could speak, he interrupted you again. "Little shit thought he could hide you from me." He smiled a rotten toothed grin. He made you sick to your stomach.

All the pain, the trauma, the torture he put Ryan through. It all added up to this weak, distorted, junky. A bizarre idea of a person. You watched him take his receipt and leave without another word.

You didn't want to worry Ryan, so you decided not to tell him about his father's visit. But he just kept showing up to harass you. Sometimes he'd ask how Ryan was doing when he'd stay the night with you. Sometimes he'd comment on your body, try and flirt even. Giving a disgusting laugh when you didn't respond.

"He said he saw you today." Ryan said, hanging his head low as he watched you get into his van.

"Who said?" You asked, not thinking of it at first.

"My dad." You paused. "He said he's been...visiting you at work latley." He was visibly shaken.

"Are you okay?"

"Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

"I didn't want to worry you. I'm fine, really. He hasn't done anything..." you tried to brush it off.

"Just because he hasn't, doesn't mean he won't." You watched him, his wild eyes looking out the windshield.

"Well then...what do you wanna do?"

Happily Ever After:

"Let's run away." He whispered softly against your forehead before leaving sweet kisses against the skin. Your bodies resting skin to skin against each other as you laid in your bed.

"What?" You giggled, pulling back to look up at him. He wore a sweet and confident smile for you.

"Let's run away together. Just you and me." He squeezed you tighter against him.

"Where would we go?"

"Anywhere. Just take me away from here." He begged as he left gentle kisses against your temple.

"What about work? What about moving in together?"

"We'll find other jobs. We'll take our money and run. Live in my van until we find a place."

"I thought that van was your dad's."

"We'll steal it."

"And what if the cops come after us?"

"He's too chicken shit to call the cops."

"You really wanna run away together?"

"With every fiber of my being."

Klaus

Beginning:

You met Klaus in rehab.

You were there for ...reasons. And Klaus was there for ...reasons...

Klaus was attractive, free flowing, free thinking, wild and fun. Everything you wanted and more. It's only natural that you were attracted to him so that hook up in rehab was only inevitable.

It was no surprise that it got him transferred thought. So you pouted about never seeing the best sex of your life ever again and went on with your life.

You struggled, as everyone in rehab does but you were lucky in that you made a good recovery. You worked hard to help yourself get out of your sticky situation and move on to bigger and better things.

That was, until you saw him again.

There he was, sitting there at the breakfast bar where you worked.

"Hey stranger." You mused as you filled his cup of coffee. Klaus's big green eyes looked up at you.

"Hhheyyyy..." He smiled up at you with a confused brow. You chuckled at him, taking his order and walking away. He looked up at you such sweet adoring eyes everytime you came by. "Hey." He grabbed your wrist to get your attention. His eyes searching yours for answers. "Do I know you. You seem familiar." You laughed at him.

"Rehab. Four years ago. Y/N, Y/L/N." He let out a high pitched laugh and a cheerful huff.

"That's right! We-uh-um-yknow." His fingers pointed back and forth in a funny suggestion. You giggled with him and nodded.

"Yes, 'we-uh-um-yknowed'. It got you kicked out, remember?You joked.

"Wow! Hah! It's uh. It's good to see you. You look...well you look, g-good."

"Thank you. So do you."

"Well, hah, I try." You shared a few laughs back and forth ending with you giving Klaus your number.

Middle:

Dating Klaus was...strange. Just as strange as him.

Sometimes he'd disappear months on end, only sometimes leaving a "I'll be gone, love you" note or text. But you felt content with Klaus.

When he was around he shrouded you in love and affection. He appreciates your patience with him and his traumas. His PTSD coming and going as it pleases.

He's there for you when things get rough, and you're there for him. Unconditionally and truly.

He's hopelessly in love with you, terrified that his family business will endanger you. Trying to keep you as distant and as safe as possible. Only forced to get you involved in order to protect you. Even then, you better be able to handle yourself in case of emergencies.

Happily Ever After:

Your happily ever after consists of buying a plot of land in the middle of nowhere to live out your lives in peace.

Taking care of yourselves and one another in the comfort of your own private get away.

Jasper:

Beginning:

You met Jasper during a rough time in both your lives. You were a grounder, one of the grounders tasked with spying on The 100.

You were always in the trees, hiding, watching, getting information for the planned attack.

Jasper caught your eye simply for the fact that he survived a spear to the chest. What kind of space magic was that? It also didn't hurt that he was cute and awkward and you kinda just wanted to jump some space boy bones.

Needless to say you developed a bit of a crush on Jasper without him even knowing of your existence. When Lincoln got involved, things got messy. You felt bad for The 100, after all, you saw no real reason why the grounders and the space people couldn't just work something out. But your people were fearful, and so were The 100. Or Skycrew as you called them.

So you helped in little ways you could, joining Lincoln and aiding their side when Mount Weather got involved.

Needless to say when Mount Weather went down, and you met Jasper for the first time, things were not as you had hoped.

Jasper was traumatized, haunted by the deaths of an entire civilization. Tortured by the death of his girlfriend. You felt bad for him. And he wasn't too fond of you.

Being a grounder meant you were his enemy to him. Grounders caused trouble, grounders were responsible in the first place. He associated you with his scar.

And while is rejection hurt at first, he warmed up to you as you worked along side Raven and the rest of his friends. Monty and you grew especially close because he was a good teacher, and he would listen to you about your experiences as a grounder. You had import information about the land that Skycrew did not.

Soon, Jasper got used to you being around. But that didn't mean he liked you.

Middle:

One night in particular, you were fed up being bullied by Jasper. Jasper wasn't the only one who didn't trust you but, he certainly was the loudest.

You walked into the common place, noticing Jasper sitting at a table drinking as per usual. You tried to mind your own business but he taunted you.

"Hey grounder!" He knew your name. He refused to use it. You looked after a few calls. A sloppy smile stretched across his face. "Why don't you show me some of your grounder magic er whatever."

"Grounder magic?" You scoffed. Grounders were, out off all the groups, the most spiritual. And some skycrew had started rumors that you were a witch. You had taught Monty in particular how to grow and harvest herbs that could aid in healing wounds and help the sick. Your symbolic tattoos and dress didn't help your case. You liked to think you were an agent of peace, but clearly your efforts were for not.

"Magic." You scoffed at him.

"Yeah c'mon witch. Read my palm." He held out his hand with a drunken smile. Watching with heavy eyelids as you approached. Taking a seat on the bench beside him, slowly taking his hand in yours, and pressing it harshly against the metal table below. Jasper gave a sharp gasp of pain before you quickly let go and snatched the bottle of liquor from him. "Ow! Hey! Give that back!" He shouted after you.

You cursed him before drinking from the bottle and exiting to walk back to your room. Moonshine for dinner, you thought. You took large gulps from the bottle as you walked back to your room, already feeling dizzy by the time you got back. You entered the broom closet of a room, capping the bottle and tossing it onto your bed. Stripping of your clothes to change. You paused when you heard a loud knock at the door.

Jasper was on the other side, just as drunk as you, just as pissed. He froze when you opened the door, dressed down to just a bra and pants. Were always this hot? He asked himself.

"Piss off, Skycrew." You muttered, trying to shut the door. He wedged himself between the door and aggressively pushed his way through.

"I paid for that bottle with my own rations now hand it over!"

"Consider it payment for your palm reading you bastard!" You shouted back, trying to push him back out but failing to as he wrenched his way in. He lunged for the bottle, making you lunge for him in an immature and ridiculous mess of a scuffle. You pulled on the collar of his shirt, choking him enough to disorient and bring him back. He collapsed to the floor, reaching out and pulling on your ankle to get you down to his level.

Once on all fours, he climbed over you, only to get an elbow to his ribs. You pinned him down, sitting on his chest, legs on either side. Your hands pressing his wrists into the concrete floor below, and your chest pressed flush against his face.

In any other circumstances, Jasper would have shouted for you to get off. To let him go. But now, suddenly, in his half-drunk half-horny state, he relaxed into this position. He stopped fighting and for a moment so did you. Panting and content with your win, you released him. Looking down from your position on his chest. He was beet red.

His heavy eyes looking up at, dilated and needy. That look made you melt. Was he okay? Had you hurt him?

Jasper was more than okay, for once he had forgotten about everything. Nothing else mattered but you and your soft supple body. You went to get up off of him, but his hands came up and pressed you back down on him. Forcing your lips to meet his.

Drunken sex helped keep the two of you sane. Some nights you didn't even need to be drunk, you just needed him as he needed you. You chocked it up to a sex addiction, just another thing to make you both forget the atrocities of war. But, when the chip came around and everything went to shit. You worried for Jasper, as he worried for you.

Happily Ever After:

You watched out for one another, a bond built from pain and trauma grew into a friends with benefits sort of deal. Jasper let himself go, he let himself love again because of you.

Being up in space was weird. Six years and you still weren't used to it. You missed earth more than you could ever imagine but somehow, Jasper made it all okay. Jasper felt like your own tiny part of earth, he made you feel at home.

You'd spend the rest of your years in space with Jasper. Coming to the conclusion that this peaceful life in space was better than the chaos down below. You manned the ship with him. Growing old, having children together, and passing away of old age together. Finally getting the peaceful life you both desired.

[shesclearlya3]

Pity Party

pairing: Dandy Mott x Reader

word count: 1,356

warnings: none 

It was the first day of Summer when you rolled into Jupiter in your beat-up car, listening to the soulful voice of Billie Holiday and singing along.

You were finally back after a long vacation with your parents in California. As much as you loved visiting Los Angeles and mingling with the famous, you dealt with the wealthy and snobbish too much at home.

Your parents were extremely wealthy. You never lived in poverty or attended a public school. Your car, an eyesore to some, was one of your favorite possessions. You bought it off an older gentleman who passed away a few years ago. Your parents weren't too pleased, explaining they could buy you a newer model, but you refused.

As you drove towards the outskirts of town, you grew excited as you inched closer to the Mott house. There lived your friend, Dandy, who you've known your entire life. He was eighteen months older than you. You went to the same private school district but always went to separate schools for girls and boys. Some of your fondest memories have been spent with Dandy and his mother, Gloria, who adored you.

After several minutes, you pulled up to the manor and barely had the car turned off when Dandy came storming out. His lips were in a deep pout, and his eyes were angry. You immediately knew Gloria had upset him over something. Whether or not you thought it was stupid didn't matter when Dandy was upset.

You got out of the car, almost stumbling over your dress's skirt when he came to a stop at the bottom of the steps with tears in his eyes.

"You're back?" He asked. Despite crying, you could practically smell the relief wafting off him.

"I'm back!" You cracked a smile, hoping to cheer him up. Dandy was always happy to see you after your long trips. He usually begged you to stay home.

"Dandy, please don't run off again!" You heard the whimsical voice of Gloria from the front door. You looked past Dandy to see her come to a stop at the sight of you. "Oh, y/n, dear. You're back."

"Nice to see you, Miss. Mott." You waved at her. Dandy glowered, refusing to look back at his mother, who then asked for him to come inside and talk.

"I have nothing to say to you!" He shot back, before climbing into your car. You scrambled back in your seat, seeing a dejected Gloria slink back inside as you buckled your seat belt. Dandy wrinkled his nose when you started the engine, and a cloud of thick black smoke billowed from the exhaust.

"y/n, I admire your disposition, but I hate this car." Dandy mumbled, wiping a stray tear from his cheek.

"Come on, Jasper hasn't failed me yet." You said, driving back towards town. Dandy rolled his eyes at the name you gave your car. "His engine is in great shape, that's what matters."

Dandy didn't say much as you drove back to Jupiter. The radio started to cut out, so you ended up shutting it off. You knew Dandy would talk about it when he felt a little better.

You were in the mood for a milkshake, so you pulled over to your favorite diner. From the corner of your eye, you saw Dandy's lip twitch.

"Do you want to share a shake with me, or are you going to sit here and cry?" You teased playfully. Dandy glared at you, despite your evident smirk in his direction.

"If you're buying, I'd be glad to take your money," Dandy said. You laughed at that before he followed you inside the diner.

You took the usual table in the back. Dandy always looked out of place here. This is where you'd come after Dandy got his first car. He'd pick you up from your side of campus, and this is where you'd eat dinner, have ice cream, and help him with his homework.

That was nearly five years ago now. You watched as Dandy patiently waited for the waitress to come and take your order. A vanilla shake with two straws and two cherries. 

After the waitress left, you crossed your arms over the table and leaned forward, watching as Dandy looked around the place he admittedly was quite fond of. It's been ages since he even ate in such a low-scale place. Once Gloria found out this is where he spent most of his free time, she banned him from going. 

"What has you so upset?" you asked, bobbing your feet to the music. 

"Do you even have to ask?" Dandy wondered aloud, his brows pinching together as he fought the urge to curse his mother beyond the deepest pits of hell. 

You shrugged, not wanting to admit that there could be many reasons as to why he is this angry. You just wanted to help. Dandy's sharp gaze lingered on you as you picked at your nails, staring at the dark wooden table.

It wasn't until the rather large ice cream glass was placed in the middle that Dandy finally decided to come clean. You put your straw in, immediately leaning forward to take a long sip. Dandy slowly peeled the wrapper from his straw, gawking at you in interest. 

"I decided to confide in my mother about something..." Dandy said boldly, taking a sip.

You just nodded, taking another swig, figuring it would be about going down south to catch another performance of Anything Goes. "Oh, about what?"

"Us." 

You reached for the only spoon the same time Dandy did. You giggled when he smirked at you, before pushing it in your direction. 

"That doesn't give me much to go by." you teased, scooping up some whipped cream.

"I've been very sad since you left," Dandy admitted, and you felt your heart swell. "My mother was worried about my' pity party', according to Dora."

You bit your tongue at that, trying your best not to laugh. 

"So she tried to set me up with another heifer-." 

You spat out your drink, gasping as the cold dribbled down your chin, "Dandy! You don't say that about women!" you hissed. 

"I apologize. Undesirables, so, naturally, I told my mother that the woman who has my heart will be quite upset when she gets back and finds a he- another woman on my arm." 

You were dabbing your mouth with a napkin when his words shook your core. Dandy was sitting up straighter, drinking what was left until you heard the obnoxiously loud indication there wasn't much at the bottom. 

"I-I-uhh," was all you managed to get out.

Dandy tilted his head at you, using his straw to pluck one of the cherries from the bottom. "I upset her, though not as much as she upset me, so I said some rather rude things, and that's when you showed up."

"Dandy, we have never talked about feelings..." you said, crinkling up the napkin in your fist. 

"I'm not good with feelings, y/n," Dandy frowned at you. "I know people always treat me like I'm stupid, but I'm not."

"I know you're not," you reassured him, reaching forward and placing a hand on top of his. "I never want you to feel that way around me."

"I don't!" Dandy snapped, and you felt yourself recoil. His outbursts never failed to startle you. "No - I'm... sorry."

You nodded, dropping your hand back in your lap. 

"y/n, I didn't mean to yell, forgive me."

Gloria Mott and Dora could attest that he apologized to only you. No matter that Dora pretty much raised him, and that Gloria was his birth mother, they never received more than a grunt of an apology. For the longest time, you pretended to be unaware of this. After school ended and you were supposed to become adults, you started to lose that resolve. 

"I forgive you," you nodded, before seeing the waitress heading your way. "We'll talk about this in the car."

Dandy seemed pleased as the waitress took the bill, and you were wondering what this meant for you and Dandy. 

[wsgeon]

hey everyone! ummm this is peyton (also the mun of lee hyeon) taking a second shot at a second character — i have a lot of muse for this one, so i swear he’ll be around for a while… 🥵 this is ryu geon, yes his name rhymes with hyeon’s & no i do not care ♥️ he’s the lead guitarist/vocalist of meta and also the son of a former nobody rockstar, but i’ll get into all that below! like this post if you’d like for me to come into your ims to plot, click the read more for more info on geon, and/or click here to be taken to his pages: CAREER, DOSSIER, PINTEREST.

HISTORY.

born in autumn ‘97 to a “budding rockstar” (translation: “no yeah i swear our band’s really starting to take off, we sold twenty-three tickets to our last show!”) & a woman with commitment issues ♥️ geon’s dad always told him that his mom left because she had some dire matters that needed to be taken care of and SWORE that she cried the last time she held her dear baby boy, but all of his dad’s bandmates say that she was just some groupie and had to be persuaded into carrying her child to term… who can say for sure?

naturally, there are no pictures of this mystery woman. there was one (1) of her holding infant geon, but then he found out that that was actually a sound tech who worked for his dad’s band… and he just never corrected geon’s assumptions LOLLLL

anyway! he was always really close to his dad, considering they were a two-person family. he has a set of grandparents, an aunt and a couple cousins but they were never involved with geon’s life because his dad is the #blacksheep of the family. geon and his dad against the world, am i right?

uhhh geon was also kind of a black sheep growing up, but he didn’t really notice? he was a happy kid, very energetic and enthusiastic. a lot of adults in the area looked down on him & his dad, but he was SOOOO blind to it because his dad’s a god in his eyes and HE’S always been nice to everyone, so why would they not like him??? because his clothes smelled a little like dad’s cigarette smoke??? big deal

wasn’t troublesome (beyond talking too much), but a lot of people still expected bad things from him :/ “his father’s a dirtbag, i’ll be surprised if that boy doesn’t end up in jail by 20”, “he won’t amount to anything without a proper role model in his life”, “his dad is teaching him how to slack off”, “he won’t contribute anything to society”, etc. he kindaaa picked up on this as he got older but pretended not to because it was more rewarding to play dumb and keep being a good kid(tm) to prove them wrong

was basically a mini version of his dad. same style, similar features, birthmarks in the same places, same “live today, die tomorrow” approach in life, same affinity for singing & playing rock music. ummm he loved his dad a lot. a lot. a lot. wanted to make him proud SO BAD, started his first band when he was 15 and they sucked so bad but his dad was their biggest fan… you know how it is. a lot of people misunderstood him, but he was a very good guy and such a great parent

TW DEATH unfortunately he passed away just shy of geon’s 18th birthday and your boy still hasn’t forgiven the world for taking his dad when he was in the middle of his angsty teen phase — had he known that their time together was dwindling, he would’ve been so so so much better to him END TW

his dad’s band actually rocketed into the charts after he passed & suddenly they were getting loads of publicity, lots of “what a shame that he went under-appreciated” which pissed geon off SOOOO bad because why couldn’t they have had that energy when he was still alive? he’s still mad about it five/six years later

this is getting kinda long, so uhhh tl;dr, he ended up staying with the drummer of his dad’s band until he was old enough to live alone/READY to live alone, but he changed quite a bit. was really going through it, quit his band, stopped putting effort into school. barely graduated. went from being a social butterfly spending every weekend at a gig or with friends to spending all of his time on a pc or in front of a tv, playing console games. the internet comforted him when nobody else would/could and then he met the future members of meta <33333333 #newbeginnings

present day geon is still struggling, has to go to counseling bi-weekly but he’s coming back out of his shell! he wants to fall in love with life again, just wants to tread carefully... outgoing & will talk to absolutely anyone, but he still spends most of his time alone. hard to reach by text, so if you wanna talk to him, you better call/facetime LMAO. talks a mile a minute, especially if you get him going abt something he really likes. laughs a lot, smiles a lot, more habitual than actual signs of happiness but yk. ummm he has a really loud voice, mostly controlled nowadays but he still gets carried away sometimes. an absolute menace during long drives/flights, sorry meta.

funny but only when he’s in large groups. feeds off of other peoples’ energy, really good at reading a room and breaking the ice/making everyone comfortable, but if you meet him 1-on-1, none of his jokes land quite the same.

i envision him as being the kind of guy who carries himself in such a way that you’d assume he’s really popular/out of reach/maybe even full of himself, but he’s... not like that... at all... in fact, he’s kinda irritating when you get to know him. the personification of a flood followed by a drought and vice versa, always either too much or not enough. gets used/ghosted/dropped/dumped/whatever a lot because he’s soooo fun in the moment (if he isn’t in his feelings), but draining long-term.

really emotionally intelligent, in touch with his feelings in a way that a lot of people never thought he would be (probably thanks to counseling tbh). he’s very very rarely the type of person who will make you wonder what your place in his life is — he’s communicative, kind, honest. ummm he thinks that intimacy between friends needs to be more common, so he’s really affectionate with the people in his life. type of guy to tell you he loves you every chance he gets (calling you when he’s drunk, sounding like a clingy ex type beat) & greet you/depart with a hug. losing his dad kinda fucked him up in the way that he won’t leave/hang up until his friends say “i love you” back, gets kinda (re: very) upset if he’s denied that and/or a hug.

TRIVIA.

has been playing the guitar “longer than he’s been walking” (not really, but he swears it’s true).

uhhh he really likes nail art, but he’s kinda hesitant in what he tries? mainly sticks to black polish (or other plain colors), but sometimes he’ll get little designs added in as well. mainly does it himself because he still doesn’t feel comfortable in salons... if his work looks bad, leave him alone <3 he’s trying

inspired by people like kurt cobain, nicky wire, yungblud, billie joe armstrong & damiano david in the fact that he’s not against wearing dresses or skirts on stage. doesn’t do it ALL the time, but often enough that it doesn’t go unnoticed. some people say that he does it for attention because he doesn’t dress like that elsewhere and tbh they’re probably kinda right

interested in history (only SOME... dinosaurs, ancient civilizations, specialized areas like the history of circuses/clowns/skateboarding/punk, stuff like that yk), stand-up comedy & documentaries. could spend a whole day watching documentaries and would say he had fun, has a lot of useless knowledge that nobody gives a fuck about and is kinda dumb when it comes to things that matter

when it comes to music, he prefers playing really fast and heavy rock or punk over anything else, but he actually listens to a lot more soft indie on his own time... he’s too tense these days to be listening to anything else RIPPP

the vibe: homemade tie-dye, ripped slipknot t-shirts, frosted tips, neon crocs with alien & peace-sign charms, chipped black nail polish, calloused hands, cheesy pick-up lines used NOT to land a date but to pull a smile, driving until he’s lost, stupid socks paired with pressed suits, dramatic poetry in an iphone note, etc. 

PLOT IDEAS.

people he met through online support groups about coping with grief

uhhh an on & off relationship that’s been going for who-knows-how-long. the reason for this is up for discussion, but i imagine that he hasn’t given up yet because the constant highs and lows are a good source of inspo 🤪 artists must suffer for their art!

opposite side of the coin — someone he’s interested in, but he’s NOT disloyal so it’s a pattern of persistent courting when he’s single vs intense friend-zoning when he’s not and they’re getting tired of trying to figure out what he wants from them

someone else who likes nail art & can convince him that NOBODY cares if he goes to a salon

someone (probably female but doesn’t really matter tbh) who feels like his feminism is entirely performative… maybe they attack him directly for it or maybe they just REALLY don’t like him and they’re super vague about it idk. either way, please tell him that activism is much more than recommending one female artist a year and saying “clothes have no gender 🤪” so he can be praised for the bare minimum (his heart is in the right place but his skull is empty)

someone super introverted who comes out of their shell with geon! uhhh maybe they think that he’s the one doing them a favor, but in reality spending time with them has been doing wonders for his mental health

other people who like to skate. let’s congregate at the local skatepark and scare the middle schoolers away

someone who inspires him musically, for whatever reason. lots of late nights in studios, idly strumming his guitar and writing lyrics that definitely aren’t about how their eyes look in these dim lights… umm maybe he thinks he has a crush on them but really doesn’t and ends up hurting them eventually, maybe he really DOES have a crush but will (probably) never do anything abt it or maybe it’s entirely platonic and he just admires them a ridiculous amount

someone who likes to make music as a hobby, prob won’t publish/release any of it but it’s fun to imagine. spontaneous meetings with geon in the middle of the night, recording songs together and keeping the WORST takes for the laughs. there’s probably a diss-track of them going in on each other floating around somewhere even though geon can’t rap for shit

night owls who keep him company on the phone, even if they can’t be there physically. them talking really quietly vs geon shouting at them while he plays games LMAO

gaming buddies. come over, maybe you can carry geon through his game of the week or you can both fail but have fun while you’re at it… or you can scream while he fends off that hoard of zombies behind you

i’m typing this at the last minute (literally) so i’m gonna stop here, but i will get a proper plots page put up asap with a wider variety of connections!!! but as always, please do let me know if you have any other ideas. i’m always happy to plot and write with you all 🌚

[incineratortm]

AXEL CUTTLER is a mutant with the ability of FIRE MANIPULATION. they’ve been in new york for THIRTY YEARS where they spend most of their time as AN ICE SKATING INSTRUCTOR AND THIEF. when i think of them, i think of SMELL OF BURNT ASH AND CIGARETTES, FLICKERING FLAMES IN THE DARK, TOWERING OVER EVERYONE IN A CROWD, CARRYING WORN ICE SKATES OVER HIS SHOULDER, LEATHER JACKETS AND COMBAT BOOTS.

「 𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃 」

「 𝚃𝙰𝚂𝙺 𝙾𝙽𝙴 」

𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲𝚂 —

NAME: Axel Cuttler ALIAS: Incinerator NICKNAMES: Ax AFFILIATION: The Brotherhood BIRTHDAY: June 10th ZODIAC: Gemini AGE: Thirty SPECIES: Mutant POWER: Fire Manipulation CLASSIFICATION: Omega Level SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Biromantic OCCUPATION: Ice skating instructor, Thief EDUCATION: Bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering LANGUAGES KNOWN: English, Russian, Spanish RESIDENCE: Belcourt Apartments  CHILDREN:  Mila Cuttler is an eight-year-old Mutant like her father but has ice manipulation powers. They developed when she was only six, something said about Mutants in the local news upset her. Which resulted in a shard of ice coming out of her hand and went into the television screen — breaking it instantly. She has blonde hair and participates in ice skating competitions. Axel is still working on teaching her how to control these abilities. HEIGHT: 6’5” BODY TYPE: Muscular, Athletic, Toned EYE COLOR: Brown HAIR COLOR: Brunette UNUSUAL FEATURES: One scar that stretches across his right cheek from his ear and ending near his jawline by the corner of his lips

POSITIVE TRAITS: Loyal, adventurous, cooperative, confident, adaptive, alert, creative, graceful, methodical, self-controlled, sociable, strong, brilliant, honest NEGATIVE TRAITS: Unmercifulness, petty, eccentric, rowdy, persistent, amoral, brutal, devious, excitable, quirky, strong-willed, uninhabited, cynical BAD HABITS: Smoking cigarettes, snapping his fingers to stare at a single flame

𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈 —

Axel was born in one of the back alleys of Brooklyn. His cries muffled by sounds of the city.  Everything was so loud. His mother looked afraid while holding him, wrapped the newborn up in her jacket while trying to figure out what to do. She wasn’t ready to be a mother, much too young, and no support behind her. They sit there for a while in the blazing heat until she suddenly remembers seeing an orphanage called AURURA HOME nearby when visiting her grandparents recently. It was a few miles from where she was staying but Axel’s mother kept him wrapped securely and started walking. He’s left on the porch with only a note. His cries stopped when the door opened and experienced kindness for the first time.

Growing up, Axel becomes quite the extrovert but also an occasional troublemaker. He knew that adoption wasn’t going to ever happen for him. All the parents that come to visit think that he’s far too rowdy and they want someone that knows how to behave. He stopped hoping for it and told himself that it didn’t matter. Obviously this still hurt — and maybe that’s what started to fuel the fire flickering inside of him. It’s ready to ignite but it doesn’t yet.

The boy taught himself how to survive, sneaking out of the orphanage when nobody was looking to explore the streets. It was dangerous for a kid but Axel told himself that it wasn’t like anyone would come looking. He didn’t like any of the other children at the orphanage, they all annoyed him except for one. Theodora was practically his best friend since they were around the same age and both were raised there from birth. She was the best out of anyone in that place, like his light in the dark. Something that would remain true even when they got older and traveled down different paths — yet continued to remain close.

Axel does a few odd jobs around Brooklyn to save up some money after becoming fascinated by figure skating. He eventually had enough to buy some cheap skates. They weren’t brand new but they were his. While everyone else at the orphanage was so focused on getting adopted or finding their forever homes, Axel could be found at the local ice rink practicing. He was pretty good, no doubt about that on anyone’s mind while watching him spend hours upon hours on the ice until it was dinner time. He was a natural and could make a career out of this with enough work.

TEN YEARS OLD — Axel tried to hide his ice skates from the other boys but they were nosy and discovered his passion after many years of hiding it. He usually ignores them, telling himself that they aren’t worth it. but today they put their hands on his skates. They tore them out of his hands, throwing them in the nearby tree so they were out of reach. Cruelty spilling out of the three boys as the they heckled Axel. The oldest of the trio shoved him, knocking him down onto the grass. His eyes just staring up at the sky, looking at the branches where his skates are dangling off the branch. The metal of the blades glistening in the sun. Rage begins building while sitting up, feeling the flame within him burning more quickly. It pours out of his skin, turning his shirt to ash and covering his arms and chest — while both eyes are glowing brighter than the sun. Only two words can be heard before a tragedy. “SHUT UP!”

It happens so fast, unsure what of what just happened as the flames leave his hands in beams of raging fire. All three boys are left with third degree burns across different parts of their body. None of them bothered him again after that out of fear.  Nobody died that day but they were all left with permanent reminders.

EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD — Axel is living in the streets now, legally considered an adult and required to leave the orphanage. It should bother him not to have family but the ache stopped some time ago. He’s a Mutant and still discovering what that means. He isn’t Human, which is the only thing that makes any sense.

The Maggia discovered what Axel could do and decided to take advantage of the situation, approaching the kid who didn’t know any better. It was fairly obvious what they wanted. He wasn’t given much of a choice in the matter. Two options and no compromises. Axel could either come work for The Maggia or they would let one of the Anti-Mutant groups where they could find him. It terrified him and reluctantly agreed to be their henchman. What could be better than someone with an ability like fire manipulation on your payroll? It was deadly and just what they needed.

Everyone looked down on Axel for being a Mutant and mistreat him, despite knowing he had the ability to kill all of them with little effort. Some might say they’re too trusting but Axel thinks they were just stupid.  He was their best thief but nobody would admit it — and if someone needed to be disposed of? Axel would place a hand over their face and the flames burned people from the inside out until they were just a pile of burnt ash. He hated being part of The Maggia and having to be their lackey, but Axel did the work. He worked harder than everyone and never got promotions.  

It took several years for Axel to finally realize that he shouldn’t be afraid of their threats anymore. Instead, they should all be afraid of him if they tried to stop him from leaving. He was tired of being told what to do by these Humans who never gave him an ounce of respect. Which is the reason behind Axel packing up his things — finally leaving to join THE BROTHERHOOD and begin calling himself INCINERATOR.

[ineloqueent]

Possessed By Love (Event)

Roger Taylor x Fem!Reader | 1974

a little note: hello @demo-wise​ !! i’m your partner for the possessed by love event. i’ve written this as a reader-insert, because i seem to do all right with those, haha. i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it 🥰  

a massive thank you to @yourlocalmusicalprostitute​​ for hosting such a lovely event!!

synopsis: Roger Taylor had always been your neighbour. And your best friend. Until in 1968 he moved away to London, and the two of you fell out of touch. But 1974 will change it all.

warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking, mentions of smoking

word count: 17k

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

1957-1968

As far as childhoods went, you’d had a pretty normal one.

You remembered summer afternoons going down to the river to swim in whatever clothes you’d muddied when running through the woods earlier, buying ice cream from the corner shop with the loose change your mum had given you for doing the grocery shopping, making up increasingly inventive games to play on boring Sunday afternoons.

You remembered winters walking home from school in the blistering cold; shivering in the threadbare second-hand coat your dad had got you from a garage sale; sitting on Truro’s large, grassy hill to watch the cold light of the stars wheel by above you.

School wasn’t an aptitude of yours, but you made it through, mostly by drinking too much coffee and studying late into the night, alongside your best friend, who did absolutely no studying at all because fortunately for him, he was just one of those people.

A best friend— you’d had one of those too.

It was as good as life got, the times you’d spent with your best friend. If ever there was a soulmate to be had, he would have been yours.

You’d lived in Truro, Cornwall for the whole of your life, but Roger and his family had first moved in when the kindly old lady next door to you had passed away, in 1957.

Like Roger, you were seven years old, so it was really only a matter of time before the two of you struck up a friendship.

When Roger had come across you that first day, you’d been shy, wide-eyed and nervous. He’d been the opposite, bold, energetic, and cheeky in his manners, though his mum was quick to reprimand him if she was anywhere nearby.

And from a young age, he’d been reckless. Hell, from the moment you’d met, he’d been reckless, because he’d spoken to you at all; your classmates had dubbed you a loner.

You’d been playing marbles at the kerbside out the front of your house when he’d first seen you, because it was one of the few games you enjoyed that could be played alone. You liked the precision the game required, to spur the little glass ball across the pavement and have it not roll too far on either side of the larger ball. You also liked the aspect of marbles that involved collecting, because the glass artefacts were pretty, and pretty things to you were what shiny things were to a crow. You supposed this came with growing up poor, though, because when money was tight, pretty things were hard to come by, and for many years of your childhood, you looked forward to the inevitable, but nonetheless exciting, gift of a marble or two on your birthday.

“Can I play?”

You’d looked up and seen a soft-shouldered, blonde-haired boy with sleepy blue eyes, peering at you by the garden gate.

You narrowed your eyes. You were protective of those marbles; they were all you had.

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said, rather politely. As if that would convince you.

But maybe it was actually quite convincing, because you’d never before met a boy your age with manners. All the ones at school simply pulled your hair and called you names.

“Alright,” you said slowly, watching him hawkishly as he opened the gate and crouched down beside you on the path. He reached out for a marble, but you smacked his hand away. “Do you promise?”

“Yeah, I said I promise, didn’t I?” he responded impatiently, and went to pick up the marble.

“Really, really promise?” you stopped him again.

He nodded earnestly. “Really.”

You considered a moment, then sighed and placed a marble in his palm.

He had been careful, as he’d promised.

And you’d been friends from that day on.

As you and Roger grew up, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.

Together, you mastered blowing bubblegum and building bonfires, leaping across the river using the thick rope that hung down from a tree on one side of the bank, making faces at your maths teacher without the old sod noticing, riding bicycles without holding onto the handlebars, racing down the street as your parents in vain called for you to come to tea. And one midwinter evening, your dad and Roger’s had finally given in to your mum’s pleadings to put a gate between your front garden and theirs, because you and Roger were so inseparable that you deigned to jump the fence at least twice a day anyway.

Roger taught you how to pack a punch, and you taught him how to lie with just enough truth mixed into the story to make it sound legitimate. At the age of twelve, you put Roger’s teachings to good use when you broke a boy’s nose for teasing Roger about his “girly voice.” At the age of thirteen, Roger put your teachings to good use when he lied about participating in after school events— to be fair, he did stay after school, but using the music room as a practice space for a band he’d started with a few other boys was probably not what Winifred Taylor had envisioned when her son had said “after school studying.”

Roger was there for everything in your life, both the good and the bad, as well as the utterly embarrassing. He was there the time you won fifty pounds in a writing competition run by the local newspaper, he was there for the passing of your beloved grandmother, he was there for the incident of you wearing white trousers at a time of month when you bloody well shouldn’t have worn white trousers. He snuck you champagne when you happily pocketed your fifty pounds prize money. He held you and let your tears soak his flower-patterned shirt when you cried for your grandmother. He gave you his jeans to change into and spent the rest of the day with his jacket tied around his waist in the semblance of trousers, an action for which he faced multiple detentions from multiple teachers.

To the other boys he was arrogant, to his parents he was lazy, and to the teachers he was “destructively rebellious.” To you, he was the one person who made everything seem like it would be okay, no matter how bleak the circumstance.

The summer you turned eighteen was a pivotal one. Not only was it flooring to realise that you were now a legal adult and could do exactly as you wished, but it was also terrifying to begin to understand the sheer magnitude of things that independence entailed.

You were finishing your last year of school and your final final exams, looking into what to study and where to study it, and it was all very intimidating and rather time consuming.

Roger kept telling you not to worry about it and to just enjoy the summer.

“You’ll work it out,” he’d say. “You always do.”

“Easy for you to say,” you scoffed. “You’ve already got yours worked out.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Roger said as you walked along one stuffy summer evening, scuffing his shoes on the path.

His tone was demure, and you frowned at him, shielding your eyes from the sun with one hand.

“Rog? You said you knew what you were doing, where you were going?”

He flashed you a sad little smile, not like his usual cheeky smirks, and your frown deepened. But then Roger laughed. “‘Course I’ve got it sorted, love. You know me.”

“Wanker,” you shoved him. “Making me worry.”

He only winked. Then he stopped walking. “Hungry?”

You considered a moment. “I’m starved,” you decided.

“Come on, then. Fish and chips by the river?”

You nodded, and you and he meandered down the hill in the sunshine, recalling stories of your  last days as school-children.

Many days were spent like this, walking around Truro, often aimlessly, until something interesting crossed your paths or your parents called your lazy selves back home to help with the washing or the grocery shopping. The washing you would hang whilst having a conversation, because the washing lines of your houses were at about the same spot in your back gardens, so you and Roger could yell over the fence to one another.

Of course, you were seldom trusted with the washing any longer, because the last time you had been given that responsibility, Roger had tired of hanging washing and had instead attempted to sabotage your attempts to do so. The affair had ended with a scolding from your mothers, as though you were both still children, and the two of you scrubbing mud stains out of the same washing that had moments before been clean. As for the grocery shopping, it took forever because you and Roger ambled down the road to the shops, spent forever trying to find the specified items on your mothers’ shopping lists, and took a detour down to the river on the way home.

Really, you and Roger were mostly left to your own devices nowadays.

That summer, and every summer since you had been seven years old, you and Roger passed every waking hour together, even occasionally falling asleep beneath the bowing trees atop the Truro hill.

You spent a lot of time with Roger at his bandmate’s family’s holiday cottage where the band, known as The Reaction, would rehearse. In the three-piece band, which had previously been a five-piece, and even earlier on a six-piece, Roger played the drums and occasionally sang. He claimed he was no good at singing, but that, you knew, was an utter lie. Already at seventeen, he sounded professional, like he’d been taught to sing. But he hadn’t, been taught, that was. His talent was completely natural, and equally as abundant. Without even trying, his voice had that rough-edged rock ’n’ roll quality, and he had a lazy prettiness about him that completed the whole image—  half-lidded eyes, languid smile, golden hair.

He was talented and beautiful.

He was meant to be seen. And you knew that, all too well. He wouldn’t hang about little Truro forever. But you preferred to push such thoughts to the back of your mind.

When you weren’t tapping your foot against the crate you were sitting on at The Reaction’s practice sessions, you were at their gigs, cheering the loudest at the end of their songs and passing your sweaty best-friend a towel or a bottle of water. If you weren’t tagging along with The Reaction, you and Roger were down by the river, or lying in the grass atop the hill.

And marbles. After all these years, the two of you still played marbles. Roger still had yet to beat you at the game.

On one particularly sweltering Sunday afternoon that broke all sorts of records in England’s weather history, you and Roger were sprawled beneath the trees of the hilltop.

You’d been groaning and complaining about the heat for the better part of an hour, and had anyone else been around, they’d have told you to just shut up, but Roger had elected to try and out-complain you.

“It’s never been this hot before,” you said.

Roger grumbled from beside you, an arm slung over his eyes. “It must be the hottest day on Earth. Hotter than the hottest day on Mercury.”

“Hotter than the hottest day on the Sun,” you countered ruefully, a whine in your tone.

Lifting his arm, Roger glanced over at you. “At least,” he said, “it’s not hotter than me.”

“Ha!” you barked. “You wish.”

“D’you wanna bet? My skin is on fucking fire.”

You blinked drowsily. “You look fine to me.”

The corner of Roger’s mouth turned up. “Thanks, darling.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to complaining.

“Is it just me or is the sun closer than normal?”

“It has to be,” Roger mumbled. “It has to be.”

“Do you want to go down to the river? We could go swimming.”

Roger scrunched up his freckled nose. “We’d have to walk there, first. And it’s way too bloody hot to move.”

You gave another sigh of anguish, shifting your legs to prevent them from sticking to the grass. “I think I’ve at this point drained all the water in my body.”

“Me too.” Roger had sat up and was fanning his face with a hand.

“Could probably die of dehydration if I don’t cool down soon.”

“Me too.” He swept the hair back from his forehead, his skin glistening with sweat.

“It’s so hot,” you whined.

“That’s it. I’m finished.”

“What—”

“Nope,” Roger shook his head, cutting you off. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Why would I laugh at you—”

“You literally always laugh at me.”

“Yeah, okay,” you conceded. “But why now, exactly?”

Roger tutted, then raised a finger warningly. “Just this once. Don’t.”

You furrowed your brow in confusion, but then Roger crossed his arms over his torso and pulled his shirt up over his head, tossing it to the side.

You didn’t laugh, because why would you? How could you? You were a little busy trying not to stare at him completely open-mouthed.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him shirtless before— the two of you went swimming all the time and had done since you were children— but somehow this moment flustered you, turned your cheeks even redder with heat than even the sun had been capable of, because he was so undeniably pretty, and now you could not be distracted from that by a splash of river water to the face. Windswept blonde hair with half of it matted against his forehead and cheeks, sleepy blue eyes, lightly-sunkissed skin, shoulders softened but lean from drumming, and a cute little tummy characterised by a spattering of freckles.

Gorgeous.

“You can stop staring at me now.”

You sputtered, “What? I wasn’t—”

A lazy smile curved on his lips as his eyes flicked over you. You felt suddenly short of breath, fighting the urge to shiver at his appraising— was it appraising?— glance.

“No, darling, not at all,” Roger said, lying back on the grass again. “Not at all.”

The rush of blood to your face was almost instantaneous. You considered reprimanding him, but you found that you had nothing to say. Instead, you crossed your arms and turned on your side, away from Roger. You felt suddenly as though you did not want to talk to him at all.

You heard him chuckle, and his fingers brushed your shoulder. The warmth of his touch almost tickled. What was the matter with you?

“Y/N,” he said, his fingertips grazing your shoulder again. You turned over to stop him from touching you a third time. For some reason, it was starting to turn you silly.

“What?” you snapped, willing yourself to maintain eye-contact.

Roger smiled bemusedly, now facing you, lying on his stomach and leaning his chin on his hands. “I was only joking, you know.”

You said nothing.

“About the staring,” he went on with a nod, big blue eyes fixed on your eyes.

Still, you said nothing, as though the air were not thick and his gaze did not move you. But it was and it did. Strangely.

Roger pouted childishly, tilting his head to one side. “Y/N?”

You rolled your eyes. “I know, you idiot.”

He smiled. “There’s my girl,” he said, reaching out to ruffle your hair.

You didn’t manage to lean away in time, and your hair was now sticking to every part of your face.

“Rog-er!”

His smile only broadened.

Until he caught sight of your watch. A pretty thing, it was, brown leather rim, a little round watch face encased in golden metal. But Roger looked at your watch as though it personally were responsible for world hunger.

“Alright?” you said.

Roger hissed through his teeth. “Please tell me it’s not five-fucking-thirty already.”

Puzzled, you glanced at your watch. “Well, you’re out of luck, because it is indeed five-fucking-thirty…”

Roger swore violently and leapt up.

“We were supposed to be down at the hall half an hour ago,” he agonised, throwing his shirt back on, despite the fact that the material clung like plastic to a wet floor.

The Reaction were playing at the City Hall that evening, and soundcheck had started thirty minutes ago.

“Oh shit,” you remembered, sliding your sunglasses back on your head and running after Roger, who was already halfway down the hill.

“God, Roger, slow down!” you yelled as he barely looked both ways before darting across the road. “We’re not going to be any less late if you get yourself killed!”

A woman passing on the street shot you a scandalised glare, as though shouting was now a crime as well. You just stuck your tongue out at her and sprinted after Roger.

“But we might make it before the actual concert starts!” Roger yelled back.

Quite frankly out of breath, you slowed your pace, until you were walking and Roger was disappearing around the street corner.

You huffed. “Well, you won’t have a concert if your manager gets killed, will you?”

You were The Reaction’s manager.

Roger’s blonde head poked back around the corner. “Sorry, you’re right. Always right.” He sighed. “But come on.” He slipped his hand into yours and pulled you with him, still running but now keeping pace with you. He sort of had to keep pace with you, given that he was holding your hand. But that had been his choice.

Finally, the two of you were rushing up the steps to the Hall, and then you were inside.

“‘Bout bloody time!” cried Mike from the stage, throwing up his hands. “Where the hell’ve you been? We can’t play without a drummer and you know it.”

The both of you were breathless at this point, because you’d really sprinted the last stretch to the Hall, but Roger managed, “Hill. Lost track of time.”

Jim laughed, holding onto his bass guitar as though the whole thing were just too funny for him to handle. “Bet you did,” he said, with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “Pretty girl like Y/N.”

You sneered at Jim.  

Roger told him, “You wouldn’t know a pretty girl if she bit you on the nose.”

“But I’ll bet that one bit you elsewhere than on the nose,” Jim chortled, nudging Mike.

“Shut up, Jim,” said Roger, seething with a rare hostility toward his bandmates.

“What’re you even on about?” you shook your head at Jim’s immaturity.

Mike smiled in amusement. “Look, we all know Jim’s an arse, but really, holding hands? This isn’t primary school. People are bound to jump to conclusions.”

You opened your mouth to repeat your previous question, until Roger dropped your hand, and you realised what Mike had been talking about.

You’d all but entirely forgotten that you were holding Roger’s hand.

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look at you.

He walked over to the stage, and Mike gave him a hand up. Roger picked up his drumsticks from where they lay atop his kit, and sat down.

“Alright?” he called to you, because you were standing motionless at the centre of the empty hall floor.

You flashed him a reassuring smile and he nodded back, but beneath your skin, you felt an unfamiliar flutter.

It’s just Roger, you reminded yourself.

But you didn’t believe you.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

You were at the front of the crowd, though the hall was filled to the brim with guests. There were mostly young people, many of whom you recognised from school, but there were also people your parents’ age, and the even elder generation too.

The buzz before the show was incredible, the anticipation almost cloying in its headiness; you felt drunk on excitement, though you’d drunk nothing at all.

Then the lights were shut off, and Quiet swept her elegant hand over the audience. All eyes were trained upon the single spotlight that flooded the darkness of the stage.

You wrung your hands. You held your breath. It was almost too much.

Then Roger’s airy voice rang out through the silence. “One, two, three, four!”

You smiled.

With a flick of his wrist, Roger began the drum fill that opened the first song, and you could see him nodding his head and mouthing the count under his breath.

The spotlight lit up Mike at the front and Jim off to one side, and The Reaction began.

They were well-liked, and tonight’s audience was energetic and appreciative, clapping and cheering and dancing about. It was a good turnout.

Roger caught your eye and winked. Somehow, at every gig, he always managed to spot you, no matter where you were standing. His attention sent a shiver through you.

The concert flew by, and before you knew it, Mike was announcing, “One for the road?”

The crowd responded with a hearty cheer.

Mike laughed. “Really for the road. This’ll be our last show as The Reaction,” he said.

Your mouth fell open. What?

The crowd responded with an equally hearty boo.

Mike clucked his tongue. “It’s been a pleasure, Truro. Thanks for being home.”

Last show? you thought. Have they had a falling out? What the fuck did I miss?

You couldn’t concentrate for the last song. You couldn’t take it all in. You felt weak-kneed, the ground beneath you prepared to open up and swallow you whole at any given moment.

You didn’t take your eyes off of Roger for the remainder of the show, wondering if it was sadness or guilt that twisted in his face. You decided it was a combination of both, because hell, he should feel guilty for having left you out of this.

You headed for the wings of the stage, and you watched the end of the concert from there, arms folded over your chest.

All the energy seemed to have gone out from you, and if you weren’t mistaken, looking at Roger, it had left him too.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

“Roger, what the hell?” you grabbed his arm as soon as he came offstage.

His expression was one of shock and— yes— guilt.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, twirling a drumstick with an absent hand.

You shook your head. “When were you going to tell me that the band was breaking up? Or were you just not going to tell me until it happened?”

Roger pressed his lips together, glancing down at his shoes. “I was going to tell you, really.”

“When?” you demanded. You could feel the heat rising in your face; you were furious.

Roger sighed, setting his drumsticks down on a crate.  “Come outside.”

You obliged to follow him out the back, but you wouldn’t let him hold the door for you.

Outside, you realised that you shouldn’t have obliged, because this was where everyone was taking their smoke break. You had asthma. The promise of a coughing fit rattled your chest almost instantly.

Roger winced and pulled you away from the smokers, toward the trees around the back of the building. If you hadn’t been so angry, you would’ve appreciated his considerateness, especially because the only reason Roger had yet to take up smoking was because he knew that you, his best friend, wouldn’t have been able to be around him if he did.

Away from the haze by the back door, you squared your shoulders anew and prepared again to scold Roger for having not told you about the breaking up of The Reaction. But he spoke before you could.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

Of all the shocks you’d received thus far that day, this one threw you the most.

“Leaving?” you said. “What do you mean, leaving? After the gig, now, as in we should go home?”

Roger closed his eyes. “No, darling,” he murmured. “I’m leaving Truro. I’m moving away. For school.”

“What?” The word rang in your ears as a dizziness clouded your mind, rattling your thoughts with tremors like earthquakes.

He met your eyes softly. “I’m going to London. I’m going to study to become a dentist.”

“A dentist?” you stammered. Rock-star Roger, off to be a dentist. It just didn’t fit. He was meant for more than that, you knew he was.

“Yeah,” he nodded.

A sinking feeling took up residence in your stomach, and you were acutely aware of a numbness beginning to crawl up your sides and your neck, the wool-thickness of your throat as you tried to swallow.

As easily as pulling teeth, you forced yourself to become coherent. “When are you leaving?”

“After the summer,” Roger said quietly. “The band’s small enough as a three-piece. They can’t play as a two-piece.”

The thought of the band breaking up had barely occurred to you. Sure, The Reaction were good, but they were just... good. What worried you was losing Roger. But you didn’t dare to think about what you would do when your oldest and greatest friend was gone. You couldn’t bear to. It would take too much out of you.

“They wouldn’t last without you, no matter how many people they had,” you said, because the words felt more true to you than anything else in the world. Roger may have been only the drummer— his words— but he was the spark for The Reaction. Without him, playing a gig would be like trying to burn a fire without oxygen. He had an irreplaceable energy, an easy charm, the rock ‘n’ roll voice, and you would have replaced Ringo Starr with Roger any day. Not that you didn’t like the Beatles as they were, but you really couldn’t imagine anyone playing the drums with as much tact, as much rhythm, as much vivacity, as Roger Meddows Taylor.

“Thanks, love,” Roger breathed, sounding as tired as you suddenly felt.

You nodded distractedly. He took your hands in his.

“So what now?” you said, unwilling to articulate the uneasiness that swamped you, but nonetheless trying to convey the feeling to Roger.

Roger smiled another one of those small smiles that were uncommon to his character, and you knew that he saw right through you. He always did.

“We make the most of this summer.”

Tears pooled in your eyes without warning, and you bit your lip to stop them from falling. You stared at Roger unblinkingly, and the sappiness in your heart washed through the entirety of your being.

“I’m going to miss you,” you said, and your voice wavered.

Roger closed his eyes again, almost as though in pain, before he reached out his arms and folded you against his chest.

He whispered into your hair and his words hummed along your warmed skin.

“My darling, I will miss you infinitely more.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

You and Roger made a list. A list of all the things you wanted to do before the summer was over. Before Roger left.

It was extensive.

You were going to get up early and go to the hill to see the sun rise, because you hadn’t done that since you were ten.

You were going to go swimming at the river by moonlight, which was a compromise to Roger’s idea of skinny dipping— you’d shut that down immediately.

Roger was going to teach you how to drum, and you were going to teach him how to draw, and he insisted on taking you to some obscure record shop just outside of town, and you insisted that he learn to cook.

You were going to build a house of cards, if Roger didn’t knock it down with his sighs of boredom.

Roger said that the two of you should try to stay awake for twenty-four hours straight, and that you should help him improve his French by learning the language too.

You planned a picnic at the top of the big tree on the Truro hill, where someone had, years ago, nailed planks of wood between the upper tree boughs.

You were going to have breakfast or lunch or dinner in every single fucking place in the centre of Truro.

You were going to develop all the film you had lying around from various years.

You were going to visit your school one last time.

You were going to eat ice cream for breakfast.

And you were going to go swimming for hours every day until Roger’s hair turned white-blonde from the sun.

Most ambitious of all the things on the list, however, was Roger’s intention to beat you at marbles. You knew he never would.

With every summer day that passed, you and Roger scrawled new items on the list, and so, even though you crossed a couple of things off the list each day, a blind man could’ve seen that you would never get to do everything. Not before Roger left.

You realised this on the day you tried to stay awake for twenty-four hours.

You’d ended up in your usual spot on Truro hill, and were both rather giggly from having got no sleep, and from Roger’s suggestion to get drunk to pass the time. Altogether a terrible idea.

“Roger,” you said, laughing for no reason as the long blades of seaglass-coloured grass tickled your skin.

Roger laughed too, tossing his blonde head to catch a brief glimpse of the swarm of fireflies that had been hovering nearby for the past few hours.

“Roger,” you said again. You didn’t laugh, because he finally looked at you, and your heart fluttered at the liquid blue of his eyes. “We’ll never do it all.”

The smile disappeared from his face, and you hated that you were the one to take it away.

“I won’t be gone forever,” he said. “And you can come visit me in London, and I’ll… I’ll come visit you wherever you are!”

“But it won’t be the same,” you murmured sadly.

Roger intertwined his fingers with yours, and he sounded suddenly sober when he spoke. “I know.”

Then, as his thumb ran softly over the back of your hand, you asked what you’d been afraid to ask for weeks. “When are you leaving, exactly?”

He stopped moving his fingers. “The first. Of September.”

You inhaled sharply. “But that’s—”

“The day after tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Roger sighed. “For the same reason I didn’t tell you I was leaving in the first place.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to leave you.”

As it happened, Roger didn’t learn how to cook, though he did ruin your house of cards. You never made it to every restaurant, cafe, and bar in central Truro. Roger didn’t beat you at marbles.

But you did all the other things. Every single little thing. And Roger’s hair turned white-blonde, so he resembled an angel even more than he had previously, though he was anything but.

And then came September.

It was raining, the first day of the month, as though the rain had sensed your mood and had arrived in a show of solidarity.

He’d said goodbye to his sister, to his parents and yours, to every girl on the street that had ever had a crush on him. Which was all of them, really.

You went with him all the way to the train platform, because he had yet to say goodbye to you. And to let go of your hand.

You’d walked the whole way, taking the scenic route about the landmarks of the memories of where you’d grown up together.

To Roger, you pointed out all the places you’d waited for him when he’d been running late to some rendezvous or another, and to you Roger pointed out all the places he and his various bands had over the years tried (and usually failed) to book gigs.

You talked. You laughed. You tried not to think. If you let yourself think, you would only think about where the end of this walk would take you. And you knew that the end would take you much farther than memory lane, beyond it and into a bleak future. A future without your best friend.

The light was fading from the sky when the train and its cars rattled into the station, and Roger set down his suitcase. He had gone quiet over the last few minutes.

It baffled you how easily he could pack up and just leave, but nonetheless, there he stood on the platform, with his favourite velvety jacket and one tanned-leather suitcase.

He pulled you into a hug.

You buried your nose in his shoulder.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” you said.

“Every week,” he promised.

“And you won’t forget about me?”

Roger laughed softly. “How could I forget you, the girl I couldn’t beat at fucking marbles.”

You barked a laugh, but it came out as more of a sob.

“Hey, hey sweetheart,” Roger murmured, pulling you off of his shoulder to brush the hair from your eyes. “Don’t cry, love.”

“How d’you expect me not to do that?” you said, your voice sounding small and pathetic.

Roger had no smart remark, no cheeky innuendo or quick response. “I’m going to go before I start too.”

You scoffed. “The only time I’ve ever seen you cry was when you were eight and scraped your skin raw on that rock by the river.”

The rock had been slippery, and Roger had slipped. There’d been blood for days, hips and elbows and knees scraped clean, bones broken and skin badly bruised. Luckily, the water where Roger had fallen in had not been deep, and you’d managed to get him out of the river, and home as well, where you’d lied to your parents, saying that he’d fallen off his bike. They never would have let you go back to the river on your own if you’d told them the truth. But that river was your favourite place in the world, and Roger’s too. He’d always said so.

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about that,” he said with a grimace. “I’ll miss that stupid bloody river, even for all the trouble it’s got me into.”

You laughed again.

You’d miss Roger making you laugh, even when it was through tears. All the better when it was through tears; that he could do that was just one of the many reasons why you loved him.

You loved him and his smile, and his stupidly pretty hair and wide eyes, and his insolence and his childishness, and how he knew what you were thinking at any given moment. You loved how he made you feel, like you didn’t need to be anyone in particular, but just that you, and you alone, were enough.

“I love you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, you really hadn’t. You didn’t want to be that person, giving the other something to hold onto, to hold them back. You didn’t want to be another girl in love with Roger, just one in a hundred. But you weren’t in love. You just loved him.

Or that was what you told yourself anyway.

You changed your mind when Roger’s hand came to rest on your cheek. The world around you spun slowly; it felt suspended in time.

You were in love with him.

Roger leaned forward and his lovely eyelashes fluttered closed.

Your breath hitched and you fell utterly motionless.

Then, ever so gently, he pressed a kiss to your lips. Closed-mouthed and soft, it was still enough to turn your strength watery and your skin alight as his fingertips pressed along your jaw.

And that it was Roger kissing you— it thrilled you, terrified you in equal amounts.

Still, as he pulled back, you gravitated toward him. You wanted to keep his mouth on yours, make your breath his, make him melt as he had made you melt.

But when he dropped his hand, he made no acknowledgement of what he had just done.

Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave don’t—

“I have to go,” he said, tenderness forgotten by all but the quietness of his tone.

You nodded mutely, squeezed his hand one last time.

Then you were wiping your tears away, alone on the platform, and hours had passed since Roger had left you standing there. But you couldn’t remember a single one of them.

All you remembered was him.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

1968-1974

It saddened you deeply, but the fact was, it hadn’t taken long to fall out of contact.

Roger had called every now and then, and had written every week, precisely as he had promised.

And you’d written back.

But it was difficult, when he was off in London, such a lively and interesting place, and you were back in ol’ Cornwall. Everything you had to say paled in comparison with what he wrote. You shouldn’t have wondered if he groaned tiredly each time he received a letter from you.

Yet he wrote back every time, about dentistry and biology and about how it all alternatingly bored or taxed him. But mostly he wrote about music, about his experimenting with guitar and drums, though he had more of an aptitude for the latter than the former.

Then one day, the tone of his letters changed. He’d met some bloke named Brian May, and it sounded like they’d struck up a friendship, and a band. They called themselves ‘Smile’.

You were there to read Roger’s letters when Smile became Queen and Farrokh Bulsara became Freddie Mercury, and when nineteen year-old John Deacon replaced Mike Grose on bass guitar.

But you’d stopped responding to the letters. And so Roger stopped calling.

He kept writing, though. For years.

In 1971, you moved out of Truro, farther south to Falmouth to study at the university there, and your family followed.

You had hoped that the move to Falmouth— to a new city, to begin anew your education, to make new friends— would replenish you. But the truth was, you’d never really been good at new. Everything in your life had always been there— Truro, a school established in 1880, old friends. Well, old friend. You’d never really got around to making more than one. Roger had been all you’d needed. Roger had felt like home.

Truro had stopped feeling like home the day he’d left.

Falmouth had never even had a chance.

By the time you’d mustered the will to respond to Roger’s letters again, the one you sent came right back to you, stamped with Return to Sender.

You’d cried that day.

You’d cried for love lost, for everything you hadn’t had the time to do, for everything you were missing that was happening in your former best friend’s life.

Even three years later, in 1971, one year since the letters had stopped, you weren’t used to living without Roger by your side. You thought of him every day.

At first he had been a voice in your head, remarking on everything you said and did. A snide remark, a tooth-achingly sweet compliment that came from out of nowhere.

It was as though you were possessed.

By 1972, everywhere you went, you thought you saw him, though of course it was never him.

By 1973, though you now thought of Roger only sometimes, little things led back to him. Bubblegum. Bicycles. Poached eggs for breakfast. Train stations, suitcases, ticket stubs and playing cards.

Or perhaps you were haunted.

It was in 1974 that everything changed again.

You saw the advertisement in the paper, and you made your decision.

It was as simple as that.

Queen were to play in Penzance, which, by way of train, was only an hour away from where you lived. So, without hope or agenda, you were going to Penzance, to see Queen play, to see Roger, and his new best friends whom you’d never met.

The allure of seeing him again was simply too great, because fuck it all, six years had gone by and you still could not shake his lopsided smile from your memory.

Having had tea at a local cafe, you arrived alone at Winter Gardens in Penzance at seven o’clock, thirty minutes before the start of the concert.

The venue was small, and yet it was already filling up. Sure, you’d heard of Queen through the occasional newspaper or magazine, and through Roger’s letters, but you weren’t aware that they had such a large following.

The support act was all right, you thought, but to be entirely honest, you had a hard time paying attention. You were distracted, wondering what the headliner would be like.

Six years would have changed the face of your friend, but you hoped you’d still recognise the boy you’d played marbles with. You wondered if he would recognise you, in the crowd, like he used to.

The opener finished their act, and they bowed and departed the scene.

Then Queen took to the stage.

The guitarist, whom you remembered to be named Brian, opened the set with a series of notes harmonised with delay, and the rest of the band entered.

The lead singer Freddie, bassist John, and guitarist Brian were all dressed in flamboyant garb, all loose sleeves and sparkly thread, with dark makeup to highlight their eyes.

But Roger.

No kohl embellished his features. They stood out as it was.

His hair had grown long in the time he’d been away, and the planes of his face had leveled out, cheekbones and jawline sharpened by the evanescence of childhood. Still, the big blue eyes and the slight pout to his mouth remained, and his beauty was staggering.

The music they played was electrifying, and Freddie certainly knew how to manage a crowd. He became the crowd, and he was a magician, the ringleader of a circus, the friend who nudged you at a concert when the band played your favourite song. He played off of the others, and they played off of him. Roger in particular seemed energised by the effervescence of Freddie Mercury, smiling and laughing between singing and playing the drums.

Roger was even better at the drums than you remembered, and you found yourself enraptured by the rhythm he kept, your pulse thrumming in time with the beat.

You were swept away. Your eyes hardly left him.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Freddie cried, and the audience responded in kind. He surveyed the people before him in a flirtatious manner. “You’re all beautiful,” he said. ��Thank you for having us here tonight, we’re very pleased about this whole thing. You’ve been lovely, so how about one more?”

A cheer rose from the crowd and you joined in.

“Alright, my lovelies. I’ll let my blondie pal, who I’m sure you’re all very familiar with, probably because he’s flirted with all of you at least once—” here there came another cheer from the audience— “introduce the number. Rogerrrr!”

Roger laughed, shaking the hair out of his eyes. You smiled, remembering when you’d been the one to make him laugh like that, all glowy and soft.

“Ha ha, thanks a lot, Freddie. Anyway, this one’s called ‘Modern Times…”

Roger was looking right at you.

His lips were parted in surprise, his brow furrowed in something that looked to you like anguish.

Hello, he mouthed to you.

Hi, Rog, you mouthed back.

His face broke into a smile.

“This one’s… this one’s called ‘Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll’.” He raised a drumstick and pointed it in your direction. “For you.”

Fondly, you shook your head at him. He really never did stop flirting.

You saw Freddie glance back at Roger with an expression of amusement.

Then Roger hit the drums, and the guitar and bass followed, and Freddie gave a shout to start off the song.

After the final encore had been played, Freddie thanked the crowd once more, Roger waved his drumsticks, Brian raised his guitar, and John took a bow.

If it had been anyone other than those four, you would’ve said that they were being pretentious. But this wasn’t pretentious. This was Queen.

The venue slowly emptied out, but you remained where you were. When the front was clear and there was nothing between you and the low-raised stage, you went to lean against it. You needed a moment to think.

Did you go after Roger now? Or did you just go?

He’d seen you. He’d acknowledged you. But that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to you, catch up, no matter how much you wanted that.

You headed for the door.

“Y/N!”

You turned around, and before you could react, Roger was running forward, and he barrelled straight into you.

He threw his arms around you and held to you tightly, stepping from foot to foot and rocking you gently in his hold. You felt him bury his face in your hair, and a tingly feeling skittered down your spine as his sigh tickled your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him and breathed in his familiar smell— lemon chamomile shampoo to keep his hair bright blonde, coffee with his ridiculous one and three-sevenths sugar, soap and a prickle of sweat.

And something else.

Was it… no, it couldn’t be. Cigarettes.

“Roger, have you started smoking?”

He laughed in an endearingly bright manner, pulling back from the embrace to look at you. “I haven’t seen you for six years and that’s the first thing you say?” He shook his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a lovely smile.

“I’m sorry,” you laughed with him, and he hugged you again.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Roger said, squeezing you tightly. “How’ve you been?”

“I—”

“Who’s your friend, Rog?”

Freddie Mercury appeared by the door to the backstage, a sly smile on his lips. He’d taken off his makeup and looked quite young in the now brightly-lit room.

Roger let go of you gently as Brian and John arrived on the scene as well.

“It wouldn’t be the legendary Y/N, would it?” asked Brian.

“Legendary?” you snorted.

“Mmh,” John said, “I think it might very well be. We aren’t far from Cornwall, you know.”

Roger rolled his eyes. He gestured to you, his other arm still around your waist and his palm bleeding delightful warmth into your skin.  “Yes, this is Y/N,” he said.

“Nah, I’m just another groupie,” you joked.

Freddie strode forward, extending his hand to you.

“No, you’re not, darling,” he said, shaking your hand with a regal air. “Rog doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you.” Freddie winked and you found yourself blushing at his remark.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” you said lamely. You elbowed Roger to ease the tension, hoping you could rely on your old best friend for a reaction. “How many have you had?”

“Hey!” Roger pouted and rubbed his side. “Six years, and you just elbow me right in the ribs.”

He really wouldn’t let go of those six years.

“Like old times,” you said.

Roger practically beamed at that, and you wondered if really he had missed you as much as you had missed him. “Oh, we’ve got so much to catch up on,” he said animatedly. “But first, meet the other two sods I work with.”

Brian and John exchanged a glance.

“Rude,” Brian sniffed. He came over to shake your hand as well. “I’m Brian.”

“I actually knew that,” you smiled, “Rog sent me letters for a while.”

“Ah, so you were the one he was writing to,” Brian quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re a bit slow on the uptake, dear,” Freddie said.

Brian sighed. “Thanks, Fred.”

“Then I suppose you know I’m John,” said he, greeting you with a friendly smile to accompany his handshake.

“Yes,” you nodded, returning the smile.

“We call him Deacy, though,” Roger, who still had his arm around you, added.

You turned your head to look at him. “I know, Rog.”

Roger smiled at you again and your skin warmed. “Yeah, I suppose I wrote that to you.” Then he said softly, “Why’d we ever stop writing?”

You’d told yourself it was the mix up of addresses, but really, it was a bit more than that, wasn’t it? After all, you might have tried getting a hold of Roger’s parents and getting his new address from them.

Freddie interrupted by clearing his throat, and you were honestly quite grateful for it, because with the way Roger had been gazing at you just then, all soft-eyed and sweet, you might have been tempted to kiss him.

“That’s a conversation for another time, darlings,” Freddie said. “We’re going to the pub for a drink. Would you like to come, Y/N?”

You tore your eyes away from Roger, only to glance at him again to see if he was okay with you tagging along. You took his smile as a yes.

“Oh, uh... Yes, I’ll come,” you said.

“Excellent!” Freddie exclaimed, and Brian and Deacy followed him out the door.

You started after them, but Roger pulled you back. “I really have missed you,” he said earnestly.

You couldn’t keep the smile from your face.

“I’ve missed you too, Rog.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Roger, of course, remembered your drink order and brought it to you from the bar. He also wouldn’t let you pay for it, because he insisted his income was far more than yours, which was probably an understatement.

“So,” Brian said, “Y/N, what’re you studying at uni?”

A collective groan came from the others.

“What?” Brian asked.

“Darling, the poor girl does not want to talk about uni,” Freddie put an arm around Brian’s shoulders. “Do you really think she’s hanging out with us for boring adult-talk?”

Brian frowned.

You laughed. Brian seemed to you the kind of person who actually thoroughly enjoyed a life of research and studying; it probably hadn’t occurred to him that discussing one’s major was a staple boring-topic, one that was only brought up when there was absolutely nothing else to talk about.

“It’s fine,” you waved Freddie off. “I’m a history major. Specialising in World War Two.”

Brian tipped his glass toward you. “See, now that’s impressive. I could never remember all those people and all those dates.”

“He was a science major,” said Roger in an aside to you, leaning his shoulder against yours. You leaned into his touch.

“Astrophysics, actually,” Brian corrected him, and you saw John— Deacy— roll his eyes.

“What about you two, Freddie, Deacy?” you inquired.

“You don’t want to ask about mine?” Roger smirked.

You shrugged. “Dentistry. Switched to biology.”

He smiled slowly. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” you said, and if it was even possible, Roger’s eyes softened. He was still the boy you’d loved six years ago, and it was as though no time had passed at all. Your dynamic with him was exactly the same as it had been for the whole of your life. Your heart still lost its pattern when he touched your hand.

“I studied electrical engineering,” Deacy said, as Freddie gave a little ahem, and you realised that you’d just spent a good many seconds gazing at Roger.

“Oh,” you said, feeling your skin pinken slightly. “How, um, interesting.”

Deacy chuckled. “The usual response.”

“Oh no, you must get that all the time, I’m sorry,” you stammered, “I’m not entirely sure about the specifics of electrical engineering—”

“And they would bore you to death, darling,” Freddie interjected. “It’s all far too technical. But for some perspective, Deacy here built his own amp from something he found in a tip.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Did you really?”

John nodded humbly, but you could see that he was really rather pleased. Fair enough, too. His sound at the concert had been excellent.

“Freddie did art,” Roger continued. “He designed our logo, for Queen.”

“Wow,” you said.

Freddie pulled a black sketchbook from out of nowhere. He flipped it open to a specific page, which had been opened to rather often, going by the creases down the spine of the sketchbook, and pointed a carefully manicured fingernail to the paper.

“There. It’s made up of our star signs.”

Freddie proceeded to explain in detail how he’d gotten the idea for and designed the logo.

“We’re all impressive, really,” said Roger, voicing your exact thoughts.

You laughed, “Not to mention you’re rockstars.”

“We’ve definitely got something to fall back on if it all goes wrong,” Brian said, to which Freddie made a face.

“It won’t go wrong, though,” you said. “Look at how far you’ve already made it. It’s brilliant! Queen’s brilliant!”

Freddie laughed delightedly. “Oh, I like you,” he said.

“Could it be that Rog has finally improved his taste in women?” wondered Brian with a grin.

John was smiling too. “Yes, I think you should hang around us more often, Y/N. Bit of an ego boost, you know.”

“Like we need an ego boost,” Roger scoffed. “We bloody well named ourselves Queen. And besides,” he went on, hugging you to his side, “Y/N’s been around me forever. You just had the misfortune of waiting so long to meet her.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “What is it you want, Roger? You’re never this nice unless you want something.”

Freddie let out a cackle, and Brian choked on his beer as Deacy laughed.

On the other side of the table, moments later, Brian was still having trouble breathing, so John ran to get a glass of water while Freddie thumped him on the back.

But Roger turned to you.

“I want you in my life again,” he said quietly.

Your heart stuttered.

You wanted that too, desperately.

But how could you be in his life again when you had your education to think of, and he had Queen? Hell, you wouldn’t even have time to properly catch up before he and the others moved onto the next concert location.

“At least for the next few days.” His voice was so wistful. “Please?”

You’d only brought with you the clothes you were wearing, the crossbody bag that hung against your hip. You’d booked a return ticket on the nighttrain. You would miss that train, waste that money. You would miss classes at uni.

But the please had done it. For all his cheek and flirtations, Roger was still the first boy who’d even been properly polite to you, without wanting anything in return.

You nodded slowly. “I can take off a few days. But you’ll have to lend me some clothes or something, because I didn’t—”

“Oh, not to worry,” he said, waving a hand. “You always wore that flower print shirt of mine far better than I did, anyway.” He had the gall to wink at you, and your stomach dropped to your toes.

Before you could pretend not to be flustered, Deacy returned with Brian’s glass of water, and Freddie gave a sigh of relief.

“Well thank goodness for you, darling,” he said to John. “I think he’s hacked his throat raw.”

Brian did look rather pink in the face, but at least he’d stopped coughing.

He sipped his water gingerly, then muttered, “I think I’d like to go home, now.”

“Can’t go home, dearie,” said Freddie. “We’re on tour!”

Roger glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. I think it’s past your bedtime, Brian,” he chuckled.

Deacy laughed. Brian looked miserable.

Freddie shook his head. “Hotel, anyone?”

Roger nodded. “Early start and all that.”

As the five of you filed out the door, you bit your lip. You had no idea as to what hotel they were staying at, and you hoped you could afford a room there.

“Where is it you’re staying?” you asked casually.

“Oh, just down the road,” said Roger.

“Only place for miles, so not much choice, y’know,” Deacy smiled.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Freddie patted Deacy’s shoulder. “He’s too used to the glamorous life. Likes making choices. No fun when he’s got none to make.”

Freddie led the way down the boulevard.

The hotel didn’t look too fancy, so you felt a little better as the four of them picked up keys to their rooms, having provided some ridiculous fake names. They then waited for you patiently at the side of the lobby, conversing with some of the roadies who had also returned back from the pub.

“Hi,” you said, approaching the front desk, “a single room for one night, please.”

The lady at the front desk winced, but in a rather apathetic manner. “Ah, sorry,” she said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic. She wrinkled her long nose as she peered at you. “No vacancies for tonight.”

Your skin felt suddenly clammy.

This was the only hotel for miles. John had said so.

You swallowed, your throat constricting. “Okay, well, thanks anyway.”

You turned away before desk-lady could pick up on your terror and revel in it. She seemed the kind of person who would enjoy turning someone away just for the feeling of authority that came with it. Or maybe that was just your spite talking.

What were you going to do? There was nowhere to go for the night. And you’d have missed that train by now, so there wasn’t even the chance of going home tonight and simply meeting up with Queen at their next rendezvous.

You felt like again like the nervous child you’d once been as you made your way over to the group.

“Hey,” you said quietly, your fingers curling around Roger’s sleeve.

“Hi gorgeous,” he smiled. “Desk lady wasn’t too mean to you, was she? She can be a bit uptight sometimes. Think all she needs a really good shag—”

“Um, Rog,” you cut him off, “there were no vacancies.”

“Oh,” Roger frowned. “Well, not to worry. You can stay with me.”

Relief rushed out of you in a breath.

“Thank you,” you murmured, feeling silly for having even worried.

Roger shrugged. “How shit of a friend would I have to be to just tell you to get lost?”

A smile found its way to your lips. You were back to being friends.

“Everything alright?” Freddie joined you and Roger.

“Perfectly. Well, more or less, anyway,” he amended. “They had no vacancies, but Y/N will just stay with me instead.”

Mischief glittered in Freddie’s eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Have fun, dears.”

He was up the stairs to the next floor before you could correct him.

Brian looked over. “Did Freddie just say ‘have fun’?”

You blushed, “Yeah, well, he didn’t, um…” You gestured between you and Roger. “I mean, we’re not—”

You looked to Roger to see if he would help you out, but he just stood there, his arms crossed and a little smile playing on his lips.

“Of course not,” said Brian, but he was grinning.

“Roger!” Deacy called.

Roger turned.

“Use protection,” John said pointedly.

Roger rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, all of you. Come on, Y/N, let’s get away from these idiots.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply followed Roger.

You let him guide you up the stairs and toward his room, his hand pressing softly against the small of your back.

You normally hated anyone touching your back— it felt too intimate, a violation of personal space— but growing up with Roger, the two of you had pushed and shoved each other at any given moment, into the river, off of the fence you were sitting on, down a hallway, and so Roger’s fingers on your back were familiar. Though of course his touch was now gentle in place of forceful.

Gentle.

You stiffened thinking about the weight of his palm on your skin, quite forgetting to breathe, then attempted to right your inhale-exhale without him noticing that anything was off.

But he noticed, as his hand dropped from your back so that he could unlock the hotel room door.

“Alright, love?” he said.

“Yeah, fine,” you loosed a breath carefully.

Roger smiled bemusedly, then held the door open for you. “Welcome to my humble, one-night abode,” he said.

“Thank you,” you responded courteously, and went inside.

You surveyed the room.

A shiny, new-looking television, an ample wooden wardrobe, a door that presumably led to a connecting bathroom, an armchair with bright orange upholstery, a few plastic plants, Roger’s open luggage tossed to the floor on one side of the room, the wallpaper and floor unstained, and a double bed. Not too shabby for a gig-night stop off.

A bed. As in a singular noun. One.

Roger shut the door behind you.

He caught sight of your face, the barely-concealed nervousness that skittered behind your eyes.

“Ah. Yes,” he said slowly. “One bed. Sorry about that. I’ll just take some cushions and the floor—”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” you told him. “You’ve been out all day, and what with the concert and all, you must be exhausted. You always were, back home.”

Your rambling gave way to quiet as the both of you slipped into silent reminiscence about earlier days. “Besides,” you went on, with what you hoped was an easy smile, “we used to share sleeping spaces all the time, when we were younger.”

It was true. Sleeping under the stars atop Truro hill, sleeping in hammocks by the river, sleeping with your head on Roger’s shoulder on the bus back from a school excursion.

“Oh, all the places I fell asleep,” Roger laughed, no doubt talking about his ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time at all. “Right. Do you want to take a shower?”

“Do I smell that awful?”

Roger scoffed. “‘Course not,” he said. “You always smell lovely. Like flowers.”

Once more, you didn’t know what to say to that, so you continued the other half of the conversation. You normally showered in the mornings, but the concert hall had been hot, and you were pretty sure someone had spilled beer on you at one point. You set down your bag and your jumper. “If there’s enough towels, I’ll take a shower.”

Roger nodded. “There’s more in the cupboard under the sink. You go on. I’ll go after.”

You took your shower quickly because the time was already nearing two o’clock in the morning, and Roger still had to take his. You were towel-drying your hair as you walked out of the bathroom, redressed in your day clothes, not wanting to hog the space.

Roger was rifling through his luggage, and upon hearing you re-enter the room, he straightened up and tossed you a washed-out cotton blend t-shirt.

You caught it. “Thanks.”

Roger gave a friendly smile and ruffed your hair as he passed you on his way to the bathroom.

You swapped your shirt quickly, feeling rather uncomfortable about changing in a hotel room that wasn’t your own. You walked over to the bed and pulled the covers out from where they’d been tucked in tightly. Hotels always folded the covers in so bloody tightly. You nearly fell over trying to tug them free.

You settled beneath the duvet, hesitating briefly before slipping off your denim jeans. It was ridiculous, of course— the thought of sleeping in those stiff trousers!— but your stomach roiled with nerves all the same. You’d slept beside Roger before, yes, but at least then you’d been fully dressed, or had been wearing your own pyjamas. This was something else. You could smell the faint aroma of lemon and chamomile which saturated his t-shirt.

Since you could only find one pillow on the bed, you’d taken the cushion from the orange armchair to use for the night, and as you lay your head down, you could hear the muffled sound of Roger singing in the shower.

You smiled to yourself. It was unlikely he realised how much his singing carried through the wall.

You loved his voice. You relished the times he sang in front of you unabashedly, which was rare, because he normally only felt comfortable singing when he was already onstage, drinking in the confidence of a fully fledged performance. But it was different when he sang alone, and sang without accompaniment. It was rawer, a little softer.

The water shut off, and after a few minutes, Roger returned. You felt him sink down beside you.

“Y/N?” he asked quietly, probably wondering if you were already asleep. You were facing away from him, so he couldn’t tell.

You turned your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Oh,” he said, and your eyes caught on the little blonde wisps that curled about his face. He looked very young in that moment, and your heart twisted at the rush of old memories. “I was just seeing if you were already asleep.”

“Not anymore,” you joked. “You sing in the shower.”

Roger actually blushed. He never blushed.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

You shook your head. “You know you’ve got a beautiful voice, idiot.”

He smiled. “Not beautiful, but fairly alright.”

“Beautiful,” you insisted.

Roger smiled with downcast eyes, his hair falling about his face, and the warm light of the room rendering him more boyishly pretty than ever.

God, you wanted to hold him. Wrap him in your arms and hold him close and kiss the top of his head until you both drifted off to sleep.

“Right,” he said, “we’d better get some sleep. Off again tomorrow, early.”

You nodded silently.

Roger got beneath the covers and switched off the lamp.

You heard him sigh as he settled down, his muscles likely aching from the show. You’d often massaged his shoulders after The Reaction’s gigs.

The bed was quite small, and Roger practically radiated heat. It was nice, really, because it was late March and the weather was still on the cold side of things. The only problem was that you wanted to shift closer to him.

You startled as Roger’s knee bumped your thigh.

“Oops, sorry sweetheart,” he said, and you tried not to disintegrate as his breath tickled your ear.

“It’s fine,” you responded quietly.

There was silence, and then Roger murmured, “You okay? I’m not hogging the covers, am I?”

If you turned around now, you’d be nose to nose with him.

You released a shuddering breath. “No, no, it’s fine,” you repeated, wrapping your arms around yourself to try and subdue the tingling sensation that hummed along your skin.

“Cold?” Roger spoke again.

You wished he’d shut up and go to sleep so that you could stop thinking about how close he lay to you.

You gave a frustrated huff. “No, I’m fine,” you bit out.

“You’re shivering.”

You were.

“What are you going to do about it,” you said, more in exasperation than as an actual question.

“Well, feel free to kick me off the bed now, but…”

He trailed off, and you were about to ask what he was on about when, tentatively, he wrapped an arm around your waist.

You inhaled sharply.

The material of the t-shirt you wore had ridden up; there was nothing between your skin and his.

“Is that okay?” he asked softly.

You forced yourself to exhale normally, though your heart stuttered in your chest and demanded you breathe at the pace of a sprinter. “Yeah.”

He pulled you closer until your back was flush against his chest and you were close enough to hear his heartbeat.

Slowly, he nestled his nose into your hair, his face resting at the crook of your neck.

You could hardly breathe.

Forget kissing; lying this close to someone, the warmth of their skin flooding yours, the rise and fall of their chest matching your own as they breathed gently, was so intimate.

It was underrated how utterly lovely it was to just lie with someone, all close, with gentle movements and whispered words.

And here you lay with Roger.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The morning came swiftly, because in Roger’s arms, you’d fallen asleep quickly.

The sun crept into the morning sky, seeming almost timid in how its light seeped back into England’s little corner of the world, slowly, as though afraid to wake you.

You turned over carefully, but there were no arms to shift from around you.

As your eyes adjusted to the light, you realised that the curtains were open. Roger was nowhere to be seen, but his suitcase now stood by the door, packed but not closed, and folded clothes lay on the armchair across from the bed.

You sat up slowly, wondering how he could have got up, packed his suitcase, and left the room without you noticing. You must have been very deeply asleep.

You slipped out of bed, touching your toes to the floor with a hiss at the cold of the wood. Crossing the room, you found that a note bearing your name rested atop the clothes on the armchair. Moving the note, you picked up the shirt that lay atop the folded stack. It was orange. Printed with flowers. Roger’s hippie shirt.

You pulled off the shirt you’d slept in and picked up the other.

Just as the door to the room swung open.

You were standing in only your bra and knickers. You gave a cry of alarm.

“Ah,” Roger said, “sorry, sweetheart.”

“Fuck’s sake, Roger!’

“Oh, ‘s alright,” Roger shut the door behind him, “we’ve known each other forever, hey? Not like I haven’t seen you in your bathers before.”

You threw on Roger’s orange shirt hurriedly, fingers fumbling to button the thing up. “I’m not in my bathers, Rog.”

Your back was to him, but you saw him shrug in your peripheral vision, folding his arms as he leaned back against the door. “Same cut, really. No less skin. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got anything to be embarrassed about.”

You’d finally finished with the bloody buttons and were now pulling your jeans back on. “Excuse me?” you said.

“Well, you’re beautiful.”

He said it so simply, like it was a fact, common knowledge, indisputable.

“Beautiful?” you murmured, creases settling between your eyes.

“I guess beautiful is a relative term,” he elaborated, “what with all that ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ stuff, but to me, I mean. To me, you’re beautiful.”

You gaped at him.

You couldn’t believe that you were having this conversation. At the break of dawn on a Sunday morning. And with Roger no less.

“Roger,” you said, because he wasn’t looking at you. He glanced up, eyes wide and questioning, as though it were not out of place to say such things as those which he had said, as though he were not being bold, reckless.

“Why?” you asked, because you couldn’t voice the full thought. Why say this now? Why say it at all?

Roger only pressed his lips together. “You can put your jumper in my suitcase. Take one of my jackets instead. It’s supposed to be colder in Taunton.”

You frowned.

“Just close it when you’re finished. It’s on the heavy side, so I’ll take it down.”

He was gone from the room before you could say another word.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The road to Taunton was three hours long, but Freddie insisted it would pass in a flash.

“We’ve got Scrabble,” he’d said smilingly.

“Scrabble?” you’d asked. “How much time can we really pass with Scrabble?”

Brian had shaken his head at you as he’d got on the bus. “You underestimate the power of wooden lettered tiles in times of need.”

“And you underestimate Freddie’s ability to make up words,” Deacy had added, taking a bite out of what appeared to be a cheese toastie— weird breakfast choice, but okay. You had other things to worry about. Like the fact that Roger couldn’t seem to decide whether the two of you were best friends or arch-nemeses.

You’d begun playing Scrabble with the boys before the bus had even started moving, but unfortunately, Scrabble was a four-person game, so this had required two of you to become a partnership. Roger had volunteered for you and him to be partners, and you’d mutely agreed.

Freddie sat by the window on one side of the bus’ little dining booth, flanked by Deacy. Brian sat across from John and next to Roger, whose side was flush against yours where you inhabited the other window seat.

When he leaned forward to reach for tiles or lay down a word, you felt the shift of his muscles, and before your turns, he’d lean toward you and talk softly in conspiratorial tones. It was difficult to concentrate when he did this, because his breath feathered across your face and his eyes were intent on yours, and the way he murmured his words made your insides flutter.

Really, Freddie was right; the bus rolled into Taunton before hardly any time had passed.

The afternoon was taken up by soundcheck, and when evening came and Queen stood in the wings, ready to go onstage to the already raging cheers, you stood with them.

It was surreal, not only the thought of the size of the crowd that awaited your friend’s band, but how similar it all was to the days when you’d waited in the wings with The Reaction.

The final preparations for showtime were the same. The combination of nerves and excitement that rushed through you was the same. The electricity that seemed to hum beneath each word, every movement, was the same. It was all the same.

An aching sort of nostalgia clawed at your chest, and you turned to your right to see Roger tapping his drumsticks absently against his leg.

He caught your eye and smiled. “Just like old times,” he said.

With his bright blonde hair and wide eyes framed by long lashes, you were again shocked by how young he still looked.

It was all the same.

At least on the surface.

You and Roger were not the people you had once been. The days of hands sticky with melted ice cream, of running about town pretending to be Clint Eastwood in some forgotten Western movie, were long past. No matter how much the thought may have saddened you.

This was real life.

The cheering out beyond the wings reached a crescendo, and Freddie’s face broke into a smile. He winked at you and disappeared into the darkness of the unlit stage.

With a deep breath and a smile exchanged with Brian, Deacy followed Freddie, and Brian followed Deacy.

Roger remained.

“Go,” you told him. “Your subjects await.”

He laughed. “Alright then. Give us a good luck kiss.”

He angled his cheek toward you, and you considered taking his face in your hands and turning his lips toward you, to kiss him properly, at first out of spite, and then find out how many of your sentiments he really shared.

But you didn’t. You had that much self-control, at least.

You pecked his skin gently, and perhaps it was your imagination, but you thought he leaned into your touch.

“See you after the show,” he said, and he was so close to you that you could see freckles beneath his eyes, across the bridge of his nose.

He followed his bandmates into the dark.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Roger

She’d always been with me.

It’d always been the two of us against the rest of the world, and I hoped it would always be.

Still, six years had taken their toll; her eyes were older than when I had last seen her, and by many years more than the time I’d spent apart from her.

Everything had changed.

And yet nothing had at all.

She’d always come to the gigs, no matter what band I happened to be playing in. And I’d always felt about her how I felt about her now.

She was like a ghost, standing in the wings every night, and I was possessed by her. By my love for her.

But who wouldn’t be?

I was as much a fool as anybody else.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The after-show buzz was as strong as the pre-show buzz, and in watching Queen play again, you’d almost forgotten the world around you. You’d been enraptured by the way Freddie’s fingers danced across the piano keys, and how the voices of him, Brian, John, and Roger had melded together, as though they couldn’t have sung off-key had they tried.

Drunk on the lateness of the night, you’d swayed to the music in the wings, and wondered how life might have been different if you had been just another groupie, or if you and Roger had met later in life, under other circumstances.

It was extravagant and strange to be back in his company after so long, so much so that you almost questioned whether you were really there at all, or if you were simply lost in the throes some feverish dream. You wondered what it would be like in a few days, when you returned to the world of going to university and paying rent and cooking your own dinner, draped in the consequences of sleep-deprivation and stripped of the glory you felt in this moment, watching Roger’s hair catch the light like spun gold as he sang with half-lidded eyes. You wondered what you would tell him when he inevitably asked what you’d thought of the performance tonight, because you wouldn’t remember anything but him; you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

They came off of the stage, all glistening with sweat and brilliant smiles. The rush of performing was something felt even by those who simply watched, and so you could only imagine the adrenaline felt by those who actually performed.

“That was a great one!” Brian was saying animatedly.

Deacy grinned, handing off his bass to a roadie. “You didn’t hear me mess up then?”

Brian blinked at him. “You messed up?”

“Fantastic, darlings!” Freddie cried, hugging Roger to his side, to which Roger laughed. “Would anyone have a glass of water for me?”

“Right here,” you passed Freddie a glass, because it’d been filled and was waiting for him.

“Ah, thank you, dear.” He let go of Roger, took the glass from you, and swallowed the water in a single gulp.

“Hi Roger,” said a sultry voice from your right, and you turned to find a long-legged brunette winking at him.

“Hello Janey,” Roger responded, his tone velvety. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You’d think I came to these shows for you,” said Janey, toying with the hem of her skirt.

You could have gagged.

What kind of name was Janey, anyway? What was wrong with good old Jane?

Why was Roger even interested in her? Anyone with two eyes could see that she’d turn out to be a double-crossing, press-whispering, inarticulate, brainless little—

“Y/N?” Brian was at your shoulder. “Alright?”

You shook your head. “It’s fine. Nothing.”

“If you say so,” said Deacy. He glanced between you and Roger, then turned away and walked toward the back door where a roadie was ushering both band and crew out.

You followed the others, trying not to think about Roger still talking with Janey behind you.

But then he called, “Y/N, wait up, will you?” and you heard him jog to catch you.

“Thought you were busy talking to Janey,” you drawled the name in the same tone he’d spoken it.

“Time to go, though, isn’t it?” he asked. He slung an arm around your shoulders as you walked, and leaned his head against yours. You didn’t object. “So... how were we?” he asked.

You hadn’t expected the question so soon, but here it was, and you hadn’t anything to say.

You tipped your head against his and told him the truth. “I’d say you were wonderful, but I’m honestly not quite sure. It felt like a dream.”

Roger laughed. “Hear that, Fred? She says it felt like a dream.”

Freddie smiled at you over his shoulder. “You’ve yet to wake up, it seems.”

“Losing sleep, are we?” Roger ruffled your hair with gentle fingers. “That’d have to be my fault, then.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to let you sleep on the floor,” you said, and he scoffed.

“Maybe I should, tonight.”

“Don’t,” you murmured.

He stopped walking. A frown creased his pretty mouth as he took your hands in his.

“Sweetheart? What’s the matter?”

His gaze was almost mournful.

You had to tell him how you felt sometime. Why not now? What had you left to lose?

You swallowed, glanced down at your feet.

“Roger, I’m—”

“ROGER!”

You both turned toward the sound, and before you could register what was happening, you were swarmed by a pack of teenage girls.

You swore under your breath, but Roger slipped into an easy smile, squeezed your hand before dropping it.

There were about fifteen girls, and they were all baying for his attention, for an autograph, for a single glance at him, and each was more aggressive than the next. You were elbowed in the ribs more than once.

“Hello, girls,” Roger purred. “Has anyone got a pen? Otherwise signing things might be hard.” He gave a chuckle and practically every one of them swooned.

You didn’t blame them.

As they each fumbled to be the first to hand him a pen, Roger’s fingers encircled your wrist.

His lips brushed your ear as he murmured, “Go back to the hotel with the others before the press get here too. I’ll see you later.”

Your skin prickled at his touch, but you managed to nod. You slipped away from the crowd before it could swallow you anymore wholly than it already had.

Back at the hotel, you sat around in Freddie’s hotel suite as he, Brian, John, and a handful of roadies drank and played the day’s final game of Death Scrabble to unwind from the show.

You kept glancing at the clock, but eventually, at a quarter to one, when Roger still had not made a reappearance, you said goodnight to Freddie, Deacy, and Brian, and headed to your— Roger’s— hotel room.

It hadn’t even occurred to you to book a second room, and now the lobby was closed for the night, so you opened Roger’s suitcase, pulled on the t-shirt he had lent you the previous night, and crawled under the covers to the sound of rain lashing against the window.

Despite the late hour, you couldn’t sleep.

Where was Roger? What was taking him so long?

Probably off with some groupie, your mind offered unhelpfully.

But then you heard the door unlock, and light spilled briefly into the room before the door was shut once more.

You must have been closer to unconsciousness than you’d thought, because your eyes felt heavy with sleep when you opened them to find Roger silhouetted in the darkness.

Now that he was actually here, you didn’t feel up to talking to him. You opted to pretend that you were already asleep.

Still, you didn’t push him away as you felt his arms settle around you, his lips ghost the skin of your neck. You shifted closer, because this was Roger. He was the closest you’d ever get to feeling you were home again, back in the sun-saturated summers of your childhood where the sky was wide and forever, and the future was unwritten.

And where you didn’t have to miss him when he was gone.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Again, you awoke to an empty bed.

But this time, his suitcase wasn’t even there. Just a folded set of clothes remained, your name written on a note in Roger’s elegant scroll.

You crumpled up the note and dressed in a huff.

Downstairs, you found Freddie and Roger having coffee in the hotel dining room.

“Good morning, Y/N,” Freddie said pleasantly.

“Morning, Freddie.”

Roger smiled and got up from his chair, walking toward you as though to embrace you. As though he had any right. “Good morning, sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that when you don’t mean it,” you ducked out of his grasp, made for the coffee pot on the table on the opposite side of the room.

Roger’s brow furrowed as he followed you. “What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

The coffee pot was empty. Just what you needed right now.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’d call any random girl who asked for your autograph the same thing without a second thought.”

You saw Freddie’s eyes widen— you’d spoken loud enough for the whole world to hear— and he sipped his coffee, trying to give the impression of being oblivious to your conversation with Roger. He wasn’t at all convincing.

“I’ve never called any one of them sweetheart,” Roger said, his voice surprisingly level in response to your anger. In your peripheral vision, Freddie glanced up from his coffee as though to gauge your reaction.

You reached for the teapot, and found that that was empty as well. Your frustration brimmed and flooded into your words.

“Yeah, right,” you scoffed. “Love, darling, dear, babe, sweetheart—”

“No,” said Roger firmly. He touched your hand, his fingers skimming your pulse. “Never sweetheart. That’s yours.”

Your anger was momentarily stilled by the look in his eyes, the earnesty he exuded.

Just yesterday, on the bus, between rounds of Scrabble, you and Roger had talked and laughed about the old days, as Roger called it, recalling afternoons by the river, nights on the hill, mornings traipsing home through empty streets before the rest of the world had awoken.

They felt like another life, those memories, sometimes so much that you wondered whether you’d lived them at all.

You needed Roger to ground you.

But you couldn’t figure him out.

Spending the nights with his arms wrapped around you, leaving wordlessly in the morning. Kissing your cheek before shows, flirting with groupies afterward. None of it made any sense.

“Let go of me,” you said quietly, because Brian and John had entered the room and were openly staring at your exchange with Roger. You saw Freddie trying to make them pretend like nothing was happening, but he only ended up confusing them more, to the point where Brian asked what in the world was going on, and Freddie fell back in his chair exasperatedly.

Roger let go of you.

You brushed yourself off as though you’d taken a fall.

You had, in a way. But that hadn’t been now. You’d fallen ages ago. For someone you couldn’t have.

And yet, everything about him possessed you.

You felt dizzy. You needed to get out of this room.

“I’ll be on the bus.”

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

“Home,” Deacy had said happily as the bus entered the outskirts of London. The others had nodded in agreement.

Even Roger.

No, you fought the urge to shout, Cornwall is your home. Don’t you remember?

Home had never felt so far away.

Freddie was overly nice to you, as though he sensed you wilting beneath the weight of your inner turmoil. He even went as far as to offer to take you shopping, right before soundcheck.

But Queen were performing at the Rainbow tonight, and as much as you would’ve liked to go shopping with someone as glamorous as Freddie, it would’ve been selfish to say yes and risk him running late to— or god forbid, missing— soundcheck.

You paced around and about the stage as lighting and sound gear were strung up for the show, while Freddie and John bickered with Brian about some song or another. Roger paid them no attention, having dropped out of the conversation at least ten minutes ago, and was instead tapping and twirling his drumsticks idly, across the toms, the cymbals, through the air.

You stopped pacing to watch him, because there was something otherworldly in the way he moved, fluidly but with tact, becoming a part of the rhythm he played.

His eyes were closed, as they often were when he sang, and you could vaguely hear him humming to himself as he tested out a beat.

You folded your arms where you stood, felt a soft smile touch your lips.

Then Roger caught you looking at him.

He winked.

You glanced down, but the smile didn’t fade from your face.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

By that evening, you weren’t sure that you could stand to be in Roger’s company for very much longer.

John and Brian were tuning their guitars while Roger sat around, flicking through Polaroids and trying to decide what to wear. You sat beside him, taking the Polaroids he tossed aside, making him laugh by poking fun at the various facial expressions he wore in each of the pictures, and occasionally handing him back a Polaroid in which you liked the outfit and thought he should reconsider wearing it.

His hair fell over his shoulders in messy waves, and he was biting his lower lip as he went through the pictures. He sat so close that you could see every detail of his face, every freckle and each of the tiny little creases at the corners of his eyes. In reaching for a dropped Polaroid, his fingertips trailed your hip, and he murmured an apology that you barely heard because you were too focused on remembering to breathe.

And presently, dressing room air seemed thicker than the layer of eyeliner presently being applied to Freddie’s eyelids.

“Darling,” Freddie said to Roger as the makeup artist finished her work, “you’re being positively irresponsible. There’s barely ten minutes until showtime. Have you decided what to wear?”

Roger squinted down at two Polaroids he’d narrowed his outfit selection down to. He chose a chocolate from the box that Freddie was passing around, handing the assortment to you without a second thought.

“I mean,” Freddie continued, taking the box from you once you’d finished, sticking two chocolates in his mouth at once, “we’ve all coordinated our outfits, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find something to match.”

Roger held one Polaroid up to the light. But you shook your head.

“No,” you said, curling your fingers lightly around his wrist. “That one.”

“This one?” he asked.

“Mm-hm. Very pretty on you.”

It was. The top was black velvet, but in no world was it plain, because it sparkled with an outrageous dash of gold, and it was paired with similar velvet trousers dotted with little gemstones, like stars.

Roger turned his gaze to you. “You think I’m pretty?” he said softly.

Shivers glanced off of your sides as you met his eyes. “Roger, I’d have to be blind not to.”

And even then, you’d have to lose your hearing as well, because his voice lilted beautifully, like the quiet rush of the ocean in the nighttime.

His lips parted as though he intended to say something, but then he said nothing, only turned his hand, so that his palm settled against yours, and your fingers intertwined with his.

“Roger!” Brian cried. “For god’s sake, get dressed. We’ve got five fucking minutes!”

Roger glared at Brian, but Deacy proceeded to haul him to his feet.

“For once,” said John with a laboured sigh, “I agree. Get dressed.”

“Alright alright, I’ll get dressed,” Roger said, but there was no bite to the supposedly irritated remark. He got up from the sofa the two of you were sharing, letting his fingertips trail along the underside of your wrist before he left you where you were sitting.

Your eyes followed him as he disappeared through the door to the next room.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

Queen performed spectacularly, as usual, the fullness of the sound reverberating through the massive speakers positioned on the stage. Out of the three nights you’d seen Queen so far, this was by far their best performance.

And if you hadn’t known Roger so well, you might not have known that anything was wrong.

Queen were as elegant and dramatic as ever, but the camera crew was invasive, the type to sacrifice anything for a perfectly-angled shot, even if they risked disturbing the performers as they did.

But saying they were disruptive was probably an understatement.

They were at Freddie’s side constantly, leaning over Roger’s drums and getting in Brian’s face, blocking Deacy from the audience.

Freddie was talkative this night, trying to keep in touch with the audience by calling out to them and having a mostly one-way conversation, punctuated by cheers and shouts. John hovered close by Freddie, because it appeared that the camera crew were less inclined to obstruct two people at once.

But the interaction was forced. Heat rose to your face in angry waves as you watched the spectacle go on.

Roger’s jaw tightened each time the camera crew took a step closer than the last, and he was hitting his drums more forcefully as the show went on.

And then, Brian snapped a string.

There was a general mass of swearing and exclamations from the crew as Brian ran for the wings, and a second guitar exchanged several hands before reaching him.

Brian hurried back onstage, just as Roger shot a particularly intense glare at a cameraman.

“What’s the matter now?” a roadie was saying to your left.

“Drums are out of tune,” a second roadie winced.

Toward the end of the concert, it was absolute havoc.

Roger was furious. That much was obvious.

You saw him swear violently in the direction away from the microphone. He’d just missed a cue, a cameraman getting between him and Freddie when Freddie had glanced back at him in signal.

“This is a shitshow,” Brian’s guitar tech muttered, pressing a hand over his mouth as though he felt physically ill. He looked a bit pale, to be quite truthful.

“They still sound great,” you assured him, because they did. Even slightly out of tune, Queen were still miles better than any band you’d ever heard before.

But your voice was tight, words spoken through gritted teeth. How was this allowed to happen? The camera crew were completely out of line.

The tech laughed, running his fingers through his hair. “Please tell them that, when they come off stage and start shouting their heads off.”

“You think they will?”

“Judging by the look on Roger’s face, maybe.”

He really did look rather angry, but then you would’ve been too. Presently, just watching the camera crew, you were infuriated. Really, they had a nerve, the way they were carrying on.

A cacophonous crash echoed through the concert hall, and you blinked against the intensity of the stage lights to find Roger throwing a cymbal off the drum risers, kicking in another drum, Brian dashing out of the way and Freddie throwing a protective arm over Deacy when part of the kit sailed toward him.

“What the hell’s got into him?!” someone cried as the lot of you looked on in horror.

“Pullin’ a Keith Moon, ‘e is.”

“What?”

“Drummer for The Who. Don’t you listen to anything other than Led Zeppelin, James?”

The lights were dimmed and Freddie came storming off.

“I want that bloody camera crew out of here, now!” he cried, his voice strained.

“Oye, careful Fred, don’t lose your voice. You’ve still got an encore to go.”

“Damn the encore,” said Brian. “I can’t hear myself play with those tossers going about, and I can usually hear myself play even when Freddie’s shouting in my ear.”

Deacy appeared next. “Roger!” he exclaimed, rather viciously. “You’ll kill me one of these days, and by god, no one’ll thank you for that.” He turned to his tech, “Christ but I nearly lost the lead there. One of those ruddy cameramen tripped over it!”

Roger arrived last, gripping his drumsticks tightly, breathing hard, wisps of his light hair curling over his bright eyes and his flushed cheeks.

He scanned the wings as though looking for something, stopping when he saw you.

“Roger,” you said, “what the hell was that?”

His drumsticks clattered to the ground as he let go of them.

You frowned, but then Roger strode toward you.

“I didn’t mean you,” you backtracked, “I mean the camera crew. Completely unprofessional and just so disruptive and—”

Suddenly, he had his arms around you, and he was kissing you like you were air and he couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t care if you breathed.

You parted your lips against his, and your fingers tangled in his hair the way you’d always done when you were younger, when he was weary or feeling down, only this time you were pulling him closer, closer, breathlessly drinking in the years you’d missed him for, as though you could make up for time by memorising the way he touched you now, fingertips ghosting your sides and trailing shivers down your sides though his hands were warm.

He pulled away but lingered with his forehead against yours, heat prickling from his skin and seeping into your own.

“What—” you stammered, hardly daring to think of how the others around you might have been staring, “what was that for?”

Roger’s breathing was still laboured and rough, but he held you gently, his grip as soft as his mouth had been.

He brushed his nose against yours, his eyelashes fluttering, and you might have sunken to the floor had his arms not been around you; he’d kissed you quite senseless.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Everything. Just needed you.”

“Me?” you whispered, unable to say anything more.

“You, sweetheart.”

Warmth spread through your chest, butterflies beating restless wings in your stomach.

You thought to say something, but you couldn’t think of any words at all, and a smile had broken across your face.

Roger’s eyes flicked to yours, and your smile broadened.

He laughed softly, his hand coming up to caress your cheek affectionately.

“Roger,” Freddie interjected mildly, “we’ve still got a bit of show to do.”

Roger glanced over at Freddie, who, to his credit, looked apologetic.

“Right,” said Roger, and you found Brian and Deacy grinning at you. “Encore, then. Lead the way, Fred.”

Freddie sidled past you with a wink, and John and Brian followed after.

Roger was once again the last to leave, but you thought he had a pretty reasonable excuse, just this once.

Tenderly, he kissed the corner of your mouth, cupping your face in his hands as your eyes slid shut and you pressed closer to him.

“Ah,” he hummed against your lips, “afterwards. You’ll get me all flustered, like this.”

You laughed. “Me, make you flustered? My, I feel powerful.”

“You are,” he said.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

The night was old, but the morning was young, for the previous day had just slipped into the next while the team packed up around you and you sat on the rim of the stage, your legs over the edge as Roger lay with his head in your lap.

He had a hand over his eyes, and his countenance was exhausted, but still you combed the hair from his face, trying to ease the tiredness from his being with the delicateness of your touch.

He’d been quiet for a while, but now he wound his fingers around yours, bringing your hand to his mouth to press a kiss to your knuckles.

He’d kissed you many times in the past hour— on your lips, below your eyes, along your jaw, on your nose, on your forehead, across your fingers— but still, something like sparks rushed through you each time.

He reached up to touch your cheek, and you leaned into his palm as he ran his thumb across your skin. His gaze was sleepy-eyed but irrevocably pure, such that you might have described it as adoration, and you gazed back at him with equal temperament, enamoured by the feeling of his eyes on yours.

“I never want to go six years without seeing you again,” he said.

A sadness pierced your heart from the inside, a betrayal of logical thought from within your own mind.

“How can we be sure that doesn’t happen?” you asked quietly, knowing full well how his path diverged from yours.

Roger sat up slowly, taking your face in his hands.

You stared into those big blue eyes, and hoped he had the answers that you did not. Six years was too long, and nor were you willing to risk such a separation again.

“I don’t know, my love,” he whispered. “But we’ll figure it out together. We’ve always done, haven’t we?”

It was true. You’d always been together, and you’d made do with less hope on your side than this, when money was tight or when school was rough or when thoughts about it all kept you sleepless on endless-seeming summer nights.

So you believed him, and you believed yourself when you told him,

“We always will.”

He held you tightly and you lay your head on his shoulder with a placid sigh.

Somewhere, Freddie was laughing at a joke made by John, and the quiet strums of Brian’s acoustic guitar reached your ears.

There was a ceiling and a roof above you, but here, in this moment, in Roger’s arms, the sky was wide and forever. The future was unwritten.

And you were home.

⋆⋅✦⋅⋆

[demxninyourdrexms]

The Lost Boys (1987) FF: Here Until Forever

{poly!lost boys x OC x Michael x Star}

Rating:  18+ (explicit) for all the reasons below

WARNINGS:  cursing/strong language, canon/OC physical altercations/violence, blood/gore/drugs/alcohol, adult activities (smoking, smut, kinks, polyamory, group sex, etc),  vampirism,  angst, death,  non consensual blood drinking.

A/N: First work I’ve done in YEARS after putting down the pen and notebook. I apologize if it goes all over the place or seems like a cluster f*ck. Honestly proud of the fact that I picked it back up again after....8 or so years? But yeah here ya go ha heathens.

The night settled in over Santa Carla as the boardwalk lights slowly lit up in sections. The boys were already out and about causing little bits of trouble. Star and Laddie had already gone off on their own, walking along down at the end of the boardwalk. Naturally, they stay closer to the stage to hear the music. They had just added the boy to the band of lost souls, and Star had been the one to watch over him when Dwayne wasn’t there. It had seemed like a normal night for the group in the sleepy little beach town. David led the troupe of boys around the rest of the attractions, causing a little ruff and tumble trouble here and there and getting kicked off the merry go round again.

 They listened to David, always have. More than how they were supposed to towards their ‘creator’, Max. They saw him as a joke, and even questioned how they even came to be in such a situation with him as their so-called father. David never trusted him nor liked him and had more presence within the group to direct them than he ever did. Max didn’t even treat them like his own, nor even like they were pretending to be: human.

They dealt with it, like they were supposed to do. Like they were told to, not by David, or Max, or even by their own volition. Max came to believe he was more capable of handling them and took too much pride in it. He wasn’t their ‘father’, far from it if anything, a filler. A pretty stage front for the humans so they could continue to lurk within the shadows. Max had gotten too much of an ego, and it was beginning to get to a point where even David was refraining from killing him himself. It was bad enough, that he had to be put in his place.

Star led Laddie towards one of the carnival games as the sea of people parted for what appeared to be a car meet up at the end of the pier. Cars filed in one by one, some full of inebriated party goers, others old time car junkies. Even a group of local bikers showed up to relax and talk about the metal death machines. Star smiled and watched as Laddie had managed to win a prize from the game and came darting over to Star to present her with the stuffed bear.

“Star! Star! Look, I won!” the brown-haired boy jumped up and down as he held it up for her to take.

Star’s face lit up and she hugged the bear tight to her. She leaned down and kissed his cheek as he hugged her around the waist. “It’s perfect, Laddie. We’ll set it on the bed with the other ones.”

He beamed up at her and took her hand as they headed down the boardwalk towards the carnival entrance. They got about a third of the way down the strip when Star stopped in her stride, frozen and holding onto Laddie’s hand tight. He looked up at her and frowned, seeing the look of shock across her face. He was still too young to understand, too pure. He could feel the change but couldn’t link it up to what it was or why he could feel it. Laddie was an innocent just as much as Star, and even then, was too new to this life.

“Star? What’s wrong?”

She could feel the shift in atmosphere around them, she knew he could too but didn’t understand quite yet. She also knew that if they could feel it from this far away, that David and the boys could too. It was strong and heavy, but also protecting, almost drawing them in towards the source. She tugged Laddie to her side and wrapped an arm around him tightly as she finally saw what seemed to be the source. An all-black ’76 mustang came around the corner and cruised down the walkway. The closer it got, the stronger the feeling got. The windows were so tinted that Star couldn’t see inside as it slowly crept by the two. The engine revved as it passed them and proceeded down towards the end of the pier where the car meet was happening.

David sat at a table with the boys closer to the end of the pier near the car meet. Marko and Paul sat behind him on the top of the table joking around with Dwayne leaning on a light pole near them. David went to light a cigarette when the feeling hit. He stopped with his lighter almost at the tip of the cigarette and glanced over at Dwayne, who looked almost as startled as he was. The joking stopped and they all looked between David and the direction the car was coming down the strip. He nodded towards Dwayne to find Laddie and Star, and quickly. Dwayne headed off after the two as Marko and Paul jumped up ready to go. David led them walking down the boardwalk as the car got closer to them. He wanted to go to it, to smile at it, but kept walking. He couldn’t draw attention or concern amongst the group. He knew who it was, and he knew that they knew. It was best to not do a reunion here in the middle of a sea of meat sacks.

Once it got right next to them, a small smirk did creep across his lips and he whispered,

 “Hey gorgeous.”

In his head he heard the faint voice back, a woman’s voice. Soft, yet radiating dominance and fondness.

“Hey handsome.”

The car revved its engine again and kept going on towards the end of the pier. David continued down the strip with Marko and Paul in tow, they reached the entrance gates and went straight for their bikes. Dwayne was already waiting with Star, Laddie on the back of his own bike. Star was talking quietly to him about how they would get him another bear when they came back tomorrow, as he had dropped it somewhere in the scramble to get back to meet up with the others. She looked over at David with a deep frown across her lips and a look of concern in her eyes. He held his hand up as a gesture for her to ease up, it wasn’t a danger to them. He went over and got on his bike, helping her onto the back of it as Dwayne leaned over to him.

“Didn’t think we’d get that sort of a hello when she came back.”

             David couldn’t help but smile now, Star wrapping her arms around him as he kicked up the stand of the bike and took on the weight. Marko looked over at them as he sat down on it with a raised eyebrow, toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

“We didn’t think she was comin’ back at all for a hot minute.”

Paul hit him on the shoulder and shook his head, but it was true. They had started to lose a bit of hope they had that they would be seeing that face again. David had even started to waiver in his faith he would hear her voice again. He looked down the length of the strip and smiled again before starting the bike. The rumble of the group echoed as they headed off into the distance to the cave. As the night went on and the activity died down, the same car rolled down the boardwalk slowly. It wasn’t in any hurry, as if looking at things, or for something. It came to a stop, and the driver got out as the headlights shone on a bear left in the middle of the walkway. She had dark, black wavy hair to match the car. The sound of the leather and metal buckles of her jacket was the only other thing that could be heard besides the click of heels on the wood panels of the strip. Stopping at the bear, she bent down to pick it up, lips donned with dark red lipstick forming into a soft smile as she looped the tag into the chain of her belt. She casually walked back to the car and got in, driving off into the soft lights of the sunrise as it threatened to break the horizon.

Star sat on the bed beside Laddie, who was curled up asleep as David walked out to check on them. Dwayne told him how Star reacted towards the events at the boardwalk, hoping he would go and ease some of her worry. Star and Laddie were new, and even though Star knew how things worked a little more, it didn’t change the fact that Laddie was turned while this old face was gone and wasn’t aware they had gained more family to her knowledge. Star had been turned before this person left, and didn’t know exactly how she would behave towards her, and especially Laddie. He was a kid, a child that was brought into a world of constant upheaval and life stagnancy. He couldn’t age, have friends outside the group, anything. He still questions why people say he’s missing on milk cartons or when they realize who he is and they have to be dealt with. 

He didn’t even understand why they had to leave all of a sudden, and why he felt funny when that car came around. He was just a kid, trapped in a world of endless rotation. Star traced David’s movements as he approached the side of the bed. He looked over towards Laddie slightly as he stood in the open darkness they called home for so long. He could feel Star tense up slightly as she looked down at her lap.

“She’s not going to hurt the kid, ya know.”

Star’s frown hardened and she looked up at him with cold eyes. “He’s just a boy, she doesn’t believe children should be given the life we have.”

“Yeah, well there’s more to the reasoning I did it than you know, Star.” David frowned and glanced over at the sleeping kid on the other side of her. “And for your information, I was given permission.”

“How? She wasn’t even here.” Star spat out the words as if he was lying. The smirk on his face only boiled her anger even more. 

“You forget too quickly, Star. The bond can only go so far, and is strongest with a first turned. “ He lit a cigarette and looked her in the eyes. “She left, but she didn’t go far. She’s been watching at a distance, and knew why I wanted Laddie so bad. Same goes for you, especially you.”

Star looked at him still with ice in her eyes. They didn’t choose this life, but forced into an option they literally couldn’t refuse. None of them had a choice as to how they became what they are, and now it was the only thing they knew, the only thing they could do. 

“All we are is trophies to you, to her. We had lives-”

“Your life was hanging by a thread and that kid was left for dead in the streets by his junkie parents.” David snapped back, his words becoming colder now. “He didn’t go missing, he was dropped in the middle of the boardwalk and left to eat out of the garbage.” He forced himself to relax a little and sat down in the old hospital wheelchair they managed to salvage years ago. Taking a drag from the cigarette, he fixed his gaze on the ornate bottle on the table across the cave floor.

“We all had lives, Star. Some of them were going to be cut short, others were taken from us out of our own accord. We only get to live once in this world, and we all got a second chance to be able to experience it. No, it’s not how most of us would want it to be. No, it’s not ‘normal’, but it’s a life. One we get to mold as our own and paint it how we would want our old ones to be.” He paused, leaning forward in the chair. His eyes soft, even with his demeanor, he meant every word that fell from his lips to her.

“It doesn’t matter where we came from or our pasts, she took us in and gave us a way to see the world and enjoy the company of each other. A band of solo misfits that became family, friends, we have that in each other.”

Star paused for a moment before looking back down at her lap. She hated to admit it, but he had a point. They all had stories, past lives that were ripped from them or so messed up for a person that it wasn’t fair, but this wasn’t fair either to her. She kept her mouth shut, rather keeping quiet than starting a fight while Laddie slept. She looked out the opening of the cave to see the impending sunrise, as did David. He sighed deeply as he stood up, stepping on the cigarette he threw on the ground.

“The bear will be back by the time we wake up.” He mumbled and turned his back towards her and started walking towards the narrow opening to the rest of the cave where the boys slept. “Be a good girl for Zoya….”

Star flopped back onto the bed, frustrated and exhausted. They hadn’t felt the draw of an aura for a while, and all of them were fighting it as much as possible while in the public eye. She looked over at Laddie to make sure he was still asleep before curling up in the bed. She closed her eyes and sighed, the conversation didn’t help ease her worry or anger at all. She opened her eyes and looked over at the cave entrance again before turning her back to it and falling asleep.

[kneamet]

Delusion (5/5)

Trigger Warning: alcohol, obsession

Summary: she was the only girl in his band whose singing he loved so much. She was the person he truly respected. Andy Miles was someone Hank Williams had an unrelenting obsession with.

Chapter five: Lovesick Blues

POV Hank

He was glad to breathe a sigh of relief in his free chest, feeling as if he were the freest man in the world. Hank was finally able to remove this unpleasant burden that weighed on him in the bonds of an unloved marriage. A marriage that literally drowned him down.

He was glad that he was able to go through everything in court through the proceedings and slander in his direction, written and claimed from Audrey. As if she knew anything about him and understood him at all. And now, Hank, being completely free, can do whatever he wants and can show the love of the girl he loves.

The guy smiled, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds and stopping moving. The beloved girl who will soon become his wife. She would be someone he would cherish and protect beyond measure. Andy will be everything to him, after he finally gets the recognition from the public.

"Why are you frozen, Hank?" There was a sneer from his right, and he turned his head in the direction of the intended speech, realizing that he could have listened to that voice for years without interrupting. He wouldn't care what she said. The main thing is the sound.

Williams was sure that once he and Andy were finally a couple, exchanging light formalities and vows to keep, he would definitely have her humming to him and reading aloud, just enjoying herself.

It was a joy to Hank to hear her voice, soft but slightly hoarse and tired, after a lot of rehearsals, from which he was very tired, but always enjoyed it. He was always so soothing. So gentle and, you might even say, caring, unlike Audrey, a voice that always made him mad.

He knew that he had invited her to the studio just so that she wouldn't yell and make him lose his temper, or else he might have flared up like a match and wouldn't have stopped in his anger, which would have continued to eat at him from the inside out.

Audrey's voice was really terrible. Unpleasant, eating into the brain and piercing it into a million small particles.

Blinking a couple of times, Hank turned his attention to his beloved, who was sitting a foot away from him, looking at him with a puzzled look, slightly raising an eyebrow, which caused small, barely noticeable wrinkles to form on the bridge of her nose. It was very cute.

"It's fine," he says, grabbing the ketchup and quickly unscrewing the white cap. His gaze reluctantly shifts to Don, who just grins. "Here's what, I'm not buying," the guy finally says, pressing down on the middle of the plastic bottle with his fingers.

"A ketchup burger?" Helms asks, adjusting the gold-plated watch on his left hand and nodding at his friend's food.

"Ha, ha, yeah," Hank smiles, tossing the top of the bun on top of the rest and thinking that he probably wouldn't be able to eat the burger without the extra extra. It was sad that no one shared his taste in this kind of food. Although in his opinion, it was deliciously delicious.

"Sammy," he calls out to the guy who was sitting at the opposite table, carefully reading the list of songs listed in the ratings. "Well, have you finished reading?"

"No, I didn't start from the end," he doesn't miss the opportunity to mock, grinning slightly, to which Hank just smiles and continues the banter, in which they measure their sense of humor and ability to tease the other person.

"So they still teach you to read at school," Williams doesn't even look at him, watching out of the corner of his eye as Andy tries to choose where to start eating. The smile on the guy's face does not come off, but only becomes more noticeable.

There's nothing to be heard from the side, and Hank just raises an eyebrow. Just gave up? This is not like him and their usual conversations.

"Funny, Hank," Sammy nods and turns to face his friend, still clutching the small magazine that is important to the musician's fate. "You're not much older than me."

"I was older than you when I was born," Hank says, taking a sip of the scalding coffee, setting the cup down next to him. His attention is completely focused on saying something ironic to Pruett.

However, instead of continuing, the latter gets up from his chair and pushes it back to the table, going over to the others and tossing the publication with the open page, on which the latter has found something that will really attract the attention of the group.

"Look at this," Hank dusts off the small crumbs on his palm and picks up the magazine he's offered. "Take a look," everyone looks at Williams.

The guy's eyes widen. He can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. It seems that this is just a hoax. A lie that will be revealed later. No, it's not possible.

His palms trembled and began to sweat. His mouth fell open. My breath was knocked out, and my heart began to give a loud rhythm, interrupting any sounds and actions from the environment.

First place in popular. First place in sales. His song. His.

He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his smile and the naive look that doubts what he sees. It's too much for him. It's not real and he's sure of it, handing the magazine to Andy, who accepts it happily and with some suspicion.

Hank finally got what he wanted. He was finally able to get at least something that he had worked so hard for for so long. His dream to get into the charts came true.

It remains to implement another one...

"Hank, this... God, congratulations, " Andy says, putting his left arm around him and hitting him on the shoulder with his right, trying to show support. Hank only sends a grateful smile to his beloved, but his gaze is still detached from what is happening.

"I'll tell you what," interrupting his thoughts and disbelief, he leans closer to the table, in the middle of which Miles has placed the magazine. Everyone moves towards him, starting to listen carefully. "And it's not all bullshit. If, after that, I don't get to the Opry," he points a finger at the publication and turns his head towards the girl, starting to laugh. "I'll give up the music," there's laughter, at which Hank slams his hand on the table and rocks back in his chair. "Honestly. Let them then look for me then for me and beg me to sing for them. And they'll have to beg me."

And he wasn't lying. Lying wasn't his style, especially when it came to something he'd devoted his entire adult life to. He can really give up music, even though he will have to listen to his mother's loud talk about how she spent a lot of time driving him around the states in his youth and showing his talent. He'll quit the music. The truth will leave if he does not achieve what he wants, but with him will be his beloved wife, whom he has been trying to get for so long.

***

It's raining. The gray ground seems to droop, and small puddles form on the old black asphalt. Countless splashes of raindrops can be heard in the muddy puddles. Steady noise. The impact of raindrops on the window pane causes unpleasant thoughts.

Andy exhales cigarette smoke, enjoying the weather. Its cloudy mood and the state of nature. She dusts off a bittersweet cheap cigarette and the weightless ash falls on her starched white shirt, which she rarely changes.

Taking another long drag, wanting to enjoy the bright aftertaste. Hank knows this feeling, and he often does it, even though he knows how disgusting it is sometimes. However, this taste of cheap tobacco was always poetic, which he certainly liked. But the guy himself preferred more expensive cigarettes and at some points did not quite understand how Miles even smokes them. The throat after them hurts, and they do not last long, because after the taste disappears altogether, forcing people to think about buying more expensive.

Williams was sure that as soon as he and the girl finally lived together, he would forbid her to buy cheap tobacco.

"You know, Andy..." Pausing for a moment and taking a deep drag on his own cigarette, he waited for her to look at him. "I just realized that inspiration is literally chasing me," he heard a small grin from the side, to which he only smiled, shaking his head and lowering it down, pursing his lips. A small habit that he couldn't get rid of and that showed up in moments of doubt or embarrassment.

"Has the muse finally visited?" Miles joked, and the tobacco smoke filled the small space around them again.

He liked to be near the girl he loved, to whom, if he could, he would dedicate all the odes and songs of the world. He liked to stand with her under the awning of the cafe, smoking the cheap cigarettes he smoked just for her, and watch the restless rain, wishing it would never end and they would enjoy each other's company.

"Yes..." sighed Hank, biting his lower lip with his front teeth and lowering his hand to brush off the ash.

The Muse he was talking about was literally everything to him, and he didn't know why Andy didn't take the hint. He was torn between telling his beloved what he had wanted for so long and remaining silent until the right time came. I didn't want to ruin the established idyll between them, but I didn't want to be silent either. Doubts tormented him for quite a long time and he simply could not properly settle his obsessive thoughts.

***

Hank wandered through the little-known streets, trying to calm down and come to his senses. In his relationship with Audrey, he was always disturbed by quarrels, which he literally hated. They were terrible and very annoying, literally infuriating. What difference does it make if she sings well or poorly? They would have achieved nothing anyway, knowing her not-so-simple nature, expressing defiance and defiance.

His head was down, and his hands were in his pockets, pulling down the trousers that were held at the old belt. His thoughts were currently occupied only with obsessions.

The light wind didn't bother him. Her hair was already disheveled, so there was nothing wrong with it becoming even more messy.

"...I got a feeling called the blues, oh Lord... " a young female voice was heard nearby. Hank raised his head, trying to catch the pleasant and melodious sound coming from. This aroused a genuine interest in him.

He liked that unusual voice. It clearly belonged to a woman, although no, most likely a girl, and a very young one at that. He sounded a little hoarse and tired. As if the person doing this was just trying to calm down and avoid boredom.

"...Since my baby said goodbye.. " came again, and Hank tried to find out where it was coming from. He had never heard a better voice in his life than this girl's.

Williams quickened his pace, straining his ears. It wasn't that far away, so it was safe to say that he wasn't far from the unknown with the amazing voice.

Hank's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly. He looked at her with awe and admiration. She was beautiful. But no, not even that, because she was so damn beautiful.

He had never seen anyone more beautiful than her. Even Audrey, his beloved wife, was terrible compared to this songbird. God, she was beautiful.

He knew that at this moment, in this second of his life, he didn't give a damn about anyone around him. He doesn't care about the problems, the world in general. All that matters is that he has seen the most beautiful stranger.

Her melodious voice caressed his ears. He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds and took a few sharp breaths, saying flattering words to the girl who was sitting on the bench right in front of him.

"Do you want to join my group?"

***

June 11, 1949

Grand Ole Opry, Nashville

He hadn't felt this kind of excitement in a very long time. This jitters that literally enveloped him from head to toe. A sense of fear, uncertainty, and nervousness filled his mind, making it difficult to think rationally.

His hands were sweating, and he began to shake in a slight tremor. He pressed his lips together, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart.

The only thing that gave him hope and comfort was the belief in what their celebration with Andy would be like today. He thought for a long time and finally realized in his life that the most important step in his life was to marry the girl he loved, which aroused in him the most beautiful and wonderful feelings on earth, expressing love and care. He would protect her.

He took a few sharp breaths, giving his heart time to calm down and stop pounding in his head. On his chest, on the suit, was sewn a small pocket, which at the moment was the most intimate and most sensual thing in the world. Ring. A ring that men give when they get engaged.

The guy exhaled sharply, turning to face his beloved, who was looking at him with an encouraging and encouraging look, as if calling for him to calm down and begin to cope with his difficult feelings. Squeezing his shoulder tightly, as if to show support, Andy smiled at him, and he just nodded at her.

"Hank, Andy!" A gruff voice is suddenly heard calling out to Williams. It doesn't take him long to realize that it's Fred. Smiling a tight smile, showing that he is supposedly not afraid of anything, the guy shifts the guitar case to the other hand and shakes the producer's offered hand. "How are you?"

"Not bad," Andy replies with a shrug, to which Hank is surprised, not understanding why she remains calm and not overwhelmed by excitement. Rose just chuckles at the comment.

"Don't worry, they may kill you, but they won't eat you," the man tries to defuse the tension by straightening his dark tie.

"It's comforting," Hank smiles, looking toward the stage. The stage on which he will perform. The stage on which his whole future uncertain fate will be decided.

"I'm very proud of you, Hank. I'm saying this as your friend, " Fred looks at his friend again, trying to express his support. Hank just looks at Miles, who is looking around the backstage area with a certain calmness and intensity. However, there is also a small, barely noticeable difference in her gaze... was it contempt?

"You can handle it, Hank," Andy looks around at the ceiling and turns his attention back to his dear friend with a slight grin. Williams pursed his lip again, feeling his palms begin to shake again with a slight tremor. She supports him. He exhaled. How nice to hear the support and dear words from a loved one.

"Thank you."

Everything that was happening was a blur to him. His brain still could not accept the information that he was worthy of and finally in his life got what he so ardently and long desired. He will finally get the recognition that he was striving for and then he will have one desire, or more correctly, it will be called a goal that he will need to achieve.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a guest of honor today and this is his first appearance on the Grand Ole Opry show," were the words of the announcer introducing Hank, and he knew that a lump had settled in his throat. He was afraid to sing. It was scary to get censured by people. It was scary to hear their arguments and opinions that he was a bad singer. "Let's welcome the guy who performed Lovesick Blues-Mr. Hank Williams!" He was not impressed by the joyful intonation of his voice and at the moment when he went on stage with a guitar that his mother gave him for his birthday, he was only interested in seeing Andy.

It was important for him to see her and understand that there was no need to worry. That she would be happy to support him and reassure him. That she would just be there to warm and protect his thoughts.

The applause was unexpected.

Williams was aware of the fact that the greeting of a new member of the show was always accompanied by applause, but it was still very pleasant and made him fall into confusion and let his head think that he was worth something.

The instant light blinded him. His lips trembled, and his knees buckled. Williams ' gaze darted to Andy, who only nodded at him, giving him a hopeful look at his moment of doubt in front of an audience that expected a great performance from him.

He gave her a soft smile of gratitude.

"Hi, I'm Hank Williams," he mumbled into the microphone that reverberated through the room, and he reached down to his guitar, running his fingers over it, caressing the strings, and wanting to draw the audience's attention to him. "Guys, turn it on," referring to the band with whom he had previously played the song.

His forehead was sweating and a drop of sweat ran down it. He swallowed and took a rare breath, touched the string again, and closed his eyes, hoping only that he would be received appropriately.

"I got a feelin' called the blues, oh Lords,

Since my baby said goodbye."

The only thing that warmed him with hope and calmed him down was his beloved, who was always ready to show support.

***

He just couldn't believe it. His brain couldn't process everything that had happened a few minutes ago. People took it well and were really inspired and enthusiastic. It was so unreal that he didn't want to think of it as real. It was probably just a dream that wouldn't happen again, but that he would remember for the rest of his life.

Hank couldn't stop smiling. He was so impressed that he felt over the moon when he heard the audience applauding and shouting the words he wanted.

Standing in the backstage area, which was lit by small lights, he just kept his eyes closed, arriving in voluptuous bliss.

"You were amazing, Hank," said a voice he'd known and loved for a long time. He glanced at Andy, who was standing next to him, watching him with a smile that was very often seen on her face.

Williams took a deep breath, grabbing the girl's hand and squeezing it lightly. He looked straight into her eyes, feeling that this was the moment that should have been years ago. The moment when they finally admit to each other in immeasurable love and live "happily ever after". No quarrels, no bickering, no problems. They will be a real family.

His free hand reached into his sewn-on pocket, taking out the small ring he had been searching for for a long time, but which at the moment was the most secret for him and his future wife.

He didn't care that people were looking at them. I don't give a damn. The main thing is that they will finally be reunited.

"You..." He really didn't know what to say, even apart from the fact that he had been preparing for this event for a long time, constantly rehearsing how he would confess. He wanted to express his love in an unimaginable confession, but words just weren't enough. My heart began to beat even faster. "Will you share the burden of life with me? Will you let me be your legal husband by putting this ring on your finger?"

His eyes full of hope were reflected in her eyes, which were full of incomprehension and fear.