#nomad stee rogers

[widowsofchaos]

Cabin Fever, i

summary: A mysterious drifter waltz into your homey life, asking for help. He seems kind, and generous. But what if he’s more than he lets on? pairing: dark!stucky x black!fem!reader warnings: Stockholm syndrome, eerie prophetic signs, kidnapping, dub-non con smut. Bearded lumberjack Stucky (a warning itself, woof.) a/n: A submission for @imanuglywombat & @nellblazer ‘s Lumberjack Challenge. Reading @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s submission motivated me to flesh out this idea I’ve had for the longest. P.s. Thanks to Roo for helping me with the title. You always come up with the best titles! Also, thank you for beta!!  I love you more than anything.<3 ao3 // series masterlist do not repost my works

The sky was a murky canvas of clouded cinereal hue, shrouding the sleepy town in an aura of dreary yet comforting gloom.

Nestled in the secluded Canadian woodlands, tucked miles away from bustling cities, acres of breath-taking crisp landscapes; dense back-country for stylites, eremites, aging harvesters, rural families, naturalists -- retired veterans who seek a life of peace from raging wars in foreign lands, and politics.

A location that is often skimmed over on maps, too small but not entirely invisible to the passerby’s eye. A lone route that directs to major cities, and a dingy welcome sign are the only inklings to this inhabited territory.

A gritty hamlet --- a diamond in the rough. A pale tree rooted at the heart of the town. Streets built around it, proudly stood high, and mighty for centuries -- like a looming deity over generations; a reminder for aging residents of their mortality. A natural order surpassing their own existence.

The inevitable is merely out of mortal’s control.

Cadence of gruff murmuring fishermen loading nets full of fresh floundering fish, sluicing chilled water beats, and cradles against the boats floating near the coastal shore, high-pitched giggles of children dashing down the streets; youngsters who just got dismissed from school.

Howlin’ is a dive-bar on the main road --- a commune for burly beasts of men --- fisherman, mechanics, lumbers, less than a handful of deputies, and former militants; the livelihoods that are the veins of this tiny county.

Manitou is the only remnant of the town’s origins, named by the Aboriginal Canadian founders of this whistle-stop.

It’s an inn now for curious city folks, sparse tourists who parade with fake smiles, clicking cameras, and over-joyful admiration for “discovering this new little world.”

Local residents internally praise the heavens, sniffing tourists is a blue-moon occurrence.

This town was a device, a lurring hole of placid ease -- a festpool -- everyone has a past. A rabbit-hole to escape, and be free.

A gentle fury, stirring anxiously underneath his cavity, twisting around his heart. Brows indented, a menacing twist.

Nose flared wide like a furious bull, one palm perched tightly on the steering wheel, and the other clutching the map -- beyond wrinkled with fold lines.

A man of tradition -- too stubborn to install a modern GPS to help navigate his travels; or even get with the times.

Sweat now beads at his brows, a slight sheen now glistens on his bald dome, wiping his forehead by the back of his palm -- deep rich umber, or how his daughter jokingly dubs him ‘a milk dud’.

Nick Fury never admits it, but the memory of that affectionate tease eases him, a small smile curling at his mouth. It helps him relax in distressing times.

Murmuring low ‘fucks’ and ‘shit’ as shifty eyes scan over the map once more. Blues lines, and red printed letterings of route numbers, city lines -- unfamiliar directions of a country he has no ties. Red ink arrows scribbled around the unknown forest region.

This planned one-man trip is already hay-wire. All his traveling preparations have been once pristine, but now turned disoriented.

Faded Chevy truck --- chipped turquoise --- in dire need of a paint-job. A sigh of relief escapes Nick as he’s driving languidly towards a silva shielded entrance pathway.

The low static of the radio fluctuated into white noise, and low murmurs of out-of-the-way stations. Driving into this town, down the road passing by bars, the pier --- observing the walks of life passing by.

His calloused fingers dive into his backpack that was slumped in the passenger seat, fiddling through the contents for the tattered box of smokes; as he drives for the haven of a hostel.

A few days on the road was weighing down on his shoulders, his spine curving and achingly hunched over. Stewing in his aviator jacket, the luke-warm heat weighing on his bones.

Quizzical faces distort, glancing at the car, just a few curious glimpses at the foreign traveler. Flickering the zippo in his hands, the silver adorned with scratches -- a souvenir back from Vietnam, the only inklings of one of his fallen brothers. A wasteland of memories he doesn’t want to indulge.

Driving through the seemingly quiet streets, driving around the curb, a red brick building peers at the distance; motorbikes parked out front, a dismal aura. Murky fluttering yellow tubing “Howlin’ Boys” hangs high, and proud.

Parched throat, Nick wets his bottom lip -- he could use a drink. Just one, maybe. If his kid was here, she would scold him until her face turns blue for noon drinking; her absence is not rubbing him right. Loneliness seeping deep in his marrow, his companion during stress was always the sauce.

With swift precision, Nick serves a bit to park on the bar’s curb. Stretching his limbs a bit, a wail of satisfaction slips from his lips, trailing into a yawn.

Groaning with the back of his palms rubbing his eyes a bit, he retrieved his cigarettes. Caging just the cherry tip between his canines, with a flick of his thumb, the lid pops open, and a quick spark of flame ignites.

Inhaling deeply as nicotine surges through his lungs, hollow cheeks puff out, white smoke emits from his nose. The leaden sky clears, a vibrant surge of sun beams -- mindless eyes scan the bar, Nick notices a butterfly with wings painted with inky black and bright sunshine yellow.

Fluttering flight of its dainty flaps as it descends in the air, a placid smile curls at his lips as the cigarette dangles.

A peaceful fleet towards his truck --- it was an unforgiving flash, a hasty dash, a blur of nyx feathers violently hit against his vehicle. A shrill of a squawk jolts Nick, flinching back in his seat.

The blue paint of his hood now grated with claw marks. A couple of black feathers, and torn fragments of a butterfly wing trail behind on the crime scene.

Shouting ‘what the fuck?’ Dropping his burning smoke, collapsing on his denim, the heat burning through his skin creating a small burnt hole. Growling colorful profanities under his breath. Hurried hands smudging the ash off of him, a quick glance up, and he flinches.

Beyond in the distance, his vision clearing up a bit, there’s a glaring figure. Nick gulps, clearing in his perspective, startled as panic rises in his cavity -- a feminie figure standing a few feet away from the car.

Staring, glaring --- leering at him.

Nick peers behind his driver seat, twisting his head over his shoulder, out his window to catch if she’s gawking at anyone else but him. Slowly he steadies himself in his seat, facing back ahead of him, hues of greenery burning holes in his skull.

A woman, small yet stands with her chin out, with a maturity visage that graces her oval face. In her small frame, she embodies an essence of daunting, and yet tempting.

With burnished fiery tresses wisping in the wind, half-covering her cheeks, adding to the frightening allure --- a dark crimson jacket, that amples her milky breasts. The leather burns bright under the sunlight, there was a stretch of the jacket, a few buttons open --- a small bump.

Narrowing green eyes as if she’s piercing through his soul. Her trimmed brow arching, eerily ever so slowly cocking her head as if there was some glimmer of familiarity in her eyes --- as if she was privy to something he wasn’t.

Tightly wrapping around her slender legs was a little girl, her doe eyes too unwavering, and intense. Pouty cherub cheeks ensnared in wild chocolate curls, heart-shaped lips, and precious slope of a button-nose.

Clinging onto the woman’s hand, chubby fingers interlocked with slender spidery ones.

Nick's breath hitches in his throat, as the unknown woman’s lips move --- a frightful sight, her brows furrowed, a hungry curl of a smirk --- as if she was spewing an ancient hex under her breath.

Nick swore it’s as if she was condemning his entire blood-line --- from the graves of his ancestors to the unborn wombs of future descendants.

How ghastly the sun shining warps the greenery in her pupils. For a moment, he could’ve sworn her eyes revamped into a hellish maroon --- Nick harshly rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands for a moment. His tired lids refusing to steer away, his head light in a daze --- he just can’t stop staring.

Sharp pain punches in his ear, hissing, and wincing; white-noise pitching higher and higher. His brain felt as if a million wasps were urticating's within his skull by the tips of their stingers, penetrating through cartilage and bone.

Nick’s head hits against his car seat, banging mercilessly --- anything for the pain to stop. Praying to God, almighty to make it end. He couldn’t move, his limbs were numb yet forced to be still; frozen in his seat.

Gripping on the steering wheel, till the melanin of his knuckles shades straining white. Nick’s eyes peel open, more trails of sweat perspire, drenching down his dome. The pain vanishes as if the hellish migraine never engulfed him. A broken crack of a sigh leaves him.

Deja vu bewilders him, confused as if that was a day-dream or simply reality?

A blur, but a sour taste dawdles on his heavy tongue.

She was still there, but her lips stopped roving. The stare down ensues, but was interrupted by a slurring shout, a disheveled man was thrashed by the feet out the door of the bar; distracting Nick.

A drunk now cradled himself on the pavement, blubbering incoherent slurs. Man-handled by a man of similar dark complexion, who now shouted for the drunk to scram; hunching over, slanted squinted eyes.

Nick tore his gaze from the display, compelling his eyes to focus back. Turning his head to face the odd stranger once more --- but she was gone.

Disappearing without a trace, as if she was never there to begin with, a mere shadow. Hurriedly Nick snatched the keys out of the ignition, ungracefully dumping the keys in the pocket of his trench coat.

A flick of his wrist on taking his bag, and slinging it on his shoulder, he got out of the car. Stretching his limbs, Nick pats his chest by his open palm. A poor attempt at alleviating his beating heart. Not even an hour in this town, and weird shit is getting to him.

Nick inspected the hood, fingertips tracing the horrid skid marks, whispering ‘mother-fucker’. Four sloppy jagged lines, unable to miss. He groaned, his head lolling back, with a heavy sigh.

Waving off feathers, his thumb straining against the inside of his sleeve to wipe clean of tiny blood spots. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nick’s arm limped, and dully slapped the meat of his thigh in defeat.

Turning his head to face the bar establishment, contemplating if it was a good idea to drink right now. He can’t afford it, bad timing --- no, it’s not a drink he wants. ‘Just ask for a nearby motel. That’s all I need. All I need.’ Nick muses to himself, a self-reminder; chastising tone.

Nick treks up to the bar, impressed by the parked Harleys that twinkle and shine underneath the mellow sun, parked in a row at the lot.

The autumn breeze appeases against his moist skin, caressing the nape of his neck, but the chilling air only adds to the shimmer down the crevices of his spine.

Still a bit jittery from those piercing daggers. Damn that bitch --- he’s not the type of man to be spooked. Nerves of cold-steel, trained, and built to handle any obstacle thrown at him.

His breath was easing slower now, air flowing easier too. Nick rubs his face by the cup of his palm, scowling --- to get a fucking grip, man.

Nick’s calloused fingers hook onto the silver metal handle, the front-door is painted black, but chipping at the edges --- worn out from changing elements of weather.

A quick haul of the door, Nick enters with a plods that is both placid and tenacious. Rugged habitués densely survey this stranger waltz in with a purpose, a natural aptitude to command the space he inhabits.

Few grunts, and hmmpfs in response, but it trails back into silence --- shifty eyes observing. The establishment has a wafting scent of ale, and a bit of sandal-wood. Waves of musky dew fogs his airways. The walls were wooden, and seemed a bit worn over time.

“May I help you?” A gruff timbre lingers beside Nick, turning his gaze over his left shoulder. Steady eyes trail over the bar counter, sinking in it’s dull color schemes, brown woodening that glistens with fresh polish --- he can smell the lemon pledge --- steady stools, and the wall organized with rows of tame bottles of spirits to the most rugged of firewater.

Leisure pose, Nick’s steps now tepid, his shoulder roll and shift under the subtle leather of his trench-coat. An attempt to ease his nerves; a tick in his neck, as a sense of a hot gaze radiates upon his body.

Seated by the corner is a red-head, smoldering green hues, and a dirty blonde male tucked to her side donning a rich lavender long-sleeved shirt, hovering over her as a loyal dog; but her pose is strong, brows furrowed --- she doesn’t need a guard to protect her.

A wave of heat beats upon his back, the leather of his jacket now weighs heavier --- the skin of his dome tingles.

As if his coat is his only sense of armor, a lone man in an unknown land. The tall-tale of his intuition on high-alert, his sense activated from the odd encounter that occurred outside with that weird creature of a woman.

“Yeah --- I just came in to ask for directions.” Nick twirls his feet by the soles with a repose, a friendly smile, his eyes falling upon a dark-skinned man, the very man who throttled the sloppy drunk out the establishment.

A clean-cut man, a neatly trimmed goatee, smooth skin, and toned. The grey cotton of his shirt strains just a bit against his biceps, as he cleans the inside of a glass with a white rag --- his stare unwavering.

“Alright, where to?” There was a quick pause, a flicker of a smirk, a cocky down tilt of his head. “If ya’ gonna ask which way is to Toronto, or Ontario --- don’t bother, ya’ way far past it.”

A teasing snicker, as if an inside joke Nick couldn’t catch nor privy to. A cautious smile falters just a bit upon Nick’s face, a chuckle through his nose, tucking his chin to his chest, eyes casted down.

“Nah, just back-packing, really. Got any good spots around in Canada to enjoy?” Nick’s fingers rap playfully on the bar counter, an ease in his tone, graceful movement, as if an olive branch of friendliness. A soft smile twitches at the corners of the man’s face, almost as if kind.

“My name’s Sam.” Sam places the cleaned glass mug gingerly on the bar top, tucking his chin to chest, “And to answer your question, yes.” His lips carve a somber smile, peering through his lashes, gesturing to an empty stool by a nod of his head.

Nick mutters a ‘thanks’ under his breath, his palm grips the withered counter, leaning down on the stool --- plush emerald green seats.

“There’s a few spots nearby, but not much,” Sam leans his hands on the bar, arms out-stretched, as his spine reclines outwards, his head tilts back with a sigh, deep in thought as he stares at the wall adjacent, “There’s --- uh, Dawson City, a bit small, but not too small. It’s beautiful, you’ll like it.”

He shrugs playfully, “Also, Prince Edward Island ---” Sam snickers, his head hangs low, shoulders shake with laughter, “Now, that’s small, about seventy-four locals, but when it’s summer, tourists flood.” His eyes rolled exasperatedly, with a curl of the lip, baring his teeth.

Nick hums a chuckle, “Sounds good, thank you. Dawson City is perfect.” Fingertips rap against the wood, as his eyes glimpse at the wall beyond him, a hitch of energy chills his skin --- an odd feeling warms his chest, bitter-sweet twinge heavy on his tongue, jagged memories cling to the tail-end of his mind.

Nick’s eyes catch displays of hung medals --- military earned. Each medal tells a story of honor, hung behind a sheen glass plated next to the wall of liquor, one in particular catches his eye, a blue silk ribbon, with thirteen gold stars, a gold medal of an engraved star, with the emboldened name, Wilson.

“Air-force, huh? Great metals.” His voice an air of praise, but his eyes sheen a bit, as if another story could be told.

“Yeah --- retired pararescue airman. You?” A placid, but tired smile, Sam’s head cocks to the side, admiring his honor, but his eyes fall downcast, pursing his lips --- as if he knows something.

“Me?” Nick’s brow arches, quizzly. Taken back, assuming to be a lucky guess, but an itch, a voice at the back of his head screams at him, an instinct that perhaps this stranger is more clever than he lets on.

“I can sniff out a soldier a mile away.” Sam chuckles, his eyes unwavering.

“How so?” Nick challenges with a curled smirk, enjoying this little game, his head tilted back. “It’s the mannerisms. How you talk ---” Sam trails off, shrugs nonchalantly, “you walk with a certain stride. You’re not a bullshitter, you remind me of my old man.” The tension that once occupied the space has now fizzled into ease, but a guard is still up --- testing each other out.

“Good eye. I’m a retired Colonel.” Nick’s lips stretch into a placid smile, his chest is a bit warm, but his tongue is heavy upon the words. A Colonel --- it seems to be a lifetime ago. Sam’s eyes widened, impressed --- thoroughly so.

A low whistle blows through his puckered lips, “What brings you here to this small town?” Curiosity shifts in the air, but the walls still stand guarded.

“Just searching for some peace. Backpacking in a different country was always a goal for me.” Nick groans a bit, as the heels of his palms lean against the counter, earning a small whine of the wood; one of his hands rub against the arch of his spine.

“Ah, do you seem like the rugged type to be one with nature.” Nick breathes through his nose, a chuckle, peculiar how this man can read him --- he didn’t know if it was obnoxious, or amusing; Nick wasn’t sure yet.

Murps, and nimble pitter-patters thump against the counter, an orange feline jumps on top of the bar, its shoulders flex with a stride, as if it owns the space.

An orange tabby strolls with sleepy ears. Its tail twirls with a curve, saunters with grace --- sharp soft eyes pours into his, as it nears Nick’s direction.

Sam’s fingers fondles the cat, toying with its tail in the cup of his palm, earning a small bite, and a meow --- its small furry dome rubbing against his inner wrist, as it tilts its head back, a string of meows.

Nick coos, fiddling his fingers playfully towards the cat, cautiously snaking to it --- it pauses, arching its paw, analyzing his hand --- as if processing his scent, it’s pink nose sniffs.

Airy kisses thrown at the cat, in hopes to lure it, to caress it --- reminds Nick of his late cat. It freezes, eyes now dilate to daggers, inky blackness engulf its pupils, growling low at the throat.

“Goose.” Sam warns, narrowing his eyes, “Be nice.” patting the cat’s behind, as if scolding a child.

A blur --- a quick dizzying epoch of time, as if movements ceased only for a second --- Nick jolted back, nearly stumbling over the stool, as he shields his right eye.

Steadying his footing, Nick crosses his arms on the wood, furrowing his brows, his eyes hissing at the crude creature, as Sam firmly pins the animal down by the palms, as it snarls --- the paws curling.

Hoarse chuckles emit from the corner tables --- a redheaded woman, and a mean mugging blonde man huddling together at a booth, nursing over their drinks. “Shut it, thing one and two.” Sam snarks, but a grin shimmies itself at the corner of his mouth; his fingers squeeze the cat in quick jolts.

A loud bang alerts, and echoes throughout the bar --- not even flinching, Nick simply turns over his shoulder, the back door was carelessly thrashed against the wall.

Waltzing through was a woman --- her blonde hair cut short, coiffed to the side, throwing kisses to the seething cat.

“Stop.” She says, as her fingers curl under the slope of the cat’s under belly, kissing her ears; cradling her against her chest. “Sorry about Goose, she’s just a little shit.” Goose meows crankily, the strings of murps sounded as if it was talking back --- like a bratty child.

“S’alright,” Nick waves it off, a force chuckle, “Cats are picky on who they trust --- I’m just a stranger in her space.” A smile, the atmosphere eases, as the blonde laughs, Carol approaches closer, Goose still pinned to her chest by the slope of her arm.

“I’m Carol.” Her hand out-stretches, kindly, “I’m Nick.” A sturdy hand-shake, a fleeting thought crosses Nick’s mind, Is she …? Her palm is strong. Carol’s gait has a certain stride, he’s seen women like her before in boot-camp a few years ago, when he did a favor for a past commarde on training recruits.

Tough tomboys, where a handful enjoys the company of women.

Carol asks questions to Nick, curious about this new face surfacing in this tiny town, chatting up on how it’s not tourist season; with Nick informing her that he’s just traveling for some alone time.

The air doesn’t feel right, the hairs on the nape of Nick’s neck rise, goosebumps pimple on his arms, the sensitive skin skims, and ticklish against the cotton stitching under his jacket sleeve. His sixth sense is itching.

“So, you said Dawson City, right?” It’s time to leave, no space in his schedule to linger about; Nick remains relaxed, but his grogginess is weighing him more now. He has gathered the overall energy of this place --- he doesn’t like it.

“Right, so there’s a back road --- kinda a second entrance to the town’s road, uh,” he pauses, his voice lingers into silence.

Sam looks around, eyes darting behind the bar where note-pads, and coasters are, patting his pockets, fingertips digging; he finds a pen, “Hold on, I’m going to draw you the directions.”

Sam treks to the end of the bar, where multiple maps stacked for patrons, “It’s a bit hard to explain since there aren't really many route signs for this back-way,” he shakes his head, uncapping the blue pen, “It doesn’t help that a lot of Canadian maps still haven’t really printed this place yet either.”

Sam began scribbling with precise arrows, chatting about turns, and how this direction is a faster trail to Dawson City, to a quiet highway, no stops.

Nick sat in high-alert, his institution is high-wired; he can sense eyes are all on him, from his peripheral vision, he can see the red-head, and dirty-blonde mugging him, narrowing eyes.

With just a tiny cock of his head, he turns to his left, seeing another two pairs of eyes gawking at him.

It’s as if a fish out of water, his fingers flex against the wood, preparing himself if someone is feeling antsy, his knuckles thirsty for a brawl -- it doesn’t faze him, it’s just fucking weird. But town hicks have always been weird in their own colors, he grew up in a sleepy town in the south.

But no one doesn’t do anything, don’t even make a move; but their eyes are the loudest.

“Be careful driving down that path. Don’t linger around, just drive straight through.” Sam casually suggested, his lids narrowing a bit. “You’re gonna be passing by owned land. The owners are a bit -- weary of travelers near their area.” A bit of amused caution was entangled in his words. Despite his humorless laugh, his eyes gleam with sternness.

“Why? Are they packing?” Nick gestures jokingly with his fingers of a shooting gun, trying to ease the rising tension. “You can say that. Just be careful.” Once a gap-toothed grin now forms into a tight straight line, his lush lips disappearing; dark hues now shadowed under a tense brow.

A queer shiver runs down the arch of Nick’s back, but he maintains his pose composure; under a passive gaze. “Uh --- sure. I’ll keep an eye out.” He tapped his fingers against the sticky bar counter playfully, glimpsing at Goose, who’s low hissing --- baring little tips of fangs. Paws itching for her missed target.

“Sorry again about her. She’s a cranky little shit to everybody.” Carol smirks, her slim fingers caress the feline’s spine, the orange fur spills through her roving fingers.

Dirty blonde strands kiss her lashes, as her eyes lower down to his boots back to his face --- he wasn’t sure if he was sizing him, or just simply curious.

Curious eyes, curious questions … curious people.

A stretching tension creeps up, he doesn’t even need to speak; the air is thick, the energy emitting from every soul is strong; it’s not an unwelcoming synergy, but they don’t want him here any longer than he needs to be.

Nick nodded his head in a curt goodbye, with a polite smile. That familiar eerie sense sheds off of him as second skin, as he sinks back to himself --- quiet, and reserved.

Itching to leave, his feet lead him to the aging black door, faint whispering ascend behind him --- he compulsively urges himself to turn around, but he won’t.

The curious murmuring drags on his coat-tails, but he refuses to fall for it.

---

The sky is unforgivingly bright.

The sun blares upon him, shielding his eyes by his open-palm, shadowing out the blinding sunshine; it seems brighter than when he went inside the bar. Groaning under his breath, already feeling the musty sensation of sweat smearing on his forehead.

Nick shuffles his shoulder, trying to wiggle the leather jacket off of him, as he treks to his car; mentally memorizing the little road turn to that little inn, to just settle in for the night.

The arch of his spine still aches from the long drive, keys jingling in his palm, as one arm was still caught in his sleeve, and the other is free with the car keys.

A wispy flash of silky inky black, splotches of navy blue and orange dew ---- butterfly wings flutter and dance with a tame frolic, landing on the bridge of his nose causing Nick to go cross-eyed.

A bloom of peace surges at the chest, a small smile curls; within the second moment of placidity, the butterfly flies, and twirls around his dome.

It made a bee-line to a meter that stood next to his car, but it didn’t move … it just looked at him. Nick squints his eyes, tilting his head in confusion, unconsciously he steps forward, and the butterfly flies just an inch above the meter, then right back down.

It awaits.

Another step, the wings edge just a bit.

Another step, another flutter.

His feet begin walking slowly, and the butterfly takes flight; it twirls mindlessly, as if enjoying the soft breeze against it’s little body.

Swings to the left, to the right --- as Nick loses himself into a haze, as he just follows the butterfly. His feet on auto-pilot --- what felt like stretched minutes, was really only five; his shoes scuff against the pavement as the butterfly just aimed up in the air.

His eyes trail after the butterfly, its wings open, and close tenderly as it sits upon a sign --- just a few seconds of just gawking at this butterfly; then it flies away. Deep rich brown eyes regard his surroundings, and vision clear now, a sign proudly towers over him.

Scarlet.

A little shop swaddled within the string of stores, it has an earthy energy --- black framing over the glass window, with little painting art of stars, and a small brown dog with spikey fur, signed in the corner with the blue and red initials: B+T.

Nick hesitates just a bit, but he gains his composure, pressing the heel of his palm against the handle, his fingers gripping; a moment.

He awaits, his brain is befuddled, but his psyche zeros back to reality. Nick tugs the door open, with a gust of air fans against his face.

His body weaves through the door --- it was a cute store with bookshelves, racks of clothing, and many shelves of artifacts; accompanied with green-teal walls.

Nick halts at his feet, tilting his head to the side, hanging upon the green-teal wall is a sign offering timed services of tarot and tea leaves readings, spellwork constellations, and mediumship; it doesn’t faze him.

‘Who would buy this?’ Not trying to be crude, but Nick can’t fully grasp superstition, and religions that involve praying to a desk littered with rocks, and candles; cards can’t simply define fate, nor interpret it.

‘It’s plastic cards, for Christ-sake.’

Frankincense is light upon his senses as it drapes upon the shop, claws of creatures decorate the shelves, boxed tarot cards, oils, crystals --- ambling by customers thrifting clothes, and inspecting the many mystical objects, as if it’s normal.

Miscellaneous collections of books are stacked upon book-shelves --- varying from demonology, herbal medicine, candle magick, folk magick originating from different cultures, on ritualistic runes, to books detailing occults, to myths and lore, poetry, fantasy, cookbooks, and many more.

A necklace catches Nick’s eye, it’s a familiar one.

“I make them myself.” Nick jolts in surprise, shoulders hunched, a silky accent lingers behind him.

The accent is familiar, perhaps Russian --- definitely European. Nick turns on his feet, his polite smile drops a little --- it was that eerie woman from earlier. The very one with those piercing eyes that stared his soul down from his car.

But, he doesn’t bring it up, his eyes trails down to her midriff, and his assumptions from earlier are confirmed … pregnant; there’s no need to stress her out with an argument, but he remains on high-alert. A polite smile against the bearded jaw, in a way, offers a silent olive branch, “This is your shop?” He asks.

“Yes,” her eyes are inquisitive, “my very own business. Quite proud of it.” The way her hues are so intense, stands close, but in an arms-reach, her mannerisms, her speech.

Nick is no stranger to different personalities, she’s ... calculatingly --- she remembers who he is.

“Hmm.” Nick hums to himself, a sound that’s a mix of amusement, and quaint, but it comes off as a murmur, disinterest.

“What?” She chuckles, but with an arched brow. Nick catches her expression, quickly his hands are raised to his chest, shaking his head, “Oh, nothing, it’s just different.”

“By how this town looks, you would think people here wouldn’t be so --- accepting.”

“You would be surprised how many customers I have.” Ode to her truth, customers ranging from different ages, mostly indigenous; but she makes good earnings.

Granted, of course, there are people who whisper hawdy gossip about her, and her family that are evil witches, but she keeps it all in stride.

One time, a child innocently said to her in the supermarket, with an excited pointed finger, that her family is like the Addams family.

“My husband is the bread-winner, but he always encourages me to go for anything I’m passionate about. He even helped fund my shop.” Her cheeks redden to plump cherries, tucking her head to the crock of her shoulder, cupping her belly.

A smile stretched just a bit, it was adorable how she gushed to herself, she looks like a happily married woman; his eyes focus on her left hand, clearly now seeing her wedding ring.

Nick remembers his wife … ex-wife.

“My name is Wanda,” her pristine manicured hand reaches out for him, as one palm remains on her ample bump.

He engulfs her hand, his bigger than hers; dainty, but firm. Before he could reply with his name, she cut him off, “Are you interested in anything you see?” Wanda’s hands lift in air, gesturing to the jewelry beyond the display case.

Nick hums, rubbing his chin with his fingers, there was a particular necklace that stood out; an opal gem encrusted in a golden chain.

The multicolored gemstone has soft iridescence streaks of baby-blue, neon green, and splotches of yellow beating against a dewy red sheen --- as if capturing a tiny warm galaxy, milky, and silky.

Timidly tapping against the glass, “This one.” Nick breathes, his breathing is silently getting heavier, his throat strains as he swallows. “What a beautiful choice, I love opals.” Wanda gleams.

“Yeah,” a soft delay, a tight-lipped smile, “--- so do I.” His heart hammers a little, despite the violence in his mind.

“It’s also one of the prettiest birthstones,” Wanda murmurs as she swirls around the glass counter, with delicate care, her slim fingers plucking the gold necklace from the onyx velvet cushion.

Nick nods, but he looks away, just stares through the painted window pane.

---

Paid in full with the wrinkled bills in his wallet, Wanda lays the necklace in a white box, wrapping it up in a silk teal ribbon; in a finished touch, puts the purchased gift in a small black plastic bag.

Hovering it over to him, Wanda’s open hands lean into the counter, entering his arms-length space, “While you’re here, would you like a reading?”

Nick shakes his head ‘no’, as the bag hangs limp on his wrist, “No thank you.”

“Or maybe, speak to a loved one ---” Her words trail off, as if gesturing to him, trying to lure him in. Her fingers in a lax fist, under her chin, her eyes wide with wonder, and fervent curiosity; but there was an inkling of mischief in her smile.

“Ya’ know, speak to the dead.” Her eyebrows oscillated in merriment, as if enjoying his confusion; as if she was onto something he wasn’t.

“The dead?” Nick repeats in question, “You can speak to the dead?” Uncomfortable with the conversation shifting.

“Yes, all psychics can.” Wanda walks from the counter, taking small steps not to overstimulate herself, as she comes near him, fixing the tousled clothes on the rack, her back to him.

“Psychic?” Nick’s prominent brow arches, his nose flares comically, as he tries to strain his thick lips from laughing. It’s as if she upends him, taking a mental step back.

“In a way, yes. Clairvoyant is the proper term.” Wanda glances over her shoulder with a smile, passionate --- proudly, as she twirls, but her smile wavers into a defensive frown.

“I’m sorry to laugh, but this is all very hard for me to understand.” Nick chuckles, cupping his mouth by his fisted palm, trying to quill his laughter.

Never one for the myths --- or ignorant superstitions, as a man who grew up in a southern household --- he's had enough nutty folks in his life.

Wanda narrows her eyes, tilts her head, “Sometimes there’s things in life we can’t fully grasp. I’ve seen your face before but we never met --- till now.” She said matter-of-factly. Irate by his skepticism, her words sucker-punch him back to reality; his chuckles snuffed into silence.

As Wanda breathes a dry-snicker, lop-sided smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Wanda waddles closer to him now, cornering him, Nick’s hands rise up to his chest, a gesture of defense --- but how can he defend himself against a pregnant woman? Shove her gently to the nearest seat?

Her eyes are in slits, as if her eyes are hissing at him --- her lips pucker for a second, in amusement.

“The crows will sing their songs, and the dirt will cleanse itself.” Her eyes soften, dainty slim fingers near his face, a natural reflex, he flinches, his eyes become frightened like a child’s.

Wanda’s fingertips flutter over his patch, she hums, “Hmm --- you see life, but not its entirety. Sometimes the bigger picture is not all it seems.”

A pregnant pause.

Her feline eyes, her wan face contorts mischievously --- it’s as if she’s savoring his unsettled state. “Goodbye, Nick.” Her accent slithers from her heart-shaped lips, breathy giggles emit from her throat, her lips slipped shut, walking backwards, as her hands rub on her swollen belly as a crystal ball.

Nick’s head balks from Wanda’s hand, nearly swatting her arm away, his feet stumble, nearly contorting his ankle, murmuring under his breath, ‘Crazy bitch.’ Spitting furiously, as his hand pushes the glass door, too harshly as it whines at the hinges --- striking back in place with an obnoxious crude smack.

Stomps heavy, the hard concrete beats against his feet, his open-palms slaps against his bald head; snarling in boiling frustration, jerking his knees up, trampling as he curses everything under the sun ---- if his daughter was here, she would be trying to hug him, her face squished against the arch of his spine, whispers of trying to quill his bristling temper.

He stiffens --- it’s as time stills itself, white noise rings louder, tiny pins and needles stab and lodge his ear-drums, he winces, nearly staggering to his knees.

His eyes widened owlishly --- he never told her his name.

---

It’s raining tonight.

Heavy droplets of rain soak the window-pane, showering the glass --- the sky is inky, but the dense clouds carpet the sky, weeping over the little town.

The static of the television illuminates throughout the dense darkness, the motel room is engulfed in the mouth of darkness; as a slumped figure sits hunched over, at the edge of the mattress.

His head slumps low, chin to chest, staring blankly into the carpeting, his broad shoulders tense.

Bare chest illumes to a blinding shade of ticonderoga taupe --- a lean cigarette hangs from his lips, as his calloused fingers toys with the lighter, with precision his fingertips clanks the steel lid open, igniting the flame --- to then snuff it with a sharp clank, twirling between his fidgety fingers.

Sleep clings to his eyes, drooping, one eye closes before the other unevenly; his broad nose flares as his mind slowly fries into stinging migraine --- silent screams, mossy bits of grass scatter in chunks from deafening explosions, rancid stench of flesh, and gunpowder haunts him at the dead of nights.

Nick’s hands tremble, his eye-lid twitches, he’s tired --- so damn tired. In nights like this, he thinks of his daughter, as a little girl, she would crawl into his bed, ask for a bedtime story, or ask him to sing; he would tell her jokingly, he sings like a toad, but she wouldn’t care, ‘you’re the prettiest toad, daddy’.

His eyes get water-logged --- inhaling deeply back a wet sniffle, his nose flaring; swallowing harshly, thickly.

Nick went to bed that night --- his chest heaving, swallowed sobs that crack, and strains his esophagus; the outline of his quivering figure trembles under the covers.

---

Faint whispers wisp within the darkness, deafening --- but inaudible. Floating in the mouth of caliginosity, body weight light, limbs flailing ceasingly.

The voices grate against his ear-drums, his eyes shut closed in a wince. His chest stings with hot white pain, as if a knife splits open the flesh underneath the cartilage of his cavity; Nick screams in agony, above his breast-bone, as bloodied wan fingertips slither through the torn seams of skin, a wrist cranks itself through as a punch.

The wrist twirls against the flesh walls of his chest, it’s fingers crocking, it’s index finger gesturing Nick, beckoning him. It arches itself more out, thrashing it, wiggling as a white worm, gripping his throat. Suffocating him, tears flood his eyes, soaking his cheeks --- whimpering under his breath, ‘I’m sorry.’

Over and over again.

A stream of light shines beyond his eyes, nearly blinding him.

Nick opens his eyes again, and the pain no longer cripples his body. He’s back at the inn, seated in the love seat of his room --- glued to it, he can’t move. Sunshine gleams into the window, curtains peeled open.

A feminine figure is seated at his bed, legs crisscrossed; facing him.

A crow at her feet, it’s claws indenting in the mattress. Fear grips his heart at the sight of this woman --- her face is smeared --- smoothed, yet features distorted. Nick’s head slant, and her head follows suit --- copying his movement.

Shivering can be heard, the bird shakes, it’s feathers shuffling, as if the animal is going to combust.

“Where am I?” Nick probes, the crow halts. “A place where it’s always sad.” The crow speaks, it’s voice deep, but it’s voice is askew, as if it speaks backwards.

“Some of your friends are already here.” Wings raise in a stance, showing each individual feather.

“Who are you?” Nick asks, his fingers digging into his kneecaps, his eyes never leaving the faceless woman.

“I feel like I know her, but sometimes my arms bend back.”

“Where we’re from, the birds sing a pretty song. And there’s always music in the air.” The crow speaks once more, his feathers flutter, and shuffle as his wings shudder in every direction.

“She’s the one you seek for.” The crow’s small head tilts, the slope of its neck jerks, retched coughs, as moist soil that smells of the earth yaks itself out.

It’s shiny onyx beak snorts, as it chokes --- the crow’s tiny body convulses, it’s caw wails are hoarse.

Her jaw is mawed, unlocking as it hangs, her teeth grimy, her breathing deeper, but her chest is puffing, as if winding up a doll, tugging on the string of it’s back.

A blood-curdling screech, raw, ripping through her throat --- the veins of her neck bulge against the skin.

Nick cups his ears, but it doesn’t help --- he can still hear it.

A brown eye snapped open ---- his body became frigid, yet his bones melted into the mattress, the broad bridge of nose nuzzled against the lush pillow; stick sweat stains the pillow sheet, damp splotches out-line the shape of his skull.

A bluish, grey ambience blankets over the room --- he feels like he’s floating, his soul descends, his breathing is getting heavier, huffing.

Eyes blurring as a fogged mirror, nose sniffling, her wrists are bent, tucked under her chin; a trickle of blood slips from her bottom lip, staining her teeth cherry-red, spilling over the jut of her chin.

Her mouth stops shaking, in a flashed second, the blood vanishes --- her voice is small, but distorted, as if speaking backwards. “There’s something wrong with the sky.”

A shrill cry of a bird awakens him --- it’s morning.